Dawn of a New Day (9 page)

Prue reached out and put her hands over his. “If that's what you want to do, Mark, and you think it's right, do it! But I believe you ought to talk it over with your parents, and all of you make the decision. It's a family matter.”

Mark looked relieved. “Well, gosh. It's good to hear you say that, Prue. I been thinking I was the world's worst punk. I'll tell you, those fights with Debbie and listening to her parents just about did me in.”

They sat there talking on and on, Prue mostly listening to Mark's plans to travel the United States. It did not disturb her, for she knew if he went to college she would not see him often anyway. Finally, when he mentioned he was not going to the prom, she said instantly, “I think you ought to go, Mark.”

“Why? What fun would it be?”

“Well, it's sort of the end of your high school career, and besides, I don't want Debbie to think that she's defeated you. You ought to get a date and go with your head up.”

“No, I wouldn't want to do that.” He looked at her and smiled warmly. “You're good medicine, Prue. I was about ready to jump in the river, but it makes me feel good to know that at least one person thinks I'm not completely off my rocker.”

Later that night, after supper, Mark called his parents together for a conference. They listened carefully as he explained what he wanted to do; finally Les said, “Is it really what you want, Mark? You'll be giving up a lot, like college and football.”

“Those things are important for some people, Dad, but honestly, they don't mean a thing to me.” He looked at his mother and said, “Mom, I don't know how to tell you this, but I've always wanted to be a writer. It's all I ever wanted to do; I could spend four years at the university, but I've read what I think are good writers. They didn't learn it in college. It was something inside of them, and I think if I don't try this, I'll always think I missed the boat.”

“Then you ought to do it, son,” Joy said. She came over, kissed him, and said, “I've seen something in you for a long time, and I've been waiting for you to tell us about it.”

“Well, I didn't think you'd understand, but I was wrong. I should have come to you.”

They talked for a long time, and finally he mentioned not going to the senior prom, and he also related what Prue had said to him.

“Prue's absolutely right,” Les said. “You don't want to go off like a whipped cur.”

“Yes, and I know exactly who you should take.” Joy smiled. She looked at her husband and said, “Are you thinking what I am?”

Les said, “Who would you really like to go with, Mark, of all the girls you know?”

Mark hesitated, then blinked with surprise. “Why, Prue. I have more fun with her than anybody.”

“Then you'll ask her, and we'll get her ready for the prom.”

“But it's only two days. She can't get a dress—”

“You do the asking, I'll do the paying, and your mother will take care of the dress,” Les said forcefully.

Prue put down the phone with a dazed expression on her face. She stood there for a long time, but her mother did not seem surprised. “Mom, didn't you hear what I said? Mark wants me to go to the prom with him!”

“Yes, and his mother and I have already talked about it. The three of us are going to Fort Smith today, and we're going to find a dress that will make every other girl's dress at the prom look like an old dishrag.”

“Mother! You mean you knew?”

Violet slipped over and put her arm around her daughter. She was forced to look up to her, but she squeezed her hard, saying, “It was Mark's idea. He said he'd rather take you than any girl he knew, and I think he's showing good sense.”

When Mark pulled in front of the Deforge house and got out of the car, he felt rather strange. “All these years, and never once did I think I'd be taking Prue Deforge to the senior prom.” He was wearing a tuxedo, and when he knocked and Violet Deforge answered the door, she looked at him and let out a long whistle. “Well, aren't you the handsome thing, though. Come in. Prue's about ready.”

Feeling more awkward than ever, Mark stepped inside, where he found Dent waiting. Dent grinned and said, “I like your monkey suit. How'd you like to wear one of those every day?”

“I'd hate it,” Mark said, pulling at his collar, “but everybody's got to wear one. I wish—” He stopped abruptly, for Prue appeared on the stairs, and he stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

The dress hunting expedition to Fort Smith had taken all day, and considerable cash and persuasion to get Prue fitted. But as Violet took in the sight of her daughter coming down the stairs, she thought,
It was worth it!

Prue's dress was made of a light lavender taffeta that complemented her dark hair and eyes. It had a low, rounded neckline with a white bead trim and a high waist that fit snugly under her bosom, where it was accented by a darker lavender ribbon tied in the front. Long, see-through sleeves ended at the wrist in white bead trim; the skirt was narrow with a small slit up the right side to the knee, and the bottom of the dress barely touched the tops of her lavender bead-trimmed shoes. Her hair was done up into a looped bun with several small ringlets escaping around the sides and the nape of her neck.

Prue came down the steps, walked right up to Mark and said, “I'm ready.”

Mark swallowed hard and said, “You sure are! You look beautiful, Prue. Just beautiful.”

Prue flushed and shot a quick glance at her mother, then at her father; then she laughed and said, “You're beautiful too!”

Mark handed her the orchid he had brought, and they went through the ceremony of pinning it on Prue's dress.

Mark said little as they drove to the prom, but he kept looking at Prue in a state of shock.

He was not the only one, for when they entered, a murmur went around the room. They were somewhat late, and everyone turned to see them.

“The word is out that Debbie and I have broken up,” Mark whispered as they walked into the room. He saw Debbie standing with her date, and she was glaring at them furiously.

Prue made quite an impact that night. It was as if she was a stranger whom the young men had never seen before. Mark let many of them dance with her but finally said, “No soap, you guys! Go get your own date!”

As they moved around the floor to the sound of the orchestra playing Elvis's newest hit, “You're the Devil in Disguise,” Mark pulled her a little closer and said, “I can't get over it, Prue. I always think of you as nursing a sick squirrel, or out grubbing in the garden. You look like—you look like a fashion model.”

“They're all skinny and bony, aren't they?”

He caught the humor in her eyes and grinned. “Not you,” he said. “You're just right. Have you noticed how we just fit?”

“That's the only reason I like you, because you're so tall.” Prue did not realize how provocative she was. Her eyes were sparkling, and her clear complexion glowed. Mark's mother had bought her some perfume, and the saleslady had warned them, “Be careful. It's dangerous.”

They enjoyed the dance and finally made their way home. Mark pulled up in front of Prue's house, got out, went around and opened the door, then walked her to the porch. “Your folks have probably gone to bed,” he said, seeing the dark house except for the porch light. “I guess they must trust me.”

“Yes, they do. They think you're something else, Mark—” Then she added, “and so do I.”

“Do you, Prue?” He hesitated, then said, “You know what?”

“What?”

“Ever since I kissed you that night, I've been feeling guilty. It was like—well, I don't know. It was like I kissed my sister almost. That's sort of the way I always thought of you.”

“I am
not
your sister!” Prue said with finality.

“No, you're not. I think I'm going to kiss you again. Do you mind?”

Prue did not answer, but her silence gave assent. She felt his arms go around her, and his lips came to hers, then she responded to his kiss. She stepped back finally and said, “Good night, Mark. It was a wonderful evening.”

When the door slammed, Mark was still standing there somewhat shocked at his reaction. “It's like another person. She's not the little kid that I dug fish bait with.” He went back to the car feeling ten feet tall, and as he drove away he looked back at the house and muttered, “Prudence Deforge, you have certainly grown up!”

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.

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?”