59
Objects, in setting this scene,
lend it such a bleak mien:
A cracked doctor-bag,
leather and black,
opens on the desk top
blotter. The stethoscope,
folded once, is swallowed
by it; it goes back in
as the bag closes. Doc
Everett retracts his arm,
turns to Clark. He dislikes
this part of his job most,
dislikes being
A PHYSICIAN CONFERRING
WITH THE NEXT OF KIN:
-- Nothing more I can do.
With walking pneumonia,
maybe for months, collapsed
lungs, drowning in herself,
there's nothing to be done.
She wants to be awake
for the end, or else
I'd've sedated her,
spared her the pain.
It'll come soon now.
Nothing anyone could've done.
WHILST THE MOGUL, LEAVING,
RAILS AT THE HELP AGAIN
(Stage whispering):
-- Edge, did you get the woman's name?
-- It's 'Ghent,' Mr. Luther; I think.
-- Well, be sure. See that her people
are cared for. Spare no expense.
And arrange for me to leave at once.
You are responsible for this, Edge.
"Visit the workers," you said,
"Shake hands in reporters' sights,
boost investor confidence and beat
the 'robber baron' tag to boot,"
you said. Now? Disaster. Since
you broke it, Edge, you'll fix it.
You'll stay in this gray backwater
until this whole incident's forgot!
Do I make myself clear?
-- Yessir!
-- I want my private train by nine.
-- Yessir!
-- And find that lazy son of mine!
-- Yessir!
And off the mogul storms,
never out of range
of super-hearing.
Thus the hero, listening,
confirms this suspicion
(only moments old): Sin
thrives in Wealth's dominion.
It spreads like spit glistening
on a shiny band of gold.
Today is a christening --
he is done with the Comp'ny --
and a day of reckoning.
An accounting (fitting term)
will come. In due time. Not now.
Lana clears the room.
Mother and son should be alone
when the end comes. "Call if you need me,"
she says. And he: "I will," as she goes.
Then they are alone,
and with the heel of his hand
Clark shifts the steel-gray strands
of Ma's hair off her brow.
"I can see you better now,
son," Sarah says.
"How do you feel," he asks,
feeling instantly foolish.
-- It hurts. But, it should hurt.
Not meant to be easy,
this last ride. Let the dirt
cover me, son.
-- No coffin?
-- None.
I want to go like my Pa.
He said wood would only
get in the way,
that the worms should
be able to eat him up so that,
one day, fat off him, a big one could
help a boy catch the biggest fish
in the whole county that season.
Let me die toward such a reason
and I will die a happy woman, son.
-- It will be done just that way.
A long pause, her eyes closed.
Then she begins again, so quietly
that no one but he could possibly
hear her:
-- Clark?
-- Yes, Ma?
-- From what kind of world did you come?
-- A cold one.
I know from a vision
that it was warm, once.
But weapons of war,
as men are wont to make,
shifted its orbit
and the whole planet froze.
It exploded a century later,
its axis having crumbled,
its people never humbled.
-- Why are you here?
-- I don't know. My good luck, I guess.
-- I know.
-- You do?
-- Yes.
-- Why?
(She sighs, then sinks a bit
into the pillow, pulling sheet to chin.)
-- You are here for them... To... atone.
(She sighs again, heavier this time.)
-- Ma? Ma!
He is alone.
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