Echoes: Mourning Into Daybreak James Francis Judge Iowa State University
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Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Retrospective Theses and Dissertations Dissertations 1987 Echoes: mourning into daybreak James Francis Judge Iowa State University Follow this and additional works at: https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/rtd Part of the English Language and Literature Commons Recommended Citation Judge, James Francis, "Echoes: mourning into daybreak " (1987). Retrospective Theses and Dissertations. 7907. https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/rtd/7907 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Dissertations at Iowa State University Digital Repository. It has been accepted for inclusion in Retrospective Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of Iowa State University Digital Repository. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Echoes: Mourning into Daybreak by James Francis Judge A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of MASTER OF ARTS Department: English Major: English Approved: In Charge of Major Work For the Major Department For the Graduate College Iowa State University Ames, Iowa 1987 ii TABLE OF CONTENTS Page THE FIFTEEN-DOLLAR DEBUT OF MR. LIBERTY 1 THE SHADOW PEOPLE 33 AWAY HELPING A FRIEND 92 THE FIFTEEN-DOLUR DEBUT OF MR, LIBERTY My kid brother had always wanted to be a superhero. That's right, a real superhero, the full bit—glamorous uniform, bold insignia, striking name, cape or mask if not both, secret identity. Had there been a potion or device or gamma ray or enchanted bracelet or extragalactic medallion capable of instilling some special power, Keith would've latched onto it lickety-split. Keith's career plans were a lot like the black hairs on his shins—dating from his days as a trike jockey but substantial only after he'd reached the seventh grade. His ambitions seemed to swing into high gear after he was sick so much that winter with the Hong Kong flu or whatever, which allowed him to spend four instead of the usual two hours a day at those "costumed adventurer" comic magazines of his, I remember Mom and Dad grumbling at Keith and each other about his getting way-gone with that stuff; they'd even had me "try and talk some sense into that child" when I was back from State U. over Christmas and spring breaks. But big brother Kirby had turned twenty-one that viral winter, and his journalism-school persuasiveness didn't cut it with the would-be superhero. Anyway, everything hung out the following summer, the one a wise man would long afterward describe as the "last summer of the second golden age of comics"; I still don't know whether this age d'or ended because of comic-book content getting juvenile about that time, or on account of what happened at the Fifth Annual Owensburg Old-Tirae Fourth of July Celebration. Whatever the reason, it's more in line with what was then my professional self-image to say that the Fourth of July incident got its start during Nixon's first summer in the White House, just a few weeks before Apollo XI lifted off. It was late morning on a Wednesday but seemed like a Saturday. I'd propped myself Indian-style and barefoot on the couch in the folks' living room. I was fretting over, among other things, what classes to take my next and final year at State. Dad was surveying for the new street the city had decided to build out near its maintenance garages. Mom was at the supermarket, and Keith had biked uptown to shoot his yardwork-money and allowance on I could imagine what. Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" crackled away somewhere in the background on the static-y radio. The front door was opened several inches, but my Nehru shirt from the previous season's wardrobe kept me warm enough. Thump . thump . thump . Somebody at the screen door, the Fuller lady, maybe. The pubescent male voice was slow and sepulchral. "I am come for Kirby Evans." No free vegetable-scrubbers for us that day. "That's what it reads on my Selective Service card," I called out. If there were a character named The Grim Reaper, he was rapping his scythe against our door. I didn't bother to look. "Your time is arrived. You needs must grant me entrance." Actually I needed to read proofs at the Times-Democrat at twelve-thirty, and didn't care to be late. Internships were rough enough, especially in a hometown. I stiffly straightened my legs and rolled from the couch. "If you haven't got green skin or a black ballet-outfit, come in and claim me. The screen's unlocked." Keith let the screen slam behind him; he knew the folks were gone and I wouldn't say anything. Both his cheeks were red, and he sniffled; he'd zipped his hooded sweatshirt up all the way. The kid guarded a big, crumpled green sack under his left arm, pressing it against his ribs. "Goddang, it's more like March out there! I thought that wind would annihilate me before I got back." I pronounced it "an-hill-ee-ate" when I was his age. "Weatherman told us last month that June'd be cool, breezy, and damp." Keith looked at the floor, a sad expression in his eyes. "It's only been warm enough to go swimming twice since school let out." "Don't worry. We'll have a summer." Keith laid the sack on the carpet and threw his sweatshirt onto the couch. "How can you stand it in here with, uh, yon portal ajar?" "I was sitting there, Spi-ro T. I'm a masochist, I guess. Have to be to live with you for a summer." I lit up an Old Gold and stuck the matchbook back in the coin pocket of my Lees. "You're funny, Kirb, but looks aren't everything," Sides, I need fresh air to counteract all the newsprint and ink from those 'illustrated fantasy publications* you pollute the house with." He plopped the big sack onto the overstuffed celery-colored chair. "No worse than the printing stuff you inhale at work—or those filter spins you suck on." "Touche, touch/." I pointed toward the sack. "Anyway, looks like you're blowing your money again. You read too many of those comics and you'll turn into a sex-offender and have nothing but buck-and-a-quarter- an-hour jobs the rest of your life." I turned away so he wouldn't see me holding back the laugh. I felt some sort of family duty to chew on Keith about what a danger and all it was to feed his mind junk and not deal with reality. "We studied in my Effects of Mass Media class about kids your age who'd gotten themselves messed up from movies and pop lit." "I told you before I left, the end-of-the-month batch doesn't come in till Friday, Monday, maybe. I got really important stuff in here. Besides, what if there are comics in the sack—didn't I go right from the bottle to Superman reruns?" Superman. Reeves. I headed for the kitchen, Keith trailing me. "Speaking of food, is there any pork 'n' beans left in ice-a-box? I gotta eat and get to work." The kitchen was dark and cozy, the linoleum smooth and cool on the bare soles of my feet. June '59. Suicide. "I do'no. Hey, heat me up one of them Canadian bacon sandwiches. You know, on an English muffin, with a round cheese-slice." I already had my head deep inside the fridge. "Flake off. Fix it yourself." "I'm not sure how Mom does it." I grabbed a plate from the cupboard and started slicing some leftover salmon-loaf. "Some super-dick you'd make—can't even fix your own C.B. and cheese sandwich." I inhaled a deep one from ray O.G. "Can I get you some bread for that, Kirby?" "Yeah," I said, getting rid of some ashes in the sink. "And some butter and mustard, if you don't mind." I ate standing at the counter, plate and ashtray and cup of milk in front of me. "Seriously, Keith—the folks are gonna crack down if you don't snap out of this comic-book mania. Life to you is made up of heroes, gadgets, and word-balloons. Mom thinks you're getting mouthy and 'withdrawn,' to use her word. Dad says he might bring you to the city engineer's office with him in the mornings and keep you there all day." I swallowed a tangy mouthful and took a quick drag. Keith was looking down again, digging at his thumbnails with his index fingers. "Working with slide rules," he said softly, "figuring problems out. And filing boring papers, keeping tables dusted. They've told me, too. That's about the only time they say much to me anymore—when they wanna bark at me, I mean." I washed down a big bite with a gulp of milk. "You're exaggerating," "Not much," Something about the half-light of the kitchen didn't seem so cozy just then, "So what in the sack?" Keith looked up and almost smiled. The greenish gray of the kitchen had a friendly cast once more. "Items pertinent to my career, Kirb." I hadn't heard such an indomitable tone since I was younger than him. I inhaled another deep one, "Blackjacks and skeleton keys?" "You're sharp, college man, but even razor blades lose their edge." He assumed a histrionic voice and pose, announcing: "Within that sack ,,.