Clark took a quick look around him, but no one was paying
attention to him with all the ruckus going on. He lowered his
glasses and looked over the top of them, at the brick wall of the
decrepit theater... then looked right through it. A woman stood on
the stage, a feather boa around her neck and an enormous floppy
hat on her head, surrounded by debris: fallen-down columns, empty
seats, old props and racks of costumes all over the stage.
"After the dark death of autumn, and the cold barren winter,
how I wish this rock might be taken from my heart," she cried out,
her voice strong and clear, echoing slightly in the cavernous
interior.
"Okay, Bill, start her up!" a loud voice shouted near Clark,
distracting him. He saw that the construction workers were ready
to begin razing the theater now. He glanced around again, then
stared intently at the machine, his glasses once again lowered. He
looked through the outer casing to the motor, and just as it
started he used his heat vision to burn through some of the
wiring, short circuiting it. The protesters cheered madly when the
engine failed, although it was only a brief respite from the
inevitable.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Clark adjusted his glasses
and slipped inside the old theater.
The woman on the stage didn't see him at first, and he
watched for a moment, listening to the heartfelt passion in her
voice. "Oh, for the days of my childhood, back when my soul was
pure. I slept right here in this nursery, looking out at the
orchard from this very room, and every morning I awoke with such
joy in my heart. My orchard is just the same as it was then. No-
thing is different. All of it, all of it, dressed in white. My
lovely orchard."
Clark felt it only right to applaud the actress, his claps
echoing strangely and drawing her attention as he had meant to.
"Who's there?"
"Just... a fan."
"I'm not leaving," she told him. "Not until I finish."
He grinned. "All right. Do you mind if I watch? I always
loved this play."
"You know it?" she asked.
"The Cherry Orchard. Anton Chekhov."
She looked pleased that he knew it, that she could share her
passion with someone who appreciated it. "His finest, don't you
think?"
"Definitely," he agreed with a gentle half-smile.
She smiled back at him wistfully. "They don't understand.
Theater is more than bricks and mortar." She looked around the
cavernous hall, seeing more than old age and decay. "It's drama
and passion, and mystery and comedy and life!" She looked at him
yearningly. "Don't make me go. I'm not ready."
"We have some time," he assured her.
"You understand. I just want to say good-bye."
Clark knew that he'd found an angle for his piece. He watched
and listened as she lifted her face to the back row again.
"...all of it dressed in white. My lovely orchard."
Later, back in his hotel room, Clark gathered together his
research and the notes he had taken in his interview with Bea-
trice, the actress at the theater, and sat down at his laptop. He
typed away rapidly, fingers flying over the keys as the words
poured out of him. The poor machine struggled valiantly to keep up
with him, but it wasn't long before it began beeping pathetically,
issuing smoke. Impatiently he fanned at it with his jacket.
When he was finished, Clark read over his piece, feeling a
deep satisfaction. "Beatrice was eighteen when she made her debut.
Warren G. Harding was President, the Unknown Soldier was interred
at Arlington, and Babe Ruth was sold to the Yankees..."
And the script adds this bit:
It was a different era, a time of
promise and renewal. Beatrice was
filled with all those emotions and
more when she stepped onto the
Sarah Bernhardt stage for the first
time...
A little later, Perry finished reading it in his office, his
southern accent caressing the final words. "... She came to say
good-bye, as we all must, to the past, and to a life and a place
that soon would exist only in a bittersweet memory." He smiled
broadly at Clark.
