Davy’s experience on the Baltimore docks was exhilarating, each cart’s wares more fascinating, each individual more provocative, and each present from Captain Stasney more extravagant. As they walked up the gangplank in the late afternoon Stasney pointed to each cluster of deckhands, busy working on the Jezebel, and explained what each was doing.
“See that fellow on the rope ladder above us? He’s an able seaman. He’s in charge of riggin’.” Waving higher to another fellow on the mast he added, “And he’s foretop man.” He pointed up. “See that? They’re bare foot. Know why?”
“No.”
“If they wore shoes they’d slip and fall and break their necks.”
“That’s a long ways up there.”
“Scared of heights?”
“No,” Davy replied, lying a bit. “I clumb trees taller than that back home.”
“That’s good.” Stasney slapped him on the back. “Can’t have nobody yellow on board.” He pointed again. “That man at the helm. He’s second in command.” He looked at Davy and smiled. “Do well and someday you’ll be first mate.”
A smile broke out on his face; no one had ever talked about his future like that. His father made him believe he had no future. Stasney promised a better life including trips to foreign lands with new vistas and intriguing people.
“Those clothes won’t work,” he said, appraising Davy’s shirt and trousers. “Too nice. Below we got the slop chest. You can get work clothes there.”
Davy watched as supplies arrived, and the steward took them below. He at once volunteered to carry the produce, and the steward thanked him. Within a few minutes Davy informed him he hailed from the Appalachian Mountains and was a skilled hunter and teamster. After the sun set, the crew left he schooner for one last night on the town. Stasney took Davy to the same tavern. Davy enjoyed the food, deep-battered fried flanks of fish, more oysters, slivered cabbage in a spicy sauce and large pones of cornbread.
“Tell ‘em some stories, boy,” Stasney said with a hearty laugh. “You like to tell stories.”
“Anything you want, sir.” He paused to clear his throat. “Last spring I was a part of a wagon team goin’ from Tennessee to Front Royal…” And Davy was off, with just only a hesitation, the words flowing like clear mountain water cascading over rocks in a stream. With each roar of laughter the bear became larger and the fear of the men around the campfire more palpable.
Through the evening Stasney slipped tankards of ale in from of Davy and nudged him to drink. At first he ignored it. When the captain kept scooting them closer to him he finally took a sip and made a face. A few swallows later, he found it not so bad and seemed to make his stories better.
Hours later the tavern closed, and all the customers went their separate ways, including Davy, the captain and the crew who headed back to the Jezebel. After they mounted the gangplank Davy moved toward the rowboat under which he had slept last night. The captain grabbed his shoulder.
“No need in that,” he said. “You’re my cabin boy now.”
Below deck Stasney led Davy to his quarters. Coming out the door was a dark-haired man with dull eyes.
“Lamps are lit, sir,” he said.
“Thank you, Parsons,” the captain replied. He looked at Davy. “That’s his job, to take care of all the lamps on board.” He guided the boy into the room and carefully shut the door. “Everyone has their jobs and they do ‘em without complaint. You understand that, don’t you, Davy?”
“Yes, sir.” He smiled with innocence while looking around the small room and wondering where he would sleep.
“Very good.” The captain unbuttoned the top of his shirt and sat on his bed. “You won’t regret it. I’ll teach you ciphers and letters. Before long you’ll be able to read whole books.” He reached over to pull something from behind his pillow. “Like this. Sit next to me and look at this.”
Davy plopped on the bed, his head still a little light from the ale. He noticed Stasney scooted closer as he opened the book.
“This is a brand new book, but the book itself is centuries old. Going back to Aristotle. Know who Aristotle was?”
Davy shook his head as Stasney flipped through the pages in reverence as though it were the Bible. “I’ll teach you to read from this book.” He paused. “Look at the pictures.”
Looking over Davy saw woodcuts of exposed men and women, and his mouth opened. Stasney turned a page. Davy’s eyes widened in nervousness as he slowly comprehended what he saw, a naked man lying on top of a naked woman, her legs wrapped around his waist.
“What do you think ‘bout that?”
“I don’t know.” He had never thought about such things before. He, his brothers and sisters knew to stay still and silent when their parents rustled the feather mattress late at night. From his gut he knew this was a subject best not discussed. “I want to sleep on deck.”
“No.” Stasney put the book down and put his arm around Davy’s shoulders. “You’re sleeping here.”
“I don’t want to.” His stomach tightened. His mind raced to figure out how to escape, but fear overcame his senses.
“What did you think? I was givin’ you things just to be nice? What did you think a cabin boy did?”
“I want to go.” Davy could not keep his tears from rolling down his checks.
“Sure, cry like a baby,” the captain whispered into his ear.
“Please let me go.”
“You think it’s that easy?” Stasney pulled out his knife and stuck it to Davy’s throat, causing him to stiffen and gasp. “You’re mine. Think ma and pa are goin’ to bust through that door?”
“No, please.”
“Do you understand I could slit your throat from ear to ear and throw you out on the dock? Tomorrow the Jezebel disappears over the horizon. Nobody knows this boy awallowin’ in his own blood. Nobody’ll care. They’ll throw your sorry carcass in the harbor along with the rest of the garbage.”
“No, no.” That was all Davy could think to say.
Stasney removed the knife from Davy’s throat and licked both sides of the blade, emitting guttural sounds. Seeing his opportunity for escape, Davy snatched the knife and jerked down, slicing Stasney’ tongue. As the captain howled in pain, Davy hurdled from the bed, bolted through the door, scampered up to the deck, passed mates sleeping in their bed rolls and stumbled down the gangplank. Running as fast as he could through the dark Baltimore streets he heard behind him the captain’s stomping and shouts of unintelligible obscenities.

***

James Patton had been a good man. David was acquainted with him when they served in the United States army during the Indian war. Patton was large and not on the whole striking in appearance. Most of the time he hardly spoke above a whisper. He tended to lag behind in the march from Fort Williams on the Coosa River, but was in the forefront in chopping tall thick trees in the Mississippi territory. He was the last to settle in at night, always making sure all duties were completed.
Tennessee volunteers sat around the campfire talking about how the Upper Creek Indians, whom they called Red Sticks, massacred everyone at Fort Mims in eighteen-thirteen. They vowed to avenge the deaths. James Patton remained silent. Once in a while he would mutter how much he missed his wife Elizabeth and their children George and Margaret.
On the morning of March twenty-seven, eighteen fourteen, as the volunteers gathered their powder, rifles and knives, Patton looked up and nodded at David.
“You don’t believe all that talk, do you, Crockett? All that about all Injuns bein’ bad?”
“Why, no, I guess not.”
“I know what happened at Fort Mims was terrible, but not all Injuns did that. The Lower Creek and Cherokee are peaceable. I grew up around Cherokee. They’re good people.”
“Yep, they’re very good.”
“What I know is family,” Patton continued. “When it all comes down to it, it ain’t whether you’re white or Injun, it’s family that matters, don’t you think?”
David did not respond at once, reflecting on his own children and how easy it was for him to leave his wife and children to go hunting. He loved them, in his own detached way, but he did not know if he agreed family always came first.
“Of course,” he replied, giving into an easy lie. “Family’s important.”
A bugle blew, ending their conversation. They were on the path to the horseshoe bend of the Tallapoosa River in Alabama. American militiamen and Lower Creek warriors attacked the Upper Creek encampment. David tried to stay close to Patton, feeling this was a man who had to survive to return to his family. Musket fire, smoke and oncoming hordes separated them. David worried that after two hours of hand-to-hand combat Patton’s energy would wane.
Cherokee waded across the Tallapoosa to attack Upper Creek from behind, turning the tide of the battle. Soon the last of the enemy dispersed, which allowed David to ask Tennesseans around him if they had seen James Patton. He stopped short when he saw the large man lying near the river bank, his shirt soaked in blood. David knelt, putting his head down to Patton’s quivering lips.
“Take my watch,” he whispered, fumbling with his pocket. After a moment he gave up searching and let his head fall back. “You git it later. And my knapsack back at the camp.” He grabbed David’s arm with the last of his strength. “And tell Elizabeth, tell her I did my best to git home.”
The Pattons did not live far from the Crocketts near Winchester, Tennessee, so on his way back after the Creek War David stopped at their farmstead. He did not find Elizabeth particularly attractive. She was much larger and less pleasing to the eye than his wife Polly. He did admire her fortitude when she heard her husband died in battle. She took the watch and knapsack, nodded and thanked him, holding her children close to her side.
Within weeks, however, David lost his wife Polly to influenza. His brother Joseph and his wife did the best they could with the children, but David was not impressed. Joseph had not changed all that much since childhood and lacked a serious interest in being helpful. David’s thoughts turned to the widow Patton as a new wife. She had a proven farm, eight hundred dollars in cash and the support of the extensive Patton family. Elizabeth was not only James Patton’s wife but also his cousin.
Riding his chestnut along the worn road into Gibson County, David grunted to himself. What he thought had been a smart marriage turned into a mixed blessing. Elizabeth was of good comfort, providing him with three more children, was generous with her private funds and was industrious and perceptive in running the farm. On the other hand, David lived under the shadow of benefiting from a wife’s fortune and in the shadow of a man even David judged to be too good, too kind, too gentle to live in this terrible world.
As he climbed a knoll he saw his family’s farm in the valley, divided by a meandering stream. The house itself was simple, split log packed with sod to keep out the wind. Smoke rose from an outside fire, perhaps from a pot of applesauce being stewed by Elizabeth. Unexpectedly a cream, orange, brown and white butterfly flitted by, grabbing David’s attention away from his family reunion.

***

Screaming, Dave scrambled from the bed, threw open the door to run down the hall. Vince, in baggy boxers and loose T-shirt, chased him into the living room, wrapping his arms around him.
“Puppy! Wake up!”
Dave stopped struggling, his eyes slowly focusing on his surroundings. “Oh. Yeah.” He slipped over to the sofa. “It was awful.”
“I didn’t know you still had those nightmares,” Vince said, turning on a lamp.
“I don’t. Sometimes.”
“It was Allan, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you get for going to look at his corpse. That’d give anybody nightmares.”
“I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“I can’t believe he lived as long as he did.” Vince sat in his father’s broken lounger. After fidgeting a moment, he looked over at Dave. “You used to be real butterbutt.”
“Shut up.”
“I mean, you’re in real good shape now.” Vince stood. “You’re still sensitive as hell, though. He looked to the hall and then went to the kitchen. “You need something to calm you down.”
“I’m calm.”
Vince opened a cabinet, reached to a top shelf to retrieve a bottle of whiskey, took two glasses from the sink and washed them off. “A little of this’ll make you feel better.” He poured a jigger or so into each and took them to the sofa, offering one to Dave.
“No.”
“Take it.”
Despite his better judgment, Dave took the glass, not wanting his brother to know he had developed a taste for liquor over the years, a taste not a craving, he noted to himself. He sipped it and grimaced. He liked a better grade of whiskey than Vince could afford.
“You know it really makes dad angry when you bring liquor in the house.”
“So why didn’t you bring your wife?” Vince sat in the chair again and gulped his drink.
“None of your business,” Dave replied.
“You’re ashamed of me and the old man.”
“No,” he spat back. Whiskey opened a dark cellar of anger in his gut.
“You’re ashamed of Allan.”
Is that right, Puppy?
Dave heard the familiar voice behind him which caused him to sip from the glass again.
“She don’t even know you had a crazy queer brother,” Vince said as an accusation.
“No.” That was all Dave could think to say.
You’re lying, Puppy. I could always tell when you’re lying. Oh, Puppy, I never thought you’d be ashamed of me.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Puppy, how could you hurt me like this?
“Where’s Wanda?” Dave looked with narrowed eyes at Vince.
“She took the kids to California.”
“Why?”
“Why isn’t Tiffany here?” Vince stared at him. “Come on, tell me.”
“I didn’t want her to know about Allan.” Dave decided to tell the unvarnished truth. Vince could not hurt him if he told the truth.
After all I did for you.
“So why did Wanda leave?”
“One of the boys fell one night and cut his head bad. I was too drunk to take him to the hospital.”
The jerk hit him.
“You hit him.”
“No. What kind of a father do you think I am?”
Just like our father. A jerk.
“If I did hit him, I don’t remember,” Vince mumbled, drinking from the glass.
“But Wanda knew,” Dave said.
“That broad. She’d say anything.” Vince stopped, pinching his lips together. “I don’t remember. To me, that’s the truth.” He stood to go back to the kitchen.
“Don’t drink anymore.” Dave put his empty glass on the floor and stood. “I got to tell you something.”
If he tries anything, I’ll bop him over the head with that bottle.
“Oh crap, what is it?”
“Dad wants to move into a nursing home.”
“Shoot, what’s wrong with that?”
“He wants me to be his legal guardian.”
Dave watched Vince’s face as he realized his father had passed him over to take care of him. First his eyes widened, and his mouth opened. Next his eyes glared, and his jaw jutted out in anger.
“It’s the money! You little jerk! You’re after pop’s money!”
“He has no money.”
“Pop’s a fool. You may have book learning but you ain’t got no common sense!”
Feeling his anger growing out of control, Dave walked to the hallway. Vince had told him he had no common sense many times during his drunken rants when Dave was a teen-ager. He did not want to hear it anymore.
“We’ll talk about this tomorrow when you’re not drunk.”
Vince grabbed his arm and swung him around. “We’ll talk about it now!”
Looking down at Vince’s hand, Dave said in a soft, firm voice, “Let go of me.”
Beat him up, Puppy. He’s shit.
“You’re a worthless piece of shit,” Vince said in a hiss.
He’s right, Puppy. You are a worthless piece of shit.
With a primal scream Dave knocked Vince down and pinned his shoulders to the floor with his knees, pummeling Vince’s face.
I’m shit. Mother was shit. That old son of a bitch in there is definitely shit.
“I am not shit!” Dave stopped his fist at Vince’s nose. This was how human shit acts, he told himself. He decided he was not going to act that way. He stood and stepped away, watching as Vince wiped blood from his mouth and sat up.
“You always wanted to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”

After the evening broadcast, Joe called Bob over to his desk. His moribund look was even more stern than usual. He looked up over his glasses at Bob and nodded at the chair next to him.
“Sit.”
Bob settled uneasily into a metal folding chair, sensing disapproval in Joe’s attitude. While his boss did not smile much, Bob could always tell that everything was in general acceptable. A pleasant grunt meant he acknowledged Bob’s interviews were professional. Today, however, he knew something had not met Joe’s standards of broadcast journalism.
“If I had seen that report first,” Joe said, “it wouldn’t have gone on the air.”
“Why not?”
“It was absolutely nothing. That’s why not.” Joe sighed. “To ask him about Jews when he’s alleged to have killed a union leader is like interviewing Richard Nixon about playing poker.”
“If I had asked him about the actual charges, his lawyer wouldn’t have allowed him to speak.”
“A lawyer, whom I understand, you got for him.” He nodded. “Yeah, I heard about that.”
“Everybody has a right to a lawyer.”
“Listen, this whole thing stinks. You’re cozy with the granddaughter of a guy accused of killing somebody, and you’re out there reporting on it.”
“Other than this interview, can you fault my reports on the Schmidt case?”
“No, but…”
“And about that interview, at least we had it. Nobody else had an interview, no matter what the topic.”
“Nobody else has a reporter playing around with the granddaughter.”
“This is my private life you’re talking about.” Bob stiffened. “I’ve given you years of good service, and I think I deserve to be treated with respect.”
“All right, don’t get your back up.” Joe slouched back in his chair and eyed Bob. “I think someone else should cover the hearing tomorrow.”
“Fine.” Bob stood. “Then two weeks from tomorrow, I’ll find employment elsewhere. I’ve stayed at Forty-three longer than most reporters. Maybe it’s time I looked around for an anchor position somewhere.”
“Sit down, you can cover the hearing.” Joe almost smiled. “If you’re going to take it that way, then forget it.”
Bob sat, not quite knowing if he had won the confrontation as he continued to glare at his boss.
“You know the surveys as well as anybody. You’re Knoxville’s most popular broadcast reporter. You’ve got across-the-board demographics. Old ladies want to mother you. Men want to go fishing with you. Teen-aged girls think you’re cute. If word got out you were available, every station in town would make you an offer by noon.”
Bob nodded, realizing now he had, indeed, won.
“In the future I’ll check with you before interviews of this kind are aired.” He paused, taking time finally to consider the ethics of the situation, and shrugged. “And you’re right. I shouldn’t cover the hearing. Let me do the morning report and explain why I’m turning it over to Betty.”
“Thanks. That’s the Bob Meade I know.”
“If that’s all…” Bob stood to leave.
“One last concern.” Joe raised his hand and wrinkled his brow. “I hope you aren’t holding back anything you know about this story.”
“Of course I am.”
“What?” Joe’s eyes widened.
“My journalism professor always said if you’re reporting everything you know you don’t know enough.” Bob leaned over the desk. “Listen, I met Jill before her grandfather ever became the hot story of the summer. I’ll not betray her trust in me to air information that’ll give you a few extra overnight points but in the long run won’t make a bit of difference in the outcome of this case.”
“Having a girlfriend has given you a backbone.” Joe released one of his rare smiles.
The next morning Bob stood in front of the federal court building in Knoxville facing the camera.
“Federal Judge Marvin Copland begins hearing arguments today in the controversial Heinrich Schmidt deportation case. Among the witnesses today will be Mrs. Eva Moeller who alleges Mr. Schmidt, long-time Gatlinburg businessman, murdered her husband, a union leader in the early nineteen forties in Nazi Germany.” Bob smiled. “This will be my last report on this story. Because of personal connections I have with the Schmidt family, Channel Forty-three has decided to bring in anchorperson Betty Sargent to report further developments to avoid an appearance of conflict of interest on my part. Thank you for your understanding in this matter.”
In a conference room inside the court building, Bob met with members of the family and Jeff Holt, who pulled out a notepad and studied it for a short time before speaking.
Jill looked at Bob, smiled and leaned into his shoulder.
“I heard your report this morning,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I hope it doesn’t hurt your career.”
“It would have hurt it more if I hadn’t stepped aside.”
“I’ve done a lot of thinking on how we should proceed with this case, and I’ve come to certain decisions,” Jeff said. “I want to share them with you now.”
“Go ahead.” Ed took Carol’s hand and squeezed.
“First thing, Peter, you won’t be translating for your parents,” Jeff said. “This is no reflection on you. The court has appointed an interpreter for both sides. This way we know everything is on the up and up. Second, Mr. Schmidt will not take the stand. I’ll tell the judge he’s had a stroke and his ability to communicate varies from day to day and, well, we don’t know how much he’ll be able to understand at any given time.”
“Good.” Greta nodded.
“Third, we have some serious side allegations that I don’t want to get tripped up on.” Jeff looked straight at Rudolph. “Now you already told me that your brother Heinrich was a member of the Nazi party, correct?”
Peter translated the question, and Rudolph raised his eyebrows and said, “Ich erinnere mich…”
“He says he doesn’t remember saying that…”
“Tell him to cut the crap,” Jeff snapped. “Yes or no?”
When Rudolph received the translation, he smiled, looked at Jeff and nodded.
“Nazi and Gestapo?” Jeff asked straight to him.
Again Rudolph nodded.
“Good.” He looked around the room. “We’ll bring this up first. Lay it on the table. Don’t let the other side spring it on us. Sure, he was a Nazi, a Gestapo agent, but hat doesn’t prove he’s a murderer.” He inhaled. “As far as testimony goes, it’s her word against his about what happened that night, right?”
When no one concurred, Jeff repeated, “Right?”
“As far as we know,” Peter said.
“I don’t like that phrase.” Jeff shook his head. “Interpret this question to everyone so they clearly understand. I don’t want any surprises. Do they know of any stories, any information at all that could pop out and bite us?”
Peter translated to his parent and Rudolph. Franz looked at Jeff and raised his hand.
“Yes?”
He told the story about Heinrich being beaten by the milk maid’s husband. Heinrich sat up.
“I don’t want that told,” Heinrich said. “I am a strong man. Never anything happen to me like that except one time. No one has to know that story.”
“If we don’t tell it, the prosecutor will, Mr. Schmidt,” Jeff said with professional authority.
“I don’t want people to know that,” Heinrich said in a huff.
“Don’t worry, Dad.” Ed put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right.”
Peter proceeded with the story and after hearing the translation, Jeff frowned.
“That might give motivation.” He paused to shrug and added, “but it also reflects poorly on the character of Hans Moeller.”
“And don’t forget Hans was a drunk,” Greta offered with eagerness. “Everyone in this room from Oberbach has seen Hans Moeller drunk. We can say so to the judge. I can tell the judge all sorts of stories about what Hans did when he was drunk.”
“If you testify about Hans Moeller, then you have to testify about your husband, and I don’t think you want to do that,” Jeff said. He looked at Helga, Franz and Rudolph. “Can you testify to Hans Moeller’s public drunkenness?”
Peter interpreted the question, and all three nodded yes.
“Very good.” Jeff stood. “There’s no such thing as bad information in a trial, as long as you bring it up, take responsibility for it and, you say, so what? But if you’re hiding something from me and the judge, the prosecution brings it out and proves it, you might as well buy your ticket for Germany right now. Understand?”
After Jeff left the room, Greta turned to Bob and Jill and shook her head.
“He isn’t as nice as he was in my living room.”
“You don’t win cases by being nice,” Jill said, hugging her.
“You win them by being tough in court,” Bob added.
The hearing began. After opening statements, the prosecutor called Eva to the stand. The court-appointed interpreter stood by the box with his hands folded in front of him.
“Now, Mrs. Moeller,” the prosecutor spoke in a measured cadence for the interpreter’s benefit. “Please tell us what happened the night of August twelfth, nineteen forty, at your home outside Oberbach, Germany.”
Eva nodded curtly as the interpreter told her what the prosecutor requested. Her voice was high and shrill. Her hard eyes pierced the audience.
“I’ve never seen so much hatred in someone’s eyes before,” Jill said, leaning into Bob’s ear.
He looked over at Greta and watched her pull a worn lace handkerchief from her purse.
“Jenner mann und…”
“That man and two of his men came to my house.” The interpreter began Eva’s story. “They pushed their way in…”
“Objection,” Jeff interrupted. “It’s been forty years since this incident, and I seriously doubt the witness can definitely say my client is the same person who entered her home so many years ago.”
As the interpreter translated Jeff’s words to Eva, her lips pinched in resentment. Language spewed fast from her mouth, “Ich wurde kie…” Waving in contempt at Greta, Eva added, “Uns ich wurde jene…” She ended with a spitting noise. The interpreter’s mouth dropped as she looked at the judge with antagonism.
“Go ahead,” Judge Copland urged him.
Clearing his throat, the interpreter proceeded with caution.
“I’d recognize those horrible eyes anywhere. It’s been forty years, and he’s a fat bald old man, yes, but he can’t hide that hate in his eyes and the smirk on his lips.” Sebastian paused as his face reddened. “And I’d know that stupid cow of a wife of his anywhere.”
Greta put her hand to her cheek as Bob and Jill put their arms around her. Wiping tears from her eyes, she shook her head.
“Why would this woman say such terrible things about us?”
“She’s been hurt, Grandma,” Jill said.
“She’ll be finished soon,” Bob added, “and it’ll all be over.”
“Objection overruled,” Judge Copland said. “Let the record show that Mrs. Moeller identified to the best of her recollection the defendant as the man who entered her home on August twelfth, nineteen forty. Continue.”
After the prosecutor nodded to her, Eva told more of her story, “Sie haben Hans…”
“They took my husband Hans into our bedroom and slammed the door shut,” the interpreter translated. “They said they were from the government. They said Hans and the woodcutters’ guild were bad Germans because they didn’t follow the Fuhrer’s commands.”
“Did they identify themselves as members of the Gestapo?” the prosecutor said.
Eva nodded with vigor as she listened to the interpreter’s words and replied, “Ja haben sie Gestape…”
“Yes, they said they were Gestapo.” Tears filled her eyes as he continued. “They beat up my husband. I heard him screaming. I banged on the door, but they wouldn’t let me in. Then they cut him and made him bleed and then my Hans, my beautiful Hans, died.”
“Objection.” Jeff stood and pointed at the witness stand. “By her own testimony, Mrs. Moeller says she wasn’t in the room so she is only speculating what actions were taken out of her presence.”
Eva screamed at Jeff when she was told what he declared.
“Den nachten morgen…”
“The next morning when they finally let me in the room, there was blood on the floor!”
Beginning his cross-examination, Jeff approached the witness box and matched Eva’s icy glare with his own cool stare.
“Mrs. Moeller, why was it the next morning and not later that night you went into the room?”
“Sie haben mich aus…”
“They threw me out of my own home,” the interpreter translated.
“Is it possible, because of your highly emotional condition, they thought it would be best for your own well-being to spend the night with loved ones?”
Eva spat an expletive, “Ich werde sie ficken!” which the interpreter refused to translate.
“Mrs. Moeller,” Jeff said, leaning in on her, “have you always had problems with bouts of hysteria?”
“Objection,” the prosecutor said.
Jeff turned to the judge and raised his arms, rolling his eyes.
“Your honor, it’s obvious by Mrs. Moeller’s outbursts that she easily loses control of her emotions to her own detriment.”
Looking at Eva again, Jeff expanded his earlier question.
“Is it not possible that your husband had been confrontational when the man you described as Mr. Schmidt tried to question his activities?”
“Nein,” she replied.
“Didn’t that man, whoever he may have been, and his associates find it necessary to use force against your husband for their own protection?” Jeff said, his voice becoming firmer.
“Nein.”
“Your husband was much taller and larger than the man you described as Mr. Schmidt, wasn’t he?”
“Ja.”
“So therefore, the man you described as Mr. Schmidt might have had to exert such force to account for the trace of blood you described on the floor?”
Eva’s head shuddered as she wept.
“And is it not true that your husband was a known alcoholic in the town of Oberbach?”
“Objection,” the prosecutor said.
“Your honor,” Jeff said, walking toward Helga, Franz and Rudolph and gesticulating their way, “I plan to bring witnesses who will testify to the fact that, indeed, Mr. Moeller’s own inability to overcome his addiction to alcohol drove him repeatedly to engage in socially unacceptable behavior, actions which very well could have resulted in the accident that led to his unfortunate demise.”
“Overruled.”
Jeff turned back to Eva.
“Can you deny that after the man you described as Mr. Schmidt and his associates left the house your husband may very well have gone out of the home to seek alcohol and, as he had done many times before, become intoxicated and fell down an embankment, knocking himself unconscious, whereby bears could maul him to death?” He wagged a finger at her. “Remember, you testified you were out of the house the rest of that night and could not possibly know what occurred. Don’t you believe each man is responsible for his own behavior? Don’t you know your husband was responsible for his own death?”
After the interpreter translated Jeff’s question, Eva bounded to her feet and tried to clamber over the witness stand, her arms flailing at Jeff. Guards subdued her and forced her from the courtroom.
“I will call a ten-minute recess to allow Mrs. Moeller to compose herself,” Judge Copland said.
Bob surveyed those around him. Ed put his arm on Carol’s shoulder. She was trembling with her eyes closed. Greta stared off into space, emotionless. Heinrich, Bob could swear, was smiling smugly. In the hallway, Jill leaned against the wall and sighed. After a few moments she focused on Bob and wrinkled her brow.
“It just struck me. Shouldn’t you be at work? I mean, if you’re not covering the hearing for the station…”
“I took the day off. I had some hours coming, and I thought you’d like someone to talk to.”
“You’re so sweet.” She reached out to squeeze his hand.
“Don’t say that,” Bob said, his eyes teasing her. “That’s the kiss of death. Every time a girl tells me that I’m sweet I never see her again.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” Jill looked down.
When the hearing resumed, Jeff deferred any more questions for Eva and put Rudolph on the stand with Peter acting as his interpreter, though he was not needed.
“Mr. Schmidt, was your brother a member of the Nazi party?”
He nodded without emotion.
“Let the record show Mr. Schmidt indicated the affirmative,” the judge said.
“Was he employed by the Gestapo?”
He nodded again.
“Let the record show Mr. Schmidt replied in the affirmative.”
“Did your brother ever discuss the death of Hans Moeller with you?”
Rudolph shook his head.
“Let the record show Mr. Schmidt replied in the negative.”
“Did you know Hans Moeller?”
He nodded.
“Let the record show Mr. Schmidt replied in the affirmative.”
“Had you ever been in Mr. Moeller’s presence when he was clearly out of control of his behavior because of drinking too much alcohol?”
Rudolph smirked as he nodded.
“Let the record show Mr. Schmidt replied in the affirmative,” the judge said, a dullness entering his voice.
“No further questions.”
After the prosecution passed on cross-examination, Jeff called Helga to the stand. Jeff smiled and winked at her.
“How would you characterize your brother-in-law Heinrich Schmidt?”
After the interpreter translated, Helga said a sentence in German which she had used many times in talking to Jeff.
“Heinrich Schmidt was hard-working.”
“Was he held in the same esteem by the rest of his community?”
She nodded after hearing the translation.
“Let the record show Mrs. Bitner replied in the affirmative.”
“Did you know Hans Moeller?”
“Ja.”
“Did you ever observe him in an extreme state of intoxication?”
“Ja.”
“No more questions.”
The prosecutor stood to cross-examine.
“Is that the best you can say about your brother-in-law, that he was hard-working?”
“Objection,” Jeff said.
“Mr. Holt brought up questions of character of the defendant.” The prosecutor turned to the judge. “It is only fair to hear testimony about all facets of his character, Your Honor.”
“Overruled.”
Helga looked at her sister, then at Jeff and squared her jaw.
“Ja.”
“You could not swear under oath that you thought your brother-in-law was an honest man? A decent man?”
After the translation, Helga looked the prosecutor straight in the eyes.
“Nein.”
“Could you describe Hans Moeller as a hard-working man?”
Hearing the question translated, Helga looked a bit surprised and shrugged her shoulders.
“Ja.”
“Was Hans Moeller an honest, decent man?”
Helga giggled and shook her head.
“Let the record show Mrs. Bitner replied in the negative.”
“No further questions.”
Jeff next called Franz who maintained his serene countenance. Turning to look at Eva, Jeff asked his next question loud and clear, so Sebastian would be sure to translate it for her.
“Did you work cutting trees with Hans Moeller?”
After the interpreter spoke to him, Franz nodded.
“Let the record show Mr. Bitner replied in the affirmative.”
“Did Hans Moeller miss many days of work?”
He nodded again.
“Let the record show Mr. Bitner replied in the affirmative.”
“Why did he miss those days of work?”
Franz spoke in a soft voice, and the interpreter translated, “He was drunk.”
“Objection,” the prosecutor said. “This is hearsay evidence.”
“Your Honor, allow me to ask the witness the source of his information.”
“Very well.”
Jeff turned back to Franz. “Who told you Hans Moeller was too drunk to work?”
“Hans did,” the interpreter translated his reply. “He liked to talk about how much he drank. He thought it was funny.”
“He liked to talk about other things, too, didn’t he?”
“Objection,” the prosecutor said.
“Oh, I think you’ll like this one.” Jeff turned to look grimly at him.
“Withdrawn,” he said, wrinkling his brow.
“Proceed,” the judge said.
When Jeff returned his attention to Franz, he asked him to relate the milk maid story, which he did. Eva smiled with smug satisfaction, Bob noticed, while Greta and Heinrich turned red in embarrassment.
“Grandma insists that incident happened before they got married,” Jill whispered to Bob.
When the interpreter finished translating Franz’ story, the prosecutor stood, looking as though he were at a loss for words.
“No cross-examination.”
After the lunch break, the lawyers began their summations. The prosecutor stood to face Judge Copland.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen, before you today is a valiant lady who has spent most of her life tracking down the man responsible for the death of her husband forty years ago.”
As he pointed to Eva, Greta shook her head.
“Don’t worry, Grandma.” Jill patted her hand. “It’ll be over soon.”
“Will it?” Greta looked at Jill with sad eyes.
“Mrs. Eva Moeller is to be commended for her efforts in searching mailing lists, telephone books in every country of the world,” the prosecutor continued as he walked over to stand by Eva. “She did not give up until she found Heinrich Schmidt who has been hiding out in our very own Smoky Mountains.”
Bob watched Ed frown as he leaned over to whisper in Carol’s ear. “I don’t call running a shop with a lighted water wheel hiding out.”
Carol nodded, but Bob could not tell if she were entirely sympathetic to Heinrich’s situation.
“This man, who was a Gestapo agent of Nazi Germany, is an undesirable and must be deported,” the prosecutor said. “Unfortunately, we cannot try him for the crime of murder. But we can make sure he does not stay in this country which took him in and gave him a living for many years.”
After the prosecutor took his seat, Jeff stood and slowly walked to Eva.
“Like the prosecutor,” he began, “I have many feelings for Mrs. Eva Moeller. But my feelings are sympathy for losing one’s mate early in life and sorrow that she has misspent the rest of her life blaming an innocent man for the unfortunate accident that took her husband’s life.”
Eva stiffened as Sebastian translated what Jeff said.
“Was Heinrich Schmidt a Nazi? His brother said he was,” Jeff said. “Many Germans were members of the Nazi party. But not all Nazis even knew of the excesses of the Third Reich. Just being a Nazi does not make them undesirable.”
Bob studied Heinrich’s face. He thought he detected a smile on his old pursed lips.
“Was Heinrich Schmidt a Gestapo officer? His brother said he was,” Jeff continued. “Many men served their country as members of the Gestapo. But not all of them committed the heinous crimes documented as work of a precious few. Being merely a Gestapo officer does not make Heinrich Schmidt an undesirable alien in this country.”
Bob’s gaze went between Heinrich and Eva, each of them being eaten alive by their dark emotions, making him feel sorry for both of them and doubt his part in the defense.
“Did Heinrich Schmidt kill Hans Moeller? We were not there so we don’t know. Mrs. Moeller was there, forty years ago when she and, yes, Heinrich Schmidt were young people in the prime of life. I dare say neither of them bears even a faint resemblance to their former selves.”
Feeling Jill’s hand touch his, Bob glanced at her as she smiled with affection at him. Whatever he did, he decided, it was not for Heinrich’s sake but because of his love for Jill who was an entirely different person. However, Bob thought, giving into his qualms, the final effect of his actions was to side with this old man with the wicked turn to his mouth and he wondered what would happen to him because of it.
“In the light of lack of evidence, we could never find Heinrich Schmidt guilty of murder; therefore, there is no way we could hold him undesirable because of some man’s unfortunate accidental death forty years ago.”
Judge Copland took the case file in his hands and looked out at the participants of the hearing.
“This is a thick folder of evidence, and the testimony presented here was weighty. I refuse to rush to judgment.” He looked over at his calendar and squinted. “Considering this is Friday, I will adjourn until 10 a.m. Monday which will give me, I feel, sufficient time to come to a decision.” He rapped his gavel. “Hearing adjourned.”
***
As the court room cleared, Heinrich smiled with contentment. All was going the way he had anticipated. That was because he always won, he told himself. Then Heinrich became aware of his brother Rudolph sitting next to him, one hand around his shoulder comforting him with a gentle pat while his other hand found its way to Heinrich’s crotch.
Rudolph lean in and whispered with spite, “Do you know the real reason I came here? To help you? No, I don’t care about you. But I do care about the name of Schmidt. I didn’t want you coming back to Oberbach in chains for trial to make a laughingstock out of me.”
Heinrich winced as Rudolph punched him hard in the crotch while still patting his shoulder.
“I don’t know if you killed Hans or not, and I don’t care. Hans deserved to die, but if you did kill him you should have killed Eva too that night. You should have known she would have come looking for you.” Rudolph punched him again. “You’re stupid, sloppy and lazy.” A third punch was even stronger as the hand on Heinrich’s shoulder stroked him with affection. “You think you are smart. You think you are a winner. But you are disgusting. He never told you, but papa thought you were the most worthless human being he ever met.”
***
Helga leaned over to give Carol a hug. Carol smiled affectionately and returned her embrace. Jill turned to Bob, appearing contented in particular.
“I’m so glad Aunt Helga has been kind to mom,” she said. “You know, since they’ve been in the house, mom hasn’t had a single drink. And look.” She pointed to the Schmidt brothers sitting next to each other. “Even grandpa and Uncle Rudolph are getting along. Maybe all this is worth the pain if it brings the family together.”
Greta approached to her sister and tugged on her arm, muttering some command in German. Helga nodded but did not leave without giving Carol one last kiss on the cheek. Greta and Helga fussed back and forth in German every step out of the court.
“Thank you again for spending the day with me,” Jill said. “It seems I’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“Maybe it’s time we had some time to ourselves. What would you like to do tomorrow? We could take a hike in the Smokies.”
“That sounds good, but first thing tomorrow morning I want to do something else.” Taking Bob’s hand, she headed for the door.
“What?”
“Go to Clinton.”
“Clinton?” Bob stopped.
“That’s where you keep your father, isn’t it?”

Jonathan ran for the front door but Susie Belle blocked his way.
“Goin’ somewhere, tall, dark and handsome?”
“I want my mommy!” He had totally lost the last vestiges of his British stiff upper lip. As he turned to run away Susie Belle grabbed his legs, knocking him over and mounting his back. Never one to give up the retreat, Jonathan rose to his knees and elbows and proceeded to crawl away. Susie Belle slapped his hindquarters.
“I’ll be your mommy, your nanny, your sister, your cousin. Your kissin’ cousin.”
“Mina!” Jonathan called out.
“But I won’t be Mina. She’s too much of a pasty-faced good-two-shoes.”
“Get off me!”
“If you wish.” Susie Belle rolled over and pulled Jonathan on top of her. “Ooh yesss, I like this much better.”
“But I don’t!” He crawled off Susie Belle and tried to get away, but she grabbed his trousers. “Let go!” Jonathan looked up to see Salacia coming straight at him, and he let out a howl.
“There, there,” Salacia purred. “No need to scream.”
“Yes, there is,” he whimpered. His head jerked down when he felt hands at his waist. Claustrophobia was unbuckling his belt. “What are you doing?”
“Just helping you loosen up,” she replied sweetly.
“I don’t want to—“he stopped to giggle as she slid the belt free. “Stop that! I’m ticklish there!”
“I’ll be sure to remember that,” Claustrophobia said. “Later, when the fun really begins.”
“Let me take your hands.” Salacia grabbed his wrists and pulled just as Susie Belle held on to the cuffs of his trousers.
“All of a sudden I feel like a turkey on Christmas Day!”
“Mmm, let’s make a wish.” Salacia murmured, licking her lips.
Susie Belle successfully removed the trousers exposing Jonathan’s legs. Claustrophobia ran her fingers over them.
“Ah, drumsticks!”
Jonathan pulled his legs and arms close to his body, ending in a fetal position. “Leave my drumsticks—my legs—alone!”
Susie Belle mounted his shoulders and waved the trousers over her head. ‘Wahoo! Ride ‘em, cowgirl!”
Our uptight British barrister had finally taken all the humiliation he could. Reaching octaves previously unreachable by any human voice, Jonathan pierced the cold night air swirling through the rafters of Dracula’s castle; in other words, he reverted to a frustrated four-year-old brat pitching an awe-inspiring hissy fit. His face turned red, his cheeks puffed out as he flailed his arms and legs until Susie Belle lost her balance and fell on the stone floor. Jonathan leapt to his feet and stomped them with extreme vigor.
“I’m getting out of here!” he announced when he realized his tantrum was having absolutely no effect on Dracula’s three wives. Straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin he marched to the front door.
Susie Belle waved his pants over her head. “Without these?”
Stopping abruptly, he turned around with his fingers to his mouth. “Oh, that’s right. Gentlemen of breeding don’t expose their legs to the night air.” He walked to Susie Belle, politely bowed and asked in a most gracious tone, “Would you mind returning my trousers, please?”
“It would be a great pleasure and honor to return your trousers.” Susie Belle tossed them to Salacia. “But Salacia would not approve.”
Jonathan turned his attention to the leader of the wife pack. “My dear Miss Salacia—“
Before he could say another word, she flung the pants over to Claustrophobia.
“Over here, Jonathan,” the Viennese vampire teased.
“Oh no! Not keepaway again! I always hated keepaway.”
He changed direction to confront Claustrophobia, but she immediately threw them to Susie Belle.
“Come and get them!” the American wife taunted him.
The vampires three roamed about the vaulted entry hall tossing the trousers among themselves as Jonathan tried in vain to retrieve them and restore some of his shattered ego.
“Ooh, this is fun!” Salacia laughed.
Finally he leapt high in the air to intercept the pants passing. “At last!” He grasped them in victory.
Susie Belle smoothly transitioned herself from a vivacious woman into a slumped-over and doddering old crone. “Excuse me, young man,” she said in a quavering voice.
Jonathan turned to smile at her. “Yes?”
“My husband is very ill and has no trousers. He’s about your size. Could we please have yours? He may not live out the winter without them.”
Tears welled in Jonathan’s shockingly blue eyes. He bowed humbly and extended the pants to her. “But of course, dear lady.”
Susie Belle snatched them from his hands, resumed the countenance of a hot vampire chick and ran around the room with the trousers flying over her head. “I can’t believe he bought that act!” she sang.
“I can’t believe I can be such a dumb-bunny.” Jonathan hung his head in shame.
Giggling, the girls went back to the game room with Jonathan in hot pursuit. Mina and Count Dracula emerged from behind the tapestry just in time to see her betrothed run into the game room, slamming the door behind him.
“Is that Jonathan running about without his trousers again?”
“You can never tell about young men,” Dracula said. “They are filled with red, hot blood.”
“Not Jonathan.” Mina shook her head.
The count looked incredulous. “He has no hot blood?”
“Oh. Well. Of course, but it’s not red and hot,” she explained, “figuratively speaking.”
“Ah, I think I understand.”
“Thank you for showing me your paintings.” Mina crinkled her nose, and her eyes twinkled. “And what an unusual décor. I’ve never seen coffins used as settees before.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She slapped at his shoulder. “You’re so modest about your interior decorating talent.”
“I mean,” he clarified in a serious tone, “don’t mention the coffins.”
“Oh, not even to Dr. Van Helsing?”
Dracula’s eyes winded in apprehension. “Especially to Dr. Van Helsing.”
“Anyway, I liked the portrait of your mother.”
He shrugged in modesty. “Some say she was an old bat, but I loved her.”
“I’m sure you did,” she agreed. “Is she still alive?”
“No.” Dracula winced. “She died of a bad stake.”
Mina wagged a finger in agreement. “I choked on some pork tenderloin once. You have to be careful to chew your food properly.”
“I always watch the way I bite into mine.” Irony tinged his voice.
“Good for you.”
Dracula led Mina to the sofa where they sat, and a great poof of dust arose upon impact. “I have a confession, Miss Seward.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I have found myself attracted to you.”
“Oh?” She could not help but smile.
The count scooted closer to her. “You are so full of life.”
“Why, Count Dracula!” she exclaimed, resisting the impulse to swoon. “What would your wives say?”
He was close enough to whisper in her ear. “I would say they have other things on their minds.”
Giggling emanated from behind the double doors drew Mina’s attention. “What exactly is behind those doors?”
“You might say it is our game room,” Dracula explained with a wry smile.
The mention of games lit up her face, and she stood in anticipation of a rousing round of—well, whatever. “Games? I just love mah jong and pinochle.”
“We have more exotic games in Transylvania,” he declared as he stood.
Turning to face him full on, she asked, “Really? Like what?”
“See for yourself.” He motioned to the game room door.
She went to the door, opened it and peered in. “Oh, those kind of games. I didn’t know Jonathan could hang by a trapeze.” Mina squinted to get a better view. “Funny, I didn’t realize he had an insy.”

John worried as he sat in a lawn chair in the late afternoon, watching Mike and Randy wrestle on the grass. Just a few minutes earlier the boys asked when they would get Pharaoh, and he could not give them a time. They wanted to be told who Pharaoh was, but he could not give them a name. How were they going to escape the hospital? John could not tell them how. They must trust Moses, he told him, but John knew he could not stall them much longer.
“Hey, Injun, your mama’s here to see ya.”
Glancing up, John saw grizzled, balding George walk by with his pail and mop. The attendant kept his eyes straight ahead, not bothering to look at John when he addressed him. John was tempted to tell Mike and Randy that George was Pharaoh so they would murder him for his insolence, but even the slow witted brothers would not believe someone who scrubbed toilets for his living was mighty Pharaoh.
“Thank you,” he said in a soft voice to George as the attendant walked away, realizing if there were to be a chance of escape he had to maintain a façade of courtesy and subordination, even to the vilest and lowest of those people who worked at the hospital.
Walking down the hall to the day room, John tried to remember what his mother looked like. His memories of her always were of different women. His earliest was of a beautiful, full-figured, laughing young mother, hugging him to her ample bosom. Then he remembered the lady of dignity: a matronly, well-built and with fine streaks of gray through her straight black hair pulled into a bun. Then he recalled the woman with a hunched back, the worn eyes and the dishpan hands from working in kitchens of greasy spoon restaurants. And the woman he at last recognized when Dr. Lippincott took him away the last time was old with gray streaked hair, bent over in defeat and her eyes red with tears.
John’s mind wandered to the possibility that this white man doctor, who asked too many questions and who dared to look deep into his eyes, might be Pharaoh torturing his people. He knew Mike and Randy did not like him because he tried to act as their friend but in truth wanted to keep them there forever. But at this point in time why would he announce that the doctor was Pharaoh? He told the boys one time that he was not Pharaoh. He could not let them think he made a mistake. Moses did not make mistakes or change his mind.
“Oh, Johnny,” his mother murmured as she stood on her tiptoes to plant a moist kiss on his neck.
“Mother.” This was the woman he remembered who held him close, bought him ice cream and protected him from the evil world. She clutched a tear-stained handkerchief.
“Come sit with me.” She held his hand and led him to a worn sofa in the day room. “Your father would have come, but he didn’t feel well.”
John realized she told a lie by the way her eyes darted away as she spoke of his father. He cared not that his father stayed away because he could not accept him as his father anyway. His father had been a warrior, and that old man he saw sitting at the judge’s table was no warrior.
“Are you getting along?” Mrs. Ross asked. “You look well. Put on a few pounds?”
“Yes.” He smiled with tight lips.
“And the doctor? Do you like him? Is he treating you good?”
“Yes.” John looked away.
“Everyone looks like nice people here.” Mrs. Ross surveyed the patients milling around. “Have you made many friends?”
“A few.”
“Really?” She sat up. “Who are they? Are they nice people?”
“Very nice.” He patted her knee.
“What are their names?”
“Mike and Randy.”
“Tell me about them. Are they Cherokee?”
“Did you see me on television?” Not wanting to reveal any more about the boys, John smiled and pointed to a set mounted on the wall.
“No. I didn’t know you were on television.” A huge smile covered her face. “When?”
“About a month ago.” He crossed his arms across his chest and nodded. “A nice young man from Knoxville asked me questions about being Cherokee.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I was proud.”
“I’m so glad.” Tears rolling down her cheeks, Mrs. Ross hugged John.
“He was a nice young man. Bob Meade was his name.” He paused. “I could see a secret pain in his eyes.”
“What?”
“I think I could help him if he ever let me try.”
“You’re so caring.” She embraced him again. “I love you.”
“I am your son. This is how you made me.”
“I know.” She patted his cheek. “If only white people hadn’t….” She bit her lip and looked away. “Try to forgive them, John. They don’t know any better than to believe that might makes right.” She sighed. “At least they are making some atonement by taking good care of you.”
“I could take care of myself if they let me.” He clinched his jaw. “I could take care of you.”
“Of course, you could, John.” Looking deep into his eyes she whispered, “Don’t tell them anything they don’t want to hear. Act the way they want you to act. You can convince them that you don’t need them anymore. I want you to come home to me and your father.”
“Yes,” he replied with affection, hugging her, “come home to you.”
“Well, I have to go, Johnny,” she announced, standing. “I have to fix supper right at five o’clock. Your father says his food don’t digest right if he eats later than five o’clock.”
After his mother left, John went to the rest room. While standing at the urinal, his gaze went up to a long narrow window. His mouth fell open as he noticed the window was broader than he first observed; in fact, it appeared a man could slither through it on his belly. After zipping his pants, he stood on his toes to peek out the window, but he was not quite tall enough to see what was on its other side. Looking around he saw a trash can, which he turned upside down and stood on, putting his line of vision up to the window which, he discovered, faced the front gate.
“Want to be taller?”
John jumped down from the can and smiled at a diminutive gentleman with white hair and bulging blue eyes.
“I always wanted to be taller,” the man said. “People treat you better if you’re tall.” He pointed at the can. “But that won’t work.”
“What?”
“Standing on a can. It’s all right while you’re up there.”
“Yes. I can even see out the window.”
“But eventually you have to get down, if you want to get anywhere.”
Later that afternoon John watched the clock for five-thirty, time for the evening news from Knoxville. He was a fan of Bob Meade. He was a sincere young white man. John trusted his reports on television. If Bob Meade said it, John decided, it must be true. As he walked into the day room, he saw Mike and Randy sitting on a tattered sofa laughing at cartoons. John changed the channel.
“Hey.” Mike sat up. “We was watching those funny guys.”
“It’s time for news.”
“What’s that?” Randy furrowed his brow.
“You know, news,” John said.
“Is it funny?” Mike smiled.
“No, it’s Bob Meade. The man who put me on television. He’s a good man.”
“Oh.” Mike slumped back on the sofa and frowned. “That show where they talk a lot.”
“I like cartoons better.” Randy pulled his body up in a ball and turned away.
Betty Sargent’s face appeared on the screen. John’s eyes narrowed. He did not approve of women in charge. Cherokee women held places of importance in old tribal councils, and when a man married a woman from another clan he joined her family, but he still did not think it was right for women to tell men what to do.
“That’s Bob?” Mike looked at John. “I thought Bob was a boy’s name.”
“Bob Meade will be on later.”
“Does that mean we can turn back to the cartoons?” Mike asked.
“We will have a report by Bob Meade,” Betty Sargent said, “on the upcoming deportation hearing on Gatlinburg businessman Heinrich Schmidt later in this broadcast.”
John shook his head and listened to the top stories, which did not interest him much. At last, Bob Meade appeared on the screen in front of a building with a silly-looking waterwheel. John leaned forward.
“Initial motions were heard today in federal court in Knoxville in the deportation case against long-time Gatlinburg shop owner Heinrich Schmidt. Behind me is his shop in which he and his wife Greta sell woodcarvings. The Schmidts moved to Gatlinburg in the early fifties and opened their business in downtown Gatlinburg to sell his art work inspired by his native Bavaria. In recent years their business has thrived in the new arts and crafts community on Glades Road.”
John raised his hand, and George came over.
“Yeah?”
“Cigarette.”
He tossed a half pack at John who pulled one out.
“Light.”
Taking out a match book, George took one and lit it, putting it to John’s cigarette. He waited a moment before stalking away. “At least you could at say please or thank you,” he muttered.
John lit his cigarette and began to smoke as he listened to Bob’s report. Mike and Randy shifted on the sofa, sighing in boredom.
“The Schmidts’ lives could have been another American success story until recently when charges from their home town in Germany surfaced. Mrs. Eva Moeller of Oberbach, Germany, alleges that during World War II Heinrich Schmidt was a Gestapo agent who murdered her husband as part of the Nazi government’s suppression of labor unions.”
John leaned forward at the mention of Gestapo, Nazi, Germany and murder.
“I’d rather watch cartoons.” Randy tightened his fetal ball. “Too much talking makes me nervous.”
“Scheduled to appear at the hearing are Mrs. Moeller for the federal government and for the defense will be Mr. Schmidt’s brother Rudolph and Mrs. Schmidt’s sister Helga and her husband Franz Bitner, all of Oberbach.”
“Those are sure funny sounding names.” Mike stuck his finger up his nose.
“Channel Forty-three has obtained an exclusive interview with Heinrich Schmidt here on the eve of the most crucial time of his life in the United States.”
The picture changed to a small living room where sitting in an easy chair was an old balding man. Next to him was a younger, bigger man in an expensive looking suit who smiled to excess.
“Here is Heinrich Schmidt in his Gatlinburg home with his attorney Jeff Holt.”
The camera moved in closer on his wrinkled face to reveal a smirk on his lips. John lit another cigarette, using the butt of the first one, keeping his eyes on the screen. This man, this Heinrich Schmidt fascinated him. He was from the land called Germany, which John learned in school had persecuted Jews.
“Is this about over?” Mike asked.
“Quiet,” John replied with firmness.
“I don’t like being told to be quiet,” Randy said from his little cocoon.
“The widder told us to be quiet a lot.” Mike put his finger back up his nose.
“We want to assure Mr. Schmidt and his attorney Mr. Holt that we won’t delve into any area that might prejudice his case in federal court.”
Bob Meade acted as though he were somehow afraid, which surprised John because Bob had not appeared to be the type to be intimidated by inferior creatures such as this fat, sagging, bald old man. That revelation lessened Bob in his estimation. Perhaps Bob Meade was not to be compared to brave Cherokee warriors but to wise Cherokee women who lacked strength, someone to value but not rely upon in the battle to battle Pharaoh.
“The charges brought against you, Mr. Schmidt, deal with control over German labor unions,” Bob said. “Therefore, we can assume you had nothing to do with Hitler’s genocide of German Jews.”
“No.”
As Heinrich Schmidt answered Bob Meade’s questions with a simple no, John began to hate the old man and identified him with this Germany that persecuted Jews, as Egypt of old persecuted the Hebrews and as white men of today persecuted Cherokee.
“What did you think about Hitler’s genocide program?”
“Hitler didn’t ask me then.” Heinrich smiled. “Why should you ask me now?”
John’s eyes widened as though he had seen a burning bush. His heart began to beat faster in anticipation of the end of his time in the wilderness.
“Do you think what Hitler did was wrong?” Bob leaned toward Heinrich.
“Every man does what he has to do to get what he wants.” The old man seemed to wait for a reaction from Bob. When none was forthcoming, he continued, “The world was different then, boy. Some people—well, the strong survive.”
John stood and walked toward the television, reaching out to touch the screen with his fingertips. He had seen the burning bush, and he had heard the message. He had seen Pharaoh.

Dr. Van Helsing’s face turned a beet red. The downside of being one of the smartest and most knowledgeable people in the world was that he had no patience with attractive, well-mannered, good- intentioned nitwits.
“I’m going upstairs to rest.” He was following the advice given to him by Dr. Sigmund Freud: when you cannot fight the impulse to slap an idiot, just leave the room.
“Anything you say, doctor.” Jonathan stroked his jaw, still reeling from two swats to the face.
“Oh.” Mina turned to speak to the professor who was already at the bottom of the stairs. “Would you mind taking my trunk up to my room as you go?”
Van Helsing’s entire body tensed. After a few deep breaths he turned to reveal a tight-lipped smile. “Not at all.” He bowed and clicked his heels. He went to the trunk and after several valiant tries conceded to himself that he could not lift it again. “Mr. Harker, would you mind helping me with this?”
“I’d be glad to.” Jonathan leapt to his feet and bounded across the room, picked up the trunk handily and placed it on Van Helsing’s back. He was on his way back to Mina when he stopped abruptly. “How silly of me.”
“Yes, I agree,” the doctor agreed sarcastically.
Jonathan went up the stairs to where Van Helsing had dropped his valise, took it and with a courteous nod handed it to the doctor. “Here you are.”
Moaning under the load, he wheezed, “Thank you very much.”
“Anytime, doctor,” Jonathan replied innocently as he plopped on the sofa next to Mina. Another ghost of dust arose.
Van Helsing sighed deeply, looked up at the steps ahead of him and began his ponderous ascent.
“Oh, Jonathan,” Mina whispered as she snuggled close to her fiancé. “I’m so frightened.”
He put his arm around her. “You shouldn’t be, dear Mina. I’m here to protect you.”
“But what if Dr. Van Helsing is right?”
Jonathan looked around at the professor and replied, “I suspect the doctor has been juicing up his sauerkraut for too many years, and it’s finally getting to him.”
Van Helsing groaned with each step he took carrying Mina’s trunk. Louder and louder.
Dracula stuck his head out of the game room door. “Children of the night, shut up!”
“I’m afraid it’s not the children of the night, count,” Mina informed him.
“Or even the wolves,” Jonathan added.
“It’s me!” Van Helsing grumbled from the staircase.”
The count walked over to the professor, bending over to peer into his enflamed face. “Could I be of some assistance?”
“Please help me with this load.”
“Let me take this valise for you.” Dracula reached for the bag.
“Hands off, dumbkoff!” Van Helsing jerked it away.
“Very well, do it all by yourself. See if I care!” He walked away in a snit.
The professor resumed his flamboyant suffering and continued to conquer the staircase step by step.
Without warning, the three wives burst into the room.
“Oh, Jonathan,” Claustrophobia cooed.
“Yes?” He looked up from the sofa.
“Come play with us!” Salacia pleaded with a lustful tone in her voice.
“Games!” He stood with the glee of a child being called to the kitchen for a plate of warm cookies straight from the oven. “I just love games!” He looked at Mina. “Would you care for a rousing game of mah jong, my dear?”
Mina was as daft for parlor games as Jonathan. She smiled, stood and was about to reply in the affirmative when Dracula caught her by the crook of her arm and pulled the young lady away.
“You would rather see my art collection, wouldn’t you?” the count asked.
“Well, I suppose.” Her lovely brow crinkled. “What do you think, Jonathan?”
By the time she looked in his direction, the three wives were guiding him through the door.
“We don’t know mah jong,” Susie Belle purred, while she stroked Jonathan’s shoulder. “But we have other exciting games.
“Oh really?” he replied. “Like Parcheesi?”
The wives just laughed as they pushed Jonathan into the game room and slammed the door.
“Parcheesi?” Mina started following them. “I love Parcheesi?”
Dracula pulled her back. “Susie Belle doesn’t plan to play Parcheesi, I assure you.”
“Jonathan will be disappointed.” She pouted a bit.
“I doubt it.” A smirk crossed the count’s pale lips. “Come, let me show you my itchings.”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, my etchings?”
“Where are they?”
Dracula led her to the wall covered by the tapestry. “In the room behind the door.” He lifted the hanging to reveal it.
“What an odd place for an art gallery.” Mina went through the door and looked down. “Oh. Stairs. You keep your art in the basement?”
As Dracula shut the door, Van Helsing finally reached the landing. Opening the center door he pushed the trunk in and collapsed on top of it. At the same Jonathan ran into the entry hall sans coat and tie.
“Shame on you!” he lectured the wives. “You don’t want to play Parcheesi!”
They swarmed into the room like licentious locusts with a bad case of the giggles. As though on cue Claustrophobia took a pose on the staircase, Susie Belle blocked the front door, and Salacia aggressively undertook a frontal assault on Jonathan. He fell backwards on the sofa. Salacia launched herself, defying the laws of gravity to land on Jonathan’s soft underbelly.
“Get off me, Salacia! I don’t think you are a very nice person!”
“You’re right! I’m not a very nice person! That’s why I’m so good!”
His mind raced for a proper comeback. “You—your ensemble does absolutely nothing for you.”
“Then I’ll take it off.” Salacia slipped the shroud’s straps off her shoulders and then proceeded to unbutton his shirt. “And you can take your ensemble off.”
“Rats.” His eyes went to the floor. “Mina was wrong. It didn’t destroy you.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have the most alluring dimples?”
“I—I don’t have dimples.”
“Then let me make you some.” Salacia opened her mouth wide to bite Jonathan.
Jonathan rolled off the sofa, jumped to his feet and scrambled to the staircase. “Oh doctor!” he screamed. “Dr. Van Helsing!” He stopped abruptly face to face with Claustrophobia. “Oh. Hello.”
“A big strong man like you doesn’t need a doctor.” She tried her best to sound seductive, but came across more as sympathetic.
“Right now I need something.” Jonathan sighed.
“I understand.” She took a hesitant step toward him. “You’re scared.”
“Out of my wits.”
“I’m scared of things too.”
“Really?” (Author’s note: I cannot stress enough how naïve Jonathan is.)
“Yes. Let me tell you about it.”
“All right.”
Claustrophobia gently guided him to sit on the stairs. She leaned in as though to whisper in his ear. “I have this dread fear of closed places.”
“Perhaps a doctor could help.” A light went off in his head and he snapped his fingers. “Dr. Van Helsing is very bright about things like that.”
“I was seeing the best doctor in the world, Sigmund Freud,” she continued, “until something happened to me that made all my fears go away.”
Again Jonathan sighed. “I wish something would happen to me to make all my fears go away.”
Claustrophobia was so close, Jonathan could feel her hot breath on his neck. “Oh, something will happen.” Her sharp fangs touched his skin.
He screamed and leapt to his feet. “Stop that!” He looked up the stairs. “Oh, Dr. Van Helsing! Where are you, Mina?
“I must have you!” Claustrophobia lunged at him.
“Let me out of here!”

Davey squinted into the light flowing from the open door to see a large man dressed in sort of fancy suit, a sea captain perhaps. He had a black beard, and his eyes seemed small but merry.
“What are you doin’ out so late, lad?”
“I’m runnin’ away.”
“From what?”
“The men who killed my ma and pa. They said I was goin’ to be sold to pirates so I ran away.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Davy could not think straight because of Lula’s smell.
“You look like a country boy to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sounds like you’re you’re from the mountains.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So why did you run away?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re makin’ the boy nervous.”
She giggled, hugged Davy and went inside. He still could not get her scent out of his head.
“Jest got tired of seein’ nothin’ but trees? Wanted to find out if all those tales you heard about open seas was right? Jest wanted more out of life than mountains?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you want to go to sea?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you ran into the right ma.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Captain Elmer Stasney, master of the Jezebel, headin’ for the Caribbean first of next week, and I need a cabin boy.” He looked Davy over. “How are old are you, boy?”
“Thirteen.”
“Strong boy, ain’t you?” He pawed Davy’s arms, shoulders and thighs.
“I guess.”
“What’s your name?”
“Davy Crockett.”
“Crockett? I met some French fellow once with a name that sounded close to Crockett, but not quite. Are your folks French?”
“I don’t know. This man was bigger than anyone Davy had ever met before, bigger in body, voice and manner, and he did not know what to make of him. “Pa always said his folks came from Ireland.”
Stasney grabbed Davy’s face in his large rough hands and pulled him into the lamplight. He nodded.
“Yep. No doubt about it. Black Irish.”
In the street light Davy could see Stasney’s feature more clearly, and they frightened him. His eyes were undersized and black surrounded by red veins. Half his teeth were missing. Those remaining were dark brown. Under the thick hairs of his beard were traces of multiple knife gashes. His nose was huge and bulbous, pitted and dirty.
“So what do you say, Davy Crockett?” he asked. “Want to see the Caribbean? Want to sail to Ireland? Want to see the dancin’ girls in Paris? Want to round Cape Horn and sail to islands where women never cover their bosoms?”
Stasney’s wicked smirk frightened him even more, but the captain’s tall tale about seeing the world made him ignore his better judgment.
“Yes, sir. I want to see all those things and more.”
“Good boy. You hungry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll take care of that.” Stasney led him back down the street and to the first pub where Davy looked in.
This time he was treated with respect. He was with an important man. The pub owner who yelled at him to go away changed his tune and nodded obediently when Stasney yelled out an order. Davy’s eyes widened when a trencher filled with fried fish and corn pone was placed in front of him. He took a small bite of the fish first. It did not taste like anything from a mountain stream but he liked it. Realizing how hungry he was, Davy crammed the fish into his mouth.
“Got some grease on your face,” Stasney said as he ran his rough fingers across Davy’s lips.
The pub owner bowed deeply as Stasney tossed a few coins his way and ushered Davy out the door and down the dark street.
“I always like to give young men a chance in life,” the captain said, putting his arm around his shoulders.
After a few minutes of winding through narrow lanes Davy heard water sloshing against boats and smelled salt in the air. They stopped on the dock to stare up at the schooner Jezebel and its two masts, fore-and-aft rigging swaying in the soft evening breeze.
“It’s thirty-six feet from stem to stern and twelve feet across,” Stasney said, bragging, his arm tightening around Davy’s shoulder and patting his arm. “Twenty-three tons in the water.” He paused. “Do you know what that means?”
“It means it’s big.”
“You don’t know your ciphers, do you, boy?”
“No.” His neck burned.
“Can you read the name of the ship?”
“It’s the Jezebel.”
“That’s what I told you.” He jerked on his arm with brusqueness and then patted him tenderly. “You got a good mind, Davy Crockett, but you ain’t got no education, do you?”
“I went to school a couple of weeks.”
“Don’t worry about it, boy,” Stasney said, pulling him closer to his sweat-drenched body. “I’ll teach you everythin’ you’ll ever need to know in this life.”

***

At the end of October, David loaded a pack on his horse, walked to his mother’s grave one last time, and squared his jaw to say good-bye to friends and neighbors gathered in his front yard. He hugged many of them and thanked them for their support through the years. He shook hands with Abner and William.
“Join me November first at the farm,” he told them.
David mounted his big chestnut and trotted down the path. A mile away he pulled up when he saw a tall, lean figure on a black mare, waiting for him at the fork of the road to Gibson County. David smiled and waved at John Wesley.
“Hello, pa,” he said in a soft, solemn voice.
“Pleased you came to say farewell.” He wished he could elicit a smile from his eldest son.
“William told me you were going to see mother and the family.”
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
“They deserve a proper good-bye.”
“Of course they do.”
After a long embarrassing silence, David looked off and sighed from the depths of his soul. “I’m sorry I ain’t the man you wanted as a pa.”
“You’re the man the Lord meant you to be.” John Wesley smiled with affection. “You did just fine. What man wouldn’t be proud to have a congressman for a father? And I treasure the memories of all our hunting trips together.”
“Thank you.” David tried to compose himself. “You’re my first born. You done better than me. A lawyer. I did the best I could by you. I taught you all I knew.”
“Tell mother I’ll visit soon. I have to go to Memphis for a month.”
“Elizabeth always appreciated you callin’ her mother.”
“She’s the only mother I ever knew. I don’t remember my real mother much.”
“Polly was a good woman.” David nodded. “You got your goodness from her.”
“You better be on your way. You want to reach the farm before dark.” He prodded his horse to move closer. “And if I don’t see you again in this life, may God bless you.”
With a final nod David turned his chestnut east toward Elizabeth’s farm. He hurried down the dirt road, realizing his time to make amends with his family was drawing short.

***

“Puppy, didn’t you know the porch was gone?” Mrs. Burch called from her backyard.
“I do now.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You fell a lot as a boy too.”
“Yes, I was always good for a laugh.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Burch.”
With a quick step Dave walked around the house and walked up the front porch steps. He heard Vince and Lonnie talking.
“I wonder why Puppy doesn’t visit any more often.” Vince said it more as a statement than a question.
“Now don’t be hard on the Pup. He gets up here as often as he can. You know, he’s always been, you know, the nervous type, and I imagine it takes all his time just trying to stay normal.”
Dave rattled the screen door to let them know he was coming back. Both of them looked up, and Vince grabbed his stomach again and moaned.
“So what do you boys want for supper?” Lonnie blew his nose wand wiped mucous away with his hand, rubbing it on his pants leg.
“I’m not hungry,” Vince said.
“I can go to the supermarket,” Dave offered.
“If that’s what you want.” Lonnie reached for his wallet. “How much will you need?”
“I got it, Dad.” Dave turned to Vince. “Can I get you anything from the store? Pepto Bismol?”
“Shoot!” Lonnie shouted. “The game’s over, and I don’t know who won. Oh well, the Rangers probably lost. They always lose.” He looked at Vince and then at Dave. “Why don’t you go with the Pup? You boys don’t talk to each other enough.”
Vince moaned, rolled off the sofa and headed for the door with Dave. He stopped abruptly on the porch steps when he saw the car.
“A Jaguar! You got to be kidding!”
“It was a Christmas present.”
“Who gives a Jaguar as a Christmas present?”
“Tiffany’s father.” Dave unlocked the door and they slid into the seats. “You still work at Texas Instruments?”
“Oh yeah. Got promoted to line boss.”
“That’s good.” Dave started the engine.
“Let’s see, what is it that you do?”
“Vice president in charge of public relations.”
“I don’t think I know what that means.”
“I don’t either.” Dave gunned his engine as he drove off.
Vince did not pursue the conversation, and Dave did not offer any details. At the grocery store Dave got a cart and gripped the handle bar firmly as they walked to the deli section.
“They have good fried chicken,” Vince said.
“Yeah, Dad’ll like that. We better get some bread and lunch meat for tomorrow.” While they were waiting for their order, Dave asked, “What happened between Dad and Mrs. Dody?”
That old broad?
Dave stiffened. Allan was back.
“That old broad?” Vince muttered. He grunted and added, “It finally sunk into her skull that he wasn’t going to marry here.”
She’s the reason daddy kept putting me in the mental hospital. She thought he’d marry her with me out of the way.
“There’s got to more than that,” Dave said to Vince, taking the chicken from the clerk and putting it in his cart, rolling away in hopes of leaving Allan behind.
“Aw, the old man hit her.”
Good.
“She tried to pull a cigarette out of his mouth,” Vince said.
That’s what she deserved, after what she did to me.
“She got what she deserved,” Vince said. “She was always a bitch to me. Tried to tell Dad I was a drunk or something.”
After they picked up the bread and lunch meat and checked out, Dave and Vince drove back home as the sun began to set.
“I don’t know what got into me,” Vince said. “I’d go to the funeral if I wasn’t sick. I mean, I didn’t like Allan, but he was my brother, and I’d go to his funeral if I wasn’t puking.”
“Has it crossed your mind that it might not be Allan?”
“What do you mean? The guy from the halfway house identified him.”
“But he was badly burnt. How do they know it’s Allan? Dave had to know for sure. If he saw the body maybe Allan would go away. He turned right, driving west.
“What are you doing?”
“Going to the funeral home.”
“Why?”
“To view the body.”
Vince followed Dave into the funeral home but turned at once for the men’s room when a large man in a black suit approached them.
“Is he all right?”
“Just a flare up of the flu.” He paused. “I’d like to view my brother. Allan Crockett.”
“Oh, we hadn’t planned a viewing. The burns, you know.”
“I know. But I still want to see, to make sure. You understand.”
“Not really. I can’t stress enough how I think this is going to upset you more than you realize.”
“I understand, but I still want to see him.”
“Very well,” he said with a sigh and led Dave into a dark room where he turned on a light.
Across the room was a pine casket covered in a gray felt. The funeral director opened the top and stepped back. Dave walked to it and looked down. He could tell it was Allan, much older, more destroyed by life, grayer and not burned as badly as he expected. Chalky makeup covered the worst of the blisters. He stepped back.
“Thank you.”

Bob and Jill found themselves again at the airport, this time with Peter, waiting for Rudolph Schmidt’s 2 p.m. plane to arrive. Jill looked at Bob with affection. “I’m beginning to feel bad, asking you to come with me all the time on these trips,” she said. “I could take my own car. I mean, I’m an independent woman. I have an apartment. I have a job.”
“You also have an awful experience to live through, and it’s nice to have someone to share it with.”
“Exactly.” She leaned into him.
“There he is.” Peter touched Jill’s arm and nodded at an old, straight-backed man walking through the crowd with his head held high.
While Jill had plenty of recent photographs of the Gurstadts, she had nothing of the Schmidts. Only Peter knew how Rudolph had aged. He was a rangy sort, sun burnt, almost bald and looking as though he might survive forever. Bob observed that Rudolph wore the similar turd-sucking smirk on his lips that his brother Heinrich possessed.
As they drove to Gatlinburg, Peter acted as a reluctant though polite interpreter.
“Ich arbeite noch das land,” Rudolph said with arrogance and continued, pausing to end with “Sie sind zu faul.”
“I still work the land,” Peter translated without emotion. “But these young people, they don’t care about the land. They’re too lazy.”
From glances in his rear view mirror, Bob could tell Rudolph took pleasure in making Peter repeat denigrations aimed at him.
“Gehen zum university…” Rudolph continued with relish, eyeing Peter as he spit out more accusations.
“Going to a university is the easy way to make a living,” Peter said. “Only real men can make money with sweat of their brows and their muscles.”
Bob looked over at Jill who was rolling her eyes. He suppressed a grin. At the Schmidts’ home Bob told Rudolph through Peter that they thought he’d want to visit with his brother before going to his hotel in Knoxville.
“Es nacht keinen interscheidzu mir.”
“It makes no difference to me,” Peter said.
Greta greeted them at the door, first nodding to her brother-in-law without much enthusiasm and then focusing on Bob and Jill with a worried look on her face.
“The lawyer, Mr. Holt, is coming over. Now he wants to talk to me about what I will say in court.”
“Don’t worry about it, Grandma,” Jill said, putting her arm around Greta and squeezing. “Remember, Mr. Holt is on our side. He wants to help keep grandpa in the United States.”
“Mr. Schmidt, here’s your brother,” Bob announced.
Heinrich looked up from his easy chair; his expression did not change upon seeing Rudolph for the first time in fifty years. His brother sat without ceremony on the sofa. They scrutinized each other as two boxers would, face to face in the middle of a ring.
“Fett,” Rudolph at last said with contempt.
“Sack du knocken,” Heinrich shot back.
“What did they say?” Bob asked Peter.
“Rudolph told Heinrich he was fat.” Peter shook his head. “Heinrich told him he was a bag of bones.”
“Grandpa,” Jill said, “we’ll leave you two to catch up while Bob and I help grandma fix some coffee.”
Peter surveyed the living room and pulled out his pipe.
“I think I’ll have a smoke outside.” He looked at Bob, his eyes blank. “The weather is pleasant.”
He went outside while Bob, Jill and Greta walked through the kitchen door, leaving Heinrich and Rudolph silent and staring at different walls. Greta first went to the stove to warm the coffee pot, but burst into tears and sank into a chair, pulling out a handkerchief to daub her eyes.
“I don’t know why you’re so upset, Grandma,” Jill said, sitting beside her.
“Remember, Mrs. Schmidt, Jeff Holt’s on our side.” Bob sat across the dining table from her.
“I don’t know what to say.” Greta shook her head. “Helga, she told me Mr. Holt seemed like a nice young man to her and that I should trust him and should do what he says. I don’t know. Maybe I could tell them what they want to hear, what they should hear.”
“No, Grandma.” Jill touched her hand. “Tell the truth. You’ll get in trouble if you don’t tell the truth.”
“I know.” Greta looked up and smiled through her tears. She wiped her eyes and furrowed her brow. “It would be different if I could talk about Oberbach.” She laughed. “I could tell them all about Oberbach.”
“Tell us about Oberbach,” Bob said in a soft voice.
Jill gazed at him with a smile.
“Oberbach was, oh, what is that word? They use it all of the time in those travel shows. Right next to the mountains.”
“Nestled?” he offered.
“Ah, yes, nestled, that’s a good word, yes. Oberbach was nestled in the hills of Bavaria, near Black Forest. Ah, my Oberbach, it was beautiful. In my mind I see it as clearly as I see this town. It reminds me of Oberbach, this Gatlinburg.”
“It was a tourist town?” Bob asked, hearing the pot beginning to boil which brought back memories of sitting in the kitchen with his mother as she prepared herself an afternoon cup of coffee.
“Oh, no,” Jill answered. “It was a logging town.” She grinned. “I’ve heard about Oberbach. It wasn’t a tourist town.” She paused to wriggle her nose. “I smell the coffee.”
“But it could have been,” Greta said in defense of her hometown as she stood to go to the stove. “It had many beautiful buildings, all many pretty colors.” Her hands, now steadier, poured out three cups. “My family’s house was prettiest.”
“It’s in the picture on the living room wall, isn’t it?” Bob said.
“Yes. That picture, though, it doesn’t show how really pretty it was.” She carried a cup over and put it in front of Bob. “I know what you’re doing, young man; you’re trying to take my mind off Mr. Holt’s visit.” She patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a good boy.”
“I told you, Grandma,” Jill said as she carried the other two cups to the table.
Greta’s smile faded as she sat down, lifted her cup and glanced away.
“If memories are too painful, you don’t have to say anything,” he said to her. “A wife doesn’t have to testify against her husband.”
Waving her hand, Greta looked at Bob and put on a brave front, but her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
“I didn’t know how bad the Gestapo was.” She emitted a sad little laugh. “It’s funny. Back then I was so proud of Heinrich in his uniform. I was somebody important too, you know. At least until the war ended.”
Jill sat, sipped her coffee and said, “You don’t have to say all of this for us.”
“But I want you to know.” Greta shook her head. “I didn’t know about Jews being killed. Please believe me.” She looked into Jill’s eyes. “Your mama, she blames me for that. I know she does.”
“Mom doesn’t blame you,” Jill said, trying to soothe her.
“What Heinrich did,” Greta said, looking at the door to her living room, “I only shudder to think. When he went out at night with his men, he didn’t tell me what they were doing. I don’t want to know.”
“Did you understand why you had to leave Germany after the war?” Bob asked.
“No.” Greta shook her head in sadness. “I couldn’t figure out why we must leave. Helga, she didn’t have to leave. I didn’t think Americans were so cruel to hurt us because we lost the war.” She looked away and sighed. “But Heinrich said we had to go, so we left. First we went to Switzerland. He made a nice living carving things out of wood. Heinrich is very talented with his knife.”
“Grandma didn’t like Switzerland,” Jill said, filling in parts of the story she’d heard before.
“Not as nice as Bavaria.” Greta arched an eyebrow. “Those Swiss, so proud of their mountains, but they’re not so pretty.”
“It’s all advertising, Grandma.” Jill patted her hand.
“Then we came here.” Greta shrugged in resignation. “Gatlinburg, it’s nice, but it’s not home.”
“So you like it here?” he asked.
“Americans, they’re strange.” She frowned. “We don’t speak English good when first here. These mountain people, they acted insulted that we couldn’t speak like they did.”
“Well, only special people can talk like a hillbilly,” Bob joked in an exaggerated accent. “You know, like me.”
Greta laughed and slapped with good humor at Bob, but then she sobered.
“That didn’t make sense. If they came to Oberbach and tried to speak my language, I wouldn’t hate them because they didn’t say words right.” She sighed. “No matter. But tourists.” Greta rolled her eyes.
“Tourists are the worst,” Jill said. “Trust me. I worked in their shop during summer vacations.”
“I can imagine.” He smiled.
“They think the way we talk is funny. I talk more like German for them. I really talk English good. Except when I forget. Anyway, tourists buy more carvings when I talk funny. I don’t care. Only lately they buy made-in-Philippines junk. They don’t know anything about quality.”
Her eyes wandered, seeming to sink into fear about Heinrich’s imminent hearing in federal court. “I think I have some oatmeal raisin cookies around here someplace,” she said in a vacant voice.
“You know,” Bob said, “it’s good to talk about your worries.”
“It’s wonderful having Helga here.” Greta nodded. “I can talk to her.”
“Don’t you have friends here you could chat with?” he asked.
“Oh, a few of the women in other shops, but they move on. Few people stay as long as we have. In many ways, it was much better we didn’t have close friends. Then few could know…” Her voice trailed off and her hands clinched.
“You were afraid they’d find out about grandpa?” Jill stroked her grandmother’s arm.
“No. Not at first, because I didn’t know.” Greta stopped to look into Jill’s eyes and put her arm around her. “You do believe me, don’t you? I didn’t know.”
“Yes, Grandma.” Jill smiled. “I believe you.”
“As I heard and read more about Hitler,” Greta continued, resting back in her chair, “his Nazis, his Gestapo, the more I worried about Heinrich. As the years went by, I heard of this man, what was his name?”
“Eichmann,” Bob said.
“Jews, they caught him and tried him and hanged him. Others, then, were caught. A housewife in New York, I think, was sent back to Germany for trial. That scared me. Not for me. I knew I was innocent. But Heinrich, he might lose his citizenship and get kicked out of the country. Edward, he would be so hurt. I could tell he knew. He asked questions, but I told him nothing.”
“How did you feel when dad changed his name?”
“Oh, we had fights.” Laughing, she showed her white, straight, false teeth. “And I cried many nights. I said he was ashamed of Germany, of his parents. But down deep I knew he was afraid of men who come in the night.” She stopped short, putting her fingers to her cheeks to compose herself. “So after a few days of crying, you know truth hurts more than lies, I quit and told my son he must live his own life. And I am proud of him. But he could be more than a car salesman.”
“Well, he does own his own dealership,” Bob said.
“He’s still a salesman,” she said, firm in her convictions. “And he has two years of college. He’s a smart boy. He could have done many things. But no.” She looked at Jill and smiled with pride. “My granddaughter knew better. She got her education. Now, that’s a smart girl.”
Peter stuck his head in the door.
“Mr. Holt just drove up.”
“Are you going to be able to talk to him?” Bob looked at Greta who stiffened.
“More specifically, are you going to be able to talk about Hans Moeller?” Jill asked.
Greta looked away, shaking her head. Tears filled her eyes. Bob patted her on the back as he stood.
“You stay here. We’ll explain it to him.”
They left her daubing her eyes and saw Peter finish introductions between Jeff and Rudolph.
“Mr. Holt,” Jill said, “my grandmother isn’t feeling well this afternoon.”
“Jeff, I don’t think it would be a good idea to put her on the stand,” Bob added.
Jeff sat in the second easy chair, and Peter sat next to Rudolph.
“I understand.” He looked at Rudolph. “With Heinrich’s brother’s help I’m sure Mrs. Schmidt’s testimony won’t be necessary.”
Rudolph smiled with contempt at Jeff.
“I want to go over what you’ll swear about your brother on the stand,” he said.
“Est ist hart.” He waved his hand in dismissal as he added a few sentences.
“It’s hard for one brother to talk about another,” Peter translated. “Especially after all these years. I don’t know if what I remember about him is worth repeating. Only reason I agreed to come was because it was a free trip, and I wanted to see if all this big talk about America was true.”
Bob noticed a slight smile flicker across Heinrich’s lips.
“I suppose all you can say about your brother is that he was hard-working.” Jeff sighed.
Rudolph let out a loud guffaw and said, “Fliebig?.” More words gurgled out.
“Hard-working?” Peter translated. “Heinrich wasn’t hard-working.”
Rudolph leaned forward to continue his tirade which caused Heinrich’s smile to fade.
“First he didn’t want to work on our farm for papa and me,” Peter repeated in English. “That’s all right. Let him do what he wants. He wasn’t getting the farm after papa died anyway. I was. So he became a woodcutter, but he didn’t cut wood.”
“Die ganze zeit fickte er.”
“All the time he was…” Peter stopped and looked at Rudolph, shocked at the old man used, his eyes frantic with the search for a euphemism. “He was having sex with every milk maid who lived around Oberbach. Then, after that one woman’s husband beat him up, he went off to Munich to join the Gestapo.”
“Gestapo?” Jeff repeated.
“Yes, Hitler’s police. Don’t you know anything?” Peter blushed at the rudeness of Rudolph’s remarks he had to translate.
“Yes, I know what the Gestapo was.” Jeff sat up. “I was hoping that part of the story wasn’t true.”
“Ja, ist es wahr.”
Peter shook his head, evidently not believing what he had to say, and translated, “Yes, it’s all true.”
Rudolph waved his arms about, looking over at his brother with a smirk.
“Then all he did was ride around in a big car and strut around like some big shot,” Peter continued. “He came to America and opened a shop like an old woman. That’s why he’s so fat.”
“At least, I didn’t have everything handed to me on a silver platter like he did.” Heinrich’s face turned red, and he shook a finger at his brother. “Vati hat ihrenalles geben!”
“Daddy gave you everything,” Peter translated with a smile. “Spoiled brat.”
Rudolph lunged toward Heinrich, spewing angry German epithets. Peter stood fast and tugged on his sleeve, pulling him back.
“I think it’s time we took Rudolph to his hotel,” Bob said.
“Yes,” Heinrich replied in a huff. “He doesn’t know how to behave.”
Their trip to Knoxville was silent. Rudolph seemed to be stung by his brother’s observations and retreated into a shell. Peter slumped in the seat, his emotions spent by having to repeat words that his parents taught him never to say. Bob and Jill, on the other hand, were mute from sheer embarrassment of the situation. After they deposited Rudolph in his room, they went down the elevator and were about to leave when Peter stopped short.
“What’s wrong?” Bob asked.
Peter nodded toward an elderly couple registering at the desk. The woman was tall, statuesque with long yellow-white hair. The man was short and overweight, bald with a certain air of education.
“That’s Eva Moeller, the widow of the man your grandfather is accused of murdering.”
“Who’s the man?” Jill asked.
“Sebastian Keitel. He teaches at a small college near Oberbach.”
“Are they married?” Jill wrinkled her brow.
“Oh no,” Peter said. “Eva vowed never to remarry. I didn’t even know she was acquainted with Mr. Keitel. I don’t understand why he’s here.”
As they turned away from the counter, Eva and Sebastian spotted Peter. After a pause, they walked with purpose toward him.
“Prepare yourselves,” he whispered. “Here they come.”
“Perfect ending to a perfect day,” Bob muttered.
Eva stretched her hand out to Peter. Bob studied her, wondering if pain and hatred made the creases in her once beautiful face.
“Peter,” she said in an even voice. “Wie sind ihre eltem und wer ist dies” She turned to Bob and Jill.
“She gives her greetings to Peter and his parents and wonders who you are,” Sebastian said. “I am Sebastian Keitel, Mrs. Moeller’s interpreter.”
“I’m Bob Meade, a friend of the family.”
“Dessen familie?”
“She wants to know whose family.”
“My family.” Jill smiled with steadfastness and extended her hand to Eva. “I’m Heinrich’s granddaughter.”
When Sebastian translated, Eva stiffed and refused to shake hands. She spat out another statement and narrowed her eyes with her conclusion, “Ich hoffe, dass er in holle verbrentt.”
“She says she hopes your grandfather is sent back to Germany where the courts can try him for murder, execute him, and she hopes he burns in hell,” Sebastian said, savoring each word.
“I want you to be my interpreter.” Jill turned to Peter. “Tell her I sympathize with her pain, but that I am not responsible for it. It’s her choice if she wants to squander what time she has left on earth hating my grandfather, but I refuse to be rebuked for what you perceive to be the sins of my family.”
As Peter spoke, Eva’s spiteful eyes softened and even were framed with humor. She nodded and extended her hand to Jill who shook it with firmness. Eva went past them to the elevator. Pausing a moment, Sebastian went out of his way to smile and shake hands with each of them. He winked at Jill.
“You are a wise young woman. I can tell you are of German heritage.” He looked at Bob. “Is this your young man?”
“Yes,” she said in an even way.
Bob smiled at the quickness of her reply, but it faded as he noticed that Sebastian assessed him.
“Take care, young man,” Sebastian said. “A woman of fire like this one will be a great prize. You must have a will of iron to keep her.”
“Women are not prizes to be won in this country, Mr. Keitel,” Jill informed him. “We are equal human beings who can choose with whom we wish to associate.”
“All women think that.” A slight smirk crossed his face. “Your grandmother thought that. I was her first, shall we say, boyfriend? She thought it was terrible that Heinrich Schmidt would beat me up everyday after school. I went to college to become a teacher, and when I came home on holiday, I’d see him preening about town with his bird feathers in his cap. And he’d still beat me up.” He paused to look deep into Jill’s eyes. “And when it came time to marry, Greta chose a man who could dominate her, not a man who would love her as an equal.”
“Sebastian,” Eva called out from the elevator.
“I must go.” Sebastian turned to Bob. “Take care, young man.”

The crossing did not go at all as Booth had planned. The strong current forced the rowboat back to the Maryland shore, where they had to hide until the next night when once again the boat ended up on the wrong side of the Potomac. On the third night Booth and Herold finally arrived on the Virginia coast at Gambo Creek, one mile from sanctuary at the home of a Mrs. Elizabeth Quesenberry. Jones had highly recommended her. Because of his injury, Booth decided to stay with the boat while Herold walked to the Quesenberry home. The sun set before Herold returned with a large broad-shouldered man and two saddled horses.
As they came closer, Booth recognized the man. He was Thomas Harbin, Cox’s brother-in-law whom he had met when visiting Mudd in Bryantown in December of 1864. Booth was glad. Harbin had a kinder disposition than Cox.
“We got us some food,” Herold said with a smile, handing a bag to Booth. “You’ll like it. Mrs. Quesenberry’s a good cook.”
“She’s not taking us in?”
“Mrs. Quesenberry is a very intelligent woman who has been an effective agent for the South. She will do what she can to send you in the right direction but also give herself the ability to tell Union soldiers that she had never met you,” Harbin explained.
“So where do we go from here?” Booth bit into a pone of corn.
“Down the road to Dr. Stuart’s house. You ought to have a doctor look at that leg,” Harbin said. “If it gets infected, there’ll be the devil to pay.”
With that, Harbin left them with the two horses, and, with difficulty, Herold helped Booth into the saddle. They hoped to reach the doctor’s house before he retired to his bed. A lamp still flickered in his window when they arrived. Herold jumped down from his horse and knocked at the door.
“Who’s there?” a voice called out.
“Two Confederate soldiers from Maryland looking for shelter.”
“Go away. I don’t take in stragglers.”
“But my brother, he’s in pain,” Herold persisted. “A broken leg.”
Stuart opened the door to peer out. “I don’t know anything about broken bones. Go to the Yankees, get your paroles and they will take care of your brother.”
“But we ain’t giving up,” Herold explained with a big smile. “We’re joining up with Mosby and keep fighting. No damn Yankees are going to stop us.”
“Mosby?” Stuart ventured out onto the porch with his lantern, squinting toward Booth. “Mosby has surrendered. I read it in the newspaper.” He walked closer to the horse raising his lantern to appraise the rider. “Yep, I can tell you’re in pain but you sit erect on the horse, your posture’s that of a well-bred gentleman. Even though you’re in dirty clothes and need a shave, I can tell you’re not a common foot soldier.”
“Kind sir,” Booth finally spoke, “if you would indulge us a few moments and listen to the circumstances of our case—of who we actually are—you will be more than willing, as a loyal son of the South, to help us out.”
“You don’t speak like a common soldier either,” Stuart added. His eyes widened. “As I recall the news of the assassination and the description of the desperadoes, one was an actor of good breeding and the other an ignorant youth of modest background. This leaves me with the inevitable conclusion I am courting disaster by even talking to you.” He turned back to his door. “I don’t want to know anything about you.”
“Have pity upon us, sir. Can’t you at least help us find our way to Fredericksburg?” Booth asked.
Before he closed the door, he stuck his head out. “A colored man by the name of Willie Lucas lives in a cabin down the road. I rent his wagon from time to time. He might help you, might not.”
After the door slammed shut, Booth looked at Herold and shook his head. “Oh, the cold hand they extend to me.”
Herold mounted his horse, and they followed the road until they reached a small, primitive cabin. By this time, it was midnight and the lights were out.
“Lucas!” Herold called out.
“Who is it?” Lucas asked.
“We need to stay here tonight!”
Lucas cracked his door. “I’m just an old colored man. Ain’t proper for me to take in white folks. I just got the one room here, and my wife is sick.”
“We’re Confederate soldiers, and we’ve been fighting for three years!” Herold yelled at the old man. “We’ve been knocking about all night, and we ain’t going one step more!”
By this time, Booth had eased off the horse and was limping toward the cabin on his crutches. Bumping past Lucas he entered the cabin and with his crutches whacked at the two beds where Lucas’s wife and son slept.
“Get out of here! We’re taking these beds tonight!”
Lucas’ grown son tumbled from the bed and stalked Booth, who pulled out his knife and waved it in the air.
“God almighty, he got a knife, Charlie! Come on, Mama, let’s sleep under the wagon tonight,” Lucas cried out, ushering his family out the door.
The next morning Booth ordered Lucas to have his son take them in his wagon to Port Conway on the Rappahannock River. When Lucas hesitated, Booth pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Mrs. Lucas. Charlie tied the bridles of the strangers’ two horses to the back of the wagon, mounted and drove the pair to the river city where they could catch the ferryboat. As soon as they arrived at the dock, Charlie wordlessly untied the horses, helped Booth out of the wagon and took off back home, creating a cloud of dust in his wake.
Waiting to board the ferry with them was a group of Confederate soldiers.
“Who did you belong to?” Herold asked with a raffish grin.
“Mosby,” one of them answered.
“Where are you going?” Herold asked again.
“None of your business,” another one replied. “And who are you?”
“We’re the Boyd brothers. Just like you. Confederate soldiers on our way to Mexico to regroup with others like you to launch an invasion.”
“Why would any man even have a thought like that?”
Herold leaned into the group and whispered, “Then I’ll tell you the truth.” He turned and pointed to Booth. “Yonder, the man on the crutches, he’s the assassinator. Yonder is J. Wilkes Booth, the man who killed the president.”
Hobbling over to the group, he said, “I supposed you have been told who I am?”
The black ferry operator called out, “Boarding time!”
Booth looked up sharply. “And who are you to be yelling at a group of gentlemen?”
“James Thornton, sir. It’s the only way I know to let folks know it’s time to get on the boat.”
“Is this your boat?”
“No, sir, it belongs to my boss, Mr. Champe Thornton.”
“Then why isn’t he giving the orders?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Champe, he used to own me and he taught me how to operate this boat so he could attend to other matters. I hope that meets with your approval, sir.”
Booth ignored Thorton’s last comment to look at Herold and say he had to mount on the horse first. He could not stand on his leg for the trip across the Rappahannock. The soldiers volunteered to hoist him upon his horse. As they guided the horse across the ramp Thornton raised his hand.
“It’s against the rules to ride a horse on the ferryboat,” he said. “Made the ferry top heavy and the boss don’t like it.”
Booth’s face turned crimson as it did if a black man ever dared to tell him what to do. “I’m injured! Can’t you see that?”
The three Confederates echoed his sentiments, putting their hands on their guns. Thornton backed up.
“I guess I can let it pass this time,” he mumbled as he retreated to the pilothouse.
The entire group gathered near the bow to continue talking after the boat cast off. The Confederates introduced themselves—Willie Jett, Mortimer Ruggles and Absalom Bainbridge—and vowed safe passage to Booth and Herold. No payment. They said they did not take blood money. By the time the ferry landed on the other side, Booth’s florid description of the assassination had completely enthralled them. He even showed them his knife, still stained by Rathbone’s blood.
On the other side as they debarked at Port Royal, Booth smiled broadly and announced, “I’m safe in glorious old Virginia, thank God!”
“Shouldn’t we pay the ferry pilot?” Herold asked.
“After he disrespected me? Absolutely not!” Booth replied.
“And I know just where you can spend the night,” Willie Jett said as he mounted his horse. “My friend Randolph Peyton lives on the other side of town with his two sisters.”
Booth nodded. “Very good. Please continue our ruse. We are brothers returning home from the war.”
The group waited on the dirt street as Jett knocked at the door. The Peyton sisters joined him on the porch. Booth watched as Jett gestured toward the men. At first one of the sisters nodded yes but the other leaned into to whisper to first one who then grabbed Jett by the arm and shook her head. Booth did not like the looks of the situation. Jett motioned again, but Booth sensed he was pointing beyond them to the house across the street. The young Confederate returned.
“Randolph’s not home, and the ladies feel uncomfortable having strange men in the house,” he explained. “I asked them about the Catlitts across the road there. She said it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
Once more Jett knocked on a door, and once more a woman answered and shook her head. Booth clenched his jaw.
“They know exactly who I am,” he muttered. “They are too cowardly to give me shelter! This is not the reception I expected.”
“I’m sure they’re doing the best they can,” Herold countered in a soft voice. “You know, we kinda have to take what we get.”
Jett walked back with a smile. “Her husband ain’t home neither. You can’t blame her, really. But she says she knows for sure the Garretts will take you in. They’re just three miles down the road. She says they got a real nice house.”
It was three in the afternoon by the time the group arrived at Garrett’s farm and an old man stood on the porch. Jett waved at him, and he waved back and smiled.
“We got two Confederate brothers returning home here. The Boyds. The older one has a broken leg. We want you to take care of them for a day or so: will you do it?”
“My boys just got home from the war,” Garrett said, stepping forward. “Of course. I’d be honored to help you.”
With a sigh, Booth slid off his horse with difficulty. “I greatly appreciate your kindness, sir. It seems you and these three gentlemen are the only true Southerners who appreciate what we have done.”

Upon hearing the professor’s dire prediction of impending doom, Jonathan leapt from his prostrate position at Mina’s feet to confront Van Helsing face to face.
“In peril? What do you mean?” he asked.
Van Helsing once again reached for Jonathan’s collar, pulling it back to reveal the two swollen bit marks on his neck. “I mean that!” The professor glared at Jonathan, then at Mina and back to the startled young man.
Jonathan scratched at the bumps. “Oh that. It’s just a mosquito bite.”
“Yes,” Mina concurred as she joined them to squint at his neck. “From a humongous mosquito.”
“And I say it was no ordinary mosquito that inflicted that wound,” Van Helsing intoned.
“Then what was it, doctor?” Mina wrinkled her pretty little brow.
“A vampire!” The old man jabbed the air with an extended index finger for dramatic effect.
Jonathan and his fiancée looked at each other and burst out in giggles.
“Oh, Dr. Van Helsing, you’re so quaint.” Mina cooed.
“Quaint, am I?” He paused a bushy Teutonic eyebrow. “Then how do you explain Mr. Harker’s bizarre and completely un-British behavior when we first arrived?”
“What bizarre behavior?” Jonathan was flummoxed as he took his best Beau Brummel pose. “I am always the perfect British gentleman.”
Mina modestly tapped him on his shoulder, “Mmm, dearest, I hate to be disagreeable, but you were running around without your trousers.”
“Oh. You noticed that.” Jonathan pulled away in embarrassment. “Frankly, I am puzzled why I was dressed like that, or rather, undressed. Perhaps this could be a dream. Yes, just like those nightmares I have had of attending Our Lady of the Perpetual Headache and suddenly realizing I’m totally naked. Yes, that’s it! This is all a dream!”
Van Helsing slapped Jonathan hard on his face. The young man’s mouth flew open while his right hand instinctively rose to comfort the offended cheek.
“No,” Jonathan said seriously. “I suppose it isn’t a dream.”
Mina put her arms protectively around him and glanced at the doctor. “But a lapse in Jonathan’s good breeding doesn’t necessarily mean he’s been bitten by a vampire.”
“Then how else would you describe it?” Van Helsing asked.
“Well….” Mina paused to gather her thoughts, then she smiled. “It’s as Count Dracula said. It’s Transylvania. Romantic Transylvania.”
Jonathan looked at her, taken aback by her observation. “Transylvania romantic? You must have taken leave of your senses, Mina dearest. Transylvania is the armpit of the world.”
“A very acute assessment,” the professor commented.
“Then if Transylvania isn’t romantic…why were you running around without your trousers?” Mina asked.
“Well, if this isn’t a dream,” Jonathan paused to look at Van Helsing and rubbed his cheek, “and obviously it isn’t, then I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Then my explanation of a vampire is becoming more plausible?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Jonathan conceded. He took Mina by the hand and guided her to the sofa. When they sat, a poof of dust flew up. “Please proceed.”
After coughing away the dust particles, Mina asked, “What exactly do you mean by a vampire? Do you mean one of those nasty bats that carry rabies or some such dreadful disease?”

“Rabies!” Jonathan exclaimed, sitting straight up. “Do I have rabies?” He looked directly into Mina’s eyes. “Tell me darling. Am I foaming at the mouth yet?”
“You do not have rabies.” The doctor shook his head.
The young man fell back in relief. “Thank goodness! I look terrible in foam.”
“But unless you are very, very careful,” Van Helsing cautioned, “you may become one of the undead lying helpless in a coffin during the day and doomed to roam the earth at night, looking for innocent victims to suck life’s blood from their necks.”
“I think I’d rather foam at the mouth.” Jonathan’s healthy luster turned wan.
Mina still had trouble with the concept. “So what you are saying is that Jonathan has been bitten by one of these persons who sleep during the day and prey on the innocent at night?”
“Sounds like someone in the entertainment industry,” Jonathan added.
“I assure you, Mr. Harker, there is nothing entertaining about a vampire,” the doctor warned him.
Mina shook her head again. “If one of these vampires has bitten Jonathan, then why hasn’t he died?”
“Because the vampires want him to become one of them. After the first bite the victim takes on the characteristics of the vampire but may be brought out of the trance by a strong good influence—as your purity and love brought Mr. Harker back to his senses earlier this evening.”
Jonathan and Mina turned to face each other and hold hands.
“Darling! You saved me! Thank you!”
“Dearest! You’re welcome!”
“Don’t be so congratulatory yet,” the professor lectured them. “Mr. Harker is still in danger. If he’s bitten a second time, he will not come out of the spell of the vampire unless the vampire which has bitten him is destroyed. And if he is bitten a third time, he will become a vampire and will, himself, have to be destroyed.
Subconsciously Jonathan touched the bite marks on his neck. “This sounds more serious than I first assumed.”
“Who are these awful vampires?” Mina asked.
“They are Count Dracula and his three wives,” the doctor announced.
Jonathan and Mina arose in unison.
“You must be joking!” he exclaimed.
“I don’t believe it,” she concurred.
Van Helsing pointed at them. “Sit!”
Like good obedient children, they plopped down creating another cloud of dust. Mina coughed.
“Did you notice Count Dracula and his three wives have hair in the palm of their hands?”
“Yes,” Jonathan replied, “but I had the good taste not to mention it.”
“That’s one of the signs of the vampire,” the professor lectured.
“Oh,” the young man replied in a vacuous tone.
“Miss Mina,” Van Helsing continued, “did you not find it strange that when we first arrived this afternoon, when the sun was still high in the sky, we banged and banged at the door, and no one answered? And it was only after we returned when the sun had set that Count Dracula opened the door?”
“I assumed they were out on an important errand, like going to a florist.”
The professor turned his attention to her sweetheart. “Mr. Harker, during your stay here, have you seen any of them—Dracula, Salacia, Claustrophobia or Susie Belle—while the sun was in the sky?”
“Well, no.” Jonathan could be dumb as a stump.
“Of course you haven’t,” Van Helsing retorted. “Because a single ray of sunlight would destroy them.”
“I can understand that.” Mina nodded with wide eyes. “If I get too much sun I blister like an overripe tomato.”
Jonathan leaned into her and whispered, “I don’t think that’s what he means.”
“It most certainly is not what I meant. I mean they will drop dead where they stand, that their bodies will decompose into molding dust!”
“How disgusting.” Mina’s lips curled in repulsion.
“And both of you have observed that they don’t drink wine.”
Mina nodded in approval. “Very sensible of them.”
“That’s because they only drink blood.”
“See,” Jonathan said, nudging his girlfriend, “I told you drinking wine wasn’t all that bad.”
“Your supposed dream of seeing Dracula crawl up the wall was no dream,” Van Helsing said, turning his attention back to Jonathan. “Vampires have the ability to defy gravity.”
“Then which one has bitten Jonathan?” Mina asked.
“We can safely narrow it to the three unholy sisters,” he replied.
“I didn’t know they were sisters.” Mina fluttered her eyes. “They don’t look a thing alike.”
“I think the doctor’s speaking figuratively,” her fiancé gently informed her.
“Exactly, Mr. Harker!” Van Helsing’s loud exclamation startled the proper British couple. “We must determine which one it is and destroy her before she bites you again!”
Jonathan leaned forward. “How do you go about destroying a vampire?”
“I know!” Mina bounced on the sofa clapping her hands. “We could tell her that her ensemble does absolutely nothing for her. I know if someone told me that I would be utterly destroyed.”
“I think he’s talking about a different kind of destroyed,” her boyfriend offered.
“I’m talking about driving a stake through her heart!” Van Helsing relished every horrifying word he spat.
His drama was somehow lost on the couple. They regarded each other and giggled. Then they looked at the professor and asked in perfect unison, “Medium or well done?”
Jonathan and Mina were so pleased with their attempt at stand-up comedy they broke into another long, loud round of giggling.
Van Helsing was not impressed nor amused by their wit. He strode briskly to the sofa where they sat and slapped both of them with one fell swoop.

The sky was clear as Randy and Mike worked in the garden of the North Carolina State Mental Hospital in Morganton, hoeing and weeding, laughing and poking at each other in mindless prattle. They did not see a tall, gaunt, sallow-faced man little by little move closer to them with his garbage bag of cuttings and trash.
“Have you ever heard of Moses?”
The boys flashed their ready and infectious smiles, learned from years of panhandling and hitchhiking.
“No,” Mike replied, “we ain’t never heard of—what did you call him?”
“Have you heard of Jesus?”
Again they shook their heads.
“Have you heard of Yahweh?”
“Who are them?” Randy said. “Where do they come from? Do they live around here?”
“Have you heard of the Bible?”
“The widder, she had a big black book,” Mike offered. “Think she called it the Bible.”
“Lotta folks talk about it.” Randy nodded in recollection. “I remember it now. What was those names again?”
“Yahweh is one of the many names of God.” John smiled, looked around to see if attendants noticed that he was idling too long in the garden. “Another name is Jehovah.”
“What does God do?” Mike said.
“We’ll have lots of talks about God and the Bible.” Patting them on their backs he continued, “But we better get back to work right now or else we’ll get in trouble.”
“I don’t want to get into any more trouble,” Randy said. “We done got into enough trouble already.”
“Tonight, at supper, we’ll talk,” John told them.
In the cafeteria that evening John carried his tray, look around for the brothers. He smiled when he saw the boys stuffing potatoes into their mouths. The indoctrination began now. He settled into a chair, put down his tray and folded his hands in front of his mouth so no attendant could see what he said.
“Hello, my friends.”
“Huh?” Mike replied.
“What do you want?” Randy asked, suspicion tingeing his voice.
“Remember? I was going to tell you about God and the Bible.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mike said.
“Now, what do you want to know?”
“I don’t care.” Randy looked off.
“What does God do?” Mike choked on a mouthful of mashed potatoes as he began his questions.
“God created everything,” John began, as though preaching a sermon, “the earth, the moon, the stars, people, and animals.”
“Well,” Randy said, as his eyes lit up with as much intelligence as he could must, and he wagged a finger at John, “God gotta be mean if He makes rattlesnakes to bite us, mamas who run away and the hot sun to make us sweat.”
“But He also made the flowers, birds and friends,” he replied.
“Hey,” Mike said, hitting his brother on the arm, “everybody got a off day, even God.” He looked to John for approval of his joke. “Those other guys you talked about. Who was they?”
“Jesus is the son of God.”
“He’s lucky to know who His daddy was.” Randy stuffed a forkful of meat loaf down his throat.
“And that other guy?” Mike took a large gulp of milk which dribbled down his chin.
“Moses,” John said. “He led his people, held against their will…”
“Hey, like us,” Randy said.
“Yes, like we are. Moses led his people to the Promised Land, where they were never unhappy again.”
“Hey, great.” Mike wrinkled his brow. “What happened to this Moses?”
“He’s still alive.”
“Oh yeah,” Randy said, his eyes narrowing. “Where is he?”
John looked around the cafeteria and then whispered, “I am Moses.”
For several days as they did their chores, watched television and ate their meals, Mike and Randy listened to John’s marvelous stories.
“Pharaoh was afraid of all male children and ordered them killed. This was before you were born. You wouldn’t know anything about it.” He paused. “Did you go to school?”
“Oh yeah,” Mike said with a smile. “A lot.”
“We got kicked out a lot too,” Randy said in bitterness.
“But we still went to school a lot.” Mike frowned.
“I was wrapped in a blanket and placed me in a basket and sent me down the big river,” John said, continuing his story. “I was raised by a princess as her own child. But later when her father, who was Pharaoh, found out I was Cherokee, he banished me to the wilderness.”
John’s eyes wandered as he remembered the day he felt as though he had been banished. It was about the tree branch growing through the steps. That was why looking at the branch, now big and strong, made him so angry. John had just returned from the hospital, and his head still hurt. His father took a knife and was going to cut a supple small twig that was peeking through the wooden slats. He could not remember exactly why cutting the twig made tears come to his eyes…it was a living thing and deserved to live…his father wanted to cut it and everything his father did was wrong so cutting the twig was wrong…it was everything…it was nothing…it did not matter anymore. All John remembered was trying to hold back tears as his father berated him for crying over something so insignificant.
“You don’t have any sense anymore, boy,” his father lectured. “Ever since you got hit in the head you’re worthless.”
His mother wrapped her arms around him, John recalled, and spit at Mr. Ross.
“Don’t you dare talk to Johnny like that!” she said in a hiss, watching tourists walking down the street. She pushed John into their living room and grabbed her husband by his elbow and pulled him indoors. “Johnny has plenty of sense! It’s you that don’t have no sense! Why did you let that white boy get away with hitting Johnny?”
“What could I do?” His father dropped his head.
“You could be a man! You could be a Cherokee!” she yelled at him. “You let white people get away with everything!” She slapped him across his face and stooped to hug John. Taking in deep breaths Mrs. Ross composed herself. “Wait here while I get my purse, Johnny, and we’ll go have an ice cream.”
John felt unprotected when she left the room, and his father leaned into his face to glare at him.
“Mama’s boy,” his father said in a whisper. “I wish you’d died from that wallop. You ain’t nothing like you used to be.”
“I’m ready,” she said coming back into the room.
His father stood straight and forced a smile on his face.
“I guess you’re right, John. I guess we can let that limb grow a little. It won’t hurt anything to let it grow awhile.”
“You better leave it alone,” his mother admonished. She took John’s hand. “Come along, Johnny. Let’s get ice cream.”
As they went out the door John watched the glare on his father’s face and felt banished from his love and approval. No one should be banished from his father’s love and approval, John thought, tightening his jaw.
“What’s the matter, man?” Mike asked. “You look like you want to hit somebody.”
“I want to hit Pharaoh.” John glowered. “Pharaoh banished me.” He sighed. “And when I was old enough I went to Knoxville. There Yahweh appeared to me in a neon light and told me to return to lead my people to the Promised Land. So I have come back to tell Pharaoh, let my people go.”
“Is doc, the bald one, is he Pharaoh?” Randy’s face darkened.
“Oh, no, the white man doctor, he isn’t Pharaoh.”
“Then who is this Pharaoh?” Randy said. “I want to hit him too.”
John began to tell them his father was Pharaoh but stopped short. His father was too weak to be Pharaoh. Pharaoh would have never let his son be hit in the head and do nothing. His father did not deserve to die as Pharaoh. Besides, he had already tried to kill him. As far as John was concerned, he was already dead.
“Pharaoh’s dead. A new Pharaoh hasn’t appeared. When he does, I’ll tell you.” John laughed and shook his head. “But no, the white man doctor, he isn’t Pharaoh.”
“But he asks too many questions.” Randy pursed his lips in a pout. “And he don’t tell us what he’s thinking. We’re afraid he talked to the cops.”
“Why should that scare you?” John asked.
“Well,” Randy replied faltering, “they’re always saying we killed people, but I don’t remember doing nothing wrong.”
“Yeah,” Mike said in agreement. “All we do is drink a little beer, and cops come pick us up and say all these bad things about us.”
“Sometimes, killing is not a bad thing.” John’s eyes narrowed and his lips formed a small grin.
“Tell us more about the things you done, Moses,” Mike said.
“One day Pharaoh became very angry with me and chased me.”
John remembered sitting in his living room with his father while his mother worked washing dishes in a restaurant. He was a teen-ager now, and his father had come to a truce with him, no affection or respect, just a truce. Looking at his father, he could not help but ask a question.
“Do you ever think about early Cherokee?”
“What?”
“Early Cherokee. How they lived. Yo He Wa, their god.”
“I told you not to talk about such foolishness,” his father said.
“It’s not foolishness. Other people talk about Yo He Wa, the seven clans, Sequoyah, Trail of Tears…”
“That’s the past!” he snapped.
“But it’s our past,” John said in earnest.
“John, the past means nothing. All that counts is getting along with people right now.”
“Mother doesn’t think the past means nothing.”
“Shut up.”
“Why do you get so mad at me?”
“Shut up.”
“Why don’t you love me?”
“If you say one more word I’m going to give you a walloping.”
“It’s not my fault I got hit in the head.”
“That’s it.” John’s father stood and charged toward him.
Scared, he ran for the door, tripping over the branch growing in the stairs, rising to his feet to scramble off their bottom stoop. John darted across the road clogged with tourist traffic toward the Ocunaluftee River. Mr. Ross followed him with determination. As John waded across the shallow mountain river, a car stopped, and a man stuck his head out his window.
“Mr. Ross,” he yelled.
John’s father stopped and turned to smile.
“I just wanted to thank you for teaching Sunday school,” he said. “My son says you know more about the Bible than anyone he knows.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Ross smiled. “I’m just doing the Lord’s will.”
The man glanced at John standing in the middle of the river.
“You and your son wading?”
“Yes. Sure,” he replied with embarrassment.
“Feels good on your feet, doesn’t it, John?” the man yelled at him.
“Yes, sir,” John replied. “Feels good.”
The man looked back at Mr. Ross.
“How’s the boy doing?”
“Fine.”
“I know that was terrible,” the man said, his eyes darting to John. “My boy says he can tell he’s not the same, you know, since then.”
John felt humiliated the man was talking about him. His son was a school bully who liked to ridicule him because he made bad grades. He knew he could not remember his school work like he had but that was not his fault. He could not help it if he had been hit in his head.
“We all have our crosses to bear,” Mr. Ross said with a sigh. “My wife and I pray every night for strength to guide the boy the best way we can. He can be a handful. Of course, the boy can’t help it.”
John turned and ran the rest of the way across the Ocunaluftee, wanting to get as far away from his father as he could, just like Moses wanted to get as far away from Pharaoh as he could.
“So I split water and walked across dry land.”
“You split water and walked on dry land?” Mike gasped in awe.
“Hmm,” Randy said, still skeptical. “If you can do that, why don’t you just walk outta here?”
“I must bide my time. These are more years in the wilderness until Yo He Wa speaks to me again.”
“Yo He Wa?” Mike frowned. “Who’s Yo He Wa?”
“That’s another name of God.”
“Why can’t God just have one name?” Randy said, grousing.
“You wouldn’t understand,” John replied. “You have to trust Moses and not ask too many questions.”
***
“Who do I see next?” Harold asked the nurse standing by his desk.
“Mike and Randy.” She looked at her clipboard. “Do you want me to bring them in now?”
He nodded. After she left, Harold took out his folder on the brothers and read. They were in their late teens; no one knew their ages exactly, but by their own account Randy was older, though shorter by a head. They suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome, which was evident from their appearance. Their eyes were small in proportion and appeared narrow. Their noses were smaller and turned up a little at the end with a flatter than usual bridge. Their ears were somewhat deformed, and their hands had abnormal creases in the palms. The brothers’ intelligence quotients were measured to be sixty-five, which made them high-grade mental defectives. Harold turned a page in the file. Mike and Randy were found on State Highway 336 four miles south of Boone, North Carolina, last month. Their clothing was soiled, their bodies caked with mud and blood, and their teeth discolored from lacking of brushing. When examined by a physician, the brothers did not know where they were from, why they were in such a condition or where they were going. They only knew their names, and that they were brothers. A local judge without delay declared them mentally incompetent and committed them to the state hospital.
“Mike and Randy are here to see you, Dr. Lippincott,” the nurse announced as the brothers loped through the door and plopped in the chairs opposite Harold’s desk. Randy hunched over and stared at the floor while Mike right away stuck a beefy finger up one nostril.
“How are you today, boys?”
Randy shrugged.
“Great,” Mike replied with his finger still entrenched up his nose.
“Hey,” Randy said as he glanced over at his brother and punched him hard in the arm, “don’t pick snot in front of doc, okay?”
Mike whined as he wiped his finger on his pants leg.
“I want to talk to you today about your mother.”
“She was bad,” Randy said.
“Hey, don’t say that.” Mike punched him in the arm.
“Well, she was.” Randy looked hurt as he rubbed his arm.
“I know.” Mike waved his hand and grinned. “But it ain’t nice to say it.”
“Did you love your mother, Randy?”
“No.”
“I did.” Mike leaned forward and laughed. “She was pretty.”
“Why didn’t you love her?” Harold focused on Randy who was staring at the floor again.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it because she drank too much?”
“Yeah, she was good.” Mike nodded with a broad smile. “She gave us all the beer we wanted.”
“Did you like that, Randy, getting beer from your mother?”
“I guess.” Licking his lips, he stole a glance toward his brother.
“You can never have too much beer.” Mike leaned back and scratched his lean, flat belly.
“God says different,” Randy said.
“Do you believe in God, Randy?” Harold asked.
“I guess.”
“Where did you learn about God?” Harold smiled.
“The widder said.” Mike sat forward, grinning.
Randy swung around and slapped his brother on the arm.
“Ouch! What did you do that for?”
“Who’s the widow?” Harold frowned.
“The widder Scoggins,” Mike replied in innocence.
“Shut up.” Randy hit him again.
Harold took out his pen and began to make notes.
“What are you writing down?” Randy asked.
“I always write in patients’ folders as we talk,” Harold replied not looking up. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You gonna call the cops?” Randy began to tighten his fists.
“Randy, as long as you’re in this hospital, you’ll always be safe,” Harold said. Continuing to write, he asked without looking up, “Where did the widow live?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “Somewhere around here.”
“You talk too much.” Randy slapped his brother on the face this time.
“Doc, he’s picking on me.” Mike put his hand to his cheek and appeared ready to cry. “Make him stop.”
“Why are you hitting your brother?”
“He talks too much.” Randy stared at the floor.
“He does?”
“He needs to shut up.”
The telephone rang, and Harold answered it.
“Yes?”
“It’s long distance from a Long Island hospital,” the secretary said. “I wouldn’t have interrupted your session, but I knew your father was from Long Island.”
“Tell the nurse to come in for the boys.” Harold squinted. “I’ll take the call.” He hung up and smiled at Mike and Randy. “You two sleeping all right at night?”
“I guess.” Randy looked away.
“I sleep good,” Mike said with a beam.
“Okay.” Harold wrote in their file. “Medications to remain the same.”
“But you didn’t tell him to stop picking on me,” Mike said.
“You tell him not to talk so much,” Randy answered with spite.
“Now, Randy, Mike has the right to say anything he wants.”
“Not when it’ll get us in trouble.”
“You won’t get into trouble” Harold assured him. He looked up to see the nurse enter. “It’s time to go. And, Randy, stop hitting your brother.”
Randy grumbled as he and Mike followed the nurse out. Harold closed their folders and waited for the phone. It rang, and he answered.
“This is Dr. Stephen Voss. Your father was admitted this morning with a stroke. According to our information, you’re his closest relative.”
“Yes,” Harold replied. “My mother died ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry to inform you that the stroke your father suffered was massive,” Dr. Voss continued. “The prognosis is not good, considering his advanced age.”
“I understand.” Harold paused. “Did he request that I join him at the hospital?”
“I asked him.” Dr. Voss hesitated. “He declined.”
“If that is his wish.” Harold sighed.
“There’s not much you could do here at this point,” Dr. Voss said, trying to sound sympathetic.
“Of course.”
“We’ll keep you updated.”
“Thank you. Good-bye.”
After he hung up, Harold thought back to the night at his father’s mansion on Long Island and again on his recent trip and his father’s insistence to remind him of his inadequacies. The prick of the crystal shard of the champagne glass still stung in his memory and kept him from mourning his father’s decline toward death. The phone rang again, and he picked it up.
“Yes?”
“It’s Bob Meade,” the secretary said.
“Put him through.” Harold waited until he heard the click. “Hello, Mr. Meade.”
“Sorry to bother you, Dr. Lippincott,” Bob said, “but I wanted to thank you for your cooperation on the story about John Ross. We’ve received a good response on its airing.”
“I was pleased when I saw it,” Harold said. “John Ross watched it too. I was observing him during the broadcast, but I couldn’t detect much of a reaction.”
“Oh?” Apprehension colored Bob’s voice.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I have a session with John today. I’ll ask him what he thought about being on television.”
“Okay.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks again for the help. Good-bye.”
After Bob hung up, Harold called the secretary.
“When do I see John Ross?”
“He’s next.”
The nurse escorted John into the doctor’s office and left. John sat across from Harold, stiffly erect and puffing on a cigarette.
“So.” Harold smiled. “How did you like being on television, John?”
“It was nice.” His face didn’t crack.
“You didn’t answer some of the questions. Didn’t you like the reporter?”
“The man was nice.” He hesitated. “He had sad eyes.”
“Then why didn’t you answer his questions?”
They stared at each other a long time. John unsettled Harold, who could figure out most patients on the first visit. John was different. Harold blinked.
“Tell me, John, how do you feel about your mother and father?”
“They’re my parents. I love them.” He smiled. “My mother is like a princess to me.”
The doctor did not blink this time.
“Isn’t that a good answer?” John asked.
“Oh yes, it’s a very good answer. It’s the answer of a man who doesn’t want to say anything that will keep him in the mental hospital any longer than he has to be here.”
“I’m a good person.”
“Yes, you are. I believe you really are. I believe you want to be good very much. But there’s something in you that keeps you from being as good as you want to be.” Harold looked down at John’s folder. “You have to take your medication to help you be good. The nurses tell me they have trouble with you about taking your pills.”
Again a long silence as Harold waited for a response from John, but none was coming.
“You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Mike and Randy. That’s very nice of you.”
“They’re frightened children.” John smiled and relaxed, slipping back in the chair. “Their eyes yearn for a father.”
“So you decided to fill that need.” Harold took a calculated chance at nettling John to see his response.
“I thought it would help.” John lit another cigarette from the butt of the one he just finished. His eyes fluttered and he repeated, “I thought it would help.”
“And has it?”
“It’s not up to me to decide that, is it, doctor?” John smiled.
“And you, John, has it helped you?”
“What do you mean?” His smile faded.
“Being a father to them, does that fulfill a need in you? I never knew you missed that. You’ve never said anything about missing a relationship with a woman that would lead to being a father.”
“What does that mean?” John sat up, his eyes narrowing. “What does a relationship with a woman have to do with anything?”
“All I meant was that I didn’t realize you had feelings of caring—of parenting, if you will—for anyone.”
“Of course I care.” John rubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “What’s the meaning of all this? I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Tell me what makes you so angry.”
“Oh, I’m not angry.” John laughed and shrugged. “Sometimes, well, you get on my nerves.”
“No, John, I don’t mean being angry at this very moment.” Harold leaned forward, hoping to induce more emotion from his patient. “I mean the anger that shows in the way you walk, sit, talk and eat. You can deny that it exists, but it does and it has separated you from society.”
“I’m sorry.” John shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean. I wish I did.”
“Is that why you don’t want to take your pills?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think you should be here?”
“My parents do, and the courts do.”
“The only person whose opinion really counts is you. Do you think you belong here? Not your parents, not the courts, not even me. Tell me what you really think.”
John paused, his eyes lit with defiance, and he was about to speak when he fell back, squinted a moment and then stared at the floor.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why yes?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you say yes because you think that’s what I wanted you to say?”
“Why should I care what you want me to say?”
“You shouldn’t. So do you really think you should be here?”
“I’ve already answered that.”
“But you haven’t told me why.”
“Must I have a reason for every answer I give you?”
“You don’t have to have a reason for anything.” Harold decided not to push him any further and looked at the folder. “Are you sleeping well at night?”
“I suppose.”
“Are you having nightmares?”
“If I do I don’t remember them.”
“Are you tired when you awaken?”
“No.”
“Very well. Do the other pills help you?”
“In what way?”
“Do they help you think more clearly, act more calmly?”
“I’m always calm.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are.” Harold smiled and looked at his folder again, deciding to provoke him one last time. “John, why do you think you’re Moses?”
“Who said that?” John turned away and pulled out another cigarette. Patting his pocket for a match, he frowned.
“You did.” Harold put on his glasses and peered at the file.
“Why can’t I keep matches for my cigarettes?”
“It’s a fire hazard. You don’t want to endanger the lives of the other patients here, do you?”
“I don’t like asking the attendants for a light.” He paused and then said with irritation, “Well, aren’t you going to give me a light?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t smoke. I don’t have any matches.” He paused, hoping he was on the verge of a breakthrough. “You haven’t told me why you think you’re Moses.”
“I said that in the past.” His hand tightened into a fist, crushing the cigarette. “I’m better now.”
“So you no longer think you’re Moses?”
“You’d think I was crazy if I said I was Moses.”