A Stone for Danny Fisher (1952) (40 page)
“Then I want to live for myself,” I wept. “To feel the firm soft earth beneath my feet, to taste the sweetness in my wife’s body, to take pleasure in the growing of my son.”
“But if you live, Danny Fisher,” the voice said inexorably, “you will do none of these things. The body you once inhabited is smashed beyond repair. You will not see, you will not feel, you will not taste. You will be but a shell that remains a living organism, a constant burden and agony to those you love.”
“But I want to live!” I screamed, fighting against the voice with all my might. Slowly I could feel die pain returning to my being.
I welcomed it as a woman would welcome a long-absent lover. I embraced it and let it enter me. I could feel the sweetly welcome agony flowing through as the blood would flow. Then suddenly there was a moment of pure clean light and I could see again.
I was looking at myself, torn and twisted and shapeless. Hands were reaching toward me, but they stopped, frozen in horror, at the sight of me. This was my body and this was the way people would look at me forevermore.
I could feel the sorrowing tears mingling with the agony that was in me. Was there nothing left of me that might bring joy to someone’s heart? I looked closely down at myself. My face was clean. It was calm and still. There was even the remnant of a smile upon my lips. I looked closer.
My eyelids were closed, but I could see behind them. The hollow sockets stared vacantly at me. I turned in horror from myself. The tears were running through my mind, washing away all the strange new hurt.
The pain began to slip from me again as the light grew dim and the dark returned. The voice was once more at the gateway to my mind.
“Now, Danny Fisher,” it said sympathetically, “will you let me help you?”
I pushed the tears from my mind. All my life had been a matter of bargain. Now there was time for just one more. “Yes,” I whispered, “I will let you help—if only you can make my body whole that my loved ones do not turn from me in horror.”
“I can do that,” the voice replied quietly.
Somehow I knew that it would be done and there had been no need for me to ask. “Then help me, please,” I begged, “and I will be content.”
There was a sudden loving warmth around me. “Rest, then, Danny Fisher,” the voice said softly. “Give yourself up to the quiet, peaceful dark and do not be afraid. It’s just like going to sleep.”
I reached out confidently toward the dark. It was a friendly, loving kind of dark and in it I found the warmth and love of all I ever knew. It rolled around me in gentle swirling clouds. The memory of pain was dim and far distant now, and soon even the memory had gone. Now I knew why I had never known peace before.
I was content.
Y
OU
place
the
stone
quickly
on
the
monument
and
stand
there
gravely,
your
eyes
wide.
Within
you
there
is
a
small
but
creeping
doubt.
Your
father.
I
have
no
shape,
no
rounded
image,
in
your
memory.
I
am
nothing
but
a
word,
a
picture
on
the
mantelpiece,
a
sound
on
other
people’s
lips.
For
you
have
never
seen
me
and
I
have
seen
you
but
once.
Then
how
can
I
reach
you,
my
son,
how
can
I
make
you
hear
me
when
even
my
voice
is
an
unfamiliar
echo
in
your
ears?
I
weep,
my
son,
I
weep
for
all
the
life
I
gave
you
that
I
will
not
share.
The
joys,
the
sorrows,
I
will
not
know
with
you
as
my
father
has
known
them
with
me.
For
though
I
gave
you
life,
you
have
given
me
even
more.
In
that
short
moment
that
we
shared
together,
I
learned
many
things.
I
learned
again
to
love
my
father,
to
understand
his
feelings,
his
happiness,
his
inadequacies.
For
all
the
things
I
meant
to
him,
in
one
short
moment,
you
meant
to
me.
I
never
held
you
in
my
arms
and
pressed
you
close
to
my
heart
and
yet
I
feel
these
things.
When
you
are
hurt,
I
feel
your
pain:
when
you
sorrow,
I
share
your
tears,
and
when
you
laugh
there
is
a
joy
in
me.
All
the
things
you
are
were
once
part
of
me
—
your
blood,
your
bones,
your
flesh.
You
are
part
of
the
dream
I
was
that
still
remains.
You
are
the
proof
that
once
I
moved
and
walked
the
earth.
You
are
my
legacy
to
the
world,
the
most
precious
that
I
could
bestow.
All
the
values
are
as
naught
when
compared
with
you.
In
your
time
there
will
be
many
wonders.
The
distant
corners
of
the
earth
will
be
a
moment’
s
journey
:
the
deepest
ocean,
the
highest
mountain,
perhaps
even
the
stars
themselves
will
be
within
the
reach
of
your
fingers.
And
yet
all
these
miracles
will
be
as
nothing
when
compared
with
the
miracle
of
you.
For
you
are
the
miracle
of
my
continuing
flesh.
You
are
the
link
that
joins
me
with
tomorrow,
the
link
in
the
chain
that
spreads
from
time
beginning
to
time
never
ending.
And
still,
there
is
a
strangeness
in
it
all.
For
you,
who
stem
from
the
roaring
passions
of
my
blood
and
strength
and
join
me
with
tomorrow,
know
nothing
of
me.
We
shared
but
a
moment
together,
the
moment
of
your
awakening,
and
thus
you
know
me
not.
“What
are
you
like,
my
father?”
you
ask
in
the
silence
of
your
heart.
Close
your
eyes,
my
son,
and
I
will
try
to
tell
you.
You
are
still.
Your
eyes
are
closed,
and
you
are
listening.
The
sound
of
my
voice
is
the
sound
of
a
stranger
in
your
eyes,
and
yet,
deep
within
you,
you
know
who
I
am.
The
lines
of
my
face
will
never
be
distinct
in
your
memory,
yet
you
will
remember.
For
some
day,
in
some
time,
you
will
speak
about
me.
And
in
your
voice
will
be
a
sorrow
that
we
have
never
known
each
other.
And
in
that
sorrow
there
will
also
be
a
contentment.
A
contentment
that
will
come
from
the
knowledge
that
all
the
things
you
are
stem
from
me.
The
things
that
you
will
give
to
your
son
began
with
me,
and
what
my
father
passed
on
to
me,
and
his
father
behind
him.
Listen
to
me,
my
son,
and
know
your
father.
Though
the
memory
of
man
is
a
temporary
thing
because
his
life
is
but
a
fleeting
moment,
there
is
a
quality
of
immortality
in
him
that
is
as
permanent
as
the
stars.
For
I
am
you
and
you
are
me,
and
the
man
that
began
with
Adam
will
live
forever
on
this
earth.
As
I
once
lived.
Once
I
breathed
the
air
you
breathe
and
felt
the
soft
give
of
earth
beneath
my
feet.
Once
your
passions
raced
in
my
veins
and
your
sorrows
wept
through
my
eyes.
For
once
I
was
a
man
beside
you.
I,
too,
had
a
charge
account
at
Macy
’
s:
a
bankbook
at
the
Dime
Savings:
there
are
papers
lying
in
some
hidden
vault
with
my
signature
scrawled
upon
them
in
now
browning
and
ageing
ink:
a
social-security
number
buried
in
the
mass
of
statistics
in
a
Government
file
with
these
strange
numerical
markings
upon
it;
052–09–8424.
These
things
I
once
had,
my
son.
And
for
this
and
for
many
reasons
other
than
this,
my
name
will
not
be
forgotten.
For
in
these
mere
written
records
alone
there
is
evidence
of
my
immortality.
I
was
not
a
great
man
whose
history
has
been
recorded
for
children
to
study
in
school.
No
bells
will
ring
for
me,
no
flags
descend
upon
their
mast.
For
I
was
an
ordinary
man,
my
son,
one
of
many,
with
ordinary
hopes
and
ordinary
dreams
and
ordinary
fears.
I,
too,
dreamed
of
wealth
and
riches,
health
and
strength.
I,
too,
feared
hunger
and
poverty,
war
and
weakness.
I
was
the
neighbour
who
lived
in
the
next
house.
The
man
standing
in
the
subway
on
his
way
to
work:
who
held
a
match
to
his
cigarette:
who
walked
with
his
dog.
I
was
the
soldier
shaking
with
fear:
the
man
berating
the
umpire
at
the
ball
game:
the
citizen
in
the
privacy
of
the
voting
booth,
happily
electing
the
worthless
candidate.
I
was
the
man
who
lived
a
thousand
times
and
died
a
thousand
times
in
all
man
’
s
six
thousand
years
of
record.
I
was
the
man
who
sailed
with
Noah
in
his
ark,
who
was
the
multitude
that
crossed
the
sea
that
Moses
held
apart,
who
hung
from
the
cross
next
to
Christ.
