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3.

(In this excerpt from No One Talks To the Mailman, Will, 30,has fallen in love with Terra, who is pregnant with his child. Here, he shares his memory of meeting Terra for the first time.)

So I walk into the restaurant. Sea Coast Tavern. Order the lunch special. And ask the waitress, Terra, to leave with me. And she does. She’s in the parking lot five minutes after she got off. I couldn’t believe it. You should’ve seen me strutting around. Like some kind of Romeo. (Pause.) She didn’t mention that her bags were already packed. That she’d crashed in this apartment three years, everything balled up in a suitcase, and had to get away. But it didn’t matter if she told me or not. Cause what came after was real. And wonderful. Even the dumb stuff. Driving the back roads. My arm around her. Head on my shoulder. Right — Right here.

(He touches his shoulder for a moment, lost in thought.)

I had her body. Next to mine. Her hair on my neck. In the god damned truck. That’s real. That doesn’t go away.  The rest of this is stories we tell each other. To pass the time. (Beat.) You can’t hold a story.

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4.

(In No One Talks To the Mailman, the abuse Will experienced while growing up drove him into his mother's arms, resulting in an affair. Here, Will, now 30, recalls the moment after which there was no turning back.)

I don’t remember the stairs. The first step into the basement. Or how we ended up. In a corner. Between the boxes. Ma looked at me. A halo of dust. Tangled hair. As if to say something. Then turned and picked up a box. Moved it, left to right. No words. A sigh. Clenched teeth. Left to right. She struggled. Something heavy. My hands went out. And we stood there. Between everything. Holding a stupid piece of cardboard. That was my chance. I see that now.

There were a million ways out. I could drop it. (He mimes dropping a box.) Kick it. (He kicks it.) Scream. (He screams.) Tell a joke. God, the possibilities! But I took it from her, instead. Started a pile. She lifted another. We fell in together. An assembly line. Left to right. (Pause.) In between the activity, I peered over my shoulder for this taller, more together woman. — Hoping to catch, in the corner of my eye — And she turned, looking for this scrawny kid who never screwed up. I turned. She turned. I turned. And thought — Christ. Here we are in the basement, looking for ghosts. Things that passed out of the world. (He laughs.) She would’ve liked that. If I’d told her.

I always end up here. In between. I see things that shouldn’t exist. People who never met. Moments a decade apart. Faces swirling around. I used to be able to keep them apart. It was easy. I could leave. Close my eyes. (He closes his eyes.) Pretend not to hear. Keep the past past. The present present. Everything in its place. But somewhere. In between. It all stopped working.

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5.

(In this excerpt from Couldn't Say, Liz has just insisted that their son appeared to her after he died. This is the response of her husband, Ethan, 40s.)

I need to believe you? That’s — That’s asking a lot, Liz. I never went to church before he died. Or meditated. Or believed in souls, or the afterlife, or half the things I see in front of me. I doubt things for a living. And I’ve learned, as long as you have doubts about a thing, or the people you know, you’d be a fool to believe in them.Look. I used to try. Kept a picture of Mom on my dresser, growing up. Talked to her, looking for my sneakers in the morning. Before going to bed at night. But I never heard her or felt her presence. Where was she? Fluttering around in heaven? Hovering an inch away? Maybe she didn’t exist at all, because there’s no such thing as a soul. What do I know? I was nine years-old. All I know is, it didn’t matter if I put her picture on the dresser. Or in the dresser. Or talked. Or whispered. Or shouted. Or prayed. Or ignored her. Or cried and beat my fists against the wall. I didn’t feel her presence. Ever. Anywhere. All I remember is lying in bed at night. Staring into the corner. Trying not to break.

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1.

(In this excerpt from Elmo On the Halfshell, Joey, 20s, tries to gain his girlfriend's sympathy by explaining how everyone had it in for him growing up.)

You think my brother changed? Or tried to? I’m a firm believer in change. When I got pissed at him and wanted to show the world what a creep he was, that’s what I thought about. He never returned the favor. Always looked for ways to cut me up. He was good at it too. Go ahead. Pick any season or year and there he was.

Like when I was eleven and found this turtle in the backyard. About a foot long. I called him Elmo — right? — cause he was funny looking. I picked him up, spread a towel on the driveway, and grabbed my tool belt. The gang gathered round. Glen. Sammy. Everyone. Started egging me on. — Why do boys do that? When girls get bored they don’t egg each other on. — I gripped  the bottom shell with one hand and the pliers in the other. It wouldn’t budge, so I put him down,wedged my sneaker through the opening to get leverage, then grabbed the top part of the shell with my pliers and RRRRIP! This horrible wet sound. RRRRIP! I remember that sound exactly. It took me a few tries to shell the guy. I don’t know. He was connected with tendons or something.

Sammy and Glen never told their parents. Not a word. It was like any other day in our neighborhood. You walk home from school and see Mr. Frame rolling around on his front lawn. Or passed out. Or Mr. Blake leading his kid by the hair. And no one mentions it. Nate didn’t say a word either. But somehow by the time me and the gang buried Elmo out back, that slimy towel I used ended up in my mother’s hamper. On the second floor of our house. Now. How do you think it got there? Who decided, the day Ma stopped on her way home from the clinic to pick up her wig and was trying to have a normal day and do normal stuff, like laundry, to put that god damned towel in her hamper!? With stuff oozing all over her clothes!?

I — I could see what was going on. I’m not blind. When you’re struggling or sick you need someone to cling to. You need someone to be good. And strong. And perfect. You know? Well in our house, growing up, that person wasn’t me.

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2.

(In this excerpt from Elmo On the Halfshell, Joey, 20s, tries to make sense of the day he finally snapped and beat up a kid from the neighborhood.)

I slapped him. Saw the spray come off his lips. Grabbed the back of his shirt. Kicked him in the head. Above his right temple. With those steal-toed boots I loved so much. I'd never done this before. I mean, not this. But it had its own momentum, you know? I reached down and grabbed something. His hair. And dragged him to the bridge.

Why? God. I wondered for years. I wish I could come up with a reason. A big reason that makes sense of it all. But the honest truth? It's 'cause he whimpered. 'cause he was fat. And glanced at me the wrong way. 'cause I was walking up a hill to meet our starving dog who was eating our starving plants 'cause no one had the time or the money or, or the desire to look after him.

I let Sam hang over the railing. Head first. Squealing. This horrible sound. Like an animal. Then, as he reached up, grabbed at my shirt, face beet red, mouth sputtering, saliva, tears, and sweat dripping off his face, I let go. It was a small movement -- like that. My fingers moved an inch. And I watched him fall. Watched his head bob up and down. Saw his blood stain the water. Hair, bone, dandruff, everything — everything just kind of falling out and drifting away and — and suddenly there was Elmo. And the crunch of that shell. And Nate shooting BBs in the woods. And Ma falling down the stairs the other day, trying to answer the door to get the flowers I'd sent her. 'cause I was trying to make up for things.

Why? You're asking me why!? — I don't know how any of it got that way! — I bent over the railing and heaved. That's how the cops found me, leaning over the bridge, staring down, trying desperately to throw up.

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