All the King's Men (12 page)

Willie stopped pacing and swung his head at her with the forelock down over his eyes to give him the look of a mean horse then he’s cornered in the angle of the pasture fence with his head down a little and the mane shagged forward between the ears, and the eyes both wild and shrewd, watching you step up with the bridle, and getting ready to bolt.

“Sit down, honey,” Lucy said, “you make me nervous. You’re just like Tommie, you can’t ever sit still.” Then she laughed, and with a sort of shamefaced grin on his face he came over and sat down.

She was a fine woman, and he was lucky to have her.

But he was also lucky to have the Sheriff and Dolph Pillsbury, for they were doing him a favor and not knowing it. He didn’t seem to know it either at the time, that they were his luck. But perhaps the essential part of him was knowing it all the time, only word hadn’t quite got around to the other and accidental parts of him. Or it is possible that fellows like Willie Stark are born outside of luck, good or bad, and luck, which is what about makes you and me what we are, doesn’t have anything to do with them, for they are what they are from the time they first kick in the womb until the end. And if this is the case, then their life history is a process of discovering that they really are, and not, as for you and me, sons of luck, a process of becoming what luck makes us. And if that is the case, then Lucy wasn’t Willie’s luck. Or his unluck either. She was part of the climate in which the process of discovering the real Willie was taking place.

But, speaking vulgarly, the Sheriff and Pillsbury were part of Willie’s luck. I didn’t know it that night in pappy’s parlor, and I didn’t know it when I got back to town and gave Jim Madison my tale. Well, Willie began to appear in the
Chronicle
_ in the role of the boy upon the burning deck and the boy who put his finger in the dike and the boy who replies “I can” when Duty whispers low “Thou must.” The
Chronicle
_ was turning up more and more tales about finagling in county courthouses around the state. It pointed the finger of fine scorn and reprobation all over the map. Then I began to grasp the significance of what was going on in that world of reasons high above the desk of Jim Madison, and caught the glint of those diaphanous spirit wings and the fluting whispers of faint angel voices up there. In brief, this: The happy harmony in the state machine was a thing of the past, and the
Chronicle
_ was lined up with the soreheads, and was hacking away at the county substructure of the machine. It was starting there, feeling its way, setting the stage and preparing the backdrop for the real show. It wasn’t as hard as it might have been. Ordinarily the country boys in the county courthouses have plenty of savvy and know all the tricks and are plenty hard to pin anything on, but the machine had been operating so long now without serious opposition that ease had corrupted them. They just didn’t bother to be careful. So the
Chronicle
_ was making a good show.

But Mason County was Exhibit Number One. On account of Willie. He gave the touch of drama to the sordid tale. He became symbolically the spokesman for the tonguetied population of honest men. And when Willie was licked at the polls of Mason County, the
Chronicle
_ ran his picture, and under it the lines KEEPS HIS FAITH. And under that they printed the statement which Willie had given to me when I went back up to Mason City after the election and after Willie was out. The statement went like this: “Sure, they did it and it was a clean job which I admire. I am going back to Pappy’s farmer and milk the cows and study some more law for it looks like I am going to need it. But I have kept my faith in the people of Mason County. Time will bring all things to light.”

I had gone up there to see what he had to say, but didn’t have to go out to the farm. I ran into Willie on the street. He had been building some fence and had busted his wire stretcher and had come in to town to get a new one. He was wearing and old black felt hat and overalls which hung down around his can as though he were little Droopy-Drawers smiling up from the play pen.

He went to the drugstore and had a coke. He stood in front of the soda fountain and I put may pad in front of Willie by his old hat and gave him a pencil. He licked the point and his eyes glazed as though he were getting ready to do sums on his slate, and then leaning up against the marble, with his overall drooping, he wrote out the statement in his big round, scrawly hand.

“How’s Lucy making out?” I asked him.

“Fine,” he said. “She likes it out there and she’s company for Pappy. It suits her all right.”

“That’s fine,” I said.

“It suits me, too,” he said, not looking at me but across the fountain at his own face in the big mirror. “The way it is it all suits me just fine,” he said, and looked at the face in the mirror, which was freckled and thin-skinned over the full flesh but under the saggy forelock was untroubled and pure like the face of a man who tops the last rise and looks down at the road running along and straight to the place where he is going.

As I said, if a man like Willie can be said to live in the world of luck, Dolph Pillsbury and the Sheriff were his luck. They ran it over Willie and got the new schoolhouse built by J. H. Moore. J. H. Moore used the brick out of the kiln owned by the distant relative of Pillsbury. It was just another big box of a schoolhouse with a fire escape at each end. The fire escapes weren’t the kind which looks like a silo and which has corkscrew-shape chute inside for the kiddies to slide down. They were iron stairs attached to the outside of the building.

There wasn’t any fire at the schoolhouse. There was just a fire drill.

About two years after the place was built, it happened. There was a fire drill, and all the kids on the top floors started to use the fire escapes. The first kids to start down on the fire escape at the west end were little kids and they couldn’t get down the steps very fast. Right after them came a batch of big kids, seventh and eighth graders. Because the little kids held up the traffic, the fire escape and the iron platform at the top got packed with kids. Well, some of the brickwork gave and the bolts and bars holding the contraption to the wall pulled loose and the whole thing fell away, spraying kids in all directions.

Three kids were killed outright. They were the ones that hit the concrete walk. About a dozen were crippled up pretty seriously and several of those never were much good afterward.

It was a piece of luck for Willie.

Willie didn’t try to cash in on the luck. He didn’t have to try. People got the point. Willie went to the triple funeral the town had for the kids who got killed, and stood modestly in the background. But old Mr. Sandeen, who was the father of one of the dead kids, saw him back in the crowd and while the clods were still bouncing off the coffin lids Mr. Sandeen pushed back to him and grabbed him by the hand and lifted up one arm above his head and said, loud, “Oh, God, I am punish for accepting iniquity and voting against an honest man!”

It brought down the house. Some women began to cry. The other people began to come up and grab Willie by the hand. Pretty soon there was scarcely a dry eye in the crowd. Willie’s weren’t dry, either.

It was Willie’s luck. But the best luck always happens to people who don’t need it.

He had Mason County in the palm of his hand. And in the city his picture was in all the papers. But he didn’t run for anything. He kept on working on his father’s farm and studying his law books at night. The only thing he did about politics was to get out and make some speeches for a fellow who was running in the primary against the Congressman who had always been a pal of Pillsbury. Willie’s speeches weren’t any good, at least the one I heard wasn’t any good. But they didn’t have to be good. People didn’t bother to listen to them. They just came to look at Willie and clap and then go vote against the Pillsbury man.

Then one day Willie woke up and found himself running for Governor. Or rather, he was running in the Democratic primary, which in our state is the same as running for governor.

Now it wasn’t any particular achievement to be running in the primary. Anybody who can scrape together a few dollars for the qualifying fee can offer for election and have the pleasure of seeing his name printed on the ballot. But Willie’s case was a little different.

There were then two major factions in the Democratic party in the state, the Joe Harrison outfit and the MacMurfee outfit. Harrison had been Governor some time back, and MacMurfee was in then and was going to try to hold the job. Harrison was a city man and practically all of his backing was city backing. MacMurfee wasn’t exactly a hick, having been born and bred in Duboisville, which is a pretty fair-sized place, maybe ninety thousand, but he had a lot of country backing and small-town backing. He had played pretty smart with the cocklebur vote and mostly had it. It was due to be a close race. That situation was what got Willie into the show.

Somebody in the Harrison outfit got the idea, which God knows he didn’t invent, of putting in a dummy who might split the MacMurfee vote. This has to be somebody who had a strong appeal in the country. So that was Willie, who could throw some weight up in the north end of the state. There wasn’t any deal with Willie, it developed Some gentlemen form the city called on him up in Mason City, driving up there in a fine car and striped pants. One of them was Mr. Duffy, Tiny Duffy, who was a lot grander now that he had been back that day when he and Willie had first met in the back room of Slade’s beer parlor. The gentlemen from the city persuaded Willie that he was the savior of the state. I suppose that Willie had his natural quota of ordinary suspicion and cageyness, but hose things tend to evaporate when what people tell you is what you want to hear. Also there was the small matter of God. People said that God had taken a hand in the schoolhouse business. That God had stepped in on Willie’s side. The Lord had justified him. Willie was not religious by any ordinary standards, but the schoolhouse business very probably gave him the notion–which was shared by a lot of to local citizenry–that he stood in a special relation to God. Destiny, or plain Luck. And it doesn’t matter what you call it or if you go to church. And since the Lord moves in a mysterious way, it should not have surprised Willie that He was using some fat men in striped pants and a big car to work His will. The Lord was calling Willie, and Tiny Duffy was just an expensively dressed Western Union boy in a Cadillac instead of on a bicycle. So Willie signed the receipt.

Willie was ready to ride. He was a lawyer now. He had been for some little time, for after he ad lost out as County Treasurer, he had buckled down to his books pretty seriously, in what time he could spare from farming and peddling his Fix-It Household Kit. He had sat up there in his room late at night in summer, dog sleepy but grinding his eyes into the page, while the moths tapped and blurred at the window screen and tried to get onto the flame of the oil lamp which sizzled softly on his table. Or he had sat up there on winter night while the fire died out in the rusty-burner stove and the wind beat on the north side of the house, coming down a thousand miles through the night to shake the room where Willie sat hunched over the book. Long back, he had spent a year at the Baptist College over at Marston, in the next county, long back before he had met Lucy. The college wasn’t much more than a glorified grade school, but there he had heard the big named written in the big books. He had left the college with the big names in his head, because he didn’t have any money. Then the war had come and he had been in it, stuck off somewhere in Oklahoma in a camp, feeling cheated, somehow, and feeling that he had missed his chance. Then after the war there had been the working on his father’s place and reading books at night, not law books, just what books he could get hold of. He wanted to know the history of the country. He had a college textbook, a big thick one. Years later, showing it to me, he prodded it with his finger, and said, “I durn near memorized every durn word in it. I could name you every name. I could name you every date.” Then he prodded it again, this time contemptuously, and said, “And the fellow that wrote didn’t know a God-damned thing. About how thing were. He didn’t know a thing. I bet things were just like they are now. A lot of folks wrassling around.” But there had been the great names, too. There had been a notebook, a big cloth-bound ledger, in which he wrote the fine sayings and the fine ideas he got out of the books. A long time later he showed me that, too, and as I thumbed idly through it, noticing the quotations from Emerson and Macaulay and Benjamin Franklin and Shakespeare copied out in a ragged boyish hand, he said with that same tone of amiable contempt, “Gee, back in those days I figured those fellows who wrote the books knew all there was. And I figured I was going to get me a chunk of it. Yeah, I figured I would sweat for me a chunk of it.” He laughed. And added, “Yeah, I thought I was the nuts.”

He had been going to get a chunk of all there was. But in the end it was a chunk of law. Lucy came into the picture, and then the kid Tom, and there was working, and later the courthouse, but in the end he got a chunk of law. An old lawyer over at Tyree helped him, lending him books and answering questions. There had been about three years of that. If he had just been trying to squeeze by the bar with as little as possible he could have done it a lot sooner, for back in those days, or now for that matter, it didn’t take any master mind to pass the bar examination. “I sure was a fool,” Willie said to me once, talking about those times, “I though you had really to learn all that stuff. I thought they meant for you to learn law. Hell, I got down to that bar examination and I looked at the questions and I nearly busted out laughing. Me sitting up there bearing down on those books, and then they gave me those little crappy questions. A corn-field nigger could have answered them if he’s been able to spell. I ought to have looked twice at some of the lawyers I’d seen and I’d known a half-with could pass it. But, oh, no, I was hell-bent on learning me some law.” The he laughed, stopped laughing, and said with a touch of the grimness which must have belong to the long night up there in his room when he bent over the trash-burner or heard the moths batting soft at the screen in the August dark: “Well, I learned me some law, I could wait.” He could wait. He had read the books the old lawyer over at Tyree had, and then he bought new books, sending away for them with the money he grubbed out of the ground or got with his patented Fix-It Household Kit. The time came in the end, and he put on his good suit, blue serge and slick in the seat, and caught the train down to the city to take the examination. He had waited, and now he really knew what was in the books.