by Nathan Roden
“Vikings? And Giants?” Dallas exclaimed, “Why do we sit here, men? We must prepare…where is your local regiment and the cache of weapons? I must speak with the commanding officer at once!”
“You have no idea what football is, do ya, son?” Luther said.
“Footb—”
“Not that stuff you folks call football,” Butch said. “We call that soccer and we don’t care much for it. Heck, the little soccer fellers on a foosball table don’t even come with arms. They ain’t a gonna use ‘em anyway. Might as well just leave ‘em off if you ain’t gonna use ‘em—same reason Ernest was born without a brain.”
“What?” Ernest said.
“Show him the helmet, Luther,” Butch said.
Luther pointed to a glass-front cabinet where a Dallas Cowboy helmet was on display.
“I’m always afraid to open that cabinet. If anything happened to that helmet I don’t know what I would do,” Luther said.
“What power does this helmet hold?” Dallas asked.
“What power does this helmet hold?” Luther said. “That helmet bears the autographed signature of one of the greatest Cowboys who ever put on the uniform—none other than the Great Roger Staubach.”
“Roger Staubach,” Butch and Ernest repeated in reverential unison.
“The finest field general in Cowboy history,” Butch said.
“He come from the Navy, you know,” Luther said.
“Aye,” Dallas said, nodding, “An Officer of the Navy. So he was an Admiral, then, and not a General.”
“He wasn’t no Admiral!” Butch said. “He wasn’t an Admiral was he, Luther?”
“Who cares what rank he was?” Luther squealed. “He was World Champion.”
“How did he die, this World Champion Admiral Cowboy Roger Staubach?”
“Die?” All three men said together.
“Lord a mercy, Dallas,” Luther said. “Roger Staubach ain’t dead.”
“Then how in the world have you acquired his helmet?” Dallas asked.
“On Ebay, of course!” Luther screamed in a quiet way. “Cost me thirteen hunerd dollars.”
He pointed at the gold-leafed card propped on a stand beside the helmet.
“And it come with a certification of ethnicity.”
Butch and Ernest looked at each other and shrugged.
“Hey, Baywatch is back on, Luther,” Ernest said.
“Well, well, well,” a booming voice came from the back of the room.
The four men froze.
Luther located the mute button on the remote control with a trembling hand.
“Hey, Bruiser,” Luther said as he turned around, “Where have you been?”
“Save it, Luther,” said a gargantuan ghost in a purposely small undershirt.
“You knew we were around, but you’ve never seen fit to invite us over to watch TV?” The huge man motioned to the small man at his side—a diminutive ghost with a bowed back. That made him appear even smaller. His small face and beady eyes left him resembling an unattractive nocturnal rodent.
“Yeah,” the smaller man said, “You’re too good for us?”
“Nothing like that, Bruiser,” Luther said. “It just hadn’t crossed my mind to invite you over—”
“It hadn’t crossed your mind, huh? You got the only Man Cave in town for the recently departed red-blooded ‘Merican male with certain carnal needs, and it never crossed your mind? You never thought to invite the Baddest Trucker in the State to join you and your Fancy Compadres…”
“Hold on, Bruiser,” Luther said, “Bruiser Brady, let me introduce the Atkin—”
“What do I care who your friends are, Luther? They’re so much better than Dougie and me, right?” Bruiser said, his tattoos dancing on his constantly flexing arms.
“Yeah,” the man next to Bruiser said, “They’re too good for the likes of us, right, Bruiser?”
“Look, Bruiser,” Luther pleaded, “Dallas just got here a day or two ago. His family come all the way here from Scotland. I’m just meetin’ him, myself.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Brady,” Dallas said, extending his hand.
Bruiser Brady exhaled. His heavily muscled chest heaved. He turned and spat on the ground.
“You’ll have to explain those sissy clothes you’re wearin’ before I shake your hand,” Bruiser said.
Dallas glared.
“I wear the uniform that lay against my skin as I departed life under fire of the English Navy, Sir. No further explanation shall ye receive.”
Bruiser Brady returned the glare. He turned and spat again.
Bruiser extended his hand.
“I believe I like this one,” Bruiser said.
“Your name’s Dallas, huh?” Bruiser asked, “What’s your last name, then? Cowboy?”
Dougie laughed a little too loud and a little too long, as he always did when Bruiser said anything remotely funny.
“Dallas McIntyre.”
Bruiser’s jaw went slack.
“Shut up, Dougie,” Bruiser said quietly. Dougie went silent.
“Are you…are you Reba McEntire’s family? ‘Cause iffen you are, I just want to—”
“No, Mr. Brady. This lady is obviously of great fame and well thought of in this community. I do not believe that we are related,” Dallas said.
“She’s more than famous. She’s Royalty, Son,” Bruiser said. He looked away.
”This one time I was about to pull out of this truck stop outside of Nashville, when I seen Reba’s bus pull in. I walked over and started jawin’ with the driver while he was pumpin’ diesel. I looked up and seen none other than Miss Reba herself walk in front of the windshield of that bus. She smiled and waved at me. Sure as I’m standin’ here. Just as sure as I’m standin’ here.”
“Bruiser?” Dougie said, “You okay, Bruiser?”
Bruiser blinked and shook his head and came back to the present.
Bruiser and Dallas shook hands. Dougie exhaled and looked on with his small arms crossed.
Luther, Butch, and Ernest gave a very grateful sigh of relief.
The sound of a small engine became louder.
“Somebody’s comin,” Butch said.
“We gotta go, Dougie,” Bruiser said.
“Stop by anytime,” Luther said, hoping that they wouldn’t.
Luther muted the volume of the television. The engine noise stopped and after a few seconds, Luther raised the volume slightly.
“Father?” Nora whispered.
Four ghosts bolted from their seats.
“Nora! Charlotte! What are you doing here?” Dallas said.
“Elizabeth sent us to search for you, Dallas. You have been gone for some time,” David said.
“You’ve made a new friend, Baron McIntyre,” Holly said.
“Hey!” Luther said. “Where did all of these…and this one’s alive. What in the world have you got us into, Butch?”
“She’s a friend of Dallas and his family, Luther. This is Miss Holly,” Butch said.
“And she can—“
“Yep,” Ernest said, “she can see us.”
“I can hear you as well, Luther,” Holly said.
“Oh,” Luther said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, young lady.”
Holly nodded.
“Dallas, where have you been?” Elizabeth asked with her hands on her hips.
“I was spending a little time with Butch and Ernest, and I also met some of their friends. I lost track of the time.”
“He lost track of the time, but he did find a telly,” Nora said.
“Is it so unusual that a recently departed gentleman would have a telly?” Dallas said.
“A telly that has Baywatch,” Charlotte said.
“A program which is a thrilling dramatization of modern American life,” Dallas said.
“The program was on a Spanish language channel, Father,” Charlotte said. “Do you understand Spanish?”
“Well, no. But I do int
end to learn it. It is a beautiful language,” Dallas said.
Elizabeth was content to stand by and watch Dallas match wits with his daughters.
“Este noche!” Nora said. “La programa Baywatch! Con David Hasselhoff, Pamela Anderson, hubbada, hubbada, Ba-Boom!”
“Este noche, on Telemundo!” Charlotte said.
The girls were laughing uncontrollably.
“That will be quite—” Dallas said, very red in the face.
He shook his head and walked away.
Twenty-three
Wylie Westerhouse
Branson, Missouri
I got to the castle early and heard music coming from Holly’s apartment. Her door was open and she was singing along with the radio. None of the words were the right ones, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?
“Hey, Holly,” I said as I approached her doorway, “Missed you the last couple of days, but I guess you had some—”
Wow.
Holly was standing in front of a full-length mirror wearing what must have been a new outfit. That’s not really a guess because I most definitely would have remembered this outfit if I had seen it before.
This looked more like a pro football cheerleader outfit than anything else. The top was a bare midriff and the shorts were so short that they made me blush. And she was…darker. Tanned, I mean.
“Had some what?” she said as she turned around. She started to laugh.
“So, I guess you approve?” she asked.
She stopped laughing.
“Mr. Westerhouse. Close your mouth.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head.
“What do you expect, Holly? I see you found the mall. Or the mall found you.”
“There’s so much to discover here in America,” she said. “So much that I had no idea even existed. I had been walking the mall for hours and then I got thirsty and walked into a saloon…just to have a soft drink, mind you.
“It turns out that this saloon was a store full of suntan beds. Have you ever heard of such a thing? There are two nice girls that work there, and they offered to let me try out a suntan bed for free. So, I thought to myself, ‘what the hey, Holly’? You’ve never had a suntan in your whole life, so why not give it a go?”
She put her right leg out in front and turned it this way and that.
“So, what do you think, Mr. Westerhouse?”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “Where are you going to wear that outfit?”
“I was thinking maybe the first tour. What do you think?” she said.
“The first tour? Are you serious?”
She threw her head back, laughing.
“Do you have any idea how often you say ‘are you serious’? Really, Wylie. You’ve got to loosen up a little. You’re not old enough to have lost your sense of humor.” Holly turned in a circle, looking around the room.
“I like to have my fun but I’m also aware that my parents and my dear uncle are watching over me,” she sighed. “I would never do anything to shame them or cause them to worry.”
She turned to the mirror again. She turned from one side to the other.
“But I do like fun clothes. Maybe I’ll find an appropriate time and place for these. But right now I need to change into something more practical. Should I do that now or would you like to leave the room first?”
Man, is she good at catching me off guard. I stammered some more like the idiot that I have become.
She giggled at me and I was convinced that she has made a sport out of messing with my head.
I was almost out of the room. Holly followed to close the door behind me.
I put up my hand and stopped the door. She raised an eyebrow. I pushed the door open a little further.
I looked down and gave her long, tanned legs one more look, and then I met her eyes.
I smiled.
“Those are some nice legs. Seriously.”
Twenty-four
Wylie Westerhouse
Branson, Missouri
Opening Day for Castle McIntyre—The North American World Tour had finally arrived.
That’s not exactly accurate since the castle wasn’t going anywhere. But I pictured the tour t-shirt in my mind. I have twenty-something tour t-shirts—all in black—hanging in my closet.
That’s how I picture success.
I was more nervous than I had ever been before a singing performance. Well, maybe not. The most nervous I had ever been was when I l peeked around the backstage curtain at the profile of Trevor Burkendale. Thinking that you may be minutes away from total public humiliation will do that to you.
I’ve thought back to that scene many times. I stood in a spotlight in front of the judges’ panel in the final seconds of silence. The applause has faded away and I waited for judgment. I have no idea what to expect and there was nowhere to run; nowhere to hide. Everyone in the building held their breath in anticipation of Trevor Burkendale’s verdict.
How many human beings have become famous by ripping the still-beating hearts from terrified performers with their words? Don’t answer that.
I couldn’t read his face at all. The verdict came with seven words—seven colossal words that will stay with me forever.
“God, how I wanted to hate you.”
It took several soul-wrenching seconds to realize that he was saying that he didn’t. Hate me, that is. Trevor Burkendale didn’t hate me. I had braved the belly of the beast and survived to fight one more day.
I had received validation. I was going to the next round. That was the best day of my life.
Not exactly. It was the best twenty-one hours of my life.
That was how long it lasted before it all went away.
I straightened the Castle McIntyre “staff” badge around my neck for the hundredth time. I was still in apprentice status. All I would be doing today was following behind the group and hurrying along any stragglers. I was still learning the job by watching and listening to Holly.
Quentin threw a party for Brian McAllen and the construction workers at his home last night. Quentin hadn’t shown his face yet today, so it must have been a good party. Brian and most of his men planned to take one of the tours over the weekend before they say their goodbyes. At that moment, they were most likely sleeping or nursing hangovers.
Every tour for this weekend had sold out a week in advance. Tourist traffic in Branson was down, but there were plenty of locals curious about the castle that had swooped into town. Castle McIntyre instantly became the oldest building in the state.
Quentin had gone the extra mile for the opening weekend. Every departing guest received a miniature suit of armor to commemorate the event. During our first two weeks, Quentin scheduled tours for the weekends only. He wanted to leave downtime to make any needed adjustments.
I checked my watch about every thirty seconds. I didn’t know why I was this nervous. I had little to do. Sometimes I get a little tickle in my brain that seems to be sounding a warning. It’s like that little voice that reminds you to have on a clean and solid pair of undies the morning before you ripped out the seat of your jeans.
Eight minutes to Show-Time and—
Where was Holly? She was right there just a minute ago.
Panic set in for no real reason. I stood around outside the door of the ladies’ room until a girl came out.
“Is Holly McFadden in there?” I asked.
I thought I heard a noise from upstairs.
The girl backed away from me with a frightened look.
“There’s…nobody’s in there,” she said.
I went back to the lobby. Holly wasn’t there. I checked my watch again. Six minutes.
I sprinted up the back stairway and at the top—I almost crashed into her back. I nearly fell over backward when she shouted.
“Amen!”
“Holly,” I whispered.
She jumped when she heard my voice.
“Wylie!” she yelped.
“I’m sorry to bother you,
but,” I pointed to my watch. “The doors open in five minutes.”
She seemed a little winded. She put her hands on her hips, looked away and then pointed at me.
“Five minutes. Got it. We’re good to go,” she said.
I jerked my head back toward the stairs.
“I’m gonna…”
“Sure. Sure,” she said, “be right there.”
“I didn’t know you were religious,” I said.
Holly shrugged.
“We can use all the help we can get.”
At ten o’clock on a Friday morning, the massive front doors of Castle McIntyre opened to applause from our first group of thirty people. Holly welcomed them inside.
The group passed between the giant suits of armor that stood guard at each side of the entrance. There were few barriers in place to force the guests away from the displays. The suits of armor collected their first fingerprints.
I scanned this first group and wondered how they had been lucky enough to get tickets for the very first tour. Was it just luck of the draw? I don’t think Q would have shown any favoritism.
Unfortunately, I recognized a couple of people. Two young couples were at the rear of the entourage. Two young men wore letter jackets from the local high school. Each of them had a giggling girl on their arm. One of the young men was Grady Plimpton. I stayed as far away from him as I could. I took the Castle McIntyre cap from my pocket and pulled it on. I pulled it down in an attempt to hide my face. This was not the day for another confrontation with Grady.
The two couples lagged behind the group and paid little attention to Holly. The girl with Grady Plimpton was fascinated with the suits of armor. She knocked the twelve-foot long lance loose from one of the suits. It clamored to the floor with a noise that echoed against the stone of the twenty-foot high entryway. The tour came to a halt. Some women shrieked and Holly stopped talking. She walked through the group and returned the lance to its place.
