.,vvvv.,,,v.,..vv.,.,l ............................s ^ The Play 2,>¿¿¿- by Ron Willoughby ->, J . She was nearly home now. Jean turned the VW onto a hump-backed road that twisted through a tunnel of winter-bare trees as it followed Wolf Creek up the narrow hollow. As the familiar landscape flowed by she began , in spite of herself, to think of her father. She saw his long angular face, set on a spare body kept lean by a lifetime of work in the mines. His stern, impassive face, lined with years. He had been cool and aloof, she remembered seldom smiling or showing emotion of any kind. And now he was dead. "Well," she thought, "at least 111 only miss two or three rehearsals. Two weeks later and I'd have missed performances." Jean thought of herself as a professional actress, though in three years in New York she had failed to land a speaking part. Finally she had taken a job at a small Virginia college, teaching English and drama and acting in¦campus productions and little theatre. She didn't particularly like teaching, but it supported her acting habit. She was driving the winding road 34 by memory, wheeling the VW expertly through the turns. Suddenly a squirrel darted across the road in front of her. "Get the hell out of the way!" she muttered , yanking the steering wheel hard, and the car veered into the next turn. Near its head the hollow was wide enough for a single row of thirty-two drab frame houses along the base of the ridge to the left. Right in front of the houses ran a railroad track, with the rocky creek beside it. The road ran along the base of the other mountain, perhaps one hundred feet from the creek. This was Kenro, the mining camp where Jean had grown up and where her parents had lived their adult lives. Jean parked by the run-down little schoolhouse she had attended as a child, got out of the car and stretched. She pulled her coat tightly about her thin shoulders, tugged the hood over her short brown hair, and crossed the creek on the wooden footbridge, footsteps echoing hollowly. The mountains loomed over her, covered with skeletal gray trees and blotched with patches of dirty snow. The indifferent winter sunlight did not warm her as she walked along the railroad tracks to her parents' house. Jean went straight to the kitchen. Her mother burst into tears and ran to embrace her, while two neighbors clucked sympathetically and patted both women on the shoulder. When her mother had composed herself, Jean turned to greet the neighbors , Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Thane, and they passed a minute in small talk. Then Mrs. Bell suggested that they go into the living room to see her father's body. "Is he here?" Jean asked, surprised. "Yes," said her mother, brushing her hands across her cheeks to wipe away the tears. "Your father wanted it that way." "Oh my God," thought Jean, "that sort of thing went out of style twenty years ago, even here. 1 don't believe this." But she was trapped, so she walked through the house toward the living room, which opened off the hall at the front of the house. Entering the room, Jean saw the gray metal casket, lid open, surrounded by flowers. A funeral home phonograph played organ music. The heavy odor of flowers took her breath as she stood by the casket and looked dutifully down at her father. He lay there, diminished in death, and she was surprised to realize that she was not sad, but angry. Thinking that Jean wouldn't hear her over the music, Mrs. Bell whispered, "Not a tear. Isn't that something?" Not caring whether she was overheard or not, Mrs. Thane tilted her head back and sniffed. "She's just like her father," she whispered loudly. "Cold as ice." Jean turned and left the room, pretending that she had not heard. On the morning óf the funeral Jean came downstairs early. She had been wrestling with her feelings for the past two nights and hadn't slept much. 35 It was still...