A Time for Poncey — And other Stories out of Skullbone

by Craig Davis

It’s Best Just to Listen

  Poncey found himself in one of his unemployed periods. The greatest asset he had to offer, his thinking power, still had not found a niche to fill in Skullbone.

  Ever since the year he’d sold ice cream from a car that looked like a miniature carousel, he’d hated working with his hands. For generations the Muldoons had toiled either under a broiling sun or over a scorching fire, and Poncey had spent that summer in a sauna surrounded by frozen treats. Not that selling ice cream was particularly hard labor, but making financial deals with five-year-olds had left an impression upon him. Counting pennies, then waiting for tots to collect however many they lacked, clearly had put his vast abilities to colossal waste. In Poncey’s mind, just about every other job would as well.

  But, appetites being what they are, Poncey’s stomach was about to overrule his mind. After a couple of years living off the largesse of those who do work, the unemployment checks ran out, and the idle life left him empty in more ways than one. Poncey surrendered himself to the lure of a steady paycheck. He set out upon the sidewalks of Main Street there in Skullbone – where even grass found a way to break through and prosper – walking from door to door, humbly offering himself to every business owner along the way. But the theater had already let go of one ticket-taker and doubled up another as an usher. The drugstore already had a jerk for the soda fountain. Snodgrass’ Hardware Store used only teen-aged family members and was full-up with unpaid labor.

  Poncey wandered into Ryan’s “Stones” Jewelry and Wedding Planners.

  “Can I help you today, son?” the heavy-set man behind the counter greeted him. Mr. Ryan polished the glass case carefully as he gave Poncey a wary eye; he knew him well. “Got a sale on engagement rings.”

  “I thought maybe you might be lookin’ for some help here.” Poncey rubbed a finger on the counter, leaving a smudge.

  “Why, what do you think you know about the jool’ry business, Muldoooon?” Mr. Ryan stretched out the final syllable for effect, as he liked to do. “That ain’t somethin’ you can learn outta one of your books.”

  “I know that a diamond is the hardest substance you can find,” Poncey offered.

  “Well, that’s fine and good, Muldoooon, but how’s that gonna help you make a sale when a young man figures out he’s gonna be payin’ on a ring for two years? What’re you gonna tell him – ‘A diamond’s hard, and so’s life’? You gotta be able to make a man see past the future. Sales is an art and a sci’nce. If you gonna work here, you gotta take a man by the hand and lead him where he doesn’t want to go. You have to sweet talk him into marchin’ without lettin’ on you got a bayonet to his back. We run a full-service, no-holds-barred intro-duction to married life.”

  “One could cut that glass there,” Poncey stammered.

  “What? A bayonet?”

  “No, a diamond.” Poncey wasn’t letting go.

  “Son, you’re missin’ the point. You need to stop your blather an’ listen – sometimes it’s best just to listen. I don’t care if you know every diamond by name. You gotta know how to handle ’em when you got ’em. If you don’t know how to sell jool’ry, you ain’t no help to me. You know how to change a batt’ry in a watch?”

  “Take the back off?”

  “No, you sell ’em a new watch. It’s cheaper. Ain’t nobody wearin’ a watch anymore anyway, son. Everything they got has a clock in it, and a camera too – nobody needs a watch no more. Don’t you know anything ’bout jool’ry, son? Anything ’bout sales? A real salesman would sell ’em a watch anyway. But I don’t think you know anything ’bout it, Muldoooon.”

  Poncey tried to think of an answer, but all he could come up with was, “The pink ones are hardest to find,” and he turned on his heel and headed for the exit.

  “Well, easy or hard, you ain’t ready to sell one – you come on back when you’re ready to buy one, Muldoooon,” Mr. Ryan elbowed his clerk. “Haw! Haw! When you’re ready to pick out a ring – when you find you a girl. The pink ones are hardest to find! Haw! Haw!” The door shut with a firm clunk.

  The funeral home wasn’t hiring either.

  Poncey ended up slumped over the counter at the Diner. Mavis Davis leaned in sympathetically on one roly-poly elbow. “What’s the matter now, honey lamb?” she intoned.

  “Nothin’. Don’t you have any pie?”

  “Flat out this time of day, sugar. Have to come back later. Surely that ain’t what’s eatin’ at you, is it?”

  “Mehhh,” Poncey groaned. “Just can’t catch a break, that’s all. Nothin’ new. You don’t know anyone givin’ out jobs, do you?”

  “Unemployment checks run out, huh?”

  Poncey played pokey-finger with the ice in his glass of water.

  “No, ain’t heard nothin’,” Mavis continued. “I’ll keep my ears open, though, hon’. What choo lookin’ for?”

  “I’m not picky,” Poncey lied. “I’d do anything. I tried every store up and down Main.”

  “Shoot, I coulda told you that was no good. It’s like death row along this street. You gonna have to branch out if you’re gonna find a job. What kinda work you want?”

  “What I want is gettin’ paid to think. That’s what I’m good at. But until I can get someone to see that, I’ll take just about anything.”

  “You afraid of sweatin’?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.” Poncey got his back up – he wasn’t afraid, he was just philosophically opposed. He hoped Mavis didn’t have anything in mind. His amazing string of being wrong just kept going.

  “Well, I’ve been wantin’ to put a garden out back of the Diner here. Give my customers fresh salad, and save some money at the grocer, you know? I’d pay you to bust up the back, sugar pie, I sure would.”

  The Diner had been built decades earlier on the front end of a rectangular patch of concrete. Mavis and her ex-husband had bought it from the original owner’s grandson so long ago, Poncey could not even remember, and after the divorce Mavis changed its name from “Food” to “Diner,” a symbol of her new beginnings. The building before that, for which the slab had been poured, started out as a bottling company for a brewery that went out of business during Prohibition. But the first structure upon the lot was a beautiful antebellum home, resplendent with gingerbread and onion domes, but so dilapidated after an infestation and then years of standing empty that the town had paid to have it pulled down, board by board.

  That house had once been Skullbone’s showplace, the home of its first banker, Randall Vickers III. He had a handsome family – three statuesque daughters – and extravagant wealth, and he spared no effort to use one to serve the other. His riches funded lavish parties with which to exhibit the daughters, who attracted only the best prospective husbands and bank patrons. The homestead featured a grand three-story collection of verandas, gables and turrets, with three out buildings for servants, slaves and animals. But as time passed Vickers’ patrons began muffled talk about unsettling goings-on at the bank, and then as if to underscore their worries, $20,000 in gold coins was stolen in a brazen safe-cracking. An explosion of nitroglycerine ripped through the silence early one morning, and dazed witnesses reported seeing a dark figure in a cape escaping on horseback down an alley near the bank. Whoever it was disappeared into the night and into legend, for neither he nor the coins ever surfaced again.

  Vickers’ fortunes seemed to have fallen into a bottomless pit, as officials began their investigation into the bank books – they even posted an officer to snoop around in his home. But then those hot-headed South Carolinians threw him a bone by firing on Ft. Sumter. Apparently old man Vickers knew when the getting was good, and he used the distraction to slip out and move his family north. The house stood vigil until not quite a year later, when Confederate troops under Gen. P. G. T. Beauregard happened through on their way to Shiloh. Soldiers awaiting orders filled the fine rooms with their lust for fleeting life and uncouth ways. Working girls from all over found business booming there, and the outhou
se was quickly overwhelmed. One unsavory element after another multiplied into a thoroughly unwholesome situation. A good dose of fleas and lice left behind by the doomed troops that April proved to be the last straw, and the good townsfolk decided to just board up all the house’s doors and windows and walk around it in a wide circle.

  There the Vickers estate stood, a literal shell of its former self, through the end of the war and well into Reconstruction, a fitting symbol of that ill-titled program. Rumors arose that one of the daughters had surreptitiously returned, witnessed poking around the ruins one day with distracted interest, but nobody could say for sure; supposedly, the old man had gone crazy, moaning about cruel fate and the lost gold. Finally the town council condemned the property, and filed away the bill for the demolition just in case Vickers ever showed up again.

  By the time the Gilded Age arrived, commercial enterprises of all kinds had encroached upon and pushed out the grand old residential area. Fat, whiskered men with watch chains from Blat Beer arrived from some big northern city, plying Skullbone’s leadership to let them build a bottling plant on the empty lot, and the city fathers were only too glad to oblige. Unfortunately, since no Vickers heir had ever returned to lay claim to the land, nobody was sure how to legally sell it. The council finally agreed to let Blat Beer pay the old debt for tearing down the house, and then to encourage everyone not to think about it anymore. A great concrete slab was laid, covering over all evidence of the grand old home.

  The plant prospered for a time, but things never last in Skullbone. An unlikely alliance of do-gooders – holiness believers and humanist progressives – succeeded in outlawing evil by banning alcohol. Blat Beer suddenly found itself without a product, and switched to an item the owners knew would always have a market: player-piano rolls for silent movie theaters. But this new venture was packaged in boxes, not bottles, and Blat no longer needed the Skullbone plant. The building continued to serve the drinking public, however, and when revenuers learned that local gangsters were coordinating the moonshine trade in the place, they persuaded the company to secure it with boards and locks upon the doors and windows. The little plot of land seemed to carry a curse.

  And so it was that while social upheaval could not end Blat Enterprises’ story, doom nonetheless was in the air. In 1927 “The Jazz Singer” had the company playing the blues once again, but the crash of ’29 was its real swan song. Blat went bankrupt, the owners jumped out of windows, and the former bottling plant fell into the hands of a series of receivers, each also going bankrupt in turn. By 1933, again nobody was sure who owned it, and officials offered a new deal to any taker willing to start a business there. To help out, the town again tore down the past shambles to make room for new.

  Ray Harris, an old Navy man with experience in the galley, knew an opportunity when he saw it and offered to buy the front section of the slab, facing Main Street. Skullbone’s power brokers jumped at Ray’s offer – taking his money but laying it aside in trust like a lost and found, held in case the plot’s rightful owner might ever claim it – and he parked a trailer there that eventually grew into the little eatery. One-penny coffee was its mainstay, so even patrons with nothing but the shirts on their backs spread the word about “Food,” and a Skullbone landmark was born. The concrete out back remained exposed, with no known owner, right up to the present moment, and nobody objected to the greasy spoon using the crumbling space at its convenience.

  That concrete was where Mavis wanted her garden.

  “You’re not gonna to let a little sweat stop you, are you, sweetie pie?”

  Poncey hung his head over the counter. Inside, dread trembled before the prospect of hard labor; certainly he could figure some way to think himself out of this fix. How could Poncey give up on living his schemes? Had he fallen so far, to submit to mere grunt work? In the desperation of the moment, he saw no alternative. Until some brilliant employer recognized the utter ability that his mind might one day exert, he was stuck with exercising his muscle.

  “Go run down to Snodgrass Hardware and get you a pick. I’ll go take a look outside and tell you what I want.”

  It had been years since anyone had told Poncey to “run down” to anywhere, but he was just too depressed to take the insult now. By the time he’d sloughed back to the Diner, Mavis was out back, fists on hips, in her imagination seeing a garden the likes of Eden. She pointed and talked and talked and pointed, and he stared at the ground and grunted surrender, until finally she disappeared and he was left with his pick, the grinning sun and the shame of it all.

  Poncey focused his attack at one of the larger cracks, where crabgrass had led nature’s constant assault upon civilization. He tapped away at it like a confused woodpecker. The pick frowned in the air as Poncey drew it back over his head. Tiny chips of cement and sand danced around his shoes each time he brought the blade down, powered by all the force of his frustration. What in the world am I doing here, he thought, I should be in a high-rise office somewhere watching someone else do this out my window, but no here I am stuck like a convict on a chain gang. Perspiration began to tickle his scalp before streaming down his forehead and stinging his eyes. He could feel his wet shirt clinging uncomfortably to his back and restricting the movement of his shoulders. Quietly he cursed under his breath with each sharp report of the pick against the slab. The sun ticked across the sky.

  A hollow, metallic clunk broke the monotony he’d come to rely upon. Poncey had enlarged the original crack into a small pit of dust and gravel, and his last blow had plunged the pick through this scree and into a soft area below. He nearly fell over when the pick didn’t stop when he expected. As he wrestled it out of the tangle of rock, clay and what looked like rotting wood, his interest was caught by a flat object underneath – that isn’t pavement, Poncey said to himself, and it isn’t dirt either. Finally something remotely interesting to think about. He reckoned at first Mavis must have buried something there, and then knew she couldn’t have. Poncey’s fingers eagerly scooped out the spilling rubble as he peered at the smoothness. It was something man-made, all right, something metal. Flat but not uniform, the object was mostly a blue-black color but with a little bit of ill-defined decoration to catch the light. Should he tell Mavis about it, or maybe wait until he knew what it was? His fingertips caressed this mysterious item, caught in deep thought, wondering not what it was or how it got there, but how hard it might be to get it out.

  “You doin’ all right, sugar? You want some lemonade?”

  Mavis’ twang might as well have been a rifle shot, and Poncey yelped slightly in surprise.

  “What you doin’? Find somethin’?”

  “No thanks,” Poncey stumbled. “I don’t want anything. To drink just now.” Mavis’ lemonade was actually corn syrup and didn’t taste that good anyway. “Just takin’ a little rest – I’m getting’ right back to work,” and he readied his pick as if to take a swing.

  Mavis gave him a sideways look. “All right, then. You let me know if you need somethin’,” and she retreated to the cool of the Diner.

  As a precaution, Poncey looked about casually to check for other spies, then took up his work again with new vigor. Ever since he’d read about some fellow digging up a mastodon tooth, he’d wanted to discover something – he didn’t care what. He’d studied everything he could find about the ancient beasts, and he knew this thing wasn’t any part of a mastodon – unless one of them had learned how to work metal – but it might be something just as impressive. The pick, working the air and ground now with the methodical precision of an oil derrick, imposed its will upon the mostly unimpressed concrete. The hole grew slowly, excruciatingly so, to reveal ever more of the flat surface. Poncey found himself brushing away the shards with more frequency, such was his bursting curiosity. A crude flowered decoration was clearly embossed on the object’s surface, a dark patina deep in the folds. As he picked out more blackened splinters of soft wood, Poncey told himself that someone had placed the thing there for a reason
.

  The ordeal continued for more than an hour as he hammered away, but his zeal to claim the find never waned. Poncey felt so hot he nearly took off his baseball cap to wipe his brow. He thought back to the time as a barefoot boy, the first day his father took him along as he went to work at the railroad yard. The engines and his dad towered over him, and the sleek silver rails seemed to reach into an eternal horizon. In his juvenile mind he thought perhaps he was in a circus, with the trapeze suspended by great taut ropes, and the shining high wire stretching for miles. Applause thundered in his ears as he stepped delicately out upon the rope. Suddenly a scream ripped through the air as the artist slipped off the wire, danced along the ground in agony, crying over his feet seared by the rail super-heated under the afternoon sun. As he hopped about and wailed, his father remarked how if that was the worst thing that ever happened to him, he’d sure live a charmed life. Poncey hated the rail yard that day, and his father stood not so tall afterwards. Now he vented that old hatred with his pick. He punished the concrete for hiding his prize. How he hated the heat. He did not notice the swallowtail that landed upon his back, gently fanning its wings.

  Finally enough of the slab was broken away for Poncey to behold a box, about twice the size of a tissue carton, and clearly quite old. An archaic lock, the type that takes a skeleton key, kept the lid shut tight. Poncey, crouched low, again looked carefully over each shoulder. A few well-aimed chips squared off corners in the concrete, and the container slid out of its hideaway; it weighed more than it should have. It was a heavy weight, as if the box were solid. Poncey clumsily tucked it under his shirt with one hand and scurried away like a gothic hunchback, his pick dangling from the other hand. He carefully avoided the Diner’s windows, and didn’t stop until he’d found a favorite nook within the tight brick walls of Finger Alley.

  Squatting low, Poncey took a moment to simply admire his discovery. He fingered the lock and tested it one more time, and sure enough it wouldn’t budge. Then he took up his pick and applied a number of careful blows until at last the mechanism tore away. He fully expected to hear an angelic chorus as he lifted the lid.

  Inside were stacks of glowing gold coins, packed snugly, waiting quietly. Poncey let loose with a rebel yell.

  “What choo got there?” a drawling voice said.

  Poncey shot up straight – he knew that voice. Of all the people in Skullbone, only Marlin MacLenoly would be hiding out in a dank alley just for the pleasure. Poncey could only barely make out Mack’s boney form, hidden neatly within the shadows of a small doorway. He was Poncey’s best friend.

  “I’m rich!” Poncey exulted.

  “Looks like,” said the laconic voice. Really only Mack’s long nose was visible. “What choo gonna do with all that?”

  “Dunno. Don’t you get any ideas.”

  “Phssh – what do I care ’bout it? Nothin’ but trouble. It’s yours – what choo gonna do with it?” Mack tried harder to peer inside the box, but not very much.

  Poncey closed the lid and folded his hands over the treasure chest. “I don’t know,” he mulled. “Stop workin’, that’s for sure. Never work in the heat again.” His world had abruptly turned upside down: Brainwork had left him a pauper, and hard labor had gained him riches. Only time and intense concentration would make all this fit into his presumptions – fortunately, he had just the mind to do it. Heaven clearly was smiling upon him, and he knew now he could accomplish anything.

  “Gonna buy somethin’?”

  “I don’t know. What is there to buy?”

  “I’d get me – a truck I guess. With chrome rims. How much you ’spect is in there?”

  “Sheesh, who knows? This isn’t just gold, this is old coins. Collectors will go crazy for these things.”

  “S’pose they’re real?”

  “Of course they’re real!” Poncey couldn’t believe the inference. He reopened the box and stared at the coins. “Of course they’re real. Who’d hide ’em if they were fake?”

  “Well. Just wonderin’. What choo gonna buy with ’em?”

  The question lay flat in Poncey’s brain – it wasn’t the point at all. The coins represented liberty to him, they represented a ticket to opportunity. Just their very presence gave him status he’d never known before – why, he might never have to buy anything again. People now would give him what he wanted, just to gain his favor, if he worked it right. He remembered his morning of wandering from door to door, one rejection after another. “Spendin’ ’em isn’t the thing to do,” he intoned. “What I’m gonna do is invest these riches and make ’em grow. Then I’ll never have to work again, and folks will have to come to me.”

  As Poncey considered his new fortune, he suddenly realized he still crouched like a rat in a damp alley. He looked at Mack, who returned a stupid grin. A poverty of shame crept over him, and again he worried who might be watching, and then Poncey thought of something he could buy, and right away. He packed up his box and stood manfully before Mack, letting his pick fall to the ground. “I’m goin’ to spread the news. There’s a new big man in Skullbone now. Time to let everybody know.” With that he strode from the alley, ready to spread some cash around in exchange for respect.

  “What choo gonna do that for? You’d best keep quiet ’bout this,” Mack called after him, but didn’t leave his dark perch. “That boy don’t ever listen.”

  Poncey’s chest kind of puffed out as he paraded back to Main Street, the dingus no longer stashed away, but rather presented at arms’ length like a grand idol. Too early for the dinner hour, Poncey knew no fit audience would be found at the Diner, and besides, he still didn’t want to face Mavis, so he headed to the next best place. Sure enough, the usual motley crew and a couple extras were gathered at Clip Joint Barber Shop, ripe for some news. Jip, the barber, was holding court, an undersized pair of scissors permanently attached to his fat fingers, flailing about with all the gusto of his opinions. The whole town was sure one day he would kill somebody. Ronnie and Donnie Galloway, retired brothers, spent all their time at the shop, and there they sat in one corner, while Bob Roach lounged in the second barber chair and complained about not being allowed to smoke. All the old fogies were there, along with Rev. Fletcher, lanky and gray in his wisdom. Little Andy Jackson was getting a trim, sitting upon a board set on the chair’s arms. He squirmed and peeked around at Jip to see if he was going to get in trouble before his mother came back to fetch him, but Jip was snipping away without really looking. Mr. Bancroft from the credit union had his face deep inside a magazine, trying to appear above the conversation as he waited his turn. Poncey looked down on this crowd; after all, he’d attended community college.

  “Dang, Poncey, what you got there?” Ronnie said first.

  “This is the greatest thing you have ever seen,” Poncey replied, with suitable modesty. He sat among the crowd with one leg crossed as if it didn’t care, and balanced the box on his knee.

  “No so far it ain’t,” said Donnie. “What is it?”

  “This, friends, is a treasure I found. I found it, I read all about it in a bunch of old books, an’ I figured out where it was, an’ dug it up.”

  “Looks like a rusty box to me. Old, too. It mighta been worth somethin’ if you hadn’t beaten it open there,” Donnie scoffed.

  “It’s a treasure, I tell you. You haven’t seen it, but I have. You’ve never laid your eyes on anything like this, not here in Skullbone, not anywhere.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Ronnie, the child here – ” Rev. Fletcher began.

  “I do say. Believe me, I’m rich – richer than you ever thought of. You wanna see or not?” Poncey smirked, knowing he could string along these fellows as much as he wanted – but he didn’t want to. The faster he pulled this trigger, the sooner he’d get his due reverence. Still, he couldn’t resist forcing his friends to beg. “All right then, prepare to be dazzled.”

  “Hell, Poncey, you’re rich!”

  “Ronnie!”

&n
bsp; Mr. Bancroft finally looked up from his magazine. Bob Roach peered sullenly from a distance.

  “I told you. I told you so,” Poncey beamed.

  Jip nearly dropped his scissors. “What you gonna do with all that, Poncey?”

  “I don’t have to do anything with it,” Poncey had finally come up with an answer. “With all this money, it just is, and I just am.”

  “What the h – uh, what did you just say?” Ronnie nearly blurted.

  “That’s a lot of money, Poncey,” Rev. Fletcher said. “Who does it belong to?”

  “Why, me. Who do you think? I told you I found it myself.”

  “People don’t just leave gold coins lying around. These have to belong to someone. Where did you get them?”

  “I found ’em. I dug ’em up,” Poncey could feel that creeping sensation that something must be amiss again.

  “Come on, now, Poncey, where are you going to dig up something like this?” Rev. Fletcher tried to be comforting as he worked to extract a confession.

  “Out back of the Diner,” Poncey felt like he was in third grade. He indicated the general direction with his thumb. Immediately he regretted offering so much information.

  “Who’d bury gold coins behind the Diner?” Bob Roach wondered. “Mavis hasn’t got that kind of money. Least not that I’ve ever seen.”

  “Could be Spanish doubloons – could be a pirate treasure,” Poncey offered. He was desperate to retake command of the situation, and stop feeling like he’d shaken the machine until a candy bar dropped out.

  “Yeah, lots of pirates sailed their booties up the Obion River,” said Jip with a dangerous wave of his hand.

  Poncey blushed and decided to ignore the remark. “Or could be ducats.”

  “Those are double eagles,” Mr. Bancroft broke in, looking over Donnie’s shoulder. “Pre-war, by the dates. They must’ve been buried quite a while.”

  “I found them fair and square, out behind the Diner, an’ everybody knows nobody owns that land. They’re mine.” Poncey closed the box lid to press his point. He hadn’t taken the treasure from anybody, he’d earned them; no, even better, he hadn’t earned the coins, God had given them to him. God Himself had placed the box there in ages past just so Poncey would find it one day. What God had given him, let no man tear it and his hands asunder. Not only that, but God had placed Rev. Fletcher in the barber shop that very moment. Poncey knew what he could do – he’d pay God back. He’d help God out, to prove how right He’d been, singling him out to find the money.

  “They’re mine, to do with whatever I want,” Poncey announced, and then turned to The Rev. “Maybe I’ll give some to the church. Would that be all right with you, Rev. Fletcher? Don’t you think that would make God happy?”

  The minister smiled and stroked his chin.

  “How ’bout a new Sunday School wing, Rev? I could give you enough for that right here. Be happy to.” If God wasn’t pleased with this gesture, Poncey thought, then He couldn’t be pleased.

  “Well, that would be just fine, Poncey, except for one problem: Who would we name it after?”

  Poncey really hadn’t thought about that, but he was glad to now. “Well, I guess – of course, it’s sort of traditional – you’d probably name it – .” Poncey glanced around at each set of hard eyes as he tried to decide the best way to work his name in. Finally he just said, “How ’bout if I give a nice donation right now, Rev? How much would you like?”

  “You just think about it awhile, Poncey,” the Rev. said. “And Lord bless you with all this.” Rev. Fletcher was careful never to tell anyone “good luck;” he didn’t believe in luck.

  “How does a lunkhead like that fall into such money,” Bob Roach muttered.

  “I wouldn’t be handing cash out already, Poncey,” Jip butted in. “Once the mayor finds out about it, the city’s gonna want its share.”

  It seemed to Poncey like the whole crowd was trying to stand between him and God. Certainly the Deity was worthy of a payoff in the matter. “Look, the city doesn’t own it. They don’t own that land, and that’s where I found the box.”

  “I bet they could find a way to own that land. You know a good lawyer?”

  Poncey didn’t even know a bad lawyer, and a sour pit began to churn in his stomach. Here he was trying to do something good, and now comes talk of getting lawyers involved. People just try to control me too much, he thought, especially now that they had their sights on his coins. Once they get a little glint of gold in their eye, he thought, people come up with all sorts of crazy ideas – funny how money changes folks, he thought. He just needed to teach them to have some respect. He resolved to keep these morons on the right track.

  “The city doesn’t own that land, it’s spent a hundred years tryin’ to wash its hands of it. I found this free and clear, and I can give away all of it if I want. Here God, take this.” He held up a coin between finger and thumb and reached toward Rev. Fletcher.

  Rev. Fletcher laughed slightly and demurred.

  “I’m tellin’ you Poncey, this is gonna get out, and when it does the mayor’s gonna be on it like mud on a turtle,” Jip warned. “They’ll take every cent you got, then give you a certificate of ’preciation.”

  “Oh, he’s right,” said Ronnie. “An’ ever’ one of your friends is gonna be after you with their hands out. You got any friends?”

  “I’m your friend, Poncey,” Donnie grinned.

  Poncey was about to respond when the door swung open with a creak. Little Andy Jackson’s mother walked in, her arms laden with domestic loot, and as Jip shooed him off the chair, the boy excitedly rattled at his mom: “That man’s got a big box of money! Look, Ma, that man’s got a big box of money! Ma! Ma!”

  Thoroughly put-upon, Andy’s mother nearly dropped her packages as she tried to fish a $10 bill from her purse and gather her frantic child. Mrs. Jackson might as well have been Mary Todd Lincoln in Atlanta, and she hastened to escape from the male enclave. She pushed the hair from her forehead with the back of a hand and gave Poncey a stern look to show she didn’t understand what was going on, but she didn’t approve in any case. “Stay away from that Poncey Muldoon,” she said in a harsh whisper. “We’ll talk about it when your father gets home.” The door creaked again but could not drown out Andy, now singing, “A big box of money, a big box of money!”

  The crowd stared at the scene as it disappeared past the display window. “Yeah, I’d keep this quiet if I was you,” Ronnie said.

  “Son, what you need is a safety deposit box,” said Mr. Bancroft.

  “Keep all that money safe for the city treasury.”

  “An’ the church – you know you promised. Then the gov’ment can take the other ninety percent.”

  “Maybe you’ll have jus’ enough left to pay for that bank vault.”

  “Look, fellas, I’ve got to go,” said Bob Roach, lurching out of his chair. “You let me know how this comes out. It sure beats me how you lucked into this, Poncey. You’ll be a real inspiration to everyone,” he said, his eyes sharp with a slight leer. As Roach left, Poncey suddenly remembered he worked at the radio station.

  “He’s right, people should know who I am now,” he said testily. “But luck had nothin’ to do with it. You people treat this like a big joke. You have no idea about the great things I’ll be doin’ from now on.”

  “Seriously, Poncey, this kind of money can turn a man’s head,” Rev. Fletcher said. “Whatever you do, think it over first. Don’t listen to just anyone. Lots of folks would talk you into foolishness.”

  “Don’t worry, Rev, I don’t plan on listenin’ to anybody,” Poncey said without thinking.

  “Lots of folks would jus’ plain take it from you,” Jip noted.

  “Poncey, you be sure to come by the credit union in the morning,” Mr. Bancroft patted his arm. “We’ll talk.”

  “I don’t need any bank. I’ve got my own plans.”

  “Plans change, boy,” said Ronnie. “All it takes is one guy with
a gun to change all the great plans you’ve got.”

  “What guy? You maybe?” Poncey sneered.

  “How ’bout me?” Donnie said.

  “How ’bout Bob? He sure left here in a hurry,” Ronnie joked.

  “Who all’s seen that box, Poncey, ’sides us?” Jip asked. “You sure no one was watchin’ you? All sorts of windows an’ rooftops got a great view of the Diner.”

  “I don’t know, an’ I don’t care who might’ve seen. If anyone was watchin’ me, then they know it’s mine. I don’t care if they saw me.” Poncey was putting up quite a brave front.

  “Well, Poncey, the funny thing ’bout bein’ a barber is, you get to know a lot of scalps. I know who’s got a scar here, or a lump there, an’ usually how they got ’em. I kin tell you, they’ve all been for a lot less than a box of gold. Know that white spot of hair on Harlan Planters? ’Cause of a scar – brother pistol-whipped him with a cap gun as a kid. Maybe no mugger did see you, but what if somebody knew the box was there, maybe plannin’ to dig it up himself? How you think he’d feel now?”

  Jip hit him hard with that awful thought. Poncey began to realize that coming to this place had been a mistake. These buffoons didn’t seem to understand what had happened to him, not even Rev. Fletcher. Now they were filling him with doubts. The gold coins did not represent just a windfall: Time and place had cooperated to choose him for this privilege. God had given him a great gift and responsibility. This knowledge alone was greater riches than the gold, Poncey thought, and now he must bear it all his life, it would change his life, he told himself. He was above decisions like bank vaults and petty purchases now; he had become a philanthropist, a little god doling out grace to the worthy and unworthy alike. God had given him all sorts of Very Important Work to do. This crowd would never be able to grasp that simple fact. “Who was planning to dig it up,” indeed. God made sure the right man found the treasure, and He would protect it. Poncey wearily gathered his box to himself and headed for the door.

  “I have to go,” he croaked. Then randomly, “Not even close!”

  “Watch out for Bob,” he heard behind him.

  But as he padded down the sidewalk, the words rang in his ears: “Somebody knew the box was there.” He could feel a multitude of eyes upon him. A confusion arose within him about what he wanted, about how he felt. Perhaps even God was watching him now, waiting to see what he would do. He began to suspect everyone. Certainly nobody from Skullbone knew about the box, probably, he thought, or they’d have gotten it and moved away. But what about outsiders? Perhaps someone passing through town had hidden it there somehow, to retrieve later, or had discovered it through research. Yes – brainwork, like deciphering an ancient map, maybe someone really had read about it in a book. How could I be so stupid, Poncey thought. Only pure brainwork could trip him up now, and the irony chilled him to the bone.

  Now Poncey swore at himself; he was letting the fools persuade him. Rev. Fletcher was right, they were talking him into senselessness. He wasn’t afraid, he had nothing and no one to be afraid of. He braced himself, he went so far as to say out loud, “I’m rich,” and looked around sharply; sure enough, he didn’t see anyone within earshot. He tried it again, bolder, “I’m rich! I found the gold coins!” A sudden flash of movement caught the corner of his eye and set his heart racing – by the time he’d turned to look, they were gone. He sprinted to his building and hid in his apartment.

  Poncey paced and sat, his breath came hard as he sorted his thoughts. That was it, he thought all that evening, someone had found an old document, sure enough, or a musty diary, no doubt written in code, and traced the coins down to the very spot behind the Diner. That person was busy securing ownership with an army of lawyers, he was making sure he would keep the treasure he’d worked for. What Poncey had found by grace would be taken from him by law. He stared across his living room and envisioned a team of men in three-piece suits at his door with a writ ordering him to hand over the gold. And the city loomed over him as well – the mayor and council would conspire to take his dear metal box, they would find some way to claim the riches. He imagined the argument: Why let one man keep such a fortune when everyone in town should benefit? Stand and deliver! What hope had he against that appeal? I’m not going back to hard labor, he vowed, the coins are mine.

  Poncey lay inert and sweaty in his bed. God had singled him out, He had smiled upon him with benevolent menace, delivering this wonderful, burdensome gift. Perhaps he should have given Rev. Fletcher a pile of coins right there in the Clip Joint. He knew he’d have to start reading the law, to prepare for the legal onslaught, but where to start? He gazed into the dark, his throat so dry he couldn’t swallow. A silhouette hovered over him, shrouding him in its craggy arms and boney fingers, and vultures came to rest upon it. He realized he hadn’t even counted the coins, and he carefully stacked one upon another until they towered over his head, and he lost count and tried to start over, and the coins cascaded down and rolled into cracks in the wall. He dug and dug but could not get them out. The top coin of the stack had hung in the sky, and now Poncey could tell it was the moon, full and shining, but he could barely see by the pale light. The shadow folded over him, and he thought he shouldn’t sleep. He thought he would just hide the money, return it to secrecy, and leave it to heirs who existed only in fantasy. Judas, his dog, crouched upon the box and growled fiercely every time Poncey tried to draw near, and his eyes glowed like daylight through the gauzy curtains. He whimpered, and his legs scurried sideways against the bare floor in his own troubled dreams. Poncey slowly sat up in the clammy bed, his head throbbing, knowing even in his fatigue that he had to do something.

  He pondered his choices over some quick coffee, swerving between what seemed best for him and what he thought God probably wanted. Judas danced and yipped at the door as he approached, but grouchy Poncey swept him aside with one leg – the dog hadn’t waited to go outside, so he could just stay in a while longer. God would show him what to do, he thought as he left and the door latched behind him, God would direct him in the right way. Poncey turned toward the stairwell with purpose, sorting his thoughts in his mind until a sudden burst of stars knocked them right out. For a second he was asleep again, just ready to get up off the floor. Then he felt gravity sitting on his head. Poncey raised his eyes only long enough to see a dark figure in a long, flowing coat floating away, something square tucked under his arm, running away into the shadow of escape.