Monthly Archives: December 2016

James Brown’s Favorite Uncle, Hal Neely Story Introduction

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FORWARD
A storyteller never lets facts get in the way of the truth and never lets the truth get in the way of a good story.
Hal Neely was a storyteller.
James Brown was a storyteller.
I am a storyteller.
You have been warned.

Prologue
Hal Neely’s last words to his good friend Roland Hanneman (AKA John St. John) were about his memoirs.
Nothing else mattered more to him than the publication of his memories so that the world would know that James Brown had a “convenient memory.” Hal Neely had a fascinating, enigmatic career beyond his relationship with James Brown which stands alone with his contributions to the history of the music industry. This biography would be incomplete without the rest of his story. For a good reason biography is a part of literature called history, because it is his story, her story, their story, my story and even your story. But it’s never our story because each person views the past with an individual perspective that is not shared with anyone else. Neely viewed much of his life as being in the right place at the right time or, with a shrug, a time to move on.
Hal Neely’s son declined to be a part of his father’s biography, even though he was mentioned in his father’s hand-written memoirs. Hanneman shared many stories Neely had told him through the years which filled in the blanks from the memoir. A long list of people to contact developed from Cincinnati, Ohio, to Nashville, Tennessee, and Tampa, Florida. Other friends, like Dr. Art Williams, recounted memories freely and with affection. Others had tears well up in their eyes as they told stories of Neely. And still others did not want to talk at all about him.
Neely spent his life in the music industry, mostly with independent King Records in Cincinnati and later with Starday Records in Nashville. He traveled the world, met famous people and created careers for entertainers, but no one consumed his thoughts in his final years more than the “Godfather of Soul” and the “Hardest Working Man in Show Business.”
Neely believed Brown did not give him the credit he deserved. After all, Neely was the person who not only acted as Brown’s record producer but also held his personal services contract, served as Brown’s mentor, became the person Brown would call late at night with his problems, even as he acted as Brown’s legal adviser. By the end of his life, Neely told anyone who would listen how Brown denied even knowing him and how he had to sue Brown in federal court for royalties owed on albums. Neely described how his lawyer produced contracts Brown had signed and how Brown had to concede credit owed to Neely.
The italicized sections of this book are Neely’s memoirs as he wrote them. The other chapters are composed of interviews with those who knew him and of research about Neely, Brown and the record industry from the early 1950s to the 1980s. The accounts are not identical.
Everyone has a right to tell his life story in his own words; everybody else has the right to read the other side.

Which Tree

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Three fir trees on the edge of the forest were chatting one morning in early December.
A huge fellow, about twenty feet tall and wide at the base, ruffled his limbs. “I don’t know what you two guys are planning for Christmas but I expect to be center of attention downtown this year. Oh yeah, on the square overseeing the Christmas parade. Anybody who is anybody will be there with their kids watching the parade pass in front of me. I’ll be lit to the max with lights and a star on top.”
“That’s nothing,” a ten footer with lush green boughs replied. “I mean, if you go for that common man scene where they let absolutely everyone near you, I suppose that’s okay. As for myself, I’m selective about my company. Not saying I’m better than anyone else, but let’s just say I have discerning taste. I’m winding up in the grand foyer of a millionaire’s mansion, decorated with only the most expensive ornaments and lights. I’m talking Waterford crystal here, and I’ve got the branches to hold them.”
The third tree, not more than three feet tall and with scrawny limbs, just stood there without much to say.
“What about you, junior? What do you expect to be doing on Christmas morning? Brunching with the chipmunks?” The middle-sized tree blurted forth a forced ha-ha-ha. A nice baritone but shallow as could be.
“Now, now,” the largest tree chided. “We shouldn’t make fun of our inferiors. We all can’t be the best, most important Christmas trees in town. Not even second best, like you who will be charming to a small group but not as the official town tree.”
The littlest tree felt like he was about to ooze sap out of sadness but knew it wouldn’t do any good. The other trees were right. Who would want him except for kindling for the fire? He wasn’t big enough to make a decent Yule log.
Just at that time a caravan of cars leading a large tractor-trailer truck pulled up in front of the three trees. A group of important-looking dignitaries crawled from their cars and circled the largest tree as the crew pulled its equipment from the truck.
“Oh, yes, I think this one will do fine,” a large bald man announced as though he was thoroughly practiced at making important decisions.
“Oh yes, Mr. Mayor, this one will be more than fine.” The others standing next to him quickly agreed with him.
The crew started its chain saw, chopped the fir down and laid it on the flatbed truck.
“See you never, suckers!” the biggest tree called as the municipal procession disappeared.
“Commoner!” the middle-sized tree replied.
A couple of hours passed before a long limousine with shaded windows rolled up to the two remaining firs. A chauffeur jumped from the driver’s seat and opened the door for a couple elegantly dressed in fur and leather. The woman, with her artificially colored blonde hair piled on her head, sipped from a champagne glass, while the man fixated on his cell phone.
“Oh, Maxim,” the woman cooed. “You did a wonderful job scouting out the most beautiful tree in the forest.” She ran her fingers across the chauffeur’s broad shoulders. “Of course, you do everything well.” She turned to the man on the phone. “So, what do you think Joey? Is it big enough for our grand staircase?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” The man didn’t look up from his phone. “Max, cut it down.”
The chauffeur cut down the middle-sized tree, carefully tied it to the top of the limousine and they got into the car to drive away.
“Good luck, shrimp! You’ll need it!” the tree called out as the car disappeared around the bend.
At the end of the day, the sky darkened, and a small old car rambled up to the small tree and stopped. Three small children poured out of the back seat and ran to the little tree.
“Oh, daddy, this one will be perfect!” they sang as a chorus.
“That’s good,” a young man in ragged overalls said. “Anything bigger wouldn’t have fit in the car.”
A wispy haired young woman came around the car. “Stand back, children. I don’t want you close when your daddy starts using that axe.”
“Oh, Mommy, you worry too much,” one of the children said with a laugh.
On Christmas Eve, everyone in town gathered on the square to watch the Christmas parade and ooh and ah over the beautiful lit giant tree. Floats rolled by, and the people on them pointed and shouted at the town’s big Christmas tree. Bands with drummers, tubas and more marched past. Each one made the tree feel prouder and prouder.
On Christmas Eve night, elegantly dressed couples gathered in the millionaire’s mansion and oohed and awed over the beautifully decorated tree by the grand staircase. They all drank champagne and nibbled on appetizers served on a silver tray by Maxim who also turned out to be the butler. The ladies in their lovely gowns asked the millionaire’s wife when they were leaving for their estate in the Bahamas.
“Midnight,” she replied. “We always spend Christmas day in the Bahamas. It’s our family tradition.”
Also on Christmas Eve night, across town in a small wooden house, the family decorated the little tree which they placed on a table in the corner of the living room. The room smelled delicious from the freshly popped corn which they strung and hung on the tree. The children kept busy coloring, cutting and hanging the new ornaments on the little tree. The room was alive with the constant giggling of the children, and the little tree decided this wasn’t a bad place to be.
The next morning, everyone in town was home, opening presents and enjoying Christmas dinner with family and friends. The large tree downtown had already been forgotten. It kept hoping to hear another oom pa pa coming down the street but it didn’t. The enormous fir shivered first from the cold wind and then from the loneliness. It couldn’t decide which was worse.
In the millionaire’s mansion, everything was dark and still. All the elegantly dressed people were gone. Numbing silence replaced the insincere wishes for a happy holiday season. The middle-sized tree decided all that Waterford crystal was making its branches droop. Not even Maxim was there.
Meanwhile, in the small house across town, the family gathered around the tree to open presents. The children tore away wrapping paper to see new socks and underwear and hugged their parents gratefully for it. Then they cooked their modest Christmas feast and settled back around the tree with their plates in their laps and ate every bite of it.
Now you tell me. Which was the grandest Christmas tree of all?

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Nine

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AUTHOR’S WORD OF CAUTION: The climactic last chapter of Sins of the Family is graphically violent. If any reader dislikes criminal acts described with stark details, I recommend not reading it.

John burst through the door and turned on the light, revealing Heinrich stretched out on his bed. Drawing himself up to his full height, John put a hand on Randy’s wiry shoulder. Time at last had come to kill Pharaoh and to be freed of all the agonizing passion which confused his mind.
“Give me the knife.”
“I don’t wanna.” Randy jerked his shoulder away.
“Give me the knife.”
“I wanna slit his throat.”
John’s hand went up, his index finger thrusting upward.
“I am Moses! Give me the knife!”
With reluctance Randy handed it over, but his face darkened with growing hatred.
“Pharaoh!” John began to stride toward the bed. “Your hour of judgment has come.” He paused. “Pharaoh. Answer me.”
When no answer came, Mike and Randy loped over and peered around John at Heinrich on his bed, his eyes bulging wide and his hands still clutching at his bosom. His dried lips stuck to his yellowed teeth as his mouth gaped opened.
“He’s dead.” John shook his head in disbelief.
“Why, he’s just an old man.” Mike giggled as he punched Heinrich’s belly with his beefy fist.
“He ain’t no bad guy, like you said.” Randy spat in disgust.
“How dare you deny me my vengeance?” Bewilderment etched John’s tormented features. All this time, all this killing, and Pharaoh was not his to punish. He jumped on the bed and straddled the old man’s body. “How dare you rob me of my mission?”
“Forget it, Moses.” Mike turned away and laughed. “He’s dead.”
“I will not be stopped!” John screamed in hysteria as he held the knife high above his head. Once again, in his mind, he was the naked warrior standing on the stairs’ top step at the trading post, a growing tree limb behind him. He held his knife high then also, as he looked down with contempt on his own father’s flabby body. His father had to be punished for not following Cherokee ways and for persecuting him because he did want to follow the old ways. Now this other fat old man must pay for his sins. With a war whoop, John brought his knife down and slashed into the corpse.
***
Outside, coming down the dark mountain lane lined with antique and craft shops, a police car made its usual late night rounds. The officers slowed to notice the waterwheel lights were still on.
“The last time Mrs. Schmidt left her lights on after eleven was when the old man had his stroke,” one officer said to the other.
“Yeah, we better check this out.”
***
Inside the bedroom, Bob hugged Jill as he watched John over and over again plunge his knife into Heinrich. Blood splattered everywhere, speckling John’s deranged face.
“Hey, stop it.” Randy hunched his shoulders. “It’s just an old man.”
“No.” John shook his head with delirious determination. “I shall end injustice.”
“Hey.” Mike focused on Jill and smiled. “I think I’m gonna get the princess.”
“No, you won’t.” Bob pushed Jill behind him.
Laughing, Mike knocked him to the floor. When Bob tried to rise, Mike pulled back his foot and kicked him hard in the gut, sending him across the room gagging and gasping for air.
“Come on, baby,” Mike murmured as he stepped up to Jill and put his hands on her slender shoulders.
Her face twisted in abhorrence, she knocked his hands off and punched his mouth.
“I like it when they fight back.” Mike smiled.
Bringing her knee into his groin, which doubled him over with a moan, Jill rushed over to Bob who was pulling himself up on his haunches. Before she could help him to his feet, Mike pulled her hair, causing her to fall to the floor. As Bob stood, Mike kicked him in his gut again, sending him back down. Groaning and holding his midsection, he looked across the room to see Randy drag John off the bed.
“Stop it!” Randy said, grabbing the bloodied knife.
“No.” John was dazed.
“Shut up!” Randy thrust the knife into John’s belly. “I’m sick and tired of you telling me what to do!”
He twisted its blade up under John’s rib cage. Bob watched the fury in Randy’s eyes as he glared at the man who had called himself Moses. John’s face hardly changed expression when the knife entered and even appeared relieved as he sank to the floor.
“Stupid Moses,” Randy muttered.
Bob rose with deliberation to his knees again. In front of him he saw Randy kick John’s body. To the side he saw Jill trying to sit up as Mike straddled her, her hands grasping at his face to scratch it. Mike slapped her hard.
“That’s enough fighting.” Mike pulled down his pants and positioned himself between Jill’s legs.
If Bob were going to save their lives he had to do it now. A glint of the knife blade in the ceiling light caught his attention. He needed it to stop Mike from attacking his wife. At one time, the blood dripping from a sharp edge would have triggered cringing and running away, but not now.
“You ain’t so high and mighty now, are you, Moses?” Randy kicked John’s lifeless body again.
His body imbued with total outrage, Bob leaped forward, and with both hands clinched into fists he hit Randy on the nape of his neck, causing the boy to drop the knife as he fell to his knees. Bob grabbed the knife, reached around Randy’s face with one hand, pulling it back, and slashed his throat with the other. As blood spurted out, he looked around the room to see nothing but blood. Heinrich’s abdomen was a puddle of blood. John sprawled in a pool of blood. And as Bob threw Randy’s body to the floor, blood gushed from his throat. With the knife in his hand, he glared at Mike and knew he had to attack him next. What was right or wrong did not matter any more. He had to save Jill’s life. She was worth more than any of the others, including himself.
“Oh, baby, this is gonna be good,” Mike said as he unbuttoned Jill’s blouse, oblivious to the fact his brother had just been murdered. His big hands pawed her.
Bob grabbed Mike’s dirty brown hair and yanked his head back, pulling the knife deep across his throat.
“What the…” His words were lost in gurgling blood spewing from his mouth. Mike flexed his thick shoulder muscles to throw Bob off his back. As he turned he caught sight of his brother’s body lying in a pool of blood.
“Randy?” His voice sounded pitifully sad until it descended into a snarl.
With a bellow he pounced on Bob, heaving him to the floor and straddling his chest. Mike’s hands closed around Bob’s neck.
“You killed my brother!”
Squinting to keep Mike’s blood from dripping into his eyes, Bob secured the knife with both hands and thrust upward with all his strength into the hard hairy belly. As Mike’s grip on his neck tightened, Bob pushed the knife in again and twisted it. Blood gushed from the teen-ager’s mouth onto Bob’s face. Finally Mike’s grasp loosened, his eyes glazed, and a last wheeze escaped his bloodied lips. He collapsed on Bob who rolled him off with a grunt. Bob looked with vacant eyes at Jill who stared back, her fingers absently trying to button her blouse. He became aware of voices in the background.
“Mrs. Schmidt, we saw your lights on and–
“In there. In there,” Greta said with urgency.
“What is it?”
Bob heard steps coming into the room. He turned to see Greta and two policemen, standing in the doorway, their faces aghast at the scene.
“Oh no,” Greta said, her hands going to her cheeks.
“What’s going on here?” one of the officers asked.
Numbly, Bob stood, took a few steps toward them and handed the knife to the policemen.
“I just killed two men.”
Looking down at Jill, he contorted his face in agony and began to cry. She reached up to pull him down to her. Sitting aright she held his sobbing head close to her. Jill’s eyes roamed the room as Bob clutched her waist. Her lips crinkled, and her chest began to heave, and, tears poured down her cheeks. Greta went to them, crouching and putting her strong arms around them.
“My babies, my babies,” she said, kissing their foreheads.

Cancer Chronicles

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Christmas was Janet’s favorite time of year. This will be the first one she won’t celebrate in forty-five years.
Even in the middle of summer if she were shopping—especially for someone else—Janet would be so happy she would break out in Jingle Bells. Mind you, she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it, but right now I’d love to have a CD of her singing every Christmas carol that would fit on a disk.
I think she got love for Christmas from her father who was a dour faced man who mumbled about how everyone else was a crook. Everything was rigged—football games, elections, you name it. Everybody was on the take. Except him, of course. But at Christmas he would go down the grocery aisle buying everything needed for an unforgettable Christmas dinner. He sang Jingle Bells off key just like Janet. Not only did she like giving presents to people, I think she enjoyed the thought Christmas was the only time of year that her father was happy.
Even though Janet was a probation officer and spent most of her time around people who were crooks and who would rig a football game if they only knew how, she still thought the best of people. With encouragement anyone could become nice.
My son and I have decided we need to get out of town on Christmas Eve to celebrate her favorite holiday somewhere with a lot of lights, music and fake snow. Not to get away from memories of Janet, but do something we know would cause her to sing Jingle Bells.
My humble advice to everyone who is experiencing their first Christmas without a loved one is to have fun just as though that person is still here. Cancer can take a person’s life, but it can never take the memories away. Love is eternal, beyond the ravages of death.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Nine

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Edwin Stanton continued to stare into the fireplace of his office in the War Department Building. The dancing flames were mesmerizing and soothing. He knew he must begin packing his personal items to return to his home on K Street but his body did not care to move. A light tap at the door drew his attention from the flames. The private claiming to be Adam Christy entered. As the soldier walked over to the fireplace, Stanton noticed he still had a slight but distinctive limp.
“I saw the gentlemen leaving the building, sir,” the private said. “They told me the unfortunate outcome of the Senate trial.”
Stanton’s mind reeled with the contradictions the soldier presented to him, and he fought the creeping suspicion that the person standing in front of him was ominously dangerous. “Where have you been all day? The chamber pot in the corner is full and is stinking up the room.”
“My deepest apologies, sir. It has been my intention to serve you faithfully, sir.”
“And that you have, for the most part. You’ve been lax in your duties during the trial however. I am not a well man, and I don’t need the added aggravation of smelling a full chamber pot.”
Stanton stared indignantly at the soldier. “Were you at the trial? If so, you did so without orders and compounded the breach by not properly informing me of what you saw.” Stanton was not pleased with his own posturing. It reeked of whining instead of being filled with power and rage.
“Was I, Adam Christy, at the trial? I should say not. And if you were displeased with how I conducted my duties, well, you should have told me.” Christy paused to chuckle to himself. “I have infinite experience emptying chamber pots for dignitaries.”
Stanton slammed his fist down on the rocking chair arm. “There you go again with your insinuations. You’re making sly accusations and taunting me, and I won’t have it!”
“I have no idea what accusations I might be making, Mr. Stanton. I am merely an Army private appointed to service a very important man. If I do a good job, perhaps I could receive an appointment to West Point.”
“No one ever said any such thing to you, I assure you!”
“And why is that, Mr. Stanton?” A silkiness entered the young man’s tone.
“Because I know you are not Adam Christy! I ordered Lafayette Baker to kill Adam Christy the night Abraham Lincoln was assassinated!” Horrified those words had finally escaped his lips, Stanton leaned back in his chair, his body depleted of all energy.
“That’s what I thought.” The private’s voice changed completely, gone was the naïve exuberance, replaced by a sophisticated malevolence. “You are, indeed, correct. I am not Adam Christy. I only meet him a few times before his death, at Mrs. Surratt’s boarding house and under the Aqueduct Bridge at midnight.”
Letting the impact of the words sink in, the private paused. “I thought I gave quite a good performance, don’t you think?”
“A performance? What do you mean?”
“It makes no difference. Only one course of action is left, and this sad comedy of errors will be complete.”
“Who are you?” Stanton forced the words out, deathly afraid of the answer they would provoke.
“I am merely another player you manipulated upon this national stage, saying my lines, prancing and preening, sublimely unaware I was not in control of my own actions.”
The older man shook his head and tried to smile smugly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The soldier stepped forward so that he was standing directly over Stanton, blocking the flickering light from the fireplace. “I am John Wilkes Booth.”
“That’s impossible.” His lips trembled. “He died in a barn in Virginia. There were witnesses.”
“I have returned like an avenging angel,” Booth continued, choosing to ignore Stanton’s statement. “Rep. Preston King of New York and Sen. James Lane of Kansas blocked Ward Hill Lamon from delivering a reprieve for Mrs. Surratt and thereby allowing an innocent lady to be hanged.”
“How did you know?”
Booth smiled imperiously. “Because I was there, in the guise of a soldier pushing his way through the prison yard crowd so Mr. Lamon and Mrs. Surratt’s daughter could deliver the reprieve, but King and Lane blocked our way.”
“But—but now they’re dead,” Stanton stammered.
“Yes, I know. I killed them. I was a beggar boy on the ferry in New York and tied weights to Mr. King before throwing him overboard. I was a carriage driver in Kansas and shot Mr. Lane. I told each one he had to pay for his sins. I have others marked for execution for participating in your evil plot to overthrow the president.”
Stanton shook his head. “I thought you hated Lincoln.”
“I did hate him, and I’m glad I killed him.” He paused to glare at the fat old man in the rocking chair. “But Adam Christy was an innocent young man. He didn’t deserve to die. Mrs. Surratt was kindly woman, a good mother and a devout Roman Catholic. She did not deserve to die.” Booth reached out to touch Stanton’s hair and tug on it. “You deserve to die.”
Jerking his head away, Stanton narrowed his eyes. “You won’t get away with it. I will call out for help and soldiers—real soldiers–will drag you away. If you try to escape they will shoot you down like a mad dog before you even leave the building.”
“No, you won’t call out because then they will learn who I am and why I am still alive.” An evil grin appeared. “Do it. They can hang us together.” Booth turned for the door. “No, I’m not killing you today. And not tomorrow. Sometime. Someday.”
Booth put his hand on the knob and looked back. “You might even forget I’m coming back to kill you. But I will, and no one will stop me.”

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Thirty-One

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Looking up, Harriet saw a butterfly making its way from one tree branch to another. She pointed. “Davy, there. Isn’t it pretty? Just like you. It won’t stay. Just like you.”
He lowered his forehead to meet hers and whispered, “Oh, Harriet, don’t say that.”
“I’m sorry.” Lifting his head with her hand, she wiped tears from his ruddy cheeks. “Now we can’t let anyone think you cried. It’s not manly.” She straightened his shoulders and smiled. “Go home. Be happy. And promise me you’ll never run away again.”
“I promise.”

***
Elizabeth cried into Robert’s shoulder as David rode his chestnut back to the farmhouse, his hands cupped. Dismounting, he walked over to her. When she saw him, she quit crying, her eyes widened in incomprehension.
“I couldn’t leave without one last gift.” He opened his hands.
“A butterfly,” Sissy said in awe.
“It’s purty,” Matilda added, a cheery tone returning to her voice.
“Butterfly,” Elizabeth whispered. “Yes, I remember. The day you came home. Those big, rough hands, but they held that delicate li’l creature so tenderly … with … so … much … love.”
She dissolved into tears again, and Robert held her saying in a muted voice, “I guess you should let the butterfly go now.”
“I guess so,” David replied, letting it fly away.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her voice raspy with emotion, “butterflies ain’t supposed to be cooped up. You enjoy them for the moment you have them in your hands, and thank God you at least had that moment.”

***

Lonnie looked across the sofa at Tiffany who was leaning into Dave and holding his hand. “Imagine. A little gal with a butterfly tattooed on her shoulder.” He smiled at Dave. “So Puppy’s got himself a butterfly.” Sighing, he returned his gaze to the television screen. “That’s good. Hang on to your butterfly, son. I had a butterfly once too. Once they’re gone, you can’t get them back.”
Dave looked to the wall where his mother’s portrait was hanged and understood what his father was trying to say. He glanced at Vince in the kitchen and thought he would have never seen him washing dishes. His eyes went to Tiffany who made his heart happy and then to Lonnie who had never seemed so content. Dave became aware that his father’s warm hand had moved discreetly to his knee and slightly squeezed it. Content with his butterfly, he smiled, pleased at last to be home to stay.

Candles in the Window

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Buford hunched his shoulders as he trudged through the slush toward home after a long shift at the factory. He lived in a big city, though at times he forgot which city it was. Other times he decided it wasn’t worth the effort to remember what city it was because they were all alike anyway.
Then he reminded himself to be grateful he had a job. It was 1934, and most people were out of work. But his job drained his soul so much he could not enjoy the Christmas season. Besides that, he had no one to share his life with. Seven days before Christmas. What difference did it make?
In the gloomy twilight of his big city street, a glimmer caught the corner of his eye. As he turned to look into a street level room of a tenement building Buford saw a young woman place a lit candle in the window. No one would have given her notice if she walked along the street, but flickering candle light revealed her face in such a way that made him feel both sorrow and affection for her.
The next night Buford did not hunch his shoulders quite as much as he had before walking home. He automatically looked toward the tenement window. The young woman placed two lit candles on the sill. He studied her face as best he could and thought he sensed quiet desperation in the curve of her mouth. When he arrived at his room, he went straight to bed, but his sleep was restless.
The third night Buford thought he detected a tear glistening in her eyes as she put three candles in the window, and his heart began to break a bit. He hardly ate any of his supper at his boarding house and again had a restless night sleep. The vision of the young woman and the growing candle illuminations haunted him.
Buford’s step quickened the fourth night. His shoulders were full back, and his face took the sting of the sleet straight on. Hoping the woman would be putting out another candle, he nevertheless dreaded seeing her face tinged with pain. There she was, in the tenement window putting down four candles. This time a sweet smile graced her face, which make Buford smile.
Work at the factory went swiftly for the next three days. Buford’s mind was filled with thoughts about the young woman. Would she place yet another candle in the window? Would the shimmering light reveal despair, hope or joy? On Christmas Eve Buford walked briskly toward the tenement building. He felt his heart beat faster. Would there actually be seven candles in the window? And would the angel be smiling? He was startled by the image that crossed his mind. Yes, she had become his angel.
When he stopped in front, he saw the young woman carefully place the seventh lit candle in the window. He could no longer contain his curiosity and affection. Buford went toward the tenement and tapped on the pane. He smiled as she noticed him and raised the window.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been putting candles on the window sill for the past seven days.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry. It’s just some silly dream I had.”
“Dreams are never silly.” Buford had never given much thought about dreams before today, but now he wanted to believe in them. “What did you dream?”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“I promise.”
“I dreamed Santa Claus told me to light candles for seven nights and I would get my Christmas wish.”
“And what did you wish for?”
“I wished for someone to love.” She smiled gently at Buford. “I think I wished for you.”

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Eight

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Greta sat snoring in her favorite chair as the television blared. Joan entered from the shop and stood at fearful attention.
“Mrs. Schmidt?”
Greta awoke and looked around to see the clerk, pulling her pepper gray hair from her face, standing in the doorway and trembling. Joan was petrified of her which made Greta feel guilty. She should not be so rude her. Greta smiled, trying to make Joan feel at ease.
“Yes?”
“It’s after eleven o’clock,” she replied. “I’ve closed.”
“Good.” Greta stood and stretched in satisfaction. “I’ll turn out the lights on the waterwheel.”
“Mrs. Schmidt?”
“Yes?”
“Is everything all right?” Joan took a deep breath. “I thought I heard loud voices in here earlier this evening.”
“It was just the television.” Her initial reaction was to tell the clerk to mind her own business, but Greta remembered she wanted to be kind so she just laughed and waved her hand. “I play it too loud.”
“Very well,” Joan said. “I’ll lock up.”
“Thank you.”
“Say hello to Mr. Schmidt for me.”
“I will.”
Listening with intent, Greta heard the shop door open and shut. She went to the living room window and turned off the waterwheel lights as she watched Joan get in her car and drive away, not noticing another car parked in the shadows near her living quarters’ door. Shooting sounds and squealing tires drew her attention back to the television set. Her large, boney body eased into the chair, and her muscular, liver-wart-covered arm reached for the candy bowl. Her eyes narrowed as her fingers pushed plastic wrapped pieces around until they came upon her favorite ones. With a sigh of satisfaction, Greta took the plastic wrapper off a candy, put it in her mouth and focused on the television program. Life was going to be better, now she decided to place Heinrich in a nursing home. The past could become the past, and she could look forward to making friends again. No secrets had to be kept. They were all told, and she had survived. All of a sudden her door flew open with a bang. She shuddered as she gulped down the candy and stood. Before her were Jill, keys in hand, and Bob. They were not smiling.
“Jill?”
Pushing between them were two boys and a wan looking middle-aged man who had anger and hatred in his eyes.
“Who is this?” the man demanded.
“Oh, Grandma!” Jill ran to Greta and hugged her.
“Ah, Pharaoh’s wife.” He lifted his head and smiled.
Jill hugged her again and leaned into her ear.
“Turn on the waterwheel lights.”
“Where is Pharaoh?”
“He means your husband, Mrs. Schmidt.” Bob stared at the floor.
Dumbfounded, Greta looked at Jill, whose eyes were filled with tears, then at Bob, whose eyes were filled with guilt, and last of all at the man, whose eyes blazed with fury. At one time she would not have revealed where Heinrich was, but she did not care about him anymore. She cared for Jill and Bob. She did not want them to be harmed. And she cared for herself. She did not want to be punished for something Heinrich did. She pointed toward the hall.
“The first bedroom on the left.”
“Finally.” The man breathed with intensity. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
“Yeah.” The bigger boy’s head bobbed up and down like an excited puppy. “We’re gonna get Pharaoh.”
“I wanna slit his throat.” The smaller one wielded a knife.
“You come with us.” The man shoved Bob and Jill toward the hall.
They must be insane. Poor Jill and Bob. The intruders disappeared as she circled around the room to the light switch. As her hand reached up, the man came back.
“You, old woman, don’t leave this room.”
“Yes.”
He disappeared down the dark hall, and Greta flipped on the waterwheel lights.
***
John burst through the door and turned on the light, revealing Heinrich stretched out on his bed. Drawing himself up to his full height, John put a hand on Randy’s wiry shoulder. Time at last had come to kill Pharaoh and to be freed of all the agonizing passion which confused his mind.
“Give me the knife.”
“I don’t wanna.” Randy jerked his shoulder away.
“Give me the knife.”
“I wanna slit his throat.”
John’s hand went up, his index finger thrusting upward.
“I am Moses! Give me the knife!”
With reluctance Randy handed it over, but his face darkened with growing hatred.
“Pharaoh!” John began to stride toward the bed. “Your hour of judgment has come.” He paused. “Pharaoh. Answer me.”
When no answer came, Mike and Randy loped over and peered around John at Heinrich on his bed, his eyes bulging wide and his hands still clutching at his bosom. His dried lips stuck to his yellowed teeth as his mouth gaped opened.
“He’s dead.” John shook his head in disbelief.
“Why, he’s just an old man.” Mike giggled as he punched Heinrich’s belly with his beefy fist.
“He ain’t no bad guy, like you said.” Randy spat in disgust.
“How dare you deny me my vengeance?” Bewilderment etched John’s tormented features. All this time, all this killing, and Pharaoh was not his to punish. He jumped on the bed and straddled the old man’s body. “How dare you rob me of my retribution?”
“Forget it, Moses.” Mike turned away and laughed. “He’s dead.”
“I will not be stopped!” John screamed in hysteria as he held the knife high above his head. Once again, in his mind, he was the naked warrior standing on the stairs’ top step at the trading post, a growing tree limb behind him. He held his knife high then also, as he looked down with contempt on his own father’s flabby body. His father had to be punished for not following Cherokee ways and for persecuting him because he did want to follow the old ways. Now this other fat old man must pay for his sins. With a war whoop, John brought his knife down and slashed into the corpse.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Eight

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Stanton sat in his rocking chair next to the fireplace. With a blanket around his shoulders, he tried to warm himself but to no avail. Despite all his effort to drink draughts of hot black coffee and sip on bowls of steaming chicken bouillon, the Secretary of War continued to shiver and ache all over. This latest bout of his life-long enemy, asthma, seemed to be draining the life out of him; however, he consistently told himself all he truly needed was the good news from the U.S. Senate that it had voted to remove Andrew Johnson from the office of president. Once Johnson was on his way back to the mountains of Eastern Tennessee and Benjamin Wade was ensconced as President, Stanton knew this blasted cough would go away. Secure in knowing Americans would never learn about his secret treason, he could return to a normal life and resume his influence on another weak chief executive. A light rap at the door roused Stanton from his deep thoughts.
“Come in,” he mumbled as he expectorated heavy green phlegm into his handkerchief. At first he managed a smile when Benjamin Wade and Charles Sumner came through the door, but the downcast looks on their gray faces forced Stanton’s fears and uncertainties to return. Gentlemen, I don’t like your dour countenances. Well, out with it. What was the vote?”
Wade nodded toward the sofa. “May we have a seat?”
“You can do anything you damned well please. Just tell me the final vote.”
After the men sat, Sumner shook his head. “We were certain we had the votes.”
“Don’t tell me the damned Democrats beat you?” Stanton hoped the more dumbfounded and imperious he sounded, he could somehow change the news he was about to hear.
“No, oh no,” Wade corrected him. “It wasn’t the Democrats.”
“It was Edmund Ross,” Sumner interjected, his lips curling in disdain. “Betrayed by one of our own.”
“I knew he could have been bought.” Wade leaned forward. “One of those Democrat devils bought his soul.” He spat into the fireplace. “May both their souls burn in hell.”
“Yes,” Stanton replied softly. “Won’t we all burn for eternity?”
Sumner straightened his back. “We certainly will not!” He raised his nose. “I suffered enough for the cause not to spend time in hell with Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee, John Wilkes Booth and Edmund Ross! You seem to have forgotten I was nearly beaten to death on the Senate floor for articulating our rage against the evil estate of slavery!”
“Oh for God’s sake, Sumner, we all remember your bruises.” Stanton put his head to his sweating brow. “You won’t let us forget.”
“I don’t understand it,” Wade continued, evidently unaware of how the conversation had drifted into a cauldron of pain and religious indignation. “Every chance I got I stood by Ross with my hand on his shoulder as I spoke on our constitutional duty. At the beginning of the vote I was sure we were in control of everything.”
Stanton sighed. “Fools, don’t you know we control nothing? No matter what we do. We can intimidate, we can bellow, we can threaten to kill, but destiny goes its own way. All we can do is accept our fates in quiet resignation.”
Wade and Sumner exchange worried glances before standing.
“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Stanton?” Wade asked uncertainly. “Shall we call your doctor?”
“Where’s that private that’s been tending to your needs when we came to visit in the last few weeks?” Sumner said, forcing a smile on his drawn face. “He seems like such a jovial, light-hearted fellow. Surely a few good words from him would make you feel better.” He looked at Wade. “What was his name?”
“Hmm, Christy, Adam Christy,” Wade replied slowly, as though pulling the name from the deepest recesses of his mind.
“That’s right,” Sumner agreed. “Adam Christy. I’m sure he can soothe your troubled soul with a name like that, straight from the Bible—Adam and Christ.”
“Gentlemen, I am going home now.” Stanton stared into the popping, crackling fire. “I want to be with my wife. I suggest you go home too.”
***
Andrew Johnson opened the armoire in his bedroom on the second floor of the Executive Mansion, pulling clothes out and folding them carefully to fit into his trunk. He decided if he were already in the process of packing, the news that the Senate was sending him home would not hurt as much. His petty demons residing in the darkest crevices of his heart wanted him to take a parting shot at his rival Edwin Stanton, revealing his evil acts against President Lincoln and the nation, but he knew it would be for naught. No one would believe even the ruthless Stanton would debase himself to that extent. No, he looked forward to returning to his town of Greeneville, Tennessee, filled with family and friends who would assure him he was better off without the trappings of power that Washington City offered. Johnson always liked the foliage of May in the mountains as they greened for summer.
Mumblings from the hall outside his bedroom drew his attention. Johnson was sure he heard laughing and stomps of impromptu dancing. Putting his clothing aside, he went to the door, and when he opened it, he saw members of his staff smiling and hugging each other. And in the middle of it all was Ward Hill Lamon and Lafayette Baker, both beaming at him.
“We did it, sir,” Lamon announced with pride. “You are assured of the rest of the term, and Edwin Stanton must leave forthwith in disgrace.”
“You make it sound like a passage right out of Shakespeare.” Baker slapped Lamon on the back. He smiled at Johnson. “You have the right to appoint anyone you damn well please as Secretary of War, Mr. President. What is your pleasure, sir?”
Johnson had so convinced himself he was leaving for home on the next train that he had not given any thought of who would be War secretary after this judicial war had ceased. This was his chance at some form of legacy building and since he had won, he thought of what Abraham Lincoln would have said. Then he remembered the phrase, “Let them up easy.”
“Gentlemen, let’s go to my office.” He turned to walk down the hall, and they followed him. Once inside and the door closed, Johnson sat and motioned to Lamon and Baker to do the same. “Mr. Lamon, Mr. Baker, I think I wish to appoint Lorenzo Thomas as Stanton’s replacement.”
Baker’s mouth went agape. “But he was among those who plotted against you, sir.”
“As were you, Mr. Baker.” Johnson smiled wrily. “As I recall, I caught you going through my papers and had to fire you. But when you returned with Mr. Lamon here, I did not insist that you leave. If I learned anything from observing Abraham Lincoln during his presidency was his ability to hold no grudges.” He motioned carelessly out the window at the political landscape. “They can call me a son-of-a-bitch if they want, but they’ll have to admit I’m a son-of-a-bitch that doesn’t hold grudges.”

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Thirty

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Tiffany entered through the dirty screen door and announced to Lonnie and Vince in her best sorority girl voice she was Puppy’s new wife and she was as happy as a speckled pup to meet them. Not wanting to share the moment, Dave picked up his suitcase, went to his car, opened the trunk, put in his luggage and unlocked the car door. Sighing, he plopped behind the wheel and put the packaged Bible next to him, ready to put the key in the ignition.
Puppy? It was Allan’s voice, much to Dave’s dismay.
He glanced over to the passenger seat where sat Allan, dressed in a navy blue suit, white silk shirt and a pink tie. His hair was no longer gray but a short cropped dark brown and his teeth no longer yellow but white and all in place. No nicotine stained his fingers, and his nails were manicured. Serenity shone in his eyes. In short, he appeared as he never did in life, without the scars of mental illness and homelessness.
I just came back to say it’s okay.
“It’s okay?”
And to say I’m sorry. Don’t think badly of me. Remember, I’m the only one who believed in your dreams.
“It didn’t help when the only one who believed in me was crazy.”
I know. Allan paused to look at the house and back at Dave. So you’re leaving them behind, right?
“I guess.”
You know, hate does absolutely nothing for you except kill your soul.
“That’s a smart thing for a crazy person to say.”
Didn’t you know? After you’re dead, you don’t have to be crazy anymore.
Dave smiled and replied, “I’m glad.”
Another thing I’ve learned. Allan leaned toward Dave, with a seriousness he had never possessed in life and in a tone more mature than ever before. All those times I ran off from home, from college, jobs and from half way houses, it was all such a waste. You can’t run away from yourself.
For a long moment Dave considered his older brother’s observations and then looked over at the house. He removed the key from the ignition, got out of his Jaguar with the Bible package under his arm and walked to the front porch. Turning back he saw Allan standing in the driveway. “I’m curious. Up there. Did you meet Davy Crockett?”
You’ll never believe it. I am Davy Crockett. Or, at least, the spiritual essence that was Davy was me too. I know it’s confusing. You’ll understand when you get there.
Allan blew Dave a kiss and disappeared. Dave entered the front door and tried not to smile when he saw Lonnie standing and peering at the butterfly tattoo on Tiffany’s shoulder.
“You can touch it if you want to,” she said with a giggle.
“Puppy,” Vince said, looking up to see his brother standing in the front door.
Lonnie turned around and said with a laugh, “Ain’t this little gal something? I ain’t never seen a woman with a tattoo before.”
“It’s just a little one, Pappy,” Tiffany said with affection. “It’s okay if I call you Pappy, isn’t it?”
“Darling, you can call me anything you want.” He smiled at Dave. “Puppy, I haven’t seen such a cute little darling like this in I don’t know how long.” He laughed until he stopped to add, “And her name ain’t Tympani. It’s Tiffany. Now that’s a cute little name, Tiffany.”
Vince walked to Dave and said, “I like her, Pup. She makes pop laugh. I haven’t seen him laugh this hard in years.”
“I’m glad you came back, Puppy,” Lonnie said. “You got to help us eat all those groceries you bought. Now, all you kids sit down and watch Rawhide while I make lunch.”
“No.” Tiffany put her arms around Lonnie’s waist which made him laugh again. “I’ll fix lunch while you boys watch TV.”
“She’s a firecracker, ain’t she?” Lonnie said with a twinkle in his eyes.
Tiffany walked to the kitchen but stopped when she saw all the dirty dishes in the sink. Turning around she put her hands on her hips. “First I have to clean up this mess.”
“No, let me clean up the dishes,” Vince replied, stepping to the sink. “I messed things up so I ought to clean them up. It’s not going to kill me to get my hands in soapy water.”
Kissing him on the cheek, she said, “That’s sweet of you, Vince. We got a deal then. You wash dishes, and I’ll fix lunch.”
“Well, boys, we better do what Tiffany tells us, or she’ll beat us up.”
“That’s right,” she said with a giggle. “I will.”
Dave held up the Bible package. “I guess I can wait until after lunch to mail it.”
He put it on the table, walked over and sat in the middle of the sofa. Tiffany sat on his right and, to his surprise, Lonnie sat to his left instead of in his lounge chair. Leaning back, he decided being close to his family was not that bad.
“Dad, if you feel up to it, tomorrow you and I can go to the lawyer’s office and start work on that guardianship.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to do, son,” Lonnie said, staring at the television screen. “It’ll be fine with me.”
“Which lawyer are you going to?” Vince asked as he filled the sink with hot water, adding liquid dish detergent.
“Is it the one who did your will, Dad?” Dave said.
“Yep.”
“Fred Long.” Dave looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen.
“Hell. Fred Long was the assistant DA ten years ago who got my driver’s license taken away. I don’t want that jerk sticking his nose into my family’s business.”
“Now, Vince, you shut up. This don’t concern you. It’s between me and my baby boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Vince said like a chastened child. He concentrated on washing plates, cups and glasses. “I guess if you went by me, you couldn’t go to any lawyer in town. I’ve had bad luck with all of them.”
“Shush. Wishbone is saying something. He sure cracks me up.”