Specimen Days by Michael Cunningham

around him, emanating from the trees and the stars.
    He stood staring at the constellations. Walt had sent him here, to find this, and he understood. He thought he understood. This was his heaven. It was not Broadway or the horse on wheels. It was grass and silence; it was a field of stars. It was what the book told him, night after night. When he died he would leave his defective body and turn into grass. He would be here like this, forever. There was no reason to fear it, because it was part of him. What he'd thought of as his emptiness, his absence of soul, was only a yearning for this.
* * *
    At the apartment, his parents remained behind their door. Lucas didn't venture in. He thought it would be better to let them rest. With rest, they might yet become themselves again.
    He went into his bedroom and read the book.
What do you think has become of the young and old

men?

And what do you think has become of the women and

children?

They are alive and well somewhere,

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not

wait at the end to arrest it,

And ceas'd the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.
    Lucas lay in his bed with St. Brigid above him and Emily across the way, eating behind her curtain. He slept. If he dreamed, his dreams were lost upon awakening.
    His parents were still quiet behind their door. He decided it was better to leave them. He couldn't help them anymore. He could help only Catherine.
    He was waiting before her building when she emerged in her blue dress. She was not glad to see him. Her face settled into an expression of sorrowful blankness, like the angel's in the park. She said, "Hello, Lucas." She turned and started off in the direction of the Mannahatta Company. He fell in alongside her.
    "Catherine," he said, "you must not go to work today."
    "You've used up my patience, Lucas. I have no time for you anymore."
    "Come away with me. Let me take you away."
    She walked on. In a fury of desperation, before he knew what he did, he took her skirt in his hand and tugged at it. "Please," he said. "Please."
    "Leave me, Lucas," she said, in a voice more awful for its measured calm. "You can do nothing for me. I can do nothing for you."
    He stood still and watched helplessly as she went east, to her machine. He waited until she had traveled a distance, then followed. As they neared the sewing shop, other women in the same blue dresses gathered in the street. He watched as Catherine went among them. He watched as she went through the door. He remained a while. More women in blue dresses passed him and entered the building. He imagined Catherine mounting the stairs, going to her machine. He saw her work the treadle. He knew the machine would be gladdened by her touch. He knew it had been waiting patiently through the night, singing to itself, thinking of Catherine.
    She could not be allowed to remain there. She had no idea of the danger she was in. He stood helplessly before the building as the last of the women entered. He was too small and strange; he could do nothing more to intercede.
    No. There was something he could do. There was one thing.
* * *
    The trick would be to stop his machine before it had eaten more than his hand. He had to figure stealthily as he worked. He couldn't let the others see him in his calculations. He knew he could not put one hand under the wheel and pull the lever with his other hand. The distance was too far. But he thought that if he stretched himself forward, if he lay half upon the belt, he could pull the lever with his foot, and stop the wheel in time.
    Lucas put off from moment to moment that which he had to do. It was easy, it was fatally easy, to keep on working. Even now, the waking sleep of his work life wanted him. He aligned and clamped. He pulled, pulled again, inspected. Even now he felt his resolve slipping