The Kentucky Cycle

by Robert Schenkkan

  Joshua signals for quiet.

  JOSHUA: What happened here . . . at Blue Star . . . is a tragedy. There’ll be an investigation, I promise . . . a thorough investigation. But I can say that . . . what I can say is . . . what I can say is that Blue Star has always been a safe and responsible operation with a good record. What this . . . tragedy says to me is that one thing we all know but nobody likes to admit . . . and that is . . . that mining is a dangerous business and . . . we just have to live with this.

  James steps forward and pulls out a sign-in sheet.

  JAMES: I have a list of names of the missing. . . .

  As he begins to read, the lights fade down on everyone but Joshua.

  Bob Wayland. E. O. Baker. Carl Nolan. Chad Dawkins. Gus Mayo. Thomas Hayes. C. C. Baker. Carl Berry. Willie Allen. Jack Fox. Frank Mosely. Bob Lynch.

  Scott Rowen.

  Everyone on stage turns and looks at Joshua. He stares front.

  Blackout.

  THE WAR

  ON POVERTY

  I sat upon the shore

  Fishing, with the arid plain behind me

  Shall I at least set my lands in order?

  —T. S. ELIOT

  CHARACTERS

  STEVE

  FRANK

  JAMES TALBERT WINSTON age sixty-four

  JOSHUA ROWEN age sixty-five

  FRANKLIN BIGGS age sixty-five

  NARRATOR: The War On Poverty.

  Twenty-one years later. The year is 1975. The original Rowen homestead near the Shilling Creek. The surrounding fields, now abandoned, are mostly broom sedge and hardrock, with an occasional young pine tree. It is spring.

  The War On Poverty.

  Early spring of 1975. We have returned to the original Rowen homestead near the stump of the Treaty Oak. The Shilling Creek is now full of silt and garbage and abandoned cars, and only occasionally rouses itself in memory of its former glory during one of those torrential tbunderstorms that sometimes batter the plateau. The surrounding fields, heavily timbered and mined and then abandoned, have also accumulated their share of refuse over the years, but if you look closely you can see that the land is slowly regenerating itself. Now it is mostly broom sedge and hardrock, but here and there a young pine asserts itself. It is spring, after all, and the land, although bruised and battered, still remembers.

  Darkness. The sound of wind. A tight spot comes upon JOSHUA ROWEN. He is much less kempt now: his face is lined and unshaven, and his hair is longer and streaked with gray. There is still a tremendous energy about him, but it seems to have turned inward.

  JOSHUA: I keep havin’ this dream.

  Beat.

  In my dream, I’m crossin’ some kind of desert. It’s all slate and ashes and dust. I hear Scotty callin’ to me and I run after his voice till I come to this river. Somehow I know it’s the Shillin’, but it ain’t nothin’ like that pathetic sewer you see out there today. This is deep and wide and fulla fast-movin’ muddy water. Scotty’s on the other side; I can’t get to ’im. And then I notice he’s not alone. He’s standin’ there with my daddy. I haven’t thought about Tommy in years, but there he is—got his minin’ clothes on, coal dust on his face. I don’t realize till I see’im how much I miss’im. And Mamma’s standin’ right next to ’em, got her arm around him. And then behind them is this whole buncha people I don’t know and they’re all talkin’ to me, yellin’ somethin’, but I can’t hear it—the river’s too loud and the wind is blowin’ the dust like crazy. I know if I could just hear what they were sayin’ I’d know what I was supposed to do. I’m supposed to do somethin’, see, but I can’t hear it, I can’t hear Scotty.

  Beat.

  And then I wake up.

  The spot fades out. Joshua exits. Lights come up on the stage.

  It is early in the morning, about thirty minutes before sunrise. Downstage there is a deep hole in the ground, recently dug. Next to it is a small fire and some hand tools. Two men work the area: one in the hole and the other crouching nervously on the edge.

  The man in the hole—STEVE—stands up suddenly, holding a torn piece of material covered with dirt.

  STEVE: Jesus, Frank, I think we hit the jackpot!

  FRANK: Whattaya got?

  STEVE: Can’t tell for sure. Feels like a piece of buckskin.

  FRANK: I’m gonna turn on the Coleman.

  STEVE: Don’t turn on the goddamn light.

  FRANK: I can’t see shit, Steve.

  Frank lights the Coleman. Steve pulls himself out of the hole. Both men crouch over the piece of buckskin.

  STEVE: Whatdya think?

  FRANK: Buckskin all right. Hand me the brush—get this dirt off it.

  Beat.

  Christ.

  STEVE: Look at that beadwork

  FRANK: We got the real thing here, Steve—this is really somethin’!

  STEVE: What the hell else is down there?

  A bullet explodes in the dirt behind them.

  Jesus! Let’s go!

  They start off. Frank drops the piece of bucksin. He stops.

  FRANK: I dropped it!

  Another bullet kicks up the dirt at their feet.

  STEVE: Let’s go!

  Both men run off. Beat. Joshua hurries on, carrying a rifle. He stops and looks off after the departed men. He looks at the holes they’ve dug. He looks out at the landscape.

  FRANKLIN BIGGS enters slowly. He always was heavy, and now his muscle has begun to turn to fat. He is sweating heavily, and his face is dark with exertion.

  FRANKLIN: Jesus, Josh, you coulda killed somebody.

  JOSHUA: I just wanted to chase’em off. This is private property—they had no damn business bein’ out here.

  FRANKLIN: Man, this fog is a bitch.

  Franklin takes out a pillbox and puts a small tablet under his tongue. JAMES calls from offstage.

  JAMES: Joshua?! Franklin?!

  FRANKLIN: Over here, James!

  JAMES: Where are you?!

  FRANKLIN: This way!

  James Talbert Winston runs on, out of breath. He’s still a distinguished-looking man, but there is a tiredness about him that has nothing to do with the distance he has just run. His pants are torn and covered with mud.

  JAMES: Jesus, do you guys mind waitin’ up?! I can’t see shit around here.

  FRANKLIN: What happened to your pants?

  James pulls out a bottle and drinks.

  JAMES: Nothin’.

  Franklin laughs.

  I heard shots.

  FRANKLIN: Daniel Boone here chased off some poachers.

  JOSHUA: They were grave robbers, not poachers.

  JAMES: Grave robbers?

  Franklin unfolds a map.

  JOSHUA: Big local industry these days. Hell, what else is there since the mines shut down.

  JAMES: You mean there’s real money in that?

  JOSHUA: You want a franchise, James?

  FRANKLIN: I don’t see nothin’ ’bout a cemetery on the map.

  JOSHUA: All these mountains is full of bones—everywhere you walk.

  JAMES: Look like they got anything?

  JOSHUA: Maybe some pieces of pottery or somethin’.

  FRANKLIN: I can’t tell where the hell we are. Any of you guys know?

  JAMES: The ass end of nowhere.

  FRANKLIN: I’m serious.

  JAMES: Lemme see.

  James and Franklin look at the map. Joshua stays apart from them.

  JOSHUA: I think that must be some part of the Shillin’ over there.

  FRANKLIN (pointing): So Morgan must be that way, right?

  JAMES: Can’t be, we came in from over there. (He points in the opposite direction.)

  FRANKLIN: Josh?

  JOSHUA: Got me.

  JAM
ES: You mean we’re really lost? Jesus fuckin’ Christ.

  JOSHUA: Look, ’stead of stumblin’ around in the fog, why don’t we just wait here till it burns off? We’ll figure it out.

  JAMES: Great, that’s great. Well, I hope you’re satisfied, Joshua. We could’ve wrapped this whole thing up back in Morgan, but no, you insisted we come out here and look over the property.

  JOSHUA: I think we oughta know what we’re talkin’ about before we sell it, that’s all.

  JAMES: Well, we’ve seen the land now, all right, we’ve all seen the land, and it’s just like I told you—it’s a garbage dump. Can we please finish this?

  FRANKLIN: There’s no point gettin’ sentimental here, Josh.

  JAMES: The hospital’s dead, the court said dispose of the assets, Consolidated wants it, and I say goodbye and God bless.

  FRANKLIN: It’s a good price, it’ll give the creditors somethin’. . . .

  JOSHUA: I don’t feel right about it.

  JAMES: Oh, Jesus!

  FRANKLIN: Come on, Josh, this land has been bought and sold a thousand times!

  JOSHUA: Look, I am not gonna be pushed into somethin’ here, so just back off!

  Franklin and James look at each other and shrug. They huddle around the fire.

  JAMES: Christ, it’s cold. Put some more of that wood on the fire, Franklin.

  FRANKLIN: You put it on.

  JAMES: You’re closer.

  FRANKLIN: So what?

  JAMES: So, you put it on.

  FRANKLIN: Fuck you.

  JOSHUA: You guys are really somethin’.

  JAMES: Hey! I just asked him to put some wood on the fire ’cause he was closer. Never mind—I’ll do it myself, all right? There. You happy, Franklin?

  Franklin indicates Joshua’s gun.

  FRANKLIN: What’s with the artillery, Josh?

  JOSHUA: I heard there was a wolf out there.

  FRANKLIN: A wolf?

  JAMES: Hell, there hasn’t been a wolf in the Cumberland in fifty years.

  JOSHUA: Jon Victor swears he saw a wolf over on the North Fork Buckhorn last week.

  JAMES: Jon Victor—you could fit that man’s brain in a flea’s ass and still have room for an acorn.

  FRANKLIN: If Jon Victor had a thought, it’d die of loneliness!

  He and James laugh.

  JOSHUA: I just didn’t wanta take any chances, that’s all.

  Beat.

  Walkin’ over here, did you guys see that big old tree stump on the other side of the Shillin’?

  JAMES: I couldn’t see shit in this fog.

  JOSHUA: It was huge—looked like it mighta been some kinda oak. God, it musta really been somethin’ here, once. I ’member my mama usta tell me stories about these hills, ’fore the mines came. “Oak trees like skyscrapers.” I usta dream about spring . . . when I was a kid . . . green like an ocean.

  Beat.

  Can I have some of that coffee, Franklin?

  Franklin passes Joshua the thermos of coffee.

  JAMES: How about a splash of juice?

  JOSHUA: No thanks.

  Franklin and James share a look.

  FRANKLIN: You haven’t gone religious on us, have you, Joshua?

  JAMES: He’s probably havin’ another hallucination or somethin’.

  JOSHUA: I quit.

  FRANKLIN: You quit.

  JAMES: The sound you hear is the crash of alcohol-related stocks going belly-up.

  JOSHUA: I was spittin’ blood, ’n’ my last blackout lasted two weeks. Woke up in a goddamn men’s shelter in Cincinnati, no idea how I got there. I was scared shitless.

  Beat.

  JAMES: Damn, it’s as cold as a witch’s tit out here.

  JOSHUA: Isn’t Jefferson s’posed to get released this year?

  FRANKLIN: Next March.

  JOSHUA: Ten years. That’s a long haul.

  FRANKLIN: Yeah, well . . . welcome to the Marines—“the few . . . the proud.”

  JOSHUA: Musta been a buncha guys refused to fight over there, you know? Or just went to Canada or somethin’.

  FRANKLIN: Not Marine officers. Not black Marine officers.

  JAMES: Are you sayin’ it was some kind of racial thing?

  FRANKLIN: What do you think?

  JAMES: Jesus. Everything is race with you people.

  FRANKLIN: Why do you think that is, James?!

  JOSHUA: Hey! Hey! Hey! Let’s everybody take it easy.

  JAMES: I’m easy.

  FRANKLIN: Fine.

  JAMES: Come on, Joshua, I’m freezing my ass off. Let’s close this thing.

  JOSHUA: You ever seen any of Consolidated’s work?

  JAMES: Of course. My God, that “mountaintop removal mining” is fantastic—gonna be the wave of the future.

  JOSHUA (sarcastically): “The wave of the future”!

  JAMES: You seen it, Franklin? They go in there with those big drag scoops and eat up somethin’ like sixty cubic yards of earth at a time.

  JOSHUA: Jesus.

  JAMES: It would have taken over a hundred men workin’ all day to dig that much coal.

  FRANKLIN: You gotta admit, Josh, it’s pretty amazing.

  JOSHUA: You see what they did to Martin County? They leveled that place!

  JAMES: Jesus Christ on a cross, Joshua—it’s coal mining, not gardening!

  JOSHUA: Well, that makes it all right then, don’t it!

  JAMES: Look, this new system is cheaper and a hell of a lot more efficient—you get a hundred percent of the coal, and ’stead of a buncha useless mountains, you wind up with flat pastureland.

  JOSHUA: Oh, so this is “progress,” huh?

  JAMES: Well, it’s safer. Nobody dies choking on coal dust or in an explosion. I’d of thought you of all people would appreciate that!

  Beat.

  JOSHUA: Fuck you.

  Joshua gets up and walks away. Franklin angrily walks James in the opposite direction.

  FRANKLIN: Jesus, James . . . !

  JAMES: No, to hell with him! Where does he get off with this holier-’n-thou attitude?

  FRANKLIN: All right, calm down, James. . . .

  JAMES: I didn’t hear him complainin’ about coal when it was payin’ his liquor bills!

  FRANKLIN: All right, that’s enough!

  Franklin crosses back to Joshua.

  Come on, Josh, let’s talk about what we’re talkin’ about here, all right? Which is sellin’ this land. Look around you, man—I mean, come on, what else is there to do with this shit?

  JAMES: There’s nothin’ here but scrub pine and broom sedge.

  FRANKLIN: James, just give us five minutes here, will ya?

  JAMES: Fine!

  James exits.

  FRANKLIN: He’s right about the land, Josh—how come you’re makin’ this so hard, huh?

  JOSHUA: I told you, I don’t wanta get pushed into somethin’.

  FRANKLIN: Yeah, okay.

  JOSHUA: And that fuckin’ James . . . !

  FRANKLIN: He’s an asshole, all right, no argument. Come on, Josh, what’s goin’ on here?

  Beat.

  JOSHUA: Last coupla months . . . I can’t help thinkin’ bout things—goin’ over ’n’ over ’em in my head.

  FRANKLIN: What kinda things?

  JOSHUA: Old stuff. You know.

  FRANKLIN: What?

  JOSHUA: The day we unsealed that mine. The service. That list of names that seemed to go on forever. All those women, all those widows and daughters, standing there in black, like so many crows, lookin’ right through me. . . .

  FRANKLIN: Josh . . .

  JOSHUA: Or Stucky handin’ me Scotty’s watch and then walkin’ away, not able to shake my hand or even look me in the face.
r />   FRANKLIN (gently): You can’t change nothin’ in the past, Josh. You gotta let it go.

  JOSHUA: Oh, we’re good at that, aren’t we, we’re real good at “lettin’ it go”! Christ, we had somethin’ here, Franklin. We had a community here, you and me, but look at it now. It’s just empty house after empty house, leanin’ ’gainst each other in the fog like drunks. Morgan’s a fuckin’ ghost town . . . in a “desert” fulla broom sedge and open graves.

  FRANKLIN: So let Consolidated come in and plow the whole damn thing under. What difference does it make now?

  JOSHUA: I wasn’t sure till this mornin’, and then, walkin’ out here, every once in a while the fog’d move ’n’ you could see the tops of these mountains and I thought, after they come in here it’ll never be the same.

  FRANKLIN: So?

  JOSHUA: It’ll be like we never were. It’ll be like Cassius and Mary Anne and everything we tried to do never was.

  Beat.

  FRANKLIN: After we get back to Morgan, I’m gonna drive up to that . . . concrete tomb where you shouldn’t keep a dog and I’m gonna wait for Jefferson, even though I know he ain’t ever gonna come out and talk to me, and then I’m gonna go home, and that’s just the way it is. And that’s the difference ’tween you and me, Josh—I know that’s the way it is. You’re right, things oughta be different. But they ain’t. And there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it.

  JOSHUA: But it wasn’t always like that. I remember that first year after the strike—you remember this big meetin’ we had in Morgan? I ’member my mama and your daddy, sittin’ up on this platform made outta wagons, talkin’ to this huge crowd come from all over the Cumberland—men ’n’ women ’n’ children. I hadn’t never seen so many people before, and the mountains behind ’em seem to go on forever. And you and me, they made us stand in the back ’cause we could never sit still on them platforms. You remember?

  FRANKLIN: Yeah, I guess.

  JOSHUA: We couldn’t have been, what . . . ?

  FRANKLIN: I don’t know . . .

  JOSHUA: Twelve or thirteen? And we couldn’t see over the people’s heads, remember? So we climbed up on top of this store. And the roof was hot, so you found us somethin’ to sit on—