7
A FUNNY WAY TO SAVE THE WORLD
A beam of sunlight, which seemed as thick as a bar of gold, slanted down through the window to Jake Taylor’s right. It struck the hammer-headed yellow cat on the far side of the room, and the huge animal lifted his head, opened his jaws, and yawned cavernously.
“I wish I didn’t have any more to do than you, Punk,” Taylor murmured; then he leaned back in his swivel chair, stretched hugely, and imitated the action of the feline. He was a tall, rangy man of thirty-nine, strongly built. His reddish-brown hair and sharp brown eyes complemented the old scars around his eyes and the puffy ear that was a memento of his prize-fighting career while a young man. He had risen to the top of his profession in the world of journalism and now controlled the editorial policies of the Hearst Newspapers.
Stretching again, he leaned forward and began marking the paper in front of him, stopping when the intercom buzzed.
“A gentleman to see you, Mr. Taylor. His name is Mark Stevens.”
“Well, send him in, Elaine.”
Taylor rose from his chair, moved around the desk, and as the door opened and a young man entered, he put out his hand. “Hello, Mark,” he said with a smile. “What brings you to Chicago?”
“I’m a friend of Prue Deforge’s and I’m here to see you, Mr. Taylor. I’ll get right to it. I’m here looking for a job.”
Taylor waved Mark to a chair across from his desk, resumed his own seat, then studied him. What he saw was a young man of about twenty, lean and muscular, with the moves of an athlete. He had a youthful appearance with a shock of tawny, yellow hair, deep-set gray eyes, a wide mouth, and high cheekbones. There was a seriousness about the young man that caught Taylor’s attention, and he sat there talking for a few moments asking about his background and about Prue and her family. Finally he picked up a pencil and balanced it on his finger for a moment, then said, “What kind of a job?”
A rash grin appeared on Mark’s lips. “The only kind you’ve got to give, I guess, sir. I want to be a journalist.”
“Why?”
The question caught Mark off guard, and he shifted uneasily in his seat. He had prepared a speech in his mind long ago, what he would say when he confronted the editor, but now the single question had demolished all of that. “Why, I think it would be a good thing to do,” he said simply.
Taylor grinned and tossed the pencil on the desk. He leaned forward, put his forearms flat, and shook his head. “I’m afraid most people don’t think of journalism in quite the terms you do, Mark. As a matter of fact, I get called some pretty scandalous names from time to time. What do you mean that you think it would be a good thing to do?”
“Well, people are swayed by words, aren’t they? And the words they read are in newspapers. I know there are a lot of crummy newspapers around, and crummy writers too, and—” he hesitated, humor dancing in his eyes, “and I suppose some bad editors, but I look on it as a calling.”
Interested in what the young man was saying, Taylor began to pry at the boy’s mind. He said finally, “You understand that as noble as our profession is,”—and here he grinned wryly—“it doesn’t pay much.”
“I’ll be willing to work for anything. I’ve been going around the country now for almost a year, just bumming around but writing about the things that I saw. I’ve written about dirt farmers in Arkansas, oil rig roughnecks in Oklahoma, Orientals in Los Angeles, steel workers in Pittsburgh—just ordinary people. Listening to them, taking notes.” He reached down and opened up the small briefcase he had brought; removing a folder, he said, “I brought some of the stuff for you to look at.”
Taylor took the folder, opened it at random, and began reading. He did not move and was so still that Mark shifted again nervously in his seat and bit his lip with anxiety. He had thought of nothing since graduation from high school but working for Jake Taylor, and now that he was here, it all seemed highly unlikely. He had little experience, and the Hearst Newspapers were at the top of the journalistic world.
Jake rose and closed the folder. After making a phone call, he headed for the door. He picked up his hat, stuck it on the back of his head, and pulled on a suede sports coat. “Come on,” he said.
“Where we going?” Mark asked in bewilderment, rising from his chair.
“Going to take you home and show my family off to you.”
The two men left the newspaper office, and at the parking lot Taylor waved at his blue Thunderbird. “My wife Stephanie calls it my other wife,” he said with a grin. “I’ve only gotten six traffic tickets so far, but I managed to have most of them arranged.”
When they arrived at the Taylor home, a brick two-story on the lake, the wind cut into Mark as they moved to the front door. “Does it always blow like this?”
“I think it’s a law of nature,” Taylor said. “Come on in. Stephanie will be glad to meet you.”
Stephanie greeted Mark warmly. She stood looking up at him. “Well, come on in and meet the real bosses of the Taylor household.” She proudly introduced Betsy, a five-year-old with curly blond hair and brown eyes, and Forest, age two, who regarded Mark owlishly out of wide blue eyes.
During dinner Stephanie was surprised to learn that Mark knew her brother Bobby. She brought Mark up-to-date on the latest in Bobby’s career. They also talked about Prue and her family.
“You’re staying in the guest room,” Stephanie announced firmly after dinner. “And no talk about a motel.”
Mark laughed, his teeth white against his tanned skin. “I won’t argue,” he said. “I’m just about broke, and I’ve slept everywhere you can imagine, from a flophouse in Denver to a barn in Minnesota. I appreciate your hospitality.”
For three days Mark enjoyed the best eating he had had since leaving home. Stephanie was a wonderful cook, and he grew very fond of the children, who constantly demanded his time. He went to the office with Jake for two of those days and got his first real insight into how a big newspaper works. It was exciting to him, but he kept waiting for Taylor to say something about the job.
Finally, after supper on their third day while Stephanie was putting the kids to bed, Jake looked up from the television set where he was watching Ozzie and Harriet. “I like to watch this program,” he observed. “It’s what family life ought to be like but usually isn’t.” He shook his head, and there was a look of wonder in his eyes. “God had to be in my life to bring me to a woman like Stephanie. I was an irreligious dog. It was her grandfather Amos who brought me to know the Lord. I think about him almost every day. He was a great man. I think he had more to do with the rise of the paper than Hearst himself, although Hearst would deny it, of course.” He turned abruptly and said, “All right. You’re hired.”
The suddenness of the statement caught Mark off guard, and for a moment he could not say anything. He heard the voice of Ricky Nelson in the background, but his whole mind was on what Jake Taylor just said. He finally cleared his throat and said, “I’ll do the best I can for you, Mr. Taylor.”
“You can call me Jake when nobody’s around, but it’s not going to be exactly like you thought.”
“What do you mean, Jake?”
“Ordinarily when somebody comes to work for the paper, we start them in going through all the operations so they see the overall picture, but I’ve been reading through that sheaf of writing you did, and I’ve got an idea for a series of special stories. I’m going to give you a special assignment.” His voice grew stern, and he said, “If you can’t make it, all bets are off. You understand that? You have to pull your own weight.”
“That’s fine, Jake,” Mark said quickly. “All I want is a chance. As I told my folks, if I can’t make it, I want to find out now.”
His statement pleased Taylor, who went over and turned the television set off. He had put a great deal of thought into this project and had great hopes for it. “Here’s what you’ll do. You’ll travel around, just as you have been, and write stories of special interest. The one you
wrote about the blind woman in Cincinnati. We can use that just like it is. I liked that story,” he observed, clasping his hands together. “Most of us never think what it’s like to live in a world without sight. Somehow you caught it. How did you do it, Mark?”
“I put a blindfold on, and I didn’t take it off for two days,” he said. “I’ve still got scars from running into things, but it gave me a little insight into folks with that handicap. It wasn’t the same, though,” he observed. “I could take off the blindfold at any time, but blind folks can’t do that.”
“You’re right about that, but your writing caught the pathos of it and also the courage of that lady. I’m going to pretty well turn you loose on your own, but your first assignment is all set in my mind.” He spoke for a few moments, then smiled. “You’ll leave tomorrow on this one.”
That night, Mark sat down and wrote a short letter to Prudence.
Dear Prue.
Well, it’s happened. I’m a newspaperman—at least for a month. When I came here my knees were literally knocking. If Jake Taylor hadn’t given me a chance, I would have gone somewhere else and tried to find a place to work. But he’s hired me and is giving me the chance to do what I really want to do.
I’ll be coming to see you soon, for my first assignment is a humdinger. I think Jake is doing it just to test me, because of all things, he’s ordered me to go to Mississippi and cover a bunch of baton twirlers. They have some kind of a school for that there, which I didn’t even know existed. Anyway, that’s where I’m headed tomorrow.
We’ve talked a lot about me, what I want to do. I guess I have big ideas about saving the world, but how on earth am I going to save it by writing about teenyboppers twirling sticks?
Anyway, I look forward to seeing you. I think about you a lot, Prue, and miss you a great deal.
He hesitated for a moment and signed it, “With warm regards.” Then he scratched it out and put, “Love, Mark.”
Mark was glad to be back in the South, and when he got off the bus at Oxford, Mississippi, after a three-hour ride from Memphis, he walked around the town, taking it all in. He registered at the Old Colonial Hotel, then after unpacking his single suitcase, moved outside. He soon saw that it was like so many other small southern towns, with a sleepy square centering the life of those men who came to sit on benches, play checkers, and decide how the country should be run. He noticed two public drinking fountains, one boldly marked, “For Colored.” His mind ran over the civil rights struggles that had taken place led by Martin Luther King, and he shook his head, thinking, That won’t be there very long.
He was anxious to see author William Faulkner’s house, and he asked two men sitting on a bench playing checkers, “Which way to Faulkner’s house?”
One man slowly lifted his lean arm and pointed without moving his eyes from the board, mumbling, “Thet a’way.”
“Thanks,” Mark said wryly, then decided to go to the campus of Old Miss first. It was not difficult to find, nor was the Dixie National Baton Twirling Institute, for the first student he asked said, “Over there in that field behind that big building.”
Mark nodded his thanks and moved on, walking along the wide pathways. The classes had already begun, he saw, and he was somewhat taken aback by what appeared to be hundreds of young girls out covering a field. They were all dressed in abbreviated skirts, and he could hear the voices of the instructors melding together as he approached.
He paused for a time to watch one pudgy girl no more than twelve, it seemed, spin her baton with phenomenal ease. It looked like a silver airplane propeller blurring, and as it went into the air it caught the sunlight. He moved forward and said, “Who’s in charge?”
Without missing a beat, or a spin, or a revolution of her baton, the girl, who was chewing gum at almost the same speed of the baton, gave a nod saying, “Mr. Henderson. Over there.”
Mark walked in the direction of the girl’s gesture and stood for a while as a rather short young man with dark hair and dark eyes watched the spinning batons. “Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes, I’m Henderson.”
“My name’s Mark Stevens. I’m here to cover the twirling contest for the Hearst Newspapers.”
Henderson’s eyes lit up. “Well, that’s fine. Real fine,” he said in a southern accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. “Let’s go over in the shade, and I’ll be glad to tell you whatever you want to know.”
When they reached the shade, Mark said, “Just tell me a little bit about the basics, and remember, I don’t know anything about baton twirling.”
“Right. Well, first of all you got to know that it’s the second largest girls’ movement in America.”
“What’s the first?”
“Why, Girl Scouts, of course. I want you to get this in your paper, Mark. There are three reasons why it’s a popular sport. First, you can do it by yourself. Second, it doesn’t require any expensive equipment, and finally, you don’t have to go a million miles to do it. You can practice in your own backyard, or in your own living room.”
Mark could see the young man was highly enthusiastic and said, “Don’t be offended, Mr. Henderson, but what’s the point of it all?”
“The point of it all? Why, the point is these girls can master a complex skill. It gives them all self-confidence, poise, ambidexterity, and discipline coordination.”
Mark wanted to ask, But how is that going to help these girls when they get out in the world? Not much call for baton twirling. However, he did not, for he saw that the young man was full of the sport, or hobby, or whatever it was. As he listened, jotting down his notes, he discovered that there were multitudinous categories: advanced solo, intermediate solo, beginners’ solo, strutting routine, beginners’ strutting routine, military marching, and ad infinitum. He also discovered that the girls who came to the institute were divided up strictly into age groups; the winner in each category would receive a trophy, and the first five runners-up, medals.
Finally he left Henderson, who was called to his duties, and stopped a young woman who appeared to be about sixteen and who was wearing an even briefer costume than the other girls.
“Do you design your own costumes?” he asked.
“I sure do. Do you like this one?”
“Very nice. Do you find that the costume has anything to do with your efficiency as a twirler?”
“Well, of course, I do!” the girl said quickly. “Back home we got these little skirts that sort of flare out, and of course, they’re short, but I don’t want anything gettin’ in my way.”
Mark wanted to observe that the costume she wore could not possibly get in anyone’s way, but he refrained.
He moved on through the field and saw a pretty girl of no more than eight tossing a baton at least sixty feet straight up. She caught it behind her back, not moving an inch.
“How long did you have to practice to do that, miss?”
“Oh, about an hour a day for six years.”
“You’re certainly good at it. What’s your goal in baton twirling?”
“I want to be the best there is at the High Toss and Spin.”
“How many times does it spin?”
“Well, I’m up to seven,” she said, “but I’m going to get more.”
Mark spent a pleasant afternoon with the young women, took several pictures, then visited William Faulkner’s house and his grave.
Standing over the grave, he said, “Well, Bill, I wonder if you’re turning over down there with all these teenyboppers treading on your turf.” He thought about the great writer for a moment, and then he said, “No, I think you would have found it amusing. So long, Bill.” He turned and walked away and was glad that night to catch a bus headed for Fort Smith.
Prue had put on her most disreputable outfit, for she wanted to do some work on the barn. The outfit consisted of a pair of ratty old jeans that had belonged to her brother and that she had to hold up with a pair of his crimson suspenders. Her blouse was faded and patched, and
she thought as she pounded the nails into the barn, I look like Huckleberry Finn! Her thick hair was tossed in the wind, but she did not notice. She loved to work on the farm and had become an expert in most of the things that needed doing. She picked up a board, held it in place, tapped a nail with the hammer, and was banging it in when she heard a voice calling, “Hey, Prue!”
Turning, she saw that Mark Stevens was rapidly approaching at an easy lope. He was wearing a pair of brown slacks and a light blue shirt, and the sun caught his hair as he came to stand before her. “I see you’re all dressed up for my return.”
“Mark Stevens, I hate you!” she said, throwing the hammer down and running her hands through her hair in a hopeless gesture. “You always manage to catch me when I look like a tramp!”
“You look good to me, Prue.” Mark smiled. “I’m glad to see you.”
Prue’s face flushed, and she said, “Come on in. Mom made a chocolate cake last night, and there’s still some ice cream left.”
When they were inside and Mark had greeted Violet Deforge, the two of them sat down, and he plunged into the cake, smiling at Violet. “The best cake I ever had in my life.”
“You always say that, Mark.” Violet smiled. “Flattery is your strong point. Come to supper tonight. We want to hear all about your new job.”
The two, after Mark finished his cake and ice cream, walked out and headed toward the woods. As they ambled slowly down the old pathway that led to the creek, Mark looked around and said, “I’ve missed all this. It’s good to be back.”
“We’ve missed you too.”
Mark looked at Prue, saying, “Well, you’re a senior now. How does it feel?”
“How did it feel when you were a senior?”
“I felt like I was a prisoner serving his last days.”
His remark amused Prue, and she laughed. She had a fine laugh, full-bodied, but not at all masculine. Her eyes squeezed almost shut, and she looked at him and said, “That’s the way I feel. I think everyone does.”
Dawn of a New Day Page 9
