BEN She was. Later she was the first black registered nurse in the state of Indiana. But she read all her life. And she remembered what she read. She could quote poetry by the hour. She could quote Scott's Lady of the Lake in its entirety and it runs about a hundred pages. When I was in high school she used to help me with my algebra. It never occurred to me to wonder where she learned it.
REPORTER And your grandfather. Does he read?
BEN (Smiling) Constantly.
REPORTER What does he read.
BEN The King James version of the bible.
REPORTER Is that it?
BEN That's it.
REPORTER You said he read constantly.
BEN He does.
The reporter nods and smiles.
REPORTER Well. He certainly seems to be in remarkable health for a man a hundred and two years old. I know he gets tired of people asking him the secret of his longevity but I couldn't get anything out of him at all. He just said that somebody had to live to be a hundred and it looked like it was him. My guess is that it runs in the family.
BEN Well. Not really. He had several brothers and sisters and they've all been dead for years. For that matter all his children are dead except my father.
REPORTER I asked him how his health was and he said it was fine and wanted to know how mine was. I thought at first he was being cantankerous but he really seemed to want to know. I wound up telling him about my eye operation.
Ben smiles. The reporter flips through his notebook and folds it away in his coat pocket. He holds out his hand.
REPORTER Well, thank you. It was a great party.
BEN (Shaking hands) Thank you for coming.
The reporter has turned to leave and then looks back.
REPORTER What is the trade? He mentioned a couple of times something about the trade.
BEN The stonemason's trade.
REPORTER Ah. Of course. Got it.
The reporter raises a hand and exits from the kitchen. Ben goes to the window and looks out. The lights come on stage right where there are picnic tables covered with red crepe and there are lanterns and folding chairs and cups and plates and the remainders of Papaw's birthday party. A wind has come up and it is evening and the buntings strung across the yard sway in the wind and a few cups blow across the yard. Papaw is sitting alone at the tables, dressed in his black suit. His hat sits on the table beside him and he holds it with one hand against it being blown away. The lights have dimmed to black in the kitchen. The light comes on at the podium and Ben appears there.
BEN I'd pretend ignorance to get you to stay. If I thought you could be fooled. But only people with wants can be fooled and you have none.
Cups and leaves blow across the yard. The old man sits holding his hat. The light dims to black and the light comes up in the kitchen. It is night and Ben's double is sitting at the table. Ben continues to speak from the podium.
BEN He always said the trade. As if there were only the one. He didn't even call it masonry. Just called it the work. Called it the trade. Does call it. Does call it.
He—(Ben's double)—sips his tea.
BEN He was a journeyman mason for eighty odd years. Journeyman comes from the word for day, and a journey was originally a day's travel. He began to contract for himself before my father married and he and my father were in business together for thirty years and technically they are yet. But the rule of the journeyman is his rule even now and he has always quit at quitting time no matter where he was on the job. The wisdom of the journeyman is to work one day at a time and he always said that any job even if it took years was made up out of a day's work. Nothing more. Nothing less. That was hard for me to learn. I always wanted to be finished. In the concept of a day's work is rhythm and pace and wholeness. And truth and justice and peace of mind. You're smiling. I smile. But very often now the stones come to hand for me as they do for him. I don't think or select. I build. So I begin to live in the world. Nothing is ever finally arrived at. The journeyman becomes a master when he masters the journeyman's trade. He becomes a master when he ceases to wish to be one.
Ben folds shut his notebook and folds his hands in front of his chest.
BEN As for the rest. As for the rest. I know that evil exists. I think it is not selective but only opportunistic. I don't know where the spirit resides. I think in all things rather than none. My experience is very limited. But it is because of him that I am no longer reduced by these mysteries but rather am one more among them. His life is round and whole but it is not discrete. Because it is connected to a way of life which he exemplifies but which is not his invention. I know nothing of God. But I know that something knows. Something knows or else that old man could not know. Something knows and will tell you. It will tell you when you stop pretending that you know.
MAVEN (Calling from downstairs) Ben! Ben!
Ben looks up and smiles.
SCENE V
The scene at stage left is the interior of a church, at a baptismal font, the black MINISTER holding the baby and giving the blessing. The minister hands the baby to Papaw and Papaw and Ben (his double) and Maven and Mama turn to have their picture taken. Carlotta and Mason are in the front pew with Big Ben and Osreau and other RELATIVES. They come forward now that the ceremony is over. A black WORKER in overalls comes forward from the rear of the crowd and looks at the baby.
WORKER What's his name, Ben?
MAMA Edward. His name is Edward.
SCENE VI
The kitchen at night. Papaw is sitting at the table, his bible and his teacup at his elbow. He is leaning forward with his head cradled in his arms apparently asleep. Ben enters the kitchen and smiles to see him and goes to the sink and fills the kettle and puts it on the stove.
BEN Papaw?
He turns the heat on under the kettle and comes to the table and puts his hand on the old man's arm.
BEN Papaw.
He puts his hand over the old man's hand.
BEN Papaw?
He sits down, holding the old man's hand. Tears run down his cheeks.
BEN (Almost whispering) Oh Papaw. I didn't want you to go. (Shaking his head) I didn't want you to go.
SCENE VII
Papaw's bedroom, stage right. A small iron bed with a nightstand and a lamp. Papaw is lying on the bed and Ben is sitting in a chair alongside the bed. Ben is asleep with his head resting on the bed in the crook of his arm. He is holding Papaw's hand. The lights come up and it is morning and he wakes. There are steps on the stairs and Mama enters the kitchen humming a spiritual and turns on the kitchen lights and begins to prepare breakfast. Ben puts his left hand on the old man's hand and withdraws his right hand from the old man's grasp and stands and looks down at him and bends and kisses him on the forehead and turns and goes into the kitchen as Mama finishes humming the piece. Mama turns and sees him standing there.
BEN Mama.
She shakes her head no. Her mouth is trembling.
BEN Mama.
MAMA Oh no. Benny. Benny. Oh no. Not that man. No.
BEN Mama.
MAMA (Shaking her head no) No. No.
Ben crosses the floor and puts his arms around her and she begins to wail openly.
MAMA Oh Lord Jesus no don't take that sweet man. Don't take him. Don't take him.
BEN Mama. Mama. He's already gone, Mama.
SCENE VIII
The church interior again, stage left. The family stands in front of the pew and the minister stands before them reading from the bible. The ladies wear veiled hats.
MINISTER And he called his son Joseph and said unto him If now I have found grace in thy sight put I pray thee thy hand under my thigh and deal kindly and truly with me. Bury me not I pray thee in Egypt. But I will lie with my fathers and thou shall carry me out of Egypt and bury me in their burying place. And he said I will do as thou hast said.
SCENE IX
The kitchen, mid day. Mama is on the telephone. A car pulls in the driveway. Mama looks out the window. The car door
opens and closes.
MAMA Well. I got to go, Louise. Here comes Ben in the middle of the day. I expect he be wantin somethin to eat. Well.
She hangs up the phone and Big Ben enters the kitchen. He is dressed in a light colored suit with a shirt and tie. He looks at her without expression.
MAMA Honey did you want somethin to eat?
He crosses the room and exits and goes up the stairs.
MAMA I'm goin to fix you some of that pepper steak.
The light comes on stage right which is Big Ben and Mama's bedroom. There is a double bed and a night table and a door which leads to the bathroom offstage. Big Ben enters and sits on the bed. He takes an envelope out of his pocket and tears it in several pieces and puts the pieces on the table. He opens the table drawer and takes out a revolver and puts it on the table. He rises and goes into the bathroom and turns on the light. It is a very white light that comes from the bathroom and there is the sound of water running and then he comes back into the room and begins to undress. He puts his watch and billfold on the table. He hangs his suit carefully on a hanger together with his tie and lays it across the bed. He crumples his shirt and throws it in the corner and he takes off his shoes and takes off his socks and garters and puts them in the shoes and puts the shoes under the bed. Then he rises, dressed only in very clean white shorts and undershirt and takes up the revolver and goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. Mama has been busy at the stove. She is reaching up to the shelf for the pepper when the sound of the shot reaches her. She freezes, then lowers her hand and turns to look at the door stage left. She crosses the kitchen.
MAMA Ben? Ben?
She crosses to the door.
MAMA Ben? That was outside wasn't it? That was outside wasn't it honey?
She exits and goes up the stairs.
— CURTAIN —
ACT V
SCENE I
The kitchen. It is empty. The woodstove remains although the stove pipe is lying in the floor. The windows have been boarded over. Ben's pickup pulls into the drive and the truck door opens and closes and the kitchen door opens and Ben enters. He leaves the door open. He stands in the kitchen and looks around, then goes out and up the stairs. The light comes on stage right where the naked iron bedstead is the only piece of furniture left in Big Ben's bedroom. Ben comes through the room and comes around the bed and sits slowly on the bedsprings and looks out, his hands clasped, his elbows on his knees. The light comes on at the podium.
BEN The big elm tree died. The old dog died. Things that you can touch go away forever. I don't know what that means. I don't know what it means that things exist and then exist no more. Trees. Dogs. People. Will that namelessness into which we vanish then taste of us? The world was before man was and it will be again when he is gone. But it was not this world nor will it be, for where man lives is in this world only.
Ultimately there is no one to tell you if you are justified in your own house.
The people I know who are honorable never think about it. I think of little else.
If I'd ransomed everything and given it all to him would it have saved him?
No.
Was I obligated to do so?
Yes.
Why did you not?
Ben sitting on the bed, lowers his head.
BEN Papaw. Papaw. Why were you everything to me and nothing to him?
SCENE II
Stage left. Ben is standing on the porch of a small frame house. It is night and the porch light is on. He taps at the door (again). The door opens and MARY WEAVER—a woman in her midforties, not unattractive, looks out at him. She is wearing a housedress but she is well groomed.
BEN Hello. Are you Mary Weaver?
She studies him. She nods her head.
MARY I guess you're Benny.
BEN Yes mam.
MARY I cain't do nothin for you child. Let the dead sleep.
BEN I just wondered if I could talk to you for a minute.
MARY What would be the use in it?
Ben looks away. He gestures futilely. He is almost crying.
BEN I'm not here to bother you Mrs Weaver.
She shakes her head resignedly. She looks up at him. She pushes open the door.
MARY Come on in.
He enters and she closes the door and goes past him to a kitchen table with two chairs.
MARY You want a glass of iced tea?
BEN Yes mam. That would be fine.
She goes past him just offstage. She returns with a pitcher and two glasses.
MARY And quit callin me mam. I ain't that old. This is done got sugar in it.
BEN That's all right.
MARY Well set down.
She pours the glasses. He sits. She takes her cigarettes from her housedress pocket and puts them on the table and sits down.
BEN Thank you.
He sips the tea. She watches him. She sighs and reaches for the cigarettes.
MARY What did you want me to tell you?
BEN Anything that you'd be willing to. About my father. Anything...
MARY You talk like he died fore you was born.
She lights a cigarette and studies him through the smoke.
MARY I knew when I seen you standin there you didn't know what it was you wanted.
BEN I guess I don't. It's just that you're about the only person he knew that I didn't and I kept thinking that there must be somebody... there must be somebody ...
MARY I don't know why that poor man killed hisself.
BEN No. I guess you don't.
MARY Do you?
BEN (Shaking his head) No.
They sit. She smokes.
BEN I don't know anything about him. You live with someone all your life. All their life... My sister's boy. Fifteen years old. I thought he was just a troublesome kid. He was involved in things I hardly knew existed. The things I found out I couldn't believe. Yet they were so. They were so.
MARY Do you want to know what kind of man your father was? I knew him for ten years. Did you want to know that he was kind and sweet and generous? And a real man too. Because he was. Or did you come here to find out about yourself.
He looks at her. He smiles. His eyes are wet.
BEN I don't know. Maybe.
MARY What did he say about me. What did he say about me.
BEN No.
MARY He never liked to talk about things once they was over and done with. I see you don't favor him in that respect leastways.
She carefully stubs out the cigarette.
MARY It wasn't the money. Been the money he been dead years ago. He always had money troubles. Died owin me four hundred dollar.
BEN I'll see that you get it.
MARY What for? You don't owe it. I don't want it noway.
BEN He never talked about his family?
MARY Very seldom. Very seldom. Only thing I ever remember him to say that told me a little about his deeper thought was that he'd had two brothers and a sister and they was all dead. Him bein the baby of the family I think he felt alone in the world someway. He was not a happy man, Benny. Never was. If he had of been I wouldn't of had him.
BEN Did his father dying have anything to do with it?
MARY I believe it did. But not the way you might think.
Ben looks at her. She lights another cigarette.
MARY I think maybe when his daddy died that give him leave to go on and do what he done.
BEN You don't think he could of done it with his father alive.
She blows out smoke and shakes her head.
MARY No. No way.
BEN But not his wife and children.
MARY Not his wife and children. Maybe it ought to be the same thing, but it ain't. You ought to know about that. That's why you here ain't it? Cause you cain't get around that daddy? Cain't get around that daddy.
SCENE III
BEN Because I thought of my father in death more than I ever did in life. And think of him yet. The weight of the dead makes a great burden in
this world. And I know all of him that I will ever know. Why could he not see the worth of that which he had put aside and the poverty of all he hungered for? Why could he not see that he too was blest? At times I think I came to the life of the laborer as the anchorite to his cell and pallet. The work devours the man and devours his life and I thought that in the end he must be somehow justified thereby. That if enough of the world's weight only pass through his hands he must become inaugurated into the reality of that world in a way to withstand all scrutiny. A way not easily dissolved or set aside. Perhaps in his final avatar he might even come to sit holding his hat at a wooden folding table borrowed from a church basement watching the wind cross the world, already beyond wind or world or anything which they might propagate or anything at all.
I lost my way. I'd thought by my labors to stand outside that true bend of gravity which is the world's pain. I lost my way and if I could tell you the hour of it or the day or how it came about I should not have lost it at all. Soldier did come back. He came back and we met secretly and I gave him money and sent him away again. Yet even before any of this I had a dream and this dream was a cautionary dream and a dream I did not heed.
In my dream I had died or the world had ended and I stood waiting before the door of some ultimate justice which I knew would open for me. I stood with my job book beneath my arm in which were logged the hours and the days and the years and wherein was ledgered down each sack of mortar and each perch of stone and I stood alone in that whitened forecourt beyond which waited the God of all being and I stood in the full folly of my own righteousness and I took the book from under my arm and I thumbed it through a final time as if to reassure myself and when I did I saw that the pages were yellowed and crumbling and the ink faded and the accounts no longer clear and suddenly I thought to myself fool, fool do you not see what will be asked of you? How He will lean down perhaps the better to see you, regarding perhaps with something akin to wonder that which is his own handiwork, He whom the firmament itself has not power to puzzle. Gazing into your soul beyond bone or flesh to its uttermost nativity in stone and star and in the unformed magma at the core of creation. And ask as you stand there alone with your book—perhaps not even unkindly—this single question: Where are the others? Where are the others. Oh I've had time in great abundance to reflect upon that terrible question. Because we cannot save ourselves unless we save all ourselves. I had this dream but did not heed it. And so I lost my way.
The Stonemason Page 6
