These silences help underscore the points Ruhl has to make about the difficulty of making connections, about the fluidity of identity, and about the eternal mystery we human beings are to one another. Can we ever know another person, living or dead? Can we even know ourselves?
Jean, a single woman in her late 30s who is the central character of “Dead Man’s Cell Phone,’’ starts to confront these questions when a well-dressed businessman named Gordon silently expires at the cafe table next to hers. Then his cellphone rings. Though he is a complete stranger, Jean makes the fateful decision to answer his phone.
She keeps doing so. The law of unintended consequences is bound to kick in sooner or later, and it does. Call by call, encounter by encounter, Jean is drawn - or, rather, she willingly ventures - deeper into the mysterious, secretive life of the departed.
“I want to remember everything,’’ Jean admits. “Even other people’s memories.’’ Yet she also takes it upon herself to shape the memories of Gordon’s loved ones. Jean makes up stories to comfort Gordon’s wife, mother, and lover, claiming to be his co-worker and reassuring each of them in turn that his last thoughts were of them. She creates an idealized portrait of a man she never knew - and that portrait is not entirely recognizable to those who did know him.
But for different reasons, each of them needs to believe Jean. “You’re very comforting,’’ Gordon’s mother, Mrs. Gottlieb, tells Jean. “I don’t know why. You’re like a very small casserole - has anyone ever told you that?’’
