Going

Twenty-Seven

At the beginning of September there were four days in a row of rain, an almost unknown occurrence in that part of Arizona. Miss Elliot said that the Hopi, doing their annual snake dances on their mesas far to the north, had overdone things this year and sent rain clouds all through the state. Staunt, to the horror of the staff, went out each day to stand in the rain, letting the cool drops soak his thin gown, watching the water sink swiftly into the parched red soil. “You’ll catch your death of cold,” Mr. Falkenbridge told him sternly. Staunt laughed.

He requested another wide-spaced print-out of The New Inn and tried to set the opening scene. Nothing came. He could not find the right vocal line, nor could he recapture the strange color of the earlier aria. The tones and textures of Ben Jonson were gone from his head. He gave the project up without regret.

There were three Farewell ceremonies in eight days. Staunt attended them all, and spoke at two of them.

Arbitrarily, he chose September 19 as the day of his own Going. But he told no one about his decision, and September 19 came and went with Staunt unchanged.

At the end of the month he told Martin Bollinger, “I’m a fraud. I haven’t gotten an inch closer to Going in all the time I’ve been here. I never wanted to Go at all. I still want to live, to see and do things, to experience things. I came here out of desperation, because I was stale, I was bored, I needed novelty. To toy with death, to live a little scenario of dying—that was all I was after. Excitement. An event in an eventless life: Henry Staunt Prepares to Die. I’ve been using all you people as players in a cynical charade.”

Bollinger said quietly, “Shall I arrange for you to go home, then, Henry?”

“No. No. Get me Dr. James. And notify my family that my Farewell ceremony will be held a week from today. It’s time for me to Go.”

“But if you still want to live—”

“What better time to Go?” Staunt asked.