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.”