“No time for stupidity,” Cricket added. “Hank, when you were on the table and Sister was working on you, Stan the cat appeared in the window. He was staring at you.”
“Oh, I remember. You want to know how that cat saved my life?” Everyone waited. “The first Christmas after my wife’s passing, I was missing her fiercely.” He pointed a finger at the open bedroom door and the Nativity set on the sidebar along the dining room wall.
“Greatest moment in history. God became flesh.” He kept pointing, now jabbing his finger at the finely sculpted figurines and rough-hewn manger. With a deep breath he willed himself back from the brink of tears and pulled the bedsheet up to his chest.
“That first year I buried myself in my work, the animals, especially the bees, and of course reading, things like that. Christmas Eve morning, I’m sitting in my recliner when Stan the cat appears at the window. Usually he’s quiet and stares, but this time he’s howling, scratching the glass like he wants in, but he never had any desire to come in before. So, I get up. I’m a few feet from the door, and…” Hank got choked up, reliving the experience. Cricket approached, to lay a hand of comfort, and he smiled, indicating he was okay.
“My wife passed right through me, in an instant—not a ghost but her essence, like a lovely breeze. I caught her scent mixed with another scent that was truly otherworldly. No other words. Right then and there I grasped so much about our time here, and our eternal time. Most importantly, God gave me a precious moment with my wife. It was beautiful. I think Stan the cat knew that had I stayed seated, I’d miss the show of a lifetime. My wife was making her way across the middle of the living room from some beautiful part of creation.”
Everyone’s mouth hung open, and Cricket’s next question was interrupted by the sound of boots on the hardwood kitchen floor. Doctor Claubauf entered as Sister Marie wiped a tear away with the back of her hand and then tipped a ceramic tea pot, pouring Cricket a cup of golden mullein tea, a beverage Claubauf had told the children had once been used by Native Americans for respiratory problems.
With the smile and devotion of a disciple, Caleb trailed the tall man. He and his brother enjoyed Claubauf’s stories of Indians and settlers along the rivers of eastern Ohio: the pioneers cutting roads into the wilderness, the Indian attacks that were sometimes followed by imprisonment and torture by a branch of the Mohawks living throughout eastern Ohio. Cricket thought it odd, telling such stories in a world already full of terrible acts of savagery. But from the boys’ summaries, Claubauf managed to keep the spirit of adventure at each story’s core, not concentrating on the gory details. Luckily, the parents hadn’t gotten wind of the colorful details of scalping and burning at the stake.
Claubauf said to his friend Hank, “Another week and we’ll be out hunting.”
Cricket took note. The merriment in Claubauf’s eyes was offset by a hard smile.
Hank simply pointed up. His face was clear, relaxed.
Claubauf sat alongside the bed. “Ah, so you’re going to rope me into a discussion on how God’s behind your recovery, not these lovely people?”
“God-directed people,” Hank said confidently.
Sister Marie handed Doctor Claubauf a cup of tea as well. “Doctor, we thank Him for our gifts, our blessings. That’s what we believe.” She turned to the boys, held them a moment in her sights, a not-so-subtle reminder that their religious studies were ongoing, and now was a good time to be paying attention.
Claubauf hit back after thanking Sister for the tea. “Do you thank him for our deficiencies?”
“We pray for understanding.”
“That’s clever.”
Hank rushed to Sister’s defense. “Sister Marie’s a lot more than clever.”
Cricket took the measure of Claubauf. She appreciated his willingness to defend them but found him lacking. The old attack on religion was the product of university life: smarter than everyone else, looking down from his ivory tower on the superstitious folk. In Cricket’s dealings with the Brazilian, a new internal radar had emerged to identify someone’s hatefulness toward what she held dear. Cricket wasn’t in the mood to be tolerant toward the intolerant. But he was Hank’s friend, and his needling the old man and everyone else felt mostly like a show of affection.
Claubauf leaned close to Hank. “I know you’re the old Hank when you go toe-to-toe with me, not missing a beat.”
“Claw, you bring out the best in me.” Hank stirred his tea slowly.
When the boys had first heard Hank call the doctor Claw, they started using it as well, until stopped by their parents.
Sister Marie wasn’t finished. “Why the crusade against religion in a country that gives you the freedom to believe or not believe?”
Ann Davies walked in and looked uncomfortable with the conversation. “Boys, let’s go outside. Get some fresh air.” Ethan and Caleb left with their mom.
“The boys and girls should have stuck around and learned something.” Claubauf looked to Cricket for support.
She shrugged. “They heard enough for one day.”
“With the world in a holding pattern until the lights come back on, I don’t want superstition replacing reason.” Claubauf’s “nothing to hide” palms-up, open-handed gesture perfectly expressed his reasonable words. “No time for nonsense.”
Sister Marie said coolly, “Christians champion reason and still believe in a God-centered world. We juggle both very well. Even with setbacks, our goal is to be better human beings and to treat our fellow man better and look at the world with clear eyes, look beneath the surface, understand how this beautiful creation works. To be a Christian is to be filled with common sense and love for the world.”
Claubauf moved toward the door. “It sounds good, Sister; probably even better on paper. But the children need to know it’s a very tired old story. Our fellow man wants to devour us. ‘Love thy neighbor’ went out when the lights went out.”
Cricket and Sister launched “missiles” the doctor’s way as Hank attempted to sit straighter and moaned, prompting the women to come to his aid, stuffing another pillow behind him.
Hank said, “Claw, do you know what sold me on this beautiful religion?”
“Fear.”
“Hardly.”
Cricket wanted to battle, but Hank motioned with a raised hand that he had this one.
“You see, Claw, ordinary people, like myself, know what’s important… know right from wrong, even if we don’t always get to the right side of the tracks ourselves. Plenty of screw-ups but we keep trying. The Good Book is the best book for inspiration and right living. It really helps us to dust off our sins and climb back into life with a new vision, new hope.”
“Physics offers a new vision.” Claubauf looked to Cricket, a plea to be taken seriously in the shine of his eyes.
Hank said, “Don’t have the energy for a discussion on those genies of yours.”
Sister Marie was almost out the door and stopped, zeroing in on the doctor, who smiled like he was anxious to keep her in the fight.
Hand on her hip, she said, “Hank can handle this.”
Claubauf reached out to her with both arms. “Sister Marie, don’t be angry. I’m just helping his recovery by gently elevating his blood pressure to speed up the healing process.”
Hank ignored the exchange, saying, “Along with the right and wrong choices in life, I know a real story when I hear it, especially if it includes breakfast. Claw, I love breakfast.” Hank tried to sit even straighter, cringing slightly, bringing Cricket and the doctor to opposite sides of the bed to aid him and readjust the pillows.
“I love breakfast, too,” Claubauf said.
“And Christ made breakfast on shore for his men two thousand years ago.”
Doctor Claubauf looked stunned. “Of all the passages, that’s your favorite? That always seemed like filler. What, Christ running a bed and breakfast?”
Cricket’s eye roll ended in a hard stare, her arms crossed.
“You mig
ht not know it, Claw, but you’re almost there, loving that first meal of the day. Think of it, what a gift to have the Lord make you breakfast on the shores of Galilee, daylight breaking, our Savior feeding you fish, bread, dates. And then some conversation afterwards.” He got up on one elbow, cautioned Cricket to relax, and gave the doctor a soulful look. “It doesn’t get any better.”
11
Honey Shed
Hank’s honey shed was sheltered by a grove of apple trees and was a short walk from either the main house or the bunkhouse, which had been built for seasonal workers for planting and harvesting, and for producing honey made from hundreds of beehives throughout the county. Hank maintained two dozen hives just beyond the orchard.
Made of red brick, the honey shed had two small windows near the roof for air circulation. The window on the northern wall was cracked open for an extension cord connected to a hand-pull generator raging at full throttle. Cricket stepped inside to find the bee men hard at work and the honey extractor, a centrifuge full of honey frames, rapidly spinning. Cricket went straight to the machine to view the fine golden mist hanging above the extracted honey on its way to be warmed and filtered.
Inspired by Hank that morning, Ethan looked more mature, more handsome to Cricket as he scraped the wax cappings off a frame, preparing the next batch for the extractor.
Doctor Claubauf monitored a contraption that warmed a metal bucket full of cappings so that the wax and remaining honey could be separated, allowing the Holaday home to be well-supplied with candles. Separated from the wax, this batch of honey was dark, almost black, and very rich. Lee Ann loved this process the best and had said that the aluminum conical hat with a light bulb inside its apex resembled a hat the Tin Man might wear.
Cricket was about to leave when Claubauf offered her a chunk of honeycomb.
“Hank’s best yet,” the doctor said.
Ethan’s face darkened. He searched the stack of supers, peered inside the centrifuge, looking for the next thing to do, upset he hadn’t been chivalrous in time to be the first to offer the beautiful Emily Cricket Hastings a taste of honey. Her teasing smile told him not to worry. There’d be other chances to impress her.
The doctor raised a long arm and pointed at the centrifuge’s switch on a wooden support beam. “Shut it down, Ethan. It’s been almost two hours.”
“I know what to do,” Ethan mumbled, shaking his head, once again upstaged by an experienced, older man.
Cricket had come to take a short break and enjoy the miraculous process of honey production, not the protection of Ethan’s young ego. She started to ask him a question when the lights went out, dropping the trio into darkness. She had seen Ethan reach for the switch—had the kid turned off all the lights? But it was also quiet. The generator had died.
“Cricket, you’re closest to the door,” Claubauf whispered, and sweat immediately popped down her back. The extension cord hitting the floor accelerated her already fast-beating heart. She could no longer blame the kid or a mechanical problem.
Claubauf said calmly, “We’ll wait for you to open it. But do it slowly. Stay to one side. Ethan, don’t move around. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I know,” Ethan replied. Both adults hushed him. Then came muffled voices from outside.
Arm up, shielding her face, Cricket slid a leg forward and touched the wall and found the door. She did as Claw had said and cracked it open. Her Colt drawn, safety off, she peeked outside, counted to three, and sprang from the building yelling “stop!” at the two middle-aged men dragging off the generator.
They both froze. Hands out at their sides, gunslinger style, appropriate for the big guns on their hips. “Touch ’em and you’re dead!” She aimed for the bigger of the two, the one closest to her.
Ethan came up alongside her, and the heavier man sneered. He started to say something when Claubauf appeared, gun drawn.
Cricket announced, “You fools are surrounded. Hands up.”
Doctor Claubauf circled wide, looking for accomplices.
The man closest to Cricket said, “You’ve got this farm here. We just want this little generator. You know, share the wealth.”
“It’s called stealing.” Cricket kept her gun trained on the talker. Unshaven, with a thick middle stretching a dirty sweatshirt, he glowered at her and Ethan, trying to scare the boy, whose subcompact Glock slightly danced in his hand.
“Throw down your weapons,” Cricket said.
“I don’t think so,” the spokesman said. “Dangerous times. You can come and get them. Or better yet, send the boy.”
Claubauf said, “These are dangerous times. Keep your guns.”
Cricket knew they wouldn’t let them take their weapons. She and Claubauf were on the same page. She took a glance at the house, the barn. No one had yet seen their predicament. They had enough firepower trained on the two men, who were physically unfit but full of surprises, many springs yet to be sprung. The other man was shorter but just as disheveled—more hair, more scared, and less gut.
“Where are you from?” Claubauf asked.
“Same as you—hell,” the big man offered.
“Those service pistols are carried by state troopers.”
The man turned to his companion and shrugged.
“Forty-five Smith & Wesson is carried by more than just troopers.” He shot a look at Ethan. “Son, that’s a pea shooter you’re holding next to this monster. Would you like to hold it?” He pointed a thick middle finger at his holster. “I’m surprised your girlfriend doesn’t find a handsome boy like you a bigger piece. I know I would.”
Cricket moved the Colt from the man’s thick torso to the center of his wide face.
The talker was growing impatient. One of those troubling internal springs was ready to uncoil. It was a cold morning, and the man’s face was bathed in sweat.
Wise up!
And she did, aiming again at the man’s chest, a target-rich field of flesh. A fat rattlesnake came to mind, and she made a simple decision—unload every round into this snake.
“How about you just let us go?” His eyes sparkled as he played with the trio. “We walk away. Hands up. You follow until we’re well off your property.”
“I don’t think so,” Claubauf said. He stood alongside Cricket, Ethan on her right.
“What, stealers get the death penalty?”
The quiet man leaned away from his partner. Would he take his chance and run? Cricket glanced about; others must be close by. She wanted to yell for the mechanics, anybody. But that might alert a small gang of thieves stationed close to the farmhouse. The girls and Sister were inside, and she didn’t want them running out. Claubauf remained calm.
The fat one focused on Cricket, snapping at his companion. “Hey, Bud, we’re in the presence of some Jesus freaks. Explains their lack of decision-making.”
Cricket was wearing the cross outside her sweatshirt. A gift from Sister Marie after her marriage to Fritz. The same light that made her cross noticeable was also making her squint. The man, well aware of their advantage, grinned. The sun had climbed above the trees.
The talker said, “Hey, Stretch, have any prayers you want to share with us? I’d expect to see a cross around your neck, too. The religious thing to do. Take care of your brother and all that. Ask us in for some pie. Or maybe you’re an Old Testament man, ready to start a new crusade an’ rid the world of us heathens.” He looked down at the ground and shook his head, and then boldly eyed Doctor Claubauf. “That gun looks silly in your hands. You know, you should put it away. Not natural. I bet you break your wrist when you fire it.” He cackled and glanced again at his cohort, who remained bug-eyed, nervous, dancing in place.
“You’re a few centuries behind,” Claubauf said. Cricket thought the doctor sounded strangely formal yet passionate, a lawyer giving his closing argument. “Christians these days dither a lot about killing. I’m an atheist.”
Two explosions followed. They were the quick discharge of two shots by self-pro
claimed atheist Doctor Claubauf. His .357 sounded louder than anything Cricket had ever heard before. She was shocked, but not as shocked as the two men with faces destroyed by the gun’s powerful magnum rounds. Claubauf took out the scared one first, who might have done something unpredictable and fast. Cricket quietly agreed that the talker would freeze at the sound of the first blast, unwilling to believe what had befallen him, going for his gun too late and earning a long, dry spell in eternity.
Blue jays started screeching from nearby trees, dive-bombing Stan the cat, who was making a beeline for the barn. Trouble everywhere, Cricket thought.
“You killed them both,” Ethan said, staring at the doctor, frightened and impressed. He pivoted away and emptied his guts. It had been dark during the Halloween attack, unlike his front-row seat at this daytime execution. Cricket knew that the boy had now witnessed for the first time the erasure of human features and the end of personality. Adding to the instantaneous disfigurement was the bright splatter over the ground and across the honey shed’s brick exterior, red stucco from hell.
Cricket wanted to challenge Claubauf’s decision, but she knew it was pointless. A gunfight had been inevitable, and she was thankful they all survived. She looked at the doctor and then Ethan. “Go tell Sister Marie to keep the girls in the house.”
Claubauf wore a hard mask of intent, examining the woods and pasture, expecting a revenge party to burst onto the scene. Cricket kept her weapon raised and knew Claubauf was right to expect more trouble.
The doctor said coolly, “I think married life is slowing you down, burying your instincts. I expected you to take the first shot, especially after his dig about Christians.”
She started to say something and then stopped, shocked that he believed a personal insult would trigger violence from her.
“My wife was a lot like you,” he said, shocking her a second time. Ignoring her bewildered look, Claubauf said icily, “Beautiful, strong, clinging to her religious superstitions. And, in the end, her religion killed her.”
American Blackout (Book 2): Slaves Beneath The Stars Page 4
