When spring arrived, Davy had saved enough money to buy himself new clothes. He could not contain his joy because he had never worn anything not sewn by his mother. The shirt was white linen and pulled over his head. Trousers and fringed jacket were soft buckskin. He showed them to Gray who nodded and smiled. When Meyers arrived in Gerardstown with news he had a new load of flour barrels for Baltimore, Davy’s eyes widened.
“Baltimore? That’s a seaport, ain’t it?”
“Yes, Master Crockett,” he replied with an air of superiority. “That’s where they keep the ships.”
“Ships,” Davy repeated in a whisper. “I ain’t never seen a big ship before. I bet those big sails are pretty.”
“The only true beauty comes from God,” Meyers intoned. After clearing his throat he added, “How much money do you have?”
“Seven dollars.”
“Too much.” Meyers shook his head. “That’s too much temptation for a young man in a large city.” He paused and stuck out his hand. “”Give it to me for safe keeping.”
He wanted to keep his master happy so Davy quickly obliged him by plopping several coins in Meyers’ palm. Within a few days Davy packed his new clothes in the back of the wagon. He walked with a light step along the Potomac River trail, wanting to talk about tall ships but was afraid of saying anything to elicit a sanctimonious reprimand. They ferried across the river at Washington and soon were south of Baltimore at Ellicott City. A group of laborers loaded wheelbarrows with rocks alongside the road to roll them down the hill where they were building a retaining wall.
“We’ll be in Baltimore by nightfall,” Meyers said.
Davy’s heart leapt as he heard the sounds of the big city in the distance, men shouting, horses neighing, wheels clattering and heavy thumping. No sounds of birds, except a strange wail of gulls, he noted. Wanting to look his best, he jumped up into the back of the wagon to change into his new clothes. Meyers’ head jerked when he heard the commotion behind him.
“What are you doing!” he shouted. “Get down from there!”
“What the–!” a wheelbarrow man grunted as he lost control of his load, pilling rocks in front of the horses. They whinnied and reared, starting a gallop down the road. Barrels shifted in the wagon, catching Davy with his pants around his ankles. His eyes popped and his mouth flew open as he jumped from side to side avoiding rolling heavy flour containers. After several close escapes from being bashed between loose barrels, Davy jumped over the back of the wagon, his feet dangling and his arms clinching the top, not caring his long johns were exposed.
Wheel barrow men ran to grab the reins and stop the runaway horses, eventually getting them under control. They laughed and patted the horses to calm them. Davy dropped from the back of the wagon and quickly bent over to pull up his trousers; then he felt a familiar whack upside his head.
“Hey! Hey!” a laborer bellowed as he walked toward them. “Don’t hit the boy! It wasn’t his fault!”
“I shall say this calmly and softly,” Meyers said, arching an eyebrow at the man. “The boy should not have jumped into the wagon. The noise caused the horses to bolt and run. He cost me valuable time and money.”
“No, I shouldn’t have done that,” Davy murmured. “I was wrong.”
“Barrels knocked a hole in the side of your wagon, another laborer said.
Meyers glowered at the cracked wood and raised his hand to hit Davy again when the first laborer grabbed his wrist.
“Enough of that.”
Meyers grumbled and turned away, stopping another wagoner passing by to make arrangements to have his barrels transported into the city and his wagon towed to a carpenters shop for repairs. That night Meyers settled into his bed at a small inn on the edge of Baltimore.
“You know I only discipline you to save your soul,” he said, eyeing Davy on a mattress on the floor by his bed. “And as the Good Book says, spare the rod and spoil the child.”
Davy said nothing but waited for his master to fall asleep. When he heard soft snoring he reached out for his new clothes and slipped from the room to explore Baltimore by night.

***

“Those folks don’t know you the way I do, David,” Abner said as he put his hand on his shoulder. “They don’t know you’re pullin’ their legs.”
David, still rubbing the grease stains on his shirt, looked up to stare into Abner’s eyes.
“Why don’t you play the fiddle for a while?” his brother-in-law asked.
A smile flashed across David’s face, and he waved to the crowd and hollered in merriment, “Or you all can go to Texas with me!”
The men roared as David waved his arms in triumph. William walked up with the bow and fiddle. David tucked it under his chin and played a happy jig followed by a reel and then a melancholy rendition of Greensleeves. Sensing his spirits were dipping again David swung into an upbeat tune. Dusk slid into darkness, and the fires in the pits began to fade. Men slapped David on the back and thanked him for the grub. Some of them ducked their heads and shuffled their feet, apologizing for laughing at him.
“I’m a politician, boys,” David said, grinning. “Nothin’ ever bothers me.”
“That’s good. We wanted to make sure,” one young man said.
“You was a purty good congressman, honest,” another added.
“Why don’t you boys join me in Texas?”
Their eyes widened, and they stepped back.
“Ain’t there a war about to break out there?”
“You boys ain’t scared of a li’l scrape, are you?” David enjoyed taking pleasure in their discomfort. He was mad at their disrespect. He remembered how he always showed respect for Adam Meyers, even when he did not deserve it. “I grew up fightin’ b’ars, bullies and bushwhackers.”
“Yes, sir, we know,” one of them mumbled.
“Don’t tell me you scared of gittin’ shot at?” David raised his voice, drawing the attention of the other men. “How ‘bout the rest of you? Y’all want to go to Texas with me?” He paused to look around. “Honest. No joke. Who wants to go to Texas?”
William stepped forward as the young men retreated into the darkness. “I’ll go.”
“That’s it!” David put his arm around William’s shoulder. “Who else?”
“I’m with you,” Abner announced.
“Me too!” several others yelled.
David felt tears welling in his eyes. Raising his head he emitted a whoop. The crowd joined him and applauded.
“Who else?” he asked in jubilation. “Who else for Texas?”
“I will!” a voice in the back boomed.
“Me too!” another joined.
“And me!”
Before long all of the men were shouting allegiance to David, vowing to follow him.
“We’ll all git rich!” he shouted. “Y’all have acres and acres of virgin land!”
They raised their fists and huzzahed.
“And we’ll lead Texas into the United States of America!” he screamed, his voice shrill and out of control.
The crowd went wild, and David’s heart beat faster, just like it did when he was on the campaign trail. He felt good again, forgetting why he was going to Texas in the first place. He lost his election. Many of the men gathered around him now probably voted against him. Tomorrow they probably would forget their promises to follow him to Texas. But David felt so good at this moment he did not care.

***

Oh yes. We know who is throwing up. Our big husky brother Vince. Remember when mother died?
“I don’t know what got into him,” Lonnie said. “You know he’s never been sick. You and Allan was always getting sick, but Vince never was, except when he was drunk.” He looked at Dave with suspicion. “Do you think he’s been drinking?”
“I don’t know,” Dave replied in a vacant tone.
I just love a good daiquiri.
“I can’t stand that drinking,” Lonnie muttered. Looking up, he waved Dave over. “Tell you the truth, Puppy, he’s getting worse. I don’t know how he holds on to his job.” He patted the divan next to his chair. “Pup, sit down here a minute.”
Dave sat near his father and sensed Allan hovering over them.
Oh, good. Gossip.
“Don’t tell Vince,” Lonnie said in a whisper, “but I don’t feel none too good.”
I hope he dies.
“I keep forgetting things. They turned the lights off on me a couple of months ago ‘cause I forgot to pay the bill. Then I got confused and paid twice the next month.”
“Things like that happen,” Dave said.
“Not to me. I’ve always been able to take care of myself. Now I’m scared I can’t do it no more.” He paused to compose himself. “No, I ain’t scared.” He squared his jaw. “Getting all nervous and scared don’t get things done.”
Catch that? He’s talking about me now. I couldn’t help it if I got nervous and scared about things. Always had to bad mouth me, the old devil.
“So what I want to do is sell the house and move into a nursing home. There’s a real nice one on the edge of town. Between what I got in my bank and money from this house I think I could handle it.”
“What about Social Security?”
“Oh, forget that.” Lonnie shrugged.
“Why, Dad? You paid into it all your life. You earned it.”
“Aw, I can’t find my birth certificate.” He breathed out in disgust. “I thought I was born in Collin County, but they don’t have it. Nobody has it.”
“The family Bible.”
“What?”
“The old Crockett Bible. They accept births recorded in family Bibles.”
“Are you sure?” Lonnie’s eyes widened.
“Yes, I’m sure. We can take the Bible down to the Social Security office after the funeral tomorrow. Do you know where it is?”
“I sure do.” Lonnie stood. “It’s over in the china cabinet.” He started over to the hutch and then turned back to Dave. “This is what I’m talking about, son.” He paused and looked into Dave’s eyes. “I need you to take things over for me.”
“What?”
“I want you to take care of things for me. Like getting my Social Security. Paying my bills. Talking with the nursing home and the doctors.”
“I live halfway across the state,” Dave replied, taken aback by his father’s request. “Vince lives right here in town. He’s the older brother.”
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Vince is drinking way too much, and he won’t listen to nobody who tells him to stop.”
More vomiting sounds came from the down the dark hall. Lonnie shook his head sadly.
“At least I know I can’t handle it. Vince don’t even know that.”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“You’re all I got, son. I can’t trust nobody else.”
Why couldn’t you trust me, you old devil? I’d take care of you and your money.
“Dad, it’ll really make Vince mad. He’ll feel like you passed him over.
Boy, what I could do with all that money.
“If Vince gets mad that’s his business. I need you to take care of my business.”
Dave shook his head; but in the end his gut told him this was the right thing to do. No one deserved to have his final days managed by someone he could not trust. “Okay, Dad. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Lonnie sighed in relief and turned to the china cabinet.
Dave stood and walked over. He had to admit he enjoyed looking at the old Bible and all its births, marriages and deaths, beginning with the signature of his great-great-great grandfather David Crockett. He had the lineage memorized—David Crockett to his son Robert to his son Ashley to his son Lonnie to David Phillip Crockett. That’s how he came to be called Puppy. Allan could not pronounce Phillip and it came out Pup which was extended to Puppy. They said he always acted like a little puppy so the nickname stuck.
Lonnie opened the glass door and reached for the top shelf on the left. His hand frantically patted an empty shelf. Turning, he looked frightened. “It’s gone.”
Looking over his father’s shoulder Dave saw Allan, puffing on a cigarette.
The last time you were in town I told you to take the Bible. He blew smoke out of his mouth by slightly opening his lips and letting it escape over his cheeks and eyes. It’s not my fault.

Bob and Jill waited at Knoxville’s airport for the arrival of her relatives from Germany, their fingers intertwined for mutual support. Jeff Holt had sent for Greta’s sister and brother-in-law to speak as character witnesses at Heinrich’s deportation hearing set for federal court in Knoxville next week. From the window, Bob and Jill could see the plane taxiing up.
“Thanks for coming with me.” Jill looked at Bob and smiled. “Grandma had to stay to take care of grandpa. Dad had to work, and mom said she didn’t think she could handle an entire family of Gretas.”
“I’m here to help.” Bob chuckled and put his arm around her. “I want you turn to me for help.”
“Thank you,” she replied, squeezing his hand. “I want you to be the one I turn to for help.”
The arrival gate opened, and a line of travelers appeared. Around a corner came an older, shorter and heavier version of Greta, a very tall gray-haired gentleman and a younger man, a head shorter than the first, somewhat soft of physique with glasses and a pipe.
“That has to be Aunt Helga and her family,” Jill said. “She looks just like grandma.”
Jill went to them, introduced herself and Bob. Helga shook her with vigor for a very long time, beamed and nodded straight away to the man with a pipe.
“Peter?” she said with a thick German accent.
“Excuse me.” He smiled and shook hands with Jill. “I’m Peter Bitner, your cousin. Unfortunately, mother and father don’t speak English so I came with them to be their translator.”
After they went to the luggage claim and walked to the parking garage, Jill turned to Peter to translate for her.
“Grandma and grandpa’s place is pretty small so you’ll be staying at mom and dad’s house in Knoxville. Since it’s early in the day, we can go to Gatlinburg first for a nice long visit with grandma and grandpa.”
Peter translated, and Helga’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, Greta,” she said.
Bob turned right out of Knoxville’s airport onto the interstate and then left on a state highway through the small college town of Maryville along rolling hills to Gatlinburg and the national park. Everyone remained silent until the blue outline of the mountains appeared on the horizon, then Helga spoke with excitement. Peter nodded and lean forward to Bob and Jill in the front seat.
“These mountains remind mother of home.”
“Yes, grandma said that’s why they settled here.”
Soon their car made its way through heavy traffic in Sevierville and Pigeon Forge, with billboards for Dollywood and other tourist attractions on each side of the road.
Helga frowned as her lips formed syllables and then turned to Peter to ask, “Dollywood. Was ist dieser Dollywood?”
Bob looked in the rear view mirror and replied, “It is an amusement park.” When he saw her blank look, he added, “Place for ha ha.”
“Ha ha? ” She bent her head to listen to Peter’s translations. “Ach,” she said in comprehension. “Ha ha.”
After passing through Pigeon Forge’s multitude of motels, shops and go-cart tracks, the car went around a curve and for a pleasant couple of miles there were just green mountain slopes and a cool mountain river. But just for a moment because once the car traveled through a tunnel of trees it was in the middle of Gatlinburg with even more shops, motels and restaurants crowded into an even smaller space than in Pigeon Forge. Helga frowned, shook her head and spoke again.
“This does not remind mother of home at all.” A smile flitted across Peter’s broad lips as he translated.
“You get used to it,” Jill said with good humor. “It can be fun.”
Bob turned left at the busiest intersection and in a few minutes took another left into the arts and crafts community where the homes and shops were spaced out along a leisurely winding country road. Helga smiled and nodded for a second time and spoke in a serene voice.
“Now this looks like home,” Peter translated.
The car pulled into the parking of the woodcarving shop with the water wheel.
“Ugh,” Helga said, making a face and following it with an expansive German phrase. “Es gibt windmuhlen in Oberbach.”
“Don’t say anything.” Before Peter could translate, Jill turned and grinned mischievously. “It was Greta’s idea.”
“Ah, Greta.” Helga nodded and winked, sharing a clandestine moment with her great-niece.
Greta flung open her front door, reached out with her arms and exclaimed, “Helga!”
Bob, Peter and Franz unloaded the bags from the car while Helga hurried to the front door, followed by Jill. Greta and Helga beamed with excitement as they grabbed each others’ hands and shook with heartiness forever, and then they both wept.
“It’s been many, many years since they’ve seen each other,” Peter whispered to Bob as they carried the bags toward the house. “They write every week and at Christmas, and on birthdays they call. But they were young women the last time they saw each other’s faces.”
Franz spoke in a subdued voice.
“What did he say?”
“He said it was sad.” Peter looked at Bob. “It’s like being faced with your own mortality.”
Inside they settled down on worn furniture as Greta and Helga chatted like little girls in the kitchen preparing drinks and small sandwiches. Heinrich was in his favorite chair and did not change his expression when his wife’s family entered. Franz sat on the far end of the sofa away from him.
“Heinrich,” Franz said in a noncommittal tone.
“That sounds like Franz Bitner.” Heinrich squinted. “But it looks like an old man.”
Sitting next to his father, Peter looked taken aback and tentative to translate. Franz patted his son’s knee and whispered comforting words.
“Erzahlen sie mir nicht, sas Heinrich sagt.”
“What did he say?” Bob said, sitting next to Peter.
“He said not to bother to tell him anything Heinrich says.”
“And this chubby boy,” Heinrich said with spiteful relish. “Can this be Franz Bitner’s son?”
“Oh, Grandpa,” Jill said in exasperation as she sat in another easy chair across from him.
“Peter.” He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“You weigh too much.” Heinrich waved it aside. You need to work hard for a living.”
“He does work hard for a living, Grandpa,” Jill said with firmness. “He’s a hospital administrator.” When she saw no response from her grandfather she added, “He’s an important person in the community.”
“Oberbach has a hospital?” He feigned surprise.
Franz leaned over to whisper to his son, “Soh von einem weibschen.”
Peter, who suppressed a smile, glanced at Bob who shook his head.
“No translation needed,” he said. “I can guess.”
“Greta,” Heinrich called out.
“Yes?” she answered from their kitchen.
“It’s time for my nap.” With that Heinrich stood and waddled out to his bedroom just as Greta and Helga appeared with a tray of refreshments.
Bob could not decide if the look on Greta’s face was one of embarrassment, frustration or relief. But it made no difference because their mood straight away lightened as the sisters put the tray on the coffee table. Greta took Heinrich’s chair, and Jill jumped up to offer her chair to Helga.
“I’ll pull up another chair and sit next to Bob.”
In a minute, Greta and Helga were drinking, munching and chattering away in German. Franz sat serenely eating a small sandwich, his attention going from the women who were catching up on their lives and to Bob, Jill and Peter who were getting to know each other.
“Uncle Franz looks really healthy,” Jill said.
“Father cut trees in the forest until he retired.” Peter nodded. “The whole town talked about the old man doing a young man’s job.”
“You must be very proud of him,” Bob said.
“He cut wood because that was all there was for a young man. He didn’t have land to farm. He couldn’t afford to buy a shop. He should have gone to a university and become a professional, but again, he had no money.”
“Life can be cruel,” Bob said.
“Truly intelligent people adjust to their situation and that’s why father is so relaxed.” Peter touched his temple with his forehead. “He accepted what life dealt him but he saw to it that it dealt me a better hand, and I’m grateful.”
He paused to light his pipe, which caused Helga to wag her finger at him and spout, “Nein! Nein!”
Greta smiled, pushed her sister’s hand down and said, “Your boy can smoke in my house. “I love the smell of a pipe.”
As the sisters resumed their reunion, Peter puffed on his pipe and glanced with admiration at his father who seemed lost in thought.
“I say all this to let you know what kind of man my father is and why he has a good-natured dislike for his brother-in-law.”
“There are times I don’t like grandpa either,” Jill said in agreement.
“So is this going to be a conflict when he’s call to be a defense witness for Heinrich?” Bob said, furrowing his brow.
“He can only testify to what he knows,” Peter said. “He knows that all the men in the Schmidt family joined the Nazi party in the thirties. Papa did not. He just cut his trees, acquiesced on the guild issue and survived the war without physical or moral scars.”
“And what about Hans Moeller?” Bob said.
“Hans Moeller?” Franz turned to his son. “Sohn voneinem weibchen.” He then whispered to Peter who nodded and looked back at them.
“Father said Hans Moeller was a big, boisterous type of fellow. He didn’t take anything seriously. Everything was a big joke to him.”
Franz nudged Peter and said, “Erzahlen sie ihn um das milchdienstmacdche,” encouraging him to relate something which made Franz smile.
“Father wanted me to tell you this story. One time, Hans told Heinrich about a woman with a cabin on the other side of the forest. He told Heinrich she liked to entertain wood cutters. So Heinrich went up there by himself to be entertained. Well, this woman’s husband came in and thrashed Heinrich. Father says this was the first and only time Heinrich ever got beat up. When he came back he was mad at Hans, but he wouldn’t do anything. Hans was bigger than he was.”
“Will he tell that story in court?” Jill frowned.
“If they ask him. Father never lies.”
The afternoon passed fast, and the group at last left to return to the Knoxville suburb where Ed and Carol lived. Dinner was a pleasant, but Bob smelled a bit of gin on Carol’s breath. He tried to catch Jill’s eye, but she seemed distracted by her mother’s condition. When dishes had been put away Jeff Holt arrived to talk to Helga and Franz.
“I suppose you folks have been brought up to speed on what the situation is here,” Jeff said. “Now all we want here is to help your brother-in-law defend himself against these charges. You all know he couldn’t have done anything like what Mrs. Moeller is saying.”
Peter translated for his parents. His father sat arrow-straight with an enigmatic pleasant smile, while Helga flashed a toothy grin reminiscent of her sister’s smile. But they said nothing. Jeff shifted with discomfort in his chair and leaned forward. His eyes went from Helga to Peter and then to Hans. He frowned and nodded his head.
“You do think your brother-in-law is innocent, don’t you?”
Again, they remained silent and smiling.
“I’m fixing some coffee.” Carol stood. “Would anyone else care for some?” She left before anyone could reply.
Franz cleared his throat and spoke in an unassuming voice, “Fur das willen von der schwester meinem ehefrau…” and continued with thoughtfulness.
Peter nodded, turned to Jeff and translated, “For the sake of my wife’s sister, I wish I could say we were entertaining Heinrich Schmidt in our home that night, but we weren’t. This was before they married, and Heinrich never came to our home before marriage and only with Greta afterwards.”
“Although I love my father,” Ed said, leaning forward with his fingers to his lips as though trying to form the delicate thoughts he was about to express, “I have to admit he has never been an easy person to get to know. He doesn’t express his feelings easily.”
“Well, of course, we don’t want you to lie,” Jeff said in measured tones. “You can at least provide a character reference for him.”
Helga’s smile remained frozen as Peter translated.
“Heinrich Schmidt war fleibig,” Franz said.
Peter turned back to Jeff and replied, “Heinrich Schmidt was hard-working.”
“And honest,” Jeff prompted.
Peter translated the word, and Franz repeated, “Heinrich Schmidt war fleibig.”
“At least you can testify he wasn’t a Nazi,” the lawyer said.
Helga laughed and waved her hand as she said, “Jeder war ein Nazi zuruck dann.”
Peter nodded, looked at Jeff and expounded, “Most people, if they wanted to advance in society, were Nazis. To belong to the Nazi party was just part of surviving in those days. To say you were a Nazi would be no different than saying you were a Social Democrat today.”
“I know my own father is a blatant racist,” Bob interjected, “but I also believe he would never do anything to physically hurt a black person. So to label a man a Nazi or a racist is not necessarily to imply guilt of a violent, criminal act.”
“That’s right,” Ed said, nodding in relief.
“So even you were a Nazi, Mr. Bitner?” Jeff asked.
When Peter translated the question Franz’ eyes widened. He shook his head and spit out a brief reply, “Nein!”
Bob glanced at Jill who gazed at him with affection.
“Thanks for trying to help,” she said in a whisper as she leaned into him.
“I’m not helping much.” He shook his head.
“Then what are you going to be able to say under oath to help your brother-in-law?” Jeff sighed and scratched his nose.
“Heinrich Schmidt war fleibig,” Franz repeated.
Before Peter could translate Jeff held up his hand, sighed in resignation and said, “I know. He was hard-working.”
Carol came back with a tray of cups and placed it on their coffee table. Helga looked up and smiled with affection.
“Danka,” she said with warm appreciation.
Carol looked at her as though she did not know how to take her compliment, which created an awkward situation in the middle of an awkward situation. Bob did not like one awkward situation, let alone two.
“No, I think it tastes like Sanka,” he said with a coy innocence.
“What?” Carol said, not catching the play on words.
“It’s a joke, Mom.” Jill elbowed Bob and laughed. “You know, danka, Sanka.” She looked at Peter and shook her head. “And I pity you trying to translate that. Sanka is a brand of coffee. It sounds like the German word for thank you.”
“Oh.” Peter turned to speak to his parents.
Helga laughed with gusto and wagged a playful finger at Bob and said, “Danka, Sanka, ha ha.”
“She still doesn’t get it,” Bob said under his breath to Jill. “But she’s laughing anyway to be polite.”
“We needed a good joke about now.” Jeff forced a guffaw.
“Unfortunately, that wasn’t it,” Bob said in contrition.
After everyone laughed, Carol sat on the sofa next to Ed and began drinking her coffee with concentration. Jeff returned to the topic of Heinrich Schmidt, at Helga in earnest.
“Mrs. Bitner, is there anything constructive you feel you could say in a court of law that would benefit your sister’s husband?”
Helga took time to sip her coffee and then glanced at Carol before she began to respond to Jeff’s question, “Ich kann ehrlich sagen das Heinrich ein man ist der autoritat achtet…”
“I can honestly say Heinrich is a man who respects authority and—as my husband said—is hard-working,” Peter translated. “He is the man my sister loves and has spent her life with. He is the father of a man who is respected in his community and is a financial success. As far as I know Heinrich Schmidt never told a lie to me.”
Jeff leaned back and furrowed his brow in consternation.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bitner. That’ll be very helpful.”
Helga stood and circled the sofa until she stood behind Carol and continued, “Als fur den vorfall Hans Moeller verwickelnd…”
“As for the incident involving Hans Moeller,” Peter said, “Heinrich Schmidt never said anything to us to indicate that he did such a thing. And in the many years that have passed in our small community where this incident happened, Franz and I have never seen or heard conclusive evidence that Heinrich had anything to do with Hans’ death.”
“Your mother should have been a lawyer.” Jeff smiled at Peter after the translation.
With a regretful sigh, Helga added, “War das gestagt…”
“Having said that, I must say that Heinrich held views which Franz and I do not share,” Peter translated. “Unfortunately, he infected his wife with those views, but I am relieved to see his son and family did not inherit them.”
She put her hands on Carol’s shoulders and continued, “Heinrich Schmidt hat leute…”
“Heinrich Schmidt judged people according to their appearance, to their job, to their religion,” Peter said. “Franz and I don’t do that. We judge each person by their hearts.”
Helga patted Carol as Peter continued to translate. “We see that a person is good to her husband and has raised a fine daughter. Our hearts go out to a person who has pain in her eyes, and we love that person.”
Carol reached up and squeezed Helga’s hand as she listened to the last of Peter’s translation.
“Franz und ich sorgen sich …”
“Franz and I don’t care what heritage a person comes from” Peter said in a whisper. “We only care if a person is good.”
“Mom’s about to cry,” Jill said in a whisper to Bob.
“I’m about to cry,” he replied.
“I take it from your last statement you could not say under oath that Heinrich is a good man.”
Helga smiled with regret, shook her head and said, “Nein.”
Carol stood and went to her made a circle with her fingers and asked, “Cookie?” She moved the circle to her mouth and bit down.
“Cookie.” Helga nodded.
They went toward the kitchen arm in arm. Helga stopped and put her hands on Carol’s shoulders.
“Werden sie mich zu Dollywood nehmen?”
Carol frowned. “Dollywood?”
“Ja. Ich will ha ha.”
“Ha ha?” She paused. “Oh, ha ha. Yes, I mean, ja.”
The two women laughed and went through the kitchen door.
Jeff shook his head and sighed.
“Maybe Rudolph Schmidt will be able to help more.”
“Uncle Rudy is coming?” Peter raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. I thought a brother would make a good character witness,” Jeff said.
Franz leaned over to ask Peter what was going on, and when Peter told him, he chuckled and said “Gehen ein charaketerzeuge fur Rudolph za sein?”
“What did he say?” Jeff frowned.
“Oh, nothing.” Peter waved his hand to dismiss the remark.
“No, tell me.”
“Father wanted to know who was going to be a character witness for Rudolph.” Peter looked at Jeff and Ed in embarrassment.
Bob and Jill stifled giggled as Franz smiled at them, lifting his coffee cup in a small salute.
“Danka und Sanka.” His eyes twinkled as he sipped his drink.
“You’re going to make me earn my money on this one, aren’t you?” Jeff looked sad-faced at Ed. He glanced at Peter. “All right, what’s wrong him?”
“Heinrich’s brother and father were members of the Nazi party during the thirties and forties. Their father was mayor of Oberbach,” Peter said. “After the war most people tried to deny they were Nazi party members, but Rudolph and his father never did. They were proud of it. Rudolph still is.”
Franz turned to his son to offer more information and said, “Rudolph ist anstandig jetzt.”
“Oh no,” Jeff said with foreboding.
“Rudolph is quite respectable now,” Peter began to translate. “In fact, he’s mayor of Oberbach. Many of the former Nazi leaders have slipped back into power.”
“Well, that’s not so bad, his being mayor,” Jeff offered.
“I think what Jeff really wants to know is if there’s anyone in Oberbach with a story about Uncle Rudy that we wouldn’t want repeated in court,” Ed said.
“Exactly,” Jeff agreed.
Bob watched him ready himself for the worst as Peter translated to Franz who gave a brief answer, sardonic in tone.
“Nict von irgendjemand still lelend.”
“I didn’t like the tone of that,” Jeff said with a frown. “What did he say?”
“Not from anyone still alive.”

The Channel Forty-three news van rolled into the parking lot of the Tribal Council Building on U.S. 440, the main street of Cherokee, North Carolina. Bob and Ernie entered the building where they were greeted by William Guess, chief of the tribal council government, a broad-faced older man with serenity in his eyes. With him was George Bigmeat, a younger, gaunt-faced man.
“Mr. Guess, I’m pleased to meet you.” Bob stuck out his hand and smiled. “I’m Bob Meade from Channel Forty-three and this is our cameraman Ernie.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Meade.” Guess turned to the other man. “This is my assistant, George Bigmeat.”
“Your phone call bothered me.” Bigmeat furrowed his brow. “I know William agreed to the interview, but I must say I have my concerns.”
“Of course. I’m sure I can help you with any questions you may have.”
“George is anxious about image.” Guess put his hand on Bigmeat’s back. “You can’t blame him. He’s head of our tourism bureau.”
“You said you got the idea for a story about Cherokee after this unfortunate incident with the Rosses,” Bigmeat said.
“There’s been quite a bit of attention to the stabbing and John Ross’s subsequent hospitalization,” Bob replied.
“You do understand not all Cherokee run around naked and stab their parents,” Bigmeat said without the sarcasm implied in his words.
“George, there’s no need…”
“If all Cherokee did run around naked and stab their parents then it wouldn’t be news, would it?” Bob paused to smile and added, “You’re absolutely right to be afraid, Mr. Bigmeat. Television news and newspapers sometimes find it easier to latch onto a stereotype, for example, a pitiful drunken Indian who has no purpose in life. The problem is they don’t want to do the research. I know that stereotype is the furthest thing from the truth. From my many visits here I’ve seen friendly, happy people working hard to make an honest living.”
“See, George,” Guess said, “we’ve nothing to worry about.”
“I own a few Cherokee pottery items with the name Bigmeat on the bottom. I don’t have many because they’re rather expensive. Is that potter in your family?”
“It’s my aunt.” Bigmeat smiled. “And I’ve always told her she charges too much.”
“Could we get on with this?” Guess looked at his watch. “I have a tribal council luncheon in an hour.”
“Of course,” Bob said. “Could we tape in front of the Museum of Cherokee History down the street? I like the large chieftain sculpture in front.”
A few minutes late, Guess sat in a chair in front of the statue while Bob faced Ernie with the camera. Bigmeat stood behind with a benign look on his face.
“Good evening,” Bob said in his best on-air voice, “this is Bob Meade reporting from Cherokee, North Carolina, for Channel Forty-three. He stepped aside to show Guess and walked to him. “With us tonight is Chief William Guess of the Cherokee Tribal Council Government to discuss the incident earlier this month when a Cherokee man stabbed his father who was dancing in front of one of the town’s trading posts.” He turned to smile at Guess. “Thank you for joining us.”
“My pleasure.”
“Mr. Guess, I’d surmise that the reaction of many viewers to this incident would be one of generalizing about Cherokee people as a whole, which would not only be unfair but also inaccurate.”
“That is absolutely correct.” Guess nodded but did not smile. “I’ve known the Rosses all my life, and they are good hard-working people. Mrs. Ross is the sweetest person I have ever met. I don’t think there’s a person in Cherokee who has ever heard an unkind word from her mouth. And Mr. Ross is the finest Christian gentleman I have ever known. He lives his religion. Turn the other cheek, and that’s what he did when his son was attacked with a stone tomahawk by the son of tourists. He didn’t file charges or sue anyone. ”
“The family of the boy never made an offer to help with John’s medical expenses?”
“No.”
“Why do you think they didn’t?”
“Not everyone can be as good as Mr. Ross.”
“A good reflection on Cherokee people,” Bob said.
“I hope so.” Guess smiled.
“Effects of head trauma followed John throughout his life, hasn’t it?” he asked, “and has that been a problem for the tribe to fight negative images?”
“Frankly, I’ve come to realize that if some white people want to think the worst of any minority, be they Cherokee, black or Hispanic, they will hang on to any bad image, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Thank you for sharing the Rosses’ story.” Bob shook his hand and looked back into the camera. “To learn how childhood head trauma can affect a person’s entire life, let’s go to the North Carolina State Mental Hospital in Morganton.”
A couple of hours later Bob and Ernie were in Harold’s office.
“To give you an idea of what I’m doing, I want to show you my interview with the chief of the Cherokee council,” Bob said.
Ernie turned on a small monitor he had brought with him, and Harold watched the tape with one hand over his mouth and his eyes almost blank, making it hard for Bob to determine if the interview would continue. After the tape, Harold nodded.
“Good, I think we can proceed.”
“Fine.” Bob smiled. “If it’s all right with you we’ll tape our segment this afternoon.”
In a few minutes Ernie had the camera running.
“Tell me, Dr. Lippincott,” Bob said, “what are effects of childhood head trauma?”
“Pediatric head trauma can lead to memory loss and lowered intelligence,” Harold explained. “John Ross certainly suffers from memory loss. From time to time he does not recognize his parents, remember being in the mental hospital or even the incident in which he was injured. His intelligence, other than memory, however has not been apparently affected. Each case, of course, is unique.”
“How about his violent behavior?”
“As a rule, pediatric head trauma in itself would not cause violent behavior.”
“So what causes Mr. Ross’s predisposition to violence?”
“I don’t know. Why does anyone become violent? The stress of modern society.”
“How can we control stress?”
“Rationalization.” Harold held up one finger. “Such as telling yourself you didn’t get chosen for the school team because the coach didn’t like you or some one paid him off or whatever.”
“And this is good?”
“Good or not, that’s what we do, and it does keep us going.”
“Fair enough,” Bob said. “What’s another one?”
“Aggression.” Harold held up a second finger. “Such as picking a fight with someone that’s angered you.” He raised a third finger. “And regression, such as acting childishly and wanting to be pampered when you’ve had a hard day.”
“That last one sounds good,” Bob said with a laugh. “I’d like to be pampered.”
“In moderate amounts. They all work in moderation. Abnormality occurs when a person selects one or more of these traits and takes them to an extreme. When this happens the patient usually has a chemical imbalance in the brain. The medical community is still studying these physical aspects of mental illness, and many are not receptive. They prefer to rely on cognitive awareness therapy, which basically says the individual can by will power stop any mental illness.”
“Like the old joke. ‘Doc, it hurts when I do this.’ ‘Then don’t do that.’”
“Right. I don’t believe that. I think the best way to address them is with medications, which are improving all the time.”
Ernie, on a cue from Bob, turned off the camera.
“Thanks, doctor, that’s great,” he said. “Do you think it’d be possible to talk with John Ross now? I’d be as respectful and non-intrusive as possible.”
Harold pursed his lips, put a finger to them and looked at Bob for a long time before answering. Bob shifted his weight from one side to the other in his seat, sensing apprehension from the doctor.
“He’s one of them with a chemical imbalance and, unfortunately, medication hasn’t helped much yet, perhaps because of the head trauma. It’s a matter of finding right drugs for his body and regulating dosage. I’m confident eventually I’ll find the right match of medications for him.”
“Oh.”
“I’d want to talk to John first to see how he would react.”
“We’ve a release form also,” Bob added. “Although, since he’s at the hospital you might be the one legally to sign it.”
“John’s in the yard now.” Harold stood. “Let me talk to him. If it appears he’s calm and cogent, you can tape today.”
“That’ll be great.”
***
John Ross sat in a lawn chair smoking in the shade of a large tree as he watched two muscular young men pour gasoline into a riding law mower and a lawn edger. If he were to escape his bondage and find Pharaoh he would need followers, young, strong men who would obey his every word.
“John?” Harold walked up.
“Yes?” Looking up and leaving his thoughts of escape, John surveyed Harold with indifferent.
“There’s a young man who wishes to talk to you.”
“A young man?” Perhaps this could be another follower. “Is he strong?”
“I hadn’t really noticed.” Harold’s eyes widened with surprise. “He’s a television reporter who has taken an interest in your case. He’s sympathetic to your situation.”
“He wants to help me leave here?”
“He wants to help people understand your problem.”
“Yes, I will speak with him.” John nodded. This could pave the way for the return of Moses, to have a herald.
***
A few minutes later Bob and Ernie were setting up on the lawn. Bob smiled warmly and stuck out his hand to John who studied it before extending his own. Bob thought his grip was rather limp for someone who fancied himself to be a warrior leader of his people.
“If you wish, we could film you from behind so your identity would be hidden.”
“And why would I be ashamed of being seen?” John looked at him with a smile.
“No reason. It’s just your choice.”
“I choose to be seen.” He raised his chin.
Bob turned to the camera.
“To help us with some insight into this problem, Dr. Lippincott has allowed us to…”
Lawn mower and edger engines started and interrupted his introduction. Ernie looked around with disgust.
“This ain’t going to work,” he said.
“Just a minute,” Harold said.
“Sure,” Bob replied as the doctor trotted over to the two boys.
From the shade of the oak tree Bob could just about make out that Harold was explaining to them that they could not run their machines right at that moment. One of the boys, larger and more muscular, whined a bit and kicked at the grass; the other, shorter and leaner, hunched his back, turned away from the doctor and spat on the ground.
“I admire their spirit,” John said.
“What?”
“Spirit,” he repeated, arching an eyebrow. “They won’t take orders from the doctor without protest.”
“Oh.” Bob furrowed his brow in curiosity as he watched John smile with intent at the boys. What an odd observation. Returning his attention to Harold and the boys, Bob saw him take some coins from his pocket and hand them to the boys.
“I like ice cream,” Bob heard the larger boy boom. The other seemed to mumble something before following the first one away.
“Yet they are able to listen to reason,” John added.
“Sure.” Bob did not know what else to say.
“That’s all settled.” Harold came back smiling.
Bob repeated his opening statement and turned to John.
“How are you today, Mr. Ross?”
“Fine.”
“You’re of Cherokee heritage, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That must make you very proud.” Bob became nervous, fearing he was not going to get anything but one-word answers.
“Why?” John cocked his head and smiled, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I couldn’t control what I was born to be.”
“So being Cherokee isn’t important to you?” He sighed, glad John was opening up.
“I didn’t say that.” He shook his head. “Don’t put words in my mouth.” He blew smoke through his nostrils and smiled. “Being Cherokee is everything to me.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“My parents had me sent here.”
“Did they do the right thing?”
“They think they did.” John looked over Bob’s shoulder at Harold and squinted before returning his attention to the camera. “The judge who committed me thought it was the right thing to do.”
“But do you think it was the right thing for them to do?”
John only puffed on his cigarette.
“Do you remember receiving a head injury when you were a child?”
“My scar reminds me.” He pointed to a faded mark on the left side of his forehead.
“Have you forgiven the boy who hit you?”
“He did not ask for my forgiveness.”
“If he had, would you have forgiven him?”
Again John just puffed his cigarette.
“Do you remember the day you were taken into custody?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why you were taken into custody?”
“Yes.”
“Do you regret stabbing your father?”
“Do you regret hurts you have inflicted on your father?”
“Why, I suppose.” Startled, Bob paused, not expecting such a question. “We all regret many things in our lives. It’s how we deal with regret that makes a difference.” He blinked his eyes, trying to regain control of the interview. “What do you think?”
John just puffed on his cigarette.
Not wanting to continue the interview, Bob turned to look into the camera.
“John Ross left many questions unanswered perhaps obscured in cigarette smoke that swirls around his head. Pride, injury, forgiveness and acceptance become enigmas. Until smoke and mystery clears, society will continue to seek solutions to problems caused by pediatric head trauma.”
Bob nodded to Ernie who turned off the camera. Harold came up to him and shook hands.
“Very nice. Thank you for coming today. Drop by my office and I’ll sign the release form.”
“I’ve got it right here, doc,” Ernie said.
“Good, come with me.”
After Harold and Ernie left, Bob turned to shake hands with John.
“Thank you, Mr. Ross, for a very informative interview. I’m sure you’ll help many people who watch it on television.”
John’s limp handshake became a vise as Bob tried to pull away. Bob looked down at his hand in surprise mixed with apprehension. John stood and peered into Bob’s eyes.
“What is your name?”
“Bob Meade.”
“When I asked you about your father I perceived pain in your eyes.”
“Not really.” Bob blinked. “I’ve got to go. Perhaps we could talk some other time.”
“I can help you lose your pain.” John pulled him closer.
They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity to Bob before he shook his head and yanked his hand from John’s grip. He could smell John’s breath and body odor, and he shuddered in revulsion.
“I have no pain,” he said forcing a firmness into the tone of his voice.
“You lie.” John smiled.
Bob’s face reddened as he opened his mouth for a reply, but nothing came out. After an awkward moment of being transfixed in John’s gaze, he turned and bolted across the lawn to the hospital door, down the corridor to Harold’s office where he gathered Ernie and headed for the exit and their van.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said in a whisper.
“You look scared to death.” Ernie chuckled. “Did that weirdo pull a knife on you?” When Bob only glanced at him without expression, he sobered and agreed, “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
Bob felt the back of his neck burn as their van sped down the highway toward the interstate which would take them back to Knoxville. Ernie and the driver turned the radio onto a country music station as Bob tried to remember the last time he felt this frightened and embarrassed. Memories little by little came to him. It was also a hospital, Clinton Memorial Hospital where his mother lay dying of cancer.
Bright lights of the hospital corridor blinded Bob’s sleepy eyes. A slender built fourteen year old, he sat in an uncomfortable metal folding chair with his bulky, lumbering father waiting to hear the inevitable bad news. His eyes wandered to a calendar. It was June thirtieth. July fourth was the next week. For the first time in his life, Bob did not care whether it was Independence Day or not. Who could care about firecrackers when his mother was about to die?
A door opened, and a doctor appeared. He approached Bob and his father.
“I’m sorry, but the end is near. You better go in now.”
Bob remembered his father’s standing, his eyes red and his chin rough with stubble.
“Thanks.” He looked down at Bob. “The boy better stay out here. He gets upset real easy.”
“I understand.” The doctor escorted Mr. Meade into his wife’s dark, silent room.
Bob remembered looking around at the nurses’ station and imagining the women were snickering at him. His neck burned red when he heard them giggling, even though as he listened, he discovered they were discussing the quality of meat loaf in the hospital cafeteria. The doctor came back from his mother’s room, paused to pat him on the shoulder and went to the station to write in his notepad. Bob stole glances at the doctor, and their eyes made an embarrassing connection. He wondered what the doctor thought about him. He must have thought Bob was a coward, and the boy wanted to prove him wrong.
A moment later Mr. Meade came from his wife’s room, leaned against a wall, and tried with all his masculine skills not to cry, but he failed as tears trickled down his cheeks. He moaned in misery as his big hand went to his face to cover his mouth. The doctor went to another room, and nurses seemed intent on deciphering a chart. Bob looked with intent at the door to his mother’s room and sucking in his stomach trying to summon courage to prove everyone wrong. He was not a coward. Unobserved, Bob slipped into his mother’s room.
Bob’s nostrils flared, taking in an oppressive smell, a combination of an assortment of medications and minor incontinence from his mother, but he in particular remembered being convinced he was surrounded by the stench of death.
“Hello, baby,” she said, struggling to lift her head and focus her eyes on him. “Come closer.”
He forced his eyes on the bed, lit by a small lamp in an otherwise black room. There lay the remains of his mother after cancer ravaged her body and took all the vibrancy from it. Bob almost did not recognize the woman in the bed even though he knew it was had to be his mother because of the voice, though weak, was hers.
“Come here, Bob baby.” She smiled as she lifted her shriveled arm which was connected to an intravenous needle feeding her morphine.
The familiar smile girded Bob for a moment, and he took a few steps toward her until he looked at the arm extended, beckoning him. Her hospital gown lay open, revealing her withered bosom. Finally her arm slumped from exhaustion, and no more pleas for him to move closer escaped her lips. Fear and shock welled up inside his chest, making Bob feel as though he would burst if he did not escape. Turning for the door, he ran into the intravenous line, tearing the needle from his mother’s arm.
“Oh, Bob.” His mother groaned and whimpered in pain.
He froze, staring at the blood dripping from her arm. Even now, many years later, in the news van, his mind dwelt on his last memory of the pain his mother experienced so close to death, caused by his craven cowardice. All these years Bob avoided his father because he feared his father knew what happened that night even though Mr. Meade was still dissolved in tears when Bob came out of the hospital room. No one else knew he failed his mother in her dying moments, Bob knew what he did was wrong and compounded his sin by punishing his father for it. What a spineless coward he was, Bob repeated to himself. And now John Ross knew. Somehow this mentally ill man peered into his soul and sensed his shame.

Upon hearing Van Helsing’s dire prediction for Jonathan’s future, Mina rushed to her fiancé, putting her hands to his face.
“Jonathan dearest! Facing certain death! Doctor, what can I do to help?” She looked deeply into his wild animal eyes. “I love you more than words can express.”
Mina and Jonathan gazed into each other’s eyes for an endearing moment until Jonathan blinked and changed his demeanor into that of a proper English gentleman instead of a vampire animal. Van Helsing smiled knowingly and pointed at Mina.
“You have already done it.”
Jonathan smiled naively. “Why Mina, darling, what are you doing here?”
“We’ve come to bring you home. But you don’t remember greeting me earlier?”
“No. I did? I don’t remember.” He paused to shiver. “Excuse me. This castle is so drafty.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t the castle that’s drafty,” she replied. “It’s you.”
“What do you mean, dearest?”
Mina’s cheeks turned pink. “Look down.”
When Jonathan turned his attention to the floor, he noticed he had no trousers on. Going knock kneed, he screamed like a proper English schoolgirl and ran through the double doors. Dracula went to Mina’s side.
“It is Transylvania,” he explained. It is a land of mystery and romance. Once you cross her borders, you find yourself giving in to your innermost desires and cravings.”
“It almost sounds frightening.” Her voice trembled.
“You shouldn’t be frightened.” Dracula extended his arm around her shoulders. “You should welcome it.”
Van Helsing quickly intercepted Dracula’s advances on Mina by grabbing her arm and pulling her away. “You will not be frightened. I will protect you. And you will not welcome the allures of Transylvania. I will prevent it.”
The three unholy wives ran through the double doors, with Salacia leading the way, waving Jonathan’s trousers over her head. Jonathan scrambled in, chasing them with the fervor of a rugby player.
“Give me my trousers!”
“You have to catch me first!” Salacia shouted.
Jonathan tripped over the sofa. Mina’s instinct was to go to him but Van Helsing pulled her back. Claustrophobia, on the hand, did stopping prancing about to check on the former rugby bench warmer.
“Be careful,” Claustrophobia warned. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Yesss!” Susie Belle hissed as she passed by and tried to scratch Jonathan. “We want that pleasure for ourselves!”
Jonathan stood and rushed toward Salacia, pleading, “Give them here! Please!”
“How polite!” Claustrophobia marveled.
“How limp wristed,” Salacia sneered. “I hate weak men!”
He put his hands on his hips. “I make it a practice not to manhandle ladies, but in your case I’ll make an exception!”
Resuming his attack, Jonathan went after Salacia, who threw the trousers to Susie Belle who tossed them to Claustrophobia who successfully lateraled them back to Salacia.
“It looks like they’re playing keep away,” Mina observed. “What an annoying game.”
Waving the pants over her head, Salacia ran back into the game room with Jonathan on her heels. Dracula blocked Susie Belle and Claustrophobia before they could join them.
“Pardon me,” Count Dracula said, “I haven’t introduced my wives.”
Mina glanced at Count Dracula, still curious about his enigmatic background. “Are you sure you’re not a—“
“No, I’m not,” he interrupted, a hint of impatience in his voice. After a deep sigh he resumed his composure. “Remember? This is romantic Transylvania.”
“I assure you,” Van Helsing said, raising a bushy eyebrow. “I won’t forget where we are.”
In an effort to change the subject, Dracula pointed to his wife with the high frilly collar. “This is my newest wife Claustrophobia. We met when I visited Vienna.”
She stepped forward, acting a bit timid, and curtsied. “I was undergoing treatment from Dr. Sigmund Freud. I had a fear of being in enclosed places.” She glanced nervously at Count Dracula.
“I know of Dr. Freud.” Van Helsing nodded with sympathy. “He is a good man. Does he know of your marriage to Count Dracula?”
“Nein.” Claustrophobia cleared her throat. “I had my usual 9 a.m. appointment. But the evening before I was to go to his office, as I walked home from work, the count stepped out of the shadows. He looked at me with such piercing eyes, full of fire. I must have blacked out. When I awoke I was on the midnight train to Transylvania, and Count Dracula informed me we had fallen in love and married within a few hours.”
“And once we were home in Transylvania there was no need for doctors,” the count explained.
“I would assume Dr. Freud was disappointed your appointment,” Van Helsing said.
“I’ll say,” she replied quickly. “I hadn’t paid my bill.”
Once again, Dracula saw the need to change the subject. “And this attractive lady is Susie Belle.”
“Susie Belle?” Mina was confused.
“Wanna make somethin’ of it, Meeena?” Susie Belle growled.
“You’ll have to excuse Susie Belle’s manners,” the count interceded. “She is from the American South. I met her on a trip to New Orleans a few years ago.”
Mina turned to wag a finger at Van Helsing. “I knew he had to have visited the colonies. The people there are such a corrupting influence.”
“You say anythin’ bad about Dixie, honey, and I’ll scratch your eyes out.” She lunged toward Mina, her arms extended and her high-glossed fingernails arched for attack.
However, before she could inflict any damage to Mina’s fair complexion, Dracula pulled her away. “Now, now, Susie Belle. These people are our guests.”
Salacia appeared through the double doors, giggling and holding Jonathan’s trousers over her head. Jonathan raced through the game room door pursuing Salacia. They circled the room before heading for the stairs.
“And this swift minx is my first wife Salacia. What an impish sense of humor she has.”

Where you headed for, sir?” Davy asked, catching up with the pious-looking man on the other bank of the Rappahannock River.
“Gerardstown, young man.” He kept his chin high and his eyes straight ahead.
Davy glanced back into the Conestoga wagon and saw large wooden-staved barrels bound with rusty metal, several of them, tied together with rope.
“What do you have in those barrels, sir?”
“Bolts of cloth,” he replied with a serene smile. “Sturdy flannel.”
“Yes sir, nothin’ like it. My ma uses it all the time.” Davy did not know flannel was but still was sure his mother had used in sometime, so that really was not a lie. He stuck out his hand and grinned. “I’m Davy Crockett from Morristown, Tennessee, sir.”
“Adam Meyers,” he said, shaking Davy’s hand. “I’m from Tennessee, too.” Meyers paused. “What are you doing so far away from home?”
“Earnin’ money for my family, sir.” For the next hour he spun a wonderful tale of devotion to a family wracked by disaster and illness. He told of his personal sacrifices to keep a roof over their heads and vittles on the table.
“Very good,” Meyers interjected from time to time, nodding in agreement. “Honor thy father and thy mother.”
Davy had never known a man who quoted the Bible so much. His family did not have much time for God, not that they did not believe in God; they just had other things to do. He decided to keep that information to himself.
“Goin’ to Tennessee anytime soon?”
“After I unload the flannel in Gerardstown I’ll get a new load, God willing, to carry back to Tennessee. I don’t see why you can’t travel with me back to your family.”
Several days passed as they walked north along side of the oxen pulling the Conestoga wagon, with a few moments of silence. Davy told him how he encouraged Thomas Jefferson to run for president. Then he explained in vivid detail how he shot a big mean brown bear. When Davy ran out of stories, Meyers intoned with solemnity on the spiritual vacuum of the nation.
“These are perilous times, Master Crockett. No country has ever survived without faith, and our people, young man, have abandoned God. Churches have empty pews. Jesus is coming again soon, and America will be destroyed for its sinful ways.”
Davy nodded, not knowing what to make of his new boss. Adam Meyers seemed of another world, a better world. Perhaps he could teach Davy to tell the truth. Late one night lit by a full moon, they rounded a hill of tall pine trees and Gerardstown appeared. Davy became aware no one had spoken in some time, and silence made him uncomfortable. He looked up at the stars and sighed deeply.
“God, ain’t they purty?”
A sharp blow crashed into his temple, leaving him with a profound pain encircling his skull. He shook his head and looked in bewilderment at Meyers whose eyes stared straight ahead on the road.
“Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Yes sir,” Davy said, mumbling, his eyes down.
In the distance, a raccoon’s trill broke through the cool air, and Davy’s heart went out to the frightened creature because he knew how it felt.

***

Elizabeth, tall and broad shouldered, walked to David and kissed him on the cheek. He put his hands on her ample hips and returned her kiss by pressing his lips to hers, only to feel no response. David felt awed by his second wife’s presence, her thick, solid arms, large bosom, stocky legs and piercing, soul-searching eyes. She always smelled of soap.
“I’m sorry my sisters have raised such a fuss,” she said with a proper precision.
“Ain’t your fault.” His eyes turned to his children. “Robert, you’ve grown since spring. Why, you’re almost as tall as me.”
His nineteen-year-old son, built sturdy like his moher’s side of the family, nodded with brusqueness. When David realized he was not going to get any more of a response from Robert, he turned to his older daughter.
“Sissy, why are you decked out in black? A gal your age should look pretty,” he said with a smile.
“I’m still mournin’ grandma.” She was slender and frail like most Crockett women. In many ways she looked more like Polly, his first wife who died at age twenty-seven.
“Oh. That’s right.” David’s eyes looked away, ashamed he had already forgotten how hard his sensitive daughter had taken his mother’s death. She cried for days, sitting by the freshly dug grave of her grandmother. Elizabeth did not have the words to console her. The only time Sissy seemed to calm down was when David put his arm around her slender shoulders and told her stories about her grandmother. Then he had to leave for the congressional campaign and he promptly left behind all thoughts about Sissy’s grief.
Before he could say anything else to her, his fifteen-year-old daughter Matilda grabbed him around the waist and hugged with force.
“Oh, pa, it’s so good to see you,” she said, her voice overflowing with flirtatious energy. “And I jest cried for days when I heard you lost the election. Why, how any could any man vote for anybody but David Crockett, I can’t imagine.”
“That’s quite enough, Matilda,” Sissy said. “It ain’t proper for a young woman to be so loud in a public place, let alone talkin’ about a topic best left to the menfolk.”
“I’m David Crockett’s daughter,” she replied with a chirp. “Of course I’m goin’ to be loud. What else would people expect?”
“You’re also Rebecca Crockett’s granddaughter,” Sissy said.
“Now hush, girls,” Elizabeth intervened. She returned her solemn attention to David. “I supposed you’ve been huntin’.”
“Yes, me and Abner went out to the ‘canes with Sam Houston. We didn’t kill much of nothin’. Sam’s only here for a while before goin’ back to Texas. He thinks there’s a chance for a fight.”
“I reckon you’ll be goin’ to Texas too,” Robert said.
David raised his eyebrows with false surprise. ‘Why, I ain’t given it much thought either way.”
“I think that’d be jest wonderful,” Matilda said, her face beaming. “David Crockett always needs some new battle to fight.”
“Battle?” Sissy’s eyes widened.
“I didn’t mean a real battle,” Matilda said with a giggle. “I mean, everythin’ is battle in a way.”
“But there’s hard feelin’s out in Texas,” Robert added.
“We’d like for you to come to the farm if you have time’” Elizabeth said. Her voice intensified, which made Robert take a step back and look down. “We miss you very much, you know.”
David had no fears when he faced wild animals and hostile politicians but none of them made him as uneasy as his own family. He never had the courage to ask Elizabeth why she chose not to move to Rutherford fork with him. Elizabeth broke the silence after looking across the chancery courtroom.
“I had hoped John Wesley would come over to say hello.” She sighed. “I haven’t seen him all week.”
“Why, ma, he’s a busy lawyer now. He can’t be visitin’ family all the time,” Matilda said with a laugh.
“I know that,” Elizabeth replied. “But he’s my window on the world. He’s the one who told us about the election. We wouldn’t know nothin’ about you at all if it wasn’t for John Wesley.”
“He won’t come out of this office,” Davy said. “He don’t want the kin to think he’s partial to our side.”
“He’s a good man.” Elizabeth nodded. “No one can accuse him of not bein’ fair.”
“Always been that way.” David paused to grin. “’Course he’s worse now that he’s found religion. He thinks he’s goin’ to Paradise on a streak of lightnin’.”
Matilda laughed, but stopped when she saw the frown on her mother’s face.
“I don’t think it’s proper to make fun of folks and the Lord,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, ma’am, you’re right about that, Elizabeth. I jest opened my mouth and let the quick and easy joke float out.” Suddenly David felt an urge to go raccoon hunting, even tonight. He wanted to hear the raccoon’s pathetic cry.

***

Taking a deep breath Dave opened the torn screen door and stepped inside. He felt like a raccoon trapped in a cage. He stopped short. If his mother were alive, the sight of her living room, covered with years of dust and its furniture neglected to the point of deterioration, would kill her. A small portable black and white television sat on top of a broken console set and flared out a Texas Rangers baseball game. His father Lonnie laid prone in a worn recliner with its foot rest stuck out. His mouth was wide open as he snored. Dave shook his head when he fingered tattered curtains on windows whose panes were blurred with grime and tobacco smoke. Smell of cigarettes curled up his nostrils.
Next his eyes wandered to the far wall which contained a kitchen alcove framed by formerly white molding, now dirty brown. The natural gas stove was smeared with grease, and the chipped porcelain sink was filled with dirty dishes. He remembered how Vince was convinced Allan had become a homosexual because their mother made him wash dishes.
Dave grimaced when he noticed a mottled spot on one of the kitchen cabinet doors. He remembered the day his mother had painted them and left them open to dry. Dave ran into the alcove after school waving a test paper with “one hundred” on it and smacked into wet paint. She twirled him around and swatted his bottom. He remembered blubbering apologies and offering to repaint the door.
“No, it’s too late,” she replied curtly. “It’s ruined. I guess I’m not meant to have anything nice.”
Dave forgave his mother for her outburst. Cancer cells were already spreading through her body beginning to cause indeterminable aches and pains which shortened her temper and eroded her sense of humor.
Next to the alcove was a dark hallway leading to two bedrooms and a bath. He shuddered and forced himself not to dwell on what happened in the small bedroom with his brothers at night. Their parents were just across the hall, but they might as well have been half a country away because once his father went to sleep no one dared open his bedroom door.
What a dump.
Dave jumped, and his stomach knotted. He recognized that voice, Allan’s flawed imitation of Bette Davis. Turning with dread he saw the image of his older brother as he looked before Dave moved to Waco.
Don’t you just love Bette Davis? No matter what part she plays you can always tell it’s her by the way she darts her eyes up to the left and then up to the right.
“Not anymore. She’s kind of retired. Doesn’t make very many movies anymore.” Allan was dead; and like his mother in his dreams, Allan was still here. It would be rude to tell him he was dead.
How triste. How tres, tres treste.
Dave expected him to say some common phrase in Spanish next. Allan first majored in English because that was what their father told him to do. Someone informed Lonnie if a person had a degree in English he could always get a job teaching. Allan had other ideas. He showed a minor talent for Spanish and French in high school, so when he flunked English courses he switched to Spanish and when he flunked the advanced grammar courses in that language he switched to French, which Allan also failed to comprehend on a complex level. Perhaps if Dave made himself think of something else, Allan would go away, so he looked around the room again, this time his eyes catching a light bulb in its ceramic base dangling from wire to the ceiling.
“This place is a mess,” Dave said muttering.
He tried to get me to clean it up, the old devil.
“Mother must be spinning in her grave,” Dave said, shaking his head, still hoping Allan would leave.
He killed her, you know. Sex, sex, sex, all the time sex.
Wake up dad, Dave told himself, wake up dad, and Allan will evaporate. He touched his father’s shoulder and leaned over to whisper, “Dad?”