To hell with them all. Dice had lost his Karen, forty-five years of hard work, twenty years as a damned Linotype operator and twenty-five as a damned pressman after the damned computers had taken his damned job away. God how he hated that pressman's job! A quarter century hauling paper and permanently stained fingers, but he'd stuck with it.
Then, to top it all off, right before he was ready to retire and tell the whole world to take a flying leap, the local chunk of world had taken a flying leap and Dysart Clifford along with it!
Dice grumbled out loud as he walked the ten blocks to his two-bedroom house with a single bag of groceries. Sixty-four years old, over $523,000 in a Fidelity Retirement account, and a paid-off boat and house on Sutton Lake—all shot to hell. Now, here he was stuck in the 1600s with no retirement. All because he got a bargain on the house in Grantville when the mine shut down. Why hadn't he gone to Sutton that Sunday? Why did the Ring of Fire happen to him?
Dice grumbled louder and noticed that people were stepping off the sidewalk to avoid him. For good measure he snarled at the next pedestrian and delighted when the shocked down-timer almost fell over himself getting out of his way.
It's damned hard to snarl when you're laughing inside.
With his mood much improved, his step lightened and the final blocks home passed quickly.
Elfriede Schützin made her choice. Her husband had died a year ago and her year of mourning was over. As a shoemaker in Coburg, he had made a passable living. As a widow, she had not. When news of the Ring of Fire and the Americans had reached her town, it was not a difficult choice at all to leave Kurt and Anna with neighbors while she went to check out the Americans from the future.
Perhaps she could find work there. The Americans she had seen were all lords, of course, in their marvelous vehicles from the future and their fine clothes. Such as they would surely need a good cook. So, with letters of recommendation from her neighbors and priest, she set out for Grantville.
Four months later, she was still in the refugee center. Kurt and Anna were in the Grantville school and she was taking English lessons, but there were no American lords, and no grand castles. There were also lots of people like her looking to the rich Americans for a better life.
And although she had not found work with one of the Americans, she had found a niche at the refugee center. With girlhood lessons at her mother's knee well learned, she combed the dense woods around the center for the ingredients that made her, if not the head cook, at least the head recipe maker. With the help of the old folks around town and books from more than one home, she quickly identified the edible plants, herbs, berries and other kitchen essential that grew wild in the steep West Virginia hills. More and more Americans were finding reason to be around the refugee center at dinnertime.
"Trudy, haff ve got eggs today?" she had asked her friend and head cook at the center.
"Ja, Effi. Lots of zem." Gertrude was her best friend at the center. They bunked near each other, laughed together, and watched each other's children. The crowded refugee center was like a community where neighbors looked out for each other.
But Gertrude Zeiss had Hermann. And Hermann was a popular workman among the down-timers. They would not be staying long at the refugee center.
"If you vill keep an eye on Anna, Kurt und I vill go chopping."
"Shopping, Mama. It's pronounced mit a 'shah,' not a 'chah.'"
Effi slung her big net bag over one shoulder and pulled her machete from its leather scabbard and wielded it like a sword. "Ven I say chopping, I mean chopping!"
"Javol, mein Kapitan!" Her nine-year-old saluted, laughing, and slung his own net bag to march out behind his mother.
Dice's good mood lasted until he opened the door to the dark house and the dark TV. He could turn on all the lights and play a tape, but that would just make them wear out faster. There weren't going to be any more light bulbs, TVs, or VCRs for quite some time and he was determined to make them last. He looked longingly at the TV and heaved a sigh for the Pittsburgh Pirates. Just on the other side of the dark TV screen was the twentieth century and Three Rivers Stadium where the Pirates would be playing Cincinnati tonight. He plopped in his chair and looked out the window, almost in tears.
Outside on the sidewalk was the German bag lady with her tote full of dandelions. Several weeks before, she had knocked politely on his door with her prepared speech, "Mai I pliz haff yoo dandy lions?" She seemed so sincere and with his consent immediately fell to harvesting the weeds. She was young, clean, thirty-something, with blonde braids tightly coiled on each side of her head, a brown down-timer blouse, and sturdy green skirt that hung to her ankles. He was so taken at her industriousness that he had pointed out a patch of mint growing by the back door. "Ach! Minze!" She happily placed a few starters in a carry-cloth.
What she was doing out so late was none of his business.
Dice walked through the dark house to the kitchen. He never kept the refrigerator too full in the best of times and nowadays it was getting downright bare. The freezer held a lonesome Swanson turkey pot pie and a partially consumed half gallon of Neapolitan ice cream with freezer-frost thick on the lid. Lots of ice, though. Since he'd run out of Scotch, the need for ice cubes had diminished considerably. He put the few groceries away and left out the brown bread and sausage for his supper. At least the beer had improved. He drew a frothy mug from the recycled one gallon Heineken keg.
In the back yard, a thump and an "oof" indicated a trespasser or a critter down from the hillside behind his house. Neither was welcome, but if it was a two-legged critter, it gave him an opportunity to vent a little of his anger and liven up the night a bit.
Two steps took Dice to the shotgun in the broom closet and two more brought him to the back door. He unlocked the door, slapped the porch light, threw the door wide, and racked a shell into the chamber.
Spread-eagled and unmoving on the ground beneath the thick limb of the maple tree, was the German bag lady. Blood oozed from her right eyebrow to make a bloody trail across her temple into her still neatly arranged hair.
Elfriede woke up with a ringing headache. Above her an old man stood with his feet apart like an avenging angel. His white hair, lit from behind by the electric light, framed his head like a halo. He held one of the American "shotguns."
With a snap, Effi realized what had happened. She had run into something in the dark. She also recognized the man as the one who had permitted her to take some of his mint. Sitting upright slowly, she threw her skirts modestly back around her ankles.
"Mein Sohn. Ich kann nicht meinen Sohn finden! "
"Try it in English," Dice grumbled.
"Iss same in English." she said as though to a child. "I can not my son find. He come back here." And then louder. "Kurt! Wo sind du? Verstecken sie nicht sich von mir!"
A small voice came from the bushes by the corner of the house. "I'm not your son."
"Well come on out so we can see who else you're not."
"Don't shoot. I'll come out!"
Dice felt a proper fool waving his shotgun around under these less than threatening circumstances and placed the gun on the porch.
"What's your name, boy?"
"I'm Cody Brown. I stay with the Lawsons."
Dice looked at the tow-headed youngster in the light from the porch. He was probably one of the foster kids that Bill and Corda took in for extra income. Dice took momentary pleasure from the fact that the checks from the county wouldn't be coming any more. But that was probably why the kid was out after dark. Bill didn't do much for free. No point in Dice picking on the kid; the boy would have enough troubles.
The German bag lady was unsteadily trying to stand. Dice and Cody each took an arm and helped her upright and into the kitchen. In the better lighting inside, he could see a spectacular bruise forming.
Dice liberated some ice from the solid lump of cubes in the icemaker, wrapped them in a clean towel and whacked them a couple times on the tile countertop to break them up. A wet paper towel swabbed the little trail of blood and a Band Aid covered the small cut.
As he worked, Dice noticed the boy's nervousness. He was also curious why and from whom the kid was hiding.
"Cody, do you know where her son is?"
"Uh . . ."
"Is he outside?"
"Uh . . ."
He turned to the German woman. "Is your son in trouble?"
She shook her head, wincing at the pain. "Chust him I vant to find."
Cody thought about it for a second, then went to the screen door. "Kurt, It's okay."
The German boy appeared at the door and looked sheepishly inside. Cody opened the screen door and led the second youngster into the kitchen. "I'm sorry, Frau Schützin. We went into the woods to hunt for some herbs for you, and it got dark before we could get back."
Dice stifled a smile. No one could fabricate a believable excuse out of thin air like a nine-year-old. The two boys stood together like condemned prisoners, clearly expecting not to be believed.
Effi looked relieved, "Then all ist goot. Kurt, get your bag und we will take the herbs you have gathered back to the shelter."
The boys' faces fell. They were truly caught in a lie and they knew it.
"There are no herbs, are there?"
"No, ma'am."
Dice put his two cents in. "You were playing, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"And because of your actions, Kurt's mother has been seriously hurt." Dice tried to look stern; and mostly succeeded.
"Pliz, Trudy may I alzo borrow ein vun qvart baggie?" Effi asked politely. The dark haired Kitchen Policeman In Charge took a Ziploc off the drying line and carefully put it right side out. Effi filled the baggie with her signature Dandelion Salad and placed it in her tote bag atop the precious Rubbermaid containers that were filled with venison stew and cheese grits. Containers weren't needed for the fresh loaf of crusty brown bread and the loop of dark sausage.
Around dark, Dice arrived home to see the German bag—correction—Elfriede seated primly on his front steps. He briefly considered running, but decided he could endure a weepy female for a while. He hadn't seen the neighbor kids warn their mothers that he was coming or their diaspora from his front porch and retreat behind window blinds to watch the show.
"I haff come to t'ank you, Herr Cliffort. You vas very kind to Kurt und me." She was so sincere and so calm that Dice had trouble keeping his smile under control. In her unhurried speech, she showed the food she had prepared for him and could she pliz use his kitchen to make him a hot meal?
Now Dice was an old coot. But Mama Clifford didn't raise no dumb puppies and he was well aware of the barren nature of his cupboard. Turn down a hot meal? Not bloody likely!
She firmly ejected him from the kitchen and set him down at the end of the table with a salad of green leafy strips, pieces of boiled egg, grated yellow cheese and the last of his Thousand Island dressing from the refrigerator. It was very good! But the edge of one leaf piqued his curiosity. Unfolding one of the larger pieces—it was a dandelion! Damn! No wonder she was harvesting the stuff! Clatter of dishes, clank of saucepan and skillet, even a beep beep beep of the microwave. Now he was impressed. He was tempted to peek, but restrained himself by pretending to read a magazine but his ears were tuned to the noises from the kitchen.
"Oakee Doakee. Iss ready!"
Elfriede placed bowls of hot food on the table and stood with her hands folded primly before a spotless white apron. Flowers from who knows where made a yellow and purple centerpiece.
This wouldn't do. From the cabinet, he retrieved a second setting and placed it at the opposite end of the table.
"Now iss ready," he deliberately mispronounced, and held her seat expectantly. Flustered, she paused uncertainly before taking the offered seat.
The food she had provided was rich and tasty. The tender chunks of venison, carrots, potatoes, onions, and celery in a thick clear broth was unlike the canned stew he used to nuke in the microwave. Also there was a casserole of yellow something that he had at first mistaken for mashed potatoes. But it was topped with baked yellow cheese and delicious.
To Effi's delight, he praised her stew, made from scratch from available provender. But she wanted to have something American, too and had made some thrice cooked cheese grits from Sarah Jane Mason's recipe. She had a moment of panic when he stopped for a second at the first bite. But then appreciation showed on his face and he took another big bite.
"What is this?"
Now she was confused. Sara Jane had pronounced her grits to be very good. "Iss gritz. Iss not goot?"
"Grits?" These were better than the horrible stuff they served instead of hash browns at the restaurants. "No. Yes. They're very good! Excellent!"
"Eggs of Lent? No. Cheese—Käse—Fromage! You like?"
"God! I need a dictionary!"
"Ach! I haff a dikzhunary!" She bounced up and retrieved a precious paperback English-German dictionary from her bag, borrowed especially for this event.
In minutes, they had pulled their chairs and placemats around to the long side of the table and were looking up words between bites.
Dice leaned back in his La-Z-Boy with a bulging belly, a book and a beer. It reminded him what it was like to be married. But since Karen, women had always been too much trouble. He never dated much and when he did, his dates usually bored him by talking too much about people he didn't know or didn't like. After a while he stopped asking them out. He would come home, nuke a dinner, watch some TV and go to bed.
Until the Ring of Fire.
Now he was an old fart that people thought was a bit "tetched." That was okay before, but now, after two evenings of company and activity, he discovered that he had become a lonely old man.
Clattering from the kitchen stopped and Elfriede came with her much emptier bag to the living room. Her smile lit the room better than electricity ever could, but Dice was a realist. The pretty, thirtyish blonde would have no reason to find an old man like him attractive. He was satisfied that she had been grateful enough to bring him a dinner. But he could still stall for time. The thought of her leaving sent his brain scurrying for a reason to delay the return of solitude.
During the meal they had looked up "printing" and "press" in the Wörterbuch, so she knew he was a Drucker, but he had an ace in the hole. Actually it was a press in the basement.
His plan. His project. His salvation.
"Would you like to see mein Druckerpresse?"
Effi had seen printing presses before. They were big wooden machines with iron frames of lead type. But her eyes lit up when he asked her to see his press. And he had remembered the German word, too. She now had a reason to stay longer in this fine house. And instead of treating her like a servant, he had insisted she dine with him at his own table! It wasn't a castle, but it was beautiful and clean and quiet. To find quiet, she went to the forest. But to live in a quiet, peaceful place like this with a man who treated her so kindly would be heaven.
And though he was old, these Americans stayed vigorous way beyond the age when most normal people shriveled up and died. He was strong. She had felt his forearm the night before and he had good breadth of chest. That would be from pulling the big wooden handle on his press. He was hearty. She had seen him striding down the sidewalk like a much younger man. But what would a rich American want with a poor German widow and two children, and whose English was so poor and whose skills were hundreds of years behind his? Ah well . . . she could dream.
Dice flipped on the stairway and basement lights and led the way down the stairs. The full basement was divided without walls into Dice's areas of interest. The laundry corner held the water heater, washer and dryer and the double tub. The furnace sat squat in the middle of the floor and boxes were stacked three deep along one wall. The entire west half of the basement was given to his new workshop. This was where he was going to stop being a pressman and start being a captain of industry.
There, on a sturdy table, was the Clifford Mark I Hand-Powered Rotary Press. It was little more than a foot square, two feet tall, and had a big handle and a flywheel. Dice spread ink on the fountain roller and started cranking. When the ink covered the plate, he handed the job over to Elfriede. Dice stood on a box at the end of the table and put on a rubber finger cap. He flipped the engagement lever and fed a dozen sheets of bond paper into the top of the machine one sheet at a time. As the press engaged, the speed slowed momentarily, but Effi picked up the pace without instruction. One sheet per second slid smoothly onto the catcher!
Dice showed her how ink was spread by the rollers onto the plate cylinder and how the impression cylinder grabbed the sheet of paper, transferred the image from the plate, and then dropped the paper into the receiving tray.
"No electricity!" he said proudly, "and it will take any kind of paper at all!"
Her eyes grew big. This was marvelous! It was simple! She could see and understand every step of the process. The ink goes onto the raised letters and is pressed against the paper. But it was tiny compared to the presses she had seen. With every turn of the handle little metal fingers grabbed the waiting sheet of paper from the wooden board on top, carried it to press against the inky letters and immediately dropped the printed piece into the tray. And it was fast! Sixty sheets a minute instead of two!
It was at that moment that she really understood both the gulf between the Americans and people of her time, and how truly alike they were.
Here was a man who had put uncounted hundreds of hours into a dream, taking the progress of centuries and using that knowledge to build a machine for her time. She walked slowly around the table, trailing her hand over his invention. There was a combination of old and new, shiny rollers and metal pieces in roughly cut sides. Screws and springs and wedges of wood. But it worked. Because he dreamed of making things better. Just as she had dreamed of finding a better life at the end of the yellow lined roadway to Grantville.
She looked at the walls. They were covered with paper and drawings of machines. Not just his press, either. On one wall, in the center, was a black and white photograph of a smiling young man sitting at a machine that towered over him. His hands were poised over buttons lined up in rows beneath his fingers. His drawings, dozens and dozens of drawings, surrounded the picture. She recognized some of them as pieces from the machine. She touched the photo.
"Dieses ist Sie, ja?" she said softly.
There were tears welling in the man's eyes.
"Yeah. That's me." He snuffled and blinked back the tears before she could notice. Stupid computers! His first Ring of Fire had been in 1977 when he'd been told he no longer had a job. A damned minimum wage teeny bopper on a computer had replaced him.
His spread hands encompassed the wall full of drawings. "And that's my Linotype." How soon before he could build one? Probably never. But with his drawings, someone, years from now, would be able to figure it out.
Upstairs, they paused at the front door. Dice looked down at Effi. So young and beautiful. How could he ask her to stay? What could he possibly offer this wonderful German girl half his age?
Upstairs, they paused at the front door. Effi looked up at Dice. This rich American . . . so intelligent, kind, and sensitive, so strong and self-sufficient . . . what did he need her for?
He looked ready to say something and she held her breath.
"Uh . . . would you . . . maybe like to go out to dinner with me?" he stammered out, feeling like a teenager. "There is a new restaurant downtown. You could bring Kurt and Anna."
Effi smiled. "I vould like that very much."