Max the Mighty

“Okay, maybe I am a little weird, but if you really think about it everybody is weird.”

Max ponders an important principle of life: Perhaps it’s not what others think of you but what you think of yourself that counts. In the story, Max’s journey involves a battle between the side of him that doubts himself and the side that yearns to use his strengths to help others in important ways.

“I like to stare at the way the sun glitters on the water, these jagged bits of light that float like diamonds or something, and if you look at it long enough you feel sort of hypnotized. Like somebody has cast a spell and when you wake up the world will be changed into a better place.”

The beauty of the day filters into Max’s mind, calming it and helping him forget his sorrows. A big kid with a sensitive soul, Max can’t help but enjoy the hypnotizing effects of the simple wonders of the world. His mind delves deeper into things than he realizes.

“[T]he Undertaker is always spouting about punishing sinners, and how only he knows what is true, the Truth with a capital ‘T.’ What a load of baloney. A man who’d do that to his own family, treat them like dirtballs, he wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the butt.”

Max understands at once that Rachel and her mother’s problems can be summed up in one person, the Undertaker, whose intolerant anger likely takes the form of physical as well as verbal abuse toward his family. Max doesn’t want trouble, but it irks him that such a person can get away with cruelty, and he feels compelled to try to stop it.

“And then smack comes the noise of a hand slapping hard against a face and then the sound of a woman sobbing. ‘This can’t go on,’ the woman whimpers. ‘Martin, please stop. Don’t do it, please.’ ‘Quit your blubbering!’ But the woman keeps crying. Crying from deep inside, like her world has cracked open and all the good is leaking out. It’s a sound I remember from a long, long time ago, when my father made my own mother cry, and that’s why my feet won’t let me run away.”

Max can’t bear to hear once again the sound of the same kind of cruelty that ended in his mother’s death at the hands of his father. The Undertaker’s violence is ongoing; such behavior gets worse and can end in the death of the spouse. Max knows that Rachel also is in danger.

“Worm is sitting in a corner with her knees up, in the dark. She’s got the old miner’s helmet on her head and the light is aimed at this book she’s reading. She knows I’m there but she won’t look at me. She’s all shut up inside. When I get my mouth working, it says, ‘Come on. You have to get out of here. We have to call the police.’ Worm just keeps reading her book like the book will save her. Like her stepfather can’t touch her as long as her miner’s light is shining.”

The Undertaker, Rachel’s stepfather, physically and emotionally abuses Rachel and her mother. He has just knocked out her mother and is trying to get to her when Max intervenes. Like so many people who are systematically abused, Rachel performs a ritual that disconnects her from the trauma. The Undertaker’s rage is becoming lethal, so Max simply picks her up and removes her from the danger.

“There’s a row of thick hedges that runs close to one side of the house, between our yard and the neighbors. I used to hide in there when I was little—after my mom died, but before Kevin moved next door. I’d hide myself in the hedges and pretend I was far away inside the forest where it was green and cool and the good smell of leaves and earth made me feel safe. Grim and Gram knew about the secret hedge place, but they never let on.”

Like Rachel, who hides from the Undertaker’s violence by burying her nose in a book and pretending the terror isn’t happening, Max used to crawl under bushes to hide from the reality that his mother was murdered by his father. He and Rachel thus share the trauma of being harmed by their own caretakers. It’s a dark bond, but at least they can share their painful knowledge with someone who fully understands it.

“‘You got a book in there, right?’ I say, pointing at her backpack. ‘Go ahead and read it. Let me worry about getting a ride.’ It’s like she was waiting for permission. About two seconds later she’s got her nose in a book called A Wrinkle in Time. You’d think she was in a library instead of hanging around beside a highway. You can tell she’s really good at reading no matter where she is or what’s happening around her. There’s this look on her face like she’s not there at all, she’s gone wherever the book takes her.”

Years of practice at focusing on her reading help Rachel avoid the terrors of her unsafe world. She can shut out any distraction by opening a book. It’s a testament to the intensity of the trauma that the Undertaker inflicts on her, that she’d rather be almost anywhere than in the real world. She sacrifices friendships and is rejected by nearly everyone at school, but at least she doesn’t have to think about the horror of her home life.

“[I]n the old days when the settlers headed out West, some of them rigged sails on their wagons and let the wind blow them onto the prairies. Sailing through fields of green, green grass under a big blue sky and all their lives in front of them, until they found a place and made it home.”

Dip explains to Max the origin of his bus’s name, the Prairie Schooner. The story of the pioneers, who used sails to let nature send them where they would live, evokes the idea of opening oneself up to adventure and venturing toward new, and perhaps better, experiences.

“Worm keeps snoozing, so fast and deep asleep you could set off a cherry bomb and not wake her. I can tell she’s dreaming, because sometimes her feet will twitch like she’s running and her freckled face looks all squinted up and serious, and she’s hanging on to her book so hard it’d take a crowbar to pry it out of her hands. I got a pretty good idea what she’s dreaming about. That no-good lying creep she calls You Know Who.”

Rachel feels safe traveling in the Prairie Schooner bus. She can sleep and begin to recover from the stress of the last couple of days. Her mind processes the trauma; in dreams, she reenacts scenes, especially of her dramatic standoffs with her awful stepfather (whose nickname evokes that of the evil Voldemort in the Harry Potter series), and her brain begins to put those horrible experiences into perspective. Max is glad to see her rest; he’s beginning to bond with her as if he’s an older brother who worries about her well-being.

“I’m thinking there’s no place I’d rather be than right here with these people. Like we’re all sharing something none of us can talk about or it’ll disappear. Like we really are safe and nothing can touch us. Maybe Worm is right. Maybe there is magic in the world, if you think about it.”

As the Prairie Schooner rumbles down the highway, with Dip driving, Rachel reading, and the drifter-grifters Frank and Joanie along for the ride, Max reenters the world of happy fantasy that he once shared with Kevin. It’s a world Rachel enters every time she picks up one of the many novels she brought along to read. Every passenger on the bus is searching for a world beyond the one where their problems exist, a world where they can be happy, carefree, and not chased by personal demons or the police.

“There’s a place in Indiana where the cornfields look like a big green ocean. Everything is pretty flat except for these low, rolling hills, and when we come over the top you can see just about forever. All there is to see are miles and miles of green cornstalks, millions and millions of them. You can see the wind moving through the corn from miles away, and it looks like waves rolling in from far out at sea.”

During his cross-country trip aboard the Prairie Schooner, Max’s mind, released from the cramped world of his hometown, expands outward toward new possibilities. Miles of cornfields, waving gently in the sun, suggest a vast, open world filled with wonders, adventures, and new ideas. His escape from the trap of unfair cruelty becomes a journey into a much vaster world.

“‘I’m free as a bird,’ he says, ‘but that doesn’t mean I want to fly with the rest of the flock, if you know what I mean.’”

Dip no longer cares what others think of him. He understands that freedom is as much about being untied from other people’s judgments as it is about trying new things. Most humans seek out the cloistering safety of numbers; Dip lives within the deeper security of being able to adapt to whatever happens.

“[Kevin] showed me how remembering can be a great invention of the mind. He said you can’t forget the bad stuff because it’s part of who you are.”

The terrible things that have happened to both Max and Rachel are important to who they become. Running away from the truth causes people to do foolish things that get them into trouble, while remembering those traumas and coming to terms with them can help people become wiser and more able to cope with problems that arise in the future. It’s a painful process, but denying it, in the long run, is much worse.

“‘You know what? I bet this train goes forever. I bet it goes to the end of the world.’ All I can think to say is, ‘I dunno. I guess so.’ Which is a flat-out lie. Even a total bonehead like me knows the world is round and you can’t get to the end. You just keep going around and around and you never get there.”

Max struggles with his decision to save Rachel, a choice that puts him in the crosshairs of the authorities. Her optimism and unbridled faith in him make him squirm: He knows he’s not that good a person. He also knows that, no matter how far he runs, the Earth is a sphere, and he’ll end up back where he started. There’s no escaping himself.

“If you’re hungry enough, stale bread and beans taste better than birthday cake.”

Rachel and Max, riding the rails, share a meal with Hobo Joe. They’re beginning to understand that, with a bit of ingenuity and a big dose of toleration, people can survive almost anywhere. The Undertaker has no hold on Rachel if she no longer needs his roof over her head.

“It sounds strange, but staring out at the countryside really is better than watching TV, because you never know what you’re going to see next. Farms and barns and windmills. Tall silvery silos that look like spaceships ready to take off. Railroad bridges built from giant Erector sets. A herd of buffalo that look like cows with fur coats on. There’s even some purple mountains way off in the distance, just like in the song about America. Everything keeps moving. It never settles into one thing, it keeps moving and turning into something new.”

Max, sitting in a freight car, stares out at the passing scenery and drinks in its ever-changing wonders. It’s a simple thing, to watch the world from a train and feel the hypnotic pull of all the beauty and newness of it, views that are never the same from moment to moment. It’s good to know that there’s much more to the world than worries and fears, and that makes life worth getting up for in the morning and worth fighting for.

“‘You know what’s so cool about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table?’ Worm says to me. ‘It’s all about fighting for honor and protecting the innocent and never giving up even if the whole world is against you.’ I go, ‘Yeah, that’s pretty cool.’”

Rachel is thinking about her appointment with Chivalry, Montana, where her father somehow will save her from evil, but Max knows that the story also speaks to him, who has chosen to protect Rachel while she travels there. Max doesn’t really believe he’s a hero, but he keeps doing heroic things because he can’t stand to see people treat others the way his dad treated him and his mom. Max’s task becomes the sword he must pull from the stone of his own destiny.

“‘You think you’re the only one who ever read a book?’ She shrugs. ‘I didn’t say that.’ ‘No, but that’s what you’re thinking, right? Because I’m this big goofy-looking guy who doesn’t talk that much, I must be dumb.’ She goes, ‘I never said that.’ ‘No, but that’s what you’re thinking,’ I say. Then I shut up quick, because Worm looks like she’s going to cry. Which proves that I really am a big doughnut brain, even if I do know how to read.”

Despite learning from Kevin that he’s not stupid, Max still struggles with doubts about his intelligence. He feels defensive when Rachel seems surprised to learn that he’s an avid reader like her. His sharp words hurt her, and right away he regrets them. Max is learning the difference between being book-smart and being smart about life and people. That in itself is a good sign that he’s brighter than he gives himself credit for.

“‘All those kids who make fun of me and act like such jerks, they really feel sorry for me, right? But I’m the one who feels sorry for them. They’re the ones who don’t know about how Charlotte saved Wilbur. Or why Old Yeller had to die. Or how the boy saved the dog named Shiloh.’ Worm is so excited she’s punching her fist in the air and her eyes are blazing and her hair is so red and wild it looks like her head is on fire. […] It’s like there’s a whole other person living inside her that only comes out when she talks about books, and that person is so brave that nothing could scare her.”

Curled up within her bookish world, Rachel’s life is a lonely one, but she’s grateful for what reading gives to her, and she feels defiant and proud to live that way. It’s a manifesto for anyone who has ever felt rejected because they love to read. It’s also evidence that the printed word has a power that builds up inside readers and strengthens them with all the inspiration and wisdom and knowledge that great literature can offer.

“The real truth is, I still don’t believe in magic. But I’m starting to wonder if maybe magic believes in me.”

The world can be a confusing place, and Max just wants it all to make sense. When Rachel insists that magic lurks everywhere, and she conjures up something that appears magical—Max gets the last unbroken match to flame up, against all odds, and ignite a warming fire—he can’t quite convince himself that reality is always strictly logical. This opens up his mind to the possibility that he has seriously undervalued himself, and that he’s more capable of good things than he supposed.

“My brain is thinking, You better start acting smart, you big jerk, and it won’t let me sleep. It makes me count the stupid things I’ve done instead of counting sheep or whatever. I’m counting every stupid thing I ever said or did in school that made everybody laugh at me, and all the words I didn’t understand back then, and all the books I never read, and all the cool things I wish I’d said but didn’t, and all the time I wasted being mad at the world when I was really mad at me, and that day my pants fell down in gym class. […] All of it starts whirring around inside my brain, the really bad stupid stuff and the just plain stupid stuff and the who cares stupid stuff, until it feels like there’s an eggbeater inside my head turning my brain into scrambled eggs. Which makes me feel even more stupid.”

The negative, doubting side of Max’s mind goes into overdrive, trying to convince him that he’s being stupid and should just leave Rachel to her dad and run away. It’s what happens to a lot of people when they’re in big trouble and feel extremely stressed and at a loss. Without caring advice from good friends like Kevin or Dip or Joe, Max begins to wallow in regret and self-loathing. He sees himself only as a fool among humans. His heart and spirit, though, are bigger than that.

“I’m afraid. Afraid Worm is going to get hurt or killed and it’ll be my fault. Your fault? my brain says. Don’t be a bonehead. How could it be your fault? Because I made her think I’d keep her safe, and then I didn’t, that’s why. Because even though I said there was no such thing as Max the Mighty, I really thought there was, and it turned out to be a lie. But you didn’t mean to hurt her, my brain says. So what? It’s still my fault, I’m thinking. If you want to be a superhero, you have to get it right, that’s the deal.”

Once again arguing with himself while on the run, Max debates his part in Rachel’s plight. If she gets hurt or dies, it must be his fault because he took on the responsibility of protecting her. This is a brave and noble attitude, but the child in him still wants to run away and escape the heavy burden he’s taken on. If he’s going to be Max the Mighty, he must do a mighty good job of it or face a lifetime of regret.

“The Undertaker groans some more. The way the beam has got him pinned, I can’t see his face, but I can hear him moaning and groaning, and it sure sounds pitiful. Even though I can’t stand the guy, I feel bad for him, the way you’d feel if a really mean dog got hit by a car and needed help. Part of you is glad the dog can’t hurt you anymore, but you don’t want it to die.”

Max expresses a common sentiment: An enemy vanquished and in pain evokes sympathy. Such a person no longer appears as a threat, and others are free once again to see them as a human being who suffers just like everyone else. Max won’t become friends with the Undertaker, but his basic humanity shines out, and he saves the man who tried to ruin him.