The journey back to Gerardstown went silently because Davy was afraid to say anything around Meyers who might whack him upside of the head again. Rather, he breathed in deeply and enjoyed the smells of spring, flowering shrubs, budding trees and even the scent of the urine spray of bears, deer and wolves.
“God’s world is a wonderful place,” Davy said with care.
“Yes, it is, Master Crockett,” Meyers replied with composure as he walked alongside his oxen. “No man can deny the existence of God on a glorious day like today. The Lord is on his throne. Hallelujah.”
“You’ve taught me more than anyone else, sir, and I appreciate it.”
That, of course, was a lie. Fabrication had become an integral part of Davy’s personality. Lies endeared him to strangers and protected him from enemies. They provoked laughter and created a sense of friendship.
Back at the farm, Gray ran from the porch to greet them, a large grin on his face. “Davy, my boy, it looks like you’ve grown an inch.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gray.” He shook the old man’s hand. Davy did not feel a need to lie to him.
When Meyers left on a short trip to Harper’s Ferry, Davy was busy with his chores on the farm, plowing fields, chopping wood and mending fences. At night, Gray pushed a coin across the rough dinner table while keeping his eyes on his trencher. After he went to bed Davy counted his money. He had fifty cents, plus the seven dollars Meyers held for him. Soon, Davy thought, he would have enough money to make the trip home on his own if he had to.
One morning as Davy threw corn to the chickens he saw Meyers and his wagon appear over the ridge and come down into the valley. He waved and after finishing his chores he ran up the road to greet Meyers.
“Hello, sir,” he said, walking by his side with a sprightly step. “I missed you.”
“Thank you, Master Crockett.” A smile passed across his pinched lips. “It’s very kind of you to say so.”
As they came closer, Gray who had been rocking on the porch smoking his clay pipe stood and walked down the steps. “Hello, Adam.”
“What do you have in the wagon?” Davy asked.
“Molasses.”
“So when do we leave?”
“We don’t,” Meyers replied. “I leave for Philadelphia tomorrow. After you succumbed to the evils of Baltimore I don’t dare allow you to be tempted by Philadelphia’s sin pots. Who knows what kind of trouble you’d get into.”
“I don’t want to go to Philadelphia anyway,” Davy said. “I like Mr. Gray very much.” He looked at the old man, trying to find the courage to tell the truth. “He’s like a grandfather I never had. And the chores he gives me ain’t hard at all. And he pays a fair wage. But I want to go home now.”
“We’ll go south when I’m hired to take merchandise south, but not until then.”
“I don’t think you want to go south,” Davy blurted.
“Are you questioning my Christianity?” Meyers pulled himself up to his full height, extended his chest and aimed his nose high.
“The boy’s not sayin’ that at all, Adam,” Gray said, walking to Davy’s side. “All he’s sayin’ is that he’s homesick and wants to see his mother.”
“He’s defying me,” Meyers said, fuming. “And when he’s defies me, he’s defying God.”
“I’m not defyin’ nobody,” Davy replied, his voice cracking. “I jest want to see my ma.”
“Fine,” Meyers snapped. “If he wants to go home, he can go home but with no money from me.”
“It’s not your money, it’s mine,” Davy retorted.
“That’s right,” Gray said, defending him. “I saw you take it from the boy.”
Pulling out his bull whip, Meyers roared, “If he wants something from me then let it be a lashing!”
Gray stepped forward and grabbed Meyers’ arm. As much Meyers tried to wrest control of his arm from Gray he could not. At last, Meyers stopped resisting, and Gray released him. Putting his bull whip away, he took a few steps back.
“Nothing is ever solved by fighting,” he said with self-righteousness.
“You still owe me seven dollars.” Davy found his voice to challenge Meyers.
“I do not.” He held his head high.
“You owe him the money,” Gray said.
“If he wants to be free of me then he should go with only the shirt on his back.”

***

David guided his chestnut horse while cupping the monarch butterfly in his hands as he walked the last few yards to Elizabeth’s house—two cabins, sixteen feet wide and eighteen feet long and eight feet apart connected by a single roof and a solid rock foundation. Each cabin had a fireplace made of sticks, mud and stones. A few steps from the porch was a shallow well. Elizabeth’s relatives covered the log walls with split poplar siding and lap jointed half poles over the dirt floors. They also built a rough log barn.
Elizabeth planted peach and apple trees, plowed fields, planted crops and slaughtered hogs. As Robert grew she taught him all her skills to become a successful farmer.
Walking closer, David saw her stirring a large cauldron of bubbling applesauce.
“Elizabeth!” he called out.
Looking up, she waved but did not change her expression. Not to be put off, David grinned and quickened his pace.
“Look here what I got,” he said, extending his cupped hands.
Elizabeth wiped her brow and continued stirring. “Matilda,” she called out, “do you have the cannin’ jars ready?”
David smiled as his youngest daughter burst through the cabin door carrying a wooden board with several thick masonry jars on it. Her eyes brightened when she saw her father.
“Oh, Papa! What a surprise!” Putting the board down on a rough oaken table near the cauldron, Matilda rushed towards him and giggled. “What’s in your hands?”
“A butterfly.” He let her peek between his fingers.
“How beautiful,” she said with a gasp. “How did you catch it?”
“Well, you sneak up behind them and cup both hands around it. Don’t grab it or pull on the wings or else you’ll hurt it.”
“Let’s put it in a jar.”
“Don’t you dare dirty one of my cannin’ jars with that thing!” Elizabeth spouted in protest.
“Oh no. Butterflies got a right to live, like you or me. I know I’d hate to be cooped up, seeing a big, beautiful world out there but couldn’t git out in it. No, God’s got a way for each of us to live, and it ain’t in a jar.” David released the butterfly, and he and Matilda watched it flit away.
“Help me pour this applesauce,” Elizabeth said.
“Mama, I’m busy talkin’ to papa. I ain’t seen him since that day in court.”
“You pay mind to me,” she reprimanded.
“Do what your mama says.”
“Oh, all right.” Matilda shuffled to the table.
“Did you put the spoon bread on like I told you?”
“You told me to bring out the jars. I couldn’t do both at the same time.”
“I told you to put on the spoon bread long before I asked for the jars.”
“Oh, you’re right, Mama.” Matilda put her arms around Elizabeth’s waist. “I’m a terrible girl, dallyin’ about the way I do.”
“Well,” Elizabeth said, blinking her eyes. “I wouldn’t say terrible.” She pulled away. “This is foolishness. I’ll go do the spoon bread and send out Sissy to help you. She should be done snappin’ beans by now.”
After she went into the cabin Matilda hugged David. “Oh, Papa, I love you.”
“What do you want now?” He laughed.
“Nothin’. Jest a hug.”
“Ain’t you easy to please.” Her tight embrace made him uncomfortable, and he did not know why. She was the only one of his children who gave him unconditional love; unless she was more like him than he thought and her expressions of love were nothing more than empty gestures to win his praise.
“No, please,” she said in a murmur. “Don’t pull away yet. I ain’t got my hug done.”
“Do I pull away too fast?” He did not want her to tell him the truth but a pretty lie.
“Don’t fret, Papa. You do what you have to do.” She squeezed extra hard. “And I’ll do what I have to do.” Matilda released him and smiled, her eyes twinkling. “There. That ought to last me awhile.”
She really was quite delightful, David had to admit to himself, and he wondered why he often forgot how happy she made him. He would miss her very much when he left for Texas the first of November. He reached for her hand and smiled.
“Let’s run away. The applesauce can wait. Let’s walk in the woods and look for another butterfly.”

***

Vince’s attempts to make amends infuriated Dave who, like his ancestor, felt a need to run away.
“I’ll see if the newspaper’s come.” As he went through the front door, he noticed Vince had gone to the kitchen to retrieve his liquor bottle from the cabinet and plopped on the sofa. Old drunk, Dave muttered to himself.
Old drunk.
He saw Allan sprawled languidly on the porch steps smoking a cigarette.
“Why don’t you go away?” Dave picked up the newspaper on the lawn.
What’s the matter with you?
“You! You’re what’s the matter with me!” Dave looked around to see if any of the neighbors were watching.
Uh oh. You’re going to cry. Just like when you were little. Am I going to have to hold your hands again?
“I am not going to cry.” His long-suppressed resentment of Allan surged forward, and he did not like sounding like a pouting child. “You act like you never did anything wrong. You said you loved me—“
I do love you.
“If you loved me why did you suck on my cheek until it turned purple? If you loved me why did you torture me?”
But I loved you.
“Then why did you call me shit?” Dave asked in a low desperate voice.
I didn’t mean it that way.
“I’ll tell you why you called me shit,” Dave continued, his voice softer and more intense, “because I am shit. I’ve always known I was shit. And now you’ve confirmed it. I am shit.”
Puppy—
“I thought I’d put you in the past where you belonged. But all my nightmares are back. You’re everywhere.”
I see I’m going to have to hold your hands again.
“No.” Dave looked hard into Allan’s eyes. “Just go away.”
Puppy!
“Stay away from me!” He turned for the door. “I don’t want to feel like shit anymore.” Dave entered the house, not looking back to see if Allan went away or not. He noticed Vince had quickly hid his bottle under a cushion. Dave ignored him as he flipped through the meager pages of the local newspaper. Lonnie came into the living room wearing an old black suit.
“You boys better get dressed.”
“I told you, Pop. I’m not going.”
“Not going? Why not?”
“Remember? I’m sick.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right. No, you shouldn’t go.” Lonnie looked at Dave. “You better get ready, Puppy.”
Dave’s eyes focused on the obituary column. Reading about Allan, Dave shook his head in sorrow. “The paper says Allan had a college degree.”
“You mean he didn’t have one?” Lonnie said in amazement. “After all that money I spent and he never got a degree? Then I told the newspaper wrong, I guess.”
“Well, he got his degree,” Dave muttered. “He had to die to get it but he finally got it.”