Pillow Talk, a stage play

Cast of Characters 

KAREN: Scene I: 19, a college student; Scene II: 34, a mother; Scene III: 48, a mother who has lost her child
MICHAEL: Scene I: 23, a college student; Scene II: 38, a father; Scene III: 52, a father who has lost his child

Setting 

Two bedrooms.

Time 

11 pm. Scene I: 1980, Scene II: 1995, Scene III: 2013.

At Rise 

Scene I. 

Lights up on Karen’s dormitory room: a bed and a small nightstand with a lamp. KAREN and MICHAEL are lying in bed propped up on their pillows. The two have known each other for a few months, maybe a year; but they were lovers before they became friends, so their physical intimacy might not translate into a thorough understanding of the other person. 

KAREN 

It’s your turn. 

MICHAEL 

Okay, um, what’s your favorite food? 

 KAREN 

Boring. 

 MICHAEL 

I’m boring? Then you go. 

 KAREN 

Let me think. Okay, if you could visit one impossible place, where would you go? 

 MICHAEL 

Uh, Never-Neverland. What about you? 

 KAREN 

Dishonestly, Wonderland. 

 MICHAEL 

What about honestly? 

 KAREN 

That’s private. What do you hate most? 

 MICHAEL 

I don’t hate anything. 

 KAREN 

Liar. Everyone hates something, Michael. 

 MICHAEL 

Okay, I hate liars, that’s what I hate. 

 KAREN 

Well, I hate lots of things. Bats, for one. And moldy food. And dirty laundry. Boys with bad breath. Armpit hair. 

 MICHAEL 

Karen, I have armpit hair. 

 KAREN 

I meant on women. But I opposite-of-hate your armpit hair. Your armpit hair is so magnificent, sometimes I just want to shave it all off and make myself a wig. Your turn. 

 MICHAEL 

Do you believe in God? 

 KAREN 

I believe in people. 

 MICHAEL 

That wasn’t the question. 

 KAREN 

Yes it was. I believe in people, so... yes, I think I believe in God. I mean, God is a manifestation of people’s desire for reason, isn’t He? I mean, war doesn’t make sense. Genocide doesn’t make sense. But with a God, everything makes sense, and everything is significant. Do you believe in God? 

MICHAEL 

Why do people always ask that? 

 KAREN 

You asked me first! 

 MICHAEL 

No, not that. It’s always, Do you believe in God? Not, Do you believe a God exists? It doesn’t matter if you believe that He exists. It only matters if you believe He’s capable. 

KAREN 

Capable of...? 

 MICHAEL 

Giving everything a reason. 

 KAREN 

So, do you believe... that God exists? 

 MICHAEL 

I don’t know. 

 KAREN 

You’re agnostic. 

 MICHAEL 

No… just trying to figure it out. 

 KAREN 

Okay, it’s my turn. What are you most afraid of? 

 MICHAEL 

(a pause) Not mattering. 

 KAREN 

Oh, please. 

 MICHAEL 

I mean not mattering to you, Karen. 

 KAREN 

Why would you think that? 

 MICHAEL 

Never mind. Forget it. I’m a sap. 

 KAREN 

Michael, you don’t need to be afraid of that. 

 MICHAEL 

I know, I know. But listen, do you ever, do you ever think about what makes someone… 

 KAREN 

What makes someone matter? 

 MICHAEL 

What makes someone significant. I mean, my whole life, my parents have been grooming me for business school, sending me to the east coast, investing in my future. I might succeed, but even if I do, what’s the world going to look like after I die? Exactly the same. 

 KAREN 

You know, self-pity is one of the most unattractive qualities in a person. 

 MICHAEL 

(ignoring her) I mean, that’s why people believe in God, so I should believe in God, too, right? We all want to matter. We can drown in oceans, we can die in ice storms, we are so much weaker than everything around us, but we matter... and that makes it okay. But nevermind... What are you most afraid of? 

 KAREN 

Losing opportunities. (pause) A few months before my dad died... we were vacationing in Paris. He was really excited, wanted to see everything, take pictures of everything. One night I was tired and my mom was tired. My dad wanted us to walk up to a river but I wanted to go back to the hotel, so we did... After he died, I felt like I left something really important at that river. But even if I go back to look for it, it’ll be gone. That’s my impossible place. 

 MICHAEL 

I’m sorry. You didn’t have to share that with me. 

 KAREN shrugs. 

 KAREN 

God, we are a depressing bunch. What makes you happy? 

 MICHAEL 

Happy? (pause) I’m not sure. Short lines, light traffic. Getting a job. Getting published. 

 KAREN 

Well, you make me happy. And you know what else makes me happy? (yawning) Sleep. And you know what doesn’t make me happy? Eight o'clock lectures. 

KAREN puts her head down on her pillow. MICHAEL remains propped up. 

KAREN 

Michael? 

 MICHAEL 

Yeah? 

 KAREN 

You do matter. To me. 

 MICHAEL smiles. 

 MICHAEL 

And you to me. 

 MICHAEL leans over and turns the lamp off. Lights dim. 

Scene II. 

Karen and Michael’s bedroom: a bed and a small nightstand with a lamp. MICHAEL is in bed reading a book. KAREN enters. 

KAREN 

Michael. It’s so late. What are you doing? 

 MICHAEL 

Waiting for you. What time is it? 

 KAREN

 Oh, I don’t know. About eleven? 

KAREN gets in bed and snuggles up next to MICHAEL. They kiss. 

 MICHAEL 

You need more sleep, Karen. 

 KAREN 

No sermonizing, Michael, remember? (KAREN sits up.) So. I have good news. Hal offered me the associate position today. 

 MICHAEL 

(half-heartedly) He did? That’s wonderful. 

 KAREN 

Isn’t it? I’ve been at the firm, for what, five years? 

 MICHAEL 

Yeah, I guess it’s been that long already. (pause) Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you call me? 

 KAREN 

Oh, I don’t know, I guess I was just… mulling it over… for a bit. 

MICHAEL 

So will you accept it? 

 KAREN 

What do you mean? 

 MICHAEL 

I mean, will you take him up on his offer? 

 KAREN 

Of course. 

MICHAEL

 Good. 

 KAREN 

You’re unhappy. 

 MICHAEL

 If there is one untrue thing in the world, that is it. I couldn’t be happier for you. 

 KAREN 

No. Why are you unhappy? 

 MICHAEL 

I’m not unhappy. 

KAREN 

You are. You’re unhappy that I work so much and you’re trying to hide it. 

 MICHAEL 

Jesus, Karen, I’m not unhappy… (pause) I’m just, I’m worried about Oliver. 

 KAREN 

Oliver? Okay... Why are you worried about Oliver? 

MICHAEL 

Well, he’s a very… quiet child. 

 KAREN 

Lucky us. 

 MICHAEL 

I mean quiet in a bad way. 

 KAREN 

So he’s shy. He’s not talkative. Half the people in this world aren’t. 

 MICHAEL 

No, I mean, it’s not really Oliver. It’s more… us… affecting Oliver. Sometimes I feel like we aren’t doing enough, as parents. Does that make sense? 

 KAREN 

It’s a rather vague statement. 

 MICHAEL 

I just, I want Oliver to know that we care about him, that we’ll always be there for him. 

 KAREN 

So we’re speaking in cliches, now? 

 MICHAEL 

They’re cliches because they’re true. 

 KAREN 

He knows we love him. 

 MICHAEL 

You say that so easily. 

 KAREN 

It’s easy because it’s true. 

 MICHAEL 

Have you ever asked? 

 KAREN 

Have I ever asked our son if he knows we love him? 

 MICHAEL 

Karen, I don’t get home until seven; you don’t get home until at least ten. Sometimes we get to say good-night to him, sometimes we don’t. And now this promotion. I mean -- 

 KAREN 

So this is about the promotion. 

MICHAEL 

We hardly see Oliver. What’s he supposed to think? 

KAREN 

(pause) You know, this is why I waited to tell you, Michael. My happiness always becomes… some kind of burden to you. 

 MICHAEL 

Don’t say that. Your happiness is my happiness.

KAREN 

But it’s not yours, it’s mine. I want to be able to have my own happiness.

MICHAEL 

That’s not what you signed up for when you married me.

KAREN 

Jesus, Michael… I share everything with you! My house, my time, my money… my son. Yes, I work hard. But, you know, sometimes when people work hard, they get rewarded for their efforts. And today I was offered a promotion because of my work and my time, and you can’t even act excited for me?

MICHAEL 

Self-pity is one of the most unattractive qualities in a person.

KAREN 

Excuse me?

MICHAEL 

You’re just acting selfish.

KAREN 

Selfish?

MICHAEL 

Just listen to what you’re saying.

KAREN 

I’m selfish? You’re the one who’s being selfish, here, Michael. You’re only thinking about what you want, not what I want--

MICHAEL 

I’m thinking about what our son wants. What’s Oliver’s favorite subject? Who’s his best friend? What does he want to be when he grows up? Do you know the answers, Karen, because I sure as hell don’t. 

A long pause. 

KAREN 

I hate… giving up.

MICHAEL 

You’re not giving up anything.

KAREN 

Because I have nothing to give up. I haven’t done anything. You haven’t done anything. You’ve been trying to get published for, what, ten years?

MICHAEL 

I stopped that project years ago. You know that.

KAREN 

We’re settling, aren’t we?

MICHAEL 

We’re reassesing our priorities.

KAREN 

We’re settling.

MICHAEL 

Karen. You told me that your greatest fear is losing opportunities. Here is our son. Here is our opportunity.

A long pause. 

KAREN 

I should never have become a mother.

MICHAEL 

Jesus, Karen. Keep your voice down.

KAREN 

I said it because it’s true.

MICHAEL 

No. You said it because you’re tired, you’re angry, and you haven’t eaten since lunch.

KAREN 

I love Oliver.

MICHAEL 

So do I.

KAREN 

I love him more than I love myself.

MICHAEL 

So do I.

KAREN 

(crying) But I’m selfish. We’re selfish.

MICHAEL 

No. You’re ambitious and you make me proud. But you work too hard. Both of us… work too hard.

KAREN 

(hesitating) I forgot what I was going to say. (pause) We used to be so eloquent, both of us. Where did that go?

MICHAEL 

We were eloquent because we were strangers. Now we know each other... and our words are mixed up in each others’ throats.

KAREN 

I’m going to call Hal in the morning and tell him… that I can’t take the position.

MICHAEL 

Okay. But remember... don’t let me tell you what to do. This isn’t about me.

KAREN 

I know. It’s about Oliver.

They kiss again. 

KAREN 

Good-night.

MICHAEL 

Good-night. 

MICHAEL turns the lamp off. Lights dim. 

Scene III. 

Lights up on Karen and Michael’s bedroom (the same as Scene II): a bed and a small nightstand with a lamp. KAREN and MICHAEL are in bed. KAREN is reading a book and MICHAEL is watching a football game. 

KAREN 

You know, something really disturbing happened to me yesterday. 

MICHAEL 

Yes! Yes! Christ…

KAREN 

Michael.

MICHAEL 

No, goddamnit!

KAREN 

Michael!

MICHAEL 

Hmm?

KAREN 

Michael, would you turn the television off? I’m trying to talk to you. 

MICHAEL lowers the volume. 

MICHAEL 

What?

KAREN 

Something really disturbing happened to me yesterday.

MICHAEL 

What? What happened?

KAREN 

Well, I was scanning the paper, and I saw this article whose headline read, “22 People Killed in California Forest Fire.” And I didn’t feel a thing. I was so angry at myself. I sat staring at that headline for half an hour, trying to feel something… but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t make myself seem to care.

MICHAEL 

Yet you cried for three hours last weekend when I didn’t say anything about your new shoes.

KAREN 

Well, I think there’s a difference. I wasn’t trying to cry about my shoes, but I was trying to cry about the article.

MICHAEL 

No good crying over paper and ink. You really want to cry, I’ll drive you to California and we’ll visit the graves of those 22 people. Better yet, we’ll search the forest for body parts!

KAREN 

What is wrong with you?

MICHAEL 

I’m just saying, there’s a reason you didn’t cry, Karen--

                                                                           KAREN 
Oh, stop your sermonizing.

MICHAEL 

I’m not sermonizing. I just want you to listen to my reasoning--

KAREN 

Your reasoning, Michael. I have to listen to your reasoning.

MICHAEL 

Please don’t turn this into a quarrel. I’m trying to watch the game.

KAREN 

Well excuse me. Let me just leave you in peace and quiet... so you can watch your game.

KAREN gets out of bed. 

MICHAEL 

(turning off the television) Jesus Christ.

KAREN 

I want to talk to you, Michael. I want to live in a house, not a mausoleum.

MICHAEL 

Great. Then let’s talk about something cheery. Do you know any happy conversation-starters?

KAREN 

I’m sorry. I can’t leave anything unfinished. Don’t you think it’s sad how thousands of people across the world are going to read that article, and none of them will cry about it?

MICHAEL 

It’s a piece of paper. Of course they won’t cry. People don’t cry over newspapers and shoes. They cry for other people. Is there really an argument here?

A long pause. 

KAREN 

You think I don’t know what death is.

MICHAEL 

(sarcastically) Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking. 

KAREN 

You think that after Oliver died--

MICHAEL 

Oliver? Who’s talking about Oliver? 

KAREN 

You think I didn’t go through what you went through... 

MICHAEL 

Why on earth would I think that?

KAREN 

That you miss him more than I do...

MICHAEL 

I’m his father. Of course I miss him.

KAREN 

That just because I didn’t… oh, I don’t know, take two months off, or… go to a support group--

MICHAEL 

You were his mother, for God’s sake. Why would I ever think that? 

KAREN 

Say that again.

MICHAEL 

What?

KAREN 

“I am his father.” “You were his mother.” What the--

MICHAEL 

This is what you do. You take everything I say and you read so far into it--

KAREN 

What does that mean? What are you trying to say?

MICHAEL 

I’m not trying to say anything. I was trying to watch the game.

KAREN 

Maybe I deal with grief differently from you, Michael. But I am still a mother.

MICHAEL 

Yes, you are still a mother.

KAREN 

Do you really think that?

MICHAEL 

I do.

KAREN 

Don’t try to appease me.

MICHAEL 

Jesus! Nothing I say will appease you, anyway. (pause) Can I say something, now that we’re on the subject?

KAREN 

By all means.

MICHAEL 

It really wouldn’t have killed you to cry at your own son’s funeral.

A long pause. 

KAREN 

This is what I hate about our marriage, Michael. You’re either tiptoeing around me or saying something totally uncalled for.

MICHAEL 

You want to talk about hate? Fine. You want to know what I hate, Karen? I hate losing my son. I hate it. I hate it more than I hate having a wife who, who... wafts around like an expressionless ghost--

KAREN 

And you don’t think I hate it, too? Well I do! All of it! (pause) All I want to do is talk, Michael. Can we please just… stop? (pause) I know you have the impression that… I don’t miss Oliver.

MICHAEL 

Well, I would never go as far as to say that--

KAREN 

But you know what? I think you’re right. I don’t miss Oliver. I can’t miss Oliver. I know I’m supposed to miss him, I’m a mother, for Chrissake.

MICHAEL 

I don’t understand...

KAREN 

It’s just… I mean, when we found out the way he died, and how meaningless it was… I thought, did that make his life meaningless, too? Driving too fast on a foggy day… I mean, he was eighteen years old, Michael. It’s not enough, by anyone’s terms… it can’t be. Then at the funeral, I just got so… overwhelmed. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t angry. I didn’t hate you; I didn’t hate myself; I didn’t hate God. I was just... empty. (pause) And then, last week, when I cried because of those shoes, I felt so... stupid. I just, I need to know that I can still feel anything, for the things that matter.

A long pause. 

MICHAEL 

You cry in your sleep, you know. It used to make me cry, seeing you like that... but then I realized that you needed it.

KAREN gets back into bed. MICHAEL puts his arm around her. 

KAREN 

I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone... that day. I’m sorry you were at the hospital alone. I should have been there.

MICHAEL 

Yes. You should’ve.

A long pause. 

MICHAEL 

This is silly… but I wanted him, Oliver, I wanted him to be extraordinary. The first few months after, I had… terrible thoughts. I mean, forty-thousand people die in car accidents every year. Of course, I was angry that Oliver died, but I was also angry at... how he died, in such a… common way. But who could I be angry at? God?

Another long pause. 

KAREN 

Well, going by that logic, none of us are extraordinary. I’ll die and so will you. But it’s the people we matter to, who matter. It’s what we do with our lives, that matters. And Oliver was extraordinary. (pause) He managed to make the honor roll every year. (laughs) Somehow.

MICHAEL 

He made a thousand dollars one summer mowing lawns.

KAREN 

He could eat three plates of food and ask for more.

MICHAEL 

He traveled to Spain with the diplomacy club. 

KAREN 

He listened to Bob Dylan every night.

MICHAEL 

He loved animals.

KAREN 

He is... our son.

A long pause. 

MICHAEL 

You know something, Karen? This… is what makes me happy. This is enough. 

KAREN 

I know.

MICHAEL reaches over to the bedside table and turns the lamp off. Lights dim.

Philip, a short story (excerpt)

He stands in front of them with a godly absolution. He is their leader, no, their teacher, no, their father, perhaps. He prefers not to sit behind his desk but to stand in front of it; the metal thing holds nothing but his pencils and his mug of watery coffee -- this, he assumes, is sufficient. The windows in his classroom are always open; he has rolled cheap rugs from Persian flee markets across his linoleum floor; there are flowers on the windowsills, maps on the walls, and books stacked across the floor -- books everywhere. Translations from Vergil, the indelible prose of Plath and Poe, the hard-cover Austens and Williams and Shakespeares from garage sales across the county. His classroom is crammed with voices; juvenile during the day, deep and ghostly during the evenings. Sometimes, grading essays at seven o’ clock, he will hear them, almost whisper-like, dancing out from the dark corners, enticing him, seducing him.

He will not pretend to be completely sane -- this, he has decided early on, is one of the most deadly sins of man. Even when Clara was alive, he had heard them, these incredible men and women who had, like the rest of us, lived and married and drank wine and sobbed and died -- but no, not their voices, these voices, unending, turned pink and sun-burnt under their scorching fame.

One evening, after an hour of furious grading, he put his feet on his desk and noticed a copy of Austen by his heels. He picked it up; it was natural; like a moth drawn to the flame, like a heroin addict to a needle, he, Samuel Bryant, is enchanted by literature. The copy he had picked up, Pride and Prejudice, a rather effeminate favorite novel in Clara’s eyes, felt light in his hands. He opened to the middle. Lydia has just run off with Mr. Wickham, how awful. Copious anxiety in the Bennet household. Poor Elizabeth. When he finished, it was past nine. He reads quickly, but he had missed dinner. Nevertheless. He left the book in a desk drawer, calmed by the thought that Lydia would always be running off to flirt with the officers, that Elizabeth would always be in a state of constant oblivion.

He came home to the letter.
Samuel, my beloved,

I always knew I would die someday, and for this I am most grateful. I don’t know what would have become of me otherwise. Life is the sweetest accompanied by death -- how else would we learn to be humble? It is a blessing to know that things exist with a sense of exigency. I lived my life more than I could bear -- I am not filled with sadness; I am filled with everything. Please don’t let them say I died of sadness, because it is the happiness, and excitement, and joy that filled me, too. I do not want to die. But I don’t know what would have become of me if I went on feeling. I can’t go on feeling. Life is too fragile; I’m afraid I’ll break it, or else it will break me. I’ve never been a writer like you, beloved, but I don’t know how I can say this otherwise. I love you. I love you so much I cannot bear to end this letter. Maybe you’d say I don’t really want to end my life. Forgive me. I forgive you for forgiving me. I want to keep writing, but it must end. Everything must end. With all of my life and myself, I love you. I love you more than you will ever know. It is an impossibility for you to understand this. I love you more than this will demonstrate. The word “love” doesn’t mean anything; it does not do justice to any love in the world.

My deepest apologies,

Clara

He went into the bedroom. Clara was on top of the bedcovers. He puts his hand above her cheek. Lukewarm. He wasn’t going to read the letter again; the words would not change their meaning a second time, and his wife was dying (or dead) already. If there was one thing he had become convinced of after twelve years of studying literature, it was this: there was nothing more futile than human activity. Yes, the human spirit was strong, but the will to bend the rules of any juggernaut was an impossible feat. Gatsby could not win back Daisy’s heart, Macbeth could not retain his throne, and he, Samuel, could not retain his wife. He could try -- he could call the hospital, they could rush by in their wailing metal machines, Clara might live, but, oh, she would die, if not once, many times over, tomorrow, and the next day, whether by her means or not. To play with such perseverance was folly in its purest form.

He looked at Clara. His leg was not yet sore from the bent position he was in; the letter was still clutched tightly in his hand, if not slightly damper than before. How quickly he had come to his conclusion, he almost wished to hate himself. To let her die, or to not try to revive her -- which was the greater sin? How quickly the bed seemed to fold in on her hips, and how pale she looked -- could the sickly form still possibly harbor life?

He laid himself down next to her. She was not the most beautiful woman he had seen in his life, but he wasn’t married to her beauty. She was intelligent and provocative and illuminating -- such a cliche, he thought, but aren’t we all? She is intelligent and provocative and illuminating. She is dying and she might be dead.

It is now that he remembered Austen. He felt faint. What had happened happened. His wife is dead (dying). But Austen, wretched Austen. Wretched Samuel. Who is at fault? Galileo’s stones, or the weight of gravity rushing toward the earth? The beckoner, or the beckoned? 

The first time they had made love, it was in a butcher shop. Owned by Clara’s aunt, it was a solitary building, red-brick with yellow lettering. Surrounded with strips of bleeding meat they had tossed and turned and sucked into each other, pushing heat into each other’s bones. Hearts were broken and welded together, and around them were the corpses of the dead, the doomed, the damned. 
His mind on it days after, Samuel, literary-minded even at nineteen, could not shake the metaphorical resonance of making love in a butcher shop. It was life and it was death, heat and ice, white on red. But now, lying on the bed next to her, Samuel put his hand into his wife’s. His mind throbbed with the world’s orbit. To call for reason where there was none -- this was the consummate vice. What had happened happened. They were young, he and Clara. They had tried to make love without understanding love. They had called for ghosts when there were none. The sun had sunk and the waves had scattered from the shores. The rain had fallen and the earth had pushed it back up into the sky. 
The dead, Samuel realized, die and they die suddenly. There is no preparation and no closure, just a solemn marching-on, trumpets muted, heads bent to the pavement. 

 He and Clara had made love in a butcher shop. It was simple and it was enough.

womanhood, a cycle; a poem

I. summer

he liked

to open

her.

all sweat and slick,

she swims

beneath him,

low tide.

rolling forth,

shrinking away,

again

and again.

greenish-white bone

dribbles forth

from her skin;

hearts rub

against hearts

and crack

open onto

white sheets.

a wall of

hot air

collides,

shatters,

falls;

fish, a line of

silver backs,

swim upstream.

II. fall

if winds were solids,

they would scatter

from her

chapped lips

like flakes of skin,

or cigarette ash,

or fairy dust.

she knows but

she does not know.

leaves jump and

fires burn in branches;

flowers succumb,

heads bent,

to the freeze and wind.

this is not the time

for new life.

she knows but

she does not know;

curved branches sag

beneath her heart,

bowed and fat with

too much flame.

she knows but

she does not know.

the burden of

gratuitous life.

III. winter

like the silver squirrels,

or the grey bears,

she grows bigger,

and fuller,

decides a world of

ice is little to live for,

and, shivering,

goes to sleep.

IV. spring

she

wishes she were

them.

they, whose fruit

will ripen and

fall,

white flowers

on white branches;

arms outstretched,

bowed with the color

of snow

and virginity.

so she is,

an empty vessel.

brownish flowers

blooming

from her flesh.

life fawns,

but it is

invisible;

all she can

see is the

summer. the

succor, the salt,

the blood.

the blank

reincarnation

of the past;

the

promise of an

inevitable return.