“Quit staring,” she hissed finally.
Their father, from the pulpit, spoke frightening words about damnation. For most of Harold’s life, he had seemed like God: the decisiveness with which he cast behaviors and emotions into the categories of good and evil; the authority he bore naturally and gracefully, like a mantel over his impressive shoulders; the knack he had for knowing when anyone was lying. He bragged about this final quality; he was proud of it. “I’m everywhere,” he said to his children. “I know everything.” And it was also what he said about God.
There was no library in their town. The nearest one was in Olathe, and sometimes when Mr. Macklin had to go there to visit a friend on a Saturday, he let Harold ride along beside him. He dropped Harold off at the Carnegie building on North Chestnut Street, which offered a surprisingly complete collection of both fiction and reference books. There, Harold spent long hours reading what he could find—including, at one point, the eleventh edition of the Encyclop?dia Brittanica, from start to finish (except for Volume 12, Gichtel–Harmonium, which was missing, and therefore acquired added intrigue in Harold’s mind; he felt certain that he was being deprived of the most important secrets of the whole endeavor).
The Saturday following his sister’s announcement, he sought out Mr. Macklin, who, by chance, was heading into town, and when he got to the library he went directly to the reference section, and selected from it Volume 22, and searched it for Pregnancy, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly and guiltily. But it yielded no results. Volume 3, however, contained within it an entry on Birth, which Harold quickly skimmed for useful details, anything helpful he could bring back to Susan, like a Labrador with a stick. The best-case scenario, he imagined, would be if he could find her a solution that might make the pregnancy go away: just disappear, sort of. Unmanifest itself, just as it had manifested itself, mysteriously, darkly, a curse that had befallen his sister. It did not seem to him that a child could be inside her: this was too much of an abstraction, to Harold. He couldn’t imagine it. In fact, it made him envious: he didn’t like the thought of Susan loving anything more than him.
The encyclopedia, unfortunately, was not helpful. Mainly, it discussed the legal aspects of childbirth within the context of British jurisprudence. Unhelpful, Harold decided. Volume 23 was slightly more helpful, for within it was Reproduction (a word that Harold knew was vaguely connected to the situation Susan had found herself in, though he could not remember how he had learned this). There were one or two things he thought might be useful, and he wrote down notes on a little scrap of paper he had gotten from the librarian, in a code he had invented for himself several years before. He would bring it to Susan, and explain to her what he’d learned. But it wasn’t much: in general the language was so technical, so scientific, that he could not connect it to his sister Susan, who was vivid, pained, human. All week she had been wandering to school and back like a ghost. Their father had slapped her the night before, hard, for not listening: but Harold knew that she had only been distracted, not intentionally disobedient.
“Harold,” his mother had murmured—his father’s name was Harold, too—but that was all she said.
Susan did not put a hand to her face. She did not alter her expression. Instead, there was an odd, forbidding calm about her, as if she had suddenly made up her mind about something.
He rode home with Mr. Macklin, who was a kind and entirely silent person and the owner of one of the few automobiles in their little town, which made him impressive. He had reached the rank of commander in the U.S. Navy during the First World War, thus lending him an authority that surpassed the authority of anyone else in the town. He also attended the church over which Harold’s father presided, which was the only reason Harold was allowed to go with him when he was invited. In their small town, Harold was recognized as intelligent—someone who might be going places. This recognition meant, in his father’s mind, that Harold had sinned. He was too proud, he told Harold often. Not humble enough. But he respected Mr. Macklin (and also, perhaps, Mr. Macklin’s donations to the church), so when Harold was invited along, he was allowed to go.
“Just make sure you’re not a nuisance,” said his father, each time Mr. Macklin picked him up. Therefore, on their drives together, Harold did not speak, but instead wondered what Mr. Macklin thought about in all that silence. He wondered whether Mr. Macklin—whether any member of the congregation—had an idea of the dual nature of his father, the Reverend Canady: the darkness of him that emerged at home, at night, or sometimes in the late afternoon. Could Mr. Macklin, could anyone in the pews on Sundays, imagine the sheer searing terror of being chased by an adult? Had they been chased by their fathers? Had they been beaten? Yes, Harold told himself; yes, this was a part of childhood. He had heard his friends at school talking about it resignedly, almost bragging about beatings they had gotten. Yet he felt—he knew—that what he received was different. And so he never joined in.
When they returned, he thanked Mr. Macklin politely, descended from the vehicle, and walked toward the house. He felt in his pocket for the scrap of paper. Because it was in code, he would have to read it to Susan; he looked forward to it. It would make him feel needed, important. Perhaps she would thank him.
But he knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the house. It was 6:00 in the afternoon, and his mother was out, and his father was home, sitting at the table, looking dangerous.
Harold’s first instinct was to retreat to his bedroom, but he had caught the gaze of his father, and there was no leaving without words. His father measured him.
“Where’s your sister?” he said lowly.
“I don’t know,” said Harold.
“Speak up,” said his father.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Harold.
“I think you do,” said his father.
Harold was silent. He waited.
“Your mother’s out looking for her,” said his father. “She was supposed to be back here three hours ago to finish her chores.”
He stood up abruptly from behind the table, and Harold’s muscles tightened reflexively. He made himself smaller and firmer. He looked at the floor.
“You’ll do them instead, I guess,” said his father.