by Dan Isaac
fern: I know—you told me yesterday—like matchsticks! [Pause. She covers her face with her hands and moves to inner doorway.]
star: I guess I shouldn’t have told you that. I was so worried about Red, him being down there—and this strike business! The men divided like they are against each other, half of them on Red’s side, for the strike, and the others against him, scared of the company, and threatening him all the time—the damn fools! Red tries to make them see things but they won’t! They’d rather go on as they are, the life being poisoned out of them with coal dust, overworked and underpaid, cheated, bought and sold—
fern [turning away]: I didn’t know you felt like that.
star: Oh, I didn’t before. What did I care about the miners? Jake was my man and he worked in the mines a course. But I didn’t love Jake. He brought me home money every week. Kept me. But I never cared about Jake very much. What kind of a life was that? It wasn’t any at all. But with Red something’s happened to me, Fern, I dunno what it is. I’m not like my old self anymore. It seems I’ve changed into somebody else and everything that I done before I look back at and wonder how it could have really been me that done those things—
fern: I guess it wasn’t you, really. You’re in love with this man. [Quietly.] I know. I loved John like that.
star: And you lost him.
fern: In the mines. [Pause.] And now Luke’s gone. [She goes to the window.] It’s getting dark. Turn the lamp on, Star.
star [lighting the lamp]: The same old lamp.
fern: Yes. Hester’s old lamp.
star: She used to sew by it nights.
fern: I do too.
star: I can see her now setting there nights rocking back and forth with the look on her face never changing, just the shadows moving. I used to wonder what she was thinking about.
fern: I know what she was thinking about.
star: Do you?
fern: Yes, I’m a mother, too.
star: Oh! [She lights another cigarette—near the stove.] We all went back on her. None of us turned out like she wanted us to.
fern: She wanted to keep her sons out of the mines. I know how that was. It was her life, all she lived for—the thing that kept her alive. After John’s death it was Joel. She made me promise to save him from going the same way. But what could I do?
star: There was nothing for Joel but the mines.
fern: And nothing for John.
star: And for me there was nothing but this.
fern: You can thank God, Star, that you’ve got no sons.
star: Maybe things’ll turn out diff’rent for Luke.
fern: He’s down there now. On the fifth level. That’s where he is right this minute. [She sits nervously in rocker.] What time you’d guess it is, Star? It must be near closing time, ain’t it?
star: Not long from it.
fern: I got to think of some way to keep him from going back tomorrow. There must be some way.
star: Luke tole me you was saving money to send him to college.
fern: Yes, but it ain’t enough yet. I need a bit more. That’s why Luke’s down there working. He wants to go to Tuscaloosa next fall.
star: Well, it ain’t for good, y’see. It’s just til—
[The whistle blows three times. The women sit erect, listening. Star rises stiffly, her eyes staring with terror. Fern cannot comprehend. She still sits in an erect, listening attitude, her head slightly on one side. The knife that she holds, paring vegetables, clatters to the floor. From outside there is a faintly audible rumble of running feet and shouting voices.]
star: It blew—three times! [She stands.]
fern: Star . . . .
star: Three times!
fern: That means . . . .
star: Trouble at the mines!
fern: Star!
star [in a choked whisper]: Trouble!
fern: Yes. Trouble.
[The clamor rises outside. Fern gets up stiffly from the chair. Her face is grotesque with fear, like a tragicomic mask. Star suddenly darts to the window.]
fern: Star! Don’t leave me! What d’you see?
star: Everyone’s running toward the shafts. Something’s happened.
fern: Something’s happened. Star, don’t leave me.
star: I couldn’t go. My feet wouldn’t carry me one step.
fern [incoherently mumbling]: Don’t go. Luke’s down there. Something better for him than that. John went down there. What do you see now, Star? No, no, I can’t look. Not now. Oh, my God, my dear God, don’t let it be Luke this time.
star: They’re coming this way, the whole crowd.
fern: Don’t let them see you standing there like that. They might see you, Star. They might come bringing him in on a plank! [She sinks to her knees on the floor.] Yes, I’m John’s wife! What do you want with me now?
star [joyously]: It’s not Red! I can see him. He’s shouting and waving his arms! Thank God!!
fern: John’s wife. Yes, that’s me. You ought to know me by now. I’ve been here long enough God knows! [She laughs hysterically and covers her face with her hands.]
star: I can see Bram, too. He’s coming first, in front of the men. Oh, Fern— [Her voice lowers with anxiety.] They’re coming this way! [She back away from the window.]
fern: No, No! [Gets up. Her voice raises to a scream.] No, no! They can’t come here! John’s dead! A long time ago! Not now! It couldn’t happen again! For God’s sake come away from the window! [She pulls desperately at Star’s arm.] Don’t let them see you standing there. They’ll bring him in dead on a plank and—
[From outside comes Red’s voice to mob.]
red: I told the bloody bastards that it wasn’t safe. They laughed in my face. You’ll work down there or you’ll get the hell out, they said. I told the foreman yesterday that the props were no good, that they wouldn’t hold up—he said if I wanted new ones I could cut them myself! [He turns to the men.] What’re you going to do about it? Nothing? Or will you show those murderers that you’re men now—and fight!
[A loud roar of fury rises from the men outside the cabin. Torches flare through the windows. The clamor and shouting rises louder. Star and Fern both retreat slowly from the window to inner door. The door is thrown open. Bram stands there, panting, his eyes staring blindly.]
bram: Where’s Fern? I can’t see.
star [taking a few steps]: She’s here. [She points to Fern who has sunk to the floor.]
bram: You—Star.
star: Yes.
bram [after a long pause]: Tell Fern it’s not her boy.
star: Fern! Do you hear? Bram says it’s not Luke!
[Men enter carrying a body laid out on a plank, the head covered. Other men crowd behind, but everyone is now silent, staring at Bram and Fern. Bram crosses to Fern.]
bram [dully]: Does she hear? It’s not Luke. Tell her again.
star [seizing Fern’s shoulder]: Fern! Fern!
fern [moaning]: Luke!
star: Listen, Fern, it’s not Luke. Bram says to tell you it’s not Luke!
fern [wildly]: Not Luke? You’re lying! John’s dead. It’s got to be Luke this time! [She sees the body on the plank and screams.]
bram [stepping forward and clutching her arm]: It’s not your boy.
fern: It’s Hester’s boy. It’s Joel.
[Bram goes off. Luke breaks through the doorway. Fern and Luke are at the extreme right. Red and the men are with the body stage center.]
curtain
scene seven — the wake
Scene: Bram’s cabin. That evening.
The body is laid out in the back room where the women mourners congregate. The men are seated in the front room around the stove. As the curtains open we see Bram, Luke, an aged religious zealot named Whitey Sunter and a hard-drinking Irishman, Sean O’Connor. Bram’s face is stony with the hard repressed grief of his kind. He stares fixedly at the stove or wall. The table is against the wall, Luke is to the extreme left, Whitey is just left of center, Sea
n nearer Luke.
whitey: There’s been a pow’ful lot o’ divilment round this here camp. Sech goins-on as I never known in my time. Infi-duls and Jeze-buls! Carryin’ on in a scand’lous way. Livin’ togither unwedded. [He casts a significant eye at Bram.] It’s a fault on Christian upbringin’. If these here infiduls an Jezebuls had been brought up Christian-like as I brung up my childern they never would come to no sech a state o’ sinfulness.
sean [taking a swig]: It’s the niggers an’ furriners raise the divil round here.
whitey: It’s a visitation o’ the Lord, that’s what it is! He’s lit the divil loose in Clay County.
sean: Red Hill country’s the divil’s own stampin’ groun ever since creation if y’ask my ’pinion.
[He belches loudly and offers the bottle to Whitey, who abjures it with a gesture of righteous disdain. Sean takes another long drag and carefully places the bottle under his chair. There is a knock. Luke goes to the door. A number of women enter, admitted by Luke. They are led by Ethel Sunter.]
ethel [in a high-pitched, whining voice]: Bless the Lord, brothers. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away!
whitey: A-men!
ethel [in a professional tone]: Where’s the body laid out?
bram [without looking up]: Back room.
ethel [efficiently marshaling her flock]: Come on, sisters. You too, Pappy. We’ll start off the prayer readin’ naow. [She sniffs the air.] Likker! [Sean returns her baleful glare without shame.] Somebody I could mention’s got no more sense o’ decency and shame than a—than a . . . .
sean: Than a what?
ethel: Hmph! Come, Pappy!
sean [in a low but distinct drawl]: Somebody I could mention’s got a nose that ud make a pretty good fishin’ pole.
bram [with suppressed fury]: Shut up!
ethel [turning at the door]: Those that ain’t been saved ud better not come in while prayer’s bein’ offered.
whitey: Those that ain’t been praperly baptized is infiduls in the eyes o’ the Lord.
sean: Who’s an infidul you ole billy goat?
bram [warningly]: Shut up, you!
[The door is closed on the back room. After a moment we hear Whitey intoning a long exhortation. Luke gets up and moves nervously about the cabin.]
luke: Why do they have to make all that fuss? There’s something not decent about it!
sean [raising bottle]: The ole billy goat an’ his nanny!
bram: Shut up!
luke: Why don’t they dig him a grave put him down in it and be done? That’s the way Joel would’ve wanted it done. He wouldn’t have wanted all that cheap hypocritical slobbering over his . . . .
bram [more sharply]: Shut up!
luke: He’d have wanted a clean quick burying out in the woods without any fuss to it, that’s what Joel would’ve wanted. He’d’ve wanted you to lay him away right now in the dark out there on the hills where he used to hunt possum at night with his dog.
sean [casually]: Good possum-hunting weather now. Wish I had me a good possum dog. The persimmons’re gittin’ ripe. Bet I could tree me a possum in less’n five minutes with a good possum-hunting dog!
[Bram bows his head lower.]
luke: Joel liked the woods. He used to spend pretty near all his time in the woods when he wasn’t workin.
sean: Joel was a good squirrel shot. I seen him drap one on the top branch o’ that ole oak on Bald Ridge standin’ off at a distance of about fifty-sixty yards. Drapped him dead at one shot. Joel was a dead-eye with a rifle. But never could handle a shotgun. I remember first time he ever fired a shotgun he was a little tike about ten or ’leven an’ the kick of it knocked him flat on his back. I guess he never got the proper feel of one since.
luke: It’s the woods he ought be laid in, not any ole weedy graveyard.
sean: Joel had a pretty good rifle. Guess you’ll be usin’ it now, won’t you, Luke? Wish I had me a good rifle an’ a good huntin’ dawg!
luke: He oughta be buried out in the woods where he buried his dog. Up there in the hills where they used to go huntin’ possum togither. That ole possum dog was Joe’s best friend. When he died las’ summer Joel buried him under a persimmon tree out there in the hills ’cause he said when fall come and the possums crawl out on the limbs to eat persimmons at night, he bet ole Spot’s ghost ud rise up from his grave an’ start up such an awful leapin’ an bayin’ that the possum’s ud git so scared they’d shake the persimmons all off the tree.
sean [after a pause]: What would you all take for Joel’s ole rifle?
luke: That’s where Joel oughta be buried. Out there on the hills under that ole persimmon tree.
bram [rising in anguish]: Quit talking! Quit talking! [He regains his stern composure.] Joel’s body gits buried in a decent Baptist cimitary like all his folks was before him! [He crosses to the inner door and looks off, then he sits in the far corner.]
sean [taking a drink]: I reckon Joel don’t care much where they lay him now. One place’s good as another. Maybe he’s kinda lucky that he cleared out before all this strike business gits started. No tellin’ what’s gonna come of it all. Well, strike or no strike things caint git no worse than they already are. [He yawns and rests his feet on the stove top.]
bram: Strike?
sean: Yeah.
bram [showing dull interest]: What strike?
sean: Ain’t you heard about the men goin’ out on strike tomorrer?
bram: No.
sean: It was your boy gittin’ kilt that made ’em decide so sudden on doin’ it. They figger that Joel was as good as murdered. That’s what Birmin’ham Red called it. Cold-blooded murder. He said he told ole Abbey them props wouldn’t hold an’ Abbey told him if he wanted more he could go an cut ’em himself!
luke: The God-damn—
bram: Shut up on that kind of talk! What good’s strike gonna do ’em?
sean: Should think you’d be in favor of it seein’ as how it was your own boy.
bram: What good would making trouble do me? It wouldn’t bring Joel back alive.
luke: There’s others beside Joel.
bram: I started to work in them mines when I was ten years old and I been workin’ in ’em ever since.
sean: So’ve I.
bram: Year in, year out, and I’ll go on workin’ in ’em til the day that I die, so help me. That’s my job. [He moves his chair closer to the stove.] My oldest boy John got killed in the mines, too. He was kilt up North in the anthracite fields. Run down by an enjin in one o’ the entries. Seems like they made the entry too narrow long there for a man and a car to pass the same time an’ he got smashed up against the rib and tore all to pieces.
sean: God!
bram: But if you think I’m gonna uphold this here strike cause I lost my two boys in the mines, you’re wrong, dead wrong.
sean: Well, whether you want it or not, the men’s gonna strike. Birmin’ham Red’s got ’em all worked up to a fever. That’s why none of ’em have shown up here. They’re over at that mass-meetin’ he’s holdin’. There won’t be no coal dug out tomorrer.
bram: I’ll be diggin’ mine out.
sean: Then they’d call you a scab.
bram: Let ’em call me a scab. Let ’em call me any damn thing they want.
sean: You caint tell what men’ll do when they git wrought up.
bram: Let ’em do what they want. I ain’t going out on no strike.
sean: You know how things’ve been.
bram: Sure I know how things’ve been.
sean: There’s starvation, plain starvation, here in this camp.
bram: An’ there’ll be a lot more if they start up a strike. Who’s gonna feed ’em? They ain’t got food enough with the store closed up to last ’em three days.
sean: I reckon they’ll be goin’ hungry tomorrer if the store’s shut down.
bram: What’s to keep it frum shuttin’ if they strike?
luke: Nothin’. It’ll shut down right away.
&nbs
p; bram: What do they think they’ll live on?
luke: Maybe have some food shipped in.
sean: Yeah.
bram: How’ll they pay for it?
sean: Take up a collection, I reckon.
bram: Collect what? Scrip?
sean: That’s right. I never had thought o’ that. Huh. Luke.
luke: I reckon Mom’s the only person in camp’s got any real money.
sean [alertly]: She’s got money? [He looks to Luke.]
bram: Saved up for sendin’ Luke off to college.
sean: Maybe she’d loan it.
bram: Loan it? On what?
sean: Hmmm. Reckon it’d be takin’ a risk all right.
luke: If it was mine I’d give it.
bram: It ain’t yours an’ you’ll keep your hands off it.
[A group of miners enter, about ten or fifteen. Silently filing with bowed heads into the back room and then out, taking places along the wall. Some women go inside—Bram stands near the inner door with a group.]
sean: You boys come from the meetin’?
first miner: Yeah.
sean: What’s up?
first miner: Strike!
sean: Strike?
chorus of miners: Strike!
sean: That’s the stuff! It shoulda come before this.
[There is an excited murmur among the men. Sean is showing off. He rises and makes emphatic gestures, passing along the wall, talking to the men. Bram remains stolidly indifferent. Luke looks on with intense interest.]
sean: We gotta live, ain’t we? Sure we gotta live!
chorus of miners: We gotta live!
second miner: Ain’t got no right to starve us.
sean: Bury us alive! [An angry murmur rises from the miners.]
bram [rising]: How’ll you live if you quit work and the store shuts down?
first miner: We couldn’t be no worse off than we are already. They don’t even pay us no more. Give us pieces of paper. Scrip. Twelve-and-a-half cents a ton. Do you call that pay?
chorus of miners: Hell, no!
second miner: Monday I worked sixteen hours down there on the fifth level where they had the cave-in today. Loaded up twelve cars, fifteen ton each. Tipple crew weighed me for less than eighty tons when I checked out.
