“They try.”
“Are you close to your family?”
“Very!” Mary blurted.
Joe put his hands in the air as though he was under arrest. “Hey, I’m just asking.”
“I don’t understand that question,” Mary said. “A family is always close, even when they aren’t in contact. It’s the nature of what a family is in the first place.”
“You think so?”
“I believe it.”
“Maybe you’re on to something. Can I ask you a question?”
Mary nodded. She was in a conversation with a man whom she was attracted to and a man who also intrigued her. She couldn’t remember a time when both of those things had happened at the same time in the same conversation.
“Why do you write?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Mary answered truthfully. “Why do you?”
“Because I have no other outlet for my feelings,” Joe said, as though he had not admitted something so deep that perhaps should never be said out loud. He went on, “Writing is as good a way to connect to your feelings as anything else.”
“True. But it’s a lot of work. You can just have your feelings, sit with them, act on them in life—without becoming a writer.”
“So, youhavethought about why you write.”
“Maybe because my father was a writer,” Mary said. She discovered the truth as she said it. She had not made that connection before this conversation with Joe.
“Would I know his work?” Joe asked.
“Don’t think so. He wrote a nonfiction book about shipbuilding—well reviewed, but it didn’t sell.”
“That’s too bad.”
“You know it’s impossible to make a living as a playwright,” Mary said.
“Maybe you will succeed where your father didn’t,” Joe said. “You’re not the only person I know who went into the family business.”
“Did you?”
“I have a day job,” Joe admitted.
“What is it?” Mary asked.
“I’m a plumber. I do some electrics. Contracting.”
Mrs. DeMatteo entered from the back of the theater. She was tall and thin, with white hair pulled back into a low chignon. Her full lips were bright red. She wore navy slacks and a white blouse, with an Hermès scarf tied loosely at her neck. She placed a large, open leather tote on a seat in the front row. “Good afternoon, Mary. Joe. Good to see you. How are you?”
“Better now. Is class starting on time?” Joe asked.
“Not if I can help it.” Mrs. DeMatteo laughed. “Didn’t anyone tell you that art is timeless?”
“Wouldn’t work in the plumbing business.” Joe smiled. “A burst pipe waits for no man.”
TWO SISTERS
Mary lay in bed thinking. Lizzie slept in the twin bed under the window. The sheers ruffled where the window was cracked open. The pale yellow streetlight shone through the window.
