05/24/2024
Final effort: Share it or burn it. If anyone is offended...that's a shame.
A TREASURE OF WORTHLESS THINGS
Disappointment is a self-inflicted sorrow, to feel it one must cling to the mistaken belief that events can be other than as they are. Longing for mutability we deny that our destinies are written on our foreheads. Erroneously believing that fate can be beguiled into a different
path, we foolishly pursue our cabalistic rituals and then admire the result as though it were accomplishment. The perfectly human tendency to believe that good is done intentionally and that evil simply happens is the great misapprehension of humanity. We assume a benevolent cause, which we claim for ourselves or attribute to God, for all the desirable occurrences of life. Conversely, we assume that the unfortunate events and undesirable outcomes of life are the
fault of others or the fault of the universe. We, all of us, desire to understand the world in which we live and to control the circumstances of our lives. A foolish desire and contrary to the evidence of ages, still humanity desires comprehension and control. But is it wise? Often one hears the aged admonition that we see but through a glass darkly. It is always presented in a morose and resigned tone as though it was a thing to be regretted. A lamentable but inevitable fact of life. But how much clarity could a person really stand? Bedeviled as we all are by an endless stream of inaccurate premonitions and unspoken fears, we are distressed that we know neither the path nor the prize. Clumsily, we attempt to fix together the ill fitting pieces of an incomprehensible puzzle. But ask yourself, if it were possible to untie the Gordian knot; would you? Do you really want to know the truth, all the truth, every truth? How could you put down the burden of want and longing that is, in fact, the thing that makes life what it is? To know your place and purpose without doubt, at first thought, would seem to be a highly desirable
state. No longer wondering why. To perceive the answers to the vexing questions that plague us all should make one the envy of all mankind. However, would certainty bring joy or pain? Regrettably, it is possible to contemplate that certainty may bring neither. The man who stands, alone in the still of night, consumed in grief or thwarted in love, gazing into the sky wondering why he is here and what it all means; what would he do with the answer?
Iâll tell you. Unfortunately, I know the answer. I know what it does to a person when he sees the elephant.
I received the answer at three oâclock on a Tuesday afternoon or, more precisely, I received the box that the answer came in at that time. Startled, and appropriately so as it turns out, by the knock, I trudged to the door to find a package delivery man waiting with a large box and a
larger smile. Institutionalized affability irks me and I would rather he had greeted me with a demand to know what took me so long than as though he had just happened upon a long lost friend. Following convention, I signed the package receipt and made small talk with my new found and transparently insincere friend. We sent each other on our way with the standard annoying admonition to have a nice day.
The box, portent of doom if I had only known, had been shipped from my hometown. I should have known then that no good would come of this. I didnât realize that it contained both elation and despair in equal and intolerable amounts. I should have kicked the delivery man and burned the package. Hindsight,the most useless of human abilities.
In fact, I started to toss the whole thing out unopened as soon as I realized that it had been sent by Salathielâs youngest and last living child. After what he had done, how could she think that I would want whatever pitiful items remained of his life? Certain that it could contain nothing but dross, I did not realize that it contained the answers to questions that had plagued me for years. I kept it for reasons that, even now, I donât understand. Reasons that had to do with the distant past and the place where I was a child. Different for each of us, yet it is a feeling that all can understand. The bread crumbs that you see from the place where you now stand.
I placed the box in a corner and waited. It sat unopened for weeks. Whether I was indifferent or afraid I do not know to this day. Occasionally, I would look at the package in passing, start to open it and then walk away. If I had only known. I waited for weeks. Eventually, I opened the box and changed my life, not just my current existence but all of my life, forever. Every thought, action and belief, past and present, changed instantly by facts that I wish now that I did not know.
The shipping container was a FedEx carton containing an old cardboard box sealed with duct tape. There was a note taped to the outside of the cardboard box and it was obvious that the box itself had not been opened for many years. As I suspected I found the note to be a quickly scrawled message that I was receiving the box because there was no one left, other than myself, who could possibly want the contents. The box was filled with the leavings of a life. Treasured, worthless things accumulated over the course of a lifetime. Everything of actual monetary value had long since been claimed, only the small pathetic little mementos that recalled better days or dreams long dead remained. I slowly combed through groupings of old papers and documents as well as small randomly discarded objects. Army discharge papers and pictures of people I had never seen. A small chipped chalk figurine of a ballerina I remembered from the mantel in Salathielâs living room. A tarnished cross on the end of a broken watch chain. Old pencil stubs with the names of service stations or insurance companies embossed on them. A picture of Salathiel in a cheap suit and pork pie hat. How anyone ever managed to get him into a suit I cannot imagine. He had a smile on his face and appeared much younger than I remembered him. Some ritual gathering of the Quince clan I assume. Looking closer, I realized I had seen the suit before; in his casket shortly before we carried him to his grave.
The next item I retrieved was a pocket knife I had last seen 40 years ago. Then I found something more surprising, a picture of me in a small round frame. A school picture from the ninth or tenth grade. Even in the grainy black and white photo you can see the young face was tortured by both hope and the realization that you can't fly close to the sun or even close to a
rich man's daughter. But more about her later.
That picture: It reminded me that I had once been young. It reminded me that Salathiel once
loved me. It reminded me that I once loved him and deep in my heart, in spite of everything, I still do.
I can still remember the first time I met Salathiel, early in the summer that I turned 14, when I hitched a ride to his house to see if he would put me on as his helper on his pulpwood truck. I had heard that his oldest son had joined the army and was no longer available. His only other son was too young. In fact, the youngest son was the first Quince I met. He was standing at the fence gap waiting for the school bus. His name was Richard. His jeans were old but carefully patched and ironed. He wore a white t-shirt and old leather lace up shoes but no socks. Around his neck was a long piece of string loosely looped and to the free end was tied a number 2 pencil which was grooved all the way around for the string. I couldnât get him to say much, he just pointed to the house. I later learned that the reason he wouldnât speak to me was because he had 3 pennies in his mouth to buy milk at the cafeteria before school. Apparently, he had been admonished enough about losing the pennies that he felt speaking to me was not worth the risk.
At the house, when Salathiel walked out onto the porch, my first thought was fee fye foe fum.
Suddenly timid, I almost turned and ran. He was an impressive man who gave the appearance of great physical strength. The build you donât get in the gym but by years of hard work and eating pork and collard greens. To my great relief, he smiled when he saw me and demanded what I wanted. I told him and said I would work for whatever he thought I was worth. We agreed that I would work through the summer, if I was equal to the job which he doubted. Salathiel, to my surprise, told me he would not hire me if I intended to quit school.
Laughing, he said he possessed enough ignorance for the job himself and would not hire more.
He would give me what work was available on weekends during the school year but that I should not give up on my education. We then worked out the details of my employment, which consisted of Salathiel asking if I was the boy who lived in the yellow house just past Bunkâs and telling me to be waiting by the road at 5:30 the next morning. Thus began the steady rise to financial mediocrity that I enjoy to this day,
Over the course of time that we worked together, Salathiel and I became close. When the chain saw wasnât making a racket and the old truck wasnât running, we kept a more or less constant conversation going. Being talkative in nature and both in need of the reassurance
about life that poor people seek, we shared many of our intimate thoughts and feelings. I knew that his lack of education weighed on his spirit. He had been forced, by financial circumstances, to leave school and hoe crops after 6th grade. A common fate of sharecropperâs sons. He did what he could to improve his lot but in the lower rungs of cracker town America, the pursuit of happiness can be a bitter struggle. Endless years of stacking pulpwood for the man wears on both body and soul.
Hopeless as he had been himself, I think he could see that my path was destined to be much like his own. Over the course of time he had been forced to give up numerous hopes and dreams. He could see as I could not that eventually I would have to give up the one large dream I harbored, I thought, in secret. He could see then as I do now that wisdom is of little real value unless mixed with good fortune. Without good fortune, wisdom only makes one more acutely aware of loss and lack.
It will come as no surprise to anyone who has ever been a teenage boy that my one great dream and desire was a woman. A girl of thirteen at the time we met and a constant presence in my mind since that day. Our meeting was memorable in that it taught me just how terrified a socially inept young boy can be when suddenly faced with a seemingly harmless but terrifying situation.
I know itâs trite to say but fate is truly fickle. Life can be redirected without the least warning. The second summer I worked with Salathiel the pulp yard was closed for a week for long needed repairs. We spent the week cutting and stacking wood on School Board property next to Westside High School and the local swimming pool. Of course, I had never been to the swimming pool since any swimming we had done on the east side was in ponds and bayous.
The opportunity to eat my lunch sitting on a park bench next to the pool, watching teenage girls in swimming suits was more than I could resist. At the time, I couldnât have told you what social mores were but I was aware that I could have been challenged, dismissed and humiliated for my presence where overall wearing working folk werenât welcome at any moment.
One day the usual gaggle of giggling young girls emerged from a large blue and white car I had seen dropping them off for several days. All were wearing swimming suits and carrying towels except for one. She happened to be the one who had first caught my eye and that I was longing to meet. It was a bright sunny day and I had to shade my eyes as I watched her, wearing brown cuffed shorts, a white blouse, and brown and white saddle oxfords, approach my bench and sit down next to me. Hence the terrifying situation. Imagine a stilted and ridiculous conversation between a painfully self-conscious Pantagruel and a serene and self-composed Helen of Troy and you will have a fairly accurate idea of our first encounter. As I stammered farther and farther into a ludicrous run-on sentence that could only end in a painful silence, she placed her hand on my forearm and presented me with a brilliant smile. âMy name is Wilamena Colemanâ, she said. I managed to tell her my name in the correct order of first name and last name, although with great difficulty. With apologies to Christopher Marlowe, I will tell you of my plight, âWho ever loved who loved not at first frightâ. You see I was already anxious in her presence and her name made me realize I was sitting next to the daughter of the richest man in the county. I was smitten and irretrievably so. A difficult position in which to find oneself if you happen to be poor and, like all young men, somewhat dim.
Even after all these years, it still amazes me how resolute she was, having just met, that we were friends and would eventually be more than friends. She had me enthralled and knew it. Women really are better at these things. She waited patiently as I fumbled through all the embarrassing maneuvers that led eventually to our first kiss. We were both teens at the time and, like most children, somewhat feckless in nature. This caused our budding romance to be both exciting and frightful as we had no idea what we were doing. Our trysts were also very discreet as Wilamenaâs family would not have allowed me near her if they had known. By now, youâve gathered I was hopelessly in love. Everything was now in place to move my life forward into a despair that I could not foresee but that has left me daviding in supplication and praying for relief.
About half way through the box, I stopped and sat thinking of those days again. Why would I long for that time? The past has a pernicious effect on the mind. Harsh memories gradually soften and indifferent memories take on an appealing aura that gradually changes them into longing. True enough, but I knew what it was that caused me to long for those days again. What I longed for was the time before she had died and I still had hope.
When I finally returned to the box days later, I continued digging through the apparently valueless contents and actually found several things that I did want. Memories of my own that I had long forgotten. A picture of Salathiel and me standing in front of the old REO pulpwood truck that was our workplace for several years. Trip tickets from the Kullman Timber Company with the tally scribbled in my own handwriting. Suddenly, I was back standing in front of the old ramshackled yellow siding house where I was raised. Looking across the shallow fog shrouded valley at the pine forest on the next hill and waiting for Salathiel to pick me up for work. Every morning standing there I smelled the aroma that is common to all the delta cotton farming regions. A mixture of fertilizer and insecticide that is both unmistakable and unforgettable. I swear I smelled it again looking at that box. Visions of kudzu and red dirt, old gravel roads that disappeared into the woods, tufts of cotton on the side of the roads and, of course, her face. With the exception of Wilamena, I wouldnât walk across the street to see any of those things again. So, why did I find myself wiping my eyes at the memories? I guess it is like poking
at a wound, it is wrong and it hurts but it must be done. Had I known what I would find next I would have taken the time to enjoy my melancholy mood and considered myself lucky.
I delved into the box and pulled out a tattered school notebook. Childish doodling covered both front and back. I opened the front cover and saw the name Grace Quince in crude block letters. The notebook was the possession of Salatialâs granddaughter. Along with various school assignments, it contained, randomly spread throughout, the touching thoughts of a small child written for a much loved grandfather. Grace Quince was what was referred to in the old
south as âtouchedâ. Like her great grandmother, Salathielâs mother, she often spoke in strange, oddly constructed sentences that were sometimes incomprehensible and at other times remarkably insightful. Different in mind but lovely in countenance, she was Salathielâs favorite. Reading through the book, I could see her waiting at the road when we would drive past. During the summer months she would be there to give Salathiel his lunch and receive a kiss in payment for the service. The light of Salathialâs life. A page fell from the notebook. I picked it up and put it on my coffee table then left for work.
Well, that was long ago and my thoughts about Salathiel had lain unconsidered since I walked out of my first life years ago. Why would I have stayed? There was nothing left for me after what had happened.
Once again, unbidden, her face returns. Beautiful and young just as it will always be. Was it possible that she had ever loved the sad old man who still thinks of her? How many times had my thoughts strayed to her over the years? Has there been a day when I didnât think of her?
Ah, thoughts of young loveâŠ.there is much to tell but time begins to press and I must get on with this story. Circumstances, you see, brought me back to my hometown and I have a mission to complete.
The last time I was here I could see Salathielâs head stone from this very spot. The stone that I had broken from a granite overhang, roughly squared with a chisel and paid five dollars to have engraved. All you got for five dollars back then was a name, no dates. Fitting, I think, the unpolished stone. Sometimes ordinary is just the thing.
The spot referred to above is a small ornate marble bench placed directly in front of Wilamenaâs crypt. The bench is thick with lichen and the flower urns at each end are filled with debris. Like Salathiel, Wilhelmina has been here most of forty years and I wonder what they would think of me now. I wonder what I should think of them now that I know the truth. The hand is missing from the upraised arm of the angel mounted on top of her crypt but otherwise her lodging seems in good repair. Gaudy, to be sure, but how else can the dead poor be expected to know their place unless the dead rich have better housing?
All that can be seen of Salathielâs side of the graveyard are weeds and some small trees. I guess the tenants donât really care that their resting place is unkempt, being dead these many years and their relatives and friends having either moved off or moved in. Coleman is a poor county and the expense of maintaining the âLower Endâ as that part of the graveyard is called just seems like a waste of money now. There was a time when the whole cemetery was carefully maintained but as the county finances deteriorated the poor, both living and dead, were left ever farther behind.
Hardly surprising, eternal verities being what they are, that social distinctions apply even to the dead. I donât know who makes the decisions about which section of the graveyard will be groomed and which will not but it seems that if the county didnât mow the ditch in front of your house when you were alive they will not mow around your grave after you are dead. Is it possible that these distinctions apply beyond our physical existence? By what criteria are our spirits or souls categorized once we have left this unfortunate realm? How is one spirit distinguished from another? And better yet; why? Why do we assume that perfection awaits us? Whatever a person conceives our place of reward to be, is it to be exactly the
same for all? If, in fact, we are to be judged on our earthly actions how could all earn the exact same reward? What would you find in the less desirable neighborhoods of heaven? Could ecstasy be mitigated?
An interesting subject to contemplate and I shared my thoughts on the subject with the new banker in town this morning at the City Café. He did not appear to appreciate my philosophical efforts and, if I were unkind, I would have to say that he became somewhat hostile over the course of our short conversation. Apparently, he is of the opinion that heaven is the embodiment of perfection and he managed to convey, in a delicate way, the thought that, in the unlikely event that I reached heaven, I should take what I get and be happy with it. Being from a poor family myself and he from a rich family this simply reinforced my belief that the differences in perspective of the rich and poor never change. The rich lament that the poor are always
with us. The poor realize that the rich are never with us. Anyway, the rich folks' graves are still well maintained and the poor folks' graves are not. Ascribe it to whatever reason you choose.
Iâve been in this graveyard exactly five times in my life. I helped to dig Salathiel Quinceâs grave on the first occasion and stood as pallbearer the next day as he was laid to rest. Ten days later I attended Wilamena Colemanâs funeral. I cried bitterly for both having known and loved them and I could not begin to understand why both had chosen to leave this world by their own hand. My fourth visit and third funeral, years later, was for Wilamenaâs father George Coleman. I attended for Wilamenaâs sake only. She would have expected that much of me. Many silent hallelujahs but few prayers propelled George on his way to the sweet hereafter. I wouldnât have missed it for the world. Seeing that miserly old fool planted was one of the highlights of my life. Youâll gather that George Coleman was not highly regarded. He was feared by all and grudgingly respected by those who also felt it their duty and destiny to oppress the rabble. It is unseemly to speak ill of the dead but I will overcome my scruples for the higher purpose of enlightening you about a man who would have offended the sensibilities of a Turkish money changer. To borrow a phrase I once heard, George looked at everyone like they owed him money and most of them did. No parks or ball fields were named after him. In the end all he left behind, besides a vulgar amount of material possessions, was an hysterical marionette of a wife with frizzy hair and a pronounced taste for sloe gin, a son as worthless as his father and the memory of a daughter he never took the time to love. The daughter, of course, was Wilamena and I blamed George for the fact that she took her own life. Exactly why I canât say. I just knew that she was good and he was bad and I was going to hate him all my life anyway. What would you have done? As luck would have it, forty years on I learned that I was wrong. Donât misunderstand, I still despise his memory only now my reasons are more accurate. I offer this only as a cautionary note. A book by its cover and all that
As Iâve indicated, Wilhelmina was born to rich parents, she was doted upon by all who wished to curry favor with her hideous but powerful father. Immersed in the pitiable cartoonish version of what passed for society in the rural south, she was afforded every opportunity to turn into a worthless, hubris ridden caricature of a person like the rest of her family. Fortunately, unlike the proverbial acorn, she fell well away from the tree and did, in fact, grow into a kind and decent though morose and taciturn young woman. When we were together, I shared but did not question the somewhat dark cast of her perspective on life. In later years it dawned on me that the angst that weighed upon us, although sharing effect could not have shared cause.
Our circumstances were as different as could be imagined. Yet, throughout her short life, we maintained an ability to perceive each other's moods and thoughts. Simpatico, as it is sometimes called. We could always see into but not through the shadows that lay across our path. Perhaps we chose not to see too far into the future. Each because we hated what we were believed to be and expected to become.
Her simple grace and kind nature eventually led to her being admired and respected by the entire town. When she had gone off to college, everyone thought it unlikely that she would return. But she surprised them all by returning and applying for a job at the local elementary school.
Her death several years later was a terrifying shock to the community. I leave it to you to imagine my emotions at this untimely event. I must because I cannot describe them.
Dead at twenty-five years of age. I recently found out why. It may surprise you now to know that I agree with her decision to take her own life. She had no choice. There was much speculation and gossip about Wilheminaâs su***de and I decided it was time for me to leave when a possible relationship betweem us was mentioned.
Now I must tell more about Salatheil and how the great discovery was made as I have limited time to tell you this story.
I worked for Salathiel for a number of years as a helper on pulpwood truck number 142. Technically we both worked for Kullman Timber Service. Unusually perceptive and even bright for a man with only a sixth grade education. A philosopher of sorts. He could read but sometimes his comprehension left a little to be desired. He told me once, as we were sitting in the cool air under a bridge, âRich folks ainât allowed under bridges like we areâ. Years later I realized he was referring to a famous line by Anatole France, âThe law, in its majestic equality, forbids the rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread.â If only his understanding was more limited, he might not have made the discovery that led directly to his taking his own life. Sadly, it was also he who murdered his nine year old granddaughter just minutes earlier. The thought of this horrifying act has haunted me. How could I ever resolve the thoughts of this downtrodden but kindly man performing such a heinous act? It may surprise you even more to know that I now not only understand but agree with his actions.
You may have noticed that I said I had been in this graveyard five times and have only mentioned four. The brighter among you will realize that the fifth time is now as I am relating this tale. No matter how bright you are, you can have no idea why Iâm here. I have come back to kill someone or die in the attempt. Donât be shocked, he deserves it as much as I do and I am indifferent to the outcome. Heâll be here shortly but I have some time to continue my tale and tell you of the town where I was born and raised.
The name of this town is Coleman. Named for one of George Colemanâs carpet bagging ancestors. A quintessential southern delta town, there are any number of its type about. One railroad track running north and south, two state highways that cross in the middle of town and one paper mill that provides largess for the select and menial occupation for the masses. Some say it produces paper products but mainly it produces odor. If you have ever smelled a paper mill you know, if you havenât it cannot be described. It's a poor country all in all but it has always grown cotton in the red dirt and the pine woods had not all been pulped out when I was young. I knew Coleman at its best and worst. They both occurred at the same time. That may sound contradictory but ask anyone who grew up in the delta in the 50s. Those who had it good had it very good. The rest nodded their heads and rolled their hats in their hands in the presence of their betters. Good and bad are relative terms. Prosperity was the lot of the gentry, squalor the lot of the poor. Like many delta towns, Coleman appeared prosperous and inviting in those days. Lovely even, with tree lined brick paved streets on the west side of town. The trees overshadowed streets lined with paved walkways in front of white picket fences. The houses were built off the ground on large brick pillars. The houses always had porches and the porches always had rocking chairs and swings. Beautiful really and I have to admit that there was a charm, an other worldliness about the richer sections of old southern towns. Of course, like all things of value, the charm was unappreciated by those who possessed it. Their birthright and affluence were just the natural order of things. To truly understand the beauty of a thing you must see it as an object yet to be attained. To have it turns it ordinary. We shanty town folk knew a lot about beauty. Not one of us ever crossed the track if you take my meaning. Still, the image of mint juleps and pink begonias, of white haired men in blue seersucker suits
smiling benevolently at women who knew how to flounce and would is alluring even to a jaded old fool like me. But I should know better. It is just the stuff of postcards and novel covers. The conjured image of the old south as it is wistfully imagined by those who do not know what it was
truly like. You see, Aunt Jemima did not really enjoy cooking biscuits at 5 oâclock every morning any more than Salathiel enjoyed pulling a cross cut saw 10 hours a day 6 days a week.
The east side of town was a different story although it did have a definite look that varied little from town to town. Sort of a Norman Rockwell gets the blues kind of look. Western Auto in red brick and Sherwin-Williams in faded blue stucco. Along the street that invariably ran on both sides of the railroad track there were storefronts that once were new with glass windows that once were uncracked owned by businessmen who once were sober. I remember them fondly now many years later. Why? I donât know since most of them cared little for the likes of me back then. I guess itâs hard to hate the hopeless. Worthless hymn singing child abusing wife slappers almost to a man. A boring endless dress rehearsal for âGodâs Little Acreâ with Broderick Crawfordâs slow brother and Ava Gardnerâs sister-in-law in the starring roles. Big Sam and Mammy headlined in the bottoms.
On returning after many years I find that little of the town is inviting now and all the charm it once had is gone. Remains are seldom pretty. Still, it is my home, the place of my youth. I have tried to hate this town and do to some extent but there is something inside of us that is
inextricably tied to the place of our childhood. Whether for good or ill, the first hammer blows that begin to forge us into what we will become are struck when we are young. As Pope said, âJust as the twig is bent, so the treeâs inclinedâ.
Now I must tell you something about the man I have come here to murder.
Soon after I left the town of Coleman, Wilamenaâs brother Charles began a meteoric rise in the world of religion or, I guess I should say, the business of religion. The idea of the Charles Coleman I knew wearing the armor of righteousness was always too ludicrous to countenance.
I was not surprised that Charles would stoop to using Godâs name to make a buck but I was truly amazed at how well he could do it. The following paragraphs will give you a good idea of my opinion of all shysters and why I realized I must kill Charles when it became evident he knew the great secret.
Sometimes, in the chill of night, devoid of peace and unable to quiet my spirit, I do what many self tortured souls do. I seek the droning useless solace of televangelism. The ceaseless hypocritical begging for the means to do Godâs work eventually reminds me that I am not the worst of all beings and allows me to fall asleep. Itâs more effective and entertaining than counting sheep and provides food for thought to be considered at a later date. Threats of hell and hopes of paradise*, the wailing and gnashing of teeth, speaking in tongues, the promise of miracles at discounted prices, hymns of adoration and one last tearful supplication on bended knee for the last dollar of some poor widow and I am off to the land of nod. These shows are a
24 hour a day phenomenon, so whether you work the day shift or night shift, there is always a cure for insomnia close at hand. Each has its own approach to suggesting that thaumaturgy can be purchased through their establishment and I find them equally effective as a sleep aid. Most televangelists are charismatic to some degree in their oratory but are almost transparently avid for lucre when the time comes to transition from preaching to begging. Their methods vary as they seek a means to gain access to your purse or bank account. Whether psychological, existential, heart tugging or demanding, make no mistake, their obvious goal is profit. Except for the one that will play a part in this story.
The âGift of Grace Revival Hourâ is the one televangelist show I must avoid at all costs. I almost sent Charles a contribution myself one time. The driving force and face of this organization does all of the preaching and none of the begging on screen. A gray checker suited Savanarola whose smoothly transitioning speaking style varies from old time Baptist brimstone to a quiet murmur that you seem to hear only with your soul. Charles has mastered that stern piercing stare and dramatic flourish of the Rev. Fulton J. Sheen and can mimic the sincerity of Billy Graham. He can easily persuade a child to give up a sucker and a sucker to give up his life savings. A combination of snake oil salesman and the snake the oil came from, Charlesâ talent and ability seems too good to be true. One of the local jokes in Coleman is that heâs the love child of Everett McKinley Dirksen and Aimee Semple McPherson. Those of us who knew him back then had many doubts about his abilities and believed he would end up as a minor league version of his money grubbing speculator father. His sudden appearance at the top of the rube fleecing heap took everyone by surprise. I guess his old man would be proud since amassing money was his only religion and how you broke into the mint was of no consequence.
I have wandered considerably in this seemingly pointless tale. My apologies. To return to the point of this story, I refer you back to the sheet of paper that fell from Grace Quinceâs notebook and was left unread at the time. On returning home that day, I noticed the paper on the coffee table where it had been placed. I picked it up out of idle curiosity and scanned the content quickly and then stopped and read the contents much more closely.
At the top of the page was the sentence, âWhat did you do over the Holiday weekend?â. Obviously, a homework assignment given by Wilamena to her class. Grace Quinceâs answer began, âI found how all we are hereâ. The next 12 poorly structured sentences described with astounding accuracy the exact nature of all existence. The most profound existential insight any human has ever produced. The reason Salathiel killed his granddaughter and himself and Wilamena took her own life. Few people could know the truth and still desire to live.
On first reading this astonishing text, I was affected like someone struck a heavy blow. Suddenly shocked, my spine shivered and my fingers and toes turned cold. The second reading only confirmed the incontrovertible truth of Graceâs statements. She had hit the largest of all nails directly on the head.
When I had stopped shaking, I realized another factâŠ..Wilamenaâs brother Charles also knew the truth.
Like his mother, Charles is as worthless as the hole in a chickenâs ass and I derive some pleasure at the thought of his impending demise. I canât prove that he knows but why take the chance?
By using a series of lies and promises of money for help with an illegal matter, I have lured Charles into coming to the graveyard late this afternoon. I see lights coming down the roadâŠ.heâs early.
Let me go and deal with Charles now and then return and let you in on the secret. If I donât return, console yourself that you are better off not knowing.
Itâs surprising how many thoughts can pass through your head when the night turns to an ephemeral light and you realize your plans havenât worked out. Shot by one of the minions of the âGift of Grace Revival Hourâ, It seems Charles was a step ahead of me in planning. I guess that it is fitting that my last thought will be a cliche from a James Cagney movie, âHe got me, the dirty ratâ.
