Free The Gardener's Son by Cormac McCarthy

open. The old man stares straight ahead. After a moment he turns and looks into the room, then carefully takes out his earthing and his knife again. Sounds of hammering the coffinlid nails.
    Interior. Narrow hallway. Six men struggling along the passage with the coffin.
    Exterior. Long shot of jail and an empty wagon standing in the front with Patrick McEvoy waiting. The doors open and the men come out with the coffin and load it into the back of the wagon. The sheriff approaches McEvoy with a paper and gets him to sign it. The other men stand around somewhat uneasily. McEvoy looks at them and then turns and takes up the reins and chucks up the mule and they start off.
    Exterior. Day. The Graniteville cemetery. A scaffolding of poles is erected over the monument of William Gregg and the monument is being hoisted with a block and tackle. A heavy freight wagon with an eight-mule team is waiting to be backed under and receive the monument. A crew of gravediggers wait on with shovels. Teamsters back the mules and the stone is lowered into the bed of the wagon and the diggers come forth with their picks and shovels and proceed to exhume the bodies of the Gregg family. Mrs Gregg in her carriage waits on in the distance. It is a quiet and sunny scene. She gives the word to her man and he chucks up the team and they go on out the road among the stones.
    Interior. Late afternoon. The state hospital at Columbia. The young man from the opening of the film approaches the desk. He and the young woman at the desk converse briefly and he signs his name on the visitors roster and she motions to an orderly who comes over. They converse and the orderly beckons the young man to follow him. The young man is carrying a bouquet of flowers. There is a muted sound of voices beyond the walls. A hall in the hospital. The orderly coming along. The young man following behind. An old man is mopping the floor and he stands at a sort of attention with his mop while they pass and then turns and makes a strange mudra after them with his hands before taking up his mop again.
    The orderly and the young man pause in front of a small cubicle and the orderly nods to the young man and he enters. A white light comes in at the window. Old sheets for curtains. An old woman in an institutional robe is sleeping in a chair by the window. The young man comes in and takes a seat carefully on the bed. He puts his hat down and looks at the old woman. He folds his hands together, holding the flowers, and sits looking down at his feet like one holding a vigil. Shot reminiscent of Bobby in his cell before execution. After a while he looks up. He might almost have been praying at a wake. When he looks up he sees with a start that her eyes are on him, awake and intense.
    M ARTHA Do I know you?
    Y OUNG M AN No Mam.
    M ARTHA Are you a doctor?
    Y OUNG M AN No Mam. My name is William Chaffee. I’m from Charleston.
    M ARTHA Well you look like you’re somebody.
    He realizes that he is holding the flowers and he extends them toward her. She looks at them for a moment and then she reaches out and takes them.
    Y OUNG M AN I Was At Graniteville This Morning. Miss McEvoy. I came up on the train.
    M ARTHA I lived there as a young girl.
    Y OUNG M AN Yes Mam.
    M ARTHA These are just the prettiest flowers. Are these for me?
    Y OUNG M AN Yes.
    M ARTHA Well I declare.
    Y OUNG M AN I guess most ladies like flowers.
    M ARTHA I was always a fool about flowers. I guess I take after my daddy thataway. He was a nurseryman. He had peach orchards . . . You never seen the like of peaches. They used to ship em out by train. Just carloads of em. He had a touch with anything growin. Just had a sleight for it. He never did have no luck about people.
    Y OUNG M AN I talked to a Mr Bolinger down at Graniteville. He asked to be remembered to you.
    M ARTHA Well I dont know. They was several of them. They was some of em got high up in the mill.
    Y OUNG M AN I believe he’s about your age. I cant remember . .