back, I’ve hardly done this. Despite Mom’s efforts to reconcile Dad and me, most of my time has been spent helping her do household chores, while my main method of assistance has been paying for professional sitters and taking care of errands outside the house so that she can remain at his side. To see Dad sitting motionless like this is a new and disquieting experience.
In the silent den, I get up and walk along the shelves of the built-in entertainment center, perusing the spines of the book overflow from his study. Propped on one shelf is a photo of Dad and Hazel Brannon Smith, publisher of the Lexington Advertiser, in the newsroom of the Watchman. Another shelf contains personally inscribed volumes, an alphabetical treasure trove comprising a who’s who of twentieth-century journalism: Agee, Arendt, James Baldwin . . . Jimmy Breslin, Bob Capa, Rachel Carson, Cronkite, Walker Evans, Martha Gellhorn . . . Halberstam, Hersey, Sy Hersh, Langston Hughes, Stanley Karnow, Walter Lippmann . . . Murrow, Gordon Parks, Eric Sevareid, Bill Shirer, I. F. Stone, Curtis Wilkie. Some of these writers were friends of my father’s, others mentors. A few simply admired his stand during the civil rights movement so much that they sent him their own work with a thoughtful inscription.
As I walk along the shelf, tapping the spines with my fingers, I find myself recalling some of his fiery editorials from the 1960s. My father’s voice on the page was reminiscent of the one Ted Sorensen gave John Kennedy in his greatest speeches. In his prime, Duncan McEwan could summon power and moral authority from sentences in a way that still eludes me after decades of writing.
“You can’t let them silence you,” says a faint voice.
I whirl from the shelves and see that my mother is as startled as I am.
“Duncan?” she says, rubbing his arm. “Are you all right?”
“Do you have more to print?” Dad asks, not quite focusing on me. “More on those Poker Club bastards?”
I walk back and sit in the dining chair I pulled up next to his two hours ago. “I’ve got a photo of Beau Holland at the murder scene. And I’m sitting on some data Sally Matheson put together that could hit them pretty hard. There’s a lead in there that could hole them under the waterline. If I print, it might just inspire my source to send me even more damning evidence. But we’ll pay a price. A heavy one. War with the Poker Club means casualties.”
Dad’s hand shoots out and grips my wrist. Then his head tilts so that he’s staring at me from the corner of his eye. “Get it out there!” he croaks. “I let those guys have their way for too long. Buckman and Donnelly and the rest. You can’t let them shut us down.”
Dad never speaks of “us” when discussing the Watchman. Not since I was a boy, anyway. He’s always treated my running the paper as a temporary stewardship until he can get back on his feet. The obligation of a son to his father. Mom is clearly shocked by the intensity of his words, but she nods at me, which I take to mean that I should engage him in conversation, despite the risk of upsetting him further.
“I know how you feel, Dad. But they own the paper now. They’ve won, at least in the material sense.”
“No, no, no, no,” he drones. “That’s a battle, not the war. Find a way.”
“A way to what?”
“Print.”
I haven’t even considered trying to print anything. “I was thinking of posting a story to the web,” I tell him, “just under my own name. If I use our existing social media accounts, they’ll probably sue—”
“Screw ’em!” Dad shakes his head violently. “That’s not good enough! This town’s full of old people, poor people with no internet. You’ve got to give them what they’re used to. A newspaper.”
“Dad—”
He points a rigid arm at the framed copy of the first Bienville Watchman, which I leaned against the wall after showing him I had salvaged at least that. “You’ve gotta get it into the machines,” he goes on. “The truck stop, the gas stations, the supermarkets. Not everybody gets their news off the goddamn computer.”
“I understand. But we don’t have access to a press anymore. I suppose we could contract with a paper in a nearby town. Somebody might be willing to run off a daily for us, if we throw a little money their way. But not under