All Gods' Children, chapter 1

This is a rough draft, not the finished product, so expect bumps.

Chapter 1



"...a skunk." I said, and then she hit me.

I was flat on my back in Nana's yard, shielding my head with a kids' little red wagon while she pummeled my legs, arms, knuckles, any and all of my exposed areas with her purse. From under the wagon I heard another fight; a scuffle, a man muffled a cuss word after receiving a blow, her screeching like an angry cat as she was yanked off of me, and children crying in the background. Then a quiet followed, so intense you could hear conversations from the yard next door.

Gingerly, I stood up, shielding myself with the wagon in case she wanted to use my head for batting practice. My sisters' husbands stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of her; one man putting all his weight on his good leg. Only her red-rimmed eyes were visible to me. If they had been knives, I would have bled out.

A creaking sound broke the silence and out stepped Nana from the back porch.

"What's that noise?"

The young woman looked at Nana and shook her head as if to clear her ears. Nana only speaks German at home. Wanting to get away from the prying eyes of my family, I dropped my wheeled shield, reached between the two men and grabbed the young woman by her upper arm. I was heel-toeing to the front yard, but I didn't get far.

"Who is this girl?" Nana's inquest began, "Girl, why were you crying? Paulus, what have you done to her?" I pretended not to hear.

"Paulus Robert Wolfenkoehler," Mother scolded me as if I were still in short pants, her expression a wish that she had stopped after the third child, "You know better than to ignore your elders. Answer your Nana."

I pulled the young woman beside me, like mothers do at the store when their kids turn bratty. Her bicep flexed under my grip; from the corner of my eye I saw her wiggle her swollen fingers. I made the introductions in German, barely stifling a growl.

"Nana, this is Miss Charlotte Murphy. Miss Murphy, this is my Nana: Berti Wolfenkoehler."

"I suppose the rest of us don't count?" Mother said as she pried Miss Murphy out of my grip and extended her hand in greeting. "I'm his mother, Marion Wolfenkoehler."

Under Mothers' protection Miss Murphy was taken around the yard and introduced to every member of the party. My sisters first: Delia, Emma and Vinna. Then their husbands, their kids, and finally Uncle Ronald, my mother's brother. It took a moment for him to find her hand.

I was boiling and my head was throbbing; I dug chunks of ice out of an overturned glass of iced tea and applied them to my aching brow. It didn't last long, St. Louis humidity melted the chunks into slivers and relief trickled between my fingers.

"Is there any more ice?" I asked Emma's husband, Dan.

"Try the kitchen."

I muttered my thanks and limped into the kitchen; I tried the icebox, no dice on ice. Looking out the window over the kitchen sink, I could see Nana talking to Miss Murphy with Mother translating. What did she think coming here would accomplish? Why hadn't I noticed her following me from the office? I rubbed my aching eyebrow and felt something like a toothpick sticking out.

"What the hell?" I dashed into the bathroom and looked at my reflection. There, a splinter, too small to be removed with fingernails, was protruding from under the outer edge of the eyebrow. Thankfully my Swiss Army knife included a pair of tweezers; a bubble of blood formed at the wounds' opening after I removed the splinter. I grabbed a washcloth and soaked it under the tap. As I cleaned myself up I saw a face made for radio: scuff marks and woven indentions across the left cheekbone, a pinhole next to the eyebrow, a rising welt running down the length of my Roman nose. A squeak came from the kitchen, I turned the mirror toward the kitchen and saw the reflection of Nana and Miss Murphy. Nana was patting Miss Murphy on the hand and speaking soothingly to her in the international language of "Grandma."

"You will stay for dessert?" Nana addressed the party crasher. Miss Murphy, dumb of German, looked to me for translation.

"Nana, what are you doing?" I said as I limped into the kitchen.

"Miss Murphy is upset because she's hungry, she needs something to settle her stomach. That's all."

"What is she saying?" Miss Murphy asked.

"She doesn't like you." I replied.

"You're lying."

"What's that old saw about taking one..." I began.

Miss Murphy would have lifted her purse to a full arc had we not been interrupted by a small "Ahem." Nana had opened a cabinet door and pointed to a high shelf.

"Will you take the plates down, please Paulus? And don't forget an extra for my guest." Nana smiled, deepening the folds and wrinkles in her face until she resembled a life-sized apple doll. Then she balanced two pastries and returned to the party. Pulling a stack of plates from the cabinet, I slammed them onto the counter hard enough to make them chip. The utensil drawer had swelled from the humidity, when it refused to open more than half-way, I yanked on it until it threatened to come off its runners. Miss Murphy counted forks while I gathered plates.

"Don't I get one?" Miss Murphy asked.

I pushed the door open with my foot and nearly put it through the screen.

"I don't trust you."



The family had divided itself into groups: kids of various ages sitting on picnic blankets, husbands huddled together--probably afraid of taking up residence on the couch should they disagree with their wives-- and finally,seated directly across from me, a flock of angry females. It made me nostalgic for my job as a bombadier during the war. At least that enemy I could fight--against my sisters and Mother, I wouldn't stand a chance. I sat the plates down on a small table in the middle of our strange circle and sat next to the one person who couldn't give me dirty looks--Uncle Ronald. The apple and cherry danishes were eaten in near silence, the only sounds came from the smaller kids and forks being scraped across plates. Tension filled the air like static electricity, as if conversation would cause a spark. Miss Murphy picked at hers with her fingers; I stabbed at a cherry and enjoyed watching her squirm.

Suddenly Miss Murphy stood and placed her plate on the table, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come. Thank you, Mrs. Wolfenkoehler." She grabbed her purse and approached me; I tensed, expecting to receive another blow to the head. Instead, she looked at me, defeated; there was no hope in her eyes.

After she left, Delia was the first to say what everyone else was thinking: "What was that all about?"

"None of your damned business," I replied while gnawing cherries.

"Don't speak that way in front of the children." warned Mother.

Delia stabbed her coffee cake, "A crazy woman shows up at a family dinner and tries to beat you to a pulp..."

"Leave him alone." said Henry, Delia's husband, in a tone reminiscent of Ricky Ricardo. Without uttering a word, Delia told Henry off in the language of wifely expression. He slouched and sighed. I chuckled and was--for once--grateful for being single, but my thoughts wandered to Charlotte Murphy. Not counting my sisters, I'd never been beaten up by a girl before. But that wasn't what was bothering me, I shouldn't have refused her case...because I was short on money and it takes time for a new private investigator to build up business.

"Will this be happening often?" Delia asked, "I mean you bringing your work home?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Paulus, please." Mother nodded toward the children.

"I'd like to know so I can find a sitter. I don't want my kids trampled again."

"Nobody got hurt but me." I pointed out.

Once on her high horse..."Honestly, I've never seen such unseemly behavior."

"It was unexpected to be sure," Vinna chimed in, folding her ever-present newspaper, "but not the most unusual thing that's happened at a family party."

Having a belly full, I tossed my plate on the table, "How many times do I have to apologize? Jesus!"

At the breaking of the third commandment, Mother admonished me with a freezing stare. I wanted to tell Mother to butt out, but you just don't talk that way to your mother. Delia escaped further argument by checking on the children. I stormed from the scene, slamming the back door so hard that it bounced off the door frame. Stomping into the living room, I thought about bailing by the front door when I remembered that I was Uncle Ronald's ride home.

"Why don't you start at the beginning?" Nana asked as she sat down in her chair.

Fidgeting with a doily, I wondered how to explain.