"It was well done of you, Henry. It really was." Enoch Wiley looked rather doubtfully at a pile of yellowish mush on the cracker in his hand. "What is this stuff?"
"Cora makes it out of mashed chickpeas. Some kind of a substitute for chip dip. Not bad—there's onion in it, I think. Anyhow, it has some zip." Henry Dreeson took a bite. He always felt a bit embarrassed when Enoch commended him for something so solemnly. He was eight years older. Not a lot, between old men. A generation, for children. He'd been an eighth grader the year that Enoch started school. It had felt a bit odd, at first, when Enoch became the minister at his church. That was what—forty years ago, now?
"I didn't really need it, anyway. I'd just gotten used to having it in my pocket. When Jeff Adams told me that the girl Benny adopted really was going to lose that eye—well, it just seemed the thing to do. The color's not too bad a match. Jim McNally said that he could re-grind it to fit her socket; it's easy enough, most of the time, to make something that's too big smaller. The trick is to make something that's too small stretch."
Henry's mind briefly contemplated Grantville's latest budget projections; then turned back to the reception. Several teachers and quite a few students from the remedial English for Speakers of Other Languages (ESOL) and special education programs located at the middle school were milling around. He had just presented Minnie Hugelmair with a framed certificate of valor for her defense of Benny at the riot in Jena last spring, along with his good luck piece. "Maybe it will make Minnie feel more like she really belongs in Grantville, having Uncle Jim's glass eye to wear."
Both men looked up toward the temporary platform at one end of the city council meeting room. Minnie certainly sounded like she belonged to Grantville. She was up there, singing "Bury Me Beneath the Willow," to Benny Pierce's accompaniment in a voice that could have come out of any one of the hollows that ran off of Buffalo Creek.
Henry had heard that she hadn't sounded so nice the day that Benny, coming back to winter in Grantville toward the end of October, told her she'd have to go to school.
Minnie was about fourteen or fifteen, they figured. More or less. Most likely more than less, since Doc Adams guessed that she had been badly undernourished when she was little. She was a foundling. Somehow, every master to whom her home village had ever bound her out had managed to avoid the obligation to send her to school. How many men wanted to pay school fees for a foundling not yet old enough to earn her keep? Henry realized that you couldn't work up a general answer from one example, but it was clear that in this case, the answer was none. Minnie had a seventeenth century small town's equivalent of street smarts, but she did not have any education.
She didn't want any, either.
Benny hadn't had much luck taking her to school.
Eventually Benny and his sister Betty, Betty's daughter Louise, Betty's daughter-in-law Doreen, Simon and Mary Ellen Jones who were the ministers from the Methodist church, Enoch and his wife Inez, Henry's wife Ronnie, and Henry himself had taken Minnie to school. Fussin' and fightin' it all the way.
Benny switched the tune to "John Brown's Body." Minnie really got into the spirit of it.
That girl is going to make some man a real obstreperous wife, one day, Henry thought.
Joe Pallavicino, director of Grantville's ESOL program, still wasn't sure what to do with Minnie Hugelmair. Yeah, she had to go to school. But the intake program and classes had been set up to teach English, first to refugees and then to other immigrants, who already had at least some experience with going to school in German, then to funnel the kids into regular classes. The Germans had spoken fifteen or twenty nearly incompatible dialects, but least three-fourths of the refugee kids who came into Grantville the first year already had basic literacy and numeracy under their belts when they showed up at the schools. Most of those who didn't, had not been German. So he hadn't felt the least embarrassment about resolutely tabling all suggestions about bilingual education programs. The illiterate ones had been from six dozen different places on the map of Europe, attached some way to the mercenaries, and there wasn't anyone in Grantville who could educate them bilingually, even if the Emergency Committee had been so inclined. Which it wasn't. Almost all of the immigrants who had come since then, since Thuringia and central Germany settled down, were looking for jobs. Both the adults and their kids just needed to learn English, just as the Grantvillers who showed up needed to learn some kind of standardized, homogenized basic German that the speakers of fifteen or twenty different dialects would have a shot at understanding.
Whatever else Minnie might need, she didn't need to learn English. During her months of wandering around Thuringia with Benny Pierce, she had learned English thoroughly. With a fine West Virginia twang. A little archaic, perhaps, since a lot of it came from folk songs, but perfectly functional English. It actually helped her talk to some of the down-time English people who came through town now and then, translating into modern American for them.
Temporarily, he had set her to spending her mornings with Ceci Jones and afternoons with Tina Sebastian. Not because their sections were better suited to her needs than any of the others, but because their families were both important in the Methodist church that Benny Pierce attended, so they felt obliged to put up with her.
Minnie needed to learn to read and write. She needed to learn to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. It didn't matter much to Joe whether she learned them in English or German; at the moment, she didn't know how in either language.
Minnie was not about to go to first grade. Joe sighed. Unfortunately, he could see her point. On the other hand, Minnie certainly didn't belong in special education.
Benny's fiddle switched again, to "The Mule 'Round the World."
"I was born about four thousand years ago; there is nothing in this world I do not know." Minnie grinned impudently, looking down at the teachers in the audience, and made her way to the verse about Adam, Eve, and the apple, "I can prove that I'm the man who ate the core."
She isn't a man, Joe thought, but that's a good song for her. Whatever else, Minnie has attitude.
What bothered Benny most about the whole deal was that he was eighty-two years old. Not that he didn't intend to live to see Minnie grown up, now that he'd taken her on, but it was always possible that he'd get to the point where he was beyond making the markets and fairs, even in the summer months. Then where would the money to keep them come from? Renting out part of the house brought in some, but not really enough. For that matter, what would become of her when he couldn't busk any more? She was the best fiddler he had ever taught, but a girl really couldn't go out doing that on her own. It was too dangerous. He couldn't see her settling down, though.
For all that they'd finally gotten her here, Minnie really didn't want to keep on coming to the school. She had only agreed to attend the reception in her own honor on condition that she could sing instead of socialize after the speeches. They had compromised. First, she would sing. Then she would go around the room, with Doreen next to her, and say one single polite thing to every person there. Something like, "Thank you for coming."
The compromise was possible because he'd figured out one thing that worked. Weeks that she didn't make too much trouble in school, Wynne Nisbet would give her a hammer dulcimer lesson on Saturday morning. Defining "too much trouble" could be a bit touchy, sometimes. There was always at least some trouble. Trouble followed Minnie around. But you had to grant that she picked her targets.
Benny grinned and shifted over to Mother Maybelle. No matter what else he played in a set, he tried to finish up with a Mother Maybelle Carter piece. This reception was really for Minnie and the other kids, though, for all that Henry and Enoch and Reverend Jones, Benny's family, and several of the teachers were here. Kids weren't crazy about ballads. They liked something livelier.
He rolled into "Worried Man Blues."
The steps up to the temporary platform didn't have a rail. Minnie didn't jump and run—she stayed right there, carefully handing Benny down. Joe Pallavicino, watching, thought that one thing was sure in life. Anybody who offered, or even seemed to offer, a threat to Benny Pierce would have to deal with Minnie.
Anybody who offered, or even seemed to offer, a threat to anyone whom Benny cared about would have to deal with Minnie.
Joe would put his money on Minnie, any day.
Benny went over and sat down next to Louise on one of the metal folding chairs. She had a plate of crackers and a root beer for him. Minnie and Doreen started to circulate. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe spotted someone who shouldn't be here, given that she wasn't in the ESOL program and the noon bell dismissing the kids for Thanksgiving hadn't rung yet. He started across the room, drawing in his breath, prepared to start a sentence with, "Denise." Behind him, a voice said, "Cool it, Joe. Princess Baby was determined to come, so I wrote her an excuse and took her out of class. Her and Minnie have gotten to be best friends."
Here came Minnie and Doreen; time to be polite. Henry Dreeson fished his cane out from under his chair; he and Enoch heaved themselves to their feet. Minnie and Doreen and—the two girls with their arms thrown casually around one another's shoulders—Denise Beasley.
You learned a lot of things, being mayor. Henry knew that, contrary to the general assumption, Denise's parents were married to each other. Had been for fifteen years. He looked around. Yep, there was Buster Beasley, all right, keeping an eye on his Princess Baby.
Now Buster—he was the one who ought to sing, "there's nothing in this world I do not know." He'd ridden with one of the big motorcycle gangs for years before he came back to Grantville and settled down. Part of the self-storage lot's business had been perfectly legitimate, with local people, but both Henry and Dan Frost had always suspected that part of it was an entrepot for—other things. None of it had ever come out into the community, though, and the last dozen years of Buster's tax returns before the Ring of Fire were impeccable. Dan knew. After it, well, Buster had called the Emergency Committee and opened a few of those down at the far end, where the lot fronted on the old dirt road. They knew that all those counterfeit-brand car and truck parts would come in real handy, so they hadn't asked what was in the others, right then. The 250 Club had cigarettes for sale long after everyone else in town had run out. What else? Who knew? Buster owned the lot free and clear.
All of which probably answered the question of where Buster had gotten the money that he plunked down to buy the lot in the first place, when he and Christin came back. He'd had backers.
But Buster wasn't a nasty guy, not the way his uncle Ken was. Standing there, leaning against the wall, his reddish hair balding and graying, his thumbs stuck into his belt below his beer belly, tattoos showing on his arms below the short sleeves of his tee shirt, he looked like he would be. Or worse. But Buster was good to his grandparents. And, boy, did he look out for Christin and Denise. Henry felt sorry for the boys who might try to date Denise. Buster really had been 'round the world, and he didn't intend for his Princess Baby to go there. He'd made sure that Denise could take care of herself, if he wasn't around to protect her.
Buster had been watching across the room. Denise and Minnie, tossing their hair back and giggling. Minnie and Denise, doing a little tap dance step in front of Ceci Jones and Paige Clinter, with Tina Sebastian clapping a rhythm for them. He was glad that Princess Baby finally had a best friend. She hadn't had a best friend since she got so sick in fifth grade and had to repeat a year. When she went back the next fall, a new class had moved up to be the first-year middle school kids and she didn't know them that well. And she was a bit fierce for the taste of most of the families around Grantville. He'd brought her up by his rules. First, do what needs doing; second, don't agonize about it.
The door opened. Chris had locked up the lot for lunch hour and come over. They'd take the girls and the Pierces out for lunch. Not at the 250 Club. She came over and leaned against him, saying, "I picked up Johnnie Ray and Julia and dropped them off at Cora's. She's put in some cushioned booths. They'll be nice and comfy, with people to talk to till we get there."
Chris stood there, watching Minnie and Denise. She was real glad that Denise finally had a best friend. Her mind wandered.
After a truly spectacular blow-up with her parents, she rode off with Buster on his motorcycle in September 1986. They covered most of the country the next year, Arizona, California, Montana, all sorts of places that she'd never expected to see, until her pregnancy advanced to the point that it got uncomfortable for her to ride and they stopped for the winter in Colorado Springs. They had a pretty nice motel room, on the outskirts. Somewhere, she'd heard that natural childbirth was good for the kid, so she did it. There had to be better ideas. Buster came to the hospital for the delivery; it was just a couple of weeks before Christmas. When the nurse put Denise into his arms, all wrapped in pink flannelette and trimmed with a sprig of holly, he got a strange, helpless, sort of look on his face and muttered, "Y'know, Chris, I kinda think we oughta get married."
The nurse, who considered this to be a good idea under the circumstances, arranged everything with the hospital chaplain before Christin was discharged. The guy had a whole set of forms for pulling it off in two days—must not have been the first case of acute fatherhood that the hospital had treated.
Buster also got a vasectomy while he was at it, saying that he didn't want to see Chris go through that again, ever, no way. It was close enough to the delivery that she hadn't argued a bit. They stayed in Colorado Springs for a year and a half, Buster handling the local end of a bunch of things for his pards, until Denise was old enough to ride comfortably in the sidecar and needed more space than a motel room to run around in. Then they came back to Grantville.
Buster had accumulated enough money, what with one thing and another, to open the storage business. He said that old Coleman Walker's chin had dropped right below desktop level when he'd handed over the receipts from the Colorado Springs bank and asked to have the accounts transferred.
She'd had another spectacular blow-up with her parents. They hadn't even asked if she was married to Buster, so she hadn't told them. She didn't intend to, either. Ever. Let them stew. She still went by Christin George, which really got their goat. The marriage certificate was in the safe deposit box, along with their wills and other business papers.
Chuck Riddle's jaw would have dropped, too, when they went to get the wills drawn, if they'd gone into detail. Instead, they just asked for plain mirrors—everything to each other and then to Denise. KISS. They'd just needed a lawyer to make sure all the formalities were right. That was one thing that Buster had learned from his pards; keep your paperwork in order.
Buster kissed Julia and shook hands with Johnnie Ray, then backed out of the booth. He loved his grandparents. He hadn't invited his Uncle Ken to lunch, but his cousin Everett was here. As many of them as could scrunched into the booth; the waitress pulled over a table and some chairs to extend it for eleven. Cora's was a nice place for a family-type party. While everybody else was sitting down, Buster went over and shook hands with Doc Adams. They'd been through a lot together. He'd never been so stinkin' sick in his life as he got that first winter after the Ring of Fire.
Jeff Adams was having lunch with old Doc McDonnell. H.M. had retired from practicing medicine nearly ten years before the Ring of Fire hit, but he'd come back to do what he could—he took the rounds at the extended care center and the assisted living homes—even dropped in on some of the old people who found it hard to get around. Even old Doc Sims, the dentist's father, from whom Jeff had bought the practice, and his wife, who were older than McDonnell, did well baby clinics at the Red Cross twice a week. Every bit helped.
McDonnell also doubled as coroner, at least for the obvious cases. Down-time, they hadn't had many exotic cases. It was mostly pretty obvious what people died from. The Beasleys, though-nobody knew yet what the Beasleys caught and died from, living out in that old farm house together. Johnnie Ray's brothers and sister, Ev, Hank, Dewey and his wife, Wilbur, and Dorothy—Sugar, everybody called her. Ev and Wilbur were widowers; Hank was an old bachelor; Sugar was a widow. Clinging together. Dewey's kids had all been left up-time; Wilbur and Sugar never had any.
It had been February, in 1632. Johnnie Ray and Julia got worried when none of them came in for groceries that week. It was cold, but not bad under foot and the telephone lines weren't down. When they didn't get an answer after two days, they sent Buster out to check. He found them all frozen solid. It looked like Sugar went last and had laid the others out all neat, turned the heat off, then lay down next to them to wait—no sign of foul play or poison.
The phone was working—Buster used it to call Dan Frost to send someone out—so it must have come on them fast. Or else, they caught on that it was something real bad, and contagious, and deliberately decided not to call. They'd found another body in the barn—a hobo, from the look of his clothes, with a plate of biscuits next to him. The house door was locked. Buster opened it with his key. He'd put the locks on himself, after the Ring of Fire; said that he and Everett, Ev's son, had split the cost. There wasn't anything missing or ransacked.
Dan had sent Fred Jordan out, since it was in the country. Town and country didn't make any real difference after the Ring of Fire, since the county government was gone, but Fred still did a lot of the stuff outside the town limits. He knew the people better.
Jordan had called his office; Leslie had taken the call and sent him out. The three of them had looked around. He'd suggested, pretty strongly, that it would be better just to bury them out there—not bring the bodies into town for an autopsy. Fred had agreed, and said that they should keep everybody else out of the house and barn, too.
Then Buster asked for a bit of privacy. They gave it to him, so they didn't know just what he'd said to Everett when he called the video store. But he came back and said not to bother digging graves in the frozen ground; if they left the house and barn standing, his Uncle Ken would rent it out the minute that Fred took the guards off it, or some refugees would just move in. No telling how long the germs for whatever it was would hang around.
He put the torch to it himself. Laughed and said, "This way, if Ken sues, at least it will be all in the family."
They'd quarantined everybody who had been out there. He, Buster and Fred got pretty sick, but they got over it, with fluids and more of the town's precious antibiotics than they had probably deserved and stuff to bring the fever down. Hell, tell the truth. He'd never been so sick in his life. If that, whatever it was, had reached Grantville without any advance warning, half of the town would have been gone in a month.
Over at the party table, Buster Beasley laughed uproariously at something Minnie had said. His gruff voice filled the whole café, "Oh, no, Minnie, girl, there damn well is something you don't know."
Minnie looked defiant. "What? Nothing that I need to know."
"Something I betcha' that you want to know. That would make the rest of it worth your while. You may not believe it right now, but it's important to know how to keep your paperwork in order. I had a time believing that, too, at first, but it's true."
"What?" Minnie persisted.
"You don't know how to ride a 'hog.' If you'll settle down and learn the grade school stuff as fast as you can, I'll teach you to ride, along with Princess Baby."
Minnie and Denise squealed with delight.
Benny Pierce beamed.
"And if you go on and learn the middle school stuff, there's something interesting in one of those triple locked sheds on the lot."
Three wide eyes and a piratical black patch stared at him—Doc Adams hadn't inserted Jim Dreeson's glass eye for Minnie yet.
"Two brand new 'hogs.' Never uncrated. For the day the two of you get your diplomas."
Jeff Adams and H.M. McDonnell flinched.