Ka-Whang!

Have you ever noticed that when you hate your job, each day is a replica of the day before? The endless repetition of days—x's in rows of rectangles on Gibson girl calendars—reminded Mack of MacBeth's speech: "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, / To the last syllable of recorded time; / And all our yesterdays have lighted fools / The way to dusty death." Of course, MacBeth was steeped in blood up to his elbows while Mack was steeped in ink only up to his wrists. Nevertheless, Mack oft repeated MacBeth's words as the pages peeled off the roller. He would look at the growing stack and think, I'm just another fool mindlessly marching to dusty death.

Many millennia before, Adam and Eve shared the same dismay only worse. Every day they would get up, tend the garden, eat some fruit, have sex, and turn in the for the night. Then the next day they would do it again. Over and over and over, but with no end because they were never going to die. And they didn't have a calendar on which to put x's. Life in Eden was like a repeating decimal—say, 1÷3=.33333 forever—and Adam and Eve were about to lose their shit. So, God being God and seeing no other solution showed the serpent how to slither into the garden, hop about on the end of his tail as if he were a pogo stick, and speak enticing words. Then God pointed out Adam and Eve to the serpent and said, "See those two? You've got to do something."

"You'd think sex would be enough to entertain them."

"Right? But, no, they're bored and starting to get peevish with each other. Just yesterday, I heard Adam ask Eve why she didn't do something with her hair."

The serpent said, "Okay. I've got an idea."

Much ink has been spilled in theological considerations of "the Fall," but I just told you what really happened. When Adam and Eve ate the apple, they didn't fall from grace: They fell from boredom. And they didn't fall into sin: They fell into a story.

And that's what Mack wanted to do: To fall into a story, an adventure like the ones he read about in his bed.

The date was April 9, 1897, the day after April 8, 1897, the day after April 7, 1897, and so on. Mack's days were lying one upon another like freshly printed copies of the Rustler.

But not for long.

Alice McQuary, Mack's mother, called up the stairs, "Allen? Time to get up, son! Your father's gone to the shop! Are you awake?"

Lucien and Vertrude had left for school two hours ago, and Alice was alone in the house with her eldest son. In her heart, she hoped it would always be this way, but she knew better than to say so aloud.

She was about to call again when Mack appeared on the landing in his pajamas and sock feet. The sun refracted in bright beams through the window behind him, so that to his mother, Mack looked like a saint, an icon, perhaps a disciple. Had Alice possessed eyes to see, however, she would have noticed a subtle sorrow playing about Allen's lips. The slight backward tilt of the head that Neoshans interpreted as arrogance in truth conveyed the frustrated ambitions of a young man stifled by small town prejudices, parental expectations, and sibling mediocrity. The apparently surly glint in his blue and limpid eyes was another sign of his hidden despair. But Alice had neither eyes to see nor ears to hear. What she saw (and heard) was her handsome boy, resplendent, aglow, and not quite tall. He asked, "Is breakfast ready?"

"Yes. I baked biscuits."

"Good." Mack went back upstairs to his bedroom, so Alice returned to the kitchen. She tossed three sticks of wood into the oven firebox and put on the coffee pot. When she heard footsteps creaking down the stairs, she called out, "I thought you had gone back to bed! How would you like your eggs?"

More soft footfalls and Mack stood in the doorway, still in his sock feet and pajamas. In one hand he held a book, and with the other he scratched his behind. "Sunny side up. When did Dad leave?"

"Oh, I don't know. Some time ago."

Was there a subtle reproach in his mother's voice? "I've been reading."

She cracked the eggs. "What are you reading?"

"A book by a French doctor named Mesmer. It's very good. It's about animal magnetism."

"Why in the world would someone want to magnetize animals?"

"That's not what it means, Mother! It's about how you can get people to do your bidding."

"Oh. That reminds me, your father is auctioneering a big sale tomorrow in Monark Springs."

"Good God, that's not the kind of bidding I'm talking about! Dr. Mesmer is talking about getting people to do what you want them to do. Do I have to explain everything?"

"The Bible says people should only do what God wants them to do."

Alice tilted the skillet so that hot grease ran over the tops of the eggs, and then she dabbed the eggs lightly with a clean towel. She slid the eggs onto a platter already laden with ham and biscuits, and she set the platter on the table.

"There you go. Would you like some jam?"

"Yes. Please." Mack owed her that much.

Mack speared the eggs, and the yolk ran onto the plate. He cut off a piece of ham and dragged it through the yoke and was chewing the ham when he said, "It seems to me that God wants people to do some pretty terrible things. Just ask the Canaanites. Or the Amalekites. Or the Hittites. Or the Jebusites. Or . . . "

Mack let the last "or" hang there, a monosyllabic symbol of whatever God had in store for his enemies, and even as that "or" faded, Mack recalled a speech he had read in Trilby. Little Billee, one of the main characters, was sitting on a rock and talking to his dog about God, and what Little Billee said struck Mack with such force that he re-read the soliloquy three times over:

Mack trembled at the honest, courageous, liberating words. Yes, that's it! That's it exactly! All of us were born without a real chance, and then we were taught it was our fault!

"A self-glorifying ogre—" I wonder if du Maurier really believes that or if that's what Little Billee believes? Well, I do.

I wonder what "ovo" means? Probably "oval." And I suppose "malum" means evil. As in "malice." So, probably "ab ovo usque ad malum" means, "Either oval or evil." That's got a ring to it, but I can't imagine what it means.

Wait. "Usque" has "us" in it. So, maybe it means "the oval to us is evil"?

Mack was dabbing a biscuit in egg yolk and speculating on Latin (which, I ruefully confess, he thought was French) when he heard his mother say, "—and we must believe the Bible is the Word of God because—"

Not that again!

"Must we believe that, Mother? Why?"

With that hint of sadness all mothers have perfected, Alice said, "Oh, Mack, do you ever listen? Sometimes I fear you are your own worst enemy."

Mack smacked, "In that case, you have nothing to fear because I am my own best ally." He like the sound of that and believed it at once.

The coffee pot began percolating, and Alice took a cup from the cupboard. "Well, your father appreciates your help with the paper. He couldn't do it without you."

"Lucien could help him."

"Lucien is still in school. Besides, your father has plans for you."

"Does anyone ever think I might have plans for myself?"

"What plans do you have?"

Mack was stymied because he had no plans, so he said, "You'll find out. You'll all find out."

Alice poured the coffee and set the cup beside her son, then she studied him as he ate—the furrowed brow, the uncombed curls, and the mechanical chewing troubled her—and yet, she loved him and believed in him. Yes, he could be moody. Yes, he often provoked her and his father. But he was their miracle, and in his heart, he was their good son.

Mack said, "Do we have cream?"

Alice placed a small pitcher beside his plate, and Mack poured a dollop of cream in his coffee. He slurped and said, "I gotta go."

On the morning of April 9, 1897, a cool breeze crept in from the west, bearing with it the smell of pear blossoms and wild hawthorn. Along the residential streets of Neosho, Missouri, the colonnaded oaks were budding in pale green leaves, and in the park by the trout hatchery, purple blossoms fringed the limbs of red buds while around their small trunks the daffodils bloomed. The hatchery comprised ten long, concrete tanks, and in these, fish flipped and slapped the water. They glinted pink and silver in the sun and made the morning more Aprilish, if such were possible.

For his part, Mack was striding to the print shop and thinking about how much he despised Neosho, how unimaginative his family was, how strange and violent Bible stories could be, and how Dr. Mesmer hypnotized animals.

How will I ever get out of here?

He reached the courthouse square and turned left on Wood Street.

Maybe someone'll start a war, and I'll get drafted. I could shoot somebody if I had to. That'd be better than shooting myself.

Two blocks more and a turn onto Brook Street, then another block, and he was at the corner of Brook and McCord. Mack shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered to the open door of the Neosho Rustler. Mack heard his father whistling; he sighed and walked in.

"Good morning, son! It's a beautiful day!"

"Morning." Mack took his apron from the stanchion and looped the ribbon over his head. A.L. started whistling again.

A.L. loved spring because he could leave the door open and greet people who passed in front of his shop. The problem was that he said, "Good day," every time the same person walked by, so that his pleasantries became annoying. Often passersby so addressed would reply, "Good day, again, Mr. McQuary." That again suggested, albeit subtly, that A.L. might be an idiot, but he was so brimming with naïve goodwill that he did not pick up on it. In fact, A.L would say, "Good day again to you, too!" Mack rolled his eyes at these exchanges, but he never said anything.

On this particular morning, Mack had taken his place by the wheel when Mr. Dougherty walked past the door on his way to the bank. A.L. called out, "Good day, Robert!"

"Morning, A.L. How're you this fine morning?"

"Fine. And you?"

"Fine, thank you."

A few minutes later, Mr. Dougherty again walked in front of the door on his way back to the office.

"Good day, Robert!"

"Good day again, A.L."

Then when Mr. Dougherty reached his office and sat behind his desk, he realized he had forgotten the receipt, which, of course, required a trip back to the bank. As Mr. Dougherty passed the open door for the third time, he heard A.L. call out, "Good day, Robert!"

Mr. Dougherty, who was already peevish from having forgotten the receipt, said, "Goddammit, A.L., you've 'good dayed' me three times. Can't you just nod or pretend you don't see me?"

A.L. was chagrined by such unexpected candor, so he replied, "Robert, thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain."

Mr. Dougherty said, "'Good day' the Lord three times in a row, and see what He says."

When Mr. Dougherty passed the door a few minutes later, A.L. did, in fact, ignore him. He acted as if Mr. Dougherty did not exist, as if he was focused on the press and never thought of Robert Dougherty, ever. Mack turned the wheel, and A.L. began whistling:

He arose a victor from the dark domain,
Ka-diddle–ka-daddle–ka-thump–shp–
And He lives forever with his saints to
Ka-diddle–ka-daddle–ka-thump–shp–
reign!
He arose! He arose!
Ka-diddle–ka-daddle–ka-thump–KA-WHANG!

One of the arms popped straight up and clattered to the floor. A.L. ceased whistling and asked aloud, "What in the–?" He stopped just short of the word "hell," which was typical of A.L. He would walk right to the precipice of a sin and retreat to the safety of sanctimony.

Mack asked with feigned curiosity, "What happened, Dad?" As if he hadn't seen the arm lurch upward and fall to the floor.

"Something broke." A.L. tsked. "Ah. It's the collar." A.L. pointed to the cracked elbow that connected the arms. "See? I think we have an extra one in the back room. Do you know where it is?"

"No, sir."

"Look on the second shelf towards the wall."

"Yes, sir."

As Mack walked into the supply closet, an idea occurred to him. He found the part his father wanted, hid it in the corner under a pile of ink-stiff rags, and came out wearing a forlorn face.

"Well–?"

"We must've used it already. I couldn't find it."

"I could have sworn I had an extra collar. What in the–"

Hell, Mack supplied. Then he said, "It looks like we'll need to go to Springfield to get a new part." Presses were always breaking down for one reason or another, and a large paper like The Springfield Leader had an ample supply of parts. Then Mack said, "Tomorrow would probably be best, don't you think?" Mack knew that his father couldn't go to Springfield in the morning because he was auctioneering a stock sale in Monark Springs. His mother had told him so at breakfast.

A.L. said, "I can't go. I have a big stock sale in Monark Springs."

Mack snapped his fingers and said, "Oh, that's right!"

A.L. said, "Well, we have to have that collar. Why don't you go?"

"I could leave this afternoon, if you like."

A. L. said, "The Port Arthur left for Springfield an hour ago. You'll have to take the eight-twenty in the morning."

Mack knew that, too.

"Should I go to the Springfield Democrat?"

"No. The Springfield Leader will have more parts on hand."

"Good thinking. Where will I stay the night?"

"I'll ring Mildred and see what she says." Neither the shop nor their home had a telephone, so A.L. would make the call from the Western Union office. "I'm sure it'll be fine if you stay with them." Then he smiled and stuck out his hand. "Thank you, son, for making the trip."

Mack shook his hand and said, "Don't mention it, Dad. What's good for the Rustler is good for us all."