Tea Cups & Tiger Claws

By Timothy Patrick

First comes the miracle and then comes the madness. The miracle is the birth of identical triplets, and the madness is all about money, of course. The year is 1916 and the newborn baby girls have become pint-size celebrities. Unfortunately, this small portion of fame soon leads to a much larger portion of greed, and the triplets are split up—parceled out to the highest bidders. Two of the girls go to live in a hilltop mansion. The third girl isn't so lucky. She ends up with a shady family that lives in an abandoned work camp. That’s how their lives begin: two on top, one on the bottom, and all three in the same small town. And when their worlds collide, as they must, the consequences are extreme.

"Tea Cups & Tiger Claws" spans fifty years and takes the reader from a shantytown to a gilded mansion, from dark desires to sacrificial love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy Patrick
• Release date: Aug 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989354424

Timothy Patrick

Tim Patrick learned at an early age about living on both sides of the tracks. His family scraped to pay the rent but he received his primary education at a private boarding school, the result of smooth talking parents and a generous scholarship. On visiting day Tim watched the parents of his schoolmates arrive in limousines and Lamborghinis. His parents arrived in a utility van that said "Patrick's TV Repair" on the sides.In “Tea Cups & Tiger Claws,” his first novel, Patrick continues with this childhood theme as he introduces forbidden mountaintop palaces and the characters who try to sneak into them. It's a family saga that spans three generations and takes you on a wild ride from one side of the tracks to the other.In “Death of Movie Star,” the author’s second novel, he takes you backstage to meet the types of film stars that the whole world loves and hates—sometimes simultaneously. There are the ambitious divas, the wisecracking sidekicks, and the really frightening ones who just might be playing themselves.In “Ollie Come Free,” Patrick unites his fondness for the American family saga with the fascinating phenomenon of acquired savantism, where a person can get bonked on the head and wake up with a new and amazing talent...and the brain damage that always accompanies it.Tim is a graduate of UCLA. He and his wife live in California and are the parents of two grown children. In his spare time, he enjoys aviation, bicycling, and experimenting in the kitchen.

Book preview

Other Titles by Timothy Patrick

Death of a Movie Star

Ollie Come Free

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text Copyright © 2013 by Timothy Patrick

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Copyright 2013 Timothy Patrick

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 0989354415

ISBN 13: 978-0-9893544-1-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013908773

Country Scribbler, Santa Rosa Valley, CA

Table of Contents

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part Two

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part Three

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgements

Other Titles by Timothy Patrick

About the Author

Dedication

For My Martina

Part One

Sisters

Chapter 1

It started in 1916 when the newspapermen came to town to write stories about a local scamp who’d given birth to identical triplets. Truthfully, the whole thing didn’t look like much more than a new swatch on an old quilt, but they came anyway. Maybe it had something to do with all the gloomy headlines: German Zeppelins Bomb Paris, Summer Olympics Canceled, Special Dispatch from the Trenches of World War. Gloom doesn’t sell. That’s what the newspapermen said. Scandal and depravity sell, and if those commodities can’t be found, out comes the human interest rainbow slapped across the dreary landscape of the front page. In this case the rainbow took the form of sixteen-year-old Ermel Sue Railer and her three baby girls. Her cornpone husband, Jeb, told wild stories and took a good picture, as did Ermel—when she covered her buck teeth—and her birthing of the first identical triplets born in the U.S. in over a year made for a story that promised to sell at least a few newspapers and magazines. Reporters, photographers, and sketch artists hopped into the town of Prospect Park, California like penguins at breeding time.

Of course the Town Council didn’t care for any of this. The fact that Jeb and Ermel lived there at all made the town look bad enough. Now the whole world knew about them and about their ratty home down on Pine Street. They lived in a development named Yucatan Downs, derisively known as Yucky D, which consisted of two-bedroom shacks surrounding a dirty courtyard where chickens, dogs, and neglected children scurried amongst broken down wagons and a couple of precariously leaning outhouses. The place had originally been a work camp, thrown up years earlier to temporarily house the carpenters who’d built the first mansions on the hill, but instead of getting torn down, a clever speculator slapped on the exotic name and filled it full of undesirables.

Other than the disgrace of having Prospect Park’s good name lumped in with the likes of Jeb and Ermel Railer, the articles in faraway magazines and newspapers didn’t cause any real damage; readers of the New York Times Sunday Magazine might’ve been captivated by the miracle of identical triplets but they didn’t hop a train to come see for themselves. In neighboring cities they did. Cooing, gushing baby lovers from miles around invaded Prospect Park and clogged the downtown streets with wagons and noisy mules. They chugged up the hill in smoky model T’s to ogle the mansions. They guffawed and said howdy and showered the town with the lowbrow familiarity of a bean picker on pay day.

Despite these aggravations, the good people of Prospect Park weathered the storm with their usual dignity. These things needed to be kept in perspective. The city of Santa Marcela had been plagued for decades by a whole colony of Railers. Prospect Park, on the other hand, had one little nest. All things considered, the good people seemed to be fortunate.

~~~

Ermel didn’t mind the steady stream of tearful women who took turns hovering over the bassinets, especially when they tucked quarters and half dollars into her hand. And when she sat for the artists, surrounded by babies, she kept an eye on Jeb to make sure he didn’t pocket any of the envelopes that some of the rich folks left behind. Along with the usual Bible tract, these envelopes often contained folding money of ones, fives, and even tens; folding money that soon put her into a lavender hobble skirt and shirtwaist and lace up boots. All in all, Ermel Railer found motherhood to her liking.

One afternoon two weeks after the birth, after the hubbub had died down, when sleepless nights and boiled diapers began introducing Ermel to a world of motherhood that didn’t include little envelopes filled with cash, a stern looking man with perfectly oiled gray hair knocked on the door. He wore a chauffeur’s uniform, and Ermel easily pegged him for just another uppity servant.

The duchess wishes to see the babies, he said, slowly and precisely, like someone who wants to be understood so he doesn’t have to be around any longer than necessary.

Then tell her to come in, said Ermel.

She has instructed that the babies are to be brought to her in the motorcar one at a time, ten minutes each.

Ermel’s toothless mother, Gurty, who’d moved in to lend a hand, laughed contemptuously from the bedroom.

You tell Princess What’s-Her-Name, said Ermel, that this ain’t no café, and she can’t order up my babies like a plate of pork chops.

He stared scornfully. Then he took a small envelope from his vest pocket and handed it to her.

Wait here, grumbled Ermel, as she hurried to the bedroom that she and Jeb shared with the babies.

How much she give? asked Gurty.

Ten dollars.

She better.

Ermel flung off the dress she’d been wearing and put on the new hobble skirt and shirtwaist. From a shiny red box she then lifted a giant hat with a wide brim and peacock feathers jutting out the back. She carefully put on the hat and tucked a few loose strands of black hair behind her ear. Then, after tracing red lipstick across her mouth, she admired herself in the mirror. Nobody showed up Ermel Railer, not even a duchess. She walked confidently to the front door.

Mrs. Railer, you seem to be forgetting something, said the man.

Ermel looked down at her outfit and said, No, I got everything.

The baby, Mrs. Railer.

Oh yes. How silly of me.

When Ermel saw the long, gray motorcar parked on the street, she placed the name: the Duchess of Sarlione, who used to be Jeannie Brynmar before she got herself a royal title by marrying a penniless Italian duke. A few of the local heiresses had gotten titles like that, but this one stood out because she came back from Europe with the title—for a price—but not the duke, and because she wrapped herself in pure white ermine and rode around town in a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost.

You are to address the duchess as ‘Your Grace.’ Do you understand? said the chauffeur as they approached the car.

I think I know how to greet my visitors thank you.

After opening the motorcar’s back door, the chauffeur said, Your Grace, this is Mrs. Railer.

Hello Mrs. Railer.

Ermel looked in and saw a picture right out of McCalls. The big brown eyes, perfect white skin, glossy red lips, and stylishly short hair looked like they belonged to an expensive porcelain doll that people like Ermel didn’t dare touch. Then her natural defiance kicked in and she said, Hello lady. I like your motorcar. Might get one myself…now that I’m in the magazines and all.

This must be your baby daughter…one of them anyway, said the duchess with a small, sad laugh. Please get in. She reached out and pulled down a jump seat. Ermel tried to step up to the running board but got hobbled by her hobble skirt, so she hiked it above her knees, and climbed in, baby and all, hitting her hat on the convertible top and knocking it catawampus across her head. She finally wiggled into the seat, which faced the duchess, and self-consciously put herself back together. The chauffeur closed the door.

Can I hold her?

You paid your money didn’t you? Sure you can hold her.

The duchess bit her lip and took the baby. She had tears in her eyes. The lady who had fur coats and servants and a motorcar that cost more than a house, cried over a baby.

What’s her name?

Uh…uh…Abigail.

Hello Abigail.

For the next ten minutes the duchess touched the baby, smelled the baby, hugged the baby, and rocked the baby. She did everything except change the baby’s diaper. And every time the baby made a goo-goo sound, she rejoiced as if the kid had just graduated medical school. Ermel alternated between eyeballing the Rolls Royce, the ermine coat, and the duchess, who seemed to be off her nut.

As she handed back the baby, a leg popped through the swaddling blanket. Unable to resist, the duchess grabbed the little foot and pressed it to her face. Then she noticed a tag tied to the ankle. She looked at it and then looked at Ermel. It says Judith, she said.

Then it must be Judith.

The duchess kept staring.

We swap names all the time. They don’t know no better. Except for Dorthea. We don’t swap her name on account of her pale blue eyes.

Pale blue eyes? Aren’t they identical triplets?

Yeah…I’m not sure how all that stuff works. They all got blue eyes but Dorthea’s are kinda like steel blue. The doctor says she got an infection that caused her eyes to come out different than the others.

But she can see…there isn’t anything wrong with her eyesight, is there?

Nah, there ain’t nothing wrong…except if you stare at ‘em too long it kinda puts you in a trance.

Really! Bring me Dorthea next!

As Ermel walked back to the house to exchange one baby for another, she saw her next door neighbor, Mrs. Krawiec, staring out her window. And in the next house over she saw Mrs. Duda, and her teenage daughter Aniela, staring out their window. Ermel looked back over her shoulder, across the street. Even there, in the normal houses, she saw eyes glued to windows, and she realized none of them had ever said two words to a real live duchess or sat in a duchess’s Rolls Royce. Ermel walked proudly back to her house.

Later, after Jeb came home from a night of spending the contents of one of the envelopes, she told him about the duchess. Of course he blew his top. Our babies are good enough for her to slobber over, and you’re good enough for her to order around like a slave, but our house ain’t good enough for her highness to step foot into? Nobody blustered better than Jeb Railer. He badmouthed the people on the hill in general, and cussed one family in particular: the Newfields. That’s what Ermel liked about him. That’s why she married him. And because of his handsome face…and she got pregnant.

So Jeb ranted and raved and made her promise to stick it to the duchess if she came around again. When Ermel showed Jeb the envelope, he calmed down and fell asleep grumbling.

The duchess did come around again—two days in a row. On the first of those days everything went as before: the uppity chauffeur knocked, Gurty sneered, Ermel carted babies back and forth, and the neighbors got bug-eyed. The next day, though, things changed.

Hello Mrs. Railer, said the duchess. It’s me again. I hope you don’t mind another visit.

Ermel tried to look put out as she climbed into the motorcar.

The duchess held out something in her hand and said, I brought you a little present.

The two ladies exchanged bundles. The duchess went to mush over the squirming one and Ermel expectantly unfolded the other.

It’s a satin and chiffon evening dress, said the duchess, between fits of adult baby talk. I think it will look great on you. It’s by Lucile.

Oh…yes…Lucile, said Ermel.

She gently stroked the silky material. The duchess gently stroked the baby’s downy head. Ermel pressed the cool satin to her face. The duchess pressed the baby’s pure face to hers. Ermel hugged the dress. The duchess hugged the baby.

Thanks in no small part to Ermel waiving the dress around like a crazy flagman as she walked back to the house, this time the neighbors didn’t try to control themselves. They came poking around before the big car’s smoky exhaust even had a chance to clear. The two Polack ladies, Krawiec and Duda, pretended to be just passing by but quickly small-talked their way into Ermel’s house. Vera Snyder, the white trash from across the courtyard who stole clothes pins from the neighbors, came in looking for a match to light her cigarette, which the Polacks thought scandalous, but not enough to make them leave. A Mrs. Barnes, from across the street, who’d never said boo to anyone at Yucky D, came over with a gift. Ermel tossed it onto the bed and concentrated on getting into the new dress.

The visitors surrounded the bassinets, paid their respects to the babies, and then followed like hound dogs when Ermel sashayed into the kitchen wearing the black and white dress. She stopped next to Gurty, who sat at the kitchen table, and held a sleeve out to her visitors. It’s a gift from the duchess, she said. You may touch it if you want. The Polack ladies wiped their hands on their aprons and held their breaths as they ran the shiny fabric between their sausage fingers. It’s satin. Made from silk, explained Ermel. And looky here at the bow. It feels like velvet. Mrs. Barnes, too dignified to fawn but too curious to abstain, touched the fabric also. Only Vera, who loudly puffed a cigarette in the back, ignored the offer.

It’s by Lucile, said Ermel.

Oh yes. Lucile, said Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Krawiec looked confused and whispered into Mrs. Duda’s ear. She got a jab in the ribs by way of a response.

Ermel had never commanded such attention in her short and unspectacular life. She withdrew the sleeve and watched everyone’s eyes follow the simple movement with rapturous attention. She danced around the kitchen like a ballerina, watching their facial expressions rise and fall with every bend of the knee. She watched as they hypnotically shuffled toward her like moths to the fire, following, turning, inching closer, until they had her deliciously cornered.

From the table, Gurty coughed up a chuckle, but no one else made a peep. The Polack ladies didn’t want to barge forward when Mrs. Barnes, their social better, might want the privilege. Vera seemed content to look on like a hungry spider. Finally Ermel said, Are you just gonna stand there staring or are you gonna talk? And then the flood gates opened. What does the duchess sound like? Does she have an accent? What do you talk about? Does she like kielbasa? What type of perfume does she wear? Does she like dumplings? Where’s the duke? Does she have a villa in Italy? Ermel answered all the questions in a manner befitting the owner of an evening dress by Lucile.

And then Vera Snyder spoke. Ya know why she keeps coming around, don’t ya?

I think she wants me to be her friend…since I’m famous and all.

She wants your babies. That’s what she wants, said Vera.

The other ladies gasped.

Don’t be stupid, said Ermel.

How many people have come two days in a row? asked Vera.

I don’t know. A few.

And how many have come three days in a row?

I got better things to do than count my visitors, in case you ain’t noticed.

None. That’s how many. I seen every buggy and motorcar that come through here.

That don’t prove nothin’. If she ain’t my friend, how come she give me this deluxe dress?

Because she knows it’ll unscrew your head, and you’ll start dancin’ around like a fool instead of keeping track of your babies.

You’re just jealous ‘cause my best friend is a duchess.

If she’s such a friend, how come she don’t never come in your house?

The other ladies acknowledged Vera’s point with a quiet murmur. Ermel looked at her feet. I’ll bet you five dollars, continued Vera, she won’t never come in here ‘till the day she takes your babies. She reached over Gurty’s shoulder, snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table, and walked away. Let me know, she said as she swung open the front door, I could use the money.

Nobody showed up Ermel Railer, especially not the likes of Vera Snyder. The next day, when the chauffeur once again knocked upon her door, Ermel locked Gurty, who wasn’t fit for company, in her bedroom and went out to invite the duchess in to see the babies. She said they were sleeping and couldn’t be brought to the motorcar. The duchess politely declined and drove off. Still determined, Ermel went out that very day and bought teacups and a lace table cloth and pastries from the fancy bakery on Center Street. This finery proved to be no temptation whatsoever to the duchess. After the third try, when Ermel pushed too hard, the duchess stopped coming altogether.

Ermel knew envy. She knew the choking kind that turns its victim into a big talker who bristles and puffs but still goes to bed feeling small. She had no taste for hope or contentment or thankfulness, so she slurped a resentful gruel that numbed her heart and leached her soul. Yes, Ermel knew envy like a prisoner knows handcuffs, but for a few blessed days she’d felt the freedom of handcuffs removed when she, Ermel Railer, had been the big somebody; when the fawning, licking eyes had been glued to her instead of the other way around. She’d been the one with the duchess, and the dress, dishing out jealousy and serving up discontent like a flashy soda jerk. And she liked it, loved it, and now that it was gone, she felt devastated. Ermel fell hard off her pedestal and landed right back where she’d started: envious and small.

Fortunately, she’d married into a family that had been producing champion enviers for a century. In her hour of need, when she had the bile, but not the throat to deliver it, her husband stepped in to pick up the slack.

You know what’s the difference between them hoity-toitys up on the hill and us down here? I’m asking you! Do you know? hollered Jeb. They’re better cheaters and liars! That’s it. And that duchess lady is worse than most ‘cause she went out and got herself an extra coat of paint to cover up her cheatin’ and lyin’. That’s what her title is, a cover up!

And then he howled about the Newfields, calling them the biggest cheaters and liars of all.

And if she’s a real duchess then I’m the King of Siam and my ass is Prince Charming! Anybody can get a title—it ain’t no harder than puttin’ down your name on a legal document—but most people don’t do it ‘cause they know it ain’t right. Why do you think nobody ain’t never seen the duke? ‘Cause he don’t exist, that’s why!

And then he wailed about the hatchet job done to his family name and how no royal title on earth could repair it.

And that motorcar ain’t hers neither. My friend up at the tannery told me so. It belongs to a motorcar salesman in Santa Marcela. She drives it during the day and he drives her at night, if you know what I mean.

And then he drove himself crazy talking about the Newfields.

Jeb did a proper job on the duchess and made Ermel proud. Of course he got something out of the deal too. Up at the Wagon Wheel Tavern nobody listened to his stories anymore, unless he bought them a drink. Now he had someone who did it for free. As long as he took a break every now and then to commiserate with Ermel and complain about the stuck up duchess, she let him pontificate as he pleased. For a while she even laughed in the right spots, thought of cuss words when he ran low, and clucked her tongue when the shame of the Newfields called for it. That’s how it went for three days running, like it used to be before they got married, almost blissful.

Too bad Ermel’s hour of need didn’t last a week, maybe the bliss could’ve taken root, but she had a house full of babies and needed to figure things out, like how to pile as much work as possible onto Gurty without killing her. Besides, what good ever came out of Jeb’s tired old stories? They sounded daring, but he never got anything out of them, and now, after three days, all Ermel got was a headache. So she stopped listening, and Jeb went searching for an audience back up at the Wagon Wheel Tavern. Ermel could live with that. It was a routine she knew—even though they’d only been married seven months. He’d drink and argue and try to make loud speeches. He might get kicked out and have to try his luck at the bar across the street, or he might make it to closing time. After midnight he’d stagger home, barge in like a hurricane, and make another speech. And then the next day he’d do it all over again, unless the money ran out, in which case he’d go to his uncle’s in Santa Marcela to make a few bucks.

But this time it didn’t happen like that. This time Jeb came home earlier than usual and slipped through the front door like a cool summer breeze. Humming a happy tune, he moseyed up to the table where Ermel and Gurty had just started dinner, reached into his overall pocket, and pulled out a bottle of store-bought gin. He put it on the table with a wink. Ermel liked store-bought gin but usually got stuck with the rotgut sour mash from Jeb’s uncle.

What’s the occasion? she asked.

Jeb stared at her, started to say something, stared some more, and then said, We’re celebrating our good fortune. He swung his leg over a chair and sat down.

If you’re talking about the money in the envelopes, there ain’t nothing to celebrate ‘cause you’ve spent every last dollar of it.

I ain’t talking about that. I’m talking about true good fortune, the good fortune of powerful friends in powerful places.

And what friend might that be? asked Ermel suspiciously.

With raised eyebrows and a knowing smile, Jeb said, We shall see. He put a big piece of cornbread on a plate, covered it with sausage gravy, and picked up a fork.

We shall see is right, said Ermel, as she snatched away his plate. What friend are you talking about?

The one that got me a job that pays ten dollars a day.

Ten dollars? For doin’ what?

Drivin’ a truck half day.

Some drunk in a bar says he’ll pay ten dollars for a half day’s work and you believe him? snorted Ermel, followed by a bigger snort from Gurty.

Jeb tossed an envelope onto the table and said, That’s for the first two weeks. Paid in advance. Cash. He grabbed the plate from Ermel and dug in.

Gurty reached for the envelope, but Ermel beat her to it. After a quick count, she said, There’s a hundred dollars in here!

Just like I told you.

What are you gonna to do with it?

I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. You’re goin’ up town tomorrow and spend every penny on yourself. You’re gonna buy jewelry and perfume and all the other whatnots. And when you run out of things to buy in Prospect Park, I’m takin’ you over to Santa Marcela.

Really?

It’s a celebration, ain’t it?

With brown gravy dribbling down his chin, he smiled and chewed enthusiastically.

After dinner, Gurty ran from one fussy baby to another while Jeb and Ermel sat at the kitchen table and downed big glasses of gin-lemonade. When that ran out, they poured rotgut whisky and talked loudly about the big motorcar they’d buy, and the big house—maybe even a big house at the base of the hill. Why not? It’d been done before. After all, they were the famous Railers who owned the newest set of identical triplets in the country, maybe even the world.

While Ermel might’ve been a simple, dirt-poor sixteen year-old, she possessed the suspicious nature of a purse-clutching old lady. Gin-lemonade and rotgut whisky applied to an unsuspicious mind can smooth the jagged edges of apprehension down to harmless nubs. On a mind like Ermel’s, it didn’t work. Even at the height of their boisterous revelry, when numb lips impaired speech and floating brains turned rational thoughts into bobbing apples, those jagged edges called out to her. Why had Jeb forked over the money? He never did that. The rent got paid only when the landlord parked his motorcar outside their front door and caught Jeb off guard. Ermel kept food on the table only because she foraged his overalls for loose change and the odd dollar. Now he was tossing around packets of money and telling her to spend it all on herself. And who was this powerful friend that passed out high paying jobs to the likes of Jeb Railer? Too many jagged edges.

In her quest against these suspicious happenings, Ermel had a secret weapon: Jeb’s big mouth. He knew how to talk, and more often than not, talked himself into trouble. She just needed to wait.

And sure enough, after a while his head tipped to the side, and the words started running wild. He raised his glass and hollered, Here’s to the duchess! I take back half the stuff I never said about her!

Ermel put the brakes on her spinning head.

It just goes to show you can’t judge a cook by its cover…a cook by its…a…you know what I mean, he said.

What are you saying, Jeb?

I’m…er…saying what I’m saying. What do you think I’m saying?

Jeb, what are you saying about the duchess?

Oh yeah, the duchess. She must want kids real bad.

Ermel sat up straight and said, You better not be talking about my kids, Jeb Railer.

He tried to likewise straighten himself up and meet her glare. Well maybe I am, and maybe I ain’t. He leaned forward and studied her face. Your mouth is wadded up like a horse’s butthole. That means you’re mad. But I got a secret that will make you happy…and then the horse’s butt will go away. Come here and I’ll tell you…but you can’t tell no one ‘cause the man said so. Come here. She leaned in close and he said, We’re gettin’ three thousand dollars for ‘em. And then he sat back and beamed like a man with a gold mine.

The horse’s butt didn’t go away.

You snivelin’ son of a bitch! You sold my babies to that...that two faced, stuck-up duchess!

~~~

Nobody ever accused Jeb of having any sort of a military bearing, but on the night when Ermel figured out his little scheme, he would’ve made a terrific soldier. With his wife bearing down like a frothing charger, instead of indulging his appetite for drunken combat, he fortified his wobbly legs with sheer gumption and quickly affected a strategic retreat. He saved himself. He saved the day. He saved the cause. Then again, maybe it hadn’t been anything quite so noble. Maybe it had been the power of money. Like a rat following its nose to the dumpster, maybe the smell of money raised Jeb up and safely guided him through the alcoholic fog and away from his raging wife. It didn’t matter though because it ended with the same results: he had indeed saved the cause and would fight again.

And lose repeatedly.

First, when Ermel had calmed enough for Jeb to risk proximity, he attacked with love. With a bowed head and a lump in his throat, he offered up his own tender heart to be cracked like a melon. Didn’t his little girls deserve the best? Didn’t they deserve fancy dresses and shiny leather shoes and nannies and maids and…and…banjo lessons and all the other whatnots that went part and parcel with being rich? Yes they did, and he’d be a darned sorry father if he didn’t give it to them. Yes, it was true he’d never recover from the loss, but he had to do it because he loved them that much, and, he knew, Ermel loved them that much too. They had to let their babies go to the duchess.

This argument didn’t go anywhere, but it seemed like a good place to start.

Next he tried greed. Everyone is greedy. It’s like hair, everyone has it to some extent, and Ermel’s endowment fell on the bushy side of the scale. Besides the money from the new job, he’d agreed to a thousand dollars for each baby. Now the lawyer, a serious, frowning man named Mortimer Pugh, said buying and selling babies went against the law so the thousand dollars had to be what he called a one time re-imbursement of expenses material to the birth and sustenance of each adoptee up to the point of adoption. Let him call it what he wanted, it still added up to three thousand dollars. Jeb begged Ermel to think about all the things she might do with that kind of money. Responding with a hateful glare and the brevity of a corpse, she told him she’d never sell to the duchess. Jeb pressed on, dangling the dream house in her face, the dream house at the base of the hill that three thousand dollars might just buy, the dream house that might just turn her into a lady…unless, of course, she liked being white trash. Ermel threw a plate at his head.

Jeb threatened and screamed. He put a big dent in the wash tub and almost broke his foot. Each and every time Ermel stared him down and backed him out of the house, where he trudged up to the Wagon Wheel to convalesce, or sometimes strategize with Mortimer Pugh.

Only a few lousy signatures stood between Jeb Railer and more money than he’d seen in a lifetime. A few squiggles of ink. That’s it. It’s one thing when the money sits in a vault underground, or behind the cold stare of armed guards, but when your own spiteful wife is the one slamming the door in your face, that’s more than a man can take. He’d have been the first to admit the sinfulness of it, but murder even crossed his mind, or at least a sturdy coma. He also thought about forgery, but didn’t see a way past Pugh, who said things had to be done up proper.

But what about lying? Husbands lie to their wives on occasion. They have to, unless they like walking around in an apron. Wives think faster and scheme better, so husbands lie. It levels the playing field. So Jeb changed his strategy.

It’s too bad, he said one day, with a sigh, ‘cause I guess the duchess really did like you after all. Maybe Ermel told him to shut up, maybe she didn’t. Jeb concentrated on dangling the worm and didn’t really care. The fish won’t bite if it doesn’t see the worm. I’m to blame more than anyone I suppose, the way I turned you against her, but how was I to know she wasn’t a phony like all the rest?

She ignored him.

Yep. I done wrong and knew it for certain today when I give the lawyer your answer. Instead of getting mad, he said it was a shame things didn’t work out ‘cause the duchess missed her get-togethers with you and wanted to invite you up to her mansion for tea—after all the adoption business got settled.

You’re a liar Jeb Railer, said Ermel.

And then a faint smile crept across her mouth, and she tilted her head almost imperceptibly to the side. She’d seen the worm.

That’s probably why she give you the dress…to get you started with all that fashion stuff—so’s you fit in with the ladies on the hill.

No response.

Wouldn’t that be somethin’? Picked up for tea with the duchess in that fancy motorcar and delivered up the hill in style? I can see the smoke comin’ outta Vera Snyder’s ears right now.

It ain’t gonna work, Jeb.

What are you talkin’ about?

You know what I’m talkin’ about.

I’m just makin’ conversation. Last I heard that weren’t no sin.

Well you can just give it up.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine….But it ain’t a hard thing to prove. All you gotta do is ask the lawyer. Do you got somethin’ against that?

No response.

You should ask him. The duchess said every word I just told you, and he’ll tell you himself—and them fellas ain’t allowed to lie or they get what you call de-burred.

De-burred. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.... What else did he say—not that I believe a word of it?

Nothin’. The duchess likes you and wants to invite you to a tea party. That’s it.

Jeb Railer you won’t get away with it if you’re lyin’ to me! You know that don’t you?

Jeb did get away with it, at least long enough to get Mortimer Pugh into his house, up to his kitchen table, and sitting face to face with Ermel. And it turned out the lawyer knew a thing or two about lying himself, hard as it is to believe, given his noble profession and all.

A bad liar presses too hard and spit-shines the lie until it blinds. A good one throws it out like yesterday’s news and shrugs at the wonder of it. A bad liar hovers over a syrupy-sweet concoction of impossible dreams. A good one boils the dream in a sludge of boredom or contempt or, in Mortimer Pugh’s case, frustration. He bemoaned the time wasted by the duchess planning a tea party when she had important business matters to tend to. Then he asked forgiveness for speaking out of turn. When pressed on the issue by Jeb, on account of his wife’s unbelief, the lawyer made a show of irritation as he dug around in his leather bag and produced a personal invitation from the duchess. He handed it to Ermel and then drummed his fingers and looked impatiently at his pocket watch. Ermel tugged on the lavender ribbon that bound the folded, cream-colored card. Inside, she read:

The Duchess of Sarlione wishes to extend her cordial invitation to a tea party on Monday, the second of October at one o’clock in the afternoon at Toomington Hall. RSVP Toomington Hall.

It ain’t no good. The second of October has come and gone, said Ermel.

Yes, it’s my understanding that the duchess had expected a speedy arrangement with you—based upon your friendship—after which I was to present this invitation. Unfortunately the arrangements have not been speedy.

Is she plannin’ another one?

"It’s my understanding that she thinks