It didn’t matter what family name they took if they married – O’Malley, Smith, Robard - it’d never change their nature. They’d always be Maitland girls and they’d always flicker off to chase a brighter light, a momentary pleasure without a second thought.You’d better, they said, look close at your children to see who their real father was if you took up with a Mailtand girl.Steady just wasn’t in them.So as I walked slowly up the path to the front porch of my farmhouse, I could hardly claim to be surprised that my wife Jenny was standing next to my best friend Mark, with his baby girl balanced on one hip.My son Tommy was staring fixedly at me from behind Jenny’s blue calico dress, confused and lost. Mark was gently touching my son’s shoulder, jaw set in hard determination, as of someone seeing a storm approach and knowing it’d have to be weathered.Jenny was frozen between fascination and horror, eyes wide, one hand reaching out as if to touch me across the ten feet between us, seeking. He understood, his eyes wide, never leaving that big blade pointing at his nose."Fraus, frauleins, where fraus?" I asked it my broken German. My vocabulary actually ended with the word for beer, which was Bier.No, no, he told me. "Nein," he said. "Frau tot, Madchen vent, gone."I figured out, after a bit more prodding that the girls had been taken somewhere and that their mother was dead."Where Madchen, where are the girls?" I demanded, poking him here and there.He tried various words and pointed, I suspect astounded how thick I was."Farm?" I asked. "Farm house over there?" I pointed where he had and he nodded vigorously and smiled."Zwei," he said, holding up two fingers.I thanked him and then hit him in the side of the head a couple of times with the handle of my heavy bayonet in my fist. He folded up, and I cut his throat, kicked some leaves and sticks over him and went looking for the farm house.I heard it before I saw it. Men were singing, roaring might be more like it at a cabin.
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