Raintree County

  The men in front of the General Store began to smile, at first a little sheepishly, then broadly.

  —By God, listen to that little pipsqueak howl a hisn.

  —That ain’t no pipsqueak howl. He’s got a good loud yell fer a baby.

  —He ought to have, if he takes after his maw.

  After a while, the door opened, and Ellen Shawnessy came out.

  —They want you all to come in and see it, she said.

  —I reckon they’d better leave us see it, said Grampa Peters. I never worked harder to have a baby in my life.

  The men all removed their hats and walked sheepishly into the house. Johnny brought up the rear. In a room upstairs, a woman was lying on the bed. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was all strung around on the pillow. She was looking at something lying on her arm. Her husband was standing beside the bed looking at it too.

  It was a little hairless monkey with a scalded skin, the ugliest thing Johnny had ever seen.

  —It’s a boy, said Mr. Doniphant tentatively.

  —It’s a fine boy, Grampa Peters said, lying magnificently.

  The mother only lay looking at the baby. The baby was yelling again, and T. D. said,

  —A perfect baby. The beginnings of a fine family, my boy.

  Some of the men hit Mr. Doniphant solidly between the shoulders, and others pumped his hand. He looked bewildered and kept saying,

  —Thank ye, sir, thank ye.

  —Well, Missus, Grampa Peters said, how do you feel?

  —All right, said the woman on the bed. I’m sorry if I caused y’ all trouble by carryin’ on so. I never knowed what it’d be like.

  All of them lied, saying they didn’t notice a thing, and anyway it didn’t bother them the least bit.

  —What you goin’ to call it, Missus? Grampa Peters asked.

  —Well, the young woman said very slowly, looking at it, we was aimin’ to call it, iffen it was a boy, Zachary Taylor Doniphant, but I done change my mind, and my husband and I would like to give him the name of this kind gentleman here who help us out and maybe save my life and the baby’s.

  —O, I assure you——T. D. started to say.

  —No, sir, Mr. Doniphant said, we talked about it while you was all out of the room just now, and we’re a-goin’ to christen ’im Timothy Shawnessy Doniphant, if the doctor don’t mind.

  —Mind! T. D. said. I would be delighted. But I assure you——

  Johnny thought it was a terrible insult to his father because the baby was a monstrous-looking object, but T. D. seemed to be delighted.

  —T. D., one of the women said, I think that calls for a little prayer.

  T. D. blew his nose and put his head down. The baby kept on crying.

  —Dear Father in Heaven, T. D. said, these good young people have come a long way across the great continent of America and have suffered many hardships. So far Your kind providence has been upon them. We ask You now to continue to favor them with the benign light of Your countenance and take a hopeful view of their future, far-wandering across the land. May this little child that is this day born unto them live and prosper in the far land to which they are journeying. Dear Lord, preserve him and his father and his mother in the trials that await them. May they reach that far-off beautiful land of California and may they find all of their desires fulfilled until they arrive as all of us must, after much wandering, on that Golden Shore where there is no distinction between here and hereafter. We ask it, Lord, in Jesus’ name. Amen.

  Outside, everyone made a little contribution for the new baby, and T. D., who had already donated his services, gave two dollars. The baby was yelling again when they went in to give the money to the Doniphants. One thing you could say for it: it had a lot of life in it.

  Johnny was very quiet until they were on their way home. Then he found that he was humming a song:

  —O, Susanna,

  Do not cry for me.

  —I wish I could get the words to that song, Ellen said. How much do you remember, Johnny?

  Johnny started in, and it turned out that he knew the whole song.

  —It pays to have a good memory, T. D. said. With your mind for remembering things, John, you ought to go far.

  The tune had a fine gaiety, but the words filled Johnny Shawnessy with delicious sadness, and the name Susanna haunted him even into his sleep, for that night he dreamed that he was hunting through the Court House Square for a mysterious woman, whose stately name he couldn’t remember. Meanwhile the Square darkened; people were rushing by him in wagons going west.

  —It’s the breaking of the waters, they said solemnly.

  And indeed he could see the cold waters of the Shawmucky rising in the cornfields. He himself, trying to escape, wandered all night through familiar landscapes. They had an empty, joyless look

  LIKE PAINTINGS ON A WALL

  OR PICTURES

  IN

  AN

  ILLUSTRATED HISTORICAL

  ATLAS

  OF

  RAINTREE COUNTY

  INDIANA

  1875

  In the back seat of the surrey little Will had the book open.

  —Who is that lady above the door, Papa?

  He pushed the book over into Mr. Shawnessy’s lap. The title was stamped in gold on a black clothbound cover, eighteen by fifteen inches. The Atlas was an inch deep, corners and spine reinforced in tooled black leather. The fullpage lithograph of the Court House showed a rectangular brick and stone building. A tall tower set into the west end contained the Main Entrance, an American flag stood stiff out from the peak of the tower, and two clock faces visible in the sloped roof read nine o’clock. Two ladies, bustled, bearing parasols, walked on symmetrical paths of the court house lawn. Over the Main Entrance a draperied woman stood in a niche, blindfolded, leaning on a sheathed sword, holding bronze scales.

  —Justice, Mr. Shawnessy said.

  —What are those things in her hands?

  —Scales. To measure the exact difference between right and wrong.

  —Why do they call it an atlas? Will asked.

  —An atlas, Mr. Shawnessy said, is a book with maps—pictures of the earth. In the old Greek stories, a giant named Atlas held the world on his shoulders.

  —Hercules came and held the world for him once, Wesley said, while Atlas went to the Garden of the Hesperides and got the golden apples for Hercules.

  —What did Hercules want with the apples? Will asked.

  —It was one of his twelve labors. And when Atlas came back, he just laughed at Hercules and said he was going to leave Hercules there holding the world forever. He didn’t want to take the world back.

  —You can’t exactly blame him, Mr. Shawnessy said.

  —But, Wesley said, Hercules played a trick on him. He fooled Atlas into taking the world back just long enough so he could fix his lion skin on his shoulders to keep the world from chafing them. And as soon as Atlas had the world back on his shoulders, Hercules just laughed at Atlas and took the apples and beat it, leaving Atlas to hold the world.

  —He isn’t still holding it, is he? Will asked.

  —No, of course he isn’t, Wesley said. It’s just a Greek myth.

  The Illustrated Historical Atlas of Raintree County was not, however, just a myth. It was a very substantial piece of work. A Chicago firm had sent its own compilers, surveyors, and delineators to make a verbal and pictorial record of Raintree County. Fifteen years ago Mr. Shawnessy had bought a copy of the Atlas for ten dollars and put it on the parlor table with the Family Bible and the Photograph Album. The Atlas was printed on paper of excellent quality, great grainy sheets, some forty-eight in all. There was an illustrated titlepage, colored fullpage maps of the County and each of its twelve townships, and smaller maps of the principal communities, including Waycross. At the back were unfolding maps of Indiana, the United States, and the Eastern and Western Hemispheres. The reading matter provided a history of the County, statistical tables, and descriptions
of churches, eminent public buildings, newspapers, and schools. Ten whole pages were given over to a list of over five hundred prominent citizens, each of whom had given satisfactory proof of prestige and good taste by subscribing to the Atlas in advance.

  The name Shawnessy, J. W. appeared on page 44.

  The Atlas was remarkable for its illustrations, fullpage lithographs of the New Court House, Freehaven’s leading hotel, the south side of the Square; and half a hundred pictures—some fullpage and some two and four to the page—of Raintree County homes, mostly farms.

  Into the faintly golden texture of the great soft sheets, an unknown artist had touched the earth of Raintree County with a sensitive pencil. In the sketches of farm homes, the principal building was seen as from a slight elevation so as to include a generous setting of outbuildings and the land around. Walks, lanes, roads, forests, gardens, pastures, cornfields appeared in accurate perspective. People played croquet on lawns; children skipped ropes, rolled hoops, pulled wagons; families passed in surreys, spring wagons, buggies; mare and colt scampered in the pasture; the great bull passively grazed behind the barn; the farmer engaged in his characteristic occupations—feeding, mowing, raking, plowing.

  The earth had the effect of being a massy substance continuous under all traces of humanity. Through page after page, this earth of Raintree County appeared in an unvaried summer morning, radiant and precise to a depth of miles, until sky touched horizon with a frieze of soft clouds.

  One played with the idea that the artist had been a gifted young man forced to hack for a living but leaving the stamp of genius even on his routine assignments.

  —How come you’re taking the Atlas to town, Papa? Wesley asked.

  —What’s that? O, to exchange it for one at the Museum, which is slightly different. They can use mine while I have theirs.

  —How is the one at the Museum different? Wesley asked.

  —It’s an earlier edition, Mr. Shawnessy said evasively. What’s Eva reading?

  He didn’t listen to the answer. He was thinking of Senator Jones’s letter in his pocket and the quaint mission that he was undertaking to Freehaven.

  The letter had come to him a week before. Everyone who knew the Senator well, knew that he had two distinct styles—sacred and profane. His informal letters to close friends favored the second vein.

  Dear John:

  . . . By the way, on top of all your painful responsibilities for the success of my homecoming, I want to pile one more that ought to be a pure joy to you.

  As you know, I haven’t been back to the County for twenty years, but I still have good contacts there and keep up pretty well. Now, here’s a story I picked up in ’75 when I received a copy of a Raintree County Atlas. I was told that the artist who drew the pictures for it was on his last job for the company before getting the axe. It seems he fancied himself a Raphael without a patron and was going nutty from so much hack work. Anyway, he got even with his firm and the world in general for years of artistic frustration by letting his imagination run hogwild on the plates he did for the Atlas. So when old Waldo Mays, who founded and ran the Historical Museum and was the leading spirit in getting the Atlas commissioned, received his advance copy, he took one look and beat it the hell up to Chicago, where he demanded the plates and had them altered or destroyed in his presence. All the rest of the subscription was castrated, including your copy and mine.

  Meanwhile old Waldo kept the unique copy under lock and key in the Museum and never let anyone see it. Harve Watkins, who gave me the story, says Waldo kept hinting that the damage hadn’t been all cleaned up, so that people kept scurrying to their Atlases to see if they could see anything. My own copy is ragged.

  I’ve heard several hot tips about Waldo’s unique copy, to wit: A lovely dame is standing in her pelt, ankledeep in the river under the railroad trestle on the titlepage. The lady going into the dry goods store on the south side of the Square, page 37, is stark naked, except for a parasol. On page 65, Bob Ray’s prize bull, Mr. Jocko the Strong, blue ribbon at the State Fair in ’74, is pictured showing prizewinning form in an intimate domestic scene. On page 53, Titian’s Venus and Adonis are romping in the forest background. Adam and Eve are under an apple tree on page 57. A pair of country lovers are surprised in a haystack on page 17. The fountain in the front yard of John J. Jubal’s palatial home in Beardstown features an ithyphallic Aztec god instead of a cast-iron triton. The sign reading Burke House on Freehaven’s leading hotel has been altered to something more pungent. And Jesus Christ surrounded by the Twelve Apostles is getting ready to jump to Zion from the observation platform of the house on page 61. You can see the possibilities.

  Now, I’ve been using this story for years with great éclat in the smokefilled rooms of the Nation’s Capital, Washington, D. C. I adapt it for the company. It’s good for lusty laughter at the stag banquet, and in a daintier version it fetches a giggle from the most cultivated females in Washington.

  I’m sure there’s some truth in it because I once wrote old Waldo myself in my best senatorial style, stating that I understood he had in his possession a unique copy of the Atlas containing some interesting variations, and as I was collecting books of all kinds on the old home county out of a sentimental interest, I would be glad to buy his copy—and he could name the price.

  The old bastard wrote back that the variations to which I referred were of such a profane character that he had sworn never to allow the copy to get into the hands of another human being, where it might expose a character less staunchly fortified than his own, to overwhelming temptations. He said that he planned to destroy the book before his death and delayed now only because the presence of it in his museum brought hundreds of folks every year who bent bug-eyed over the glass case in his private office, where he kept the book locked up and covers closed. He said he considered this an excellent training in self-denial, not to say that it encouraged people to explore the Museum and its other treasures (all those god damned stinking stuffed possums and Indian skulls).

  That Atlas has become an obsession with me. I have the same feeling about it that a collector would have for the famous Satan’s Bible with the misprint in the seventh commandment or a hitherto undiscovered Shakespeare play published with the author’s face engraved from life in the frontispiece and an autobiographical preface.

  Now, just last week I got word from Harve that old Waldo was found stiff and stone-cold at six in the morning on the front steps of the Museum with his key in the lock. Apparently, feeling that his hour had come, he’d staggered down in the dead of the night to get that book and destroy it. And they say his niece by marriage and only heir (who’s been East and got married and widowed) was visiting the old man in his last illness and immediately took over the estate and the Museum lock, stock, and barrel and closed it up for adjustments.

  In other words, John, that cussed book is in the hands of a woman, young, pretty they say, and therefore impressionable—instead of an old he-frump who has been lusting over it in secret for seventeen years.

  Someone is going to get hold of that book now—and fast. If I were in the County, I’d be willing to bet my chances for the Presidency in ’96 that I’d get access to the lady and the book in a matter of hours. But since I can’t do it, my first thought is you. We all know, John, that where a skirt is involved, you carry a golden key.

  Sprout, I’m personally counting on you to put the hex on that woman and get that book and have it in Waycross when I arrive. My letter to her is already in the mail, blazing the trail, and I leave the rest up to you. I’ll personally lay out a cold hundred dollars for the privilege of adding that book to my private collection of prints by the old masters.

  Of course, I didn’t give my birthyell yesterday, and I know the whole thing may have been just a figment of the old man’s mind. We all know that Waldo has been off his nut ever since he cracked his marbles on a wagontongue as a boy on his father’s farm. But I don’t want to go to my grave without satisfying my c
uriosity as to what that two-bit Michelangelo did to Raintree County.

  By the way, John, not a word on this subject where it might diminish that splendid image of decorum which the hoi polloi entertain for a U. S. Senator. Of course, in the right quarters it will give my character that touch of humanity which woos the beauteous ballot to the box—and after all, this is an Election Year. . . .

  Cordially yours,

  GARWOOD B. JONES

  Mr. Shawnessy had in his pocket another letter received two days before.

  My dear Mr. Shawnessy,

  Your kind note in hand, I hasten to reply. The book of which you speak and in which Senator Jones has expressed an interest is in my possession. Apparently my revered uncle placed a great value on it, but I would be glad to see you and talk with you about it.

  I am opening the Museum for Independence Day, as many people like to visit. If you come early, before seven, as you suggest, I will meet you there on the Fourth.

  By the way, you are wrong—I remember you quite well. As a little girl of ten, I was a doting protégée of yours. You trained me and some other girls for a patriotic pageant on the Court House lawn in 1868. I had the part of the Productive Institutions and wore a skirt made out of corn husks which came off halfway through my speech.

  So you see, you are not forgotten after all. Remember me kindly to your family.

  Sincerely,

  PERSEPHONE R. MAYS

  The surrey had turned west at Moreland and was approaching the Old Home Place. Granite boulders were strewn on the earth here, negligent droppings of the great ice sheet whose southernmost rim had lain on Raintree County aeons before, leaving its load of alien rocks and glacial dirt.

  Fleshed with loam, tufted with groves, and dense with corn, the earth swam beneath him and away to distant summer. The sky built a vault pillared with far clouds over the floor of Raintree County.

  What made the earth of Raintree County? Who holds up the earth? What creature is it that in the morning of its life . . .