“
For Rebecca?
No way!”
Morris immediately made a beeline for the jewelry case which contained the finest rings in his collection. That case, as it happened, was the only one which still contained any jewelry. The Roths had turned over most of their stock to the town treasury weeks earlier. Roth Jewelry’s gold and silver had provided the Americans with their first hard currency.
Morris opened the case and reached in. “I’ve got just the thing over here. Don’t even think I need to size it.”
Mike followed, scowling. “If it was good enough for my mother, I don’t see why—”
Morris frowned. “Your mother was a fine woman, Mike Stearns. But—but—”
“Nothing but a coal miner’s wife? Well, so what?
I’m
a coal miner.”
“Yeah, but—” Still frowning, Morris shook his head. “Yeah, but.”
Mike’s irritation had vanished, then. He understood full well the meaning of that
yeah, but.
Understood it, and took pride in the knowing.
Yeah, but—she’s also the closest thing this town’s ever had to a princess.
There was something amusing in the thought. Rebecca’s growing status in the town had precious little to do with heritage and “bloodline.” True, the Abrabanels were ranked by Sephardim among their finest families. Finest of all, perhaps. But that meant little or nothing to Grantville’s West Virginians. What they knew of the history of the Spanish Jews could have been inscribed on a pin.
Didn’t matter. There was the
romance
of the thing!
And Dr. Abrabanel was becoming a familiar sight, taking his twice-daily walks through the town. Stopping, in his serene and courtly manner, to exchange a few words with every passerby. Everybody knew that he was a philosopher, and looked the part. Only philosopher in the history of the town, so far as anyone could remember. A
princely
gentleman, if you ever met one. A prince in exile is still a prince, especially when he has a beautiful daughter to prove it. So—
The high school’s one-hundred-piece band was blaring away gleefully not far ahead of them. But the sound didn’t disguise the cheers that went up as Mike and Rebecca ambled their way down the route.
Hey, look—it’s Becky!
So, in its informal way, did a town of West Virginians complete their adoption of an informal princess. And if the Germans standing alongside them thought the matter strange—a
Jewish
princess?—they kept their mouths shut. They were beginning, just beginning, to settle into an unexpected new world. One thing they had already learned. Their American hosts were not given to formalities and stiff propriety. But they took their principles seriously. Seriously enough, at least, to shatter a tercio. And seriously enough, before accepting new members into their world, to require them to listen to a recitation. The Bill of Rights, the schoolteacher had called it, before she stumbled through the words in newly learned German.
The name, and the concept beneath it, was still a bit bizarre to those commoners. But only a bit. They were quite familiar, actually, with many of the basic principles of democracy. The Dutch and Venetian republics had been in existence for decades, and the Puritan revolution in England was on the horizon. They had simply never seen all those principles put together in one place, and then—this was the key—
taken
dead seriously.
Odd, that. New. But the Germans had found nothing new or odd or bizarre in the confidence of the elderly woman who recited the phrases. A duchess, sure enough, with the authority to match the appearance. And the armed retainers standing at her side, with those terrible rifles, ready to enforce the appearance.
Here and there, scattered through the crowd, German accents came to join the cheers.
Ey luk—ist Becky!
“They should be cheering you,” whispered Rebecca, frowning. “And the UMWA.”
Michael’s smile widened. “Hell, no. I like it this way just fine.”
By early afternoon, the “parade” had dissolved completely. The official contingents of the parade fell aside and became onlookers. Onlookers marched. Soon enough, the fearsome APCs were pressed into service as tourist buses, hauling packs of German and American children all over town. By noon, Grantville’s two downtown taverns were packed to the gills, especially after Willie Ray brought in his newly made stock of moonshine. He’d even provided labels for the jars: “Revenoo-ers Rue.” Business spilled out onto the streets.
At that point, six American entrepreneurs formed an on-the-spot partnership with four German ex-soldiers. A Scots cavalryman acted as interpreter and, by the end of the negotiations, had parlayed himself into the partnership as well.
Three of the Americans were farmers who, like Willie Ray, had their own stocks of miscellaneous home brew. The fourth American, Ernie Dobbs, was a beer-truck driver. By bad luck, he had been in Grantville making deliveries when the Ring of Fire occurred. Since there was no one to say otherwise, he had retained possession of the truck’s stock of beer—which he now contributed as his capital investment. The remaining two Americans agreed to provide the necessary equipment—which consisted, in the main, of card tables and folding chairs.
The Germans, former tavern-keepers, provided the experienced personnel. By noontime, having expropriated the small park next to the town’s community swimming pool by mysterious means, the “Thuringen Gardens” were open for business.
“Ey am t’bouncer,” pronounced the Scotsman proudly, as he ushered the mob onto the grounds. But he spent most of his time pressed into service as a lifeguard, after the children demanded the pool be opened also.
Henry Dreeson alone, stubbornly faithful to his civic duty, completed the assigned route. But the mayor spent no more than five minutes, glowering at the gas station on the edge of town, before retracing his steps to join the festivities. He didn’t even raise a ruckus over the gross violations of several city ordinances represented by the “Gardens.” Not even after he saw the German barkeeps, true to their own traditions, start handing drinks to youngsters. Soft drinks only, of course. But as far as the Germans were concerned, beer was a soft drink.
The only people who did not participate in the parade, in any capacity, were the members of the wedding party. Which, by then, numbered well over a hundred people.
Most of them belonged to the bride’s party. In addition to Gretchen’s own “family” of a couple of dozen or so, there were Heinrich and his men, and their camp followers—say, fifty people all told.
Then, there were the “advisers.” Melissa occupied pride of place in that coterie, along with the owner of the town’s bridal store. Her name was Karen Reading. The rest of the “advisers,” truth be told, were gofers. Melissa’s high-school students, mostly, along with Karen’s two daughters and four nieces.
Karen took care of all the bridal preparations. Melissa took care of bridal discipline.
A difficult task, that last. Gretchen was generally very cooperative, and she was positively ecstatic over her wedding dress. Even after Karen explained that it was “only on loan.” The difficulty—the battle royal—revolved around one question only.
Melissa, for the hundredth time: “You are
not
getting married in sneakers.”
Gretchen, sullen: “You people iss
wahnsinnig
.” Surly: “Zat means—”
Melissa, snarling: “I know what the word means! I looked it up, after the tenth time you used it. Insane or not, you are
still
going to wear them.”
Gretchen, glaring at her feet: “Zese sings iss
torture.
”
Melissa, sighing: “I know. I don’t approve of them personally, mind you. But—”
Gretchen, gloomy, muttering, trying a few steps: “I vill fall
und
break
mein
neck.”
Melissa, gloomy, muttering, watching: “I’m a traitor. A quisling.” Then, snarling to her “aides”: “And where
is
Willie Ray Hudson, anyway?”
The chorus replied: “In town, getting drunk.”
“Get him! Now!”
The high-school girls sped from the scene, a flying squad in search of a rascal. Gretchen stumbled. Melissa scowled.
Muttered: “Great. Just great. A bride in high heels and a drunk to give her away. We’ll never make it down the aisle.”
The groom’s party was far smaller. Larry Wild was the best man, and Eddie and Jimmy the ushers. Beyond that, there were a handful of other high school boys, acting as gofers for the Grand Old Man of the group—Dr. Nichols.
James admired Jeff’s tuxedo. “Good fit.”
Jeff flushed. “Come on, Dr. Nichols. It isn’t, and you know it.” He stared down at the outfit. The tuxedo rental company being now in a different universe, the expensive suits had become the town’s collective property, available “on loan” for whoever needed them. “This one was Mike’s, ’cause he was the biggest. Ms. Reading
still
had to let it out. I look like a fat penguin.”
James grinned. “What is
this
? You’re getting married today to the prettiest girl in town and you’re worried about your
weight
?”
Jeff’s flush deepened. So did the doctor’s good humor.
“Relax, Jeff. In a few months, it’ll be a moot point anyway. None of us are going to get through this winter with any extra body fat.”
Jeff’s personal worries were overridden by a general concern. “What do you think? Are we going to make it?”
James peered through one of the windows of Jeff’s trailer, looking to the north. “I imagine so,” he replied softly. “There’s a lot of food out there if we can just manage to bring it in. The area’s farmers had finished their sowing before the mercenaries arrived and scared everybody off the land. So—”
He shrugged. “The truth is, it’s not actually that easy to starve to death. The biggest problem with a low-calorie diet is that it weakens people, and it’s usually deficient in vitamins and minerals. Leaves you wide open for disease.”
His good humor returned. “Fortunately, while we’re getting very low on food and medicine and antibiotics, the town’s pharmacies and supermarkets still have a big stock of vitamins and minerals. We’re going to establish a rigorous program of dietary supplements. That should get us through this first winter.” He made a face. “Not that we won’t be getting sick of gruel and porridge.”
James decided to change the subject. He inspected the interior of the trailer. “Looks like you’ve done a good job here.”
Jeff was just as eager as the doctor to leave worrying behind. “We worked our asses off, these past four days. Had lots of help from a bunch of the other kids from school, too. You like it?”
James hesitated, before opting for honesty. “
Like
it? That’s not exactly the word I’d use. You’re going to be as crowded as a basket full of kittens. But I approve, even if it does look like the strangest architectural design in the world.”
“It’ll work,” said Jeff defensively. He pointed to the door. “All three of them have been hooked together, with good insulation for the passages.”
In times past, that door had opened to the outside world. Now, it connected to a new trailer which had been laboriously inserted between this one and Larry’s, next door. The “new” trailer was actually an abandoned one, donated by its former owner. Most of the last few days had been taken up by turning the three trailers into an interconnected complex, cleaning the new trailer, and redesigning the living space. As soon as the wedding was over, Gretchen’s entire family would be moving from their temporary quarters in the high school into the complex. Between them and Jeff’s three friends, the place would truly be crowded. But everyone would have a place, and—
“You’re happy about it,” stated James. “All four of you.”
Jeff smiled. The expression combined pleasure with sadness. “Yeah, I guess. We’ve—” He sighed. “It’s been real hard, not having our families. And now we’re going to have the biggest family in town.”
Worry returned, in full force. “I just hope it works out okay. I know it’s going to be hard for all of us, getting used to each other.”
James studied him for a moment. “You worried about Gretchen? Think she’ll be unhappy?”
Jeff shook his head. “Not really,” he admitted. “I showed her the place yesterday, you know.”
His thoughts fell aside. James grinned. “Gorgeous, ain’t she?”
Jeff nodded happily. But his fretfulness returned within seconds. “You know what she said, the minute she stepped in? ’You are so
rich
.’
“ ’Rich’!” he snorted. “Look at this place, Dr. Nichols. It’s nothing but a
trailer.
”
James reached up and placed his hand on the shoulder of the large boy—young man—standing before him. “Are you really worried about that ’gold digger’ business?” he asked. “Myself, I think it’s a lot of—”
“No, no. It’s not that.” Jeff hesitated. “I can understand why she’d think the way she does, coming from”—he waved his hand—“all that. It’s just that—”
He lowered his head. The next words were sad, spoken in a whisper. “She doesn’t love me, you know. I don’t think she even knows what the word means. Not in the same way I do, anyway.”
That very moment, as it happened, Melissa was discussing the same subject with Gretchen. When she finished her awkward, half-English/half-German explanation, Gretchen frowned.
“Zat iss
für
nobles,” she protested.
Melissa sighed. Gretchen studied her intently. “But you sink ziss iss important? Fü—for Jeff?”
