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Authors: William Kowalski
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company, that they were all having fun to gether.
❚ ❚ ❚
One day in 1859, a traveling salesman stopped into Adencourt for a glass of water. The Captain, rocking on the porch, saw him walking up the road; he hailed the yellow-haired man with a roar and the casual two-fingered salute that he’d adapted from his Army days, which had become his trademark. As it turned out, the man had seen some of the same western country the Captain had; they fell to talking about the vastness of the world, and lying frankly to each other about how well they were acquainted with it. The Captain appreciated a good liar, as long as he was honest about it; so the salesman, whose name was McNally, was invited to spend the night.
Noting the Captain’s physical discomfort at dinner, McNally
The Good Neighbor 55
alluded to the fact that he had a smattering of medical knowledge. The Captain allowed as how he wasn’t one to complain, but see ing that the gentleman was in the medical way, he might as well tell him about his various aches and pains, to see what might be done about them—he hadn’t had any luck with regular doctors. When the towheaded salesman left the next morning, it was with a full belly and a brand-new pair of shoes. In exchange, he’d left behind six bottles of McNally’s Special Oriental Health Tonic, which was approximately 80 percent alcohol, 19 percent water, and 1 percent opium.
The stuff was the answer to the Captain’s prayers. It eased his la bored breathing and it allowed him to sleep the whole night through for the first time in years. He was not a drinking man, but since he didn’t know what was in McNally’s Tonic, that didn’t matter. The salesman had assured him that it was a secret mixture of herbs known only to a few Eastern wise men, with whom he, McNally, had entered into an exclusive agreement during his world travels. He would be passing by this way again in several weeks; he would be happy to stop in on the Captain and replenish his supply of the tonic, though next time, being a man of business, he would have to charge him full price. Surely the Captain would understand. A few weeks passed. After noticing that the tonic had become less effective, the Captain began to up his dosage. He went from one tablespoon in the evenings to two, and added one in the after noons. Soon he stopped using the spoon and started using a glass. By the time he’d emptied three bottles, he was back to being an insomniac, only this time he suffered from cold sweats, paranoia, and headaches that threatened to rip him down the middle. He sometimes fancied that all the men he’d ever killed were standing in a circle around his house, waiting—Indian and Mexican side by side, united in their wish to gather him unto their cold and ragged bosoms. His old pain was gone, but it had been replaced by a creeping sense of doom, plus a horrible, empty feeling that the Captain had no name for, but one that consumed him all the
56 W ILLIAM K OWALSKI
same: addiction. He didn’t want to drink any more of McNally’s tonic, but he was afraid to stop. He forced himself to drink it even when he didn’t feel like it, in order to stave off the inevitable shakes and bouts of anxiety that came every few hours. By the time he had upended the last of the six bottles, the Captain had begun both to fear and pray for the reappearance of the salesman. Marly, now twenty-six years old, hardly knew what to think.
She hadn’t been to school beyond the age of twelve, and she knew nothing about the mysterious world of medicine. All she knew was that in a short time, her husband had become incapacitated, and the running of the farm was left to her. It was too much to handle. She took to keeping a loaded shotgun by the door, and a sharp eye out.
McNally showed up exactly when he said he would, no doubt already calculating the profits he would make from this easy sale. He was greeted at the door, where he stood with his hat in his hands, by
❚ ❚ ❚
One day in 1859, a traveling salesman stopped into Adencourt for a glass of water. The Captain, rocking on the porch, saw him walking up the road; he hailed the yellow-haired man with a roar and the casual two-fingered salute that he’d adapted from his Army days, which had become his trademark. As it turned out, the man had seen some of the same western country the Captain had; they fell to talking about the vastness of the world, and lying frankly to each other about how well they were acquainted with it. The Captain appreciated a good liar, as long as he was honest about it; so the salesman, whose name was McNally, was invited to spend the night.
Noting the Captain’s physical discomfort at dinner, McNally
The Good Neighbor 55
alluded to the fact that he had a smattering of medical knowledge. The Captain allowed as how he wasn’t one to complain, but see ing that the gentleman was in the medical way, he might as well tell him about his various aches and pains, to see what might be done about them—he hadn’t had any luck with regular doctors. When the towheaded salesman left the next morning, it was with a full belly and a brand-new pair of shoes. In exchange, he’d left behind six bottles of McNally’s Special Oriental Health Tonic, which was approximately 80 percent alcohol, 19 percent water, and 1 percent opium.
The stuff was the answer to the Captain’s prayers. It eased his la bored breathing and it allowed him to sleep the whole night through for the first time in years. He was not a drinking man, but since he didn’t know what was in McNally’s Tonic, that didn’t matter. The salesman had assured him that it was a secret mixture of herbs known only to a few Eastern wise men, with whom he, McNally, had entered into an exclusive agreement during his world travels. He would be passing by this way again in several weeks; he would be happy to stop in on the Captain and replenish his supply of the tonic, though next time, being a man of business, he would have to charge him full price. Surely the Captain would understand. A few weeks passed. After noticing that the tonic had become less effective, the Captain began to up his dosage. He went from one tablespoon in the evenings to two, and added one in the after noons. Soon he stopped using the spoon and started using a glass. By the time he’d emptied three bottles, he was back to being an insomniac, only this time he suffered from cold sweats, paranoia, and headaches that threatened to rip him down the middle. He sometimes fancied that all the men he’d ever killed were standing in a circle around his house, waiting—Indian and Mexican side by side, united in their wish to gather him unto their cold and ragged bosoms. His old pain was gone, but it had been replaced by a creeping sense of doom, plus a horrible, empty feeling that the Captain had no name for, but one that consumed him all the
56 W ILLIAM K OWALSKI
same: addiction. He didn’t want to drink any more of McNally’s tonic, but he was afraid to stop. He forced himself to drink it even when he didn’t feel like it, in order to stave off the inevitable shakes and bouts of anxiety that came every few hours. By the time he had upended the last of the six bottles, the Captain had begun both to fear and pray for the reappearance of the salesman. Marly, now twenty-six years old, hardly knew what to think.
She hadn’t been to school beyond the age of twelve, and she knew nothing about the mysterious world of medicine. All she knew was that in a short time, her husband had become incapacitated, and the running of the farm was left to her. It was too much to handle. She took to keeping a loaded shotgun by the door, and a sharp eye out.
McNally showed up exactly when he said he would, no doubt already calculating the profits he would make from this easy sale. He was greeted at the door, where he stood with his hat in his hands, by
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