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Von Grantville

Written by Russ Rittgers

Chad sat on the front porch swing staring blankly ahead. He held a tumbler of Kentucky’s smoothest bourbon and water. It was like a cruel joke. I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, those thirty-five new cars you have on your lot? You won’t have to pay for them. The bad news? They're going to sit there and rot until you take them apart and sell them piece by piece. Or, you can sell them to the government for pennies on the dollar because nobody's got gasoline or money for cars except the government. Funny, yeah, Mr. Big Time Auto Dealer.

He’d never intended to live out his life in Grantville. When he studied marketing at West Virginia University, Chad wanted to go into international business. Then Dad had his stroke the day after Thanksgiving in Chad’s senior year. He lived, but with the left side of his body partially paralyzed. Mom couldn’t handle it mentally or physically at that time. Wes, his older brother, had a full-time job in Charleston working for the government. So rather than taking a few easy courses his final semester to pump up his GPA, Chad petitioned to graduate early because he had all his required courses completed. He received his diploma through the mail. Didn’t even go to commencement. Three years later he bought the car dealership for a pittance. Lou Prickett had grown too fond of booze and was about to lose the franchise anyway.

Now, here he was. A businessman without a business. In Germany. Strange world we live in.

Debbie came over to the porch swing and sat next to him. “Penny for your thoughts, dear.”

Chad smiled wryly and put his arm around his wife's small shoulders. “Just thinking. Never thought, heck, never imagined I’d ever get to Europe after I came back to Grantville. Much less live in Germany with you and the kids.”

Debbie pulled his arm a bit tighter by tugging his hand. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do? Some of the Methodist Women have set up an assistance committee for those German people who’ve been wandering into town.”

“Don’t know.” Chad took another sip of bourbon. “All the cars and trucks I don’t sell to the government, I’m going to have to disassemble for parts. I’ll get Bob Szymanski and my other mechanics to do it. Added to my current parts inventory, it’ll be worth a fair amount eventually. Trouble is, in the short run, we’re going to be hurting for money because I’ll have all the costs of tearing those apart but damn little income. We’ll probably have to sell some land just to buy groceries.”

Debbie pulled away from him. “Don’t you dare!” she snapped. “Don’t you even think about selling a single lot!”

Chad stared wide-eyed at his wife. She never . . .

“I had an interesting talk with that nice Scottish cavalry captain after he brought over one of his troopers to interpret for us today. He asked who was the laird who owned the land outside town. When I told him that most of it was owned by individuals and coal companies, he looked at me like I was crazy. Then I told him Dad owned 160 acres and you had, here and there, over seventeen hundred acres with houses on some of them. He said you must be a laird to own so much and live in a huge mansion in town. After that, he started treating me as if I was some kind of nobility. He must have said something to his trooper because the next thing I knew, the Germans we’d taken in started bowing their heads to me when I approached them.”

Chad grunted a laugh. “Oh, yeah, that’s me, Charles Hudson Jenkins von Grantville. Senior.”

“I’m not kidding, Chad. In that captain’s mind, we’re nobility.”

Chad still laughed. “Oh, yeah. I suppose I’ll have to fight duels to protect the honor of our noble family name, too. Uh-huh, right.”

This time Debbie joined him in laughter and leaned back against him again. “Okay, okay it’s silly but . . . Do you know how many houses and trailers we have dotted around the countryside?”

“What . . . forty? You’re the one taking care of those books. Do we really have that much land?”

Debbie's smile was smug. “Forty-one rentals according to our last tax return. Got back a nice depreciation-based refund a month ago. Deposited it in the bank here in Grantville. Seventeen hundred acres, sure. Some of it is just hillside, of course, since you and your dad bought anything that came on the market cheap enough. We’ve got the creeks flowing through some of them but it’s ours. We may have lost three parcels outside the Ring of Fire but we didn’t lose any rentals.

“But what I’m thinking is that we don’t have a mortgage on a single one of them any more. We always went through the Bank of Grantville but last year I refinanced them through a New York bank. Our trailer loans were all run through the Farmington bank. Do you realize we have absolutely no debt? None! Honey, we’ve got rent money coming in from thirty-one active rentals. Ten are empty right now, but that won't last long. Yeah, we've got taxes and maintenance expense. Some of those places are pretty old. But with Chip and Missy not going off to college, we could finance our own construction.”

Chad considered for a moment. “Well, that’s almost right. Most of our tenants were working in Fairmont, Morgantown or somewhere other than Grantville. In other words, where are they going to get the money to pay their rent?” He sipped his whiskey.

Debbie snorted. “That’s a temporary situation and you know it, Chad. They’ll have to buy their own food, too. They’ll pay their rent or they can move.”

Chad knew his smile was a bit twisted. Debbie might have gotten her degree in Elementary Education and taught until Missy was born, but running their rentals for the past several years had given her the same set of hard-headed business rules he had.

“Well, it’s a cinch real estate’s going to be just a bit more difficult to come by. Building materials are going to be just a bit more expensive as well. You planning on providing materials for the construction boom once it gets going?”

“We’ve got plenty of trees—maple, oak, ash, pine and other timber. We've never had any of those hillsides cut. I never liked the looks of the timber-cutters who came around. After the first one visited us, I checked out recommended timber-cutting best practices on the Internet. Then I started asking questions. Not a single one ever heard of a contract. So I said no thanks. Now we’re going to have a lot of scrub trees and tree limbs for fireplace wood as well as logs for construction.”

Chad took a sip from his glass. “Sounds good, I suppose. Doesn’t get my blood pumping any more than selling auto parts does.”

“Oh, I didn’t figure it would." Debbie stood and stretched. "We can hire someone to oversee the day to day operation but you should be there to watch. To see everything is done to conserve the land. They won’t pay attention to me. Anyway, there’s no way I’m going to hike into the woods to supervise a timber crew. You, well, you ran the dealership garage as well as the sales room.”

Chad nodded. It was a plan, at least. “Okay. Damn! I just had a thought. Where are they going to get the gas for the chain saws? Come to that, how are they going to haul the wood out of the woods?”

“The old fashioned way, I suppose. There’s bound to be a few of those big two-man saws and buck saws rusting in barns and garages . . . not to mention axes. You can probably hire some of our unemployed tenants to do the work.”

“Horses.” Chad frowned. “Might be able to get tractors but we’ll probably have to buy or rent draft horses or oxen to haul out wagons filled with firewood and the logs. Think your dad has any old horse collars lying about the barn? He’s bound to have some saws from your grandfather’s day. We can find farm wagons easily enough. Heck, just a few built-up wheeled axles with a tongue welded on. Won’t even need to have tires, just the rims. Next question is, does Denny’s Lumber still have its own sawmill?”

Debbie shook her head. “No. But I’m certain all the parts are there somewhere. Nathan never threw away anything. Thank God we got the electricity back. That’ll power the sawmills.”

“Well, looks like I’ve got something to keep me busy for a while. You can do the rentals and help the refugees with the other gals.”

Debbie glanced over at him. “Um . . . it’s a bit more than just helping. I got elected chairwoman.”

Chad sighed. Every time she became a chairwoman, it cost him money.

***

The dealership had to pay its mechanics to take apart the cars and trucks so Chad joined in to save on labor costs. He received strange looks the day he came into work wearing coveralls. He shrugged and gave a twisted smile. "Times are hard and money's tight." They all nodded with rueful grins. They'd been there.

Two days later, after completely disassembling three cars, Bob Szymanski, Chad's lead mechanic stood up and put down his wrench with deliberation. "This is stupid."

"Huh?" Chad asked.

"Why are we taking these cars apart?"

"Because we don't have any gas."

Bob put his tongue to the side of his cheek and shook his head with a teasing smile. "Uh-uh. We don't have gasoline. We do have gas."

Chad stood slowly. For minutes his face contorted as he thought. "Using barbecue grill gas tanks?" he asked with wry smile.

"I made a couple of gas-powered cars using kits when I was still in high school. We can compress the local gas. You ready to assume the position?"

Chad nodded and Bob gave a shrill whistle. All the other mechanics gleefully surrounded the two men. Chad stood for the traditional reward for Jenkins management stupidity, a practice started by his father. Whack! Bob delivered the dope slap to the back of Chad's head.

"Okay, guys. New orders. Bob, you're in charge of engine conversions. We'll work together on the pricing. Automobile or power units. I want each of you guys to do your own cars and then drive around town. Wait. Buy a lot of pressure tanks and their connections first. That's what's going to limit production. Cars are everywhere but not pressure tanks. When they're gone, we're out of that business. Okay?"

"What are we going to use for money to buy them, Chad?"

He grimaced. "I hope you guys like eating beans more than I do. We're going to have a couple tough months before things turn around."

***

“I’m telling you, Denny, there just ain’t enough logs coming in right now to keep that many guys hanging around.” Donnie Lee Swiger was arguing with Denny Reilly who was in the midst of setting up a sawmill for his lumber yard. Donnie Lee stopped talking when he saw Chad walk into the pole barn. “Oh, hi, Chad.”

“Hi, Donnie Lee, hi, Denny. How’s it going?” Chad had only a nodding acquaintance with Denny, who’d bought his last car from Trumble and was originally from Bluefield.

“Fine, fine.” A dozen years older than Chad, Denny spoke with confidence. “Getting the sawmill set up. I figure we’re going to need it. Found a couple torn up blades and one good one from back before the lumber company started buying dimensional lumber. We’ll be ready for business in a week. You planning on some new construction?”

“Not just yet. What with my stock in trade being rendered useless for the time being, I figured I might cut a little of my timber. Just me and a couple of my tenants. I figure a log or two a day, maybe less.” Chad leaned back against a steel beam, vaguely wishing he’d taken up tobacco chewing. The good old boys always had a chaw or a whittling knife when they started talking business. Gave them something to do while thinking. The one with the most patience usually got the better deal.

He didn’t bother to look at the avaricious gleam in Denny’s eyes. Donnie Lee was behind Denny, grinning like a cat watching a mouse approaching a piece of tempting cheese. Chad had been selling cars to Donnie Lee since he got out of the Army. While Denny might know a lot about the lumber business, Donnie Lee knew he had a lot to learn about mano-a-mano dealing with Chad.

“Now that’s interesting,” Denny countered. “I reckon we could buy anything you cut. In fact, we could probably throw in kiln-drying any lumber you want to keep for yourself. Good, stable wood, won’t split on you.”

“Sounds good.” Chad shrugged. “I figure I’d just cut enough to cover expenses until my rentals start producing a decent cash flow again. Most of them gotta get new jobs. Those who were inside the Ring of Fire. It was a nice day so some of my tenants were out of town.”

“Sorry to hear that. Sort of. I guess they’re happy that they’re back in their time rather than disappearing like us. You know, you might have to do timber-cutting longer than you think, what with all your empty or non-paying rentals. Here’s what I was thinking . . .”

It took four hours of hard negotiating but Denny finally “persuaded” Chad to go into the timber-cutting business in a big way, even financing two weeks pay for the lumber crew, just until they got their first payment for the logs from Denny. As was his custom, Chad deliberately left some money on the table for Denny, knowing that pigs get fat and hogs get butchered. Just like the car business, this wasn’t a one-time deal.

Late February, 1632

The trouble at the Refugee Center erupted quickly. Two women were flailing at each other, pulling hair, kicking and using their fists. Fights between women cooped up in the old high school gym during winter weather were nothing new to Debbie. She and two of her assistants ran over to break it up.

One woman was far more vicious than the other. Debbie grabbed her from behind. The woman pulled back her arm and her elbow collided with Debbie's right eye socket. Debbie hung onto the woman as she tried to twist and squirm away from Debbie's assistants to attack her opponent again.

"Excuse me. Is this the fishmonger's shop?" Debbie's mother-in-law, Eleanor Jenkins' voice pierced through the clamor. The question was so inappropriate that the struggling woman stopped fighting. Then she almost collapsed and started crying.

Debbie was so disoriented by the blow she lost the train of events for the next several minutes. By the time she understood what was going on, Eleanor had taken charge. She was sitting behind a long table on the announcement stage in her best imperial manner with two long-time friends, Nancy Reardon and Sandra Kip.

Eleanor tapped on the table with a small wooden mallet. "If you will all come to order, we'll get on with the hearing." Her tone was mild but firm. "There have been some strong accusations between the two combatants. Frau Maria Deschler, please step forward."

Maria was a sturdy dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties with a torn blouse and bruised face. Three children who looked to be between ten and two were standing around her, holding onto her apron.

"Frau Deschler, please make your statement before us and your peers," Eleanor pronounced in precise German.

"I don't know what happened, Honorable Frau Jenkins." The woman's chin shook. "I was about to wring out my washed clothing when this other woman came up to me, called me a thief and began hitting me. Naturally I fought back."

"What did she accuse you of stealing?"

"A wringer I bought from an up-timer a week ago."

"Liar!" the other woman screamed. She would have attacked Maria Deschler again except the men next to her held her back.

"Enough of that." Eleanor pounded her makeshift gavel on the table. "You may step back, Frau Deschler. Ursula Mitdorff, please step forward."

The brunette in her late twenties, her hair loose from her kerchief stepped in front of the stage. Anger was visible on her blotchy face and in every step.

"Frau Mitdorff, would you explain your actions and accusation?"

"It is Fraulein Mitdorff, Honorable Frau Jenkins. I am a laundress. She stole my wringer sometime last night. There are no other wringers here at the Refugee Center. I looked for it all morning and found her with it." The younger woman pointed at the other woman. "She is a thief!"

Nancy Reardon leaned over and whispered something to Eleanor. "Yes. Fraulein Mitdorff, we have the wringer in question. Can you identify it?"

The wringer was inside a box next to Sandra Kip and not visible to the young woman. "It is a Maytag. The cover is white. It has been modified so that it has a large wooden handle." Sandra looked down and nodded.

Eleanor's face was neutral and she breathed deeply, filling her lungs. "Thank you, Fraulein. Please step back. Frau Deschler, forward. Do you have anything to add to her description?"

"No, Honorable Frau." The woman was on the verge of tears. "But I bought it."

"From whom and how much did you pay?"

"I don't know his name. It was at the market. An up-timer. He wore a brown jacket and jeans. I paid . . . ten dollars."

"She is a liar!" The younger woman surged forward to the "witness position." She pointed at the mother. "I looked for weeks to find a wringer. None for sale! Anywhere!"

The older woman retreated. This time Sandra Kip asked the question. "If there were none for sale, exactly how did you acquire this wringer, Fraulein Mitdorff?" Her voice was ice in the cool and now silent gym.

The younger woman's face was pinched and white showed around her tight mouth. Then she lifted her head. "I paid for it with my body. An up-timer saw me wringing out laundry. For two weeks I visited him at night. Two weeks in which he . . ." Tears came to her eyes and she wiped them away after clearing her throat. "I did anything he wanted. He was at least honorable enough to keep his bargain."

The faces of the three women at the table were harsh. "Frau Deschler? What have you to say?" asked Nancy Reardon. One glance at the mother and it was obvious to everyone that she'd stolen and then lied about it. She shook her head in terror.

"I only wanted to dry my children's clothes quickly. I'd seen how well her wringer worked and knew it came from an up-timer. I didn't know how she'd . . ." The woman buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

Eleanor nodded to Sandra who handed the object to the young woman. "Fraulein Mitdorff, please take your wringer with our apologies. Apologies for this incident and for the way you had to pay for it." The laundress gathered it to her chest and, head down, quickly left the area.

Eleanor folded her hands together on the table and shook her head. "Frau Deschler. I shall not ask your peers what German law says should be your punishment. This is Grantville." Sandra and Nancy leaned over, hands concealing their words as they spoke to Eleanor. She gave a quick nod. "Frau Deschler. For your error you will first sincerely apologize to Fraulein Mitdorff. Then you will do community service for a month. Frau Deborah Jenkins will give you your work assignments. For the rest of you, do not attempt to bother either of these women about this incident. This hearing is finished."

Frau Deschler would have left but Debbie blocked her departure until Eleanor and the others joined them. Eleanor looked her in the eye. "Frau Deschler, I hope you understand that this hearing was not a legal court. Community service assigned by Frau Jenkins is not enforceable. But if Fraulein Mitdorff and the others here see you doing it, they will not want it to go further."

Frau Deschler was trembling as she nodded. "I hope so."

Debbie gently put her hand on the woman's arm. "Why don't you introduce me to your children?"

***

Camping during winter in Germany is damn cold, Chad told himself. One of Dad's old mechanics had told him about being constantly exhausted while slogging through France during the winter of ’44-45 but it never sunk in until now. He could have walked the two miles each way to and from home every day but the days were short. If he wanted to make sure the land didn’t get trashed, he had to be on site. Besides, the weather took it out of him. An extra hour or more each way, climbing over snow-covered hills and walking on icy roads was exhausting.

Money had been tight, damn tight even without the loan and mortgage payments because over half of their renters were looking for new jobs. Chad and Debbie talked it through and told their unemployed renters that they had a one month's rent moratorium. During those months the Jenkins family's only expenditures were for food because the utility and phone billings were in shambles. Chad's biggest source of pride during those months was that he hadn't missed a dealership payroll in spite of buying gas tanks. He hadn't failed his people.

Their tax refund and the few paying rentals barely covered expenses until the rental, engine conversion and timber money began to kick in. Once all his previous renters found jobs and he filled the open rentals, he finally had net income rather than losses. Then his stomach unknotted.

In October his timber crew built two bunkhouses that could be transported to each new site. They’d also found two potbellied stoves somewhere, so the bunkhouses stayed warm at night and during winter storms.

Once the logs had been trimmed and cut to proper length, they were hauled out of the forest down to the edge of the road. From there the logs went to the sawmill.

***

It was a late February Friday afternoon when the crew rode the wagon filled with firewood into town. Estes Frost, the experienced logger Chad had hired as his timber-cutting boss, would pay the crew its wages after the firewood wagon was emptied at the lumberyard.

“I’m home!” Chad unwrapped his woolen scarf before taking off his now-roomy insulated jacket. He had spent the past five days at the logging camp near the edge of the Ring of Fire. Not all of the extra forty pounds had come off his six-foot frame but he had a lot more muscle. Chad always had been the type of boss who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty or in this case, wielding an axe. In the woods over the past several months, his rounded salesman's face had transformed into one with chiseled features, accentuated by a neatly trimmed full beard.

After hanging up his coat, Chad turned to see his short, fair-haired wife enter the hallway. His mouth fell open in shock. "What in the world happened to you?"

A huge black and blue bruise covered Debbie's right cheek and around her eye. She gave a crooked smile. "Tried to break up a fight at the Center yesterday. Caught an elbow. Doesn't hurt. Much." She gave a short chuckle and then started laughing. "Then your mom was there and oh, my God, took charge. She, Nancy Reardon and Aunt Sandra held a mock trial right there for the two women." Debbie shook her head as if in disbelief and then grimaced.

"Had to do with a converted Maytag wringer. One woman stole it. The other woman, a laundress, had paid for it by prostituting herself for two weeks. Imagine how much fun that must have been." Debbie's lips tightened and then she spoke again. "Apparently there are absolutely no wringers for sale at any price."

Chad sighed and shook his head. "What we take for granted." Then he gave a snort of laughter. "My wife, the five-foot, hundred ten pound bouncer." He lightly stroked around her bruised cheek. "Better give your mom and sister a call before they see you at church and jump to conclusions."

Debbie's lips tightened into a pucker and went to the side of her mouth. "Yeah. Aura Lee would love to believe it. I'll tell them to check with Aunt Sandra."

"Where are the girls?"

"Missy's in her room studying and Gertrude's at a dress rehearsal for a school play. The first showing is today but we've got tickets for tomorrow. Missy's got a date tonight. Make you think of anything, big fella?" Her mouth was slightly open in a smile and she ran her tongue across her upper lip.

"Hmm. I think after a long soak in the bath and supper, I'd like nothing more than a good night's sleep. It's hard sleeping in those stacked bunks." He answered with a bland face and slightly arched eyebrows.

"Why you!" Debbie laughed and pushed the much larger Chad against the wall. "If you think for one minute that I'm going to let you get away with that, you've got another think coming."

Chad covered her shoulders with his hands, his fingertips extending to massage her upper back. He gave her a teasing smile. "How soon is dinner? If I take a nice bath but not too long, do you think Missy would notice if we just happen to be in Chip's bedroom for oh, an hour or three?"

Debbie giggled. "Oh, really? You have some of those little blue pills squirreled away? I've heard about you lumberjacks and your long straight logs. We're having beef stew and it's in the slow cooker. I was already thinking along those lines."

Before dinner and again in the evening didn't quite catch them up but there was always tomorrow, Chad thought as Debbie snuggled under his arm. An idle thought came to him. "Honey, when were wringers invented?"

Debbie opened her eyes. "What? Well, not yet. Might be in the encyclopedia. Why?"

"It occurs to me that if one laundress in Grantville is willing to . . . you know . . . for one, then there must be one hell of a potential demand out there."

"What are you talking about, Chad Jenkins?" Debbie propped her head on one hand and looked at him in the dim light.

"We've pretty well logged out the valleys that are going to be flooded over the next few years. I'll bet I could start a company to make wringers. There have to be some in Grantville I can base one on. Sheds, barns, like that."

"I think Mom still has one back in a corner of the barn."

"Great. Now all I have to do is convince her to let me borrow it."

Debbie's mouth made a tight O. “Ooh, yeah. And she likes you so much . . .”

***

“Like hell you will, Charles Jenkins!” Vera Hudson snarled. She never used foul or abusive language but for Chad, she’d make an exception.

“Aw, come on, Vera! All I need to do is take it apart, get the measurements and tolerances. Then I’ll put it back together. One of my old mechanics will do it, not me, I promise. I’ll even make certain it’s working properly before I bring it back.” Chad looked at his diminutive mother-in-law, then back at the dust-covered wringer and washing machine in the barn. It had been built sometime in the twenties or thirties, he figured because it had a gasoline engine attached. The electric lines had come out here in . . . He couldn’t remember, but it was well before he’d been born.

“I said no and that’s final. Don’t think you can get around me by talking to Willie Ray, either.” While her daughter Debbie might have forgiven Chad for his affair years ago, Vera never had. Or would, Chad thought. Willie Ray was smart enough to stay out of it.

“Tell you what, I’ll give you a share of all the profits. Just like you owned the patent.” Chad thought desperately. Vera was being so unreasonable! It wasn’t like he’d sold her a lemon at any time. Come to think of it, they’d bought from Trumble ever since the episode with Noreen.

“Do I have to go inside the house and get the twelve gauge?” Vera set her jaw.

“No, I guess not.” Chad sighed. He turned away from the barn. “Tell Willie Ray I said hi.” Chad started walking down the driveway to the main road. Well, as Rev. Jones said in his sermon the other day, when God closes one door, he opens another. There has to be another operable wringer somewhere in town. They couldn’t have junked all of the old washers! It seemed like all the really old ones had been scrapped in metal drives during WWII.

Then he brightened. Mom would know who still had one!

***

Two days later he received a call. “I hear you’re lookin’ for an old wringer washer,” the old woman’s voice said. “I got one in my shed iffin’ you’d come out to look at it.”

An hour later, covered with cobwebs and dust, Chad finally got the wringer-washer out. It was heavy but the weight was almost all from the oak wood. It was like moving a barrel on a wooden stand with a raised arm sticking out. Not enough metal to scrap.

Carmela Matheny had to be in her eighties, he estimated. Face wrinkled, body bent over and dependent on a cane to keep from falling over. “It’s exactly what I was looking for, Mrs. Matheny. How much do I owe you?” Chad reached to pull out his wallet.

“Fifty percent,” she croaked. “Fifty percent of all your sales and I want it on the first of every month.”

Chad grinned and put away his wallet. “Well then, ma’am. I figure this is going to take a while. If you’ve got tea inside the house, I’ll brew some for both of us.”

“No, you ain’t.” Carmela's response was acerbic. “Anybody makes tea, it’ll be me. This way.” She gestured with the tip of her cane towards the screened-in back porch. “Don’t you try helping me up the steps, neither. Wouldn’t let my kids do it and I ain’t about to let you." She gripped the galvanized steel pipe handrail with her free hand. “I may be old but I’m still spry enough to get around. Folks think that just because you’re old and crippled up with arthritis, you ought to be living in a nursing home. Humpf! My mind ain’t that far gone yet.”

Once in the kitchen, Carmela put some water on to boil. “Ain’t seen you up close since, must be 1960. Your mama brought you to the Kennedy rally.”

“Sorry, I don’t remember.” Sales were all about patience. And knowing when to close. “How do you know her?”

“She didn’t tell you? Well, I reckon not. We’re cousins. Our mamas were sisters, two of the Williams girls.” The water began boiling. Carmela turned off the burner and dropped two teabags into the pan. She brought it over to the table and set it on a hot pad. “You like sugar?”

“No thanks, Mrs. Matheny. Learned to drink it without.”

“Hmm. Reckon I’ll have to get by with honey when this runs out.” She stirred in a scant teaspoon of sugar from the pink plastic container. “Bet you never heard of the Williams girls neither, have you? Thought not. There was five girls. Anna, Bethany, Charity, Deborah and Esther. No brothers, so that was the last of that line. There’s some Williams around but they ain’t no relation. The Williams girls are why you’re related to ‘most everybody in town.”

“Anna now, she was the oldest. She married Harold Stearns, that’s Mike Stearns’ great-grandpa. My mama was Bethany and she married an Atkins. Charity married Joshua Reardon, Phil Reardon’s pa, but she died before they had any kids so he married Nina Curtis, as I recall. Deborah married William Hudson, Willie Ray’s uncle and Esther, the baby, married Joe Newton, your grandpa. They’re all gone now. Folks always joke about how West Virginians always marry kinfolk. In your case, it was hard not to.”

“That’s interesting.” Chad set his cup down. “Mom probably has it all down in her genealogy records but I never took much of an interest.”

“Well, you should. Talking about your mama, she used to be the wild one. Took after her fiddlin’ papa, I expect. My little brother, Tommy, and her used to run around together.” She stopped, coughed and dabbed at her eyes with a dish towel. “Tommy never got off Omaha Beach.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes again. A moment later she cleared her throat and resumed. “She always swore she’d never get tied down by any man. I figured some boy would change her mind after the war. Course, your ma went from being a wild girl to as straight-backed and upright a woman as you can find after she married your pa. Reckon having a kid right off the bat can make some real changes in you.” There was a knowing look in her pale blue eyes. Yeah, she’d counted the months.

“Oh, just to give you fair warning, Grandpa Williams was a horse-trader. I used to go around with him when I was a girl. I ain’t going to be as easy a touch as that lumber yard boy, even if you are kin.”

***

"You gave her how much?” Debbie's eyes were wide with amazement.

“Twenty percent of the profits,” Chad answered glumly. “How she got me to agree to that number is beyond me. It was like she could read my mind every time I made a counter-offer. At the end, I thought I was doing well to hold her down to that number. Her husband probably never had a chance against her in an argument.”

“What did she give you other than the wringer-washer?”

“Well, she said she thought she might have an older one her mom used around somewhere. That and some other things she brought in from the farm after her mom died. She said she’d look a bit and I should come out to help her do it. I think she just wants me to clean out the shed behind her house.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Then Debbie gave him a crooked smile. “Bet you could have gotten a better deal from Ursula Mitdorff."

Chad smacked his forehead. "Arrgh! Totally forgot about her. Damn!” He shook his head. “But I did learn you and I are kissing cousins. And we're related to the Stearns and the Mathenys as well. Almost to the Reardons. Huh! Mike Stearns and me. Who woulda thunk?”

“Well, it does explain why neither you or Mike gets the better of the other in making a deal. So how long do you have to pay that royalty?”

Chad sighed. “To her, until she dies. After that, I pay it into a trust that gives half to help support her daughter-in-law until she dies. Sylvia’s got M.S. From then on it’s split between her grandkids. The other half will go to support war orphans during their education. It stops twenty years after the war’s over. She says she’ll have it written up by tomorrow and I’ll take it to a lawyer. I can live with it.”

***

Two wooden rollers. Six gears. Spacers. All on the workbench in the service garage. Along with four bearings, several pieces of wood, housings for each side to hold the gears and bearings, a bent iron bar used as a spring and a long iron arm with a wooden handle.

“What do you think?” Chad asked his former lead mechanic. Bob Szymanski now had a nice little nest egg from the natural gas conversions and was gainfully employed by the Mechanical Support group.

“No problem to assemble them,” Bob answered. “In fact, it’s dead easy. Your problem’s going to be getting the gears, spacers and the iron bar. Forget bearings, they’re impossible for years. The rollers, distance separation and handle can all be made of hickory or another tough wood but the gears? For that you’re going to need some machining. You might be able to make cast gears out of iron, one by one. Then cut the cogs with a file and match them up with the other cogs on the other gears.” Bob rubbed his forehead with his palm. “I sure wouldn’t want to, though. The down-time blacksmiths are supposed to be pretty good. You might give them a try.”

“Thanks, Bob. Could we, I don't know, stamp them out?”

“Me? Nope. Anything I could stamp would bend every which way. But I'll bet a down-time blacksmith could hot stamp your gears out of cast iron. He'd finish them with a file until they’re just right. If it was a master blacksmith, all he’d really need is to see how the thing works and he’d be ready to go to town.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Chad gloomily chewed on the corner of his lower lip. “I want him to be making them for me, not himself.”

“Aw, come on, Chad, lighten up.” Bob grinned. “You never made cars, did you? Your job’s always been to sell the product, not make or fix it. Give him a share of the biz and that’d get you past all the guild problems at the same time.”

Chad smiled as what Bob said sunk in. A broad grin spread across his face. “By George, I think you’ve got it! Now what I need to do is get some well-seasoned hickory and oak. Then find a good blacksmith. I don’t really want to get him from Rudolstadt. The Count’s just a little too sharp as far as I’m concerned and might start asking questions. I’ll check with the refugee center to see if there’s a blacksmith who hasn’t gotten gobbled up by USE Steel and isn’t already too busy. If not, Chip will know if there’s a master or journeyman blacksmith in Jena who lost his forge because his town got destroyed. All he’ll need is metal. I think we can scrounge some from USE Steel. They’re talking tons. We won’t need much, at least not in the beginning. Probably never.”

***

“Dad, I’ve got the perfect guy for you. I asked a blacksmith here in town who would be willing to relocate. He suggested Ulrich Dauer. The guy’s an absolute genius. I watched him do things with iron you wouldn’t believe. Trouble is, he knows it. Absolutely zero people skills and is an insufferable ass, which is why he hasn’t been accepted by the local guild. Lost his wife and later his forge when his town was destroyed. He’s got an apprentice he abuses and travels to work in nearby small towns like Cosberg or for minor nobility. They won’t let him set up a forge in Jena.

“One thing you should know. This guy’s an absolute suck-up to nobility. Worse than some Americans I could mention. Joachim talked with him. Told him you had even more money and land than his father, which may even be true. Anyway, he talked to me like I was the Emperor’s son.

“Let me know if you want me to discuss a deal with him. Regards, Chip”

Chad refolded the letter and smiled. Not only an insufferable ass but was also desperate to associate with nobility? Piece of cake.

***

“Honey, I’m going to be hiring a blacksmith for the wringer business and I want to impress him, like we were nobility. A 'von Grantville' evening. So the best china along with the kind of meal only you can prepare. I want Mom, Missy and Gertrude to dine with us as well.”

Debbie looked at him warily. “Do you want us to go formal, too? The dress I wore to the national sales awards dinner fits better than it did then. I’ll talk with your mom.”

“Great. The girls, well, as good as we can get them. Can’t have you seen in the kitchen, so we’ll . . .”

“Let me handle it, dear. You just worry about where to put him up.”

***

“Herr Dauer?” The short, strongly-built older man with a mustache looked towards the speaker. Chad had gotten Veit Kruger, one of Gertrude’s teenage German admirers to meet the smith. At the look from Dauer, Veit went on. “Herr Jenkins has arranged for you to stay in a private house with your apprentice.” The sturdy adolescent apprentice was struggling with the smith’s heavy work chest.

“If you will follow me? It is a short walk.” Veit gestured to a small house two blocks away. “Herr Jenkins has provided what is called a ‘dolly’ to transport your chest.” Veit pushed the dolly toward the apprentice. “Your apprentice can follow us.”

Once inside the small two-bedroom house, Veit demonstrated how to turn the lights on and off as well as the toilet, sink and shower. “There is a kitchen here but no cook or maid. This was the home of a widow who died recently. Do not insert anything inside or allow water to enter these small double slots you see here.” Veit pointed at the electrical outlet. “They can be most dangerous if not understood. If you accept Herr Jenkins offer, they will be explained at a time convenient to you.”

“When will I meet Herr Jenkins?” Dauer's voice was stiff.

“I will come for you an hour after sundown. You will be dining with the family of Herr Jenkins, a great honor.” Veit had been coached to answer that way.

***

“Good evening, Herr Dauer. So good to meet you.” Chad welcomed him broadly. He’d decided to wear a navy pin-striped suit, brilliant red silk tie and an oxford blue buttoned-down shirt.

“I am happy to meet you, Herr von Grantville.” Dauer began formally but stopped when he saw Chad lift his hand.

“There is no 'von Grantville.' Just Herr Jenkins. It is not our custom,” Chad said mildly. “Will you join me for a sherry?”

“Thank you, Herr . . . Jenkins.” Dauer took a small glass of sherry.

“Prost.” Chad toasted Dauer. One sip down, he continued, “Every now and then I insist my entire family dine together formally. I hope you don't mind.”

“Oh, no, sir.” Dauer was intimidated by Chad’s easy familiarity and was uncomfortable wearing his best clothing. Dauer usually wore a heavy leather apron, leather trousers and a sleeveless linen shirt when he worked. Even so, he would never be willing to forego this opportunity.

“My son says you are a genius in iron, which is why I asked you to come to Grantville. I have a need for some iron to be cast and worked, really something I think would be elementary for someone of your skills. We will discuss it further after dinner.” Chad ended his comments when Debbie came toward them.

Debbie was wearing a scalloped-neck, electric blue gown which fell to just above her shoes. “Good evening, dear.” She took Chad’s hand. “Will you introduce us?”

“Herr Ulrich Dauer, this is my wife, Frau Deborah Jenkins. Deborah, this is Herr Dauer, the master smith I told you about. A glass of sherry?”

Debbie smiled. "Thank you. I believe I will."

Ten minutes after Chad been expecting them, the girls came downstairs. “This is my daughter, Fraulein Melissa Jenkins and our houseguest, Fraulein Gertrude Wiegert who is continuing her studies in Grantville. She’s originally from the Palatinate but the war . . . well, you understand. Her younger brother and older sister are currently living in Jena. I believe you’ve met her sister’s favored suitor, Joachim von Thierbach.”

Both girls were graceful in their dresses. Missy’s was patterned on her mother’s dress. Gertrude’s was based on one worn by the daughter of Duke Johann Philipp of Saxe-Altenburg. Sewing machines and the proper materials in the hands of some of the older women in town could work wonders.

A few minutes later, Chad’s mother, in a fashionable dark green suit, came into the room. “Sorry I’m late. I hope you’ll accept my apologies.” She smiled at Dauer and took her seat.

Debbie selected a Vivaldi CD for their dinner music. It would be followed by Pachebel and Bach. Dinner itself began with a white wine and green salad with shredded carrots in a vinaigrette dressing. Afterwards a bottle of merlot, some of the last in their cellar, was brought in. Chad poured the wine shortly before the sliced roast beef, baked potatoes and steamed green beans with the last of their slivered almonds were put on the table. Debbie had been in the kitchen all afternoon, much to the dismay of the German cook they’d hired for the evening. Then Debbie had gotten another woman from the refugee center to help their maid, Christina, serve the food.

Dauer, of course knew none of this. He watched as Chad and Debbie left their salad forks on the salad plate. Then how they used the dinner fork and knife for the rest of the meal. He knew of the potato but had never imagined that it would be eaten by humans at any time, unless in extremity. Upon tasting it, he found it to be, well, edible but rather bland, even with butter, salt and pepper.

All the while, Chad, Debbie and Chad’s mother kept up a spirited conversation about the current political situation, business and music. They frequently asked Dauer his opinions based on his being native to these times. Also about his experiences traveling around the region. He easily recognized the primacy Herr Jenkins’ mother had over the family, quite unlike his own grandmother. What threw him off the most was the easy familiarity Missy and Gertrude had, conversing with everyone including the grandmother. In all, Dauer was amazed by the high level of discussion and the total absence of gossip.

Then Missy asked, “How does your apprentice feel about coming to Grantville?”

“I don’t discuss such matters with him, Fraulein Jenkins,” Dauer responded. He was about to go farther but saw Chad’s stillness and direct look. Not to Missy’s question but to his answer.

A moment later, the crème brulèe was brought in. Smiles burst on Missy and Gertrude’s faces as the bowls were placed before them. The creamy custard topped with a thin layer of sugar caramelized under the broiler was a rare treat.

“One of my favorite desserts but harder to make now that sugar is more expensive than I care to pay,” Chad commented. His spoon cracked through the thin crust into the custard.

“It’s exquisite,” Dauer burst out. “Cream I’ve had, even flavored creams but never prepared in such a fashion. I’ve had sugar, of course, but I’ve never seen it melted and used as a crust.”

“Our standard dessert at supper would have been ice cream, possibly with some fruit.” Debbie smiled. “The fruit was often shipped in from thousands of miles away during the winter. We would get both the fruit and the flavored ice cream from a local market. We stored it chilled or frozen here in our home. All too soon the machine we use to keep it cold could break. We'll have to reinvent a method to keep things frozen some time in the future.”

“Amazing.” Dauer's mind circled. “To be able to put inventions on a time schedule. I used to make regular experiments but I lost my notebooks when my home was destroyed by raiders. I lost all my wealth at the same time. I . . . haven't experimented since my wife died in childbirth.”

The entire Jenkins clan looked at him with sympathy. Chad spoke first. "I don't know that experimentation will be necessary for what I want. But it seems to me you might want to start replicating your experiments."

Dauer nodded.

***

After dinner Dauer accepted the chair Chad offered in his home office. “An amazing family you have, Herr Jenkins. I never imagined women could be so intelligent.”

“They’re gifted with as many brains as men are, perhaps even more.” Chad gave a faint smile. “The difference you’ve seen is that the women in my family are allowed to grow in knowledge. Kinder, Kirche und Kueche are all very well, but not overriding. My wife and mother attended universities. One theory is that more educated mothers have more intelligent daughters. Personally, I don’t think it’s in the blood. If the child sees her mother doing intelligent things, she is encouraged to do intelligent things herself. If you had the opportunity to observe my son with women, I think you saw he does not dismiss them as mindless idiots.

“Likewise, I make the blanket assumption that everyone can learn. Some actually cannot learn due to limitations of their minds, some are only able to reason to a certain extent, but the rest try to live up to my expectations. I've been disappointed but not all that often. The reason I bring this up is because of your attitude towards your apprentice.”

“What about him, Herr Jenkins?” Dauer looked stubborn. “His parents paid me money to train him and I’m training him. He is learning, even if I have to use the stick on him regularly.”

“That’s just the problem.” Chad gestured widely. “Long before my time we found that while you can make a donkey go forward with a stick, once you stop hitting him, he stops moving or moves slowly. On the other hand, if you encourage him, praise him when he actually accomplishes something, he will want to keep moving faster and faster. Those are the classic carrot and stick approaches to education.”

“Herr Jenkins! I have tried and tried to do that but he is like your donkey. I have to get his attention. My master beat me regularly until I spotted him making a mistake one day. I didn’t tell him and the iron was ruined. I kept the pleasure of that knowledge in my heart. I then began to find out how ...