Nurses and Therapists Raisin’ the Son By Scott Searle

Alternate ending to A Raisin In the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry

As Mama watched Linder sign the check and hand it over to Walter, a big part of her died; she could not believe her eyes. No one in the house could believe their eyes, except for Walter and Linder that is. Ruth began crying uncontrollably, and Beneatha glared at Walter with a look that could have brought the devil himself to his knees. When Linder finally folded up his paperwork and latched his fancy briefcase, he smiled as though he had just won the Nobel Peace Prize; he felt a major victory had been won for the white neighborhood association, and he had been the one to win it for them. As he happily exited the apartment, realizing he’d never again have to come back and deal with those people, he hurried down the stairs and rushed towards his Chrysler, feeling victorious again – this time, for not being mugged or severely beaten by the many angry and blank-faced black people on the street corner near his car. Those people were everywhere, he thought.
When Linder left, the tense atmosphere in theYounger household intensified greatly. Ruth cried herself right to the living room floor. Mama looked at her dying plant with an absent look on her face; she was nearly zombie-like, and it looked as though she could start drooling at any moment; for once, she was completely robbed of thought, expression, and words to say. Beneatha could not restrain herself any longer when Walter opened a longneck bottle of beer, started to whistle “zippidy-doo-da,” and dance throughout the house, waving and flaunting the check like a one-armed cheerleader shaking just a single pom-pom. When Travis started chuckling and egging his father on, Beneatha lost control of herself and snapped. She opened the box of gardening tools that they had enthusiastically purchased for Mama earlier in the week and began throwing them at Walter. The first one nearly hit Travis in the back of the head, as Beneatha was definitely no Cy Young candidate. The second tool she threw made a direct hit to the family’s prized photograph of Big Walter, breaking great grandma Younger’s antique frame into a million pieces; Mama never even blinked as the glass sprinkled all over Ruth’s fragile skin. By this time, Walter had the record player turned up so loud that he was completely entranced and lost within the music; he (like Mama) had no idea what was going on around him . . . until tool number three slammed heavily into his left wrist, breaking both his beer glass and the record player, and spilling Pabst Blue Ribbon all over Linder’s check.
The look on Beneatha’s face immediately changed from hostility to terror, as Walter bolted towards her with both hands outstretched – apparently going straight for her neck. She tried to escape him, but he was much too strong and quick for her. When he started to hold her down and slap her, Travis became very frightened and screamed. Sure, he had seen his father extremely angry before, but never like this! He made his way for the door, running as fast as he could with his heart pounding fast, his entire body trembling, and his feet bare. Walter yelled for him to get back in the house, but it was too late . . . much too late for poor little Travis.
Whether his feet were wet from his father’s spilt beer or his mother’s fallen tears, it did not matter, except maybe for whom most of the blame could be pointed at later on; there was sure to be much blame passed around the Younger household. As he was sprinting to escape the chaos within his home, Travis slipped on the second-to-the-top stair and fell all the way to the bottom, twisting and tumbling and banging and crashing the entire way. It didn’t take Walter and Beneatha long to realize, by the sound of things, what had just happened. In a flash, they were both standing over the top of little Travis, both afraid to move him due to the unusual position his body ended up; it didn’t take a doctor to make the call that both legs and his left wrist were broken. He didn’t appear to be breathing either. He was quickly losing the healthy warm complexion he always had, and the look in the poor child’s eyes did not appear to be Travis at all. He looked much older and more serious, yet at the same time so young, innocent, and fragile. Walter was crying and repeatedly punching the already-battered wall, just above where Travis’s shoulder had left an impressive indentation. Luckily, Beneatha had been paying a little attention in school, and had thought to try CPR on the limp-bodied Travis. By this time, both Mama and Ruth were also in the cramped area at the bottom of the stairway. Mama began praying and pleading to God, while Ruth held Travis’s neck upward – in order to hopefully open his airway better. She also helped matters immensely by reminding the shaky-handed Beneatha to plug Travis’s nose while breathing into his mouth. Although it had only been forty five seconds since Travis took his last breath, it seemed like it had been two hours. Slow motion was hovering . . . like a dark cloud. Everyone felt helpless and hopeless. Both of Walter’s hands were broken, several times.
Two Years Later:
Although he had to take all of his classes from the hospital/shelter where he now lived, Travis Younger was first in his class. He was determined to live out his Aunt Beneatha’s dream to someday get a PHD in college. He had been paralyzed from the neck down and on a breathing machine for two years now. Because of the lack of technology and science in the medical field, he was unable to leave the Gray Medical Institute – for any reason. Therefore, he had missed his grandmother’s funeral, his father’s court trial (which ended in life imprisonment), his Aunt’s wedding to George Murchison, and the birth of his baby brother. And because his mother had no other choice but to work three jobs, she was only able to visit Travis on Sunday mornings after church for an hour or so. She always entered his room with a smile on her face, and left with tears on her cheeks. She just couldn’t get herself to believe Travis when he told her, with his eyes, that everything was going to be fine. Every night when she rocked baby to sleep, she made bargains with God to help heal her firstborn son; one step at a time, she pleaded:
Maybe you could start with his voice? Let him talk and laugh out loud again. Then we could work up to those hands and arms – let him give hugs again. Then we could get rid of all the machines, cord, tubes, and electricity; I could take him to the mountains . . . let him breathe your pure and fresh air. Oh please God, make him walk, run, and play like he used to. I’ll do anything you ask, if you please heal my Travis. Little by little is fine, just please keep my son in mind.