The man and the woman had their four youngest children, three boys and a girl, all packed into the wagon. The man had fashioned a crude seating arrangement on the front so that he could use the wagon for a family buckboard of sorts.
Two red-brown-colored mules were hitched to the doubletree, and the man took up a bit of slack in the reins and leaned to the side.
Both the man and woman in front had faces like earth, tanned so deeply they were almost a solid, dark brown. The woman, in a sunbonnet and a garment like a duster; the man bareheaded, in a faded blue work shirt buttoned to the throat and overalls that had seen a lot of hard wear. Both adults wore work shoes. The children riding in back were all dressed alike, the little girl tomboyish in T-shirt and frayed jeans, all four of the children shoeless.
The man and his wife had been quarreling. She had complained to him about the way he treated the cows. She could not stand to hear him beating them. He was a hard man, who had led a hard, rough life, and he had no patience with recalcitrant animals. Then the accident the day before. So often the fates conspired against him. The muscles in the side of his face twitched as he thought about his problems, wondering how he would make this small bit of ground he owned grow sufficient crops to feed the seven hungry bellies that were his responsibility.
They were heading up a rutted country road, little more than a worn path. He thought if the mules failed him now he would take the axe handle from the back of the wagon and kill them both dead in their traces, beat them both to death on the spot. They obligingly pulled the wagon up the slight incline, as if they could read his fierce thoughts, bouncing the occupants of the wooden wagon each time the wide, iron-rimmed wheels slipped off a hard mud rut.
“Pa, there's the cabin up yonder,” one of his boys said. The father made no response.
The one they were coming to see lived in what was left of the log cabin old man Thurmond had built before it burnt down. The Royal feller had built him a sort of lean-to up against what was left of the logs, mainly one wall and a great fireplace of river stones.
The man spoke for the first time, a single, deeply uttered syllable that sounded like “haw,” but it was enough to stop the mules. They recognized the tone. These were the same mules that had been foolish enough to balk as they pulled a breaking plow through black gumbo, and they weren't likely to ignore their master's voice. Years of failure, frustration, abject poverty, and bitter hopelessness were distilled into the monosyllabic command. He might control little else but by God he would control his mules.
He dropped to the ground and slid the heavy crate out of the wagon, moving in the direction of the cabin, but stopping as the woman said, “Earl!” in her barking, harsh tone. He turned, irritated, and saw he'd forgotten something. He went back and let her drop the huge onions into the crate. He was approaching the dwelling when the man inside pushed the crudely curtained doorway open and stepped from his makeshift cabin into warm sunlight.
“Howdy,” he said, his voice loud in his own ears. The man coming toward him nodded slightly, but neither he nor the brood of kids spoke. A woman sat in the wagon looking straight ahead. He did not recognize any of them.
“You Royal?” the man asked him.
“Yes.'
“Wanted to thank you for what you done yesterday.'
The one called Royal stared without comprehension, shaking his head slightly.
“What's that now?'
“That was one of my boys you saved yesterday.” A kid had tried to dive off a railway trestle into deep water. He had broken a shoulder, collar bone, and several ribs. He'd been lucky he hadn't broken his neck.
“Glad I was nearby. You must be the Ledbetters?” The man nodded. The word “was” came out “vuss.'
“Cain't pay ya for the doctorin',” Earl Ledbetter said, bluntly, voice raspy like a file on metal. Without further ceremony he set the crate down, turned, and began walking back to the wagon.
The crate contained fresh garden tomatoes, some of the biggest he'd ever seen. Squash. Two enormous onions. Potatoes.
“Thank you,” he said. The “thank” sounded as if it were spelled with an
He had heard about the man. Heard some men joking about Earl Bedwetter, making fun of the man's name. A man who apparently had a reputation for not paying his bills. He didn't care a damn about that. He had only one interest, in creating an impenetrable legend of disguise.
“If you ever need medical attention, just come see me. I won't charge you anything,” he added, hastily, knowing “any-sink” was one of his bad ones. The
Solomon Royal had only one thought. He wanted to wash his old identity away. He'd been working downriver and had seen a tattered scrap of newspaper, an advertisement for a tiny rural community that was without health care. It was a chance to start over. To build a new reality.
Hard eyes narrowed as he watched the wagon from behind the rag of a curtain that hung over the doorway of his rough-hewn cabin.
“Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Bedvetter,” he said quietly, scarcely moving his small, red lips. “See you,” he added, for practice. The girl in the wagon would fuel the heat of his imagined fantasy that night.
18
More than forty years ago, when he'd first come to this soil, a man in hiding, he'd selected his safe haven with the greatest care. There were, in the final analysis, only half a dozen geographical areas that beckoned. The big, teeming industrial hubs of the American Northeast, mass melting pots where accents blurred and went unnoticed; the booming Midwestern blue-collar cities like Detroit, with their ghettos and ethnic communities, and the impoverished agri-villages of the heartland and the Bible Belt South. He'd gravitated to the latter, and worked his way up the Mississippi River to a rural area in dire need of a medical clinic.
Shtolz's goal was to create an identity that could be sculpted into something invulnerable. Oddly, the cosmetic surgery he'd undergone in South America had not been a total success. The birthmark and the reshaped cheeks should have been augmented further. The eyes and mouth and ears needed to be changed, but by then time had become a pressing factor. He was one of the most hunted men living, wanted not only by the fanatical Jews but by his own people, and he'd made his way to North America without a moment to spare.
The young Boy Butcher considered many things, but while it would have been the prudent course to forsake any further work in medicine or the sciences, he'd been somewhat reassured by the lack of curiosity in him by the locals. The state of Missouri was as war ravaged and poverty stricken as parts of Europe. The small agricultural communities were in great need of farm labor and skilled artisans of any kind. Emil Shtolz could do many things well. After a short stint as a manual laborer, working every waking hour to absorb the peculiarities of idiomatic American slang, he decided on his plan of action.
It was common at the time for illegal aliens to obtain “tombstone I.D.s,” which were easily and inexpensively created. Shtolz found a number of deceased residents resting in obscure county graveyards who'd been born around the time he had. Setting up a “genealogical research firm” involved nothing more sophisticated then renting a mail box number out of the busy Memphis postal zone, and within a few weeks he'd come up with a handful of candidates. Individuals who had vanished more or less without a trace, persons without living relatives or obtainable histories. One of them particularly appealed to him because of the name.
Solomon Royal pleased him greatly because of the play on the first name. The Seal of Solomon. The Magen David. King Solomon was, indeed, a Solomon Royal. So within a few days an application was filed for a replacement birth certificate, and Emil Shtolz no longer existed.
The next step was to obtain documentation. Like the officials of his mother country, Germany, the petty
