by Craig Davis
The End of the Matter
When Poncey heard the news, it froze him solid, smack in the middle of polishing Zeke Breather’s old pickup truck for the Junk Bucket 50. A chilled autumn sun had finally broken through days of drizzling rain, and spirits throughout Skullbone lifted in anticipation. The brutal summer had passed, but gray November had not arrived to pull its shroud across the countryside. Treetops, not yet void of leaves, wobbled in the wind high overhead as if they expected to turn fully around. Late cotton still speckled surrounding fields. What once was innocently called Indian summer blessed the land with crisp colors and skies, and all of Skullbone prepared with gladness for Harvest Festival Day.
More so than any other year, expectation ran at a fever pitch, for this was to be the hundredth anniversary of the Festival. It wasn’t the one hundredth Festival, because of some years when it was canceled due to world war or just plain forgotten, but records revealed beyond doubt that 100 years ago the first such gathering had been held at a cabin with a still in back. The law showed up that morning and stayed through the afternoon, and a tradition was born. Back then the townsfolk could rustle up not much more than an annual potluck dinner, but over time the steady addition of new diversions had made the Festival the highest day of the year.
The Junk Bucket 50, one of the more recent attractions, had taken a prominent place – the race of unlikely vehicles, requiring fifty laps around the city perimeter, capped off the day’s planned events. But the rules were strictly informal, and often the drivers’ boredom with the track after a few times around thinned the field to such an extent that the winner was simply the last car still running. This established fact gave Poncey hope, because he was tenacious if nothing else, and he talked Zeke into letting him drive the pickup in the race.
True to form, Poncey had prepared himself well before asking for the truck. He sought out every bit of information about auto racing that he could find, from the history of rum-running to peculiarities of Le Mans. He could wax eloquent on how restrictor plates work, which tracks require them and why. He knew the career stats of every driver from Barney Oldfield to “Awesome Bill from Dawsonville” and back again. He could speak at length – and often did – about the relative safety of any given track surface in different weather conditions.
“That’s all well an’ good,” Zeke drawled, “but it ain’t gonna help you win no race wit’ this heap. Prob’ly’d be the first race ever won by a Di’mnd T. But you kin take it – if you kin get Boneapart out.”
Boneapart, Zeke’s huge mutt of a dog, did usually keep residence in the truck’s bed. Zeke had the unfortunate habit of putting humiliating accessories on Boneapart, which the dog tolerated with as much dignity as he could muster. Zeke might well have forced Boneapart to participate in the “Arf-Full Dogger” Canine Competition, another Festival highlight, but he had no chance of winning because of this shameful past. Politics ran heavily at the show, and the town’s dog fanciers would never give their stamp of approval to such a fool. But it would get him out of the truck, Poncey thought.
“You gonna enter him in the show?” said Poncey.
“Might,” said Zeke.
The truth was, Zeke had thought hard about entering Boneapart. More so than any other year, a winning dog at the one hundredth anniversary Festival would bring a world of publicity to Breather’s General Store and Junkyard. And with his name painted all over his truck, its entry into the race was a foregone conclusion as well, and Breather simply waited for a driver – any driver – to volunteer. Poncey’s designs made a soft landing into Zeke’s will.
To be sure, Zeke was no fool, in his stained muscle shirt and single suspender. He hadn’t stayed in business against a tidal wave of mega-marts by being stupid. He planned to use the Festival Day shindig to his best advantage by hook or by crook. With that in mind, he rang up a cousin of his who owned a small-time carnival, and a quaint midway made of shiny aluminum arose in the middle of town for the big day. A full array of rickety rides, game booths, corndog stands and other childhood delights lined the entire length of Main Street, flashing lights peeking past their reflections and into the storefronts’ plate glass windows. Zeke paid for the amusements – at a discount, certainly – so every ride and game was free for the kiddies, and every mom and pop knew who was their benefactor.
“Young’uns know how to enjoy life. Best to enjoy life while you still kin,” he said.
Zeke further pursued his hayseed philanthropy by arranging a job at the carnival for anyone who wanted to earn a little pocket cash. So Mack found a day’s work running the merry-go-round. Through the summer his humor seemed to be on the rise, along with his curved posture, as if fortunes had pulled him straight. Poncey noticed that Mack seemed to hop slightly higher than usual as he walked, but still he wasn’t in a mood to bridge the gap that had opened between them that spring. Every memory of how Mack had left their business partnership twisting in the wind raised his indignation again, and he swore anew never to trust Mack with anything. Mack seemed not to mind. Poncey thought Mack should beg his pardon first, but from a distance his behavior didn’t betray any sense of repentance. I’m not like him, Poncey thought, I’m glad I don’t need someone to keep me propped up all the time. He’ll come around before you know it, he’ll be begging me to be friends with him again.
In truth, Mack had not dwelt upon the matter, though at times he might feel like telling Poncey a thought, or perhaps might see something that stirred up a memory to share. After all, they had always been like two peas in a pod, albeit one a garden pea and the other a black-eyed pea. Whatever – there would be time for catching up. For now, he had abandoned his shadows to test the sun, seeking the camaraderie of the Diner and Clip Joint, returning to First Church, mining the possibilities of content. Mavis went so far as to ask him if he’d found a girl somewhere, which only turned him red. The cause was to remain a mystery, but everyone who cared to notice could see something within him had brightened.
After years of troubled disregard, this year Mack saw Harvest Festival Day with childlike wonder. Not since his first year in Skullbone had he anticipated the celebration with such innocent glee. He saw all the events with a deep superficiality, understanding for once the profound joy of simple pleasure. He even appreciated the high school showcase as a rite of passage for the fresh-faced new generation. Mack thought back to what he might have brought to it in his day, then realized he had nothing, and let it go without regret. But this year’s carnival thrilled him most, the promise, the lights and sounds and the sheer fun of it, trailing late into the night. Having a part in the festivities, helping to deal out the merriment while taking part himself, seemed to him the greatest delight any person could want or expect. Maybe he’d even see Poncey there.
For Poncey, the question was not if he’d be there, but how he would handle the accolades of the crowd after his victory in the Junk Bucket race. Scanning the carnival layout, he decided he would take up a position at the midway and let his admirers flock to him. He’d already picked out the particular place: The “Balloon-Buster Dart Throw,” which closed out the long row of game booths. The string of amusements butted up to the ride area like a T-intersection, and Poncey expected crowds of children standing in lines, and waiting parents, to swarm around him, celebrating his exploits. He saw himself standing there through the night, casually leaning, coolly discussing strategy and driving technique with his admirers; he never considered that aggravated game players might aim their darts at him.
But Poncey had a motive beyond just general adulation. Through his arrangement with Zeke, he happened to know that Jazzy Luray would be working the dart game. Propping himself against her booth, just around the corner from the players’ area, he could expound endlessly on his grand escapades, and Jazzy could do nothing about it. Her silken ears, formed in a delicate arabesque, would be subject to the full recounting of his every turn – every bump, every nuance that led to his momentous victory would regale her attention time after time. Finally he h
ad a way to keep her a captive audience, forced to attend to his accomplishments without destroying him in some way.
So Poncey arose on Harvest Festival morning knowing exactly what he would be doing all day. His clattering coffee canister had nothing to offer, so he squeezed another cup from yesterday’s grounds and tossed a piece of cold pizza into Judas’ bowl. He sat slumped at the table and stared in disgust as the dog, old and misshapen, nibbled around the mushrooms before dragging the carcass behind the couch to gnaw on the crust. Poncey had thought briefly about entering Judas into the competition for “Arf-Full Dogger,” but ultimately decided to spare the townsfolk. Growling emerged along with sounds of unctuous chewing as Poncey left for the bathroom. Generally he shaved maybe twice a week, but today he wanted to look clean in case anyone was taking pictures after the race. He considered himself carefully in the mirror – one side, then the next – and coaxed the last few drops from an ancient bottle of aftershave. “ ‘Who is that handsome mutt?’ they’ll say,” he thought out loud. Judas sleepily looked up from the couch and belched as Poncey left the apartment.
He headed toward Main Street. Zeke’s cousin planned to have the carnival up and running by the lunch hour, and Poncey intended to offer the crewmen pointers as he watched them set up. He propped himself against a streetlight that had seen better days and sucked on a straw; in front of him a group of young boys ran in circles and bumped into each other in that idle excitement that’s not sure whether it’s happy or just bored. He considered the immature jostling and took heart that he had better things to think about. Zeke was there, conferring with his cousin and giving direction, his stout arms pointing out instructions. Like magnificent toys, the rides were self-contained trailers, pulled in by trucks and unfolded like steel origami. Poncey picked out the carousel, the Tilt-A-Whirl and a kiddie-sized roller coaster, but a few other rides he had never seen before, and they arose filled with alluring possibility. He unconsciously began bumping his shoulder against the post.
The gaming booths went up similarly, sides and fronts neatly bolted together with electric drills, bunting and accessories snapped into place. The sight made Poncey, supported by his pole, glad he didn’t have to do it. But the manual expertise of the crew flowed almost automatically, with mechanical precision, each problem newly arising quickly yielding to its remedy, and the carnival was assembled well in time. The growing collection of boys gleefully ran to be first in line for the rides, but Poncey, seeing Mack and Jazzy in the distance getting final instruction from Zeke and his cousin, decided instead to first grab some lunch at the Diner.
As he pushed away his pie plate, sparse of flaky crumbs, the carnival music blared in the distance, and Mavis Davis said, “Why ain’t you workin’ down there, hon’?”
“I got bigger things to do,” Poncey said, smugly mysterious in his eyes and voice.
“You always lookin’ for some little job to do,” Mavis continued, wiping the counter. “Figgered you’d be down there.”
“I’m never lookin’ for little jobs – I’m huntin’ somethin’ big,” Poncey corrected her. “I’ll be there later. I got somethin’ to take care of first, though. Somethin’ I’d better go do now.” And he slid off the stool and set down a couple of dollars. “Keep it.”
“Nickel tip? Thanks so much, sugar. You’re just too sweet to me.”
The carnival was a whirl of busy-ness as Poncey walked past. He scanned the crowd and attractions, picking out familiar faces and things to look into after the race. Zeke was out of sight and apparently gone. The sun glinted merrily off the revolving rides, and balloons lifted bold primary colors against the sky, blue and bright as a diamond. The gay spirit would only intensify as darkness fell and electric lights burned intricate patterns through the increased gloaming, a glorious dance to herald Poncey’s great triumph. His mood was light as he set off for Breather’s General Store, and anticipation filled his lungs as he set the days’ events into motion.
Sure enough, as he walked up to the store, there was Boneapart sitting in the back of the pickup. Today Zeke had strapped an under-sized saddle on his dog’s back, upon which perched a stuffed monkey, wearing a fez, riding like a bronco buster. Boneapart sat panting with a pained look in his eye. Zeke’s words of warning came back to Poncey, and he sighed and tried to lure the dog out of his den.
“Boneapart! Get on outta there!” Poncey swept his arm low to indicate that Boneapart should expect to step down from the truck bed.
Boneapart sat staring and panting.
“Boneapart! Come on! I gotta wash this hunk of junk for the race!”
Boneapart looked away, the whole situation becoming just too awkward for him.
“Okay! I’m gettin’ the hose! You better watch out, or your monkey’s gonna get all messed up,” Poncey warned, as if the mutt was going to care. I never once thought I’d ever say that to a dog, he thought. Poncey found a couple of nearly clean rags by the building and turned the water spigot, dragging the spewing hose back to the truck. The shower turned the dirt a dark auburn upon the hood and fenders, then washed it off completely, and he polished the old heap to as much of a finish as it had left. Boneapart didn’t move a muscle.
“All right, here she comes,” Poncey said, and prepared to spray out the bed. Just at that moment the flow blurbled to a fitful trickle, and then off altogether. What th’, Poncey thought, and puzzled at the hose. He looked down its length, checking for kinks, until it led him to Zeke, quietly working at the spigot.
“You kin forget ’bout all that,” Zeke said, approaching Poncey.
“I wasn’t gonna spray him,” Poncey explained, adopting the most innocent face he could muster. “I was gonna get Boneapart out first.”
“Jus’ forget it. There ain’t no reason now. Carnival’s canceled. Ever’thing’s canceled.” Zeke’s voice was low and thick.
Poncey stood, too confused to do or say anything.
“Look son – Mack’s dead.”
“Wha – ?”
“Jus’ been on the phone. Mack’s been killed. Workin’ the carousel. Some kid ridin’ let go a’ her balloon, an’ Mack went after it. Slipped an’ fell right into the machinery. It – the merry-go-round broke his neck.”
A guffaw escaped from Poncey, but it didn’t sound quite right. “What?” was all he could say. Zeke’s face didn’t change.
“Any damn fool knows to wait ’til the ride’s stopped.”
Poncey’s chest no longer worked, and then it worked too well, spasmodically sucking in air that his lungs didn’t want. His knees went limp, delivering him heavily to the ground.
Zeke looked over at nothing across his property. “Even with the amb’lance there, he was gone. Ever’thing’s canceled, race and ever’thing. Whole damn thing. Dammit. Any damn fool knows to stop the ride first.”
Poncey let out a cry he’d never heard before, a croaking gasp that he had no control over. His mind raced with things he should do next, no one idea ever stopping to take root.
“For a kid’s balloon. Sorry, Poncey.”
Poncey found himself walking, not through town but around its perimeter, the track of the race, not through town so he wouldn’t have to see the remains of the carnival. He walked with his head down, watching his feet, loose shoelaces slapping back and forth, and thinking of all the times he’d traveled these roads with Mack. He tried to remember all the good times they’d shared, all their adventures over the years, but couldn’t come up with a single one. He’d felt only a general sense of fullness then, and of loss now. All his yesterdays were like tomorrow, an unwritten blank in his mind, out of his powerless hands.
The sky was still its crystalline blue, and the trees and buildings and cars were just as they’d always been. Still, Poncey had a feeling that his town, his world, was a stranger to him. A fundamental flaw hung in the air, a shroud that kept him from seeing. Flowing over him came a conviction that he didn’t belong there, that somewhere else these things didn’t happen, and only there would he f
ind his home. Cracks, jagged like lightning in the broken sidewalks beneath his feet, rendered the Earth’s random judgment upon the orderly designs that pretend to tame it. They led Poncey to the gray concrete stoop of Mack’s house.
He pushed lightly on the front door, which Mack never locked and in fact seldom latched when closed. Poncey thought for a moment that perhaps he would find Mack inside, that it was all a big mistake. The door opened with a squeak, and he stepped inside. The front room was cleaner than he remembered, less clutter strewn about but still colored with the grime of the years. Spots of white still speckled the floor along the walls, though they were mostly worn away in the walking areas. The house always had a quiet to it – at least since Mack’s mother had died – but it seemed unnaturally still to Poncey this day.
He glanced around the familiar surroundings as if he’d never seen them before. Some pictures hung crooked, as they had for years; some pieces of bric-a-brac lay on their sides, as they had for years. Poncey now imputed each one with some kind of personality, an extension of the people who had held them. He considered the chair in the corner and imagined Mack’s mother sitting there, glaring at some spot on the opposite wall, motioning silently toward Mack’s bedroom. So he went.
Walking through the dining room, he noticed upon the table a wine bottle, a woman smiling with benign expectation on the label. A candle was stuck in the bottle’s mouth, about half-way burned, and judging from the riverlets of wax trailing down the glass, several candles must have preceded it. Before it lay a Bible – the huge family-type in which generations record important events to pass down – with a smudged white cover. Poncey randomly opened it, and fell upon a handful of newspaper clippings, all recounting unusual deeds obscure people from across time and space had fallen into. Lives saved, great scientific leaps accomplished, beautiful expressions of art achieved. Each was pressed neatly within the holy pages.
Poncey wandered into the bedroom, left in utter disarray that morning and no telling how many before. He looked around aimlessly, not knowing what if anything he was looking for. Heavy curtains hung over the windows, blotting out light from the low autumn sun, and wadded clothing piled high upon the dresser, its drawers pulled and overflowing as well. Finally Poncey’s eyes lit on the lamp next to the bed, and he turned it on. There on the bed table lay a badly worn book – The House at Pooh Corner. The cover fell open limply; as he flipped through the pages, many nearly slipped out, and all were stained and crumpled. At the bottom of the last page, in smeared pencil, childish printing spelled out the phrase, “Too much changes. Nothing changes.” For the first time in his life, Poncey thought outside of himself.
The heavy sweetness of flowers hit Poncey in the nose as he entered First Church. Insipid organ music played in such a way as not to be heard. Poncey surveyed the sanctuary from the back, not really wanting to go near the casket. He noted that all the pews were packed, except the one in front with the sign “Reserved for family,” which stood empty; he gazed over the sea of slumped heads. Poncey never guessed that Mack was so popular, and as he walked up the side aisle, he could see the grief within the impassive and stony faces. Jazzy sat with her parents, downcast and shaking. Poncey had never before seen her desolate, her bright face crestfallen into a tissue, sobbing silently because she could do no better. Would she cry that way for him, he wondered. Maybe she loved Mack, he thought, though certainly he’d never done anything to earn it. He did not begrudge his friend. He slinked into the far end of the front pew.
The singer sang a hymn, Poncey wasn’t sure which one, and everyone mumbled through Psalm 23. As the service progressed, Poncey’s mind turned to a jumble of other things. Rev. Fletcher began, “Marlin MacLenoly, known to most of you simply as Mack …” Poncey stared at the stained glass and the arcane images within the design. He picked out the points of glinting light within the cut stone exposed around the windows, a spark of life in the stoic old building. Bet I could find out why that stone glistens, he thought, I could find out everything there is to know about it, and it wouldn’t do anybody a bit of good. He reflected on the wonders and tragedies the church had seen as it sat and waited for years. Rev. Fletcher’s voice faded into the cosmos until Poncey’s ears suddenly caught on something he said.
“… Just don’t let the world own you.
“Life is known for its love and its brutality, for its unspeakable beauty and its unspeakable horror. It offers music and color and warm cinnamon and faithful dogs, and death. ‘If in this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.’
“Why did Marlin suffer? Why did the Christ choose to suffer? We can study our whole lives long, and we may never discover answers to these questions, those answers that will satisfy our passions. Mystery wraps its arms around the world and our passage through it.
“ ‘So much is said about wasted lives – but only that man’s life is wasted who lived on, so deceived by the joys of life or by its sorrows, that he never became eternally and decisively conscious of himself as spirit, as self, or – what is the same thing – never became aware and in the deepest sense received an impression of the fact that there is a God, and that he, he himself, his self, exists before this God, which gain of this infinite blessing is never attained except through despair.’
“Marlin knew. Many times he told me, even when he first came to me as a youth, before the fullness of the world’s weight leaned upon him, he knew. He renewed that belief just this summer.
“Marlin lived many days in despair, a despair that led to ultimate hope.
“Marlin was not absurd. His death was not absurd. What is absurd is this world, a chasing after the wind.
“The end of the matter is this: Love God. He is Marlin’s exceeding great reward. All the other things of the world that we consider so important are all just baloney. In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost.”
The crowd went out back to bury Mack. The pile of fresh earth welcomed him back into its womb, and Rev. Fletcher said a few more words. Poncey turned away, not hearing nor seeing. If Mack was so close to God, why did He kill him? I’m not one of His favorites, at least it sure doesn’t seem like it, Poncey thought, why didn’t He kill me instead? If Jesus means to bless our lives, why did He take Mack’s away? Maybe that was the blessing, he thought. Maybe Mack’s the lucky one. Poncey was sure he would never understand, no matter how much he studied on the matter. Maybe that was the point, he thought.
He wandered through the churchyard under dappled light, filtered by leaves suspended like glorious spectres. The day had turned its face toward the dusk looming just past the horizon. Skullbone seemed to have slowly turned, like a man on a path with a sneaking suspicion he has taken the wrong direction, and Poncey began to recognize his hometown again. He wasn’t sure where to go next, but his feet took him to the Diner.
“Here you go, sugar,” Mavis had pulled a plate of pie out for him as he walked in.
Poncey sat at his usual stool, and listened to the small group of folks who had also sought solace there. Zeke sat alone in a booth, his gut pinched by the table, and Ronnie and Donnie Galloway were together at the counter. Further down sat Constable Crapo looking at himself in a cup of coffee.
“Jes’ a shame, a real shame,” said Ronnie.
“A real shame,” said Donnie.
“Dat boy was always pullin’ some oddball trick,” Crapo droned. “Sump’m’ bound to hap’m to him ’ventchally.”
“Jus’ a accident, that’s all it was,” Zeke said. “Mack never thought nothin’ through, just acted on what his heart tol’ ’im. Jus’ a terrible accident.”
“Dere was always some kinda sitch’ation goin’ on at ’is house,” Crapo insisted. “Always some kinda goin’s on dere. I hadda go out dere all de time.”
“Well, that may be. But this ain’t that way. This is just wrong.”
“A real shame,” said Ronnie.
“I feel terrible,” said Zeke.
Mavis brought hi
m more coffee and patted his shoulder. She tried to say something, but could only sigh. Poncey stared at his pie. The bell hanging above the door rang, and Bob Roach stepped in.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” everyone replied.
“How was the funeral? I had to work.”
“It was a funeral,” said Mavis.
“Well, I heard that. Such a weird little guy, you almost knew something bad would happen to him eventually.”
“Sump’m’ bound to hap’m,” Crapo muttered.
“You used to push him ’round good enough,” Ronnie pointed out.
“That was all just in fun,” Bob Roach said. “Never meant nothing. Such a bizarre way to go, like fate was just waiting for the worst possible moment to take him.”
“He wuz some kinda oddball,” Crapo groused.
“You jus’ be quiet over there,” Mavis warned. “Ain’t no good in speakin’ ill of the dead, no matter who they might be. Gonna be you, someday, honey pie.”
“Well, anyway, we put ’im in the ground,” Ronnie said.
“Put ’im in the ground,” said Donnie.
“Anyt’ing new at de radio station?” Crapo asked, eager to change the subject.
“Well, got a big news bulletin this mornin’. Helluva earthquake hit New Zealand.”
“New Zealand? Wherez’at? Canada?”
“It’s down by Australia,” Poncey said under his breath.
“Yeah, it’s way far off,” Bob Roach said. “They said it’s the biggest earthquake ever to hit a city anywhere. Turned that town into a complete war zone – buildings just laying in heaps.”
“Really?” said Ronnie.
“No kiddin’?” said Donnie.
“Nope. Most of the power’s out, and the sewer lines busted and contaminated all the water. Hospitals all turned to rubble, and highways and rails are ruined all around, and the airport’s closed, so there’s no way to get supplies in. Got a wire photo of a footbridge, and it’s twisted like a corkscrew.”
“Da-yum!” said Crapo.
“You got it. And they’re reporting propane fires going off, and sulfur in the air. No direct phone lines left, and all the cell towers are down. Bunch of people left homeless, a bunch of people. That place is going to be a mess for awhile – and no telling how many been killed.”
“You gonna order somethin’, sweetie?” Mavis hung over Bob Roach.
“Um, no. No thanks.”
“Oh,” she said shortly. “Well, you gotta wonder what was goin’ on in a place like that, for somethin’ so terrible to happen to ’em.”
“Well, get this,” Bob Roach drew himself up as if he were about to finish off a joke. “The name of the city is Christchurch. Christchurch! Just laid flat, nothing but rubble.”
The Diner considered it for a moment.
“You’d think with a name like that, God mighta given ’em a break,” Poncey said, and laid a five dollar bill next to the untouched pie as he stood. “Or maybe not.” He headed through the door, the bell rang merrily, and he walked into the long shadows, Mack’s book tucked under his arm.
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Craig Davis was born and bred in Memphis, Tenn., home of Elvis and pulled pork barbecue, though neither of them ever did him any good. After earning bachelor’s and graduate degrees at the University of Missouri, he toiled for 20 years at newspapers, and has spent a lifetime in biblical scholarship. An amateur musician, he was once wrestled to the ground by a set of bagpipes. He has two grown daughters and a dog that refuses to grow up. To keep up with other works by Mr. Davis, please join our Facebook page. Also, please visit https://www.StCelibart.com.
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Other books by Craig Davis:
The Job: Based on a True Story (I Mean, This Is Bound To Have Happened Somewhere)
The Church in the Book of Esther
Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies
Wars of the Aoten
Christ Crucified Before the Foundation of the World
