Leaving Rhode Island: Rose

I came back for my grandma

Nothing else could get me back

I really don’t mind it here

But I got a girl now in Lowell

And, you know, a life there and shit

So I just wasn’t thinking too much

About coming back here

Not even when I got the letter saying I could

But my grandma Rose was sick

So I gave my girl a kiss on the forehead

And I said ‘I’ll be back when I’m back’

She nodded

She understood

She’s a good girlfriend, the best

I’m going to marry this girl

Just don’t tell her

I’m still saving up for the ring

Anyway, I get home on a Saturday afternoon

Pretty hot out

The kind of weather where it feels wrong to be inside

Where you get depressed if you’re not at a cookout or the beach

Bad dying weather

People should only die in the winter

Last thing they see is snow

It’s nice

It’s moving

I walk into my grandma’s bedroom

And she’s lying there

My mother sitting next to her

‘She’s been waiting for you,’ my mom says

‘Hanging on until you got here’

My mom gets up

I sit down

I put my hand in my grandma’s hand

She’s opening her eyes, closing ‘em

I don’t even know if she knows I’m there

I say, ‘Rose?  Rose, it’s okay.  You can let go.’

She opens her eyes

Sees me

And says—

‘What are you kidding me?  I’m not going to die in the summer.’

Then she gets up

Takes a bath

And asks when we’re going for doughboys

At Oakland Beach

I know it’s probably not the story you were expecting

But I don’t know

I don’t think it gets any more Rhode Island than that

Leaving Rhode Island: Bald Hill Road

Believe it or not

The thing I miss the most

Is Bald Hill Road

I loved a boy named Matt

And he lived

Off Bald Hill Road

He was a little older than me

And he lived with his aunt

Because his mom drank too much

But his aunt was always traveling

She’d go on these long train trips across the country

And once she got exiled…

Well, that was just an excuse to never come home

One day I called his house

And everyone was gone

The phone just rang and rang

A friend drove me to the house

So I could see for myself

Dark windows, no car in the driveway

No Matt

He disappeared

So when the letter came

I disappeared too

Making yourself disappear is the one magic trick

Everybody knows how to do

If I had to go back to Rhode Island

I think the hardest thing

Would be avoiding Bald Hill Road

I mean, everybody avoids Bald Hill Road

Nobody likes Bald Hill Road

But…

The night Matt disappeared

I remember making my friend drive up and down it

Over and over again

Looking out my window

As if I was going to see him

My Matt—walking alongside the road

Near the Barnes and Noble

Or the McDonald’s

Or even further down

Near the movie theaters

I kept thinking he must be here

He must be here

Because—where would he go?

Somebody like that

You worry for them

Because other kinds of people

People with choices

With opportunities

People like that disappear

And you live with it

Because you expect them to

You don’t expect them to hang around

But when it’s someone like Matt—

Someone with nowhere to go

That’s when you know

They’re gone

For good

Leaving Rhode Island: It's a Twister

                (A farmhouse.  WYLENE and KLAIRE standing outside.  A storm approaches.)

KLAIRE:  Sounds like a train, doesn’t it?

WYLENE:  Sounds like we’re already on one.

KLAIRE:  It’s exciting.

WYLENE:  Klaire, I want to take this opportunity to remind you that you are not invincible.

KLAIRE:  You don’t know that, Wylene.  You won’t know that unless I die.

WYLENE:  Well, when you die, I’ll know.

KLAIRE:  You have no faith in me.

WYLENE:  I have enough faith to know that a tornado will kill you.

KLAIRE:  A tornado brought me here, and a tornado’s going to bring me home.

WYLENE:  A tornado didn’t bring you here.  I brought you here.  You rode the whole way in the back of my Buick Century.  Drunk as hell, vomiting out the window every five miles, crying, screaming—

KLAIRE:  That car was my tornado away from Rhode Island.  This time I want to ride back on the real thing.

WYLENE:  This is going to end in tears.

KLAIRE:  We were chosen for a reason, Wylene.

WYLENE:  You keep saying that, Klaire, but I don’t think so.  I think a shitty thing happened to us.  That doesn’t make us special.

KLAIRE:  I told Tara I’d meet her back in Rhode Island.

WYLENE:  Tara’s gone, Klaire.

KLAIRE:  I know she’s gone.  She left days ago.

WYLENE:  She didn’t leave days ago.  She left a long time before that.

KLAIRE:  And I’m going to go meet her.

WYLENE:  I’m not sure that’s what she’d want, Klaire.

KLAIRE:  You understand so little about people, Wylene.  People, space, time—how they work.  How they work together.

WYLENE:  I think I understand everything just fine.  And I think you—

KLAIRE:  You know, I could look like you.  If I wanted to.  Just like you.  Pretty and blonde and…

WYLENE:  Tall?  You were going to say ‘tall,’ right?

KLAIRE:  You don’t know how to harness the power within yourself.

WYLENE:  You sound like a traveling medicine man, Klaire.

KLAIRE:  Tara left me something, you know.

WYLENE:  Drugs?

KLAIRE:  No!

                (She takes WYLENE’s hand and puts it on her stomach.)

You feel it?

WYLENE:  Klaire, Tara—

KLAIRE:  (Pushing her hand away.)  I’m not what you think I am, you know.

WYLENE:  What do you think I think you are?

KLAIRE:  Scared.

WYLENE:  Well…you’re right.

KLAIRE:  I wasn’t scared to love, Tara.  You were though.

WYLENE:  I didn’t know what to make of her.

KLAIRE:  I saw her out in the field one night.  I woke up—I was having one of those dreams where I’m back in Newport, riding my bike over the bridge, and I see a man standing there, like he’s about to jump off.  And I go to grab him, but when I do I reach up and my eyes open and I’m in bed here and the night’s quiet except for the fan ka-chuh ka-chuh ka-chuh but one night I looked out the window and I saw Tara but the most beautiful boy.  Long hair falling in front of his eyes, and they were making love.

WYLENE:  Klaire, stop it.

KLAIRE:  And when they were done, something was created.  Something was formed.  And they took that thing and they put it in me.

WYLENE:  And then they up and left it, huh?  That’s a story I know.

KLAIRE:  What are you talking about?

WYLENE:  It’s basic dream interpretation, Klaire.  We’re both throwaways.  You got tossed to the state by your parents, and then I got tossed by mine, and then the state tossed us away too.  So you came up with this idea of Tara as a Mom--

KLAIRE:  She appeared, Wylene.

WYLENE:  As some kind of mom—

KLAIRE:  How do you explain it?

WYLENE:  People appear.  That’s not unusual.

KLAIRE:  Why would she appear?  Why would she appear here and then tell us she was like us?

WYLENE:  Because she was a scam artist.  She wanted something from us.

KLAIRE:  She didn’t get anything though, did she?

WYLENE:  She got a place to stay.  And some food.  And who knows what else?  I haven’t had a chance to look around and see if she took anything, but I’m sure she did.

KLAIRE:  You’re mad because she didn’t like you.

WYLENE:  I’m mad, because she took advantage of you.

KLAIRE:  But I’m okay, aren’t I?  For someone who got taken advantage of?  I’m okay.  I have a baby coming, and I’m going for a ride in a tornado.  And I’m going home.  I’m doing just fine.

WYLENE:  I need you to come with me.  Inside the house.  Into the storm cellar.  Okay?

KLAIRE:  No.

WYLENE:  Klaire, I’m not joking.

KLAIRE:  Neither am I.

WYLENE:  I’ll drag you in there by your hair if I have to.

KLAIRE:  You’d harm a pregnant woman?

WYLENE:  Oh c’mon—

KLAIRE:  A woman with child?

WYLENE:  All I’d be doing is saving you again.  And it’s always by the hair.

KLAIRE:  You don’t need to save me.  This baby’s going to save me.  The children of the exiles are special, don’t you know that?  They’re unique.

WYLENE:  They’re not special.  You’re not special.  And you’re not pregnant.

KLAIRE:  You don’t know!

WYLENE:  Look, I love you.  You’re like my sister, you know that.  But I am not going to stand out here and die with you.  I have a chance—we both do—to go back and start over.  And get it right this time.  Not shack up in some old farmhouse we got after some poor old lady dropped dead on us.  No more scraping by.  No more waking up to you nailing the windows shut because you heard footsteps outside and you think the End’s coming—it’s not.  It’s just a tornado, but it can be the end of you—now you need to get inside with me.  And when this thing carries that farmhouse away with it, we’re going back to Rhode Island—in my car—you in the backseat, me in the front—same way we got here.

                (A beat.)

KLAIRE:  No.  Not this time.

                (A moment.)

WYLENE:  You’re going to leave me too, huh?

KLAIRE:  I’ll see you back there.

WYLENE:  No, you won’t.

KLAIRE:  You gotta know you have what it takes to ride out the storm.  If you don’t have that, hiding out in some cellar isn’t going to do much for you.

WYLENE:  I hope you know what you’re doing.

KLAIRE:  When has that ever helped anybody?

WYLENE:  I’ll be in the cellar if you change your mind.

KLAIRE:  I’ll be out here if you change yours.

WYLENE:  I won’t.  Too many years of self-preservation.  I don’t think I could force myself to give up now.

KLAIRE:  Then I guess this might be good-bye.

WYLENE:  So you admit this thing might kill you?

KLAIRE:  No, I’m afraid that the cellar’s built shitty just like the rest of the house and it might not do you any good.

WYLENE:  I’ll take my chances.

KLAIRE:  Same here, Wylene.  Same here.

                (They look out.  The storm descends.)

Leaving Rhode Island: Ohio

                (A train.  STEPHANIE and GEORGE are sitting next to each other.  GEORGE looks at STEPHANIE.  He looks away.  He looks at her.  He looks away.  He looks at her.  She looks at him.)

STEPHANIE:  Yes.

GEORGE:  Are you sure?

STEPHANIE:  Well…yes.

GEORGE:  Okay.

STEPHANIE:  Next stop?

GEORGE:  Sounds good.

STEPHANIE:  Good.

GEORGE:  Great.

STEPHANIE:  I feel good about this.

GEORGE:  Me too.  I wasn’t sure I was going to, but—

STEPHANIE:  I know, right?

GEORGE:  But I think this’ll work.

STEPHANIE:  I have a good feeling.

GEORGE:  That’s it, isn’t it?  It’s sort of a feeling.

STEPHANIE:  The tops of my hands itch.  That’s how I know.

GEORGE:  The tops of your hands?

STEPHANIE:  Mhmm.

GEORGE:  That might be bad.  You might want to look into that.

STEPHANIE:  No, it’s a sign.  A signal.  To myself.  That good stuff is coming.

GEORGE:  And when you saw me—

STEPHANIE:  I practically broke out into a rash.

GEORGE:  That’s nice.  I mean, that’s nice to hear.

STEPHANIE:  That’s why I’m sitting on my hands.

GEORGE:  I was wondering.

STEPHANIE:  That’s why.

GEORGE:  You can stop if you want.

STEPHANIE:  No, it feels good, actually, it feels really, really good.

GEORGE:  I never used to, uh, do this sort of thing—until I was exiled.

STEPHANIE:  Me either.  Now, I—

GEORGE:  All the time.

STEPHANIE:  All. The. Time.

GEORGE:  It’s a little ridiculous.

STEPHANIE:  Makes you feel—

GEORGE:  Like an addict.  Sometimes.

STEPHANIE:  My cousin was exiled.  She became an alcoholic.  Me?

GEORGE:  Well, this is better than that.

STEPHANIE:  Than alcoholism?  Oh God, yeah.  This is way better.

GEORGE:  I mean, it doesn’t—

STEPHANIE:  Right, it’s not even a—

GEORGE:  I mean, it feels like a—

STEPHANIE:  Right, it’s just that it’s not a—

GEORGE:  I mean, I’m judging people who are—

STEPHANIE:  Right, like my cousin—

GEORGE:  I mean, I’m sure she’s—

STEPHANIE:  Right, she is—

GEORGE:  I mean—

STEPHANIE:  Right.

                (A beat.)

GEORGE:  So you weren’t like this before—

STEPHANIE:  Moving to Columbus?  No, not at all.

GEORGE:  I thought maybe it was—that it was some sort of—psychological reaction, you know?  To being exiled?

STEPHANIE:  Well, it might be.  I’m sure it had all different sorts of—you know, like, influences—on different people.

GEORGE:  Yeah—impacts.

STEPHANIE:  Yes, impacts.

GEORGE:  I just feel…I mean, a guy my age—

STEPHANIE:  A woman my age.

GEORGE:  You don’t look that old.

STEPHANIE:  Thank God.  I hear they’re shooting the old people.

GEORGE:  Are you kidding?

STEPHANIE:  I mean, it’s a rumor, but—

GEORGE:  No!

STEPHANIE:  That’s what I hear.

GEORGE:  But I mean—what’s old?  Am I old?

STEPHANIE:  You’re not old.

GEORGE:  I’m sure to some people, I’m old.

STEPHANIE:  To some people, everybody’s old.  I’m old to some people.  To an infant, a toddler is old.

GEORGE:  So who are they going to shoot?

STEPHANIE:  I don’t know if they’re actually shooting people, it’s just something I heard.

GEORGE:  But still, it’s—

STEPHANIE:  Right, yeah, it is.

GEORGE:  I mean…

                (A beat.)

GEORGE/STEPHANIE:  I have/You know—Sorry.

STEPHANIE:  What were you going to—

GEORGE:  It doesn’t—

STEPHANE:  No, go ahead.

                (A beat.)

GEORGE:  I have a daughter.  Two daughters, actually—one was exiled, one wasn’t.

STEPHANIE:  Oh.

GEORGE:  Tara.  That’s the one who was, and the other one is—

STEPHANIE:  You know, I’d rather not—like, get to know each other—if that’s okay?

GEORGE:  Oh.

STEPHANIE:  Because eventually we’re just going to get off the train, you know?

GEORGE:  Yeah.  Of course.

STEPHANIE:  Not to be a—

GEORGE:  No, you’re right.  You’re absolutely right.

STEPHANIE:  But they—I mean, you seem nice.  I’m sure they’re nice girls.

                (A beat.)

GEORGE:  I’m not sure where Tara is.  Nobody is really, she…I’m not sure.

STEPHANIE:  Oh.

GEORGE:  But I mean, I’m sure she’s fine.

STEPHANIE:  Right.

GEORGE:  I mean…

STEPHANIE:  Right.

                (Lights.)

Leaving Rhode Island: Greece

                (MIRANDA and KRISTY sit in an office.  KRISTY is younger than MIRANDA, and looks very sure of herself.)

KRISTY:  It’s important that you not be nervous.

MIRANDA:  Why is it important?

KRISTY:  What?

MIRANDA:  Why is it important that I not be nervous?

KRISTY:  Because it won’t help.

MIRANDA:  Help what?

KRISTY:  Anything, really.

MIRANDA:  But anything specifically?

KRISTY:  What?

MIRANDA:  Is there anything, specifically, it won’t help?

KRISTY:  Well if you’re worried that we’re going to shoot you—

MIRANDA:  Oh my God!

KRISTY:  Oh, please!  Let me finish!

MIRANDA:  Of course.  I’m sorry.  Go ahead.

KRISTY:  I was going to say—If you’re worried that we’re going to shoot you, then don’t worry.

MIRANDA:  Because you’re not going to shoot me?

KRISTY:  No, because worrying about it won’t prevent it from happening.

MIRANDA:  Jesus!

KRISTY:  We’re NOT going to shoot you!  But if we were, you worrying about it wouldn’t help.

MIRANDA:  Would you tell me if you were going to shoot me?

KRISTY:  I would tell you eventually.

MIRANDA:  Eventually meaning when?

KRISTY:  Probably right before I shot you.

MIRANDA:  And would you lie to me about it up until then?

KRISTY:  Well, I’d have to.  I wouldn’t want you running away.

MIRANDA:  Oh lord.

KRISTY:  Or panicking.

MIRANDA:  Well, now I’m panicking.

KRISTY:  People your age always panic about the little things.

MIRANDA:  Being shot is not a little thing.

KRISTY:  Depends on the size of the bullets, I would think.

MIRANDA:  I was perfectly calm when I came in here.  You’ve gotten me all worked up.

KRISTY:  I didn’t mean to do that.  I just wanted to meet with you to welcome you back to Rhode Island and assure you that we’re not going to shoot you simply because you’re one of the older Exiles.

MIRANDA:  I…Why would I think that?

KRISTY:  Rumors.  Gossip.  Speculation.

MIRANDA:  I should hope so.  What you’re describing would be—barbaric.

KRISTY:  Well, I wouldn’t go that far.  It would certainly be bad PR.

MIRANDA:  PR?

KRISTY:  Public relations?

MIRANDA:  I know what PR stands for.  I mean, that’s what would bother you about it?  Bad PR?

KRISTY:  What else about it should bother me?

MIRANDA:  That it would be homicide?

KRISTY:  At your age?  Ha!  Not really.

MIRANDA:  How old do you think I am?

KRISTY:  Oh God, I’m terrible at this game.  I always guess zero.

MIRANDA:  What?

KRISTY:  You know, like on Price Is Right?  They guess zero in case everybody else goes too high?

MIRANDA:  That wouldn’t really apply here.

KRISTY:  Fifty-seven?

MIRANDA:  I’d be flattered, except that would mean you think fifty-seven is an appropriate age at which to shoot someone for being too old.

KRISTY:  It’s not so much your age as your overall feebleness.

MIRANDA:  I’m hardly feeble.  I spent the past five years in Greece running a stall at a fish market.  I can gut and prep a swordfish in less time than it takes you to do your hair.

KRISTY:  Well, that’s not that impressive.  As you can probably see, it takes me forever to do my hair.  This doesn’t just happen in minutes, you know.

MIRANDA:  First the government of Rhode Island banishes all these people, and now they’re threatening to shoot some of us.

KRISTY:  Well…there is a solution—I mean, to calm your nerves about the whole thing.

MIRANDA:  Does it involve you promising me it’s not going to happen?

KRISTY:  I’m not allowed to make promises.  They’re scared I might try to keep one.

MIRANDA:  So what’s the solution?

KRISTY:  You could…not come back?

                (A beat.)

MIRANDA:  You’re telling me that after you kicked me out and then told me I could return, that now I—

KRISTY:  I’m saying it would eliminate any concern you might have.

MIRANDA:  And where would I go?

KRISTY:  Back to Greece?  Or Tuscon?  Tuscon is lovely this time of year.

MIRANDA:  And what if I just stay here and take my chances?

                (A beat.)

KRISTY:  Well, that would be your choice.  Your…ill-advised choice.

MIRANDA:  Why older people?  Can you tell me that?

KRISTY:  I only know what they tell me.

MIRANDA:  And what do they tell you?

KRISTY:  Nothing.  That’s how the system stays in place.

MIRANDA:  Don’t you have a grandmother?  A grandfather?  An older aunt?

KRISTY:  Are you asking me if I feel compassion?

MIRANDA:  Well—yes.

KRISTY:  I…I want to say ‘Yes?’

MIRANDA:  I think I should head back to Greece.

KRISTY:  I’m sure it’s beautiful there.

MIRANDA:  It is.  Much nicer than here.

KRISTY:  I’ve always thought about going.

MIRANDA:  To Greece?

KRISTY:  To anywhere.  But I’m terrified of flying.

MIRANDA:  If the plane crashed, you’d just die.  That’s all.

KRISTY:  That’s—a lot.

MIRANDA:  The good news for you is that you outgrow fear.  One day you wake up and you just don’t care anymore.  Somebody sends you a letter telling you to leave everything you’ve ever worked for behind, and the next thing you know, you’re on a fishing boat in the bluest waters you’ve ever seen in your life, as drunk as you’ve ever been in your life, and happier than you ever thought was possible.

KRISTY:  That…sounds wonderful.

MIRANDA:  Or you just die here.

                (MIRANDA looks around the room.)

If it were up to me—I’d pick the plane crash.

                (She exits.  KRISTY looks around.  Lights.)