On the deck of the Jezebel the next morning, Davy crawled out from under a small boat where he had slept. He stood and stretched. He breathed in the salt air and gazed out to sea, unable to fathom the sensations he was experiencing. Above him he heard shouts of sailors climbing ropes and masts. Some of the sailors wore dirty white linen shirts and light brown pants.
“Master Crockett!” Stasney boomed, waving to him from the gangplank. “Come with me. I’m goin’ to market.”
“Yes, sir!”
Davy joined him to walk down the schooner gangplank and stroll through a narrow lane lined by brick row houses. Stasney pointed to a street sign.
“That says Broadway,” he announced. “Capital letter there is a B, looks like a straight line and two circles sittin’ one on top of the other.” He nudged Davy. “You better be payin’ attention. I’m tryin’ to teach you somethin’ here.”
Smiling, David nodded, contented not to be thumped up side his temple as he was when Meyers thought his eyes were straying. Stasney was a man he could admire, respect and learn from, not only letters and numbers but also how to be a man who tended to his responsibilities. After a couple of blocks they reached an open quarter with little farm carts filled with fruits and vegetables, tables under tents with muffins and pies and cheese barrels of nuts, dried fish and honeycombs. Vendors called out merry tunes to entice shoppers who wandered among them.
“Ever see anythin’ like this before in your life?”
“No, sir.” He could not keep from smiling.
They first stopped at a wagon filled with round, yellowish-red fruit. Stasney picked one up and tossed it to Davy.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No, sir.” His eyes went down.
“It’s an orange. We need a load of these to keep from gittin’ rickets. You know, when your bones hurt. You don’t want that on a long voyage.” He took the orange from Davy and pushed his thumb in the top. “You peel it like this.” A sweet smelling spray hit Davy’s face as Stasney pulled the rind down. Pulling one of the sections out, he put it in Davy’s mouth. “Mind the seeds,” he said. “Just spit ‘em out.”
Nodding, Davy chewed with care and spat the seeds onto the dirt street. He liked the taste of the orange and looked forward to other new food before him.
“I’ll take five bushels of oranges,” Stasney said to the vendor, handing him several dollar coins. “Deliver them to the Jezebel by tonight.”
His authority impressed Davy, who had never heard anyone give orders with so much confidence or at full volume. Pride began to swell in his chest for being with a strong figure of domination. Next, a vendor opened his barrel lid to reveal grayish shells. Stasney picked one up and pulled out his knife, a broad, shining blade, which he used to pry open the calcified husk.
“This is an oyster.”
“Yes, sir. An oyster.” Davy’s eyes widened as he watched Stasney slip his knife under gray slimy goop inside the shell, put it out and put it in front of his mouth.
“Don’t gnaw on it,” he instructed, “just let it slide down your throat.”
Davy fought his gag reflex.
“Like it?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, making a face.
“Make a man of you.”
Going along the row they stopped in front of a table of neckerchiefs in all colors. Stasney grabbed a handful. “Need one of these to wipe sweet from your face.” He smiled. “You know you’re goin’ to sweat like a pig on this job.”
“Yes, sir,” he said with pride, “I sweat all the time.”
“I bet you do,” Stasney murmured. He held up one neckerchief after another to the side of Davy’s cheek. “We want to be sure to get one to match your colorin’ and your brown eyes.” He first held up black. “Naw, you’re too young for that.” Then yellow. “No, makes you look sick.” Then blue. “Hmm, maybe.” Finally red. “Now that’s your color.”
No one had ever paid this much attention to him, and Davy was soaking it up. When Stasney brushed his coarse forceful hand against his face, he did feel a bit uncomfortable.

***

David had to make amends with his nineteen-year-old son Robert. Several winters ago he and Abner took Robert on his first hunting trip. As David packed gear on their horses he had to listen to Elizabeth preach about how her first husband James and her father George had always done all the chores around the farm before leaving to hunt. As they rode out into the cane breaks David stared at his tousle-headed son who looked like a Patton and had the middle name of Patton. According to Elizabeth, the Pattons were the epitome of human flawlessness. He could not very well be mad at his wife, so he transferred his anger to his son. When they reached the hunt site and crouched into position David leaned over Robert’s shoulder spitting orders on how to hold a rifle, load it and aim. Each pull on the trigger incited a verbal eruption about how Robert jerked it or did not hold it level or flinched. Abner laughed to lighten the mood, but David would not relent. Each shot Robert made worse and worse, causing his father to shout louder and louder, denouncing his skills and claiming they would never improve.
“You’re pullin’ to the left!” David yelled.
“I’m sorry, pa,” Robert whimpered.
“Don’t say you’re sorry! Do better!”
The boy with tears welling in his eyes loaded his rifle again, fumbling with the power horn and wadding. Robert dropped the lead bullet in the snow and searched for it as David barked at him.
“How stupid can you be!”
“I’m sorry, pa. I’m sorry!”
“Don’t be sorry! Find it!”
Abner’s hand reached through the snow and with ease extracted the missing pellet. “See, there it is,” he said in a soothing tone. He handed it to Robert. “Try it again. You’ll do better.”
“If you drop it again I’ll hit you!” David yelled.
Robert’s trembling fingers could not clutch on the bullet which plunged back into the snow. Roaring, David pulled his fist back as though to strike, biting his lower lip in irritation. Robert dropped the rifle and collapsed on the ground, covering his face, his shoulders shivering in fear.
“Coward!”
“I think everybody’s jest tired,” Abner said, lifting the rifle and helping Robert to his feet.
The boy pinched his mouth shut and kept his eyes down. David rammed his fist into a snow drift, only to shred the skin on his knuckled against a hidden ragged rock. Muttering obscenities to himself, he pushed his hand under his armpit.
Later that evening Abner made rabbit stew in a big black pot over the crackling fire. He chuckled over anecdotes of past expeditions with David and how he’d messed up from time to time. David mumbled as he swigged from his whiskey jug.
Robert did his best to smile and nod at his uncle’s chatter. Robert offered to help Abner cleanup, which just made David resent him more. The boy was trying to make him happy, and nobody was going to make him do anything. Robert went about setting up his bedroll while his father watched and drank from his jug. With care the boy built himself a pillow of snow which he covered with a blanket and then settled own for the night.
David stood and walked over to his son, whom he could tell was beginning to drift off to sleep. He stared down on Robert a moment before kicking the snow mound out from under his head.
“Only sissies sleep on pillows.”
Robert looked up with a mixture of surprise, fear, hurt and resentment, which David would see often over the next few years. In the morning David felt better. Whatever had been galling him evaporated with the dawn’s mists. Each time he spoke to Robert he saw that same expression. He knew there was nothing he could do to vindicate his unjustified behavior.
Back at the farm after a long silent ride, Robert tied up his horse, took his back and with determination walked to the cabin steps to go in. David remembered convincing himself children were resilient and tended to have short memories. After he put his gear away and climbed the steps he stopped short by the open door where he heard Robert’s uncontrollable wails muffled as he buried his face in his mother’s ample bosom.
David recognized that cry; he had made the same sounds when he could no longer contain his anguish during one of his father’s drunken tirades. His breath shortened, and he stepped back from the door, realizing to his horror he had become his own father.
David worked hard to create an image of himself as a great hunter, military hero and congressman. In fact, David had willed himself to forget this entire ugly incident. But Robert never forgot. David feigned indignation that Robert had become sullen for no good reason. As his horse clopped along to Elizabeth’s farm, he acknowledged he knew very well what he had done, and now he had to make things right.

***

Vince’s snoring kept Dave awake. His eyes roamed the small room which only just contained their two double beds. At times as a child he slept in the bed with Allan and others with Vince, always wishing he had his own space. Dave forced his eyes closed, hoping sleep would come. When he heard a noise in the living room Dave sat up. Knowing the front door lock was broken, he realized anyone could walk in, and, by those noises, Dave decided someone had. Slipping from his bed he opened the door and went down the hall. Moonlight shafts flooded through the living room windows and open front door. His heart beat faster as he searched the dark corners for an intruder. Dave could not believe who he saw coming in.
“Allan?”
His brother, wearing an old blanket over his head like a poncho, stepped through the door. A cigarette dangled from his brown fingers.
Don’t look at me like that. I’ve had another breakdown.
“You took the family Bible,” Dave said, not quit convinced of what he was witnessing. Allan was dead. Dave saw the charred body in the coffin, but there he was looking worse that the last time he had seen him alive.
I needed money to get to Frankiebell’s. Nobody cared about that old Bible anyway.
“What happened to your clothes?”
Frankiebell’s isn’t there anymore. Frankie died. Oh Puppy, there’s this terrible new disease. I hope you never have to learn anything about it.
“What happened to you?”
Dallas is a mean town now. It isn’t like it used to be. Nothing’s like it used to be.
“I know.”
Oh, if only Frankiebell’s hadn’t closed. If only Frankie wasn’t dead. If only—
“Do you know what the saddest day of my life?”
What?
“When I realized all your ‘if onlys’ were just that, ‘if onlys’. If only I had helped you more. If only dad had kept sending you to college. If only Vince wasn’t so hot-tempered. If only the people you worked for weren’t so mean to you.”
If only you had compassion.
“If only you had taken responsibility for your own life, but it was always someone else’s fault.”
Cruel.
“I’ve got to go.” Dave had this conversation in the past, many years ago when he was leaving Gainesville to go to the university.
Please don’t leave me. Help me.
“Allan, I argued with dad about you. I defended you to Vince.” He remembered how hard it was to tell his brother no. “I can’t do it anymore.”
When you didn’t help me, I went to Dallas and did terrible things.
“It wasn’t my fault. I had to pay for my education. I got married. I had children to support.”
Those men hurt me, but at least they gave me money.
“You can’t blame me.”
You know what the plan was. Daddy would put me through college, then I’d put Vince through and he’d put you through.
“Yes, I remember. It was mother’s idea. It was a good idea, but you dropped out. Then Vince dropped out.”
Allan’s eyes narrowed in anger, and he grabbed Dave’s face and sucked on his cheek. Now Dave was five years old again. Mother left him alone with Allan, who thought it was funny to make a purple mark on his face. Dave struggled, crying out for help but no one was there to help. He kept flailing his arms until Allan stopped and grabbed his hands.
Now calm down. You know it isn’t good to get hysterical.
“Let me go!” Dave squirmed as he thought about it.
Not until you calm down.
He remembered becoming still and bowing his head. “All right,” he murmured.
Very well. If you promise to behave. Now what do we say?
“I’m sorry.”
Sometimes I worry about you. You don’t know how to control your emotions. Now are you going to help me?
“How can I help you when I can’t help myself?”
You’re talking silly now. Of course you can help me.
“Please go.” Dave felt emotionally empty.
I don’t have anywhere to go.
“Go back to Dallas.” He turned to walk down the hall.
Even those men don’t want me anymore. They say I’m not pretty any more. They say I stink.
“Take a bath.” Dave opened the door and was relieved to be back home in Waco. Inhaling through his nose, he relished the scent of Tiffany’s perfume. The plush carpeting felt good under his bare feet. He crawled into the king-sized bed between silk sheets to cuddle close to his young wife.
“What was it, Dave?” Her soft, dreamy voice comforted him.
“Nothing.”
But when the person next to him rolled over, it was not Tiffany but Allan who smiled, revealing his yellowed, decayed teeth.
You can’t get away from me, Puppy.