Mike and Randy sat under a large magnolia tree in Widow Scoggins’ backyard in Boone, North Carolina, each finishing the last beers in the six-pack by their sides. They forgot how many they had drunk. Mowing grass and trimming bushes made them thirsty, and the widow told them to spend their money any way they wanted, and they always wanted beer.
“I want some more.” Mike belched at the top of his voice and scratched his hairy, muscular belly.
“You rub yourself too much.” Randy eyed his brother. “It ain’t right to rub on your own body like that.”
“Well, what are you gonna to do about it?” Mike sucked on the can, trying to get out the last drops.
“Nothing.” Randy pulled his legs up into his chest and grabbed them with his sinewy arms. “If I fought you, you’d just beat me up.”
“Aww, I wouldn’t beat you up.” Mike laughed. “You’re my brother.”
“But if you did fight me, you could beat me up.” Randy buried his face between his legs. Mike was about six feet tall, broad-shouldered and thick-chested.
Randy was half a head shorter and much thinner. “That ain’t right. I’m older than you. I should be able to beat you up, not you beat me up.”
“You ain’t gettin’ mad at me again, are you?” Mike whined, twisting his face in simplistic despair. “I hate it when you get mad at me and stop talkin’ for days. Please say you’re not mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you.” His voice was muffled from between his legs.
“Good.” Mike smiled his big dumb smile again. “What you need is some more beer. Want some more beer?”
“Maybe.” Randy pulled his head up, pursing his thin lips.
“Beer, beer, beer. I love beer.”
“You ain’t supposed to talk like that.” He stood and threw his can into one of the bushes. “The widder don’t like it.”
“Well, the widder ain’t here.”
Thelma Scoggins, widow of a prominent Boone banker, allowed the brothers to sleep in the room over her garage in exchange for doing chores around the house. When they first wandered into town, she tried to locate their parents but to no avail. Then she attempted to enroll them in a local public high school, but they kept getting into fights and being expelled. Finally the school told Mrs. Scoggins they looked older than eighteen so they were too old be in school anyway.
“Besides, we can’t get no more ‘cause we’re out of money,” Randy said.
“Hey,” Mike said, jumping up, “the widder keeps money in her bedroom.”
“What if she catches us? She’ll kick us out. This is the best we ever had.”
“Yeah, the widder is pretty nice,” he said, nodding his full head of tousled hair. “Older than Mama, though.”
“I hate Mama.” Randy hit his brother’s arm. “I told you not to talk about Mama again.”
“That hurt.” Mike rubbed where the fist landed. “I don’t know why you don’t like her. Mama was always nice. She shared her beer.”
“I hate her.” Randy turned away and picked up the shears to head for the garden shed. “She pushed us in the closet when she let those guys get on her.”
“I thought it was funny watching them.”
“Those guys were more important than us.”
“Yeah, but she taught us what people will pay for. That’s helped a lot.”
“We wouldn’t have to know about that if she hadn’t kicked us out.” Randy walked out of the shed. “Just left us on the highway.”
“She couldn’t take care of us no more,” Mike said in defense of their mother. “We were all grown and could take care of ourselves, she said.”
“Other mamas take care of their boys.” He slammed the shed door.
“Don’t get mad.” Mike twisted his face. “I hate it when you get mad.”
“I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at Mama.”
“You need a beer.”
“We ain’t got money.”
“The widder won’t know if we take any money.” Mike grabbed Randy’s arm and dragged him in the back door and up the backstairs to Widow Scoggins’s bedroom.
“I don’t want to do this.” He tried to pull back, but his brother was too strong and forced him up the steps. Randy could feel himself becoming angrier, and he did not like it. He knew beer made his head swirl with resentment, but he still had an uncontrollable urge to drink it. He sensed anger growing inside him just thinking about how beer made him act.
“So what if she kicks us out? We can always get more money from somebody.”
“You brag too much. I hate people who brag too much.”
“You worry too much.” Mike burst through the door and headed for her chest of drawers. “She won’t even care. She’s nice.”
“She’s not that nice.” Randy lingered at the door, looking down the dark hallway. “She treats us like we’re puppy dogs. I ain’t no puppy dog.” Anger moved up from his gut, and he wanted to stop it. He wandered into the room and somehow felt comforted by the faded flowered wall paper and wispy lace curtains blowing at the open windows. He went to the widow’s dressing table, covered with yellowed pictures of old people and tiny bottles of colored water. He picked up one of the bottles and sniffed. Anger continued to go down some. Her perfume relaxed him and caused his mouth to curl up into a tiny smile. “This smells nice.”
“What?” Mike was into another drawer.
“This bottle.” He held it up. “It smells nice.”
Loping over, Mike grabbed the bottle from his brother and stuck it up to his nose, shrugged and mumbled, “Yeah, real pretty.”
“It smells like somebody we met once.” Randy furrowed his tanned brow and looked at his brother. “Do you remember who?”
“I don’t know.” Mike put it down and went back to the chest and opened another drawer. “Maybe she got money down here.”
“Flowers.” Randy picked up the bottle again. “It smells like pretty flowers.”
“Dummy.” Mike sniffed in derision as he concentrated on the contents of the drawer. “All that stuff smells like pretty flowers.”
“No, it smells like special flowers. Not all women smell like these flowers.”
“Hey.” Mike laughed and lifted the widow’s underwear. “Look how big these panties are. She must have a really big butt.”
“It was that woman who picked us up in a big black car.” Randy remembered. “She smelled like that. She bought us lots of beer. Her lips were red, like roses.”
“Damn. I ain’t found no money.”
“And she liked me best.” Randy’s dull brown eyes brightened at the memory, and his anger was almost gone. “Other women wanted you, but she really liked me. She wanted me.” His brow furrowed. “I don’t remember how that night ended.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Widow Scoggins appeared in the doorway and stopped abruptly. “What are you boys doing in here?”
“Hey.” Mike turned and laughed. “We want money for beer.”
“You boys know I don’t approve of drinking.”
“You gonna kick us out, ain’t you?” Randy’s dark eyes narrowed. He could feel anger roar back, stronger than ever, more than he could control.
“I can’t very well let you stay now, can I?”
“Who cares?” Mike continued to push clothes around in the drawer.
“We ain’t goin’ to jail again.” Randy walked toward her, with his wiry shoulders hunched forward.
“Why, no, boys.” The widow’s eyes widened. “I won’t call the police.”
“You better not!” Randy clinched his jaw, grabbed her fragile shoulders and shook.
“Randy! Stop now!” she said. “Please my heart!”
“Shut up!” He slapped her hard.
Widow Scoggins staggered backwards into the hall and out of Randy’s grasp. Her eyes glanced behind her at the staircase and the phone on the landing.
“I’m sorry, Randy,” she said in a whisper. “We can forget this whole thing. I can give you more money. That’s no problem. I can go get it now.”
Mike’s head turned toward her, and he smiled. “More money?”
“Yes, boys, I can get you more money.” She hesitated, smiling to try to hide her fear. “You wait right here and ….”
“She’s lyin’,” Randy said, saliva flying from his lips. “She’s a damn liar, just like all the others.”
“No, boys,” she said, backing toward the stairs. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Liar!” Randy lunged at her, hitting her in the chest.
“No!” Widow Scoggins fell backwards, clutching her boney chest as she tumbled down the stairs, landing like a bundle of old rags.
Randy and Mike walked down the stairs to stand over her.
“She’s dead,” Mike said after kneeling and putting his ear to her chest.
“Good. I’m glad she’s dead.” Randy paused. “She was always talkin’ about that surgery she had, bypassing her heart and everything. I think that really killed her. The cops ain’t gonna blame me for her droppin’ dead.”
“Well, there’s only one thing to do.” Mike grabbed her purse, stuck his hand in and pulled out a wad of bills. He grinned and waved it in his brother’s face. “Let’s go get some beer.”
“Okay.” Randy turned for the door. Maybe beer would make his anger go away. It never had made it disappear before, but he still wanted some.
“Don’t that look funny?” Mike pointed at her and laughed.
A stream of blood trickled down the corner of Widow Scoggins’s mouth mixing with her saliva.
***
A baby blue-colored Mercedes passed through an intersection of downtown Boone as Randy and Mike left a convenience store with several six-packs of beer under their arms. The Mercedes’ passenger side window rolled down, and Dr. Leland Lippincott looked out, shaking his white-haired head in disapproval.
“Those young men should be in school.”
“What?” Dr. Harold Lippincott, his son, a compact, tanned middle-aged man, took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at his father.
“I hope you pay more attention to your patients, Harold.” He grunted.
“My attention should be on the road while I’m driving and not on pedestrians,” he replied.
“Hmm.” Dr. Lippincott was silent a moment. “Why on earth a man like Jeremy Blackstone would want to live in a town like this after a lifetime in Boston I have no idea.”
“Appalachian State University offered him a position of professor emeritus and a generous stipend to retire here and lecture several times a year,” Harold explained in a cool deliberate tone. “He’s well respected in North Carolina.”
“He was respected in Massachusetts, and respect in North Carolina is an oxymoron.”
“That type of arrogance is rather old-fashioned, Father,” Harold said.
“Quality is never out of date.” His father wagged his finger. “Don’t forget that.”
“I hope you enjoyed your visit with Dr. Blackstone.” Harold sighed.
“It was pleasant enough.”
“I hope the drive from Morganton to Boone didn’t exhaust you.”
“Just because I’m eighty years old doesn’t mean I’m an invalid.”
“Of course.” Several minutes passed in silence as Harold took surreptitious glances at his father whose wan complexion and dullness in his ice blue eyes belied his bluster. “You’re quiet. Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine, thank you,” Dr. Lippincott replied, looking at his son with condescension. “I don’t understand why any man would do anything as immature as shaving his head.”
“We had this conversation twenty years ago, remember?” Harold smiled.
“It was the night of your medical school graduation. We were in my den, toasting.”
“And I said I was going bald anyway. Shaving gave me an air of distinction.”
“Then you made the grand announcement you wanted to specialize in psychiatry.”
“I wouldn’t have been happy in general practice.”
“I understand that. I’d have been bored if I hadn’t gone into neurosurgery.” His father put his finger to his lips as though choosing his words carefully. “I still think gynecology, obstetrics or allergies would have been more suited to your capabilities.”
Harold gripped the steering wheel, remembering holding a crystal wine goblet in his hand that night many years earlier, contemplating how it was formed with perfection, like his father, and how cold it was, also like his father.
“My counselors believed I had excellent qualifications to be a psychiatrist. I wanted to help people.”
“Help people?” His father without much success restrained a guffaw.
“I graduated top third of my class. I am not stupid.”
“And I was first in mine. Don’t try to compete with me, Harold. I’ll win every time. Your grades showed you took tests well. I know how you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t have a grasp of the intangible workings of the human mind. You’d do fine counting birth pains, that’s tangible.”
“Stop it!” Harold slammed his hand into the steering wheel, causing his car to veer somewhat into another lane. He winced as he heard cars honk.
“I remember you had a similar tizzy fit that night in my den.” The old man sniffed. “You knocked one of your mother’s finest goblets from my hand, shattering it. She said it didn’t bother her, but I know it did.” He grunted in contempt. “Imagine a person who cannot control his own emotions thinking he can make other people control their emotions.”
Harold thought back to that evening and how he dropped to his knees, trying to pick up pieces of glass, but pulled his hand back sharply as he cut himself on the stem’s jagged edge. A drop of blood appeared. In the car, he stared at his hand, trying to find the faded scar.
“Do as you wish,” his father said. “You always have. But mind you, one day you’ll make a fatal mistake in a diagnosis, and you’ll remember what I said.”
“In twenty years I’ve had a successful practice in Manhattan and am now chief resident at the state mental hospital in Morganton and no one has died of a misdiagnosis yet.” Harold breathed in, knowing he should not regress into childhood, allowing his father to chide and lecture.
Several miles went by without a word. Neither man was aware of the distant Appalachian Mountains’ lush green foliage. Dr. Lippincott’s visit was a total disaster. He did not approve of the hospital where his son worked nor of his new young wife and was not hesitant to voice his judgment. Harold looked over at his father whose breathing had become labored. Maybe his father was too old to modify his beliefs. Dr. Lippincott was in his forties when he finally became a father and was too preoccupied saving lives to adapt to the art of nurturing one unexceptional child.
“I’m sorry I forced you to visit me here,” Harold said. “We hadn’t seen each other in several years.”
“Since your mother’s funeral.”
“Anyway, I thought it might be pleasant for you to see your old friend Dr. Blackstone and to see how…” Harold paused, almost choking on his words. “…how well I’m doing at the state hospital. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.”
***
Later that night, Mike and Randy staggered along the highway, south of Boone, drinking the last of the beer they bought after leaving Widow Scoggins’ house. Mike giggled, but Randy brooded as usual, hugging the almost empty beer carton.
“Man, you ain’t no fun at all.” Mike laughed as he came up behind his brother, grabbed around his waist and lifted Randy off the ground causing him to drop the box.
“Leave me alone.” He struggled to get free.
“No, I ain’t.” Mike continued his hold. “I ain’t lettin’ go until you grin or laugh or do something funny.”
“I said let go.” Randy twisted with such ferocity that both boys lost their balance and tumbled down the embankment into a small stream.
“Okay, that’s something funny.” Mike laughed and released him. “You can go.”
“You stupid dummy.” Randy stood and shook like a drenched dog. “Now what are we gonna to do?”
“Aw, we’ll dry off in an hour or two.”
They trudged back up to the road.
“Where are we going to sleep?” Randy picked up the beer carton and hunched his shoulders as he walked away from his brother. “We ain’t got no beds now. And no clean clothes. And tomorrow mornin’, how are we gonna eat?”
“Don’t blame me.” Mike ran to catch up with him. “You killed the widder.”
“I didn’t kill her. It was her heart. It ain’t my fault.”
“Maybe we can stay in a motel.” Mike reached for his wallet. “That’ll be fun.”
“Do we have enough money?” Randy glanced at his brother as he pulled bills out of his wallet.
“I don’t know.” Mike held up a fistful of bills and frowned. “There ain’t very many of them. Do you remember how to figure this stuff out? Each man is worth so much, some a lot more than others.”
“I told you we shouldn’t have bought so much beer.” Randy turned and started walking down the highway, still hugging the carton like it was a security blanket.
“Aw, don’t worry about it.” Putting wallet away, Mike followed him. “We always make out, don’t we?” He grabbed at the carton. “Hey, we got any beer left?”
“Just one.” Randy jerked away. “And it’s mine.”
“No,” Mike said with a laugh. “It’s mine.”
“No!” Randy pulled from Mike with violence, causing the carton to fly from his arms. When the beer can hit the pavement it exploding, spewing foam all over the highway. He glared at his brother. “See what you made me do?” He leaped at Mike, knocking him down, pummeling him with his boney fists.
“Stop it! That hurts!”
A car’s headlights appeared up the road, causing the boys to stop, stand and squint. It slowed and stopped. Stepping into the headlights’ glare were two uniformed state highway patrolmen.
“You boys okay?”
“You leave us alone.” Randy eyed them with suspicion.
“Where are you from?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “Mama never told us.”
“Shut up!” Randy hit him hard on the arm.
“Oww! That hurt!”
“That’s enough of that.” A patrolman with a bit of a paunch stepped in between them.
“This ain’t none of your business!” Randy took a swing at the officer who grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind back, knocking him to the ground.
“I think you boys better come with us.” The patrolman reached for his handcuffs.
“Go where?” Mike asked.
“For your own safety, we want to put you under custody.”
“You mean, jail,” Randy said.
“Yes, son. You’re going to jail.”
“You’re not gonna put me in jail.” Randy twisted around and bit the officer’s hand. “Get off me! Leave me alone!”
“I’m not going to hurt you, son.”
The other patrolman turned Mike around and placed handcuffs on him and asked him, “Who’s the president?”
“What?”
“What day of the week is it?”
“What?”
“What’s one and one?”
“What?”
“I thought so.” He pushed him toward the patrol car as the other officer pulled Randy to his feet.
“Does your jail have TV?” Mike asked.

“Secretary Stanton is very busy at this time,” Captain Eckert said in a muted tone.
“But this is mein house!”
Stanton stood and walked to the door and opened it In the early morning hours of Saturday, April 15, noise subsided at Peterson’s boarding house across the street from Ford’s Theater. Soldiers sat on the stairs and leaned against the walls, waiting for the inevitable announcement that Abraham Lincoln was dead. Edwin Stanton was deep in thought when a commotion erupted outside the back parlor door.
“I demand to speak to the man in charge!” a voice called out urgently in a thick German accent.
abruptly. “What’s going on here?”
“This is mein house!”
“So you are the proprietor of this boarding house. What’s the problem?” Stanton asked, staring without expression at the disheveled man.
“That boy did not have the right to let you come in here. This is mein house!”
“What boy is he talking about, Eckert?”
“Henry Stafford,” the captain replied. “He’s the one who waved us over from Ford’s Theater.”
“Now there is blood all over mein floors!”
“Exactly what is your name?” Stanton asked gruffly. “You don’t sound like an American, if I may say so.”
“I am Wilhelm Pedersen, I mean, William Petersen, und I am an American citizen. I have owned this house since 1845, und I know the Constitution. You cannot billet a soldier in a private home without permission of the owner!”
“This is not a soldier but the President of the United States.”
“The President is commander-in-chief of all armed forces, und that makes him a soldier!” Petersen insisted.
“The President of the United States is in that bedroom,” Stanton stated, pointing across the hall, “fighting for his life. If you continue to make a commotion, it will further deteriorate his condition. If he dies you could be charged as an accessory to his assassination.”
Petersen’s mouth fell open. “But his blood is on mein floor.”
“And who did you vote for in the last election?” Stanton asked, stepping forward.
Cursing in German, Petersen turned away and stomped upstairs. Stanton heard him go up to the third floor and slam a door.
“Very well handled, Mr. Secretary.”
Stanton turned to see two men, one short and fat and the other tall and thin. He knew they were U.S. senators but at the moment could not recall their names.
“I’ve always admired your way of handling people,” the short, fat man continued. “My friend, Sen. James Lane, and I felt we must pay our condolences as it were. Is the president still among us, to phrase it delicately?” He leaned in and smiled.
“The president is not expected to survive the night, Sen. Lane,” Stanton said, taking a step back to avoid the stench of onions and beer on the rotound senator’s breath.
“Dear me, no. This gentleman is Sen. Lane. I am Sen. Preston King of New York. Surely you remember me. I have been one of the president’s biggest supporters.”
“You’re no bigger a supporter of the president than any other Republican,” Lane replied in a raspy voice. “If you’re a Republican, you support Abraham Lincoln. That’s all there is to it.”
Stanton began to tap his foot, impatiently. “We appreciate your support, gentlemen. I do not want to risk the health of two of our most important senators so I would understand if you wished to return to your quarters–”
“Oh, I am not a senator anymore as of last fall,” King said. “Since then I have been available to serve my country in any capacity. In fact, the president had considered me as collector of customs in New York. I do not know if Mr. Lincoln had mentioned his intentions in this matter…”
“For God’s sake, King, this is not the time to hunt for a job,” Lane interrupted. “Mr. Secretary, do you happen to know if Vice-president Johnson is here?”
“Mr. Johnson visited earlier but returned to the Kirkwood to rest,” Stanton replied. He removed his glasses, rubbed his hand across his face and sighed. “I think it would be best if you two gentlemen did the same…”
“Vice-President Johnson and I are very close friends,” Lane said insistently.
“I’m sure you are.” Stanton put his glasses back on and looked around for Captain Eckert.
“May we see the President?” King asked, taking another step closer to Stanton. “Perhaps if he knew his friends were nearby it would give him strength to rally.”
“The room is too small for visitors. Gentlemen, I must insist…”
The front door opened, and Lincoln’s 20-year-old son Robert entered. Stanton observed his shoulders were stooped and his large brown eyes were red and puffy. King turned and extended his arms.
“My poor young man…” King effused.
“He’s here to see his mother.” Stanton took Robert’s arm and led him to the front parlor door. “She’s in here,” he whispered to him.
Robert tapped on the door and opened it.
“Mother?”
“What is he doing here?” Mrs. Lincoln screeched.
“They said you wanted to see me,” Robert whispered, transfixed in the doorway.
“I want to see my baby boy! I want Taddie!”
Robert backed out and shut the door. Stanton put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and felt his body shaking. He guided him down the hall. “Your father is in the bedroom on the right. I’m sorry about your mother’s outburst. I’m afraid this tragedy has been too much for her.”
After Robert walked away, Stanton covered his mouth with his hand to hide a small smile. Mrs. Lincoln’s erratic behavior would prove to anyone who talked to her that she was insane and her accusations of being held in the White House basement were groundless delusions.
“Oh my dear,” King said, “no one should ever know of Mrs. Lincoln’s madness. How terrible if the public knew…”
“I don’t see how we can keep it a secret,” Lane interrupted. “She’s crazy as a loon.”
“I suppose we should leave,” King said to Stanton. “But remember that if there is anything we can do to help our country at this time of dire tragedy, please remember us.”
“Yes, we are the friends of the new administration—I mean, Mr. Johnson when he becomes president. And you too, of course, Mr. Secretary,” Lane added.
Stanton removed his hand to show his smile. “Yes, gentlemen, I think the two of you will become invaluable in the coming months to save our nation.”

Several hours later the passenger ship docked in England. As the gangplank lowered, tiny Alice Wrenn edged closer to the edge so when the board finally hit the mooring she was positioned to alight first and run to wave down another open carriage. Again she sat in front while Clarence and Boniface bounced into the back seat still fencing.
The driver turned to wag a finger at them. “No fighting! This is a proper Puritan transportation business!”
Alice threw herself into the driver’s arms and kissed him with shameless vulgarity. When she pulled away, the driver had a silly smile on his face.
“Actually, my wife is the Puritan of our family. She insists I run my business the way her father ran his. Personally, I don’t give a bloody damn.”
Pouting her pretty lips, Alice promised, “If you get us to Hampton Court quickly, I’ll kiss you again.”
The driver cracked his whip, and off they flew, knocking Clarence and Boniface on their asses but just for a moment. As the carriage rocketed out of sight, Maria raced down the plank and tried to whistle down another carriage. However, the only form of conveyance available was a donkey cart. Maria climbed into the seat next to a driver that smelled of his own animals. Rodney and Steppingstone climbed into the back and fenced as they tried to keep their balance in the hay pile.
Meantime, in the Hampton Court throne room, Queen Elizabeth sat in her huge, ornate chair holding her bonky sounding scepter. Robin stood deferentially by her side. A small group of courtiers stood in front of her, nervously shifting their balance from foot to foot.
“Gentlemen,” she announced gravely, “we have received no word from our valiant heroes in Spain. Until we hear from them, we can only wait with prudence and eagerness to protect our shores from the impeding Spanish invasion.”
They bow and slowly back out of the room.
“Good.” Robin’s eyes twinkled. “We’re alone.”
The queen extended her arms. “Come to Bessie, baby!”
Robin wriggled onto the throne and hugged Elizabeth with a verve created only by the release of sexual tension. They kissed with appalling slurping and smacking. This display of passion gone awry continued for several minutes until interrupted by the doors being slung open. Alice ran to the throne as Clarence and Boniface continued their fencing, although the elder courtier was showing signs of flagging vitality.
“Your majesty!” Alice announced loudly. “We’ve discovered the identity of the traitor!”
“Not now!” She waved her scepter over her head. “Can’t you see I’m busy!” She returned to attacking Robin’s tonsils with her tongue.
Maria ran in and approached the throne with bold determination, announcing in her most patriotic English accent, “Your Highness! We have the traitor!”
“It’s no use,” Alice confided with a sigh. The Virgin Queen is occupied.”
Robin pulled away for an instant. “Hah!”
After bonking him with her scepter, Elizabeth pulled him back into her clutches. “Oh, shut up and kiss me!”
Rodney and Steppingstone finally arrived, still fencing. They started circling around in the throne room, coming dangerously close to nipping both Clarence and Boniface. Maria scurried over to Steppingstone to smack his bottom with her strong hands.
“Look, your Majesty!” she repeated, “we have the traitor!”
“I said don’t bother me!”
The daring escapade was quickly dissolving into unmanageable madness when Alice screamed and swooned in the middle of the room. Surprisingly, her fit captured everyone’s attention, ending the royal canoodling fest and both fencing matches. Clarence dashed to lift Alice from the cold marble floor.
“My darling!”
In his arms, Alice, eyes aflutter, smiled. “Oh, Clarence.”
“Can’t I get any privacy around here?” the Queen harrumphed.
“But, your Highness,” Rodney pleaded, “there’s a traitor here!”
“Traitor!” Robin echoed in shock as he stood, dumping Elizabeth on the floor. He quickly helped her to her feet.
“All right, all right,” the Queen grumbled. I won’t get anything important done until this traitor business is cleared up. Tell us. Who is the traitor?”
“Lord Boniface!” Clarence declared as he placed Alice in an upright position.
“Lord Steppingstone!” Rodney announced triumphantly.
Clarence and Rodney looked at each other quizzically.
“Steppingstone?”
“Boniface?”
Clarence furrowed his brow. “Who are you?”
“Rodney Broadshoulders. Who are you?”
“Clarence Flippertigibbit.” He smiled and extended his hand. “So nice to meet you.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t go down with the Aquamarine Pigeon.” Rodney pumped Clarence’s hand.
Steppingstone and Boniface traded perplexed glances.
“You mean you were working for Phillip?” Boniface asked.
“Yes.” Steppingstone added in a childish tone, “I was going to get Wales.”
“But he was going to give me Wales!” Boniface stuck out his lip.
“That’s what you get for not being loyal to Queen Elizabeth!” Robin lectured them.
“Yes, for placing your own greed before the well-being of England, you are hereby doomed to ignominy!” The Queen turned to smile at Clarence and Rodney. “But you two valiant young men shall be knighted and glorified for your selfless duty to your Monarch!”
Clarence bowed with extreme drama. “Thank you, your Majesty. Your generosity is unparalleled.”
“No thanks is needed.” Rodney bowed awkwardly. “We did it for England. This other Eden, demi-paradise, this royal throne of king, this sculptured isle—“
“Sceptered! Sceptered!” Clarence interrupted with severe irritation.
“Are you sure?” Rodney shot back.
Alice smiled with embarrassment as she approached Maria. “So your lover was a spy for Elizabeth after all.”
“And your fiancé as well,” she replied with a proper English clip.
“So we weren’t in love with the same man,” Alice said.
“We were both mistaken, it seems.”
Alice laughed. “I don’t understand how we could have been so foolish.”
“When you spoke of a valiant warrior, I only thought of Rodney.” A patronizing smile flickered across her lips. “Clarence is sweet, but he is only a boy.”
“I beg your pardon.” A distinct edge entered her voice. “Clarence is the hero of many naval battles.”
“Do you want to compare biceps?” Maria glanced over at her lover. “Rodney, put up your arms.”
“Ladies! Ladies!” Elizabeth announced in her most queenly manner. “Why the silly bickering? In the eyes of his lover, every man becomes a hero.”
“You are correct, your Majesty.” Maria extended her hand to Alice. “I’m sorry. Clarence is a true hero. And I assure you, he was always a gentleman when he was under my dress.”
“And Rodney was always well behaved as we traveled in cognito as Gypsies.”
“I’m terribly sorry for calling you a twit.”
“And I’m sorry I made those snide comments about your name.”
Maria hugged Alice. “You’re so sweet. I feel so guilty.”
“There, there.” Alice patted her back. “Don’t fret. All is forgiven.”
They pulled apart and held hands.
“I’ve a marvelous idea!” Maria squealed in delight. “Why don’t we have a double wedding!”
The girls jumped up and down and giggled.
“How marvelous!” Alice gasped. “And we could wear matching gowns! I know the most marvelous seamstress!”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said loudly in an attempt to regain all the attention. “Love will conquer all, even the fleet of King Phillip, which will be approaching soon.”
“Yes! The invasion!” Rodney smacked his forehead with his beefy palm. “There’s no time for weddings while the Spanish fleet is at our door!”
Clarence lifted his epee in salute to Rodney. “We’ll joined our swords to repel the evil that threatens our shores!”
“Well said, young men!” Robin boomed.
“Let this Armada come!” Elizabeth joined in the saber-rattling.
“What’s Armada?” Rodney asked.
“I don’t know,” Robin replied. “What’s Armada with you?”
Elizabeth bonked him again with her scepter. “We are ready! With the ardor and passion of our young people, we shall overcome all obstacles and when the foe is vanquished, there will be time for wedded bliss.”
“Yes.” Clarence took Alice in his arms. “It is a bless I long for.”
Rodney followed suit with Maria. “I’ll count the hours until I can say I do, and we do.”
Both couples engage in unhinged ardent smooching.
“Ah, young love,” Elizabeth sighed contentedly.
Robin hugged his Queen. “Old love ain’t so bad either, Bessie.”
They hopped back on the throne and resumed their previous session of lovemaking. Steppingstone and Boniface observed at all the preoccupation with romance, then glanced at each other and shrugged.
“To Spain?” Steppingstone asked in a whisper.
“To Spain!” Boniface agreed sotto voce.
They linked arms and tiptoed out.

Fear choked Davy’s throat as his father grabbed him up under his armpits and jerked him back into the family bedroom where, Davy noticed, his two brothers had vanished. Thrown to the wooden floor Davy looked up at his father who armed himself with the dreaded hickory cudgel.
“I spent good money to send you to school.” He struck the feather mattress with his stick, causing dust to fly into the air.
Davy flinched and inched backwards. “I’ll go back, pa,” he sputtered. “I’ll l’arn good.”
“I’ll l’arn you good now, boy.” He kicked at Davy’s feet as the boy scrambled to the door. “You think ‘cause you’re thirteen you’re too big to git whupped? I’ll whup you anyways! Git up!”
Davy shivered, remembering how the hickory stick stung on his back. He could hardly sleep because of aches and sharp twinges which caused him to spasm. Hot tears ran down his ruddy cheek. He was a strong boy who could hold his own in a fight with anyone his own age, but older men always scared him, especially his father.
“Stop that cryin’!” His father cracked the cudgel against the bed post. “Git up and take your whuppin’ like a man!”
Clambering to his feet, Davy glanced behind him to locate the door and fumbled with the latch until he opened it and ran out.
“Come back here!” his father shouted, following him out the door, but he stumbled over the uneven stone steps and fell flat on his face, splitting his lip.
Davy ran north on the road, spurred by his father’s drunken curses. What started out as an attempt to miss a beating from the school master had escalated into his world collapsing around him. Davy scurried off the road and hid behind some brushy buckeye. When he became aware of the sweet scent of crushed leaves under his foot, Davy calmed. He stopped huffing when he saw his father stagger by, swinging his hickory cudgel and slurring curses. His father finally kicked the dirt and turned back down the road to his tavern. A squawk cut through the night air.
“Teacher! Teacher!”
Davy recognized the call of a heavy-body warbler whose song sounded like a student’s call at a school. Davy did not want to be reminded of teachers, schools and bullies right now, so he ignored the warbler’s cry and remained still until he saw his father disappear around the curve in the lane.
As he composed himself, Davy tried to boost his morale by remembering this was not the first time he had been on his own. Back in the spring his father hired him out to help herd cattle four hundred miles north to Rockbridge County, Virginia. He endured long days of walking over rough paths, up steep hills and through icy cold streams. His boss wanted him to stay on for another cattle drive. Davy said yes because he was afraid to say no, just like he was afraid to say no to his father. One night he slipped from the man’s house, went home, handing over the five dollars he had earned.
That was what he was going to do, Davy decided. He was going to hire himself out on another cattle drive. And when he finally came home he could hand the money to his father. Maybe he would not be beaten. Peering from the bushes, Davy slowly inched his way out, stopped to listen for his father, and then ran north on the road to Abingdon. After a while he slowed to a walk and kicked stones as he went along because he realized he had not eaten supper and was hungry. Nothing was working out right today. After an hour or so he heard the clomping of horse and cattle hooves behind him.
“Young Crockett!” a voice called out. “Is that you?”
Davy recognized the voice of Jesse Cheek. A successful cattle trader who known for his propriety of personal values, chaste respect for women and no taste for alcohol was not much fun. Davy decided long ago that men of moral character tended not to be fun at all. But he did not want fun now anyway. He wanted a job and a feeling of safety.
“Yessir, Mr. Cheek,” he replied in a strong voice.
“What’re you doin’ out on the road this time of night?”
Davy knew that as a good man Cheek would send him home to face his whipping if he told him the truth. He crouched, looked up with wide, innocent brown eyes and asked for a sip of water from Cheek’s leather bladder. After taking a deep swallow, David looked off into the brush and said, “Well, it was like this. The Mullins boys don’t have a lick of sense—everybody knows that—they kept pesterin’ this pretty girl—she’s new in the holler, so she don’t know how to stand up for herself.”
“Who’s her daddy?”
“Can’t recall,” he replied. “From one of the Carolinas. Eastern part, I remember, but North or South, hmm. I guess I fergot ‘cause I got so caught up with how pretty she was—kinda skinny, but still what I’d call quite comely, big eyes the color of pecans, and all her teeth lined up real nice. But her lips seemed to be on the verge of quiverin’ all the time. Made me feel all responsible for her. So after school I jumped them Willises and told ‘em to leave her alone.”
“Thought you said Mullinses.”
“Right. It was both the Mullinses and the Willises. So the old school teacher Kitchens only sees me fightin’ and don’t know I’m defendin’ this li’l girl’s honor. Them boys put up an awful fuss, makin’ out like they hadn’t done nothin’ and I started a fight for the heck of it.”
“So he kicks you out of school, and your pa don’t like it.”
“Oh. No.” Davy shook his head, his eyes wandering up to the left, catching sight of the rising moon. “He said it was jest as well. He don’t need me in school. He needs to hire me out ag’in.”
“Want to work for me?”
“I think that’s what pa would want,” Davy said, his eyes wide and naïve.

***
Nearly forty years after that night on the Abingdon Road when he talked to Mr. Cheek, David’s eyes no longer looked naïve. He knew when he saw bad news coming. “You don’t look good, Abner.”
“You lost, David.” Abner looked him straight in the eyes. “By two hundred fifty- two votes.
David turned to sit on the porch step and stare into the deepening sunset. In his heart he knew he was cheated. Jackson bought the election for Huntsman. The bank handed out twenty-five dollars for each vote. Jackson closed the Bank of the United States so he could use the Treasury to buy elections. David could not prove any of these allegations, but in his heart he knew they were true.
“They robbed you, David.”
Smiling, David waved his hand. “Oh no, I’m sure it was a fair election,” he lied.
From the distance he heard the shrill cry of a raccoon. Poor little fellow. He knew how much pain the critter felt. It was being torn to pieces by a pack of wild dogs, just as he had been ripped apart by Andy Jackson’s dogs. But David could not cry out like the raccoon did. The last amber rays flickered behind the oaks and hickories. A pleasant breeze wafted through the tree limbs and brought a hint of cattle manure.
“I don’t care much for sunsets no more.”
“Why not?
“A bright and glorious day meltin’ away into black nothin’.”
“Let’s git some ale.” Abner patted his shoulder.
David liked it when Abner said it was time to go get drunk. They had been friends since they married the Patton sisters, Elizabeth and Margaret. He also liked Abner’s brother Alleny. They both attended a duel once between two politicians, Samuel Carson and Robert Vance. Alleny was a politician himself, serving in the North Carolina state house. Maybe that was why Abner was such a good friend. He knew what politicians had to go through to get elected. Not a word passed between them as their horses ambled down the narrow road to the tavern at Rutherford Station. Crickets chirped at full volume, and the summer air cooled and smelled sweet. As they rounded a bend in the road they saw lamps flickering through the inn’s windows. David stiffened when he saw several horses hitched outside and heard raucous laughter from inside.
Tying up their horses, they went inside, and Abner nodded toward an empty corner table. “You sit. I’ll get the mugs.”
David sat on a half-log bench, stared out the window at the black nothingness, and his body went numb with fatigue and disappointment.
“The great hunter got beat by a Huntsman!” a young man bellowed, clinking mugs with other fellows to a roar of approval.
David remembered a time when all that yelling was for him. Those days seemed far away now. Abner returned, put a mug down, sat and winked at him in sympathy.
“We’ve killed the blackguard Crockett at last!”
David stood, not knowing what he was going to say or do, but his legs seemed bound and determined to walk to the other side of the room.
“David, no.” Abner put his hand on his arm.
“That’s all right, Abner,” he replied. He looked down, smiled and straightened his shoulders. “I like a good party.” He strode over to the long rough wooden table where the men, by and large in their twenties and with light stubble on their chins, sat guzzling and howling. “You got that wrong, young fellow.”
Silence erupted as the men looked up, and their jaws flew open.
“You didn’t kill me,” he said with a grin, “for here I am, standin’ here alive and full of piss and vinegar.”
They all laughed. David lifted his mug and proclaimed, “Here’s to Adam Huntsman, that mangy one-legged hound dog with Andy Jackson’s collar around his neck!”
Again they laughed and drank with him.
“I done my durnedest to beat him,” David said, beginning to saunter around the table as he took another sip. “Even tried to make him look like an old man with amorous intentions towards the young ladies.”
“How did you do that?” one of them asked.
“Well, as you know, during the campaign we’d travel together, speakin’ where we could git two or three good men to listen. One night a farmer put us up. And he had purty daughter, real purty.” He paused to allow the young men grunt in approval. “After everyone had gone to bed I got a chair, like this…” He took a cane-backed chair, turned it so only one leg touched the floor and put his knee on it. “Then I hobbled across the porch, rapped on the girl’s door and then clickety-clacked back across the porch, so that the farmer thought Huntsman was gittin’ fresh with his daughter.”
“What’d make him think that?” one of the young men asked.
“Jackass.” Another one hit him on the arm. “Huntsman lost a leg in the Injun wars. He has a peg leg.”
“Oh.” His clouded face cleared. “Oh!” He laughed. “That’s a good one!”
The table shook as they pounded their fists and kicked its legs. David smiled and drank his ale.
“So you don’t mind losin’ the election?”
David wiped his mouth with his buckskin sleeve, grinned, opened his eyes wide and looked as naïve as he did on the road to Abingdon when he was thirteen. “Why no. It was the will of the people.”

***
Dave put his hand over the receiver and smiled at his wife with the same naïve look as Davy Crockett when he ran away from home and as David Crocket when he lost the election. “Tiffany, why don’t you go ahead and put some coffee on?”
“Sure.” She leaned over to kiss him, got up, put on her robe and left.
He returned his attention to the telephone. “What happened?”
“It was terrible,” Mrs. Dody said. “I knew they should’ve never let him out of the mental hospital. They killed him as sure as if they’d put a gun to his head. I’ve a good mind to…”
“Mrs. Dody,” Dave interrupted. “What happened?”
“Oh. Well. You know he was in that half-way house. Well, he walked off and went back to that Dallas. You know how he always loved that Dallas.”
Dave was silent as he remembered how as a teen-ager he drove Allan sixty miles south on Interstate 35 to Dallas, under the triple underpass, through Dealey Plaza and stopped at Houston Street, where his brother got out of the car, darted across the street and into the shadows. He never wanted to drive Allan to Dallas—his father always scolded him for wasting his gas money—but he was twelve years younger than his brother. And like his ancestor, Davy Crockett, he was afraid to defy an older person.
“Yes.” His voice went flat.
“Well, somehow he got into this old warehouse and fell asleep on this mattress and his cigarette caught it on fire, and it just burnt him up.”
“Oh.”
“It was in the Dallas Morning News. ‘Transient dies in warehouse fire.’ Didn’t you see it?”
“No.”
“That’s right. You don’t get the Morning News down there in Waco.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you then. Thanks for…”
“Oh. You didn’t know your dad and me don’t see each other no more?”
Dave remembered after his mother died how a parade of widows showed up at their front door with pies and cakes and how his father always found something to do so he would not have to go to the door. His father sat in his easy chair staring at the television screen, not caring what he watched. Allan and Vince fumed and fussed when he started going to church on Sunday night with Mrs. Dody. What difference did it make, Dave asked them. She was a nice old lady, jabbering away about anything and everything. His father smoked while an amused smile danced across his lips.
“No, I didn’t know,” Dave replied after a moment, shaking away old memories. He was sad but not surprised. She kept pushing Lonnie to marry her, especially since Dave graduated from college. She told him those cigarettes were going to kill him one of these days. She wanted him to buy life insurance, she wanted him to put a lock on the front door, she wanted him to stop cussing and join the church—all the same things Dave’s mother wanted him to do.
“Well, I’ll still be at the funeral,” Mrs. Dody said. “I know I was never family, but I cared for you boys like family anyways.”
“Thanks. See you there.” Dave hung up.
“Who was that?” Tiffany appeared in the door.
“Oh, someone from home,” he replied. “Nothing important.”
Frowning, she turned away. “Coffee will be ready soon.”
Dave pulled his legs from the bed and placed them on plush carpet. Putting his head in his hands, he could not decide how he felt about Allan’s death. Thank God he was finally dead. No longer would Allan wander into his life begging for money and embarrassing him with shrill outbursts in public. God forgive him for wanting that poor, pitiful deranged man dead just because he had been an inconvenience and a nasty reminder of a past he wanted to forget.
What was he going to tell Tiffany? She did not even know he had a brother who had spent most of his adult life in and out of mental hospitals. What if she pulled away in revulsion? Maybe she would understand and comfort him. He did not know and was afraid to find out.
A shower would clear the cobwebs. His mind wandered as he stood beneath the drenching warm water. Eventually it focused on an old photo album and in particular on a faded picture of his father holding Allan’s hands when he was a toddler on their farm. He remembered his mother’s story about how little Allan stomped chicks to death, pointed to his bloodied shoes and said, “’oes did it.” David squeezed the shampoo bottle and lathered his straight, dark brown hair. Rinsing out the suds, Dave’s hands stopped on his cheeks as another memory made him pause to reflect. He was about four, and Allan, a wild-eyed sixteen year old, sucked on the side of his face until a purple welt appeared. His brother pulled away, pointed at the mark and laughed.
Puppy?
Dave turned and was sure he saw a forty-five-year-old Allan, naked standing in the shower with him. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t want to live with that old devil anymore.
“No,” he replied firmly, turning his back on the ugly vision of his brother, hoping it would go away.
Didn’t you know? You were always my favorite.
Looking down, Dave saw Allan’s hairy, skinny arms come around his waist, his nicotine-stained fingers squeezing into his belly. He screamed and bolted out of the shower, tumbling onto the tile floor, but when he looked up and focused on the figure coming out of the shower, he saw Tiffany.
“What on earth is the matter with you, Dave?” she asked, grabbing a towel and holding it in front of her lithe, tanned body.
“Nothing.” He rose, took a towel to wipe his face as he sat on the toilet.
“Dave, you could’ve hurt me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Dave, please get some help.” Tiffany went to him, knelt and caressed his face. “It was the phone call, wasn’t it?”
He knew he had to tell Tiffany the truth sometime, but not today, not right now, when Dave knew he was emotionally fragile. For God’s sake, he thought, he saw his dead brother in the shower with him. When he returned from the funeral he would tell her, but not now. He looked up with plaintive naïve eyes, following the tradition of lying perfected by his great-great-great grandfather David Crockett.
“My father’s sick.”

“It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood. Augurs and understood relations have by maggot-pies and choughs and rooks have brought forth the secret’st man of blood.”
Taking center stage in crisp night air, the actor continued his soliloquy as Bob faced a television camera to one side.
“Shakespeare comes to the Smokies this summer as the University of Tennessee drama department stages ‘Macbeth’ in the amphitheater on the outskirts of Gatlinburg. This is Bob Meade, reporting for WBAT-TV Channel Forty-three, Pride of Knoxville.”
After the play ended, Bob lingered on stage waiting for the director. An attractive brunette in her late twenties, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and carrying a clipboard, approached him.
“Did you want to see me?”
“I wanted to see the director.”
“That’s me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry you’re the director, but I’m sorry I thought…”
“That’s all right. I get that all the time.” She smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Jill Smith.”
“Bob Meade.”
“I know. I watch your station all the time.”
“Anyway, thanks for letting us come and tape part of the show.”
“No. Thank you for bringing your crew out. We need publicity.”
“I guess most tourists are more interested in country music than Shakespeare.”
“Exactly.”
“So. How long have you been with the drama department?”
“Ever since I graduated.” Jill held her clipboard close to her chest and looked down. “In fact, I’m working on my doctorate now.”
“That’s great.”
An awkward silence followed as Bob gazed at Jill who looked away.
“Well,” Jill said, “I suppose I’ve got to go.”
“Oh.” Bob looked downcast. “Okay.” He turned to leave.
“Unless you have some other questions.” Jill brushed loose strands of hair from her eyes and moistened her lips.
Spinning around and taking a few steps toward Jill, Bob lifted a finger as though he had remembered something.
“As a matter of fact, no.”
He looked at his finger and shook it as though he were trying to throw away a gun.
“You’re so funny.” She touched her lips with her fingertips.
“Oh.”
“Oh no.” Jill reached out to touch Bob’s arm. “I mean that in a nice way. You’re not phony. Whatever you do, it’s because that’s who you are. You’re not putting on an act. Did you know TV news professors use tapes of you in class as examples of good on-screen personality?”
Her face reddening, Jill withdrew her hand and ducked her head.
“Thanks.”
“I’ve got to go.” Jill turned to walk away.
“Um—have you eaten? I know actors don’t like to eat before they go on. I don’t know if directors eat before a show or not. I know I haven’t eaten. But I’m not an actor or a director.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“We could get a bite in town. Something should be open.”
“Sure.”
“Great.” Bob tried not to beam.
“I’d like to drop my car off at my grandparents’ house first.”
The cameraman Ernie, munching on a doughnut, lumbered up.
“Are you ready?”
“Uh?” Bob turned to Ernie who was wiping sugar glaze from his lips, and the smile on his face faded.
“The equipment’s all loaded in the station van,” Ernie said. “Let’s go.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m here in the van.” He laughed nervously. “How embarrassing.”
“We can go in my car,” Jill said, glancing at Ernie. “That way your friends can go on home.”
“But you’d have to drive me back to Knoxville.”
“Yeah, that’s too much to ask,” Ernie said with an impish grin.
“It’s no trouble,” she replied. “I’ll stay at my apartment there. I’m only staying with my grandparents during performances.”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Bob said, choosing his words.
“It sounds like too much trouble to me,” Ernie interjected.
“It’s not too much trouble,” Jill insisted.
“I think I need to get back.” Ernie pushed the last bite of doughnut into his mouth and walked away.
“I still feel bad about you driving.”
“Think nothing of it. Things happen.”
They drove a few miles along the dark winding mountain road before turning onto Glades Road.
“It just killed grandma when they had to sell their shop downtown.”
“Were they in the block torn out for Mountain Mall?”
“Yes. Downtown Gatlinburg is all T-shirt and record shops now. Anyone who actually makes anything with their hands now has little shops in the countryside.”
“Maybe it was for the best.”
“Whether it was for the best or not, it’s the way it is. My grandfather accepted it pretty well, but grandma still gripes about it.”
Jill drove around a dark corner and pulled into the parking lot of an old wood carver’s shop with a waterwheel at its side outlined in blinking colored lights.
“The lights are grandma’s idea,” Jill said as they got out of the car. “She said if she had to be stuck out in the country she needed something to draw attention.”
“They look nice.” Bob winced, wishing he could think of something cleverer to say.
The lights went out.
“It must be eleven.” Jill looked at her watch and nodded. “Grandma turns them off exactly at eleven when the shop closes. Everyone else closes at ten, but grandma insists on staying open the extra hour. Something about late customers, she says, and about how the late hours show how hard they work. Only night she forgot was when grandpa had his stroke. Police patrol knew something had to be wrong and stopped. It saved grandpa’s life.”
A middle-aged woman with pepper gray hair came out of the front door, locked it and walked to the parking lot.
“Joan!” Jill called out. “Hello!”
She looked up, smiled and walked over to Jill and Bob.
“Hi. How did MacBeth go tonight?”
“Great. We’re going to be on television. This is Bob Meade from Channel Forty-three.”
“Nice to meet you.” Joan stuck out her hand. “You seem like such a nice young man on television.”
“Yes, television adds ten pounds of niceness.” He laughed. “Sorry, poor joke. I don’t make much money so all I can afford are poor jokes.” He laughed again. “I better shut up now. Honestly, thank you very much.”
“We’re going out for a late bite to eat,” Jill said.
“How nice.” Joan frowned. “Your grandparents know yet?”
“No. Why? Should it be a problem?”
“It shouldn’t be. Probably won’t. I worry about things too much sometimes, that’s all, I guess.” She looked at Bob and smiled. “Yes, you are very funny, and nice. Well, have a good time.”
“Are your grandparents going to be upset?” Bob asked, watching Joan get into her car and drive away.
“If it does, so what?” Jill guided Bob to a dark side entrance. “Grandma—how shall I phrase it—picks on Joan a lot, so naturally Joan expects the worst.” Jill pulled a key from her purse. “You see, grandma and grandpa never had help running the shop before his stroke, just me when I was a teen-ager and dad when he was young. They never had an employee outside of family so sometimes grandma gets paranoid.”
“Strokes can turn people’s lives upside down.” Bob stared at Jill’s small, porcelain hands as she unlocked the door. “Is your grandfather okay?”
“He has his days.” Opening the door, Jill looked back at him and smiled. “Come on in.” She tossed her purse on the sofa. “Make yourself at home while I change into something decent.”
Bob looked around the room and sensed he was home again in Clinton, Tennessee. Furniture old but clean, the heavy, durable overstuffed kind, needed reupholstering though. Jill’s grandmother tried to hide worn places with doilies and small rugs, just like his mother did. He sniffed and found the air clear of dust, unlike his father’s house in recent years. On the walls were cheap reproductions of old European masters.
“Grandma, I’m home,” Jill called out down the hall.
Also hanging were old photographs of people from another time and place. In the background Bob heard an elderly woman speak with a German accent in subdued tones.
“We’re going out for a bite to eat and then I’m driving him back to Knoxville. I’ll sleep at my apartment.” There was some more of the muffled German accent. “Of course he has a car, but he was over here with the station van that had to go back early.” The muffled German accent grew more insistent. “Yes, it’s on the spur of the moment, but there’s nothing wrong with that.” After another pause Jill replied, “Well this isn’t Germany in the old days. This America right now and spur of the moment is what we do.”
Bob’s neck burned in discomfort. Feeling out of place and unacceptable came too easily to him, a trait he picked up in childhood.
“Oh, Grandma, go out and talk to him,” Jill said in controlled exasperation. “Then he won’t be a stranger, okay? So go make nice conversation. Please, just for your one and only grandchild.”
Appearing from the hall was a tall, stout woman with her whitish gray hair pulled back in a bun. She stood erect with her chin high.
“Hello, young man. I am Greta Schmidt, Jill’s grandmother.”
“I’m Bob Meade. I work for Channel Forty-three.”
“I never watch television, except for old movies, sometimes.” Greta took Bob’s hand and shook it. “Old things are better, don’t you think?”
“Yes. I love antiques.” Bob sensed she was not just discussing the quality of motion pictures or furniture, but he determined the conversation would be more agreeable if he did not explore the other inferences of her observation. He looked around the room. “You’ve some lovely antiques here.”
“I saw you looking at my pictures of the old country.”
“Yes.” Bob stepped back to the photographs. “They’re fascinating.”
“Yes. I like them.” Greta lightly touched one of the brown-tinged pictures. “This is my family in Oberbach.”
“Where is that?”
“Bavaria, most beautiful place in the world.”
“Yes. I’ve been told that.”
“Who? Who’s told you about Oberbach?” Urgency entered her voice as her eyes narrowed.
“Oh.” Bob jumped, caught off guard. “I meant I’ve read things about Bavaria. I don’t know anything about Oberbach.”
“Oh.” Greta relaxed and smiled. “This is my papa, mama, sister Helga and her husband Franz in front of our house. Here I am.” She pointed to a tall, brown-haired girl, plain but cheerful.
“And this here,” Bob asked pointing to another picture, “who is that?”
“That is my husband Heinrich, when he was young.” Greta sighed with infatuation. “Handsome, yes?”
The photograph attracted Bob’s attention. Heinrich was short but muscular and stout. He had a strong jaw, blue eyes and almost white blond hair. What occurred to Bob mostly, though, was his expression, a smirk lurking around pursed lips, which brought to mind a wisecrack his father often threw out: “He looked like he’d been suckin’ on a dried dog turd all day.”
“That, on the left, is his papa,” Greta continued, “and his older brother. He’s still in Germany on the family farm. Last we heard he was still working. Germans are hard working.”
Jill came up behind them and put her arms around her grandmother.
“Now, Grandma,” she chided her with affection, “don’t get started on Germany or we won’t ever get anything to eat.”
“I could fix you something here.”
“That’s sweet of you,” she said, kissing Greta’s cheek, “but no.” She took Bob’s hand to drag him toward the front door.
“Young man…”
“His name’s Bob.”
“Bob, where does your mama and papa live?”
“My mother is deceased.” His eye twitched. “And my father lives in Clinton.”
“Ah.” Greta paused. “Your eye twitched, young man. Do you need eye drops?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then what is it?” she asked bluntly.
“Restaurants will be closing soon,” Jill said in persistence.
“Jill, don’t forget your purse.” Greta picked it up.
“Oh yes.” She took her handbag. “Thank you, Grandma.” Jill gave her another kiss on the cheek.
“You have your pepper spray, don’t you?”
“Grandma.” Jill rolled her eyes.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Mrs. Smith.”
“Schmidt. Jill’s father, our Edward, changed it to Smith.”
“Good night, Grandma.” Jill said in a loud firm voice as she grabbed Bob by his arm and headed for the door again.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Bob, but Jill is our only grandchild.”
“I understand.” Bob put on his best television newsman voice and nodded. The old woman was getting on his nerves.
“Candy?” Greta picked up a cut crystal bowl filled with sour balls and peppermints.
“No.” Jill opened the door. “Good night, Grandma.”
“It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Schmidt.”
“Well, drive carefully.”
“You don’t have to worry.” Bob laughed. “I’m not driving.”
“We will, Grandma.” Jill pulled Bob out of the house and down the sidewalk. “Good night.”
***
Greta stood in the doorway, still holding the candy bowl, her smile melting away.
“Greta.” Heinrich’s voice boomed from his bedroom down the hall. After a pause, he called out again. “Greta.”
“Yes, Heinrich.” She continued to watch Jill’s car as it pulled away and turned the corner.
“Come here.”
“Yes, Heinrich.” Greta sighed and closed the door. She put the candy bowl on the end table, paused to look down the hall, and steeled herself to proceed to Heinrich’s room. She knew he was not going to be pleased. Turning on the light, she tried to smile. “Yes, Heinrich, what do you want?”
“Who was making all that noise? It woke me up.”
“It was just Jill and a gentleman friend.” She walked to the foot of the bed and smiled broadly, hoping to defuse his indignation. Greta tried to imagine how frustrated he must feel from being bed ridden.
Heinrich struggled to sit up. Most of his hair was gone, only a few wisps of white at his temples remained. His once powerful chest now looked like an old woman’s. His eyes protruded almost in madness from his bone-white face marked with little red veins.
“There was a strange man in my house and I wasn’t told?”
“You were asleep, Heinrich.” Greta patted his foot.
“Then you shouldn’t have let him in.” He jerked his foot away.
“I didn’t let him in. Jill did.”
“This is not Jill’s house.” He beat his fist on the bed. “This is my house.”
“This is silly.” Great went to the door. “Go back to sleep.”
Turning off the light, Greta walked to the living room. Behind her she heard Heinrich’s grumbling as he crawled from bed and stomped down the hall. She closed her eyes and said a brief prayer. Once Heinrich was mad enough to get out of bed he was likely to do anything.
“You do not call me silly.” Heinrich grabbed her arm and swung her around. “This is my house.”
“Ever since you had your stroke you get upset over silly things.” Greta tried to wriggle free.
“Don’t call me silly.” His face a bright scarlet, Heinrich slapped her.
“Heinrich!”
“This is my house!” Shoving her down, he began to kick her. His voice rose to a squeal. “I am boss here! You are not boss!”
“Yes, Heinrich. Please stop.”
Blows came slower and finally stopped as Heinrich’s breath became heavier. Greta looked up with dread, wiping tears from her eyes, to see him collapse into an easy chair. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was still very deep. Standing, she went to him, her head bowed.
“I’m sorry, Heinrich.” Waiting for a reply, she looked with concern at his face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m tired.” Taking a long, hard breath, he opened his eyes and glanced up at her. “Carry me to bed.”
Greta hesitated.
“Take me to bed.”
Without a word Greta bent down to lay Heinrich across her shoulder and carried him. Sweat from his body moistened her dress. Across his pouting lips appeared a hint of a smile.
***
Bob and Jill sat in a near-empty restaurant at a table with a red checked cloth and a flickering candle between them as they took last bites of their meal. Even though it was summer, a fire crackled in a circular open hearth centered in the large room, making it too warm They did not seem to care.
“I love Shakespeare.” Bob swallowed hard, hoping Jill was not offended by his speaking with his mouth full. He sometimes forgot his table manners when falling in love, which had not happened often; in fact, probably not at all, at least love that makes someone chatter when his mouth was filled with food. “Hamlet’s my favorite.”
“I did my master’s thesis on Hamlet.”
“I identify with him.”
“Oh, you can’t make up your mind either.”
“By the time I decide whether or not I like a girl and she likes me, she’s gotten fed up waiting for me to do something and left.”
“How sad.”
“But not tragic.”
“Speaking of tragedy,” she said, looking at her plate and pushing around the last of her vegetables, “I’m sorry Grandma asked about your eye twitch.”
“It sometimes happens when my mother’s death comes up in a conversation.” He paused. “I really don’t know why. Maybe I should see a doctor about it.” Making a face, he added, “A head doctor.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, that’s all right.” Bob lied. “It was when I was fourteen. Things hurt more when you’re fourteen, I think.” His hand went to the side of his face, hoping to stop any other errant twitches, and his eyes strayed off to the fireplace, hoping to hide stray tears.
“I’m sorry.” Jill reached across and touched his arm lightly. “You must have loved her very much.”
“Very much and she loved me.” Bob’s voice trailed off. He looked up and smiled. “Want to hear my theory about Hamlet? I don’t think he was crazy or intellectually effete or anything like that. I think he was suffering from manic depression.”
“Manic depression?”
“Sure. And a daddy’s boy. That’s an important facet, a daddy’s boy. He had spent his childhood with daddy and his fool.”
“Alas, poor Yorick,” Jill said with dramatic relish.
“Then Hamlet grows up.” Bob pushed his plate aside and leaned forward. “Daddy wants the best for him so he sends him to the best university around.”
“Wittenberg.” Jill’s eyes danced as she supplied missing information.
“Now we don’t know how many years he had been off to college, but I think he might have been in his last year, all excited about getting his degree, coming home and getting first hand training from daddy on how to be king.”
“Then daddy dies.”
“What a bummer.” Bob became more animated. “Melancholia of being separated from daddy during college is magnified because fact he’ll never see his old man again.”
“Or so he thinks.”
“Right. Daddy’s ghost gives him a mission, but lethargy and indecision created by depression keeps him from doing what daddy wants which makes depression worse which increases passivity.”
“Wow, if I’d thought of all that for my thesis I’d gotten an A.”
“It’s nothing.” He sipped his iced tea. “Sometimes I think people underestimate parents’ influence in their children’s lives after they’re no longer really a part of them.”
“That’s true.” Jill looked down and paused. “They can die; they can be alcoholics or just don’t care.”
“I think these folks want to go home.” Bob looked around.
Jill drove Bob to Knoxville, and they talked lightly about many things they found they had in common: movies, politics, and music, among other things.
“Woody Allen is great,” he said.
“I loved ‘Love and Death.’” she said. “It’s so Russian.”
“And so funny.”
“Just like you,” she said glancing over at him.
“I hope Jimmy Carter gets re-elected,” Bob said clearing his throat. “The hostage crisis may do him in.”
“Maybe the Republicans will nominate Reagan,” Jill replied with a laugh. “Who would vote for him?”
“My father, for one.”
“Well, he looks like a president,” she said. “It could be his best role ever.”
“But who will write his material? That’s what scares me.”
“Easy,” she replied. “Richard Nixon.”
They both moaned and then laughed, their voices trailing off into a stilted silence. Bob’s mind raced. He did not know whether to be funny or try to say something profound.
“I find classical music soothing,” he said. “I don’t know who wrote what or anything about symphony numbers but I still like it.”
“I’ll have to educate you on the whos and whats,” Jill replied with a smile. “There’s Beethoven, Bach and my favorite, Mozart. A lot of people like Tchaikovsky. Stravinsky is just noise as far as I’m concerned.”
“Yes, take me to some concerts, and I’ll take you to some ball games.”
“You like baseball?”
“I like to watch baseball,” Bob replied. “I didn’t like playing it. I was always last one chosen. It was mostly the eye-hand coordination thing that did me in.”
“Me too. Being chosen, I mean. I have pretty good coordination. Took dance classes for twelve years. Just never was strong enough to hit the ball far.”
“I like going to a health club. I can work out with a weight level I can handle without some jerk making fun of me. Maybe jocks get more sensitive as they grow up.”
“Jocks don’t grow up. They grow old.”
Bob smiled at Jill as she talked about how she enjoyed walking along mountain trails during all seasons taking in the changing colors of the leaves. He was drawn to her scent, a light citrus-based perfume; her dress, light and frilly yet not too revealing; and, most of all, her smile and laugh. After Jill had listed all her favorite hiking trails in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, she paused, and the silence made Bob uneasy. He reached out to stroke the leather car console.”
“Nice car.”
“By the way, you were joking with grandma about your driving, weren’t you?”
“Sure, why, I haven’t had an accident in two weeks.” He laughed. “No, really, never had an accident. Problem is that I drive like an old woman.”
“Don’t say that. Grandma is a terrible driver.” She laughed.
“I like you,” he said softly. “You get all my jokes.”
After an embarrassing pause, she replied, “Got it from daddy.”
“Your father gets all my jokes too?”
“No, the car. A good deal.”
“So your father’s Big Ed Smith, the car dealer?”
“None other.”
“Don’t tell my father. He’ll want a good deal too.”
“Why, everybody gets a good deal from big Ed Smith.”
“I take it your grandmother raised Cain when he changed his name from Schmidt.”
“He said you can’t sell Chevies with a German name.” She waved her hand and shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It isn’t.” Jill smiled, pausing to glance quickly at Bob who was staring at her intently. “Do you know how you’re different from other guys I’ve dated?”
“If you say it’s that I’m sweet and like a brother to you, I’ll jump from the car right now.”
“No, no jumping.” She laughed. “It’s that you don’t talk business.”
“I could talk business if you like.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Well,” Bob said, leaning toward her and breathing in her citrus scent, “this guy in Cherokee stripped naked, smeared lipstick on his face and stabbed his father who was dancing in front of one of those trading posts. Then he lifted his knife and let his father’s blood drip into his mouth.”
“Oh no, did he kill him?”
“No. They say he just stopped and kinda went into a trance or something. He’s in custody and expected to be committed to a state hospital. He’s done this before. He had a head injury as a child and from time to time gets violent. His parents have taken care of him all his life. He’s forty.”
“How sad.”
“I’m thinking about doing a feature on it. How something from your childhood can affect your whole life.”
“You got that right,” she replied with a sigh. “Childhood can be a killer, if diseases or accidents don’t do you in, your parents can.”
“We’re almost there,” Bob said.
Jill pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of his building. She turned off the ignition and turned to smile at Bob.
“So now I know where to find you.”
“You have me at a disadvantage.”
Opening her purse, she took out a business card and handed it to him.
“I’ll be back at the university when MacBeth closes next week. My home number is at the bottom. Give me a call.”
“I will.” He put the card in his pocket and stared into her eyes until he became self-conscious and glanced away. “Well, good night.”
“If you’re agonizing over whether you should or shouldn’t kiss me, the answer is yes.”
Without a word Bob scooted across, took her into his arms and kissed her, his lips almost not touching hers. She pressed closer to him, and the kisses became more passionate.

Alice ran down the Alhambra steps with Clarence and Boniface fencing their way behind her. Putting two petite fingers in her mouth, Alice whistled for a carriage which conveniently pulled up immediately. Evidently courtiers often beat a hasty retreat from events hosted by King Phillip which did not go unnoticed by the carriage trade.
“To the port and the fastest ship headed for England!” she ordered as she hopped in the front, which left room for Clarence and Boniface to continue fencing in the back seat as the carriage sped away.
They had hardly left the confines of the Spanish palace before Rodney and Steppingstone fenced their way down the steps where Maria rode up on a large white stallion. Rodney didn’t miss a swing of the sword as he leapt upon the back of the horse. An efficient guard promptly arrived with a black stallion for Steppingstone to mount. They both rode off, side by side, so the duel could continue.
Within a few minutes the carriage arrived at the port, and Alice jumped from her seat and rushed to the ticket window. A clerk looked up and smiled. Since Clarence and Boniface insisted on fencing no matter what, they lagged behind a few steps.
“Si, senorita. May I help you?”
“Two tickets on the boat to England.”
“First class or tourist?”
“Tourist.”
“Smoking or nonsmoking?”
“Non.”
“That will be one hundred and fifty pesos.”
Alice hurriedly looked through her purse and pulled out the money for the clerk.
“It’s boarding now.” The clerk smiled again. “Have a nice day.”
Taking Clarence’s free hand, Alice dragged him away from his duel, which, by the way, he was winning quite easily. It was just as well there was a break in the action because Boniface had to buy his ticket.
“I want one ticket on the ship they’re taking!”
“That will be seventy-five pesos.”
Boniface grabbed a handful of coins from his pocket and threw them into the clerk’s window.
“Now boarding. Have a nice day.”
Alice ran up the gangplank. Clarence pulled his hand away so he could resume his match with Boniface. In the meantime, Maria and Rodney arrived on their white stallion, dismounted and ran for the clerk’s window, which left the poor horse pawing at the ground in confusion. He had never been mounted like that before and left without so much of a “Had a good time, see you later.”
Maria paused at the window to hunt for coins in her purse. Rodney, seeing Steppingstone leap from his steed and bound toward them, thrust his hand into his pocket and produced more than enough coins to satisfy the ticket requirement.
“Keep the change!” Rodney shouted as he and Maria ran up the gangplank just as it began to pull away.
Steppingstone did not even pause at the ticket window but continued straightway to the gangplank, which irritated the clerk to no end. He had to pay out of his own wages any short falls in the daily financial report. Unfortunately when the clerk sprang forward to catch Steppingstone by the leg, he fell into the water. Steppingstone somehow managed to land on the ship’s deck.
By this time Alice, Clarence and Boniface had scurried down the steps to the tourist section, a rather dank area filled with roughhewn benches on which sat respectable but poor passengers. A sign overhead read, “Smoking.” Clarence and Boniface had to take a respite to catch their breath. Boniface spied a traveler with a large cigar clenched between his teeth. The English lord leaned over and snatched it away.
“Hey!” the man shouted.
But before he could protest too much the young lady and two fencers moved on to the section marked “Non Smoking.” (Author’s note: Now one must consider the wisdom of an older gentleman, such as Boniface, to take on the added activity of smoking when his lungs must have been taxed to the extreme by the fencing. Perhaps the nicotine enhanced his physical stamina.) He took a broad swipe at Clarence who ducked, and Boniface cut the feather off the bonnet of one of the passengers. An older couple shook their heads in disapproval.
“Can you believe that?” the woman said to her husband.
“Some people have no manners,” he replied.
“Puffing on that cigar in a no smoking section,” she exclaimed.
On deck Rodney and Steppingstone fenced as they bumped against the mast. Rodney climbed the pole followed by his adversary. They balanced precariously on a cross mast as they continued swinging their epees. The captain ran up waving his hands and stopped by Maria who stared skyward as she wrung her hands.
“Stop! Stop!” the captain shouted. “I don’t have insurance to cover fencing on the mast!”