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

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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

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