The Loan
Everyone dreams of the perfect day – a day when everything goes his way. Jimmy Camp was no different, except he spent most every second of his life dreaming of such a day. He spent far too little time on the things that really mattered which usually left him broke and in debt. He dreamed himself out of job after job, a beautiful caring wife, a wonderful daughter, and too many friends to count. No one could depend on him. Everyone regarded him as a loser with grand ideas on which he never had the gumption to follow through. His intentions were always good, but he just did not have that little something extra it took to put it all together; that something, that makes the good intentions work. To put it simply, Jimmy Camp was loser extraordinaire.
Jimmy had just lost his third job in less than six months when he paused at the front doors of the First Suppository Bank of Mississippi. He hated facing another loan officer, but he had no choice; he was broke, and he had bills that had gone without payment for months. He looked quickly up and down the street as if concerned someone might see him enter the bank. Not that it would have mattered; everyone in Willow Creek knew about his troubles. A cold blast of wind sent a chill down his neck and he quickly turned his back to the bank to block the wind. The rubble of a burned out building caught his eye. The charred timbers and crumbled bricks of what had probably been a very elegant building in its day lay directly across the street from the bank. The debris created an ugly scar on what was otherwise as picturesque a small town main street as could be found in the South. He could not understand why the town aldermen did not have the carnage removed, but other than occasionally sweeping the sidewalk in front of the ruin, the city mysteriously left it alone. Swinging by a large hook from a blackened timber, a weathered sign slapped and bounced against the badly leaning doorframe. Despite years of neglect, the fading gothic red lettering "Beze's Electrifying World of Art Rarities Emporium" was still visible. Jimmy had always thought the name was a little exotic sounding for Willow Creek, Mississippi, but the name certainly held a greater drawing appeal than mundane signs such as “Clyde’s Goodyear”, “Elmer Gentry’s Cadillac Plus”, and “Miss Sylvia’s Hair and Nail Parlor” that now lined the street.
The icy wind slapped Jimmy across the face as soon as he stepped out the door of the bank. Flipping his overcoat collar up around his ears, he pulled the coat tightly around his shoulders and shook his head. Harold Beecher's laughter still rang in his ears as he fastened the coat buttons and then dug his hands deep into his pockets. Like the Willow Creek Savings and Loan two days ago, the bank refused to take another chance on him. His options were drying up fast. Last month he had driven to Jackson to talk to Thumbs-Up Mortgage Equity, Inc. and Capitol Trust Company, but they also laughed him out of their offices. Last week he solicited help from Risky Business Finance in Hattiesburg, but his business was even too risky for them. At least, they had not laughed him out of their building. Out of courtesy, they allowed him to complete an application which was more than any of the others had done for him. However, Beecher's rejection may have been his final undoing. He was desperate; he had exactly six dollars and sixty-six cents in his pocket. He was so down and out the devil himself would think twice before taking a chance on him.
The wind pushed against him as he stepped away from the doorway. A faint bell jingled in the distance, and he looked up. His eyes popped wide. Across the street where the charred shell of the old emporium had been, a beautiful turn of the century red brick building now stood. A small bell fastened to the oak door jingled almost happily each time someone from the street entered. The large ornate sign above the door read, "Beze's Electrifying World of Art Rarities Emporium." Jimmy rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands and looked again. It was really there. His eyes were not deceiving him, but it had to be some kind of mirage. He had looked at the emporium before entering the bank barely an hour ago, and it had been nothing more than a rubble of bricks and charred timbers. What he saw now was not possible unless . . . unless he was so wrapped up in his troubles when he looked at the place earlier, his subconscious had blocked out the new building. There was no other way to explain it.
The bell jingled crisply as Jimmy opened the door to the emporium. His jaw dropped slightly as he looked around the room; he could not believe its size. The room was at least the size of a football field, but it had to be some kind of optical illusion since the outside of the building was barely thirty feet by thirty feet. Handcrafted voodoo dolls, bound packages of Jamaican dried chicken feet, gris-gris bags, Pelgian pots, masks of the Congo, gigantic dried snakeskins, and other oddities as well as hundreds of steel hooks hung from the ceiling. Large shriveled, dried human like forms with contorted mummified faces twisted in horror dangled from the hooks. The place reminded Jimmy of the voodoo and black magic shops he had visited out of curiosity in New Orleans but on a much grander scale, but even in New Orleans, he had never seen such strange oddities as the grotesque shriveled forms impaled on the large hooks in the ceiling. His eyes scanned from the ceiling down walls covered in an array of medieval shields, chained mace, and steel riveted helmets of every shape and size imaginable. Row after row of glass cases filled the room. Each case had a small plaque on its top briefly explaining its contents. A dull din of people talking quietly rolled through the room. However, of the fifteen or so individuals milling around the cases, not a single one was in speaking distance of another. Each person in the room stood next to a case nodding his head quietly as though listening to a salesperson give his pitch, but there was not a salesperson to be seen – only the customers.
Jimmy moved slowly down the long rows stopping here and there to study the glass cases. The first case he came to held a small thimble size cup. The plaque read "Deiri (Yorkshire). 12th century. The Fairy Cup. Unknown material. Stolen from fairies near the celebrated waters of Gipse and presented to Henry the Elder, king of the English." The next case held a small round wood box filled with a clear gel. The plaque on the case read, "Brittany. 13th century. Fairy Ointment. When spread over the eyes, the ointment allows human eyesight to penetrate the glamour of the fairies." The third case he came to contained three little clay cylinders. Its plaque read, "Passamaquoddy Indians (Canada). 17th century to present. The Little People. Two and a half to three feet tall. Grotesquely ugly. Clay cylinders were found near Passamaquoddy Reservation near the Canadian border. Indians claim the cylinders are the pipes of the Little People." The fourth case held ordinary looking stones with small holes bored in them. The card on the case read, "Universal. Then and now. Self-bored Stones. Stones with holes bored through them by the action of running water. These stones can be used to look at fairies, trolls, selkies, and other assorted beings of the forest. Humans can also wear the stones around their necks to repel forest beings." Jimmy smiled to himself as he read the card. He remembered finding such self-bored stones in his grandmother's gravel driveway and along the banks of the Luxachaney River when he was a boy. The fifth case he came to contained a large black pot full of copper coins about the size of quarters stamped with the word Surrey on one side and a pair of insect wings on the other. The sign sitting on top of the case read, "Frensham (Surrey). 1000-1900. Frensham Caldron. Throughout history, fairies have shown their generosity by loaning items to those in need. This caldron is the most famous utensil lent by fairies. Around 1600, a stir was created in the fairy kingdom when a human who borrowed it to improve his daughter’s chances of finding a husband did not return the pot. The fairies finally located the pot hanging in the vestry of Frensham Church, where they retrieved it and returned it to Surrey where it rightfully belonged. After the return of the pot, the fairie, Pan, decided never again to loan it to humans, and as a result, human eyes did not see it again for four hundred years. Around 1900, Pan's position on loans softened, and he filled the pot with magical copper coins, and offered to loan the coins to humans rather than loaning the pot." Jimmy shook his head and laughed.
"What's so funny?" a voice asked.
Jimmy jumped and looked up. A tall steely-faced man dressed in a black suit, shirt, and tie stared at him from behind the Frensham Caldron case. "Where did you come from?" Jimmy asked.
"I've been here," the man said. "This is my case."
"Your case? You weren't here just a minute ago," Jimmy said.
"Oh yes, I'm always at my case."
"Then why didn't I see you, and why do you keep saying this is your case?"
"You didn't see me because you weren't looking for me," the man said calmly, "and I keep saying my case because each case in this building is assigned a caretaker, and I’m the caretaker of this case."
"Caretaker? If each case has a caretaker, why are you the first one I have seen in here? I haven't seen a single person being assisted by anyone since I walked in the door."
"There was no reason for you to see the caretakers then, but now, look around."
Jimmy turned slightly and scanned the room. People stood staring and pointing at the glass cases, and behind each case stood a steely-faced man dressed in black. "Are you people clones or something?" he asked.
"No," the man shrugged, "it's just the dress code that gives that impression. Now can I help you?"
"I don't think so," Jimmy said. "I'll just look around a little more if you don't mind."
"But I do mind," the man said flatly.
"What?" Jimmy stammered, surprised by the response.
"This case," the man said, waving his hand across its surface, "is the reason you're here."
"How do you know why I'm here," Jimmy asked. "I don't even know why I'm here."
"Of course you do," the man said. "You're here to put your troubles to rest."
"How do you know I have troubles?"
"All humans have troubles," the man said, "some just handle them better than others."
"Look, fella," Jimmy said, becoming agitated, "I handle my problems just fine, and . . . ."
"Do you?" interrupted the man.
"Yeah, I sure do," Jimmy snapped, his anger growing.
"Let's see," the man said reaching under the case and pulling out a black book bound in soot colored cracking leather with Jimmy Camp scripted in red across its cover. He thumbed through the pages and then stopped at the last page of the book. He ran his finger down the page, and then looked up grimly. "I don't know, Mr. Camp," he said, "you're on your last page, and there doesn't seem to be any hope for an extension. No, I'd have to say you've handled your troubles rather poorly."
"How . . . how do you know anything about me?" Jimmy asked. "I've never seen you in my life, so how can you know me?"
"I don't know you, Mr. Camp . . . the book does," the man said. "You see this is your book. It has your name on the cover and your life history inside."
Jimmy's head was spinning. He was completely confused. A book with his name and history . . . how could that be? "Just what do you think the book knows about me," he asked forcefully, trying to hide his growing uneasiness.
"Oh, everything. It knows you're broke and have been turned down for financial assistance at least five times in the past month . . . ."
"So that's it," Jimmy sighed, "you've got my credit history. That makes sense. I am probably on everybody's list as a bad credit risk. But don't worry Mister; I didn't come in here to buy anything."
The man smiled. "I'm not selling anything."
"Then what kind of place is this?"
The man’s smile swelled revealing perfect gray teeth, his eyes darting quickly from side to side as he leaned forward across the case and whispered, "A place where the impossible is possible, and the possible is but a cover for what is not. This is your kind of place, Mr. Camp . . . a place of dreams." He spun the open book around waving an unusually long index finger across the pages; the pages rose beginning with the first page of the book and turned in such rapid succession that from first page to last page was but a blur. "According to your book," he continued louder. "you are a dreamer always waiting for something magical to happen to change your life. Well, Mr. Camp, that magical something has finally happened."
"Man, you're crazy," Jimmy said. "I'm getting out of here."
"You can leave, Mr. Camp," the man said, grinning broadly while reaching into the case and retrieving one of the copper coins from the pot, "but if you do, you'll miss the moment you've always waited for . . . always dreamed."
"And what moment would that be?" Jimmy asked.
"You see this coin, Mr. Camp?" the man asked, flipping the coin into the air.
"Yeah, so what? I told you I didn't come here to buy anything."
"But this coin is not for sale; it's a loan."
"I read the nonsense on the card," Jimmy said.
"Oh no, Mr. Camp, it's not nonsense. Nothing here is nonsense. The only nonsense is the people who go through life not believing. Are you a believer, Mr. Camp?"
"A believer?" Jimmy asked puzzled. "A believer in what?"
"Magic. You see, these are special coins made by the hands of Pan himself. After the return of the lost caldron, it took four hundred years for the fairie kingdom to convince Pan to loan anything to humans. Finally, it was only the beauty and soft words of the Fairie Queene, Gloriana, that convinced Pan to give humans another chance. But even Gloriana could not convince him to loan the precious caldron again. Instead, Pan hammered out the copper coins you see in this case and loaned them to humans in need. The power of the coins to change a human's luck was unlimited as long as the coin was returned promptly within forty-eight hours. To ensure the coins were returned, Pan contracted with the Devonshire Banshee, to deal with anyone foolish enough not to return the coin on time."
"This is hogwash. I'm leaving," Jimmy said, turning to go.
"Please," the man said, "before you go, would you do me one small favor?"
Jimmy looked at the man and hesitated. "What small favor?" he asked.
"Take this coin and hold it in the center of your palm, and make a wish . . . any wish."
"You've got to be kidding," Jimmy started.
"Please," the man begged, "humor me."
"Oh, all right," Jimmy said and reached for the coin. The man laid the coin in his hand and immediately a warm almost electrical charge pulsed through his whole body.
"Make your wish," the man said. "You'll be happy you did; but remember if you take the coin, it’s just a loan for forty-eight hours. I can see by your face you still do not believe me, but by this time tomorrow, you will be a believer. I promise."
Jimmy looked at the coin and thought how ridiculous, but then shrugged, closed his eyes, and half-heartedly made a wish. When he opened them again, the man was gone. Crazy, he thought and shoved the coin into his pocket.
"Mr. Camp!" a voice called from across the room.
Jimmy turned toward the voice and saw Harold Beecher, the president of the First Suppository Bank of Mississippi, waving to him from the emporium doorway. He could not imagine what Beecher wanted. Less than an hour ago the man laughed him out of his office, and now, here he was waving and eagerly calling to him.
"Mr. Camp, I'm so glad I was able to find you," Beecher said extending his hand as he approached. "I've made a terrible terrible mistake. I can't imagine how such a mess-up could have happened, but I want to assure you I am sincerely sorry."
"What mistake?" Jimmy asked.
"There was a major foul-up on your loan paperwork. If you'll please forgive me for the way I treated you, I'll grant you double your loan request at zero interest."
"Mr. Beecher, I really don't know what to say," Jimmy stammered.
"Don't say anything," Beecher said, "just be in my office at 9:30 a.m. in the morning to sign the papers." Beecher shook Jimmy's hand once more and hurried out of the building.
Jimmy stood dumbfounded. He could not believe what had just happened. It was like a dream . . . or . . . a wish. He rammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the coin. He held it close to his face and studied it closely. Its power to grant wishes could not be real, but yet, he had made a wish while holding the coin in his hand, and the wish came true. A coincidence? Maybe, but he was not one to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. Shoving the coin back into his pocket, he quickly retreated across the room and out the front door.
*******
"Sylvia, can you believe that Jimmy Camp," Erma asked, straining to see herself in the mirror.
"Ermagene McCallay, if you don't quit your fidgeting, I'll not be held responsible for your hair not setting properly," Sylvia Plester said, pulling Ermagene back down into the chair. She was the only one in all of Willow Creek who dared call Erma McCallay, Ermagene. She did it for two reasons: first, she knew Erma hated the name Ermagene even though it was her given name; and second, by being the only hairdresser in town, she could get away with it.
Erma rolled and cocked her head to one side to glare over her shoulder at Sylvia. She squinted at her from under the blue and pink curlers and curled her bottom lip over in an angry pout. "You know I don't like that name," she hissed through clinched teeth.
Sylvia stopped chopping her gum. "What name . . .?" she asked innocently. "Oh, did I do it again?" she asked covering her mouth with both hands as if surprised she could have done such a terrible thing. "I'm so sorry."
Erma continued to glare from under the curlers. "Somehow I am beginning to doubt your sincerity," she said coldly.
Sylvia turned away, hiding her grin, and picked up a hair pick from the counter. She turned back to Erma and began stabbing at the curlers as though she was checking a turkey to see if it was done. "Now, what were you saying?" she asked sweetly.
Erma took a deep controlled breath and faced forward in her chair. "I was talking about Jimmy Camp," she said. "Now I've always thought that boy was one fork short of a place setting, but the talk is there has been a miraculous turnaround in him. In fact Martha Smith told me she heard from Beth Madden who heard it from Sheila Browning that the strangest thing happened just about this time yesterday morning. She said Sheila told Beth she had been in the bank when Harold Beecher laughed poor Jimmy right out the door, but yesterday afternoon when she went back to the bank with Eva Browning, her mother-in-law, she overheard Beecher telling Andy Parker, his vice president, that Jimmy would be coming in and that he was to double whatever Jimmy wanted interest free."
Sylvia continued to poke at the curlers. "Interest free?" she asked.
"That's what he said," Erma continued. "Now honey, I ain't seen nothing free since my Elmer and me happened upon a Moonie handing out beads at a Barq's Root beer exhibit at the Rice Pavilion in Gulfport in 1973. Did you know Gulfport is the root beer capital of the world? Well it sure is. I read that somewhere . . . probably in Elmer's Farmer's Almanac."
Sylvia found a stray strand of hair, twirled it around the pick, and jabbed it into the nearest curler. "So Jimmy found someone to give him a loan. What's so strange about that?"
"Come on, Sugar," Erma said, "you're not listening! An interest free loan?"
The strand of wayward hair sprang loose again. Sylvia frowned, twirled it around the pick once more, and again drove it into the nearest curler. She then put her fingers to her mouth and bit off a tiny piece of gum. She rolled the gum into a ball and stuck it on the curler to hold the hair in place. "Well, maybe Harold decided to give Jimmy a break." she said admiring her handiwork. "God knows that boy needs one."
"Maybe so, but you ain't heard the latest yet. Last night Sam Miller called Jimmy and offered him his old job back at Miller & Sons Packing House . . . at double the salary. And if that's not strange enough, Jimmy and Bitsy Jane got back together last night."
Sylvia shook her head and continued to poke at the curlers. "For the life of me, I can't understand what that girl sees in him," she said. "If she bent over backwards any further than she's already done for that boy, they'd have to throw a saddle on her. She even agreed to name their daughter after his mama. Can you imagine that child going through life with a name like Beulla Bay? Sounds like a race horse to me."
"Girl, you speak the truth," Erma agreed, "but nevertheless they're back together. He picked her up at her mama's in a brand new Lincoln, and took her all the way to Hattiesburg for supper. After that he presented her with an original painting by some French-Cajun artist from New Orleans."
"Now that's strange!" Sylvia laughed. "The closest thing to art Jimmy's ever bought is a velvet Elvis from Stuckey's. I wonder where he got the money. Everyone knows he's broke."
"Apparently not anymore," Erma said and then leaned forward in her chair and looked carefully around the room. "Can you keep a secret?" she whispered, settling back into the chair.
"Of course, that's part of the hair dresser's code," Sylvia said crossing her heart.
"Well," Erma began slowly, "Thurmond Thompson, who everyone knows has connections on the coast, says he has it on good authority that Jimmy has tied himself to the Mississippi mafia."
"Mississippi mafia?" Sylvia asked. "I didn't know there was such a thing."
"Oh yes, girl. Thurmond says they've about taken over the whole coast."
"I declare, I had no idea," Sylvia said laying the pick back on the counter.
"Yep, it's the gospel all right. Oh yeah, and Rubinie Carter says she saw Jimmy . . . ."
Sylvia leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "Shhhh, Bitsy Jane's at the front door."
"She is!" Erma squeaked jerking her head toward the door.
The front door bell jingled. "Howdy, ya'll," Bitsy Jane said walking into the room.
"Bitsy Jane!" Sylvia exclaimed as if she was seeing her for the first time. "How's your mama and them doing?"
"Oh, just fine, Miss Sylvia. Thanks for asking. Mama's got a touch of arthritis with the change in the weather and all, but other than that everyone's fine."
"That's good. You sure are looking pert today," Sylvia continued. "You carrying some good news or something?"
"You might say that . . . Jimmy and I got back together," Bitsy Jane said almost bashfully.
"You don't say," Sylvia said feigning surprise.
"Oh, Miss Sylvia, he's a changed man," Bitsy Jane said proudly.
"I think I've heard you say that before," Erma cut in.
"Oh, Miss Erma, it's different this time," Bitsy Jane pleaded. "He's changed. His luck has changed. He's gonna make something of himself . . . I know it . . . and best yet, he knows it!"
"Child, I just hope he doesn't disappoint you again," Erma said.
"Not this time, Miss Erma," Bitsy Jane said picking a Southern Living magazine from the center table and sitting on a green vinyl couch. "My Jimmy has finally grown up."
Erma looked over her shoulder at Sylvia who just shrugged, picked up the pick once more, and went back to poking curlers.
The front door bell jingled again. "Hey, Sylvia," Jimmy Camp said as he walked in the room, "have you seen Bitsy Jane?"
"Right in front of you," Sylvia said pointing to the couch.
"Finally," Jimmy said, "Bitsy Jane, I've been looking all over town for you."
"What on earth for?" Bitsy Jane asked.
"Last night I laid my pocket change on the kitchen counter before I came to bed, and this morning when I went to fetch it, it was all gone except for thirteen cents."
Bitsy Jane laid the magazine on the table, "Beulla Bay needed lunch money this morning and I was a little short, so I borrowed some of the change you left on the counter."
"But there was a copper colored coin about the size of a quarter; you didn't give it to the kid did you? Please, tell me you didn't."
"I'm sorry, Jimmy," Bitsy Jane said looking confused, "but it all looked just like a bunch of pocket change. I didn't look at it very close."
"Oh dear Lord, you didn't look at it very close!" Jimmy snapped. "How could you not look close at the most precious thing to ever come into our lives?"
"Jimmy, what are you talking about?" Bitsy Jane pleaded, tears swelling in her eyes.
"I’ll tell you what I’m talking about,” he yelled. “For the first time in our lives we're about to be on easy street and you ruin it! How stupid can you be?"
"Please, Jimmy," Bitsy Jane sobbed, "what did I ruin? What did I do wrong?"
"I oughta . . . ," Jimmy said angrily and drew back his hand.
"Jimmy Camp!" Sylvia shouted. "You lay a hand on that girl and I swear I'll pluck your eyeballs out with this pick and feed them to Ermagene's chickens."
"I ain't got no chickens," Erma protested.
"Oh, hush, Ermagene!" Sylvia said. "At a time like this, who cares if you ain't got no chickens!"
"Jimmy," Bitsy Jane pleaded, "please, tell me what I've done."
Jimmy stood trembling, his hand drawn back glaring at all three women. The anger in his eyes had turned to something else. Fear. His eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal, and when Bitsy Jane reached out to touch his arm, he savagely brushed her hand aside and fled out the door.
"Mr. Camp," The steely-faced man smiled from behind the Frensham Caldron case, "I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten. It's almost time; in fact, in sixty-six seconds it will be."
"I know, I know," Jimmy said breathing heavily. "But I've got a problem."
"A problem?" the man asked. "I thought your problems would be resolved by now."
"Everything was resolved, but then I discovered my wife had mistaken the coin for ordinary change and . . . ."
"You haven't lost the coin, have you?" the man interrupted.
"Not exactly," Jimmy said, sweat beading on his forehead. "My wife gave it to my kid for lunch money, and by the time I discovered what had happened school had dismissed for the day, and I was unable to get the coin."
"This is bad, Mr. Camp," the man said, "very bad."
"I'm sure I can get it back if you'll just give me a little more time . . . an extension."
"I don't deal in extensions, Mr. Camp. I gave you a loan for forty-eight hours, which you accepted of your own free will. You made a contract."
"But I didn't sign anything," Jimmy protested.
"It was an actionary contract, Mr. Camp," the man said. "The moment you placed the coin in your pocket, the pact was sealed."
Jimmy heard a movement behind him and turned to see an elderly woman shuffling toward him. She wore a long gray cloak over a green dress that dragged the floor when she walked. A red shawl covered her head and lower face. She carried a long staff topped by a large rounded knob carved with a shallow bowl like indention on its top. Eyes glowing fire red, she approached wailing, "Jimmy . . . Jimmy Camp."
"What's going on?" Jimmy asked turning back to the steely-faced man. The man smiled at him, wiping a bit of dribble from the corner of his mouth. Suddenly Jimmy was aware of a vibrating rustling sound coming from behind the man. His black coat began to shake and rise off his shoulders. The coat pulsed and throbbed as if something was trying desperately to escape from within, and then it ripped exposing large black insect wings that buzzed to life like a possessed chainsaw in search of soft tissue in which to grind its teeth. The wings slowly lifted the man to the top of the case where he rested on the smoking hooves of a goat. His face twisted and compacted itself, and the skin of his ears peeled back to reveal the points of a demon. The demon opened its mouth and the forked tongue of the dragon shot forth and wrapped around Jimmy's throat. He struggled desperately to fight free, but the tongue held him fast.
Slowly, the old woman unwrapped the shawl from her head and face. Hair as black as night streamed across her shoulders and rolled down her back into piles at her feet, "Jimmy . . . Jimmy Camp," she wailed. Lifting the staff, she placed the knob under Jimmy's jaw so his chin rested firmly in the shallow indention. His chin resting on the knob, the tongue wrapped around his throat turned to ash and fell from the mouth of the demon. The old woman wailed even louder and lifted the staff and Jimmy as easily as she would a feather high above her head. She balanced him momentarily then swung him toward an empty hook hanging from the ceiling. Aligning him with the hook, she maneuvered the tip of the hook under his chin and then jerked the staff free. Jimmy dangled from the ceiling, his face contorted and frozen in terror.
Red and blue Lights flashed in the street between the bank and the old burned out emporium. A car marked “Sheriff – Luxachaney County” sat next to a flashing fire truck and ambulance. A mob of people gathered outside the yellow tape hanging around the charred timbers of the emporium. "Gil, what do you have?" Sheriff Pete Rogers asked stooping under the yellow tape and walking up to Captain Gil Carter of the Willow Creek Volunteer Fire Department.
"Dead body. We got as much as we could from the only eyewitness before she went into shock," Carter said, "but it looks to be self inflicted."
"Suicide?" Rogers asked, examining the nasty bruised hole under Jimmy Camp's chin. "Are you sure about that? I'd never figure Jimmy to follow through on something as final as suicide.”
"We’re about as sure as we can be at this point," Carter said. "The eyewitness, Sheila Browning, says she was in the bank when Harold Beecher turned Jimmy down for a loan. She said the way Beecher treated Jimmy was just not Christian, so she hurriedly finished her business in the bank and followed him outside to check on him. She never got a chance to speak to him though."
"Why's that?"
"Well, it seems things got kinda strange outside. According to Sheila, when she stepped out of the bank, Jimmy was standing across the street staring at the old emporium sign. She said she called to him, but he never acknowledged her. He walked into the middle of the rubble, picked up an old partially charred chair frame, and carried it back to the sign where he set it down. The next thing she knew he was standing on the chair and pulling the sign off the hook. He then grabbed the hook with both hands and lifted himself from the chair to a point where his chin hovered barely an inch above the point of the hook."
"Lord, didn't she yell or something?" Rogers interrupted.
"She yelled all right. She said he turned toward her, and she could see he was crying. Then he let go. When we got here, he was impaled on the hook, and Sheila was passed out on the steps of the bank. We revived her just enough to get her story."
"Was there a suicide note?" Rogers asked.
"No, just a note from his wife reminding him to bring home change for their daughter’s lunch money.”
Rogers took the note and read it slowly. “This just doesn’t make sense. Has the coroner been notified?”
“Yes, sir. In fact, he’s pulling up now,” Carter said pointing to the street. A white Ford F150 with “Ed Makepeace – Tri-County Coroner” stenciled on the doors pulled as close to the yellow tape as possible and stopped.
“Perfect timing,” Rogers said extending his hand to Gil Carter. “Gil, I’m gonna leave this with you and Ed if you don’t mind. My boy has a game tonight over at Presterville, and if I leave now, I can still catch it. I’ll come by tomorrow and get your report.”
“No problem,” Carter said shaking his hand. “Go watch your boy. No sense in all of us ruining our evening.”
“Thanks, Gil,” Rogers said and turned to meet Ed Makepeace bending his long frame under the tape barrier.
Carter knelt next to the body to examine it once more in case he had missed anything. He could not understand how a man could get so down that he could do something like this. It just did not make sense. An object that he had not noticed before lay partially concealed under the right hip. Pushing the body slightly to the side, he picked up the object to examine it. It was a copper coin roughly the size of a quarter.
“Gil, what do we have?” Ed Makepeace asked.
Carter looked up to see the talk lanky coroner standing over him. “A mess, Ed,” he said standing to shake his hand, “A pure-d mess.” He stepped aside to let Makepeace do his job. Rubbing the coin between his fingers, he watched for a few minutes then walked to the fire truck. He flipped the coin in the air, caught it, and pushed it into his pants pocket. If I had about a million of these quarters he wished, I would not have to be dealing with this mess. I could take Rubinie on that cruise she has always wanted.
THE END
A Southern writer who enjoys telling stories.