Tickling the Sleeping Dragon's Tail

By Wes Engel

World War II rages on in the European and Pacific fronts. Troy, ‘Tank’, Connors, an American soldier serving in France is severely wounded. He is discharged from the military and returns home to North Carolina to rehabilitate. Back home he and his young wife must somehow put their lives back together. His life is again turned upside down when he accepts a job at an unknown government town with no name or address in the mountains of New Mexico. There, he joins an elite group of scientists working on a top secret government program; the Manhattan Project, building the first atomic bomb. The twists and turns mount as Tank, at one point, is wrongly accused of international espionage. Tank becomes a hunted man. He has few allies on his side. In the climax scene it takes a daring move to save himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669854555

Wes Engel

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Wesley Engel Wes Engel lives in Northern New Mexico where he writes mysteries and suspense thrillers. A child of the American West, he has explored every nook, corner and cranny. Wes has scaled its mountains, hiked its valleys, frolicked in its grassy wild flower dotted meadows, crawled across its deserts, kayaked its whitewater and rappelled into its deepest canyons. Wes is familiar with its people, history and culture. He is drawn to the challenges of the land. Like lovers, he and the American West are intimate. His plot driven stories are compelling and topical. Always fast paced and suspenseful, full of roller coaster twists and turns, Wes creates clear protagonists even clearer villains. I write about the American West; its people, its challenges, and the issues facing contemporary American West culture. I explore themes of economic development, the environment and lifestyle, all wrapped around a hard boiled thriller or mystery. My fiction has a strong sense of place and history. My stories are set in stunning locations. I am a dangerous writer, in that I am not afraid to break some rules. ~ Wes Engel

Book preview

Prologue

January 3, 1944

The task of building the bomb had taken its toll. The responsibility for thousands of lives . . . and deaths weighed heavy on him. Yes, he figured a few days away from the fray would be a welcomed relief.

Robert Oppenheimer, Oppie to those who knew him, stepped onto the train platform. He turned his face upwards drinking in Berkeley’s sunshine. Why did I leave this nice climate? Back in the mountains of New Mexico its’ still winter.

His brother Frank approached with quickened excited steps, interrupting the elder Oppenheimer’s musing. They greeted each other with broad smiles and a hearty handshake.

Welcome home, Frank said.

Oppie nodded. He removed his Pork Pie hat. He wiped his brow. Good to be here. Thanks for meeting me on short notice and for the use of your car.

Your telegram didn’t say much about the visit. In fact it was most cryptic; just meet you here.

Kind of a rushed trip.

Could have flown, in that case.

They won’t let me fly. General Groves said I’m too important; flying has too many risks. Guess I’m too vital to the country. Robert Oppenheimer shrugged his shoulders, nonchalantly.

Franked chuckled. Well look at you, Mr. big shot. Imagine my older brother, the one so important they don’t let him fly in an airplane.

Oppie half blushed.

Are you allowed to ride in a car, Frank mocked, or is that too dangerous as well.

The way I remember your driving skills it might be more dangerous than flying, Oppie returned his brother’s teasing.

Oh and I forgot. Mr. big shot also has a new name. Frank raised his eyebrows forming a V shape suggesting a question.

It’s just a temporary code name.

Do I have to call you that, now?

Go to hell. Stop making fun of it all.

You’re the boss.

Let’s go find my bag.

The two walked toward the baggage cart. Where we headed first? Frank asked.

The University. Got a meeting with Dr. Lawrence along with the rest of the theoretical physics Department.

Then?

I only got two days here.

You’re kind of suggesting you‘re going to see Jean?

Yes.

Could be ill advised.

I know. Just want to tie up some loose ends. Kind of like putting everything to bed.

The younger Oppenheimer looked at his brother frowning.

Opps. Not literally. Just an accidental pun.

I thought all that was over.

Me too. But Jean won’t let go. She keeps trying to contact me. Kitty is getting suspicious bordering on paranoid. I’m going try one last time to impress on Jean to forget about me. It’s been over for two years as far as I’m concerned. Oppie sighed. Wished she would move on . . . I have.

At least in your mind it’s been over, evidently not so for Jean is what you’re saying.

Exactly.

Worse than Kitty, the government security forces are suspicious.

Who?

FBI, Maybe Army Intelligence, G-men, who knows. Maybe all of the above. Jean’s pro-communist writings and involvement in the communist party definitely has their attention.

That’s hardly fair for you.

I’m getting a headache. What you say we change the subject.

Throw your bag in the back. The University awaits one of its most distinguished professors.

The two drove off headed north toward the campus.

I miss the University sometimes, sometimes not.

Think the feeling is mutual.

Why would they not miss me? the elder Oppenheimer asked.

Right now Berkeley is just nuts.

Robert looked at his brother, puzzled.

The world war, the lingering after-effects of the Spanish Civil rebellion with the Fascists and Communists . . . you name it.

So? Oppie narrowed his eyes looking perturbed.

Well it’s just that yours and Jeans involvement with the communist party doesn’t sit well with everyone.

Jean’s involvement, not mine. I barely was a member . . . that was several years ago. I wasn’t so much a communist as I was an anti-Fascist. Jean even says she’s not involved anymore.

Let’s face it, Jean Tadlock and half the University crowd were and still are communist supporters. Hell, Jean was the editor of the Berkley’s communist party’s newsletter, The Western Worker.

She says that’s all in the past, mostly.

Yeah, mostly. Now all you got to do is convince the federal agents of that.

I thought I had. The FBI finally tired of fighting with General Groves and gave me my security clearance, after-all.

And that’s still a mystery to me.

General Groves wanted me specifically to lead the scientific part of the project. So that is settled. But now my task seems to get Jean to back off and leave me be.

Frank Oppenheimer pulled into a parking spot fronting the physics building. We’re here. Better hurry. Dr. Earnst Lawrence is not a patient man.

*     *     *

How’d the meeting with the Physics Department luminaries go? Frank asked his brother.

Ah, okay . . . I guess. Routine—technical stuff related to enriching uranium. Oppie hesitated. He swallowed hard. Opps. I probably shouldn’t say anymore.

Probably not, Frank chuckled.

Let’s drop you at your house. I’ll take the car. We’ll meet for dinner tomorrow evening. Then the next morning you take me to the train station.

Sounds like a plan.

Frank’s house was close. Oppie’s drive across the bay Bridge into downtown San Francisco was longer. Jean Tadlock lived on Montgomery Street. He drove by her house slowly scanning the block. He noticed the non-descript car parked across the street and down a half block. It was occupied by two guys—scrunched down in their seat; each wore a hat pulled low, down to their brow.

Better go find a spot to meet, he figured. Oppenheimer headed up the hill. The bar where we last met is safer.

The Top of The Mark Lounge at the Mark Hopkins Hotel had one hell of a view of the city. The bartender brought Oppie a phone and a Martini.

Hello, Jean Tadlock answered.

Hey, it’s me. Don’t speak. Not safe. Meet me at that place we met last June.

Her response came tentatively. Okay, Now?

Now, as in thirty minutes. Careful not to be followed, he cautioned.

*     *     *

The two hugged.

Jean Tadlock started, What a surprise.

Oppie put a finger to his lips. Shhh, we need to talk." He pointed to one corner of the bar. The two made their way to the deserted table. Oppie carried his drink. Jean ordered a martini when they sat.

How long we got?

Just tonight.

With a single finger Tadlock ran circles around the rim of her glass. Should we go to my place for the night? She was painted—nails, lips, eye shadow, the whole package, as if she expected going on a formal date.

No. I think you are being watched and monitored. Either physical surveillance or phone tapped, maybe both.

I’m not really active anymore, she explained.

But your relationship—past relationship—with me puts you . . . and me both in a potentially dangerous situation. Given my position with the Project, me cavorting with a known communist represents a security risk to them.

Them?

Army Intelligence or FBI. Oppie shrugged his shoulders. Not sure who all. I do know FBI Director Hoover is paranoid. He sees communists everywhere. And they all suspect spies everywhere.

That’s ridiculous. Tadlock scoffed.

We are at war and after this one there will be an even bigger feud—with the Soviet Union communists.

Tadlock shook her head, ‘no’.

As far as our government thinks, anyone associated with the communist party is potentially a spy—one with foreign allegiances.

Tadlock gulped down her martini. Maybe you’re exaggerating. Maybe you’re the paranoid one.

All I’m saying is be careful. You are being monitored. We should get a room here for the night and not risk going to your place.

Harrumph, she mocked. Can we at least go to our favorite Mexican restaurant. Or are government microphones hidden in the enchiladas.

Oppie ignored her attempt at baiting him. We’ll eat Mexican then we’ll get a room here at the ‘Mark’. Me on the couch or floor, you on the bed.

JeanTadlock frowned.

I’m serious about this. Once we get settled into a room we need to talk. I mean really talk. Then you and I go our separate ways . . . forever.

*     *     *

January 4, the next day

Oppenheimer dropped Jean off at her house. He was in a reflective mood. Their parting was an uncomfortable moment. Jean Tadlock was crying profusely.

The drive across the bridge to Berkeley proved less dramatic. His brother awaited him at his house.

Well how did all that go with Jean? the younger Oppenheimer asked.

About as good as you’d expect.

My guess is there was an ugly scene.

Last night we had a nice dinner and talk. Parting this morning was no walk in the park."

So then, is it over?

Yes.

For good? You sure?"

As far as I’m concerned.

Then let’s enjoy our time today and this evening.

Yes, let me soak in the weather. Where I live in the mountains of New Mexico it’s winter.

Tomorrow I’ll deposit you at the train station.

*     *     *

Jean Tadlock answered the knock on her door. It would be one of the last actions she would ever take. When she opened the door the two men waiting on the other side pushed past her.

*     *     *

Pull those blinds shut, one of the two men named Frank, barked. Don’t need nosy neighbors looking in.

The second man, named Ross, responded. The room darkened. Nobody’s around. Everyone is at work this time of day.

Just a little up tight is all. Never did like this part of the job.

Had to be done.

Guess so.

You going to write the note, or should I? Ross asked.

First of all it should be typed, on Tadlock’s typewriter. No chance for a hand writing analyst to work his magic at verification.

Agreed.

I’ll do it, Frank walked to the corner of the living room. Just make sure everything in the bathroom is staged correctly. He sat at Jean Tadlock’s secretary style desk fronting her typewriter. He loaded paper in the Smith-Corona carriage.

Relax. We already went over this. Everything is good in the bathroom.

Frank wondered aloud. Tell me, how does one write a suicide note for someone you don’t know?

Ross shrugged his shoulders. Damned if I know. Just make it sound as if she was unhappy.

You sure the local cops will buy it?

Everyone knows this commie psychiatrist was an unhappy miserable person. And now that she was jilted by her lover it will all fit together.

Probably so. But we are not sure Oppenheimer dumped her ass for sure. Frank started typing.

Well she was crying pretty badly when they parted.

You sure there are no marks of violence or struggle on her . . . anywhere? Got to look like she drowned herself.

Nope. I mean there are no marks of her struggling. Our holding her under the water by her shoulders left no bruising. She will be found lying in the bottom of the bathtub. And I dumped a handful of those Mickey-fins down her throat.

Good touch, Frank nodded his approval. Barbiturate overdose will help make the case she was depressed and suicidal.

I think we covered the bases— drowning, drug over-dose, suicide note.

Self–induced drowning after being dumped by the great Robert Oppenheimer. Suicide all the way, if you ask me.

Let’s clean things up. Get rid of any evidence we were here. Then we get out of town.

Good plan. Move on to our next assignment.

Know what it is?

Nah, not really. Some sort of secret war project.

Chapter 1

Asheville, NC, circa 1944

I stood at the brink, the crossroads; I deserved to die. I had figured so on numerous occasions. I worked hard to earn death. Several of my buddies had died that day—why not me? Does God have a plan for me—a plan unknown to me? Which kind of man would I become? Would I go quietly drifting along in life’s current or would I take charge of my own destiny.

That leg of yours is working pretty well, if you ask me, Cal said, interrupting my musings. He pointed toward my lower extremity.

My brother was being kind—maybe even could be accused of being a liar—my leg most decidedly was not working well. Still, I played along. Good enough to still kick your butt, I replied, smiling. Mine, of course was a false front of bravado. As long as I had to keep that damn cane close by, wear the brace for sleeping and apply bandages to dress my mostly healed burns I knew it was an empty threat. Maybe I could take him if I used the cane as a club.

I grunted as I set the crate laden with apples on top the second tier of wooden boxes stacked on the picking trailer. I removed my cap and wiped my brow with my hankie.

Cal stepped toward me and playfully soft punched me in one shoulder. Don’t reckon so. Not with as skinny as you got.

I couldn’t see his eyes as my brother is shorter than my six foot one inch frame and a straw hat with wide brim shaded much of his face. Still I detected the upturned corners of his mouth. Cal had one of the toothiest grins one could imagine. And with his freckles still hanging on from childhood, combined with that sandy brown hair, I imagined I was stuck with Huckleberry Finn or perhaps Tom Sawyer as a brother.

We both retreated into silent thought pausing our conversation.

In all seriousness it seems you’re improving. Your leg is getting stronger and your walking is getting better.

Supposedly . . . somewhat . . . slowly, that’s what they say.

They say? Who’s they?

The folks at the rehab hospital. But I’m about done with that crew.

Hang in there. They can’t be all that bad—they were able to save that leg. I hear when they dragged you off the battlefield it was barely attached, hanging by a few tendons and ligaments.

It’s . . . just that all the medical appointments reinforces mother’s position. It stokes and adds fuel to her argument that I shouldn’t have left the farm—by going to war. It’s like mom uses my rehab and injury as an, ‘I told you so’, moment. She still sees me as dependent, like some semi- emancipated adolescent.

My mood felt heavy. My mind wandered back to my childhood—age six or seven. As a child my legs were crooked, mal-formed from birth. There was a period of time while in grammar school where I was barely mobile. I was teased mercilessly by the other kids ‘cause of my awkward gait. I was in pain half the time. I couldn’t do physical games or sports. I had to wear braces to try and straighten the legs. I was miserable. Finally, around age seven, the braces along with surgery corrected the flaw.

I was alerted to the sound of Cal clapping his hands in my face. Where did you go, buddy—you seemed have left me—you’re far off somewhere.

Sorry, was just thinking. I shook my head and shuddered to clear it. Some unpleasant memories, some from the worst part of my childhood, actually.

Cal removed his hat. The corners of his mouth retreated as he took on a serious tone. He looked me in my eyes. All I’m saying is it’s good to have you home, Tank. I’m just not always good at saying what I feel, or being direct about it. He shuffled a foot in the dirt and looked down and away. I was really scared for you.

Me too, I said. About being home . . . and being scared.

Mother mentioned you stopped your rehabilitation.

I took a deep breath then sighed. Seems nothin’ is private in this family. What else are you and mom talking about behind my back.

She just mentioned it in passing, is all. Cal rolled his eyes sheepishly then looked away.

Huh, I chortled sarcastically. You know better. It was just her sneaky way to criticize me. You don’t need to defend our mother.

S’pose you’re right, to some degree, anyways. But in the big picture everyone worries about your recovery—we want what will be best for you.

Yeah, well, I was pretty much done with all the treatment sessions. I shrugged my shoulders. Anyways you said my leg was doing well.

Cal looked askance at me . . . maybe doubting.

You said.

He nodded in an understanding way.

But how could he know, much less understand how tired I was of hospitals, and rehab clinics.

I feel lousy about making you defensive, I said. Of course folks are worried. Sorry for jumping on you. You know how mom can get me going, always needing to know everything and always wanting to control everything.

Cal produced a thin smile and again nodded his understanding. She gets all of us going.

This time I know he understands.

I pounded an open hand against the side of the trailer.

My abrupt action caught Moses, our orchard foreman off guard. He sat up startled as if we caught him half asleep. From his perch on the tractor’s seat he turned and looked at Cal and me. We all set to go mister Cal? he asked.

Yep full load, or full enough best I can tell. Take her away. Cal gave a slight wave at the foreman indicating for him to proceed.

Moses put the tractor in gear. The entire rig, tractor and trailer, jostled, tossing Cal from his precarious seat on the edge of the trailer. He landed on his butt.

Moses, not realizing the situation, drove off towing the trailer full of apple crates headed for the cider house. Cal and I were left me by ourselves, laughing.

"One fine Negro his is, Cal said referring to Moses as the tractor disappeared behind the barn.

I nodded agreement.

I think this is the earliest we have ever harvested apples. Cal took out a handkerchief from one pocket. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

Crazy weather. But we’re only talk’in the cider apples. They are always several weeks ahead of the others. And that load is gonna be quite tart. I took in a deep breath through my nostrils. I just love the smell of sweet crisp apple in the air, in late summer and fall

The next few months will bring us the best time of year in Western Carolina. Cal donned his straw hat again. That smell can be yours forever. You know that’s still the plan.

Mom and dad’s plan, you mean. I gave a dismissive wave of a hand.

Cal motioned for me to follow him. We headed toward one of the curing barns. The plan always was me running the agriculture side of things, the orchards and the tobacco and you would manage the saw mill and lumber business, he said.

We entered the shade of the drying barn. The wooded racks were draped with bunches of tobacco leaves tied together.

Well you forget, I went to college to study engineering, I reminded. Don’t know how engineering fits into the lumber business. I grabbed a bunch of drying leaves in both hands and buried my face in it. I sniffed in the smell of drying tobacco. It smelled earthy, deep and rich, almost aromatic, hints of sweet plums and black cherries. The humidity of the barn was heavy causing drops of sweat to roll down my forehead to the tip of my nose where they dripped to my lips leaving a salty taste.

Engineering and business degrees, both. Cal replied. You’re the one who forgets. I guess father clings to the hope that the business education would bring you back to the family business. And, maybe later, to Congress, just like Uncle Josie.

I shook my head. Poor dad, nothin’ ever did work out for him when it comes to me. First he wasn’t happy with my choice of careers or study. Then the war came along and I up and enlisted.

Like a commoner, I might add, Cal grinned.

Just one big disappointment for him in all ways, I guess.

I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.

The one thing I know is if I stayed here I couldn’t be my own man. Mom and dad would own me. I could never be anyone more than Charles and Margarie’s son.

Time to get the conversation off me. But look at you. Here you are running operations around here. I made sweeping motion of one arm indicating the barn full of tobacco. Doing a mighty fine job too, big brother.

I’m not running anything. As you know, father will never totally relinquish control of the operations. I’ll never be in charge, not really. Besides it ain’t been so great for me. This heart condition keeping me out of the service and all. Cal thumped his chest with a fist.

You’re lucky. War is not as glorious as the newsreels in the movie halls make it out to be. I bit down on my lower lip and pointed to my injured leg, then to my head. Besides, I don’t think there is anything wrong with you. Your heart is as strong as an ox. I think either the docs are crazy about you having that heat murmur thing . . . or else just maybe father and the family arranged things such that the government wouldn’t take their sole remaining son in the military.

Just how does one arrange that?

By paying some doc to say you have a bad ticker and produce faked records in support of the faked diagnosis.

Our silence suggested both were pondering my words.

Or by calling on a certain uncle, I added.

I hope he didn’t do that without me knowing, Cal cringed at the possibility of such subterfuge. Anyways, seems like old man Connors did get his way in the end.

We stepped out from the barn into the Western Carolina sun. It was high and bright in the sky. Warmth spread across the skin of my bare forearms.

Cal continued. He always does.

What do you mean? I scrunched my face forming a puzzled look.

Father always gets his way. He has you here, back on the plantation working, helping out.

My face soured. It’s not a plantation. God, how I hate that word.

That’s why I said it. Cal flashed a wry smile. All this talk of father has gotten us too serious.

But I s’pose you’re right. The war and my getting blown up didn’t figure into mine, or anyone’s plan. And so here I am.

I’m glad you’re home.

I told’ja it’s only temporary . . . I hope. An engineering career calls.

We’ll see. Don’t dismiss the family business out of hand. You’d be a good boss and manager. Even the field hands like you back. The coloreds appreciate you working alongside them, even though you needn’t.

I like to work, with the men. That’s one of the things I liked about the military. Everyone was equal . . . well, discounting rank. Even I and someone like Moses, all the coloreds, pretty much worked together. We worked and fought alongside each other. Nobody had to know the Connors family owned half the hills and hollows surrounding Ashville, North Carolina. Or that mom’s brother is a U.S. Senator.

That sounds like a world apart from most of the South.

Folks in the army only cared about three things; keeping their ass attached to the rest of their body, coming home to their girlfriends and wives and killing Krauts, I said.

I continued, longingly. In the army I could be normal, invisible in a way. In the army I was not the son of Charles and Margarie Connors. In the army I was just Tank. Corporal Tank Connors.

At least we’re not the most famous family from around here. Thank God the Vanderbilt’s have that curse.

Tell me about it, my words matter-of-fact.

You make them sound so awful, I mean our parents.

I don’t mean to. You know I love them. It’s just that father dominates and mother suffocates

No argument there, Cal agreed.

I want to be my own man. To prove myself and my worth without thinking I got special considerations for being the son of Frank Connors. And with them it’s always perfection and high expectations. You know what they say, ‘if there is something worth doing—’

Then its’ worth doing the best, Cal finished the, oh so familiar, quote of our parents.

Well, I—

A sharp report cut my rant short. The crack of the explosion penetrated the still air. It came from behind and to the right of me and Cal, in the direction of the garage.

The detonation first caused me to flinch, then both my hands shot upwards covering my head in a defensive posture. My startle response overwhelmed me. I stood unable to move—just shaking not even able to talk. The racing and pounding of my heart against my chest wall thundered in my ears. I tried gulping in breaths big enough to feed my energized body. Unable to catch enough oxygen I began hyperventilating. I started swooning and listing to the side. I didn’t feel connected to my body.

Cal grabbed me around the waist with one hand and holding onto my belt with the other he help walk me to the side of the barn. He propped me there. My shaking and dizziness continued, for I don’t know how long; I lost all sense of time. I slid down, using the wooden wall as a back rest until I plopped on the ground. There I continued cowering, like a child facing a fearful monster in his darkened bedroom. It was a monster, my monster. As the attack continued my disorientation progressed I retreated into my head, into my private world. I heard in my head, again, the shelling, the explosion, the heat of the fire tearing at my skin. I heard the screams of my buddies.

Cal kneeled and took my head into both his hands and stuck his face into mine. I could see his lips and mouth moving, his eyes wide in alarm. He was talking to me, no yelling something at me, but I could not hear what. The only the yelling and screaming I heard were my platoon members on that fateful day. Or is it this day? Is this happening now?

Cal grabbed me and held on. I started pounding at him in a misdirected rage. Striking blindly at him as if fighting something off me.

With tiring and once drained of energy my breathing normalized. The heaves of my chest became morel regular. Each breath came easier. The quivering of my body subsided. My consciousness normalized. I knew not how long it had been, how long I had been immobilized by the spell.

Hey bro, you back with me, Cal implored.

I shook my head affirmatively. Yes. It was tentative and weak but it was a ‘yes’.

The look on Cal’s face pleaded for an explanation.

The attack had thankfully dissipated. I felt well enough to speak. I held up one hand requesting some space and tine to proceed. I wished you didn’t have to witness that, I finally said.

That. What was that? his eyes were wide.

You just witnessed one of those spells you no doubt have heard about, I explained.

Cal joined me sitting on the ground back up against the barn. Whew. He removed his hat. That was scary. You just sat there shivering and shaking. I-I-I didn’t know what to do.

When the spell attacks like that there is not much I nor anyone can do. I get totally immobilized and incapacitated. It feels like I’m gonna die. Hell, I wish I would die. At first the Drs. thought it was seizures. Like maybe I hurt my brain in the tank explosion. But now they say it’s not seizures. They call it battle fatigue, some say I am shell shocked.

Can you be cured? Will these episodes go away?

Not sure. I shrugged my shoulders.

Well if I was you I would go back to the rehab place and get this fixed, Cal pressed.

The rehab hospital can fix my physical body, my leg. But not my mind.

Really? There isn’t anything they can do?

They don’t know, I answered. We’re hoping with more time all the bad memories, the trauma, the relieving of the events of that day and all those accompanying feelings will subside.

How’d these spells start? How do you stop it?

I don’t stop’em. They run its course. A couple minutes. Sometimes I pass out. Usually it happens at night and I have nightmares. When I have the spells in my sleep I wake up screaming and fighting off Ginny as if I am in a rage. Sometimes I worry about maybe hurting her cause when I waken from the night terrors I am lashing out like a wild man.

I continued to catch my breath—it returned to a normalized rhythm. In the daytime any number of things can start an episode. Loud noises; intense emotions or feelings; things or situations that serve as reminders of that day my tank got blew up.

Oh-my-gosh, the noise. Cal slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. That’s what caused it. It’s only your car back firing. He pointed toward the garage. Gus, our new mechanic is getting your car in operating order. I thought it would be a good present to get it out of moth balls for you. It was supposed to be a surprise, Cal said ruefully.

That must have been what set it off. Don’t say anything to our folks or Ginny, okay, I pleaded. I’ve been trying to pretend these spells are happening less often. I’d prefer if Ginny doesn’t worry so much. You know, the way she is."

If that’s what you want, my mouth is zipped. But brother, I am not sure that is the best way to handle this problem.

*     *     *

Cal and I walked up the front steps.

Mom was seated at a table on the screened porch. Join me for some iced tea, she offered.

No thanks, I said. Not sure there will be enough time. Ginny and father should be here any minute and she and I will have to leave right away.

There is always time for sweet tea and one’s mother. Her look was one of disapproval. Besides that wife of yours is late half the time.

There she goes, always being critical.

The front screen door flew open and Sara, my niece came running from the house with Missy our Negro housemaid chasing her. Sara’s face lit up with pleasure. Hi daddy, she waived toward Cal. Hi Uncle Tank. The four year old clung to my good leg in a bear hug.

Mom reached over and placed a hand on Sara’s shoulder. Sara dear, she corrected. It’s Uncle Troy, not Uncle Tank. Troy is the proper name nanna and poppy gave him."

Mom gave a thin smile. Then she turned to give a look of reprimand to Cal. Don’t encourage your daughter, she whispered her words at my brother. She should call her uncle by his given name.

Cal gulped and produced the most sheepish, penitent look he knew. He turned away from mother catching my eye with his. He winked.

We have our own little conspiracy when it came to mom.

Sara ignored her grandmother. She let go of my leg and hustled over to Missy who patiently waited off to the side. Sara took an envelope from the maid’s hand and brought it to me.

Look Uncle Tank. You got mail. She pushed the letter at me.

I took the letter from little Sara. Still a true innocent, But soon enough she will be overwhelmed by and enmeshed in the suffocating Connors family.

I studied the outside of the envelope. It was marked ‘CONFIDENTIAL’.

Who is it from? mom asked.

I checked the return address. Don’t rightly know. No name. Just shows a return address of Post Office Box 1663, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Chapter 2

Of course I’m upset. Ginny paused to gather her thoughts. She finished reading the letter, marked ‘confidential’ a second time through, dis-believing her first read. She sighed. Then with a flick of her wrist she tossed it onto the kitchen table’s Formica top. She turned toward the sink, deliberately away from me, and started drying the dinner dishes.

You promised not to be upset, I said.

Upset! She turned back towards me locking her eyes with mine. You come home one day and tell me about a secret town that exists, well not anywhere on any map. This town, so secret, has no name. The people who live there have no addresses— only a post office box. No one knows how many people live in this town. And you tell me it is in the middle of nowhere—in the old west—over fifteen hundred miles from our home. And then you tell me we’re moving to this phantom town. Ginny paused to catch a big breath. Are you nuts!

The volume of her voice and tone startled me. A couple seconds later I recovered enough to argue back. The government can’t give it a name.

She tossed the dish towel down on the kitchen counter in frustration, then stood both hands on hips. You say government. Oh, and isn’t that just great. It’s a secret ‘government’ town. Ginny’s use of air quotes emphasized her point. Well that just helps a lot. That makes all of this just that much better," she said, her words caustic. Ginny rolled her eyeballs upward. She turned back toward the sink, back to me and returned to drying the dishes.

You know I don’t like it when you use that sarcastic tone or turn your back to me when I’m trying to discuss something of importance to us . . . such as our future.

She turned again to face me. And I don’t want our baby born in a secret government town, in the middle of no-where. She paused. Is there even a hospital there?