Chapter Two-

"Supper time," Lois called out by the large, iron cooking pot that hung in the hearth.

The fireplace that served the rear of the hall, which itself, functioned as a kitchen/dining room area, was decorated with cut lengths of herbs and other aromatics, tied in bunches along the span of ribbons that were then festooned across and draped around the flue.

The family gathered around a fair-sized dining room table of humble design that sat in a corner between the counter and the cabinetry that served the kitchen space, and a polished brass spittoon that held flowers leading back out in the hall.

"So," May asked her father, after grace was said and she gulped a full forkful of hot food from her plate. "How was work today?"

Nate forked another quick mouthful and then managed to say, "Not too bad. Somebody only lost two fingers this time at the factory, so we still managed to keep our spotless safety record."

"That's cool."

Nate was about to shovel more food in, when he spoke up again. "Oh, yeah. Your mother says that a man from the government came by today to ask about your book."

All thoughts of eating ceased in May. Frozen in emotion, like a rabbit in mid-decision, May stared wide-eyed at Nate. 'Finally!' she exaltedly thought. 'Somebody wants my book! But who?'

"He did?"

"Yeah. Said something about weapons research and development?" Nate managed to say before breaking down into a fit of laughter from his end of the table. Other family members joined in soon after.

May fumed as her heart sank in a sea of disappointment. She hunched her head down so low in embarrasment that she felt like a turtle. There was nothing wrong with a little fun at the dinner table, but certainly not at her expense!

"Ha, ha," she chuckled mirthlessly as the laughter began to die down. Then, with a tired voice, she entreated. "Come on, Dad, don't tease. I had a rough day today."

"Okay, Sweet Pea," Nate said with a smile. "Just havin' fun with ya."

Lois, from her end of the table, reached over and patted May's hand in commiseration.

"Oh, don't you let you father rile you, Honey," she told her. "Somebody's bound to like your book eventually…someday."

May just pushed the food around in her plate in a funk. "Someday, someday. Yeah, always a 'someday', but never today. You know what people tell me to do? Write what I know. But, really, what do I know? How to go to school? How to help with the laundry? How to be a field hand, or how to get dumped by the cutest groom in town? Oh, yeah, I can just see the words flowing across the page."

"Now, May, you gotta be patient," said Nate. "Look at me. Someday I just know my star's gonna shine for me.

May rolled her eyes at him. "Ugh! Dad! Not that old chestnut again. How are you going to have this…DMZ without those vehicle things, if that's what it's for?"

"Ah, but you see," her father continued slyly. "That's not what it's for. It's for getting back at the white man for all of this unnecessary, uncalled-for bullshit he's puttin' us through. I'm simply doing my part, that's all."

Little Huey perked up at his father's words, telling him, unnoticed, "As are we all, Father. For example, I've just found out about this delightful little compound that comes from the Castor bean!"

"Well, maybe," May conceded. "But I just hate all of this waiting."

"I know how you feel, May. You're young. And the most important thing young people want to do is to make their mark in the world. And someday, when you meet that special someone, you, too, will make your mark in the world, and be the best mother you can possibly be," Nate told her.

May thought she missed something in the conversation, or maybe her father had from his end.

"Huh? But, Dad, I want to make my mark on my own terms. With my writing."

"You will, Honey," Nate soothed obliviously. "And when you start that family of yours, you know your mother and I will be there to help. You won't be alone, I promise."

May had to sigh. He meant only the best for her, but it was obvious that, in the context of women, Nate was no different that any other man, white or black, and far too set in his ways to understand a rebel like her.

And the fact that her mother didn't defend her just then, only demonstrated that she was in the same camp, probably bolstered by thoughts of little grandchildren running underfoot.

"Yes, sir," May said glumly.

"That's my girl," Nate proudly said. "It'll be alright. Remember what I always said…"

On cue, the children said in various states of enthusiasm, "If Life slaps you in the face, kick it in the balls!"

"That's right," their father commended.

Lois took the opportunity to wag a finger at her eldest son, just as he was putting the finishing touches on the sculpture he was working on earlier. "And Curtis, what have I told you about doing your carvings by the dinner table?"

"To not to," he answered glumly, putting it away and preparing to eat.

May gave a sly smirk at the tableau. A chance to get a little payback from one of the laughers sounded like a perfect idea, and Curtis looked ripe for picking on.

"Oh, by the way, Curtis, I saw what you were whittling earlier," May said teasingly. "You're wasting your time, y'know? That Cassandra D'amico doesn't want to have anything to do with you."

Seeing Curtis' big frame stiffen in shock was like Christmastime to her, so she luxuriated in the moment.

Curtis fixed a defensive glare at his older sister. "Oh, yeah? Well, what makes you think I'm thinking about her, anyway?"

"The fact that you've carved enough nudes of her to fill a bucket, or you're filling a bucket because of the nudes, I can't tell which," she said salaciously. When all eyes fell on him, she knew she had delivered the coup de grace.

It amazed May that someone who looked like a minature Nate Griffin could look so small, as Curtis struggled for a lifeline from such a devastating round.

"W-What are you talking about?" he asked tensely.

Upstairs in Curtis' room, in his closet, on a shelf, was a collection of Cassandra D'amico carvings in various poses, some tasteful, some not so, festooned with a little sash above the display that read The D'amico Collection.

Curtis was already weighing suitably grim retaliations against his dear sister, when the worse thing in the world happened to him. He dared to take a glance at his mother and saw not disapproval in her eyes, but stinging maternal pride.

"Why, Curtis Mayfield Griffin, did you find yourself a sweetheart?" Lois gushed at the news.

"No, no, Mom! Not really!" he yelled in a panic without meaning it.

He turned to look at May. "Mom said to stay out of my room, May! You're not suppose to be there!" He then calmed down and said to her in an unexpectedly snarky tone, "Besides, it's not like you had a chance with that blacksmith's apprentice. He was probably going to use you for shoeing practice."

The comment hit May like a blow on the head, and his accompanying laughter didn't help matters. How did he know about that?

Although her dark skin barely showed it, she blushed so hot, she thought her face was on fire. She couldn't even count on her developing literary powers of imagery and wordplay to metaphorically knock him on his broad back.

Crudity would have to suffice. "You take that back, you...you pot belly!"

"Make me, you four-eyed tadpole!" he fired back.

While the War of the Words reached its new plateau, Huey, still scribbling on his piece of paper, lifted his ovoid head up at the distraction and angrily yelled to no one who would notice, "Will you two disagreeable ragamuffins be quiet? If I can't work out the poison compound of this species of Castor bean, I'll never be able to strike a deathblow against The Man!"

As the arguments and motherly calls for civility began to escalate, Nate looked upon all of this familial strife and grinned in relaxed satisfaction.

"Ah, nothing warms a home like the sound of good-natured sibling rivalry."

The swollen moon sat low in the black sky, engaged in its slow fan dance with the clouds on that warm night. To the things that lurked, and moved, and hunted in the dark, rough foot paths and back alleyways of both the poorer neighborhoods and the wealthier, supposedly more secure ones, the moon was the only light worth living by.

The figure felt more at home here in the velvet shadows between the back fences that just barely formed the demarcation of the rows of inferior housing and the surviving islands of nature that bore both the brunt and witness of lackadaisical city planning. The loneliness of hearing the quiet, practiced footfalls in the figure's wake, or the owl in the boughs, or its prey on the ground, was as much pleasure as penance.

The dim, rustic backyards of the dim, shabby houses all looked the same to the figure. All harbored a functioning outhouse of some sad design that stood far from the precious water pumps. All protected by wooden fences that could only laughingly be call maintained. Some were either roughly tilled and turned into vague vegetable, herb, or flower gardens, or left as they were, to let nature reclaim them as a jungle landscape of weeds and broken, half-buried wagon wheels. None of them were lit and all of them were vulnerable.

The figure had mentally paced the distance of the walk in the dark wooded paths, and concluded that the next backyard ahead, was where it should end.

A yard or two across from the yard's fence was a broad tree whose canopied shade hid the figure like a shroud upon his reaching it.

The old Cape Cod house was dark from within, only the faintest lamplight from the master bedroom in the first floor parlor's rear window was visible. With the moon just now hidden by cloud cover; he dared to leave the tree slowly.

The blackness of the cloaked and tattered box coat, trousers and road-worn boots gave The Hooded Coachman more than ample camouflage, as he risked heading further out from the safety of the tree's canopy.

He had garnered more than enough strange looks and fearful stares from those who were questioned and those who simply watched the proceedings, but eventually the truth was ferreted out, and so, he arrived.

His heart and body froze as the back door opened unexpectedly. With a quick, turning leap, he returned to the back of the tree. He hadn't seen who was coming out, but if it was in response to someone miraculously noticing him prowling in the woods, he was thankful for the sap in his pocket.

The sound of a nasally-voiced woman called out from the house's interior, low enough not to disturb neighbors, but loud enough for who ever was coming out to respond.

"May. It's getting late. Time to go to bed."

May, in a cool, white, linen nightgown, stepped out into the backyard, but called back from the back door's threshold.

"I will in a minute, Mom. I just want to step out for some air."

"Alright, but hurry up."

May walked past the pump that stood by the doorway's short brick staircase and slowly strolled into Lois' small, all-purpose garden.

She lifted her head to see the silent drama of the stars, and listened to the distant steam whistles of the ships still moving to and from of the distant riverside. It always struck May that they sounded like the lively heralds of adventure during the day, but sounded so lonely and mournful at night.

The Coachman counted the fleeting moments since he hid. He needed to know who was out there. He heard womens' voices, but it didn't mean that the men folk couldn't have followed them out in secret, preparing to outflank him.

From the depths of his threadbare coat, he pulled the leather and lead cudgel free, mentally weighing the good, familiar heft in his hand. The sap and his hidden blade were his silent weapons and good friends, the rod and staff that comforted him, but the guilt of what he may have to do, would not leave him this night.

The Booty of the Night

(Sung to the tune of "The Music of the Night" by Andrew Lloyd Webber)

(Coachman)

Right and wrong delays investigation,

Conscience spurns my shameful occupation,

Someone's by the fences,

Alone and quite defenseless...

He turned slowly to peer out from the tree, and saw, as the clouds were finally disrobed from the moon, an earthbound angel.

The moonlight fell on her in a soft, unearthly blue, and made her nightgown look almost diaphanous. She watched the stars wink and twinkle above her, and even took in the view of the dark woods beyond her yard, on occasion, but didn't see him. For his part, his heart had cracked. Cupid had forgone a bow in place of field artillery.

Then May, suddenly curious as to what her mother was growing, casually turned from him and bent down to look. The moment he saw her nightgown-accentuated bottom, the Coachman's infatuation, and now newborn lust, fought a war for the history books.

He would never know why he did what he did next. Maybe because he needed to see her more clearly, or maybe because he tired of the miserable life it represented, but he felt the need to free himself from the hood that hid him, right then and there.

Quietly, he slipped the covering from his head, revealing the grateful visage of a young, black male. Yet, as youthful and full as his face was, his eyes bore the dark testimony of his shameful actions. He, however, had forgotten them upon seeing May.

She was his lathe of forgetfulness, his desperate opiate. For one night, this night, he was absolved of all of his sin. For him, she had to have been divinely fashioned.

(Coachman)

Lovely, enchanting,

More than words could render,

Grasp it, seize it,

Worship and rear-end her

A clever turn of phrase,

Can ignite a conversation,

And bring illumination and delight…

I'll listen to the booty of the night...

Turn your eyes from society that hurts and schemes,

You've been taught naught but lies you've heard before,

Own the skies, tell your heart that you want more,

And I'll give like I never gave before

Softly, carefully,

Slowly, I'll undress you,

Touch it, feel it,

My rod will impress you

Hope that you won't mind,

That my fantasy's aligned,

With your hotness, that you know you cannot hide…

The roundness of the booty of the night...

Your behind's a journey to a strange new world,

Cleaves all thoughts of the ones I knew before,

Let my love take you where you want to be,

Or perhaps, we'll stay home and watch TV

Oh, May! Please stay,

Sweetest of confections,

Your back porch,

Inspires my erections

I know that you're modest,

But that's when you're your hottest,

The power of your beauty's out of sight!

The power of the booty of the night...

You, alone, bring beauty to my life…

Help me take the booty of the…Night

Satisfied with what she saw, May sauntered back into the dark house, but gave a curious half-turn back to the yard from the threshold. She thought she heard something out in the woods. Something musical, perhaps?

With a shrug, she reentered the house and closed the door, while her dark admirer disappeared bittersweetly into the shadows.

Fanny's Book Shop wasn't impressive by any architectural standard, just a large, brick corner shop that sat across the wheel-tracked streets from the thoroughfare that led into Rough-and-Tumble, but to May, who stood enraptured in front of its display window that mid-day, after chores, it was El Dorado.

Her household had several books, she knew, from The Bible, to old cookbooks, from a few dime novels, to newspapers, and the most prized and beloved books she had ever known were the old school primer and worn-out dictionary her mother would read to her while she grew up.

But she hungered for more literature, more books, and more things to read. To her recollection, she never had a reason to think herself obsessive, but welcomed this desire of becoming a bibliophile, even if she didn't know what the word meant presently.

From the display inside, the books, with their rich, colorful covers and well-made bindings, were placed in eye-catching stacks and neat, appealing piles. Book pyramids and walls that defied gravity, winding staircases of tomes and pamphlets that were laid out on the floor of the display like waves on a wind swept sea. May's imagination swam free in the product placement. She could see herself in miniature, playing among the open pages, absorbing all of their knowledge, climbing the Tome Pyramids and swimming in the Pamphlet Sea.

And in the center of the literary landscape, on a pedestal of honor, would be an autographed, first edition printing of her book, its title boldly shown on its virginal cover.

As she basked in the enveloping, imaginary glow of intellectual adulation, May chanced to see some movement from the store's interior, a customer making a purchase.

May was about the scan more of the display space for more tantalizing books, when a sign she hadn't notice since she came to the store, hung high off to one side of the window. When she read it, her bookish dreams faded swiftly with a heavy, bitter aftertaste in her heart.

NO BLACKS ALLOWED.

May felt like The Morningstar, looking through the unyielding, gilt gates of a paradise she was never cast out from, and a sad, bitter laugh threatened to burst from her guts. She found it the height of irony that for a people that didn't want her to read at all, they would go through the trouble of printing something like this for her benefit.

Still, she wouldn't go just yet. Unless a constable shooed her away for loitering, window-shopping was still something she could enjoy, however meager. So, she desolately perused the hard and soft-covered fare in silence.

Though the interior of the display was dark enough that one could see the street reflected from the window, May didn't notice the black, nineteen year-old, young man behind her until he spoke.

May jumped and turned at the sound of a greeting she couldn't understand, and attempted to focus her attention on the stranger as if she had just woken up.

His face seemed friendly enough, but she kept her senses and defenses up as she took a look at him.

The fellow casually stood about a half-head taller than her, but raised his hands in a placating gesture to her start. He had a solid build for someone his age, which meant, to her, he certainly wasn't a house slave, yet he wasn't too broad-shouldered. From the faint smell of hay, May figured that he must have worked around horses quite a bit.

Boots, gray work pants, and a French flax linen shirt gave him the appearance of an unskilled worker, but his brown, leather vest and white rabbit's foot on a fob chain, lent a rakish air of adventure to him, as though he traveled much and did much.

'Not bad looking,' she thought in appraisal. 'Kinda cute, but I don't think I've seen him around here before. And with all the boys I've been chaising since I've been here, I know he's a new face.'

She decided to start the ball rolling and speak first, if only to know what it was he had just said to her.

"I'm sorry," she said, composing herself. "I couldn't understand what you were saying. Could you say that again?"

The teen chuckled smoothly and said in a Southern accent that sounded on the cusp of being foreign, "I said, "bon jour." That means, "Hello," cher."

"Oh! Uh, hello!" May managed, a little intrigued by the strange words and the strange boy who said them. "I'm sorry I didn't notice you there. I was thinking about something else."

"The books, cher? I take it you were a little upset."

"Huh?" How did he know?

He pointed at the NO BLACKS ALLOWED sign and May gave an embarrassed chuckle at the obvious clue.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I was a little down about that, wasn't I?" she admitted. "I was just wishing I could read them, that's all."

"You can't read 'cause you weren't taught?" he asked in what sounded to May like genuine concern for someone he just met a moment ago.

"No, no. I can read well enough. My mother taught me how when I was younger. I just want to keep on reading, y'know? Why stop?"

When he said nothing and smiled at her, May suddenly wished she hadn't said so much. "Just great. Now I guess you know what a bookworm Iam," she fretted. "I know. No man wants a woman who's smarter than him. Sorry about that. You can laugh now."

"For someone who just met me, you sure don't know me," he placated with a chuckle. "But I know what you mean, cher. I learned how to read from my mama for a while, too. Then I learned from reading old scripts."

That caught her attention. "Scripts?"

"Yep. I'm a traveling actor and my troupe has come to town for a spell. I was taking a stroll 'round the neighborhood and I guess I bumped into you. Not a bad bit of good luck, huh, cher?"

"No, I guess not," May agreed, taking a glance at his good luck charm on his chest. Then a question struck her. "By the way, that word you keep using, "cher?" What does it mean?"

That elicited another chuckle, this time it was lower, more sensual. "Oh, I mean nothing by it. It's French, it just means, "dear." "

'Dear? Whoa…'

May flushed. "Oh…okay."

"I'm feelin' a little hungry," he said.

"Me, too," May said, without really thinking.

"I saw an open-air market across the street, there. I can get us some apples or something, and we don't have to grace this establisment with our presence. Sounds good?"

May just said, "Uh, huh," again without really thinking.

As they crossed the wheel-tracked street, May had to admit that she was having a hard time thinking about her earlier disappointment at the bookstore. He was looking to be proof positive that there was always something good around the bend.

When they managed to reach the bazaar's fruit carts from the hustle and bustle, and press of customers, the teen offered his hand and said to May, "Forgive my manners, cher. I didn't give you my name. Deuteronomy, but you can call me Dewey."

Upon shaking his hand, May suppressed a threatened shiver, but decided not to give him her name just yet. Then he added, "Strong grip you got there."

"Field hand, since I could walk. You?" she said, with a noticeable tone of pride in his noticing her strength. He was getting high marks in her book for that.

"Same thing for a while. Cotton or tabacco?" he asked amiably, as though their individual trials were as trivial as the steady events of the work-a-day world.

"Cotton."

"Tobacco," Deuteronomy answered, "But I think the ones that pick that new crop from South America are the lucky ones…"

A vast plantation of marijuana spreads out in the vista, being worked on by field slaves, who, one by one, secretly bend down and disappear into the green field.

A moment passes, as a thin wisp of smoke rises and then a giggle is heard, followed by another, and then another. Each accompanying a corresponding puff of smoke. Soon, the entire field is cloudy and erupts with a chorus of wheezing giggles and intoxicated laughs.

May looked wistfully upon that image. "Yeah... But still, you're an actor. That must be cool. But, do people still give you a hard time because you're black?"

"'Fraid so, sad to say. But what about you, cher? What do you want outta life?"

"I want to go to Brown University and be a famous writer," she said. "But I get my share of hard knocks, too. I'm a mulatto, so, I guess I thought that being half-white would help me get my foot in the door."

"Doesn't always work out that way, huh, cher?" he sympathized. Then he brightened again. "But, that's okay. There's nothing wrong with a little cream in the coffee. I'm half-n-half, too. What's your name?"

May decided then and there, that if she felt this comfortable talking to him now, it wouldn't hurt to give him her name now. With a guarded shyness, she said, at last, "May. May Griffin."

"A pretty name, if ever I heard one," Dewey said.

May simply shrugged. "I'm glad you think so."

"What? You don't like your name?"

"Well, I do," May sighed. "But...well, you see, when I was born, my parents had to keep my birth a secret, or they'd get in big trouble."

"See, my grandpa owned my dad, but his daughter fell in love with him and married him. When she was pregnant with me, she would just tell Grandpa that she had the "stomach mumps," and needed to rest when she began to swell up. Lord only knows why he believed her, but it worked."

"Well, anyway, at the time, my folks could never decide on what to call me. They'd bandy names about and argue, but nothing was ever resolved. So about two weeks after my birth, my parents were still fussing about names for me, when Grandpa Silas walked in on them in the cellar. Why they had to be in the cellar, I have no idea. Anyway, Mom was caught red-handed breast-feeding me and Dad was a locomotive wreck. He just froze."

"But Mom was pretty quick, though. She told Grandpa that I was a baby born from another slave family and that she bought me from them, and that she was just asking Nate what kind of name to give me, since I was Pewterschmidt property now. Dad still just sat there."

"That seemed to do the trick, though, because Grandpa didn't look suspicious any more, just critical, like he was wondering if Mom had made a good buy with me. Then he smiled, which was rare, since, according to my folks, he wasn't burning down a house, swindling someone out of their money, or both."

"He took a good look at me and then suggested, as a joke, that I be named, "May…" "

"It's perfect, see?" Silas said. "When she grows up and gets put to work, she'll never forget it."

Lois and Nate gave the old man a baffled expression. They couldn't see where he was going with this, but because of the dangerous spot they were both in, both were ready to humor him when he finally finished.

"Because…" he chuckled with self-satisfied pride in his own cold sense of humor. "Because when she says to her owner, "'May' I get this for you?" the owner can say, "Yes, you 'may!'" Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh…oh, I'm funny."

"Well, at least it was better than two weeks of, "Come here lil' Something-Or-Other." " May continued. "Anyway, they ducked a serious bullet that day, and I came away with a new name, finally."

Silas turned to leave the nervous family, oblivious and very pleased with himself. The couple breathed a silent prayer of gratitude at the close call, but froze again when Silas stopped and said from over his shoulder at his daughter, matter-of-factly…

"Oh, and Lois, I know you want to make the girl feel right at home and all, but take your tit out of her mouth, will you? You'll spoil her."

"See?" May said.

Dewey gave a thoughtful smile at the tale. "I see, but I still think it's a nice name for you. Never mind the reasons."

A coy smile played on May's face. "Awww, thank you. What about you? Why are you called Deuteronomy?"

Dewey, for all his charm, gave May a self-conscious look.

"Ah, well...My mama was sold to a bible salesman before I was born. It was either this...or Gideon!"

Lois had the look of a woman who had denied herself for too long and then suddenly decided to drown in her luxuries.

Inside Samuel Bros. Clothiers, she moved among the shelves and racks of gowns and farthingales like a shark, scanning the best fashions in the area by naked eye alone. It felt good to shop like this, with abandon and saved-up money. It almost felt like the good old days.

She had a fortune to play with then. The world was the biggest oyster she dined upon and self-control was not an option. Her father saw to that.

With a sad smile, she remembered the days when she and her social butterfly compatriots would think of the most scandalous things to do, just for want of doing it. What her friends must think of her now, if at all. The debutant, now the scandalized. The socialite, now the pariah.

At least here, her secrets were her own. She could look into the eyes of other white women and fear no reprisals, due to their ignorance of her past. Through her sacrifice, she proved to her husband, of twenty years, that on this earth, there was no greater love than hers. So, for a little while, when she had the money, or even just to browse, she could come here and treat herself to feeling…normal.

Almost immediately the word shamed her. Why did she feel this way? Wasn't her love for her family enough? In the eyes of the law, she was the criminal. In the eyes of her father, she was the whore. Why didn't she relish turning her back on all of that condemnation, and just look to the horizon with Nathaniel and the children?

Absently, she picked up another gown and thoughtlessly rubbed her fingers against its surface, gauging the silkiness of the satin finish and hardly feeling it.

The man in the military-style clothing standing behind her was the image of incongruity in a womens clothing shop. A figure of tall bearing and tight handlebar moustache, he stood in impeccably tailored black trousers and shoes, a stately, slate gray Army uniform's caped cloak coat with a leather, bullet-studded bandoleer running from under the cape and across his broad chest, and a pair of tiny, smoked-lens spectacles sitting high on the summit of his hooked nose. He watched Lois with a quietude that was unnerving, like a cat standing motionless before the pounce.

The occasional glances the other patrons gave him didn't faze him a jot as he approached Lois quietly. When he felt he was close enough without disturbing her too profoundly, he spoke to her, in low tones, as if reciting a poem for her.

"Do you feel like a phantom when you come to a place like this? When you walk around the other women, do you understand the sad sacrifice you made? That you may walk amongst these white women, but you'll never be one of them again."

'Cajun,' Lois thought first, when she heard his voice. 'But not anyone I know.' Turning her head to regard him, she maintained her poise, but drew her defenses up tight. 'How could he know? What gave my feelings away?'

"What?" she asked, trying to hold a poker face and losing.

The man in the military-style clothing gave a mirthless smile and continued his talk.

"That was mighty clever of you. Keeping your marriage a secret, and all. Makes sense, seeing how it's illegal. Made it pretty hard to track you for a while, that's for damn sure."

Lois gritted her teeth behind the strain of attempting to look innocent, eyes flashing from one nearby customer to the next, looking for the faintest hint of curiosity on their part, and screeching black curses in her mind towards the man who didn't seem to care who may have heard him.

"I beg your pardon. Who are you?" she almost seem to growl.

"No one of importance, I assure you," he said as he bowed humbly. "I was wondering, however, if you would be so kind as to read this letter that I was sent to deliver to you?"

Letters? Her secret was probably moments away from being known and gossiped about town, effectively dooming her, and he was doing all of this performance art for a delivery? Despite the fearful visions of losing her family and spending the rest of her natural life in a stockade, Lois beat them down and looked at the messenger with iron eyes and spoke in a soft, steely voice.

"I don't think so. Now leave me alone, or I'll have the constable on your ass so fast, you'll think you're the new guy in a prison shower."

The opposite effect, however, came about, she saw sadly, as the man, instead, grinned and said, almost flirtatiously, "Ooh, you do have sauce, I tell you what. But, I still think you ought to read this here letter. Your daddy would appreciate it."

Daddy?

Her throat tightened into a anxious knot, rivaled only by her stomach. The fear of incarceration and familial destruction, now had become nigh-inevitable, now that her father, Silas, was involved. Two years. Not nearly enough time to settle down. Not nearly enough time to say good-bye.

"Daddy?" Lois asked in a weakening voice, all bravado leaving her like smoke. "What's this all about?"

The messenger shrugged. "Damned if I know, cher, but I suggest you read the note and come up with your own conclusions."

He reached into one of the coat's slash pockets and smoothly pulled out a envelope. Upon receiving it, Lois could see it was legitimate from the Pewterschmidt crest on the wax seal, a shield bearing the image of a disembodied hand cluching a bag with the American money symbol on its center.

She walked over to a deserted area of the shop and tore the envelope open, the man keeping a respectable distance away.

Lois,

As you know, you've completely disgraced yourself in the eyes of all Pewterschmidts from now to perpetuity by marrying and running away with the farm equipment. The only reason that you're reading this at all is because your mother requested that I contact you. The only reason on God's Green Earth that I would respect such a request is because your mother is dying.

Not to sound like a Jewish mother, but naturally, I blame you for this, but apparently, your mother wants to see you one last time before she goes.

I, however, have a small request of my own. When you come back to see her, and we both know you will, after all is said and done, you will stay here at the mansion for the rest of your life. Oh, and don't worry about Nate and the rest of the family. I'm sure they'll be just as…choked up about it as you are.

I'll be throwing a little party to celebrate your returning home, so, if you can, try not to be fashionably late. I don't think your mother would appreciate it.

We're looking forward to seeing you again, Lois. You and your family. So we can all take a stab at burying the hachet, to hang all of this foolishness, to kill some time, and shoot the breeze, to drown our sorrows. Well, you get the idea.

Silas

Lois numbly held the letter by her side. The truth, if it really was the truth, was like a bombshell going off in her hands.

"Mother's…dying?"

Like a cataract, the memories of time spent with Margaret Barbara Bush Pewterschmidt rushed into her with a doleful surge. Between the two parents, she got along better with her, but if Lois' father was ever distraught by that fact, he never showed it.

But now Margaret was going to die and their time remaining flowed from Lois' hands like stream water.

The sound of the messenger shifting his weight to stand more comfortably, brought Lois back to reality, forcing her mind to look at this rationally, critically. Everything about this screamed trap to her. For her, in a lesser sense, and for the family, in the truest. She resolved herself to not become the lynchpin to their possible lynching. She turned to him.

"Even if what he says about my mother it's true. I can't go back there. My life is here in Quahog with my family." She said as she brusquely returned the note to him. "You can tell him that when you see him again."

Again, the messenger took her words with a detached, almost apologetic air. "Well, now, cher, he kind of figured that you might be a bit reluctant see things his way, so he came up with what I think, was a mighty fine idea."

"What?" she asked warily.

"Well, he told me that, if after you've read the note, you still refused to do what he says, he would give me carte blanche to kill your whole family."

Lois' stomach went cold. "No…" she gasped, wishing she could disbelieve those dangerous words. Another bombshell in as many minutes. Silas was becoming, in her daughter's eyes, to be nothing short of the Devil himself. So who was this messenger? An assassin in his private employ?

"The nice thing about this arrangement, I think," he continued. "Is that I still get paid for the full bounty, regardless. I gotta hand it to Mister Pewterschmidt. He can be down right generous when he wants to be. I guess this is the part where I say, 'The choice is up to you,' or something ridiculously obvious like that."

The answer clicked and didn't make Lois feel any better. That's how he tracked them so well.

"Bounty? You're a bounty hunter?"

"And slave catcher by trade," he said proudly. "But it's so rare to find a job that combines both aspects of my profession."

Lois ignored the self-important chatter. Fighting the urge to scream in a panic, and thus cause an unhelpful scene, she desperately asked, "Where's my family?"

The man shrugged innocently in the direction of the front door. "Oh, they're right outside, cher. Snug as a bug."

"Let's go," she ordered.

The Hessian stood off by the curb, looking big as life in the sunlight. Its two-horse team snorted as Lois and the man left the shop and walked over to the coach.

Without any fanfair, the man reached over and opened one of the passenger doors, which creaked under the weight of its interior armor plate, presenting Lois a disheartening sight.

Sitting slumped on one side of the passenger area, all the way to the other end of the coach, was the sleeping bulk of Nathaniel Griffin. Across from the father, on the other side of the area, the brothers, Curtis and Huey shared a bench and were also unconscious. All were loosely shackled with chains laced through iron rings bolted into reinforced plating under the bench's padding. The faint scent of a chemical wafted out and Lois's knees momentarily became unsteadied.

"What have you done to them?" she asked as she stepped back a pace, clearing her head.

"Oh, nothing, cher. Just gave them a little something to relax while we take a trip back to Virginia," explained the man. "I gotta say, though, you must be some cook, 'cause your husband and that big boy in there...whew! I damned near broke my back getting them in there. I mean, I sure hope my horses can handle the extra weight 'cause I didn't think I'd need Clydesdales on this trip,y'know?"

Miffed, Lois looked at the man with unimpressed annoyance. "Alright, enough with the fat jokes, already. I'll go with you."

Pleased that he wasn't forced to press the issue, the man grandly gestured to the coach's box seat above them. "Your chariot awaits, ma'am. No sense in you riding with-"

Lois started walking back to the open passenger door. "I ride with them. They're still my family, and I'll be going with them."

She stepped into the coach and sat next to her sleeping husband, putting a worrying hand on his unfeeling cheek, and a protective watch on her sons.

'Strange,' she idly thought. 'I could have sworn I forgot something…'

The faint scent of ether still tinged the air, and she wondered how long before sufficient exposure would strike her comatose, as well. Quickly seeing an empty pair of seat cuffs, she put them on her wrists in defiant solidarity before sleep would eventually claim her.

"In good times and bad," she said in finality.

The man studied her for a moment, marveling at her serious pluck and feeling a little titillated at seeing her in chains, but mystified as to why she would feel such devotion to essentially future human tree ornaments.

"Hmm, kinky. I like that," he said.

Ultimately, he shrugged it off. Time was fleeing from him, and he had to deliver the guests before his client's wife died.

"Well, let's be off," The Hunter said, and then he closed the heavy door on them.