Babe is forgetful.
Birthdays pass unacknowledged. Christmas gifts are accepted with surprise, as though the season has somehow crept up unexpectedly, like February 29th in a leap year, forcing Babe to search hurriedly for some token to offer in return.
He does not mind. This is Babe’s way.
Babe does not like to write, and so avoids long missives. Babe’s spelling, grammar, and punctuation are poor. It is a source of embarrassment to Babe. Babe writes at length only to Myrtle. This may be why Babe finds it so hard to leave her. Babe has seen Myrtle at her lowest, and so only before her can Babe present himself in all his flawed glory.
No—before her, and before him.
And perhaps only with him is there no judgment.
He and Babe can sit together for hours in silence, side by side, Babe with a newspaper or book, he with a script or notepad, as sets are replaced, as clouds alter light, as rain falls, as sun shines, until all is ready for them once again, and then Babe will turn to him, and Babe will smile.
What will you do when Babe is gone?
He will keep Babe with him. He will cleave tightly to his memory. He will speak to Babe in the darkness, and from the darkness Babe’s silence will answer him, just as it did as the end approached, when speech failed and words were anyway rendered inadequate.
Shall we get started? Babe asks.
He sets aside his notepad. He closes his script.
—Yes, I should like that very much.
And they walk on in unison.