happiness.
Early has guided my steps
to be here now,
to show me this.
Peter
There are pieces out there
of the house I was born in,
the school where I learned to read,
Mama’s books,
my childhood.
Shards.
All still out there
but unrecognizable.
Can’t believe I lived through all this
to get back to Celestia
and now I might lose her to fever.
Just before she became insensible,
she whispered, “Your father …”
But I knew.
Kate’s silence confirms it
and she points to the schoolhouse.
When I get there the men tell me I’m too late.
They had to start the burying right away
to prevent disease.
Like typhoid.
I don’t tell them
it didn’t help.
I couldn’t save him.
Guilt
gives way to rage—
who is responsible
for all this
devastation?
I want to blame the Club.
I’m surprised by how easily
hatred comes to me.
I want to hate them:
pantywaist cowards
hiding behind their big fat pocketbooks.
Why don’t they come out and face us?
Tell us why their dam failed.
Tell us why our town disappeared.
Tell me why Papa died.
I want to hate Club members,
but Celestia is one of them
and I can’t get far in hating her.
It twists me all in knots.
The object of my anger
appears:
Mr. Whitcomb is
relatively clean,
dry,
but rumpled
and unshaven.
Maybe someday I will forgive
negligence,
a careless inattention
to the upkeep of an earthen dam,
but I will never understand
the soul
of a man who could turn his back
on his own child.
I will never forgive Celestia’s father.
Last time I saw him
I stood helpless in the shadows
as he wedged an ocean between
his daughter and me.
I can’t imagine how he’ll try to separate us this time.
I stand my ground.
He barely looks at me.
“Where is she?” He sizes up each huddled form.
Celestia’s not one of them.
Finally I see his eyes,
red,
wet.
They bore right into me.
“Is she…?”
His throat quivers.
I don’t know how I have any pity left in me—
he just looks so broken—
and I know how much I wish my papa was looking for me.
I nod toward the tent.
He rushes past me.
Kate
The girl’s daddy
carries on awhile,
like you don’t expect from a grown man.
I just give them some privacy.
Then he comes out of the tent.
I tell him we’ll know in a few days
and he says to me, “How can I ever thank you enough
for tending my daughter?”
He takes out his wallet.
If I live to be a hundred,
I will never understand rich folks.
Still, what’s left of my pride
would like to chew on his gratitude for a bit,
but I hear myself saying, “The boy here’s the one.”
The daddy just stands there,
mouth open,
wallet open….
What now?
Peter
I’m not sure I hear right—
I saw Kate take care of Celestia with my own eyes.
Kate stares me down and nods.
“He didn’t leave her side.
Set up with her all night.”
Well, that I did.
Told stories
and what I could remember of the old songs
Mama used to sing
when I was small
and had a fever.
I just did what I thought Mama would do.
“He watched over her every breath.
You couldn’t have done better yourself.”
Kate has a way,
so matter-of-fact—
you can’t disagree with her.
“I’ve ordered a train car”—
Mr. Whitcomb checks his pocket watch—
“to take her home.
I’ll get her the best doctors in Pittsburgh.”
He’s going to take her away!
I can’t lose her again.
I start to say that she belongs here,
that she chose to come here,
but here is such a bad bet.
Better that she lives.
I nod. “Just let me say goodbye.”
“I need your help getting her to the train”—
Mr. Whitcomb scratches the new whiskers on his chin—
“and later.”
I half wonder if my hearing’s been affected.
Kate nudges my shoulder.
“Okay.”
Kate hands me the stretcher.
“There’ll still be plenty of work to do
when you get back.”
What’s that flicker—
is Kate about to smile?
But I see
it is the fighting-back-tears kind of smile.
Celestia is safe.
Clean dry blankets,
velvet-cushioned seats,
a private train car.
The fever breaks.
She
Early has guided my steps
to be here now,
to show me this.
Peter
There are pieces out there
of the house I was born in,
the school where I learned to read,
Mama’s books,
my childhood.
Shards.
All still out there
but unrecognizable.
Can’t believe I lived through all this
to get back to Celestia
and now I might lose her to fever.
Just before she became insensible,
she whispered, “Your father …”
But I knew.
Kate’s silence confirms it
and she points to the schoolhouse.
When I get there the men tell me I’m too late.
They had to start the burying right away
to prevent disease.
Like typhoid.
I don’t tell them
it didn’t help.
I couldn’t save him.
Guilt
gives way to rage—
who is responsible
for all this
devastation?
I want to blame the Club.
I’m surprised by how easily
hatred comes to me.
I want to hate them:
pantywaist cowards
hiding behind their big fat pocketbooks.
Why don’t they come out and face us?
Tell us why their dam failed.
Tell us why our town disappeared.
Tell me why Papa died.
I want to hate Club members,
but Celestia is one of them
and I can’t get far in hating her.
It twists me all in knots.
The object of my anger
appears:
Mr. Whitcomb is
relatively clean,
dry,
but rumpled
and unshaven.
Maybe someday I will forgive
negligence,
a careless inattention
to the upkeep of an earthen dam,
but I will never understand
the soul
of a man who could turn his back
on his own child.
I will never forgive Celestia’s father.
Last time I saw him
I stood helpless in the shadows
as he wedged an ocean between
his daughter and me.
I can’t imagine how he’ll try to separate us this time.
I stand my ground.
He barely looks at me.
“Where is she?” He sizes up each huddled form.
Celestia’s not one of them.
Finally I see his eyes,
red,
wet.
They bore right into me.
“Is she…?”
His throat quivers.
I don’t know how I have any pity left in me—
he just looks so broken—
and I know how much I wish my papa was looking for me.
I nod toward the tent.
He rushes past me.
Kate
The girl’s daddy
carries on awhile,
like you don’t expect from a grown man.
I just give them some privacy.
Then he comes out of the tent.
I tell him we’ll know in a few days
and he says to me, “How can I ever thank you enough
for tending my daughter?”
He takes out his wallet.
If I live to be a hundred,
I will never understand rich folks.
Still, what’s left of my pride
would like to chew on his gratitude for a bit,
but I hear myself saying, “The boy here’s the one.”
The daddy just stands there,
mouth open,
wallet open….
What now?
Peter
I’m not sure I hear right—
I saw Kate take care of Celestia with my own eyes.
Kate stares me down and nods.
“He didn’t leave her side.
Set up with her all night.”
Well, that I did.
Told stories
and what I could remember of the old songs
Mama used to sing
when I was small
and had a fever.
I just did what I thought Mama would do.
“He watched over her every breath.
You couldn’t have done better yourself.”
Kate has a way,
so matter-of-fact—
you can’t disagree with her.
“I’ve ordered a train car”—
Mr. Whitcomb checks his pocket watch—
“to take her home.
I’ll get her the best doctors in Pittsburgh.”
He’s going to take her away!
I can’t lose her again.
I start to say that she belongs here,
that she chose to come here,
but here is such a bad bet.
Better that she lives.
I nod. “Just let me say goodbye.”
“I need your help getting her to the train”—
Mr. Whitcomb scratches the new whiskers on his chin—
“and later.”
I half wonder if my hearing’s been affected.
Kate nudges my shoulder.
“Okay.”
Kate hands me the stretcher.
“There’ll still be plenty of work to do
when you get back.”
What’s that flicker—
is Kate about to smile?
But I see
it is the fighting-back-tears kind of smile.
Celestia is safe.
Clean dry blankets,
velvet-cushioned seats,
a private train car.
The fever breaks.
She
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