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Voicemail: You Have One New Message

Alice! Alice, my dear. It’s Bunny Kilborn from Blue Hill. It’s been a very long time. I hope you’ve been getting my Christmas cards. I think of you so often. How are you and William? The children? Is Zoe off to college yet? She must be close. Maybe you’ll send her back east. Look. I’ll get straight to it. I have a favor to ask. Remember our youngest, Caroline? Well, she’s moving to the Bay Area and I’m wondering if you’d be willing to help her out a bit? Show her around? She’s looking for a job in IT. Maybe you even have some contacts in the tech world? She’ll need to find a place to live, a roommate sort of situation, and, of course, a job, but it would be so nice to know she’s not completely on her own out there. Besides, you two would hit it off. So how are you otherwise? Still teaching drama? Dare I ask if you ever write plays anymore? I know The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island really took the wind out of your sails, but— I’m on the phone. Jack, I’m ON THE PHONE! Sorry, Alice, have to run, let me know if—

Mailbox Full

Now there’s a voice from my past. Bunny Kilborn: the renowned founder and artistic director of the Blue Hill Theater in Maine; winner of three Obies, two Guggenheims, and a Bessie Award. She’s directed everything from Tennessee Williams’s A Streetcar Named Desire to Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming, and in the late nineties, Alice Buckle’s The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island. No, I’m not saying I was in the same league as Williams and Pinter. I entered a contest for emerging playwrights and ending up winning first prize, which was the mounting of my play at the Blue Hill Theater. Everything I had been working for had led to that moment and that win. It felt—well, it felt like destiny.

I had always been a theater rat. I started acting in middle school and then in high school attempted writing my first play. It was horrible, of course (heavily influenced by David Mamet, who to this day is still my favorite playwright, although I can’t abide his politics), but I wrote another play and then another and another, and with each play I found my voice a little more.

In college, three of my plays were produced. I became one of the theater department’s stars. When I graduated, I took a day job in advertising, which left my nights free to write. When I was twenty-nine I finally got my big break—and I flopped. It’s an understatement when Bunny says the play took the wind out of my sails. The reviews were so bad I never wrote another play again.

There was one good review from the Portland Press Herald. I can still recite passages by heart: “emotionally generous,” “a thought-provoking coming-of-age story, the effect of which is like mainlining Springsteen’s ‘Jungleland.’?” But I can also recite passages from all the other reviews, which were consistently negative: “fails miserably,” “clichéd and contrived,” “amateurish,” and “Act 3? Put us out of our misery already!” The play closed within two weeks.

Bunny made an effort to keep in touch with me all these years, but I didn’t reciprocate much. I was too ashamed. I had embarrassed Bunny and her company, as well as blown my one big chance.

Bunny’s call has to be more than serendipity. I want to be connected to her; to have her in my life again in some way.

I pick up the phone and nervously dial her number. It rings twice.

“Hello?”

“Bunny—Bunny is that you?”

There’s a pause, then …

“Oh, Alice, love. I hoped you would call.”