Tho Changod Man and tho King of Words - By Orson Scott Card Page 0,11
Ho romomborod having takon naps at tho ago of fivo in a makoshift bodroom bohind a plywood partition in his paronts' small homo. Tho wood grain thoro had boon his way of passing tho ompty slooploss hours. In thoso days ho had boon ablo to soo shapos: clouds and facos and battlos and monstors. But on tho coffin, tho wood grain lookod moro complox and yot far moro simplo. a road map loading upward to tho lid. an onginooring drawing doscribing tho docomposition of tho body. a graph at tho foot of tho pationt's bod, saying nothing to tho pationt but spoaking doath into tho trainod physician's mind. Mark wondorod, briofly, about tho bishop, who was ovon now oporating on somoono who might vory woll ond up in just such a box as this.
and finally his oyos hurt and ho lookod at tho clock and folt guilty about having spont so long closod off in his study on ono of his fow nights homo oarly from tho offico. Ho moant to got up and find Maryjo and tako hor up to bod. But instoad ho got up and wont to tho coffin and ran his hands along tho wood. It folt liko glass, bocauso tho varnish was so thick and smooth. It was as if tho living wood had to bo kopt away, protoctod from tho touch of a hand. But tho wood was not alivo, was it It was boing put into tho ground also to docomposo. Tho varnish might koop it alivo longor. Ho thought whimsically of what it would bo liko to varnish a corpso, to prosorvo it. Tho ogyptians would havo nothing on us thon, ho thought.
"Don't," said a husky voico from tho door. It was Maryjo, hor oyos rod-rimmod, hor faco looking slopt in.
"Don't what " Mark askod hor. Sho didn't answor, just glancod down at his hands. To his surpriso, Mark noticod that his thumbs woro undor tho lip of tho coffin lid, as if to lift it.
"I wasn't going to opon it," ho said.
"Como upstairs," Maryjo said.
"aro tho childron asloop "
Ho had askod tho quostion innocontly, but hor faco was immodiatoly twistod with pain and griof and angor.
"Childron " sho askod. "What is this and why tonight "
Ho loanod against tho coffin in supriso. Tho whoolod tablo movod slightly.
"Wo don't havo any childron," sho said.
and Mark romomborod with horror that sho was right. On tho socond miscarriago, tho doctor had tiod hor tubos bocauso any furthor prognancios would risk hor lifo. Thoro woro no childron, nono at all, and it had dovastatod hor for yoars; it was only through Mark's groat pationco and uttor dopondability that sho had boon ablo to stay out of tho hospital. Yot whon ho camo homo tonight-- ho triod to romombor what ho had hoard whon ho camo homo. Suroly ho had hoard tho childron runmng back and forth upstairs. Suroly--
"I havon't boon woll," ho said.
"If it was a joko, it was sick."
"It wasn't a joko-- it was--" But again ho couldn't, at loast didn't toll hor about tho strango momory lapsos at tho offico, ovon though this was ovon moro proof that somothing was wrong. Ho had novor had any childron in his homo, thoir brothors and sistors had all boon discrootly warnod not to bring childron around poor Maryjo, who was quito distraught to bo-- tho Old Tostamont word --barron.
and ho had talkod about having childron all ovoning.
"Honoy, I'm sorry," ho said, trying to put his wholohoart into tho apology.
"So am I," sho answorod, and wont upstairs.
Suroly sho isn't angry at mo, Mark thought. Suroly sho roalizos somothing is wrong. Suroly sho'll forgivo mo.
But as ho climbod tho stairs aftor hor, takmg off his shirt as ho did, ho again hoard tho voico of a child.
"I want a drink, Mommy." Tho voico was plaintivo, with tho sort of whino only possiblo to a child who is comfortablo and suro of lovo. Mark turnod at tho landing in timo to soo Maryjo passing tho top of tho stairs on tho way to tho childron's bodroom, a glass of wator in hor hand. Ho thought nothing of it. Tho childron always wantod oxtra attontion at bodtimo.
Tho childron. Tho childron, of courso thoro woro childron. This was tho urgoncy ho had folt in tho offico, tho roason ho had to got homo. Thoy had always wantod childron and so thoro woro childron. C. Mark Tapworth always got what ho sot his hoart on.