Sunset Park

or less.
    If you still cared, why run away in the first place?
    That’s the big question, isn’t it? ( Pause. Another sip of wine. ) Because I thought you’d be better off without me—all of you.
    Or you’d be better off without us.
    Maybe.
    Then why come back now?
    Because circumstances brought me up to New York, and once I was here, I understood that the game was over. I’d had enough.
    But why so long? When you first went missing, I thought it would be for a few weeks, a few months. You know: confused young man lights out for the territories, grapples with his demons in the wilderness, and comes back a stronger, better person. But seven years, Miles, one-quarter of your life. You see how crazy that is, don’t you?
    I did want to become a better person. That was the whole point. Become better, become stronger—all very worthy, I suppose, but also a little vague. How do you know when you’ve become better? It’s not like going to college for four years and being handed a diploma to prove you’ve passed all your courses. There’s no way to measure your progress. So I kept at it, not knowing if I was better or not, not knowing if I was stronger or not, and after a while I stopped thinking about the goal and concentrated on the effort. ( Pause. Another sip of wine .) Does any of this make sense to you? I became addicted to the struggle. I lost track of myself. I kept on doing it, but I didn’t know why I was doing it anymore.
    Your father thinks you ran away because of a conversation you overheard.
    He figured that out? I’m impressed. But that conversation was only the start, the first push. I’m not going todeny how terrible it felt to hear them talking about me like that, but after I took off, I understood they were right, right to be so worried about me, right in their analysis of my fucked-up psyche, and that’s why I stayed away—because I didn’t want to be that person anymore, and I knew it would take me a long time to get well.
    Are you well now?
    ( Laughs. ) I doubt it. ( Pause. ) But not as bad off as I was then. Lots of things have changed, especially in the past six months.
    Another glass, Miles?
    Yes, please. ( Pause .) I shouldn’t be doing this. Out of practice, you know. But it’s awfully good wine, and I’m awfully, awfully nervous.
    ( Refilling both their glasses. ) Me too, baby.
    It was never about you, I hope you understand that. But once I made the break with my father and Willa, I had to break with you and Simon as well.
    It’s all about Bobby, isn’t it?
    ( Nods. )
    You have to let it go.
    I can’t.
    You have to.
    ( Shakes his head .) Too many bad memories.
    You didn’t run him over. It was an accident.
    We were arguing. I pushed him into the road, and then the car came—going too fast, coming out of nowhere.
    Let it go, Miles. It was an accident.
    ( Eyes welling up with tears. Silence, four seconds. Then the downstairs buzzer rings. )
    It must be the food. ( Stands up, walks over to Miles, kisses him on the forehead, and then goes off to let in the deliveryman from the restaurant. Over her shoulder, addressing Miles .) Which one do you think it is? The vegetarians or the carnivores?
    ( Long pause. Forcing a smile .) Both!

Morris Heller
    The Can Man has been to England and back, and his experiences there have changed the color of the world. Since returning to New York on January twenty-fifth, he has given up his cans and bottles in order to devote himself to a life of pure contemplation. The Can Man nearly died in England. The Can Man contracted pneumonia and spent two weeks in a hospital, and the woman he went there to rescue from mental collapse and potential suicide wound up rescuing him from almost certain death and in so doing rescued herself from mental collapse and possibly saved a marriage as well. The Can Man is glad to be alive. The Can Man knows his days are numbered, and therefore he has put aside his quest for cans and bottles in order to study the days as they slip past him, one after the other, each one more quickly than the day before it. Among the numerous observations he has noted down in his book of observations are the following:
    January 25. We do not grow stronger as the years advance. The accumulation of sufferings and sorrows weakens our capacity to endure more sufferings and sorrows, and since sufferings and sorrows are inevitable, evena small setback late in life can resound with the same force as a major tragedy when we are young. The straw