Saturday morning Bob and Jill drove north out of Knoxville on U.S. 25 toward the little tobacco town of Clinton. With a fine mist hovering around his windshield, he contemplated about what to say to his father once they arrived. No conversation with his father ever came without discomfort, and this one, for some reason, seemed as though it might be very complicated.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Jill said, breaking their silence. “It’s just you’ve met all of my family, warts exposed and all, and I haven’t met your father yet.”
The winding highway turned and dipped into a small valley where Clinton laid, a town of about five thousand people, most of whom grew, cured, sold or hauled tobacco for a living. Away from warehouses, stores and offices in downtown, the residential streets were tree-lined with boughs stretching from one side to another, almost entwining in the middle, creating perpetual shade.
“How beautiful,” Jill murmured.
“My favorite time is winter when the limbs are filled with ice and snow.” Pulling into the driveway of a small wood-frame house with a large verandah, Bob stopped the engine of his car and sighed in resignation. Jill looked at him and knitted her brow.
“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“No,” Bob replied. “I really want to, really.”
“Really?” Jill smiled, half in seriousness and half teasing.
“Really.” Bob winked at her and got out of the car. As they walked across the grass, for there was not sidewalk, Bob paused to survey the house in which he had spent his childhood. Bushes his mother had pruned and kept in perfect shape were overgrown and touched the eaves of the house. They had just been cut back enough to allow visitors to mount steps to the verandah.
“I take it we go through here,” she said, going in front through the bushes and up the steps.
“Watch it.”
“Thank you.” She held up her foot and looked down to see a rotted plank with a hole in it.
“I discovered the weak spot the last time I came,” he said, ushering her cautiously to the front door. He knocked hard several times before opening it.
“He doesn’t lock it?”
“Not in little old safe Clinton.”
“That’s what they all say until someone gets hacked to death,” Jill said with irony as they entered the living room.
Again Bob paused, his heart sinking as he remembered how his mother had scoured hours on end to keep their furniture spotless and shining. Now it sagged and was covered with dust.
“The sight of this room would kill my mother if she wasn’t already dead,” he said. Bob looked to a door to the right. “That’s his bedroom. He’s probably still asleep.”
Opening the door, he saw that he was right. Mr. Meade, now fat and bald, snored on his soiled sheets with a shotgun precariously perched on the headboard.
“Dad,” he said in a loud voice, “it’s me, Bob.”
“That you, son?” With a snort Mr. Meade jerked awake and focused his sleep-filled eyes.
“Yeah. Sorry I didn’t call first. Thought I’d come for a visit.”
“You didn’t lose your job and coming back home to live, are you?” he asked, sitting up and fumbling for his coveralls and brown khaki shirt on the floor.
“No, Dad. Everything’s just fine with my job,” Bob replied with patience. “I’m just here to say hello.”
“That’s good because I don’t think I could afford to take care of you.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“That’s good.” Mr. Meade bent over to lace up his work boots. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. That confounded answering machine of yours ain’t no good. I don’t think it’s taking my messages.”
“Yeah, I’m going to have to get a new one, I think.”
“I think half of the new-fangled machines they’ve come up with are no good, anyway.” Mr. Meade stood and looked at his son. “Looks like you’ve been doing good.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Let’s sit in the living room.” He headed for the door. “The TV room is a mess.” Going through the door, he stopped short when he saw Jill and smiled, revealing yellowed teeth with gaps between them. “Why, ain’t you a pretty little thing?”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Meade.” Jill returned his smile and extended her hand.
“She’s got a good grip on her.” As he shook her hand, he turned to look at Bob. “I always liked a woman with a strong handshake.”
“This is Jill Smith,” he said. “We’ve been seeing a lot of each other lately.”
“Now you settle down next to me, you hear?” Mr. Meade sat on the sofa and patted the cushion. Dust rose and little by little settled back down. “Where did my boy find you?”
“Bob’s been very helpful to my family,” she said, ignoring the dust and sitting. “As you may have seen on the news, my grandfather may be deported.”
“Never watch it.” He waved his hand. “Never knew why the boy wanted to go into that business.” He looked at Bob. “But he’s done good at it, I’m told. Neighbors say they see him on TV every night.”
“Yes, he’s very good at his job.”
“I just watch sports myself,” Mr. Meade said. “Football, baseball. Of course, wrestling’s my favorite but it only comes on once a week.”
“Jill wanted to meet you.” Bob sat in a faded flower-patterned arm chair.
“And I’m glad you did.” Mr. Meade winked at her. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, I’d love some.”
“Would you mind making it?” Glancing at Bob and then back at Jill, Mr. Meade cleared his throat.
“Dad, I don’t think…”
“It’s instant in a jar. My percolator broke, and a new one just cost so much I switched to the powered stuff.”
“I think I can handle that.” Jill smiled as she stood.
“It’s through that door,” he said, pointing.
After Jill left, Mr. Meade focused his attention on his son. He scratched his chin. Bob recognized it as the gesture Milborn Stone used when he played Doc on “Gunsmoke.” To be so proud of not watching television, Mr. Meade religiously watched reruns of old shows and subconsciously picked up on mannerisms of his favorite characters, Bob noticed through the years. Milborn Stone’s scratch and Walter Brennan’s limp from “The Real McCoys” became part of his personality tic, especially when he was nervous.
“That’s a nice young lady you have there.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Try to hang on to her. Good ones are hard to find.”
“I know.”
Mr. Meade looked down and did his Milborn Stone scratch on the cheek once more.
“I’ve been doing some thinking the last few months about a lot of things. You know, I don’t have much longer to live.”
“Your doctor said something?” Bob furrowed his brow.
“Oh, no. I’m strong as a horse. Always have been. But I was down at the senior citizens center a few months ago for my free hot lunch—you know that’s a good thing government does, those free lunches for us old folks. Now some of that other stuff government sticks its nose into…”
“What happened at lunch, Dad?”
“Oh. Yeah. Anyway, Frank Manchester dropped dead, right there before dessert. You remember Frank, don’t you? He used to work at the warehouse with me.”
“I think so.”
“Anyway, it turns out he’s two years younger than me and didn’t have a thing wrong with him, or so folks thought. And he just fell over dead like that.”
“When it comes your time…”
“Well, that’s the way I feel about it, and I don’t worry about the dying at all.” He paused to look at Bob with sincerity. “It’s the living I got to do before I drop dead that’s got me to thinking.”
Bob never heard his father have a discussion like this before. On previous visits Mr. Meade asked how his job was going. When Bob said fine, he said good, because he could not afford to take his son back in. Then they talked about University of Tennessee’s latest football game, or baseball game, depending on which season it was. Mr. Meade brought him up to date who died and reminded him of what part they played in his childhood. Mr. Meade concluded with the weather. All of this took perhaps an hour. After an embarrassingly silent fifteen minutes, Bob found an excuse to leave.
“There ain’t nothing wrong with your answering machine, is there?” he asked quietly.
Bob was speechless. He only shook his head.
“I can’t blame you much. I wasn’t a very good daddy. My daddy wasn’t very good, and I thought that was what you was supposed to do.”
“Dad, you don’t have to say this.”
“I did the best I knew how. But now I know that wasn’t near good enough.”
His old brown eyes searched for forgiveness from Bob, and in that moment Bob thought he saw straight through to his father’s soul.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” Bob said, choosing his words with care. “We all do the best we can with what we got and go on from there.”
“If I could do it over again…”
“Dad, the machine’s going to work a lot better from now on, promise.”
Jill came from Mr. Meade’s kitchen with a rusty old tin tray on which sat three chipped cups filled with coffee.
“Now there’s that pretty girl with coffee.”
Putting the rusty tray on a dust covered coffee table, Jill handed cups to Bob and his father. More than a few minutes were spent discussing with relish the consistency of instant coffee’s quality compared to that of fresh brewed, and how coffee brought out finer memories of life.
“Now I got to fix you kids some lunch.” Slurping the last of his coffee he put his cup down with flair.
“How nice of you,” Jill said.
Bob shook his head and rubbed his stomach.
“On the other hand, we don’t want to put you out.”
“Yeah, Dad, why don’t we treat you by going to Miss Adair’s Diner downtown?”
“If that’s what you want,” he said, standing and heading toward his bedroom. “Let me change clothes first.” He turned and looked at them with genuineness. “But you’re visiting me. I’ll pay.”
“That’s all right, Dad…”
“I got my Social Security check in yesterday’s mail,” he said. “I can pay.”
“Is Miss Adair’s okay?”
“If you ignore the cockroaches crawling in the corner.”
After lunch, they returned to Bob’s old home and sat in the living room talking about latest baseball game scores and how the Atlanta Braves had a good chance of winning a pennant again, about who died last week and if Bob remembered them, and, in conclusion, the quality of East Tennessee’s summer with its lack of rain and how that would affect tomato crops.
“There’s nothing better than a fresh cut sliced tomato from the garden,” Mr. Meade said with a sigh. “Why, I could make a meal out of them, along with those Vidalia onions from Georgia. Nothing’s better than a Vidalia onion.”
And then something out of the ordinary came to pass. There was no awkward moment of silence followed by forced excuses to leave. First Mr. Meade asked Jill about her family and a discussion of the hearing ensued with Mr. Meade being sympathetic. Jill mentioned her relatives would be flying back to Germany after the judge announced his decision.
“That’s something you’ve never done, is it, Dad?”
“What’s that?”
“Fly,” Bob said.
“Why, of course, I have.” He stretched back on the sofa and described a time in the twenties when a fellow with an old biplane came through town and offered rides for five dollars each. He was the only one in town to take the man up on his deal. Bob was taken aback not so much by the fact his father actually flew but that he would separate from five dollars to do it.
“Of course, that was when I was young and didn’t know any better.”
One story after another seemed to flow, from his teen-aged years when he hit a home run for the high school team, winning the big championship, to encountering Al Capone when he motored from Chicago to Miami and stopped off at Clinton to have a flat tire fixed. Those were anecdotes that Bob had never heard before. When he at last glanced at his watch it was five o’clock.
“It’s almost supper time. I guess Jill and I ought to get back to Knoxville.”
“Yep, you don’t want to be on the road when those drunks get out,” Mr. Meade said, standing and heading for his front door.
“Thank you again for lunch, Mr. Meade,” Jill said.
“Any time.” He patted Bob on the back. “You be sure to bring this cute little girl with you next time you come to visit.”
“I’ll do that, Dad.” He became aware of his father’s hand lingering on his shoulders, giving it a soft, gentle massage. Never before had he ever shown any kind of physical affection to Bob, who fought an inclination to tear up.
“That’s good.”
As they drove away, Bob looked back to see his father finish waving, scratch his cheek and limp a little as he went back into his house. Without thinking about it much, he started humming.
“What’s that tune? I don’t recognize it.”
“Grandpappy Amos and the girls and boys of the family known as the real McCoys.”
Sunday morning Bob and Jill drove to Gatlinburg where they had an unhurried breakfast at a pancake house on the main street. Few tourists were out yet, and traffic was sparse. Jill took her last bite and looked at Bob who was staring out the window at a candy kitchen next door where, even on a Sunday, workers were pouring taffy.
“That was a nice visit with your father yesterday,” she said.
“Not like any other I’ve ever had.” He looked at her and felt himself on the verge of tears again at the memory of his father’s hand on his shoulders. Bob put on his television smile. “Which trail do you want to tackle?”
“Nothing too strenuous.”
“How about Grotto Falls?”
“I haven’t been there in years.” Her face brightened.
Bob drove past an enormous Holiday Inn on the right and a tall cylindrical hotel on the left which overlooked Gatlinburg and entered the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. They slowed down for a group of backpackers and stopped a few moments to investigate old Ogle farm, abandoned early in the century. Up the road they parked and began their walk. Bob took Jill’s hand, and she leaned into his side as they made their way along the gently sloping trail spotted with bumpy exposed tree roots.
“Think we’ll see any rhododendron in bloom?”
“Not at this elevation,” he replied. “You have to go higher to see rhododendron this time of year.”
“Thank you again for all the help you’ve been with the hearing and all.” As they walked beside noise Roaring Fork Creek, she squeezed his hand. “Life would be hard for me to tolerate without you.”
“I was glad to be there. But I didn’t do anything your parents couldn’t have done for you.”
“Mom was working too hard trying to stay away from alcohol.” Jill shook her head. “Dad seemed to be in a daze.”
“I just wanted to be with you, whether we were in a court room or in a movie theater or walking along a path that’s killing my feet.”
Jill laughed.
“These stumpy roots are digging into my heels like crazy,” Bob said.
They heard the falls before they saw them. As they turned a final corner they spotted Grotto Falls, not known for being particularly high or having great volumes of water cascade over its boulders, but for its small cave directly behind, where falling water sprayed hikers.
“It’s nice coming here on Sunday morning,” she said. “We don’t have to share it with anyone.”
As they stepped with caution on wet stones to reach the grotto, Bob spoke, choosing his words with care.
“We’ve spent more time with your family, going to the airport, dropping people off here and there, meeting with lawyers, sitting through court than doing things most people in love are supposed to do.”
Jill looked at him and smiled when he mentioned the word love. At last they stood behind the falls and looked through a prism of falling water at boulders, trees and bushes before them.
“It’s not really working for me, though.”
“Oh?” She stiffened a bit.
“I think we should get married,” Bob said. “That way we can be around each other without lawyers or relatives.”
“Oh.” Jill stuck her hand out to feel the falls’ cold water.
“Well?”
“I love the Smoky Mountains.”
Bob appeared apprehensive.
“And I love you.” She hugged him. “I think a late September wedding. On Clingman’s Dome where we can have a good view of fall colors. What do you think?”
He answered with a long, moist kiss. Parting, Bob and Jill jumped a little as they noticed an elderly couple standing just outside of Grotto Falls watching them. The white-haired gentleman put his arm around his wife and smiled.
“It’s good when you’re old too.”

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

***

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

***

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

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

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