1

An automobile accident involving a 1925 Packard Coupe and a runaway train (See also my father’s and grandfather’s deaths) ended with the usual sensationalised, hysterical phone call to our home, though it was hardly usual in its intention. We were always alerted first, before the police station, because of my father’s and grandfather’s position as the town’s only newspapermen: also publishers of novelty greeting cards, children’s encyclopedias, and producers of decorative wrapping paper. I heard my mother’s sudden prayers downstairs, and decided, from the number of stilted breaths and the length of her sobs, that at least two innocent people had been killed. Before I knew the truth of what had occurred, I was out the bedroom window, down the long-limbed, white oak tree, following the sounds of sirens, arriving by bicycle at the scene. With my Brownie camera, I began snapping photos. I was nineteen. I had inherited my father’s and grandfather’s joyous sense of adventure. Also their impressive height.

On Longwood Street, near the tracks, I snapped a photograph of a silver hubcap like a discarded halo, still spinning. Another photo of a train car crumpled like an accordion. Another of three pigs, a cow, and two ponies, resting magically in the arms of several maple trees, having been catapulted there by the impact. And yet I found out the rest soon enough. There was my father’s black Holbrook coupe, a two-seater, once elegant and rectangular, now oddly-rounded, overly-compacted. Heinrich Klaus and Ignatz Klaus, my grandfather and father, partners in the print business, had both been sent from the front seat through the windshield like two dark-suited skyrockets, one father and one son, leaving only their black three-holed loafers, both size 9, same wingtip style—Ruben was the make, as were mine—both pairs of shoes resting within the demolished cabin of the vehicle, like two faceless monuments side by side, garishly smoking.

At once my heart broke open like a plundered vault, not only with grief, but with guilt, for the last words I had spoken to my father, earlier that morning. Hypnotised by the whine of sirens and my own regret, I broke the first rule of professional reportage and lifted my father’s and grandfather’s shoes out of the auto, hiding them under my arm. As I finished my tour of photograph-taking, carrying the steaming shoes with me, scribbling notes, I made a vow that I would do all I could to please them both, my expired father and grandfather, to make them as proud as any two dead men had been ever been proud.

2

I had called my father small. Not in reference to his height but in regards to the manner in which he operated his business, and worse, in my opinion, the way in which he lived his life: the size of his home, his drab clothing, and his cowardly ideas about newspaper reporting. Though tall and wiry like an electric street lamp, he was meek, never squandering a cent for anything he considered “showy”, other than the spirited coupe which he had bought to inspire a sense of prosperity in his newspaper. As a matter of practice, he worked with one light bulb in his drafty office, a nub of pencil propped in the grip of his hand. The morning of his death, we had argued over his rejection of a “showy” photograph of mine, a photograph that depicted Avery Anders, daughter of that neighbourhood amateur beekeeper, Mr. Anders, the girl dressed in a tasteful blue polka-dot bikini, beekeeper mask covering her powder-white face, a sparkling necklace of bees buzzing about her like an unnamed galaxy. Brilliantly, I had titled the photograph Honey for a Honey, and my father had torn it right down the middle, without a single sound, just blinking his great drab eyes at me.

“This! This is what sells newspapers!” I had shouted, and then the words, which when spoken, had penetrated the man without a visible change but were nonetheless momentous for their occasion. “Do you want to be small all your life?”

3

As mentioned, I was nineteen. I lived in the small town named Okawalla, located in a nondescript part of northern Illinois, close to the Desplaines River. Climate: Mild. Economy: Middling. Industry: Two factories: Brillman Cleaning Pads and Handley Novelties, which produced among other things, sneezing powder and green baby dolls that spit.

As a boy, I had studied the practice of newspaper photography under my father’s and grandfather’s tutelage. I would ride my bicycle to their office each day after school and would watch as they worked, both of them silent: my father at his desk, tugging grimly on his bare chin, my grandfather, a pipe always placed in his jaws, nodding with a slight insistence. It seemed one word was enough between them. “Headline,” one would mutter. “Yes,” the other would respond. “The boy here,” one would say, winking in my direction. “Taller than yesterday,” would come the other.

I was only allowed to participate during the typesetting. I held a large cardboard box full of inky letters and raffled through for the appropriate ones as they were called out by my grandfather. Also, it was my duty to feed the two guard dogs, Zygmunt and Ana, brother and sister German shepherds my grandfather had bought from a travelling circus, dogs who would stand on their hind legs and hop about in circles if they were hungry. One Saturday, some months before my father’s and grandfather’s deaths, I came into the offices alone and found the window had been broken, the typewriters had been stolen, and both animals had been poisoned. It was a portent perhaps, as if two family members, two of my closest friends, had been murdered at the same time on the very same day, a portent I would consider a short time later, staring at the smoking shoes of my father and grandfather.

Other than my father and grandfather, I had no friends to speak of, no living relatives other than my mother, who after my father’s and grandfather’s deaths had given up her post as nurse at the elementary school and had begun the laborious task of going through her husband’s and father-in-law’s belongings. She began to categorise and label each thing left in the house alphabetically. My father had left behind an inordinate number of hats: fedoras, beanies, fezs, caps, bowlers, he enjoyed headwear immensely. In these hats, perhaps he found a degree of character. On one occasion, after his death, I came home to find my mother had rearranged the dining room, emptied of furniture, now a museum of my father’s enormous hat collection, each one dated, labelled, and posted alphabetically along the walls from left to right, two beanies, bowler, a dodgy cap, three fedoras, a fez, a sailing captain’s royal hat. On another occasion, I found my mother up in her bedroom crying, muttering to herself, “Order, order, there must be order somewhere,” befuddled by my grandfather’s closet and his inexplicable habit of throwing away the right shoe when a pair was worn thin, while keeping the left shoe for posterity. The sight of a box full of only left shoes, all worn to the heel, kept my mother in bed for over a week, sobbing.

Other than watching my mother cry, I would divide my time between oiling my bicycle and staring at the shopgirl at Binkel’s Bakery, a blonde girl who I believed was a Pole, but who never uttered a sound out loud, which was what made her so endearing. One time the shopgirl had silently offered me the last jelly kolachy; I simply refused, smiling, muttering that perhaps “Someone else might really want it, so no, no but thank you then.” She blinked her blue eyes and waited for me to make up my mind, which I did in time, before I realised I had brought no money.

And I took photographs for my father’s newspaper, the Plain Dealer, which was now stonily grey and silent. In my father’s absence, a number of well-trained clerks, led by my father’s secretary Barbara, who preferred to be called Babe, were handling things. In her charge, a disinteresting thin broadside was printed biweekly, mostly advertisements and job offerings, the colourless sight of which made me feel I had failed in my great vow and which, in the end, led me to try my hand at the newspaper business.

4

I circled the town every afternoon on my bicycle, my Brownie and notepad safe in the wire basket, and plumb the shadows of our small burg for sensational stories. When nothing sensational could be found, I began inventing headlines, such as “Tallest Man alive Moves to Town!” in which I took a photo of a travelling salesmen named Lorne Davies from a low angle along the ground. Other sensational stories, such as “Giant Squid Spotted in Desplaines River!” and “Strange Singing Hatchet attacks Oakville Man in his Shack!” left our circulation numbers low, uninspired, and unworthy of popular attention.

In my youthfulness and cupidity, I would circle the town on a schedule, sure to arrive directly in front of Binkel’s Bakery by three. Purporting to appear busy, I would nod to the fair shopgirl and stop at the corner, remaining within her eyesight entirely, snap some photographs, take down some notes, check my watch to show just how busy I was, then start off again, completing my circuit down by the park. I would set my bicycle down in the deep, soft grass by the only crabapple tree, lie down beside it, folding my arms behind my head, and dream up the next edition’s headline, something like “Woman with Horn on Her Head found living in Junk Yard” or “Arabian Pony Yields Advice for Unsteady Economy”.

5

And yet, I had called my father small. This thought I could not, no matter how hard I tried, dismiss. At night, alone in bed, or during the full face of day, atop my bicycle, the words would repeat themselves like a great dirge over and over. I would hear them as I circled for interesting shots daily life. I would hear them as I manufactured stories. The crabapple tree seemed to shake its branches with the guilt of it all. I had called my father small and I could not take it back.

6

Under my direction, then and soon enough, my father’s business concerns failed. The Happy-Time Greeting Card line; Holiday Wishes, a catalog of decorative and seasonal wrapping paper; and finally my father’s and grandfather’s newspaper, the Plain Dealer, all folded one by one under my management. I was an amateur photographer, not a man of business. All that was left was the World’s Illustrated History, an abridged picture encyclopedia for children, and the only remaining staff within the warehouse offices of Klaus and Son was Babe, a blonde, diminutive spitfire, staff reporter, secretary, and typist by trade.

“Boy-o,” Babe said, sitting on the corner of my father’s massive wooden desk. “Looks like it’s about time you folded up shop here, huh?”

“There’s still the children’s encyclopedia,” I said. “When that is gone, and only then, will I admit defeat at this.”

“Defeat? You’ve been whupped, kid-o. Why not get out now before this place finishes you off?”

Babe was wearing a small shiny white hat with a small shiny white veil, a charming blue suit, and white nylons that covered her short, decorous legs. She had a habit of smoking cigarettes and chewing gum at the same time and I could watch her mouth for hours like that, smoke, chew, smoke, chew, and wonder at the odd music, in my brain, which she was inspiring.

“Well, how you gonna do this children’s encyclopedia all by yourself?” she asked, jabbing a finger at me.

“Babe, fear not,” I said. “I have an idea. An idea that will restore pride and dignity to name Klaus within the world of modern-day publishing.”

“You have an idea?” she said, rolling her eyes. “What Cracker-Jack box gave it to you?”

The idea I had was this: inspired by the gruesome tragedy of my father’s and grandfather’s deaths, I had decided that all the terrible things in the history of the world would be omitted from the children’s encyclopedia—that the horrible events, the monstrous villains, the uncanny plights, would be simply eradicated, and instead, there would be nothing but the cheeriest, the happiest of historical moments, and if it seemed impossible to do, being that some events might be too important to omit, then they would be softened and printed with charming drawings. Of course the world was a gloom-stricken and bankrupt place. Any fool could see that. But what children most needed was hope, lightness, a sense of prosperity. I was certain that this, this improved edition, was going to be my greatest achievement yet.

7

As editor, then, I perused the last edition of the child’s encyclopedia, printed three years prior, gauging the events essential to a child’s understanding of the world. As I read, I took note of what chapters, drawings, and notions would have to be appended, a list of which follows directly:

1. The Cro-Magnon People Advanced Rapidly, Developing Tools and Weapons—Here a drawing of a caveman wielding a club, braining a helpless sabretooth tiger could be easily changed to the caveman gently offering the creature a bouquet.

2. Egyptian Society was Organised by Class—Here the artist’s depiction of hapless slaves toiling beneath the pyramid’s massive stone slabs, goaded on by angry-looking nobles and high priests wielding curlicue whips could, without much difference, be transformed to a kind of fete, an Egyptian party, the whips becoming white Spring ribbons.

3. A Greek Warrior is shown with his Sword and Shield—Perhaps the sword and shield could be changed into an enormous knife and fork?

4. The Colosseum, opened in A.D. 80, was the site of Great Spectacles staged for the Roman Public—Again, instead of beheaded gladiators and ferocious lions, the scene could be made into an open-air zoo.

5. Empress Theodora Calls for Courage During the Riots of Constantinople—A multi-hued riot could, without much difference, be transformed to a charming Christmas scene by simply turning the rioters’ mouths into smiles and adding a decorated tree.

6. Vassals Pledged Loyalty and Service to their Lords—A depiction of serfs tediously, sadly, preparing wine. With a few strokes of a pen, all are now happily drunk.

7. The Aztec Civilisation was Rooted in War—Angry Aztec warriors no more. With some notes, an adjustment, spears become fantastic tools for stirring a creamy vat of tapioca pudding.

8. Galileo is Punished for Claiming the Earth revolves around The Sun—Why would children need to know this, I wondered? I decided to strike this entire moment from the book.

9. A Reign of Terror Seized France—could be changed to A Reign of Dance Seized France.

10. Revolution Brought Democracy to America—More soldiers? This time however, completely redone as they smile and battle out their differences in a game of croquet.

Also there were many events which had to be eliminated, but completely. The American Civil War was too embarrassing to even begin to dissect in a single page. The World War itself was much too complex. Figures like Benedict Arnold, Brutus, even President Lincoln, would not be included, for their involvement in unpleasant historical scenes.

Once finished with my keen editing, I submitted my new ideas to the artist, forgoing Babe’s misbegotten advice that what I was doing was “bonkers.” Soon enough, the edition would be ready for print. I waited, quietly, passionately riding my bicycle about town, ready for the kudos I was certain I would receive. I felt as though I was truly at the beginning of something momentous, an important event within the dateline of my own private history.

8

In my after-work hours, I continued my pursuit of the Polish shopgirl, taking her silence as an open invitation to conversation whenever the chance availed itself.

“It is hot today,” I mumbled once, another time, “Today is Wednesday, is it not?” both of which she replied with a healthy, blonde nod. I understood her gesture as a telltale sign that a kind of attraction was rising between us like the angel food cake she was so used to handling. I pledged that if The World’s Illustrated History was a success, I would begin to court her immediately: walks in the park, tea with her parents, we could attend church together in the spring, after matters of concupiscence were properly decided beneath the shady crabapple tree.

9

The World’s Illustrated History was ready to be sent for printing. In only a few weeks, it would be delivered to schoolchildren throughout our town, state, and nation, and mothers and fathers and teachers and school administrators and children, yes, even children would graciously thank me. “Thank you, for your brilliant ideas,” they would clamor. “Thank you for your courage of spirit.”

As was my father’s tradition, I reserved the first proof for my mother and presented it to her with a half-bow at the foot of our sofa. Looking at it, reading through it, she nodded several times and then placed the encyclopedia in her lap. She turned to me with eyes as soft as a baby bluebird’s and cooed, “If my own life were only as lovely.” Just then the clock chimed, and she began her four o’clock crying, at which time I decided it would be best to take my leave.

Full of vigour, vim, pep, and pride, I leapt atop my bicycle. Now certain of the brilliance of my idea, practically guaranteed by my mother’s thoughtful acceptance, I pedalled as quick as I could towards the bakery to let my romantic intentions towards the Polish girl be known publicly. I would ask her name and invite her to the Founder’s Day Dance, scheduled for the following Sunday afternoon, our love cementing during the three-legged race. As I crossed Leavitt Street then Main, I saw my darling shopgirl, beatific in her blue bakery outfit, scarf and apron still on, walking under the eaves of blossoming apple-sized buds. She was hand in hand with William Porter, a jaunty travelling salesman who had taken up in town, selling “miracle” scratch-proof pots and pans, his waxed mustache a tool for whittling the hearts and pocketbooks of our town’s more weak-willed ladies. William was gently holding her hand as they strolled in a photograph snapped in that moment by my mind, forever to be titled “Young Love Takes Bloom”, the two of them laughing, dreaming along the lane. I nearly fell off my bicycle. I followed them from a distance, riding about in figure eights from behind, shocked at her laughter, the sound of it like nothing I had imagined, or bothered to imagine, cheery, high-pitched, like a twinkling of chimes. I heard it again and again as they stopped before the windows of the candy shop or waved at passing automobiles. Soon they made their way to the park, over the hill, and found some shade beneath my crabapple tree.

In a daze of delirium then, I changed direction with my bicycle, wobbly, unsure. The sight of the two of them, William Porter, the wolf, the drummer, gently handling the hand of my love, glowed again in my mind with a wicked flashbulb’s snap. I did not look where I was going. I heard a horrible clatter accompanied by an ear-trembling screech. Immediately, I felt the front end of a bumper swing up hard against the front tire of my bicycle and then for one brief period of time, I was flying.

In the air, unencumbered by the physical needs of breath and height and weight, I felt my two shoes fly from feet. That I would be sent up to the pearly entrance of Heaven seemed like a reasonable possibility. Perhaps my father and grandfather, also shoeless, would be leaning against the gates, silent, interested, smoking, quietly nodding to each other as they waited there for me. Before I could consider other improbable spiritualist notions, I felt my head strike the pavement and my jaw slam shut and then the profundity of all my life’s events, the tragedies and victories thus far, came into complete concert, flashing before me.

“Look out, kid! What are you, crazy?” a man shouted from behind the wheel of a Ford. I stumbled to my feet, my heart pounding, my teeth chattering. The man honked the automobile’s horn then drove off, still pointing an accusing finger.

I looked around and noticed I was standing in my stocking feet. Other than having lost my shoes, I had survived the accident nearly unscathed. My bicycle was, however, useless. The front wheel had lost its circular shape, while the frame itself was now completely concave. Sighing, I glanced over and saw, lying directly in the middle of the street, my shoes, looking like two orphans abandoned to their fate. Staring down at them, the shoes lying beside each other so grimly, I began to think of my father and grandfather in the final, silent moments before their accident, and I came to a kind of understanding of where I had gone wrong with everything: The quiet lesson of history is in tragedy, which in the end leads to our greatest achievements. Yes. Yes. There is a necessity even with tragedy. Until that moment, I had truly taken nothing from my father’s and grandfather’s deaths. I had gone on in my own childish ways, and now, with a scrape on my chin and a broken bicycle, perhaps I might be able to learn something. “I… I have made history meaningless,” I suddenly exclaimed to myself.

10

On the other hand, I was better for it. Or perhaps I was better for it.

“What now, think tank?” Babe boomed. I sat in my father’s office, head down upon his desk, feeling like a shipwrecked sailor, as though I had been lashed on the rocks and the only sound was the mocking chatter of Babe’s salty laugh.

“Now we fold up, I guess.” I sighed, looking around at the near empty office. What would become of us, this town, my mother, Babe and me, without my father and grandfather to record our fortunes? I thought and thought but did not know the answer. “Perhaps it’s better to just call it quits,” I mumbled glumly.

“Quit? I don’t believe I just heard that. Why your father and grandfather didn’t raise a quitter. How much time do you got before the encyclopedia’s supposed to go to press?” Babe asked, chomping at her gum.

“I have until tomorrow morning,” I whispered. “But it’s too late now. It’s… completely ruined, and there’s no way for me to undo what I’ve done.”

Babe blew a large pink bubble and squinted at me, then asked, “Do you want some help putting all the sad stuff back in there? Or would you rather sit here feeling sorry for yourself?”

“I guess we could start with the Romans,” I whispered and there, inspired by my father’s austerity, settling down to work, I switched on the one-bulb lamp.