Dr. McNaughton woke up on the leather sofa in his den and took a shower and put on a pair of khakis and a blue dress shirt with the collar open. It was Monday morning.
He said, “Louis, Katy, I want you to come with me in the car. We’re going to Monday Music.” Nobody could remember why morning coffee at the Arrow was referred to as Monday Music, it just always had been.
Katy said, “Why?”
Dr. McNaughton hesitated. He said, “Well—I don’t know.”
He really didn’t. Last night he realized just how unhappy he had been, and for how long. How narrow and pathetic his life seemed. Renewal seemed possible at Monday Music, he was not sure why, or how—the proximity of male voices, male laughter, old stories.
Dr. McNaughton hustled the children out the door and into the Buick.
Louis said, “Daddy, something happened last night out at William Tell—”
Dr. McNaughton said, “Who’s hot? Who wants the air conditioner?”
Katy said, “Turn on the air conditioner. I’m hot.”
Dr. McNaughton started the engine.
He said, “All right, who wants to turn it on for me?”
Louis reached over and flipped the switch and adjusted the thermostat.
Louis said, “A shootout.”
Dr. McNaughton said, “All right then! Monday Music, here we come!”
He was happy to be going to Monday Music, but the truth was, he was afraid, too. He had not been there since Morgan and Ruth—well, since they got together. There was bound to be gossip, jokes. He himself was probably the subject of all that male talk and laughter he had anticipated. Yet today for some reason, gossip didn’t matter anymore. Not laughter either, even at his own expense. All that mattered was that he go and look for whatever he hoped to find there, redemption, maybe, transformation.
The old drug store was cool, on this hot summer day. The ceilings were high, the wood paneling was dark; the building was so deep that the cool was permanent, like a cave, or forest glen, umbrellas of live oaks and cypress, and long gray beards of Spanish moss. Shelves of patent medicines rose all the way to the high ceiling, S.O.S., Dr. Enough, Carter’s Little Liver Pills, Hadacol, a million others. The soda fountain was made of marble, and a brass footrail ran along the bottom, flanked by two big bright brass spittoons that nobody was allowed to use. The mirror behind the fountain was huge, and reflected the whole store, and the big Crane cash register and racks of comic books. The high school boy jerking sodas behind the fountain, a kid named Claude, wore a paper hat and had bad acne and an odd, rare medical condition, a permanent erection, which caused the boy infinite embarrassment, but which had proved untreatable.
All the regulars were there, as Dr. McNaughton had remembered them, an eccentric group, frankly, when they were all lined up in one place. Wily Heard, the one-legged coach of the local arrow-catching team; Mr. Quong, the butcher, who carried his meat cleaver wherever he went; Hot McGee, an enormous man with a whip and a chair, like a lion tamer; Leonard Greer, who kept quails and cruised the Shell station; Cyrus Conroy, the grave digger; Shorty Grable, the barber; a few more. Monday Music was a man’s world, like the rest of Arrow Catcher, Mississippi, like the rest of the world, maybe.
Somebody was saying, “Plugged two Texas desperados, killed them dead.”
“You don’t mean it.”
“Bullets come right out the back of they heads into the vye-eena sausages, or poken beans one, I done heard both renditions.”
“I wish I’d of been there to see it for myself.”
“I throwed away my chance.”
“Throwed it away?”
“I headed out there last night to have me a nip of potato whiskey, and I be goddurn if I didn’t turn around and go back to prayer meeting instead.”
“What you say!”
“Worst mistake of my life.”
“You’ll have other chances.”
“I don’t think so.”
“He’s got ice water in his veins.”
“I always knowed he would do well in life. He didn’t start out with nothing. Found in a canebrake. Raised up by a hoodoo lady.”
“The ones with humble beginnings, them’s the ones rides with Destiny.”
“Rides with Destiny?”
“It’s an expression.”
“It’s a pitcher show. With Randolph Scott. I seen it one Saturday afternoon, down at the Arrow Theater. I forget who won the drawing.”
“Randolph Scott’s the one taught Morgan to sharpshoot that pistol. He worked on Randolph Scott’s ranch down in Texas.”
“Not Randolph Scott. Zachary Scott. Zachary Scott is the one taught him to sharpshoot the pistol.”
“Zachary Scott?”
“Zachary Scott is the ugly one.”
“I never claimed Zachary Scott was a thing of beauty.”
“Morgan’s a good-looking young man.”
“Oo-la-la.”
“I heard Morgan was a fairy.”
“He’s pretty enough. His lips are red as berries.”
“If I was a fairy, Morgan’d be the first one of you ugly sons-of-bitches I’d ask out on a date.”
“Zachary Scott ain’t no fairy. Zachary Scott’s too ugly. Zachary Scott never would get a date if he had to rely on men. How come you reckon a woman will go out on a date with anybody as ugly as most of you boys? Women ain’t got no taste.”
“Morgan can shoot, though. Morgan could join the Wild West Show. He could marry Annie Oakley.”
“Or Buffalo Bill either one.”
“Annie Oakley is still alive. Still makes public appearances.”
“Annie Oakley?”
“Swear to God.”
“Or do you mean Betty Hutton?”
“Why would I be telling you Betty Hutton was still alive?”
“Well, how old is she?”
“Betty Hutton?”
“Annie Oakley!”
“Oh, she’s real old.”
“Well, that clears up all my questions.”
“Them two Texas desperadoes done drawed the winning number in the bullet lottery, when they met up with Morgan.”
“Didn’t they now?”
Katy said, “Can I get down?”
Dr. McNaughton shifted Katy on his hip, where he had been holding her. He said, “We’re not going to stay long.”
Just then a familiar voice said, “Morgan is a murderer.”
The other voices in the Arrow stopped.
Dr. McNaughton looked at the person who had said this.
It was Louis.
Everybody turned now and looked at the child.
Louis said, “I was there. I saw the whole thing.”
Dr. McNaughton said, “Son?”
Katy was growing restless, wiggly.
Somebody said, “You was there, Louis? Out at William Tell?”
Louis reached into his pocket and took out a handful of spent cartridges. He dropped them on the floor in the midst of the men. They clattered and rolled and came to a stop.
He said, “These came from Morgan’s gun.”
The men looked at the cartridges. One or two men picked up a cartridge and held it in their hands. They looked at Louis.
Louis said, “They came into the store. Two lovely children.”
Dr. McNaughton said, “Son—?”
Somebody said, “‘Two lovely children,’ them’s the very words Webber used.”
Louis said, “They didn’t do a thing. They were nice. They wanted to buy a can of Dinty Moore.”
Somebody said, “Dinty Moore—it’s my favorite brand.”
Somebody said, “It’s extry tasty with fresh light bread.”
Somebody else said, “And Morgan—he just drawed his gun and shot them down in cold blood?—is that the way it happened, Louis?”
Louis said, “Yessir.”
Louis said, “Just like target practice.”
The crowd fell back a step.
Dr. McNaughton said, “Son—?”
Somebody said, “Something just came over him, did it? Morgan just went into a fit of some kind?”
Somebody said, “Like a spell? Or a trance?”
Louis said, “Yessir.”
Somebody said, “And drawed his pistol.”
“Slow and easy.”
“Like he was hypnotized.”
Louis said, “Right before he did it—” He waited. The men fell quiet. He let the silence go on for a long time. He said, “Right before he pulled the trigger, Morgan looked like he got hit by a sizzling voltage of secret current.”
Somebody said, “My God.”
Somebody else said, “A sizzling voltage.”
“Secret current.”
Dr. McNaughton looked at the spent bullets on the floor.
Somebody said, “For nothing. For a can of Dinty Moore stew.”
Somebody said, “Target practice.”
“My God.”
Dr. McNaughton took a long breath and let it out slow. He looked at his children, as if he were seeing each of them for the first time.
All the men at Monday Music were looking at Dr. McNaughton.
He said, “Well—I guess we— I guess we better be going.”
A long time passed and nobody moved.
Somebody said, “That cain’t be Katy, can it?”
Dr. McNaughton looked at his daughter.
He said, “Actually—”
Somebody else said, “Come here, peaches.” Speaking to Katy. He held out his hands for her, and she leaned towards him. She passed from her father’s arms to his. He said, “You are heavy as a stump, punkin.”
Somebody else said, “She favors her mama, don’t she?”
There was a momentary silence, an embarrassment, after all the talk of Morgan.
Somebody said, “She’s a beauty, all right.”
Claude, the boy with the perpetual hard-on, said, “Pour you a cup, Dr. McNaughton?”
Dr. McNaughton said, “Oh—”
Claude held up the Pyrex coffee pot.
Dr. McNaughton said, “I guess I could have one cup.”
The other men resumed their talking. They told about the death of Pap Mecklin, up in St. Louis, the blind daddy of Gilbert Mecklin the housepainter. Somebody said Pap’s eyesight came back just hours before his death. They said the first words out of Pap’s mouth were, “Gilbert, them false teeth don’t fit.”
Louis looked at his father and could see that something had happened, he was not sure what. He pulled away from his touch.
In a lull in conversation Louis spoke up again. He said, “Wonder Woman is really Brad Spencer.”
All the men looked at him.
Louis said, “Brad Spencer got hit by a sizzling voltage of secret current and it turned him into Wonder Woman.”
The silence went on. Dr. McNaughton held the cup of coffee to his lips and did not drink.
Somebody said, “Just like Morgan?”
Louis just shrugged his shoulders.
The man said, “Well, now, that’s a coincidence.”
There was some head-shaking, some chin-scratching.
Somebody said, “Are you sure?”
Louis shrugged again.
It was a long time before anybody said anything else.
Claude refilled some cups.
The next thing anybody knew, somebody said, “I see now that I’ve pretty much wasted my life.”
It was Dr. McNaughton who had said this.
Everybody looked at him. Even Louis looked at him. Katy looked. Tobias McNaughton said he wasted his life.
Dr. McNaughton faced the little gathering of men. Nobody spoke.
Leonard Greer, the melancholy man who kept quails, said, “Uh, remember me, Dr. Toby?”
Dr. McNaughton looked at him. He said, “Leonard, hello—I didn’t recognize you.”
Leonard said, “I’ve put on some.”
He said, “Uh, Dr. Toby, generally confession is heard out at William Tell.”
The other men looked up now, allowed themselves to take a breath.
Leonard said, “Out on the highway, see? At William Tell. Never at Monday Music.”
The air was cleared. The men began to drink their coffee again, talk among themselves.
Dr. McNaughton said, “I see—”
Leonard said, “You ought to try it. You could draw a pretty good crowd, I expect—with you wasting your life, and then Miss Ruthie and the sharpshooter carrying on like they do. I don’t mean to speak in front of the children.”
A couple of the men started to look at their watches. Monday Music was almost over.
Dr. McNaughton said, “Oh. Well—”
Everyone drank down the last of the coffee. They stretched. They scratched an itch if they had one. It was time to go to work. The pot was empty.
Claude gathered up the cups and put them in the little stainless steel sink of the soda fountain. He ran some warm water and squirted Joy in the sink and watched the water foam up. He adjusted his trousers and tried to keep the pained expression off his face. Dr. McNaughton eased over to the fountain, very discreet. He whispered, “Drop by the office sometime, Claude, I’ll take another look, see if something can’t be done.” Claude said, “Much obliged.” Claude scooped up the last of the nickels on the marble counter and dropped them in the change drawer of the cash register. Somebody bought a BC headache powder and he took the money for that too.
Somebody said, “I’m going to use your toilet, Claude, I won’t be but a minute.”
Claude said, “Don’t wake up Mr. Shanker.”
He said, “Mr. Shanker is sleeping in the toilet?”
Claude said, “He’s got an army cot in there.”
The man said, “Don’t you worry none, Mr. Shanker won’t hear nothing but the sound of a slowly draining lizard.”
There were a few quiet, manly laughs.
Monday Music was over.
The men eased out in ones and twos.