Chapter Three: Ka-whang!

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

Lucien and Vertrude had left for school, 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 holy icon, a saint, or even 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 some folks interpreted as arrogance in truth conveyed the frustrated ambitions of a young man nearly suffocated by the affection of his parents and the mediocrity of his siblings, not to mention the judgmental prying of his yokeley neighbors. 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 threw 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 paused 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?"

"About an hour 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 doctor in France 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 biscuit. 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 remembered a speech by one of the characters in the novel Trilby, Little Billee. Billee was sitting on a rock and talking to his dog about God, and what he said struck Mack with such force that Mack re-read the soliloquy three times over:

"It is very wicked and most immoral to believe, or affect to believe, and tell others to believe, that the unseen, unspeakable, unthinkable, Immensity we're all part and parcel of, source of eternal, infinite, indestructible life and light and might, is a kind of wrathful, glorified, and self-glorifying ogre in human shape, with human passions, and most inhuman hates–who suddenly made us out of nothing, one fine day–just for a freak–and made us so badly that we fell the next–and turned us adrift the day after–damned us from the very beginning–ab ovo–ab ovo usque ad malum–ha! ha!–and ever since! never gave us a chance!"

Mack was both shocked and thrilled by such an honest and intelligent sentiment, and he closed the book and shut his eyes and thought, Yes, that's it! That's it exactly! We have all of us been born without a real chance, but we have been taught that it was all our fault!

Mack returned from this memory to the present moment, and he heard his mother saying, "And we must believe the Bible is the Word of God—"

Mack interrupted. "Must we believe that, Mother? Why?"

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

Mack smacked, "In that case, you have nothing to fear because I am on my side."

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."

When Mack emerged into the bright April morning, he was met with a cool breeze from the west that carried with it the scent 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 silver in the risen 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 about Trilby and Svengali and Dr. Mesmer. The workaday world and the worlds in his books were like two overlapping circles, and he was the overlap, caught in a strange ellipse. How, he wondered, will I ever get out?

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 ambled with an insolent saunter until he stood before the office and print shop of the Neosho Rustler. The door and windows were thrown open, and Mack could hear his father whistling. Mack breathed deeply and walked in. The April air had dissipated the smells of ink and machine oil. The shop was lighter, too, from the morning sun spilling through the door.

"Good morning, son!"

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

A.L. had positioned the Prouty, so he could look out the door while he stacked paper in the press tray. He enjoyed greeting people who passed in front of the shop, and they returned his salutations with similar enthusiasm. The problem with A.L. is 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 morning, 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 morning, Robert!"

"Good morning 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 morning, 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-diddle–ka-daddle–ka-thump–shp–

And He lives forever with his saints to

Ka-diddle–ka-daddle–ka-diddle–ka-daddle–ka-thump–shp–

reign!

He arose! He arose!

Ka-diddle–ka-daddle–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, "Sorry, Dad. It looks as if we'll need to go to Springfield to get a new part. Tomorrow would probably be best, don't you think?"

In those days, large newspapers kept closets full of spare parts. Presses were always breaking down for one reason or another, and a large paper like The Springfield News and Leader had an ample supply. With regard to the trip, Mack knew that his father couldn't go to Springfield because he was auctioneering a stock sale in Monark Springs. His mother had told him so at breakfast.

"I can't go; remember? 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."

"You still need to organize the deliveries." Another of Mack's responsibilities was supervising a team of four boys who would roll and deliver the papers after they got out of school. "Besides, the last eastbound passenger train left at one o'clock. You'll have to take the eight-twenty tomorrow."

Mack knew that, too.

"Should I go to the Springfield Democrat?"

"No. The Springfield News and 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 have to make the call from the post 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."