Gabby Zook had become accustomed to the chaos of the Whitman family, which lived in the basement of a brownstone at 106 North Portland Avenue in Brooklyn, New York. Tranquility came down upon the residence during the Christmas season of 1865, and remained during the first cold months of the New Year. Mr. Walt, as Gabby had taken to calling the poet, had found him a job sweeping floors at a mercantile establishment a couple of blocks from home. Mrs. Walt, which was the name Gabby gave Whitman’s mother Louisa, walked him to the store of a morning and back home that night. Gabby particularly like Mrs. Walt who seemed to have a large, loving heart, even though she complained of being sick all the time. He looked forward to the weekends because Mr. Walt came home from Washington where he worked in the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He always had stories of interesting things happening in the government.
After Mr. Walt read him the story in the newspaper about President Johnson firing the head of the Secret Service Lafayette Baker, Gabby leaned forward and wrinkled his brow.
“What does this Mr. Baker look like?”
“Well, let me see,” Mr. Walt began slowly. “I’ve seen him many times myself around Washington City, and I must say I didn’t like the look of him. Which is very unusual for me. I can talk for hours with any common laborer on the street, but I never had a desire to even speak to Mr. Baker. He’s not a big man, perhaps your height, Mr. Gabby. Not quite as old, and with a thick shock of red hair. He walks into a room, and you’d think he hated everyone in it and was determined to shoot and kill each and every one of them.”
Gabby’s eyes widened. “A short red-headed mean man.”
Mr. Walt cocked his head. “Yes, I suppose you could call him mean. Yes, that would be a good word to describe him.”
“That’s him.” Gabby’s hands began to tremble. “That’s the man I’ve been telling you about. The man who killed Adam Christy.”
“Of course he is.” Mr. Walt smiled sympathetically and patted his hand. “Well. I wonder what else interesting is happening in the capital.”
In March, President Johnson vetoed the formation of the Committee of Fifteen on Reconstruction, claiming it would impede elected Southern representatives from taking their seats in Congress. Soon afterwards, Johnson vetoed a Civil Rights Bill and asserted it contained portions of the previously vetoed Freedman Bureau bill and predicted the legislation would create a “terrible engine of wrong, corruption and fraud.”
“What do you think about that, Mr. Gabby?”
“All that talk about rights and corruption confuses me,” he admitted, shaking his head.
“Me too.”
“I feel I want to be on President Johnson’s side, but I don’t like the idea of keeping anybody from having his rights. I didn’t have any rights when I was in the basement of the White House, and it made me feel bad.”
Gabby’s humor improved when Mr. Walt read to him in early April that the Senate had overturned the President’s veto. In stories in coming days, Johnson vetoed a bill to admit Colorado to the Union because many Southern states had yet to have their sovereign rights restored.
“Why can’t they all just find a way to get along with each other and stop butting heads?” Gabby asked in May.
“I agree.” Mr. Walt smiled and looked out the window as he sipped his coffee.
***
One story of the crisis-ridden spring of 1866 that did not appear in the New York newspapers was the internal moral battle within Sen. James Lane of Kansas. A year earlier, he had ingratiated himself to Secretary of War Stanton by agreeing to nose around and report on President Johnson’s behavior. When discretion allowed it, Lane would steer the president back into old drinking habits. He had hardened his scruples during the bloody conflict between slave and free factions in Kansas of the 1850s. Lane did not question Stanton’s motives because of the overriding goal of total equality of the former slave population. But now he feared each battle for civil rights had lost its focus and degenerated into a simple exercise of emasculating President Johnson, a man Lane had always respected.
Several times during the spring when Lane’s resolve diminished, Secretary Stanton stiffened it with hard cash, in untraceable small denominations of currency. Several newspapers ran stories based on nebulous government sources that substantial amounts of money had appeared in Lane’s financial portfolio. Rumors of bribery ran amok on Capitol Hill. Finally in June of 1866, the stress of placating Stanton and being at peace with his own inner core of decency forced Lane to take a few weeks rest back in his hometown of Leavenworth, Kansas.
Waiting on him when he returned home was the abolitionist editor of the Kansas Tribune Edmund Ross. Ross had left his prosperous newspaper enterprise in Wisconsin during the 1850s to move to Kansas where he advocated the free-state movement. At the outbreak of the war, Ross joined the northern forces to combat slavery and rose to the rank of major. He was a tough courageous man who had two horses shot from underneath him during one battle. Ross did not hesitate to confront his senator, James Lane, at every opportunity that presented itself.
“Sen. Lane,” Ross began in his blustering baritone when he cornered him at a livery stable in Leavenworth. “You, sir, still have not adequately explained your vote to uphold Andrew Johnson’s veto of the Civil Rights Bill. I asked you at the town hall meeting not a week ago. Again, I asked you on the courthouse steps when you were dedicating a plaque to the war dead and still you evaded. My God, man, you stood with me with I first came to Kansas to fight for the cause of abolition.”
“Well, if you would not talk constantly and I could get a word in edgewise, I could make you understand what so many other thoughtful men found self-evident.”
A stable boy approached the men. “Mr. Lane, sir, your carriage is ready for your daily ride.”
“He’s not going anywhere until he explains why he supported Johnson in blocking a colored man’s rights. The war is over. Slavery is dead. What would it serve to fight civil rights now?”
“We have enough laws to protect colored rights. We don’t need laws on top of laws on top of laws.”
“Sen. Lane,” the young man said, gently pushing his way into the conversation. “This horse and carriage have to be back to take the mayor and his wife to supper. I have to give him water and brush him down proper before the mayor takes him out.”
“Boy, I said this would take only a second!” Ross bellowed.
“You talk about rights? What about this young man’s rights? How can you think of the colored when you don’t treat a simple white stable boy with respect?” Lane fought back.
“You’re changing the topic again. You’re trying to put me on the defensive and I just won’t have it!”
Lane turned away, put his arm around the groom’s shoulder and tossed back, “Maybe you want to get rid of me so you can become senator!”
“I might just do that!” Ross yelled to no avail.
As Lane mounted the carriage, he noticed the young man had a slight limp as he climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins. He seemed stooped over on purpose to hide his true height. Probably the result of a war wound, Lane decided, and did not press the matter. Long carriage rides were among the few activities that alleviated his melancholia. The dry winds of the prairie helped to clear his mind.
“Where you hankerin’ to visit today, Sen. Lane?” the driver asked as they lost their view of town through the trees.
The young man had indiscernible features. He wore an oversized duster and an enormous flop hat. The more the senator stared at the driver’s back, the more he was convinced this person was older than he acted.
Lane frowned. “You’re not Joe, my usual driver. He knows my favorite routes.”
“No, I’m not Joe. Sorry to inconvenience you, sir.”
“Well, just head north.” Lane waved his hand vaguely. “It makes no difference.”
A few miles passed in silence before the driver spoke again. “Make way! Presidential pardon! Make way!”
Lane sat up abruptly. “What the hell did you say?”
“You know very well what I said, Sen. Lane. They were my words from just a year ago in the prison yard where Mrs. Surratt and the others were about to be hanged.”
“Your words? Who the hell are you?”
The driver turned and smiled. His features clearly were those of a man in his twenties. His dark eyes were piercing and malevolent. Lane knew he had seen this person before but could not quite place him.
“You stood in our way so that those foul soldiers could hang a good and honorable woman.”
Lane’s flinty eyes lit in indignation. “That woman was as guilty as sin! She had to die to restore peace to our nation!”
“And you have to die to restore peace to my nation.” The driver pulled a gun from an inside pocket of his duster.
“No!”
Lane jumped from the carriage, but before his body reached the ground, the driver put a bullet through his skull. The shooter jumped from the carriage seat and watched the horse pick up speed, turn and head back to the livery stable in Leavenworth. He placed the gun a few inches from Lane’s hand where his body lay on the road. Then he slowly walked South, with a slight limp to his gait.

Every month Davy meant to leave Christiansburg for home, but every month he found another reason to stay with Harriet Griffith and her hat maker father. In fact, he liked the idea of hat making because as a young hunter he felt he had been a part of the process all his life. He just had not known what happened to the pelts after shooting, skinning, drying and selling the hides. Griffith, though skittish and forgetful, was a patient master of the art and slowly introduced him to each phase as though Davy had a whole lifetime to learn them. First came selection of pelts from grizzled hunters who made infrequent trips to town. Beaver was most expensive and therefore the easiest with which to work, lasted longest and most pleasant to the eye.
“I could go out and shoot you some beaver and save money,” Davy offered in youthful enthusiasm.
“I appreciate that, Master Davy,” Griffith said, smiling and patting him on the back, “but beaver around here don’t produce the same quality fur as the ones I get from Canada. Besides, if you shot them instead of trapping them, that would probably make a hole right in the crown, and I don’t think my customers would like that.” At first Griffith taught him the appropriate way to start and maintain a proper fire for a hatter’s shop. The blaze must be available at all times to boil water for keeping leather pliable. Davy learned this lesson as summer months arrived, making the little log room insufferable. “Never mind the heat,” Griffith said, his bland blond brow glistening. “The sweat keeps the poisons flowing out of your body.” His eyes fluttered as he added, “I’ve never been sick a day in my life. All the poisons have been sweated out of me.”
At the same time Harriet began teaching Davy how to read. Learning seemed much easier when lessons came from a beautiful young lady. They started with simple stories by a man named John Bunyan and progressed to King James’ Bible which he found difficult to understand. Harriet explained the meaning of each word. Sometimes she had to repeat a definition two or three times because Davy’s eyes were lost in the loveliness of her golden locks. She smiled like an angel and kept saying the words until he nodded in comprehension.
Eager to show his interest in his apprenticeship Davy asked Griffith to let him start carroting pelts, the process of dipping them in mercurous nitrate solution which conditioned the pelt while turning the hairs bright orange. The hatter frowned as he listened to Davy and shook his head.
“No, no. That’s the most important part of the job. You have to wait to learn carroting.” His eyes flitted, and his lips pursed into a pout. “Maybe shaving in a few months. But not carroting, not now.” His stitching became more intense. “Keep the pot boiling. That’s good enough for now.”
At the end of the summer the Griffiths helped Davy celebrate his fourteenth birthday. Harriet baked a hickory nut cake, and her father gave him a Poor Richard’s Almanac, which Davy learned to read in short measure, drawing high praise from Harriet.
“My, Davy, you are the fastest learner I’ve ever seen,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling.
“It’s the teacher, not the pupil.” He beamed back at her.
Next she taught him how to write, having him copy passages from the almanac.
“This poor Richard was a smart man,” he said, carefully watching his hand make each curve, cross each t and dot each i.
“That was Benjamin Franklin,” she replied.
“I’ve heard of ‘im.” He paused to reflect on his work. “He was a foundin’ father and a friend of Thomas Jefferson.” He considered telling her his story of meeting Jefferson at his home Monticello but decided against lying to her. “I’d like to meet Mr. Jefferson one day.”
Davy asked Griffith to teach him how to dip shaved pelts into boiling acid solution to thicken and harden it. The hatter again demurred.
“That’s another one of those tricky things. Acid can be dangerous.” Griffith looked at him and smiled. “I’d hate to put a mark on such a handsome young man.” He returned to steaming a hat, shaping it as it should be. “I ordered some needles. Go to the general store and check to see if they have come in.”
Nodding with a grin, Davy shot out the door and down the lane to the main street of the county seat village. At every house and shop he passed Davy waved and shouted greetings. Women sweeping their front steps stopped to smile at him and men leaned out windows to call to him. Davy Crockett knew no strangers. In the few months of living in Christiansburg, he met Mister Goodell, a squat, pleasant man in his thirties who ran the general store, Mister Harp who had just opened a law office by the courthouse and old maid Dorcas Hinton who made dresses in her front parlor. She had been in town for so long that no one thereabouts remembered what she looked like when she was young.
Banging through the front door of the general store Davy stopped to examine the contents of each table, counter and barrel before asking Mister Goodell if the needles had come in. Goodell pulled out a small box and asked how Miss Harriet was and laughed when Davy blushed. His eyes narrowed when he inquired of her father’s health.
“Elijah’s a good man.” He handed the box to Davy. “I’ll put this on his tab. I knew his wife well. She was a good woman.”
“”I like him better than any man I ever worked for,” Davy said.
“If he looks like he’s going to hit Harriet or you, be sure to let me know,” Goodell whispered. “It ain’t tattling. I know he wouldn’t harm a fly, but sometimes if a man doesn’t feel good…” He stopped short and then smiled. “Just know you can tell me.”
Over the next year and a half, folks up and down the streets of Christiansburg told him the same thing. The mercury used in hat making could make a man go mad. All the signs had emerged: trembling hands, not getting his fingers to do what he wanted, loss of memory and loss of hair. All this made Griffith irritable and anxious, and often he erupted into loud frustration.
From time to time Harriet would dissolve into tears and meld into Davy’s arms which were growing larger and stronger. He sensed a stirring in his body that at once frightened and pleased him.
When the leaves turned gold and fell on Davy’s second autumn in Christiansburg, he and Harriet sat under the same old tree where he first found her crying. He finished reading aloud the last verses in the book of Joshua. His delivery was even, confident and showed inflection in some passages.
“Oh, Davy, you read as well as I do now,” Harriet said with pride. “Your handwriting is clear and as grown-up looking as father’s. Of course, your ciphers have always been good. There’s nothing left for me to teach you.”
“I wish you played the fiddle,” Davy said, his eyes sparkling. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play the fiddle.”
“I’d like that, teaching you to play.” Harriet’s face glowed. “You got so many natural smarts, I imagine you could learn just about anything you set your mind to.”
A faraway look in his eyes, he did not respond to her kind words. His thoughts dwelt upon some indefinable problem. “Do you think the Bible is like what most folks say, direct truth from the mouth of God, or do you think it’s a bunch of tall tales?”
“I believe the Bible is the divinely inspired word of God.” She paused. “I don’t think I know what tall tales mean.”
“Tall tales are, you know, when you start out with the truth and run off with it, like an old hound dog gallopin’ through the trees chasin’ squirrels until you don’t know what you’ll end up with.” He smiled. “You know, sometimes the truth can be as dull as dishwater.”
Harriet looked away. “Truth isn’t supposed to be an entertainment, Davy Crockett. Truth is what gives life meaning. Sometimes it hurts and sometimes it feels good, but if you can’t trust the truth, then what good is it?”
“You put me to shame, Harriet Griffith. And that’s the truth.”
She looked back and smiled, brushing a wisp of blonde hair from her delicate blue eyes. Davy thought she must be an angel, and he had to touch this vision of heaven or he would burst. Leaning toward her, he brought his lips close to hers, and she did not pull away.

***

David did not have an answer for Elizabeth’s question. Would it matter if she did not trust him? The whole subject of truth and trust made him uncomfortable. He turned to walk through the dog trot to mount his horse for a long ride from one side of canes to the other. He wanted to slosh through marshes and to look at fallen trees and tangled underbrush. Nature had been turned upside down by the New Madrid earthquake, but continued to thrive in its new mangled state. After a long jaunt he felt refreshed and David turned his horse around, riding back to the farm along the creek bank.
“You git that trap?” Robert’s bitter voice broke David’s concentration.
He looked around to see his son’s glaring at him. “Oh, sure.” He pulled the trap from his saddlebag. “Here it is.”
“And I won’t put it too close to the creek,” Robert said, taking it from him.
“I know you won’t,” David said. “You’ll do the right thing. You always do.”
“I gotta git this laid.” Robert turned to walk toward the creek.
“Robert,” he called out.
His son stopped and looked around.
“I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate your hard work.”
Robert stared at his father.
“I know it’s been hard when me gone so much.”
Still he just stared.
“Well, you better set that trap,” David said. “I saw deer tracks between here and Kimery’s store this mornin’.”
Without a word Robert continued his walk toward the woods and the deep, gurgling brook. Sighing, David finished riding back to the house. When he walked in the door he saw Sissy in a straight backed caned chair, bent over a large wooden bowl kneading bread.
“Poor child, your grandma’s dead,” Sissy said.
Never had David seen such a pitiful creature. “Sissy, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Pa,” she replied, her eyes trained on the long oval trough.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Pa, I’m sure.”
He walked toward her. “Are you sure? Can’t I help out in some way?”
“No,” she said with a sigh.
“You look so pale. Why don’t you go for a walk down by the creek? Fresh air would do you good.”
“This dough needs workin’.” Her jaw seemed to jut out a mile. “Someone ought to do their duty to family. Ma and Robert and Matilda will be mighty hungry this evenin’. If I don’t finish this bread then they might go hungry. I couldn’t live with myself if I let my family go hungry.”
“I’ll be at that table too, Sissy,” he said. “I’d miss your bread too.”
“Of course. Did I include you?” Her punches into the rubbery dough became more violent. “I guess I forgot.” Her lips pursed. “You’re gone so much…” Her voice trailed off.
David had no reply so he went outside. Gathering his grit he walked back to Elizabeth and sat on a large fallen log nearby. She looked over and smiled with a kindness that made his heart jump. His mind rummaged around for a way to bridge the gap with his wife.
“Elizabeth, I don’t know where I went wrong with our children. Robert’s awful bitter, talks real sharp to me,” he began. “Sissy’s almost mad, repeatin’ ‘Poor child your grandma is dead.’” He paused. “Worst of all, I slapped Matilda when she said I taught her how to lie.”
“Well,” she said with a rueful smile, “you did teach her how to lie.”
He put his head in his hands. “That’s what makes it so bad.” He looked up and frowned. “But I didn’t teach Sissy to ramble on about, “Poor child, your grandma is dead.”
“But you did.” She squeezed out the last drops of water from one of the dresses hanging on the line.
“What?”
“Before you left for your last campaign, right after your ma passed away, you patted Sissy on the back and said, ‘Poor child, your grandma is dead.”
“Oh.”
“I think it struck me odd that when you git an itch to go away, not even the death of your own mother could keep you in one spot.”
David wanted to tell her she was wrong. He wanted to list time after time in his life when he put aside his own importance to take care of his family, but he could not think of one single instance when he overcame his desire to run away.
“And what am I goin’ to do about Robert? I’d give anythin’ to git back on his good side. You got any ideas?”
“You mistake me for Solomon, Mister Crockett.”
“What do you think I ought to do? Honest?” He leaned forward. “What does your heart say?”
“My heart?” She paused, caught off guard. I—I don’t know.”
“You know I’ve been thinkin’ about goin’ to Texas.”
“If that’s what your heart tells you.”
In that moment, David’s heart informed him he did love his wife and his children, and he repented the times he abandoned them. Though embittered, Robert was an exceptional young man who earned admiration from everyone who knew him. Matilda was a joy, filled with laughter, energy and warmth; it was no wonder a more mature man looked to her to give meaning to his life. Sissy’s sorrow was his fault. Only a precious, gentle soul such as Sissy could feel so much heartache. And Elizabeth’s strong body bore many children, labored to sustain life for them and endured storms, floods and poverty to keep their family going. She did everything in silence and with pride. He owed them all the rest of his life to make amends. He stood, went to Elizabeth and put his arms around her thick waist.
“My heart tells me to stay here.”

***

As Dave drove south on I-35 and the skyline of Dallas appeared, he feared Allan would take form in the seat next to him giving him directions to Frankiebell’s. He took the exit to Mockingbird Lane and drove east, sighing in relief his brother did not come back. His muscles relaxed, and a burden seemed to lift from his shoulders. Passing Love Field, he knew he would arrive in Highland Park soon and its antique shops. Dave turned off Mockingbird Lane onto a shaded side street with large Victorian homes. Tastefully painted signs on manicured lawns advertised bistros and stores of distinctive merchandise. In the first shop Dave approached the owner, a short, stout woman with dyed blonde hair.
“I’m looking for an old Bible. Someone might have brought it in sometime in the last two months. It has David Crockett’s signature on the family page.”
“Oh.” She looked over the rim of her glasses. “We don’t carry Disneyana here.” Waving her hand, she added, “We only carry French décor from the Bourbon dynasty.”
Deciding it was not worth his time to explain he was not seeking anything from the motion pictures of the nineteen-fifties, he smiled, nodded and left. Dave told himself to be more attentive in selection of the shops he explored. Passing by other stores with names like Merrye Olde England, Strictly Scandinavia and European Things, he found a place called God Bless Americana. The owner, tall, thin and in her forties, smiled and nodded with a nervous frequency as Dave explained his situation.
“How fascinating,” she murmured over and over again. When he finished her face went blank. “I have no idea where to tell you to go. How dreadful for your father. Maybe you should check some book stores closer to downtown.”
Her suggestion made sense to Dave. Allan would have gone somewhere within walking distance to his old hangouts. Dave drove south on Central Expressway, taking the Abrams Road exit. The skyscrapers loomed higher there abutting the seedier side of town filled with bars, strip joints and flop houses. A few blocks away, the houses were nicer and the stores respectable. Dave’s gut tightened as he passed a small but well-maintained brick bungalow with the sign Books Are Friends. Turning around he drove back to the narrow driveway and parked. Inside he saw a woman in her sixties, wearing a turtleneck sweater and slacks sitting behind a counter reading an old book. Looking up she smiled.
“May I help you?”
“I’m looking for an old Bible,” Dave began, relating the story of David Crockett’s family Bible which contained his signature and all his descendants from his son Robert Patton Crockett.
She nodded with intelligence and patience until he reached the part about Allan, his mentally ill brother, who stole it from their father’s house.
“Dad needs it to verify his age so he can receive Social Security.” He explained how he thought Allan sold it to finance this life in the shadows of downtown Dallas.
“Did he have thinning gray hair, several teeth missing and badly nicotine-stained fingers?”
“Yes.” Dave’s eyes widened.
“He loved books, didn’t he?” the woman said. “From the moment he walked in that door he walked from stack to stack raving about the selection.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dave’s heartbeat quickened.
“Call me Miriam.” She stepped around the counter. “He checked the copyright marks and comment on the quality of various publishers. He even read French and Spanish titles fluently.”
“Yes, that sounds like him, Miriam,” he said.
“But when I responded in French, his eyes went blank,” she added.
“That sounds like him too.” Dave looked down.
“He wasn’t well, was he, Dave?” she asked.
“No, Miriam, he wasn’t. He could say la plume de ma tante and Le Petite Prince as though he knew French intimately, but he never understood grammar, French, Spanish or English, for that matter. He wanted to be considered well educated but there was something in his emotional makeup that kept him from fulfilling his dream.”
“That’s what I thought.” She paused to smile in sympathy. “The Bible was in a grocery bag.”
“So you have the Bible?”
Miriam’s eyes turned sad as she reached out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry, Dave.”

The sun was bright but not very hot as Mike and Randy tumbled, giggling incoherent insults at each other, on the green, immaculately cropped lawn. John laughed along with the boys, pretending to separate them from their make-believe brawl until he noticed Harold looking down at them from his office window. He patted their backs, trying not to act as though he knew they were being watched.
“Come along,” he said becoming serious. “We’ve got plans to make.”
“We’re going to get Pharaoh, ain’t we?” Mike asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Randy whispered as he looked around with suspicion. “I don’t like it here.”
“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “Can’t get no beer.” He punched his brother in the arm. “Ain’t that right, Randy?”
John guided them around the lawn so they would be out of range of Harold’s office window.
“We must be very serious from now on.”
“Yeah,” Randy grunted.
“You bet.” Mike nodded.
“We’ll have new names,” John told them.
“Hey, this is neat.” Mike became more excited about their scheme.
“Why?” Randy hunched over and stepped away.
“It’s for your safety.”
“Yeah.” Mike punched his brother in the shoulder. “Don’t you know nothing? It’s for our safety.”
“Don’t hit me.” Randy thumped him back.
“Joshua. Caleb. Stop it!”
They jumped and stared at John.
“What did you call us?” Randy asked.
“Joshua and Caleb.” John smiled and pointed to Mike. “You shall be Joshua and you,” he said, pointing to Randy, “shall be named Caleb.”
“I like Randy.” He looked down.
“But it’s for the secret,” Mike told him.
“And I shall be Moses.” John put his hand under Randy’s chin and lifted his face. “You remember that I said I was Moses, don’t you?”
“I think.”
“Yeah.” Mike beamed, pleased that he retained the story in his limited mind. “Your mama put you in a basket and sent you down the river.”
“Good, Joshua. You’re learning.”
“Sure I am.” He smiled, showing his yellowed teeth.
“Now what?” Randy asked.
“Now what, who?” John said, testing him.
“Now what, Moses.” Resentment crept around the corners of the boy’s brown eyes.
“Good, Caleb. Now listen closely.”
No one heard their murmuring on the lawn. No one suspected anything that evening as they went through the cafeteria line with their trays. Mike and Randy laughed and exchanged pokes in their ribs, but they always acted that way.
“I ain’t gonna miss eating this crap,” Mike said as he crammed mashed potatoes, green beans and meat loaf into his mouth, all at once.
“Shut up.” Randy poked him.
“Hey! You gonna to make me choke on my food.”
“Now, Joshua and Caleb…”
They looked at him with a void in their eyes.
“Remember?” John glanced around to see if anyone were watching them. “You are now Joshua and Caleb.”
“I still like being Randy better.” The boy pouted as he wadded up a slice of bread and stuffed it whole into his mouth.
“Don’t take your pill tonight,” John whispered.
“The one that puts us to sleep?” Mike asked.
“Hey.” Randy hit him. “You’re spitting taters on me.”
“Yes.” John shook his head and stood. “The pills that put you to sleep. Don’t take them.” Again he looked around. “We’ll talk more as we watch television.”
Some comedy program with too-cute white children was on the television screen. John was able to hold Mike and Randy’s attention because they as a rule cared for afternoon cartoons.
“This is very important.” John leaned into them as he whispered. “New attendants come on duty at midnight. Do not go to sleep before that. Remember, do not go to sleep.”
“How can we without the pills?” Randy frowned. “They don’t let us have beer to get to sleep neither.”
“The attendant always goes to the rest room a few minutes after his shift begins,” John continued. “When he leaves, quickly get out of your beds and slip from the room. Meet me in the rest room down the hall across from the day room.”
“What’s the day room?” Mike wrinkled his brow.
“This is the day room.” John tried to maintain his composure. “I’ll meet you in that rest room.” John paused, deciding to test them on how well they understood his instructions. “Now which rest room will you go into when the attendant leaves after he takes his midnight shift?”
“The one across from this room.” Mike grinned.
“And Caleb? Do you know where to go?” John stared at Randy who was beginning to curl into a ball as he looked with incomprehension at the television screen.
“Why are they laughing? That ain’t funny,” he said.
John sighed, hoping Randy understood what he was supposed to do.
At bedtime the attendant gave John his pill and watched him put it in his mouth and sip water from a small cup. Once he was sure John had swallowed, he walked away, not bothering to turn around when he heard John cough. If he had, he would have seen a sleeping pill fly from John’s mouth to the floor behind his bed. But he had too many patients to watch take their medications to scrutinize one benign Cherokee who thought he was Moses. Mike and Randy hid their pills in the deep creases of their sweaty palms and pretended to put them in their mouths and swallow. The attendant just walked away, on to the next person who yawned and stretched.
“Don’t put that in your mouth,” Mike said with a hiss to his brother.
“I know.” Randy stuck his lips out in a pout. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Their dark eyes glistened with excitement as they lay awake, waiting for the changing of attendants, which meant it was midnight. Their bodies tensed when the new person looked up from his desk, scratched himself and left his post to go to the rest room.
“Just like Moses said,” Mike whispered as they crawled from their beds.
“Who?”
“You know. John. He wants us to call him Moses now.”
“That’s stupid.” He slipped into his jeans and T-shirt. “He’s John and you’re Mike and I’m Randy, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
“I don’t know why he wants to be called Moses,” Mike said, putting on his clothes. “But that’s what he wants, and he knows best.”
“I don’t think he knows best.”
“Well, he says he does so you’re Caleb, and I’m Joshua.”
“It’s stupid.”
“It’s for our safety.”
They entered the dark rest room and felt their way around the wall. Moonlight from the high window shone on the black and white tile floor. One of the toilets flushed.
“Moses?” Mike whispered.
“Hurry.” John came out of one of the stalls. “The attendant will notice we’re gone soon.”
“Just a minute,” Mike said, heading for a urinal. “I gotta go first.”
“Hurry.” John took the wastebasket and turned it over near the window. He reached up and turned the latch.
“Oh, we’re going out the window?” Mike zipped up.
“What did you think?” Randy hit him on the arm. “We was going to flush ourselves down the pot?”
“Hey!” Mike punched his brother back.
“Joshua, Caleb,” John said, pointing to the basket.
The boys obeyed without question and climbed up and out the window, helping John to come after them. They landed on soft, wet grass and went to their knees. John nodded toward the garden.
“Quickly, through there. Down on your bellies. Crawl through the flowers.”
“Hey, Moses,” Mike said, “it’s cold out here.”
“I don’t want to get my clothes dirty,” Randy groused. “I don’t like dirty clothes.”
“You don’t want the guards to see you, do you?” John dropped to his abdomen and began to crawl. “Follow me. Do as I do.”
At last, they reached the fence, and the boys, with little difficulty, scaled it. John labored for several minutes.
“Hey,” Randy called out, scowling, “hurry up.”
“Hey.” Mike hit his arm. “Don’t hassle Moses, okay?”
A few minutes later they ran joyously down a deserted road. The boys stopped to let John catch his breath. Mike’s eyes were wide with excitement.
“And Pharaoh,” he said, “where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought you was supposed to know everything.” Randy kicked at dirt.
“I do know where to find a man who does know where Pharaoh is,” John told them, defending himself against Randy’s impudence.
“Where’s that?” Mike asked.
“Knoxville. A city many miles from here. He’ll lead us to Pharaoh.”
“Gosh, Moses,” Mike said in awe, “how did you find that out?”
“I saw the burning light in the television. Remember the program that was on when I broke the set?”
“No.” Mike looked down in embarrassment.
“It was the news.”
“I hate the news,” Randy said.
“Never mind. Just believe me.” John ordered, nettled by Randy’s lack of blind obedience. “I’ll lead you to the man called Bob Meade.” Before Randy could question who Bob was John added, “He talked to Pharaoh who, many years ago, persecuted our people in a land called Germany.”
“I don’t have no people from Germany.” Randy looked at John with suspicion.
John scrambled to think of a way to make Randy realize this was his fight as well. “I mean, our people, poor people.”
“Yeah.” Mike hit his brother. “People who get raw deals.”
“That’s right, Joshua.”
Soon headlights beamed on them. They stood, with their hands over their eyes to protect them from the glare. The car stopped, and a door opened.
“You all want a ride?” a welcoming voice called out. “I’m going into town if you’re going that way.”
“Well,” John said, “I don’t know…”
“Jump in. It’s cold out there.”
“Right. It’s cold,” Mike agreed, grinning.
“Very well.” John smiled as he motioned the boys into the back seat, and he sat up front.
The young man behind the wheel, skinny and with a reddish yellow crop of hair and beard stubble, grinned, displaying a mouth of missing teeth.
“I’m Gary Sturgis.”
“Thank you, Gary.” John shook his hand. “You’re kind.” He looked into the back seat. “These young men are friends, Mike and Randy.” He held his hands together as though he were about to choke someone. “And my name is John Ross.”
Gary put his car in gear and gunned the engine, sending them down the dim country highway.
“I’m on my way to work at the Piggly Wiggly in town. You guys are lucky I picked you up. There’s an insane asylum down the road a piece and while they’re always saying they ain’t dangerous, I have my doubts.”
Mike laughed. Gary stole a look back at him.
“What’s funny?”
“They’ve gone without sleep. Sometimes people laugh when they’re very tired.” John glared at Mike, furrowing his brow. He wished he had found followers who were not so dull-witted.
“Want a drink?” Gary pulled a can of beer from a sack on the floorboard between his legs. “I’m celebrating. My wife just told me she’s having a baby. Ain’t had a beer in a long time, so I thought it wouldn’t do no harm. They won’t notice at work.”
“Yeah. I’d like a beer.” Mike leaned forward in anticipation.
“Me, too,” Randy added, licking his lips.
“Boys, no.” John gave them a stern look, and they fell back in their seats. Again he turned to hold his hands as though he were about to strangle someone. Mike and Randy blinked in blankness.
“Well, they’ve got some real crazies there. Why those two guys who killed that old lady—it was in the papers—they’re in there.”
“They don’t know for sure how that old lady died,” Randy grumbled.
“What?” Gary stole another glance back.
“Nothing.” John smiled. “So you’re about to become a father. You must be very proud.”
Glaring at Mike and Randy, he formed his hands in the strangle hold a third time. At last they nodded. Mike scooted forward and placed his beefy hands close to Gary’s neck.
“Yeah, I tell you, for a while life looked like one hassle after another, but things are really looking up.”
Mike reached around Gary’s skinny neck with his fingers.
“Hey!”
Randy brought his hands over the top of Gary’s head, hooking two fingers in his nostrils and pulling back, giving Mike a better hold as he crushed Gary’s Adam’s apple. His arms and legs flailed about the front seat, as John lunged forward to grab the wheel. He slammed his foot on the brake. Gary’s grunts and gurgles subsided, and at last his arms and legs went limp. His eyes began to glaze. Mike reached down between his legs for the sack of beer.
“Yeah,” Randy said. “Get me some of that.”
After Mike grabbed the bag and plopped back, John began tugging on Gary’s body and said with a grunt, “Let’s dump him out on the road.”
Mike popped open a beer and looked at Gary’s head as John pulled the body from the car.
“Hey, that’s kinda funny, the way the spit’s coming out of his mouth.”
“He shouldn’t have said those things about us killing the wider.” Randy slurped a beer. “He was bad.”
After John hid Gary’s body in dense bushes and returned to the driver’s side of the car, Mike leaned forward.
“Hey, was he Pharaoh?”
“No, he was just someone standing in our way.” John thumbed through Gary’s wallet which he had taken from his body. He looked at a picture of a straggly brown-haired girl with buck teeth and at an Alcoholics Anonymous chip and then threw them away. John pulled out a few bills and counted them. “And he didn’t have much money, either.”
As the sun began to creep over the Appalachian foothills, John drove into a state forest camping ground.
“Moses, I’m cold,” Mike said.
“Me too,” Randy added, shivering.”
“We might find something of value here.” John slowed the car as he peered through the campsites.
“I hope so,” Mike muttered, finishing his third beer and reaching for the last in the six-pack.
“That’s mine.” Randy hit his hand.
“Joshua, Caleb, don’t fight.” John cut the engine and got out of the car. “Follow me.”
The boys tailed him down a path to a remote campsite. Along the way, John picked up a sturdy fallen branch. They came upon a small tent. John unzipped it to spy two sleeping bags with soft breathing coming from them. Randy grabbed the branch from John’s hand.
“I know what to do with that.” He began bashing the heads in the bags.
“No. Stop,” John whispered with urgency.
“Hey.” Mike took the branch from his brother. “That looks like fun.” He struck several blows to the sheathed bodies.
John’s eyes widened as he listened to moans from the bags, gasping in desperation. He sighed at the silence when the people died.
“I didn’t want you to kill them.”
“Why not?” Randy furrowed his brow. “We killed the guy in the car.”
“Yeah,” Mike added, beginning to whine, “I thought that was what we was going to do, kill a lot of people to get to Pharaoh.”
“We killed the man in the car because he could have identified us to police.” John shook his head. “These people were asleep. They would have never seen us.”
“Then why did you pick up that stick?” Randy’s eyes went to the ground.
“To defend ourselves. If they woke up.”
“Well,” Mike said, laughing, “we defended ourselves pretty good.”
“I don’t know why you have to get mad at us all the time.” Randy’s lips stuck out in a pout.
“Never mind. It’s too late now.” John looked around. “Search the camp. Food. Weapons. Anything.”
“Coats,” Randy added. “I’m cold.”
“Yeah!” Mike brightened. “Maybe they had some beer.”
They scavenged around and found some granola bars which they devoured, and then picked up a large, gleaming hunting knife. John came from the tent with two blood-splattered coats and a wallet. The boys lunged for the coats.
“Hey, I want this one,” Mike said, grabbing the larger of the two and putting it on. He tossed the smaller one to Randy. “This’ll fit you, skinny.”
“Don’t call me skinny,” he said, hitting his brother and then putting on the coat.
“Want some candy?” Mike held out a granola bar to John.
“Thank you.” He took it and nibbled as he looked through the wallet. In it were pictures, including one of a frail blonde-haired woman in her late thirties. She looked worn-down, like his mother. Another was a double-chinned, black-haired man, also in his late thirties. He reminded John of men on the construction site in Knoxville who harassed him because he was Cherokee. John was glad the boys killed him. The last picture was of a husky-sized boy about twelve. He was like the one who hit him in the head with the stone tomahawk. John was glad Mike and Randy killed him, too. He threw the pictures down as he searched for bills. When he found several twenties he smiled.
“Now this man was of value to us.”

Entering a small log cabin at the end of a side street of Christiansburg, Davy saw Elijah Griffith hunched over a tall rough table, stitching with intensity the brim to the leather crown of a man’s hat. He was a skinny man with thinning blond hair. As Davy looked closer he noticed how strong Griffith’s hands looked and how thickly muscled his forearms were.
“Father,” Harriet said in a sweet soft voice. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
Griffith put down his work, turned and smiled. Davy was taken aback by his deep blue eyes which slightly bulged from their sockets and blinked uncontrollably. He could understand how the other apprentices were afraid of him and ran away but the gentleness in Griffith’s smile assured him his bark must be worse than his bite.
“This is Master Davy Crockett, and he wants to learn how to make hats.”
Griffith stepped forward and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Master Davy.”
His handshake was firm and strong, but restrained, showing he knew his strength and knew when not to use it.
“So where are you from?”
“I’m from Morristown, Tennessee, sir.” Davy paused before doing something he had not done in a long time. “I ran away from home because my pa beat me.”
Griffith narrowed his bulging blue eyes. “I don’t believe in hitting children,” Griffith said firmly.
“I worked for teamsters up and down the Shenandoah Valley. I really miss my ma and my sisters, but I was on my way home when I saw your daughter crying outside. I felt sorry for her.”
“You were crying, Harriet?” Griffith frowned with concern.
Harriet glanced to Davy and then to the floor, making him regret that he told the truth which made her feel uncomfortable.
“Only a little, father. I so hate to see you sad.”
“Oh, her crying had nothin’ to do with my wantin’ to make hats. I always wanted to make hats.” The sound of his own voice made Davy wince.
“No, you don’t.” Griffith paused to consider him seriously. “You really don’t want to make hats for the rest of your life?”
“No, sir.” The back of his neck burned intensely, and his stomach tightened, anticipating Griffith’s reply.
“You look like you could use steady meals, and a few extra dollars wouldn’t hurt you,” he said in measured tones before smiling. “Besides, it takes a good heart to be touched by a girl’s tears.” He patted him on the shoulder before returning to his work. “Welcome to the family, Master Davy.”
Harriet beamed as she guided him around the room. “We have a large fireplace. I cook all our meals.” She paused. “Mother taught me before she died.” She passed her hand over a roughhewn table with long half log benches on each side. “Father made all our furniture himself. He’s very talented.” Next she took him to the door in the middle of the far wall. “Father and I sleep in here.”
The room was small and dark, holding a large bed and a low small one, both covered with colorful quilts.
“Mother made the covers. She died before she could teach me how to quilt.”
Davy’s heart ached each time Harriet wistfully talked about her mother. She made him long for his own mother even more.
Pointing to a ladder from a hatch in the ceiling, she said, “We’ve got an attic where we keep the extra quilts. You can sleep there. All the other apprentices did.” Her eyes were still looking up when she discreetly took his hand in hers.
“Looks like my home back in Tennessee,” he whispered. He felt warm when she squeezed his hand.
“I know you won’t stay long, but father and I will appreciate the time you can give us.”
“Uh hmm.” For once words escaped him.
His attention was drawn away when the door opened, and a large burly man entered. His long, dirty brown hair covered his ears.
“Griffith, you got my hat?”
“Good day, Mr. Hansen.” Griffith did not look up but kept to his work, tying off the leather strap and cutting it with a long sharp knife that glistened in the dim window light. “Just finishing it.” He smiled and handed the hat to the large man.
Grunting with suspicion, Hansen took the hat, eyed it with care and then placed it on his head. He looked around. “Ain’t you got no mirror?”
“No,” Griffith replied, his gaze going out the window. “I need to set aside stray coins to buy one.”
“You need to do that.” After a few more unpleasant grunts, he finally announced, “I suppose it’ll do.”
Davy was aware of Harriet’s breathing deeply in relief.
“That’ll be two dollars.”
“Two dollars? You told me one fifty,” Hansen blustered. “I’d never told you to make it if I thought it’d be two dollars.”
Hansen was lying. Davy, who considered himself an expert storyteller, saw the signs, a forced tone, a slight shuffling of feet and his hand went to his face, covering his mouth. A poor liar at that, Davy decided.
“Oh.” Griffith’s large blue eyes fluttered. “I did? I thought—I guess I forgot. I get confused sometimes.”
“You better watch that.” Hansen dropped three half dollars on the work bench. “You don’t want the word to git out that you’re a cheat. It’s a small town, Griffith, and rumors can ruin a man’s business.”
Davy swallowed hard. It had never bothered him before to tell a lie to get what he wanted, but now he saw how his lies could hurt good, hard-working innocent people. He did not like the feeling.

***

David could not believe that Matilda told him she did not tell him all her secrets first. She was his joy. She was the one who seemed to understand why he was gone so much. “Of course, you tell me everythin’. You always say—“
“I lied.”
Slowly it dawned on David his daughter had always lied to him. He did not like the feeling.
“How can you be the first one I tell things when you ain’t here?”
“But why did you tell me I was the first to know?”
“You wanted to be the first one to know.” She bit her lip. “I thought you’d love me more if you thought I told you everythin’ first.”
“Do you lie to me most of the time?”
“Yes.”
“What are some of these lies?”
“Papa, don’t.”
“I guess when you said you was proud of me when I went to Congress, that was a lie.”
“No, that wasn’t a lie.” Her gaze went down. “I’d gone without the honor to have you home more.”
“Is that a lie, too? Do you really care if I’m home or not?”
“Oh, Papa, please don’t be mean to me. All I ever wanted was for you to love me.” Matilda tried to muffle a sob.
“That’s why you want to marry an old man, so you can have a papa?”
“At least he’d be home.” Her eyes hardened.
“Matilda, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He did not know why he said he was staying. That was not his plan. He wanted to go to Texas more than anything, but at this moment he wanted to prove Matilda was wrong.
“Yes, you are,” she blurted out. “You’re goin’ to Texas.”
“I’m not goin’ to Texas.” His voice was forced, and he shuffled his feet.
“Well, if it ain’t Texas it’ll be someplace else, any place but here.”
“I give you my word.” David’s hand covered his mouth.
“Oh, Papa,” she replied, sighing in resignation.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Who do you think taught me to lie?” Matilda turned away, wiping tears from her eyes.
He felt as though a man had just punched him hard in the gut. “I didn’t lie to the Cherokee. I promised I’d fight for their rights and I did. I lost, but I tried. I didn’t lie to the poor folks. I promised I’d git ‘em cheap land. I failed, but at least I tried.” He grabbed her shoulders to turn her around.
“You didn’t try very hard,” she said in a cold tone. “You let those folks down like you let us down.”
David slapped Matilda’s face. His eyes widened, horrified he lowered himself to his father behavior. Immediately he held her close to him and fought back tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” After a long moment he noticed her arms had stayed at her sides and not a muscle had moved in reaction to his embrace.
“May I go now?” she whispered. “I have to core them apples.”
David pulled away and nodded. Her lips pinched shut. Matilda picked up the basket and walked into their cabin. He stood there, very empty of emotions. His first impulse was to follow Matilda into the kitchen and confront her. As he got to the door he heard a slight humming of an old hymn in the back yard along with sloshing of laundry in a large black pot. Walking toward the sounds on the other side of the dog trot he saw Elizabeth stirring the pot with a four-foot long pine paddle.
“I talked to Thomas Tyson this morning.”
“He’s a good man.” Her eyes did not leave her pot of dresses, working the soapy water into every crinkle.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was an old man?”
“You seemed so upset about the election I didn’t want to bother you none.” Pulling up one dress, she scrutinized it for old stains before dumping it back in and stirring more.
“Do you think the election’s the only thing I care about?”
“I suppose I should have said somethin’.” She lifted the dress from the pot again with the ladle, bumping David aside so she could drop it into a tub of rinse water.
“I don’t know why I didn’t see it,” David said.
“It’s the way she looks at him.” Going back to her pot, Elizabeth paused to lean on the paddle, smiling a little. “And the way he looks at her. The sparkle in their eyes when they hear each other’s names.” She started stirring again.
“I didn’t know Matilda lied so much.” He saw a slight amusement flicker across her face.
“It’s not so much lyin’ as tellin’ tall tales.”
“Do you think she got it from me?”
“Why, Mr. Crockett,” she replied with a laugh as she moved a second dress to the rinsing tub, “you invented the tall tale.”

***

Dave, Vince and Lonnie made sandwiches and sat at their table in silence eating.
“That was a good idea,” Vince said. “Thinking of the antique shops in Dallas. I’d never come up with that.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever find it.” Lonnie shook his head. “That damn Allan. He was never right in the head.”
“But Puppy’s a good man to go looking for it,” Vince offered. “I don’t think I’d have the patience to do that.”
“Yeah, Puppy, that’s a good thing,” Lonnie said. Finishing his sandwich and belching loudly, he stood. “I gotta get out of these clothes and take a nap.”
After the bedroom door shut, Vince looked at Dave. “I want you to know, I’m not mad about last night.”
“You already said that.”
“I didn’t know you were that mad. We’ve got to put this behind us.”
“It’s too late.”
“It can’t be too late,” Vince said, his eyes searching Dave’s face. “We’ve got to be a family again.”
Before Dave could reply, the telephone rang, and Vince answered it.
“Hello?” Vince paused to look over at Dave. “Hello, Tiffany. This is Vince. Yes, I know. I’d like to meet you, too.” He paused again. “Yes, he’s right here.” He extended the receiver. “She wants to talk to you.”
Dave walked over to take the phone. Vince lowered his eyes and went to the sofa to lie down.
“Hello?”
“I talked to Linda.” Tiffany’s tone was controlled. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother Allan?”
“I was ashamed of him.” His eyes darted to Vince who had put one arm over his face and the other on his stomach.
“You thought if I knew you had a mentally ill brother I’d—do what?”
“I don’t know.”
Tiffany was silent for a long time so Dave blurted out, “I won’t be home tonight like I said.”
“That’s all right.”
“It’s a long story, but I’ve got to go to Dallas for a few days.” When she did not respond, he added, “It’s family business.”
“So it’s none of my business?” Resentment tinged her voice.
“You know that’s not true.” Dave turned his back to Vince.
“No, Dave. I don’t know that. We’ve got some talking to do when you get back to Waco.”
“Okay,” he said in a muted tone. “I love you.”
After hesitating, she replied without emotion, “Good-bye.”
He hung up and went to the table. “I’ll clean the dishes before I leave.”
Vince stood to join him. “That’s all right. I’ll do it.” He gathered the plates and glasses, dumping them in the sink. Vince turned back to Dave. “I can’t believe you think it’s too late.” He tried to smile. “After all, we’re the Crockett boys.”
“It’s me.”
“What?”
“I hate myself,” Dave whispered.
“Why? Tell me. I’m your brother. I’ll always be your brother.”
“I hate myself because I could never prove you wrong about me.”
“That’s the past. Forget the past.”
“That’s hard to do.”
“I was a stupid jerk, okay? You turned out better than me. Can’t you see that?”
“It’s all a lie.”
“I don’t understand.” Vince blinked his eyes.
“I live in a big house. I drive a Jaguar. I wear expensive clothes. But it’s all a lie.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“As long as I keep my wife happy, I get anything from her father.”
“Oh,” Vince replied.
“She doesn’t love me. She loves this thing I’ve manufactured. She doesn’t even know who I really am. She couldn’t love who I really am.”
“But you’re vice-president of—“
“I’m a whore!” Dave shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “Okay, I said it!” He stepped closer to Vince, his eyes glaring. “That’s what you wanted me to say! I’m a damn whore!”

A jetliner banked over Freeport, Bahamas. Bob and Jill, holding hands as newlyweds do, looked out of its window at sparkling beaches, a golden sunset and turquoise sea. Jill put her hand on Bob’s shoulder.
“Isn’t it beautiful? I always wanted to have my honeymoon in the Bahamas.”
“It is beautiful.”
“Where did you always want a honeymoon? I hope this is it.”
“Of course it is.” He kissed her. “I’m with you.”
“No, I mean the place.”
“This is wonderful. I wanted to go wherever made you happy because that’s what makes me happy.”
“But?”
“I hate to tell you where my favorite place is.” Bob smiled like a little boy and looked away.
“Oh good grief. If you say DisneyWorld I’ll throw up.”
“No.” He laughed and relaxed. He liked the way Jill could make him forget to be tense. Looking at her he opened his defenses. “Gatlinburg.”
“That’s not silly.”
“Many people don’t like Gatlinburg. They say it’s too gaudy, too commercial and too common. It’s an affront to nature, motels cut into sides of mountains. But if you look at it with your heart, Gatlinburg is the warmest place in the world.”
“I love the way you talk.” She snuggled into his arms.
“I remember a time when we were supposed to go on a family outing to Gatlinburg,” he said. “Dad was going to take a few days off and we’d spend a night or two looking at the shops and hiking in the Smoky Mountains.”
“But your father had other plans,” Jill said with sympathy.
“I awoke the morning of the trip to find dad already had gone to work.”
“What did your mother say?”
“She said she believed I was daydreaming, and she was agreeing with me only as part of the game. She hadn’t even approached dad about it.”
“I’m sorry, dear.” She stroked his arm. “If your mother believed that, she was dumb.”
“Evidently my disappointment touched her, because she called my father for permission to check a hundred dollars out of the bank to take me for an overnight stay.”
“That makes up for it a bit,” she said. “I’m sure a hundred dollars was a lot for them.”
“You got that right,” Bob said. “She lectured me, ‘Now just because I have a hundred dollars doesn’t mean we’re going to spend it all.’” He shook his head thinking of the incident. “She said, ‘Here you are, half-grown, and still expecting things like a baby.’”
“She knew how to extract her pound of flesh, didn’t she?”
“She continued, ‘To think of the things I could have bought for the house with this money makes me want to cry.’”
Jill moaned.
“Then she said, ‘Very many more trips like this, and we won’t have anything left in the world, but you won’t care. You’ve had your way.”
“Please, I can’t take any more.”
“I couldn’t either. I told her to pull over. I said if she didn’t want to take me to Gatlinburg I didn’t want to go.”
“So she said good, and turned the car around and went back to Clinton.”
“That’s what I thought would happen too,” Bob said. “Suddenly her soft warm lips touched my cheek, and the car started again, in the direction of Gatlinburg. She said nothing—that she stopped her railing was a loud statement in itself—but on her face was a look I only saw late Christmas eve after my father had fallen asleep in front of the television, a special gentleness. We slipped into our living room lit only by twinkling tree lights and exchanged gifts. It was something special just between the two of us.”
“Had you ever seen the Smokies before?”
“No. I was twelve years old and had never been east of Knoxville.”
“What did you think when you saw them?”
“Awe. The rolling hills around home couldn’t match them. And the motels were modern architecture.” He laughed.
“Where did you stay?”
“A small motel on the main street and in the cheapest room, which turned out to be an old log cabin behind the newer units. It had no television, and its fireplace was boarded up, but it was the most exciting place I’d ever been.”
“I bet it was fun.”
“You know, my excitement melted my mother’s attitude of martyrdom.”
“Good.”
“Exact names and places were a blur,” Bob continued, hating the memories but needing to share with his new wife. “Sensory perceptions filled my mind: the candy kitchen’s aroma of taffy and milk chocolate, the candle shop’s scent of crayons, the dusty smell of dried wildflowers, the sparkly colors of carnival glass and the smooth feel of hand-carved wooden toys.”
“I always loved the smell of wood chips in grandpa’s shop.” She smiled. “I hope you went in grandpa’s shop. That possibility makes me happy.”
“Of course, we didn’t buy anything. If I lingered too long over any one item my mother reminded me she wasn’t Art Linkletter.”
“Okay, now you’ve lost me.” Jill pulled away and looked at him. “Art Linkletter?”
“Remember him? He had a daytime variety show on TV during the fifties,” Bob explained. “He was mom’s ideal millionaire.”
“She was easily impressed.” She laughed.
“I never pressed for anything because I didn’t want to be chided for being a greedy little boy. So I contented myself with collecting all the memories my brain could hold. My restraint must have impressed her, because the next morning before we left town mom allowed me to have a dollar to go into a souvenir store to buy something.”
“That was nice.”
“I thought so too until my stomach sickened, in anticipation of her judgment of what I’d buy.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I bought a toy, I’d have been too silly. If I bought candy, I’d been shortsighted. So I searched carefully and decided on a key chain with a rubber grizzly bear hanging from it.”
“She couldn’t complain about that.”
“I thought so too, but I was wrong. She said, ‘What took you so long? I got a headache waiting for you in this hot car.’”
“Can’t win for losing.”
“I’d forgotten chastisement for dawdling. I always took too long, no matter what I did. Then she said, ‘Well, let me see what you got.’ She sighed, expecting more foolishness.”
“When you showed her the key chain, what did she say?”
“She smiled a little. ‘How nice. Except you don’t have any keys to put on it.’ Then I told her, ‘It’s for you.’”
“You’re so sweet.”
“Again I felt her tender, warm lips and heard the loud praise of mother’s silence all the way home.”
“Do you know what I’m looking forward to?”
“No. What?”
“Giving you all new wonderful memories that will squeeze out the old bad ones.”
“I’m looking forward to that too.”
They took a taxi from the airport to the hotel, a sleek pink and azure confection on the beach, and laughed all the way to their room. He picked her up and carried her in and kicked the door shut with his foot, lightly putting her down. They threw themselves into each other’s arms and tried to suck the breath from each other’s mouths. After a few moments they parted, gasping.
“Let me change,” she said.
“Oh no, don’t change too much,” he said, nibbling on her ear. “I love you just the way you are.”
She laughed and took her bag to the bathroom. Bob removed his clothes and slipped between the covers of the king-sized bed. He smiled in anticipation until he was taken up in a sudden horrible remembrance of that night when he pulled away from his mother in the hospital room, thinking how Jill could love him if she knew he had done such a craven, despicable thing. He did not hear her come through the bathroom door.
“Oh,” she said.
“You are so beautiful,” Bob said, quickly smiling and reaching across the bed to her.
“You had the saddest look on your face I have ever seen,” she said with concern.
“I was sad because you were taking so long to put on that night gown.” He eyed her with lust. “Nice. Black. Hardly anything to it.”
“I didn’t take that long.” She crinkled her brow. “What’s wrong, darling?”
“Nothing that taking that nightgown off you won’t solve.” He smiled and pulled her down on the bed, his hand roaming all over her body.
“You’re doing it again.” Jill sat up and turned her back to him.
“Now that’s a view I didn’t want to see.” Bob scooted close to kiss her neck.
“I’ve seen that look before. It’s like—well, you’re someplace else and you really don’t like it there.”
Only for a moment did he consider lying and saying it was all in her imagination, but he loved her too much to deny the truth.
“I try not to stay gone too long.” He turned her around and smiled. “See, you brought me right back.”
“I understand something every now and then takes you away. I don’t expect it not to happen. I just want to know what it is. And maybe some day I can go with you and keep you from being so sad.”
“You don’t want to go there.” He kissed on the lips. “It’s too scary.”
“No, not yet.” She put her hand to his lips. “I want to finish talking about this.”
“I’d rather do something else.”
“Me too.” She smiled with mischief. “It’s just—I grew up with this. A chance remark would send dad staring out the window or mom chirping about how good a daiquiri would taste about now. And when I’d ask what was wrong, what did I say wrong, they’d smile and say ‘nothing,’ but I’d know very well it was something. Then the deportation mess broke loose over grandpa, and I knew I wasn’t crazy. You don’t know what a relief it was to have it confirmed, what my senses told me all my life were right and everyone had something to hide. Please don’t put me through that again.” She took his hands and kissed them.
“You’re right. There’s something.”
“Then tell me.”
Bob looked deep into her eyes, deciding he had to tell her or lose her for keeping the secret that he feared would send her away. She was so beautiful. He loved her so much. He ached to hold her in his arms and kiss her. He leaned in, kissing her neck and whispered:
“I want to make love to you first.”
“Bribery?”
“Yes.” His hands went to her breasts. “I promise you’ll know all my dark, awful secrets before midnight. But right now all I can think about is you.”
“Okay.” Jill smiled and kissed him with passion on his lips. “I can wait, just as long as you’re honest with me. Don’t make me feel stupid.”
“But you are a little stupid.”
“What?”
“Anyone who’d fall in love with me has to be a little stupid.”
“No, you’re stupid for saying that.” She pushed him back on the bed and began kissing his neck.
They kept repeating their insincere accusations until they became unintelligible between kisses and passionate moans.
Later that evening they dressed and took a carriage ride about town and lingered over a light supper. They sat on a pristine beach to hear waves’ crashing in the darkness and ambled back to the hotel, looking into store windows at clothes and antiques. Out of the darkness a scrawny boy, no more than fifteen or sixteen, ran up behind them and grabbed Jill’s purse.
“Hey!” she screamed.
“Stop!” Bob yelled as he started to chase the boy down a shadowy cobblestone street.
The boy, wearing torn shorts and shirt, swung around and flashed a knife.
“Think you can stop me, man?”
Before Bob could respond, Jill grabbed his arm and stood in front of him.
“Let it go. All I had in it was some change, bread sticks from dinner and a couple of tampons I didn’t need last month. It’s not worth it.”
“Come on, man, show me how tough you are.” The punk brandished his knife in Bob’s face, taunting him.
“If we’re lucky he’ll eat my tampons along with the breadsticks,” she whispered.
“Yeah man! Hide behind that skirt,” the boy said.
“Get out of here!” Jill ordered.
Laughing, the punk danced down the road and into darkness. Bob started to run after him when Jill jerked him back with all her strength.
“What are you doing?”
“He’s got your purse,” he said in mechanical tone that did not even sound like him.
“I told you it wasn’t important,” she said. “Grandma gave it to me. She got it a flea market. I don’t want to become a widow on my honeymoon.”
“I can’t even protect you.” He shook his head.
“Protect me?” Jill forced Bob to meet her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“I could have gotten it back.”
“He had a knife.” Her face was filled with incredulity.
“I just let him taunt me.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“If I told you,” he said, turning away, “you wouldn’t love me anymore.”
“Oh. It’s that again.” She sighed with annoyance. “It’s almost midnight. So spill it, bozo.”
Perhaps this was the best place to tell her, Bob decided, on a dark street where he could not see disgust in her eyes. With apprehension he began, telling his entire story from that night his mother died in the hospital, his fear, his clumsiness causing her to bleed and be in even more pain right before her death, and his judgment against himself. When he finished he expected the worst but received a tight hug and a long kiss on his lips.
“I love you so much,” she whispered. “No child should have to endure that. No one should live with guilt that they don’t deserve.”
“Thank you,” he mumbled, returning her kisses. “I love you so much.”