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hey gathered on the streets like apparitions sprung up from the dust, their eyes reflecting the harsh realities of life on the prairie. They came out from their homes and shops; they came alone or in numbers. They came as husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, the old and the young, the healthy and the afflicted. They all came to gather around the horse and wagon newly arrived in town that morning. Painted on the side of the wooded wagon in vibrant colors were the words PROFESSOR ABRAHAM GRIMES—MIRACLE MEDICINE MAN.
Stepping out onto the platform was the professor in the flesh, a flamboyantly dressed huckster in a green tweed suit with purple velvet vest. His sleek grooming and fine garb, misinterpreted by some as a portrait of professional success, only served to mask the failure of humanity underneath. He stood with Cheshire grin, his corpulent face framed with grayed mutton-chop sideburns. There was a polite cock to his matching green bowler. He grabbed a metallic wand and struck it against the sides of a triangle to call his audience to attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen! If you will allow me but a few moments of your precious time, I would like to call your attention to the next miracle advancement in modern medicine! For what I have to show you this afternoon could add ten years to your life!
“I have had the privilege of studying medicine in some of the most prestigious universities back east and have practiced with some of the most intellectual minds in the field. Yet, after years of witnessing first-hand these same brilliant minds baffled by the illnesses that threaten our lives, I dedicated my life to researching every disease known to exist, and to find a cure to benefit society.”
Grimes could tell from the grumbling and murmuring of the crowd that he was losing them. Quickly he pulled from a carton a solitary bottle of rust-colored liquid whose label read [smallcaps]Prof. Grimes’ Miracle Elixir[/smallcaps].
“Friends, what I hold in this little bottle here is the essence of life itself. What may look to the untrained eye like common brown water is in fact a miracle of medical science, defying all reasonable explanation. Not even I, the inventor of this elixir of life, truly know for sure all of its healing capabilities. It is simply not for mortal man to comprehend all of the mysteries of the universe!
“But . . . what I do know—with certainty—is the amazing list of remedies that a mere tablespoon of this power potion can perform upon the human body. Are you feeling weak and tired, lacking youthful vitality? A tablespoon of my elixir will re-energize fatigued muscles and clarify the bewildered mind. Are you feeling stressed, incapable to face the long day? My elixir will calm the nerves and regulate the blood pressure.
“This here elixir not only revitalizes the fatigues of age, but can also cure any great number of ailments. Touch of the ’flu? You will be up and on your feet the very next day with just one teaspoon! Yellow fever, smallpox, chickenpox, measles and mumps—all fall prey to the magical healing ingredients held within the glass bottle.
“Does your baby have a touch of the colic? Feel powerless no more with my new elixir! Do your joints ache? Your back pains you? Your hands useless and arthritic? With a few doses you will feel no more pain and perform the functions of life as though half your age!
“Do not hesitate further, my friends. Heed the call of medical innovation! Wipe out all sickness and disease! Live a full and healthy life! If this elixir were available only a few short years ago . . . the great Cholera pandemic that overtook the Mississippi River, St. Louis and New Orleans, may have been avoided—thousands of lives would have been saved. Don’t let this happen to your town! Bring peace of mind to your families and community, for just two dollars!”
Like cattle, the ignorant crowd reached into their wallets and purses, exchanging their hard-earned money for bottles of empty promises. The good professor took their money willingly and with a smile, handing each customer a bottle of his home brewed concoction of rotgut bourbon, castor oil and food coloring. As far as Abraham Grimes was concerned, his obligation was concluded. He sold the product and collected the money. It was a higher power’s responsibility to finish the rest . . . should one believe in that sort of thing.
As the crowd dispersed, one face remained staring up at him, stern and abrasive. Grimes was familiar with that type of countenance. Turning from the man, Grimes counted his paltry fourteen-dollar take and placed it snuggly in his vest pocket.
“Professor Grimes, I presume?” the man called out to him.
“At your service, sir.” He spun around to face his acquaintance and flashed his salesman’s smile. “And how may I be of assistance to you?”
“You can hitch up your wagon and be on your way.”
“Under what authority?” he bluffed ignorance.
The man grinned and flashed a silver badge pinned under his jacket. He also flashed a Colt .45 revolver. “Sheriff Wynchester J. Keene is the name. This is my town you happen to be soliciting in. I don’t suppose I need to ask if you have a permit?”
“Now, Sheriff Keene—I am a simple peddler. Surely there is no harm in supplying a demanding public?”
“No, there’s no such harm . . . But I know your kind, Mr. Grimes. Every few months or so, here they come on their wagons selling some new-fangled medicine or contraption with the guarantee of satisfaction, ’cepting you and I both know the outcome. In the end, you fleece some poor ignorant rubes out of their hard-earned money and you ride out of here with a healthy collection—never to be seen nor heard of again.”
“You have me all wrong, Sheriff.” Grimes picked up a bottle of his elixir and offered it to Keene. “Consider this a laurel branch—compliments of the house. I assure you that I seek no material gain. I simply wish to share my miracle elixir with those that are most in need. I only charge only enough to cover the cost of ingredients, which is not exactly chicken feed.”
Grimes held the bottle forward, but Keene refused to take it. Grimes smiled, masking the contempt stirring in his stomach from the insult.
“I can see that you are a man who believes in the practice of cleaning living. The body is a temple and should stay purified of outside influences.” Grimes replaced the bottle in the carton. “The offer still stands should you feel that you are in need of my services.”
“All that I am in need of from you, Mr. Grimes, is the promise of your immediate departure from my town.”
“Sheriff Keene, I assure you that I am not a man who cares to outstay his welcome. But it has been a long journey from Omaha, not too many towns between here and there. I don’t suppose it would be too brash of me to acquire a meal and some refreshment from one of your fine establishments before hitching up and being on my way.”
“I don’t want to see your smarmy face much past sun down.” Keene’s hand nestled instinctually on the handle of his Colt. “’Cause iffing I do, I run you in for soliciting and loitering on private property. Are we clear, Mr. Grimes?”
Grimes nodded.
Keene tipped his hat and walked across the street. With a sigh of relief, Grimes returned his attention back to the wagon, packing up the few remaining bottles of elixir into the crates.
“Do you know where I might find the professor?” he heard a soft and gentle voice inquire from behind. Grimes turned to find a woman standing behind him, her face etched in utter despair and weariness reflected in her recently tear-filled eyes.
“At your service, my dear,” he charmed, removing the hat from his balding head as though a true gentleman of valor. “Professor Abraham Grimes, man of medicine and miracles!”
“It’s my husband, he’s terribly sick. The doctors here are useless. I fear that if something isn’t done for him soon, he’ll—” Her emotions took the upper hand; she fell into Grimes, sobbing like an injured child. Never one for compassion, Grimes felt lost and helpless with the distraught woman in his arms. He patted his hand against her heaving and convulsing back in his attempt to appear concerned.
“Now—there, there, Miss . . . I don’t believe I caught your name?”
“Elwood,” she sobbed. “Mrs. George Elwood.”
Grimes looked down at the diminutive wretch standing before him in faith and ignorance. He could make out faint traces of youth and beauty that once beamed on her face, only to be superseded by the ravages of time, age, and life on the prairie. For a moment he entertained the thought of barter: a sample of elixir in exchange for a sample of what lay underneath her powder-blue petticoat. It was a thought from the past; he was much too old and tired now.
“I am desperate, Mr. Grimes. My husband gets weaker and weaker by the day. All I can do is sit by his bedside and watch him die, helpless to prevent it. Worse yet, his children are forced to witness him waste away to nothing. How can I explain it to them? If he were to die, I don’t know what I would do!”
She was reduced to a quivering and sobbing mess. The sight of her emotions sickened him inside. Grimes reached behind himself and grabbed a bottle of his elixir.
“This unassuming bottle, Mrs. Elwood, holds the key to your good husband’s salvation,” he explained calmly. “It is an elixir, a powerful medicine to cure all that ails. I have seen it many times myself, seen men lying within the cold grasp of death—precariously clinging onto the ledges of existence itself—leap out from their beds and perform incredible feats of strength and endurance after sampling but a few spoonfuls of this magnificent drug.”
“Can it cure my George?”
“Ma’am, modern science has yet to understand the full potential of this medicine. I have seen it cure diseases thought to be incurable. Mrs. Elwood, in this bottle may be the only hope your husband has—the only hope that anyone would have.”
“How much?” she asked.
“I do not wish to profit. The cost is set merely for the procuring of funds to continue its production—”
“Money spent ’round here is money worth spending. I do not ask for charity,” Mrs. Elwood proclaimed reaching into her purse. “Would three dollars cover it?”
Grimes looked down at the three dollars she grasped in her desperate hands and licked his dried, covetous lips.
“I know it isn’t much—not for an eastern city doctor like you.” She grabbed Grimes by the hand and forced the money into his palm, clutching it closed with all the strength of a grizzly bear. Grimes figured he had no choice but to accept it.
“Yes . . .” he said, handing the bottle over and taking her money.
“You are a saint, Professor.” Mrs. Elwood kissed Grimes’s cheek gratefully.
Grimes smiled politely and slipped the three dollars into his vest pocket. He looked down at her pitiful face, the expression of ignorant hope radiating like the sun. At one time, perhaps, he would have felt something for her plight.
“A tablespoon of the elixir every few hours,” he explained slowly. “By morning, you should see a marked change in your husband’s condition. Best to see what a good night’s sleep will provide.”
Yes, best to see in the morning, he thought. Best in the morning when he would be far away from the repercussions.
Grimes sat alone at the end of the bar, staring down the open end of an empty bottle of whiskey. He was accustomed to sitting alone with only a bottle as company; it was one of the casualties of the job. He surveyed the saloon with his tired eyes and found it to be as dead as the rest of the town.
At the opposite end the bartender and sole proprietor of the saloon, McKee, vainly busied himself by whipping already clean beer mugs with a bar rag and replacing them onto the shelves. He was engaged in a conversation with an odd, mole-faced little man dressed in a black suit and complimenting top hat. Grimes could see even from where he sat that the little man was the nervous type, sipping on his sherry and habitually wiping the sweat from his forehead with a napkin.
“I hear tell that Elwood ain’t got much a chance past midnight,” McKee remarked. “Terrible shame, for that to befall a man in his prime. Even worse when it’s a nice chap like Elwood.”
“The Lord does work in mysterious ways. That’s what my mother used to say,” the little man added with a nervous giggle. “I have taken special care in designing Mr. Elwood’s final accommodations. Fashioned from the finest Oak I could lay my hands on. Personally constructed it myself. The headstone carved from marble, a bust of the beloved angel Gabriel perched on top. A more than fitting tribute for any man.”
The mole-faced man smiled, exposing his equally mole-like teeth—long and yellow, protruded through his meek and pale lips. “Why, I just visited the poor wretch this morning,” he continued. “I dare say, he looked like the very essence of death itself. The stench was overpowering. I’ve been forced to work nights to ensure that the coffin and headstone will be ready in time for burial. Wouldn’t want to leave the remains in this terrible heat for long.”
“Aye . . . I don’t know what is worse: what disease can do to a man, or what it does to those that love him,” McKee pondered absently. “I hear it’s taking a terrible toll on his wife. She may have lost her grasp on reality altogether. She’s got it into her head that some magical potion she bought from some huckster is gonna cure him.”
Both McKee and the little man’s gaze peered over to Grimes; he pretended not to notice.
“I hear that she’s been plying him with the stuff all afternoon, practically fed him the entire bottle already.”
“You don’t suppose that there is any truth in the drug’s effects, do you?” the little man whispered.
“Odekirk, you sound just as bad as the fools that buy that swill,” McKee said disgusted.
“No, no, don’t misunderstand me.” Odekirk laughed pensively. “Its just that after all of the work spent on the coffin and headstone . . . You know me, I wouldn’t wish ill on any living soul—but it would be a terrible shame to waste that fine craftsmanship.”
“Barkeep!” Grimes shouted, slapping his open palm on the bar top, “Another bottle, please, of this swill that passes for whiskey . . . if it is not too much trouble?”
McKee grunted with dissatisfaction, placing the beer mug down and walking to the other end of the bar to fetch another bottle.
“It is my regretful responsibility to inform you that Mr. Elwood will survive the night,” Grimes said to Odekirk with a confident veneer reeking of cheap booze.
“You must be Professor Abraham Grimes, the one who owns the medicine show.” He chuckled apprehensively. “Name’s Wes Odekirk. I am the undertaker here in town. Perhaps you saw my shop just across the street.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice . . .” Grimes muttered.
“Oh, well. I hear that elixir of yours possesses some exceptional capabilities.” Odekrik twitched, removing his hat and dabbing the bullets of sweat off of his brow. “Some say it’s nothing short of black magic.”
“I wonder, Mr. Odekirk: is it genuine curiosity which registers in your voice?” Grimes surveyed. “Or, is it perhaps fear . . . a growing perturbation gnawing at the pit of your stomach at the mere notion that one bottle could absolve all maladies, both physical and viral by nature, from the human body? The business you would lose in a year alone would be quite substantial.”
McKee returned with a fresh bottle of whiskey.
“Mr. McKee, you are a gentleman and a scholar,” Grimes pronounced joyously, fetching from his wallet four dollars and laying them on the bar.
“Don’t mistake my hospitality as any more than professional obligation, Mr. Grimes,” McKee corrected his customer sternly. “Iffing you were any less than a paying customer I’d toss you out right on your ear! The cultivated company of your kind is a thing I could do without in my lifetime. Your patronage, however, is something I regrettably have to accept.”
“I don’t believe a more accurate assessment of my character has ever been spoken so poetically,” Grimes quipped, raising his glass in toast and pouring it down his throat in one decisive motion.
In the corner of his eye Grimes spied a priest pushing through the swinging wooden doors of the saloon. The priest stood at the entrance for a moment, scanning his eyes around the room until they finally settled on Grimes. He could feel the stare from the priest from where he sat, but Grimes refused to flinch. He watched seemingly unattentive as the priest approached him and took a seat by his side.
“Mr. Grimes?” the priest asked softly, “My name is Perkins. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”
“And to what do I owe this honor?” Grimes chuckled, “I am but a humble traveling medicine man, and already I have had the pleasure of meeting the local law enforcement and undertaker, and now the local preacher-man.”
“I wish to speak with you about a most important matter,” Perkins reiterated.
“Well, sure . . . I am never too busy to share some of my precious time to speak of matters of substantial gravity.” He patted Perkins on the back and waved his hand to catch the attention of McKee. “Barkeeper, another glass for my new friend here, the preacher-man!”
McKee grunted and fetched another glass.
“Please, Mr. Grimes—I do not drink.”
“You know, it’s not every day that I get a chance to share a drink with a priest. But don’t you fret, I will not pass judgement on you.”
Grimes snatched the glass from the barkeeper and gregariously filled it with whiskey. He slid the filled glass over to Perkins, but the priest did not accept the offer.
“Go on and take it, I must insist!”
“I did not come, Mr. Grimes, to share pleasantries,” Perkins stated in a firm and determined voice. “I have come to speak about that matter of Mr. Elwood.”
“Oh, yes . . . that is a terrible business.”
“I have just recently come from the Elwood home, having given Mr. Elwood his Last Rites. In speaking with Mrs. Elwood, she confided in me that she had paid you a visit this afternoon. You had sold her a bottle of your tonic.”
“Not a tonic, Father—it is an elixir!” Grimes corrected as though unconsciously pitching from his wagon platform. “Guaranteed to cure any and all ailments known to modern science!”
“Yes . . . she said as much. She claimed that you sold her the bottle with the promise that a steady regimen would have Mr. Elwood up on his feet by morning.”
“That is the slogan printed on the bottle.”
“I have just seen Mr. Elwood and he is no better tonight than he was this morning. If anything, it is a miracle that in his state he’s still breathing. All the while, his wife pours spoon after spoon of your miracle elixir down his throat on the false promise that he will become better.”
“Unfortunately, as a physician I only prescribe the medication. The act of healing is not so much in my hands as it is in the Almighty Creator’s.”
“Haven’t you any idea what you have done?” Perkins demanded, rising from his seat. He paused abruptly, catching himself and taking a deep breath to expel his growing frustration. After a moment, he resumed in a common tone, yet still frustrated. “How could a man of any conscience commit such an unconscionable act? She sits by his bedside as we speak, pouring that snake oil that you pass off as medicine down her husband’s throat.”
“She’s only administrating the dosage that I prescribed.”
“You sold her false hope, Mr. Grimes. You sold her the promise of her husband’s speedy recovery—a promise that we both know to be counterfeit.”
“Now, I’m all for a man’s speaking his mind, Father,” Grimes confessed, “but I must warn you that you’re balancing dangerously on the fine line of slander.”
“I do not speak with a reckless tongue,” the priest fired back. “You sell your fiction to the poor, the ignorant, the desperate. You shine before their eyes a beacon of hope cast from fool’s gold and for a mere few dollars. You profit from their hunger for a miracle, for something—anything that will help. How can you sleep at night, Mr. Grimes?”
“Those are harsh words coming from a man of the cloth,” Grimes observed wryly. “I thought men of your vocation were forbidden from passing down judgment upon God’s creatures.”
“I do not pass judgement upon you, Mr. Grimes. I merely state what I see.”
Grimes nodded, pouring another serving of whiskey into his glass. “There was a time, peacher-man, when a part of me would have shared your assessments,” he confided softly. “But that part seems to have died a long time ago.” He swallowed his beverage and let out a satisfied sigh. As the warm sting of the whiskey settled into his gut, Grimes rubbed his fingers against the graying stubble of his chin in reflection.
“You know, one time I sought to be a doctor medicine. Not this, traveling from town to town like some dog-and-pony show. No, a real honest-to-goodness doctor! I attended one of the most prestigious universities in Boston. Attended class regularly for a few years . . . but did you know what I found in those ‘hallowed’ halls of knowledge and integrity? Nothing. There was nothing in those schools that could have taught me any more than what I know now. The medical profession, as it stands my dear preacher, is nothing more than blind guesswork. At least with my way, the patient suffers very little. They don’t have to endure the indignities of being poked and prodded, butchered by instruments no more fitting a plank of wood while dead-eyed doctors scratch their heads, pondering what form of torture to inflict next.
“No, I offer them something different from all that. You are right, father: I sell them hope. But the hope I sell is only as good as what the customer has inside, wouldn’t you agree? True, my elixir may contain no medical ingredients. It perhaps holds no more healing power than if I was to circle my hand around the patient and wailed some Injun chant. I don’t sell them the promise of healing; I sell them peace of mind. I sell them the privilege of dying with hope.”
“You make it sound as though you are performing a vital service to these people,” Perkins muttered with disgust.
“You know what I find terribly amusing, father? You sit there, safe and secure behind that white band of starched cloth you wear ’round your neck like some badge of piety. You stand before a crowd of parishioners, spouting your rhetoric in priestly garb, safe in the knowledge that you’re only doing God’s work—spreading the word of God. But what are those words, preacher-man? Do you truly know what they mean or what they stand for? Or are those words worth no more than the paper they’re printed on?”
“I warn you, Mr. Grimes, what you are saying is not only an affront to all I believe, but an affront to God Himself.”
“I mean no disrespect, Father, and I certainly don’t intend on hurting His feelings. I merely conclude that you and I are cut from the same cloth.”
“I am not like you, Mr. Grimes,” Perkins stated, the stinging taste of contempt burning the back of his throat.
“Is that so?” Grimes shrugged complacently. “We are both peddlers, Mr. Perkins—I mean Father. We both hock our unfounded verbosity upon those that wish to hear it. They want to believe it as truth. They come to us both because they know that we will tell them what they want to hear. And so we give it to them gladly and they walk away with their false hopes in a higher power reaffirmed. If it makes them feel better to hear it from me, then I will provide them that service gladly.”
“Not without a profit, I suppose?”
“You have your game and I have mine.” Grimes smiled, amused. “However, I doubt very much that that Bible you clutch by your heart at night has any more truth in it than that which is contained in my bottle, dear preacher-man. Whether you like it or not, we are cut from the same cloth. The only true difference is that I know exactly what I sell in those bottles and the true nature of its powers. But, do you know what you’re selling, preacher-man?”
Grimes winked and poured another drink. Perkins stared at him silently as he drank with the expression of pity registering on his face.
“I am not interested in your compassion for my lack of humility, nor am I interested in hearing your appraisal of my worth as a child of the Lord. I will not be reformed—it is much too late for that, I assure you. I made my peace with God long ago and I stand by my decision.”
A strong gust of wind burst into the saloon. All eyes met with the figure of Mrs. Elwood standing at the doorway, dread and desperation etched upon her face. Her eyes fell upon Grimes sitting at the bar and rushed to his side.
“My God! My God! Professor Grimes, you must help me! You must come at once!” She collapsed upon the bar, sobbing like an injured child.
“What is it, Mrs. Elwood?” Grimes uttered in bewilderment.
“It’s my husband—he—he—” she vainly choked out through the tears, “I did everything you said. I followed your instructions—but—but—”
“Out with it, my dear,” Grimes demanded callously, “No sense in milling about the bush. Speak! What is the matter?”
Mrs. Elwood lifted her head in his hands. Grimes was taken aback by the sheer amount of age that registered upon her face since last he had seen her. She seemed to have aged ten years in a day.
“Please, tell me what is wrong, Mrs. Elwood?” he repeated, this time trying to sound more compassionate.
“He’s dying, Mr. Grimes. I must have fed him nearly the whole bottle, yet he is still dying.”
“Well, my dear, you mustn’t expect the healing powers of the elixir to take hold instantly,” Grimes assured her, feeling the insufferable weight of Perkins’ gaze upon him. “Normally, the healing effects can take some time to become evident. Now, I am sure with a good night’s rest, you should see—”
“If I wait but an hour longer, he’ll surely die!” she asserted frantically. “You must see him tonight! You must come and help him before it’s too late.”
“Mrs. Elwood, I appreciate your calenture, but I am not accustomed to paying house calls—at least, not at such a late hour . . .”
“Please, please, you must come—you must come at once! Please help me, Professor Grimes. I would give anything for my husband to be cured.”
Grimes looked down at her tear-filled eyes and smiled.
“Very well,” he conceded. “I shall see what is ailing your husband. You go back to your house and wait for me; I shall not be long. I need to fetch another bottle of elixir.”
“You are a saint, Professor Grimes,” she said as she kissed his hand gratefully. “We live in the farmhouse on the hill, just north of this saloon. I will keep a light burning so you won’t lose your way.”
With a glimmer of renewed hope to warm her tired soul, Mrs. Elwood scurried out of the saloon like an excited child having just received a sugary treat.
“You are not actually considering visiting that poor soul, are you Mr. Grimes?” Perkins muttered with contempt.
“I shall do as I said,” Grimes answered, lifting his drunken frame off the stool. “I shall pay the poor bastard a house call and ply him with enough faith and hope to cure an entire town’s worth of Elwoods.”
“You are drunk, Mr. Grimes. I suggest you leave the poor man to die with whatever quiet dignity he has remaining. Could you truly be so callous? Or have you come to believe your own spew?”
Without a word, Grimes stumbled to the doorway.
“I beg of you, Mr. Grimes,” Perkins called out. “Please consider the weight of this decision. You are about to cross a fateful line—from which there is no turning back once crossed. Are you prepared to suffer the consequences of such an action, Mr. Grimes?”
Grimes did not answer. He walked out of the saloon and stumbled until he reached the wagon. He pulled out a full bottle of elixir from one of the crates and walked in the direction of the Elwood place.
The medicine man collapsed onto the barstool, exhausted. He motioned to McKee to fetch him a drink. Looking down at his pocket watch, he read half past midnight; he calculated he had been at the Elwood place for nearly three hours.
And what a performance he gave them! No one could accuse Abraham Grimes of not giving his patients their money’s worth, even though he knew his best efforts would only be in vain. With just one glance at Mr. Elwood, Grimes could tell he was suffering through the latter stages of rheumatic fever. His brief medical school career taught him the telltale signs of the disease: the elevated fever, the swelling of the joints, the intense abdominal pains. And the most telling system of all, eythema marginatum, a long-lasting rash that begins on the trunk and arms, spreading outward to form a snakelike ring while clearing in the middle. There was nothing he nor anyone else could do for the poor wretch now; it was only a matter of time before Mr. Elwood would give out.
McKee returned with a double whiskey and Grimes gladly placed his money upon the counter.
“How is Mr. Elwood?” McKee asked.
“Mr. Elwood is nothing short of a dead man still breathing,” Grimes answered as he pushed the welcomed glass to his lips.
“Was there nothing that could be done?”
“The illness he is afflicted with is a mystery, beyond the grasp of modern medical prowess—including my elixir,” Grimes lied. “I did all I could for him. I doubt if anyone could have done more.”
McKee snickered and poured Grimes another drink. He took it in his hand and studied the light as it passed through the brown liquid with the glass.
“I would gladly sacrifice my health or even my life to save his, if I thought it would matter,” Grimes boasted with dramatic flare. “But I accept my defeat with quiet dignity and grace.”
“Dignity and grace?” McKee mocked. “Those two words hold no meaning for you.”
Grimes smiled and finished his drink.
The street was deserted as Grimes walked out of the saloon. The early morning air had chilled considerably during the night; his skin prickled slightly from the kiss of the frigid breeze swirling against the storefronts. He looked at his pocket watch: a quarter to two. He reckoned he could manage a good ten miles by sunrise, a reasonable distance to separate him from the town before Elwood finally expired.
His inebriated legs stumbled as he stepped down onto the street. He had to pause for a moment to regain his composure, and once again. He had overdone it some with the whiskey. He looked to his wagon parked down the street. Never did it seem so far away as it did at that moment. It may as well have been a mile, the way he was feeling.
With a deep determined breath, Grimes zigged and zagged down the dirt road. The scuffled sound of the soles of his shoes against the gravel echoed into the silent night.
He walked about thirty feet when something compelled him to stop abruptly in the road. Grimes looked to his right and found that he was standing directly in front of a store. The
sign above the front door read: ODEKIRK & ASSOCIATES—FUNERAL AND BURIAL, 1ST CLASS SERVICES FOR THE DEAD. His eyes wandered down to the window front. Behind the glass and fixed upright was an expertly crafted oak casket, no doubt the very casket intended for Elwood. Standing by its side was a beautifully ornate granite headstone, its facing polished. Sitting atop the head stone, carved in the same granite, was a miniature portrait of the angel Gabriel, dressed in flowing fabric with his hand extended upward to the heavens. Only the words [smallcaps]Here Lies[/smallcaps] were etched into the stone face. A thrifty businessman like Odekirk would not jinx a prospective transaction by writing the name of the man on the headstone before he died.
A brisk wind blew Grimes as if it knew what he were thinking as he stared at the empty coffin. By morning, it would no longer be empty; it would be filled for eternity. He could look at it no longer; he pulled the lapels of his jacket up against his bare neck and proceeded down the road.
He untied the horses and pulled his stocky frame up to the seat. With a few quick flicks of the reins, the wagon was set into motion and quietly rolled out of town.
Grimes held the bottle to his lips and the remainder of whiskey flowed into his waiting mouth. The chill of the night air had worsened; Grimes did everything he could to keep the blood circulating.
He could feel the pangs of sleep tugging at his eyelids, but he pressed on. He could not stop now. He was still too close to the town, to the unpleasantness that would assuredly make its presence known in the harsh light of day. No. it was best to continue forging on. There would be enough time for rest later.
Grimes was aware of the dangers of outstaying his welcome in times of unpleasantness. He shuddered at the memory of one unfortunate occasion when he had narrowly escaped a town within an inch of his life. The young daughter of a most respected town official had fallen under the wheel of a runaway stagecoach, severely crushing the child’s midsection. Grimes had stepped in with his elixir with the promise of revitalized health for the child. Come the following the morning, naturally, the poor girl succumbed to her injuries. In a fit of hysteria, the townspeople burst in to his hotel room threatening to tar and feather him. He managed to escape, but not before a couple of rowdy cowboys cracked some of his ribs.
He closed his eyes and could still smell the tar being boiled. A shiver ran down his spine more severe than any wind chill.
Suddenly, Grimes heard a terrible grinding noise from behind and the wagon swerved violently. He took a firm hold of the reins to steady the frightened horses and slowed them to a stop.
“What the hell is it now?” Grimes drunkenly muttered as he slid off of his perch and onto the gravel below. He grabbed his lantern and stumbled to the back of the wagon, which now lay tilted into the ground. Leaning the lantern down, he could see that the rear wheel was broken, split nearly in half.
“You seem to have run into some bad luck, sir,” an unfamiliar voice said behind him.
Startled, Grimes whipped the lantern around, exposing the pale and sober face of a man staring back at him.
“Yes, yes,” Grimes answered drunkenly.
“May I take a better look?”
Grimes nodded and stepped aside. The man got down on one knee and peered under the wagon. Grimes held the lantern steady, but his attention was no longer on the broken wheel but on the man—a queer little fellow, Grimes sized up. Queerer still that he would be wandering around the woods in the dead of the night, and with no lantern to guide his way. Grimes thought he heard a noise behind him like the breaking of dry twigs under footsteps.
“The axle is intact.” The strange man rose to his feet. “All is not lost. There’s a town a few miles back . . .”
“No,” Grimes declined decisively. “In a few hours, when the sun is up I believe I can manage to repair the wheel—at least, hold it temporarily until I reach the next town.”
The lantern illuminated the strange man’s pale and emotionless face. He did not smile; he only stared back at Grimes with lifeless eyes that seemed made of glass.
“You are a healer?”
Grimes stared at the man, bewildered. Sensing his confusion, the man pointed towards the wagon and to the words painted on the wood.
“Oh, yes.” Grimes chuckled nervously. “I am a man of medicine. Been that way for over twenty-five years. Used to practice medicine up in Boston until I came upon the ingredients of my miracle elixir.”
“Boston is quite a distance to travel,” the man noted.
“Well, I didn’t think it right not to share my discovery with the rest of the population, so I travel from town to town to allow those that are less fortunate the opportunity of reaping the benefits of my elixir. Perhaps, I could interest you in bottle, Mister . . . ?”
“Pennywaith, the name is Pennywaith, sir,” the man spoke softly.
Grimes heard the noise behind him again and turned his attention towards it. For a faint second, Grimes thought he caught the glimpse of a silhouette peering from behind a tree. Before his eyes could adjust to the dark, the image vanished.
“I’m sorry, what was that name again?” Grimes mumbled distractedly.
“Pennywaith.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Pennywaith.” Grimes extended his hand, but the strange little man only stared back at him motionless.
“Does this miracle elixir truly have the healing powers that you promote?”
“Of course! Not only does my elixir remedy the ailments listed on the label,” Grimes slid into his pitch effortlessly, “but, for only the price of two dollars this little bottle will also cure afflictions of both the mind and soul. The question you will have to ask yourself is what is more important to you: two dollars, or your health?”
Pennywaith responded only with silence, staring back at Grimes with a frozen blank countenance. Feeling uneasy, Grimes retrieved a bottle of elixir and extended it to his new acquaintance.
“Perhaps I may interest you in a bottle. After only a week of steady regiment, you should notice a marked change in your strength and vitality.” Grimes flashed his salesman’s smile. “Certainly the missus wouldn’t mind some extra vigor in her husband.”
“I’m afraid I have no use for extra vigor, Mr. Grimes,” Pennywaith explained softly. “There is no longer a Mrs. Pennywaith.”
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?” Pennywaith inquired.
Grimes quickly turned his head towards some bushes to his right. This time he was positive he saw a figure standing behind them, but only for a few moments. As soon as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the figure once again vanished.
“Pennywaith?” Something had jogged his memory; the name held more familiarity than it had before, yet he simply could not place it. “I believe I knew a man by the name of Pennywaith once, but I can’t remember as to where exactly. You say you came from town?”
“I never said that I did. I am merely passing through. We are all merely passing through, Mr. Grimes.”
“We—?” It was the only word Grimes managed to pass through his lips.The apparitions that had previously eluded him now made their presence known. They were shadowy figures, human in outline yet without facial or physical features, like blank slates left unfinished or erased. There were more than he could count with a passing glance and they all surrounded the wagon, motionless and pensive, as if prepared to strike.
“I am not surprised that you should not remember me, Mr. Grimes,” Pennywaith confessed with some levity. “I don’t suppose that I was much different than most of your clients. I was just another two dollars in your purse. That is what human life is worth to you—two dollars?”
Grimes’s eyes circled about. He counted more than twenty of the shadowy figures, but more appeared from out of the darkness with each passing second.
“Yes . . . I remember now,” Grimes stuttered, “I sold you a couple of bottles in Phillipsburg. You were suffering from symptoms comparable to malaria.”
“Yellow fever would have been a more accurate diagnosis. You prescribed the elixir and instructed me to take three tablespoons a day so that I should be cured within the week. For five grueling days I lay immobilized in bed, with fevers reaching over a hundred and five, forcing tablespoon after tablespoon of that tepid brown fluid down my throat, praying for a miracle.”
“And I should say the Good Lord granted you one, sir!” Grimes boasted with assured confidence. “It appears that my elixir bestowed you with a second chance at life!”
“You mistake me, Mr. Grimes. Your elixir bestowed nothing but a full bladder. I died on the sixth day . . . the bitter taste of your elixir still fresh on my lips.”
“That’s impossible!” Grimes laughed nervously, his eyes shifting to the shadowy figures still surrounding him and motionless. “Even in the moonlight I see you before me, standing and breathing.”
“Standing—yes, sir . . . but not breathing.”
“This is madness!” Grimes shouted, backing away from his guest. “What do you want of me?”
“We have come to collect a debt, Mr. Grimes, a debt you owe us. Payment to be received in full.”
Grimes’s eyes shifted to the shadowy figures that were approaching him, slow and deliberate.
“No doubt you have noticed that we are no longer alone. They were all like I once was in life, naïve and hopeful. We all laid on our deathbeds, suffering from different illnesses. All praying for the same miracle, for a second chance. I don’t suppose you would know how that feels, Mr. Grimes?”
Grimes pushed Pennywaith away and ran to the front of the wagon. He began to unhitch the horses but the bolt would not budge from its rusted prison.
He felt a cold weight press down on his shoulder. Turning with the lantern, the light exposed the rotted skull of his assailant, fetid flesh stubbornly clinging to the bone. Spooked by the sight of the animated corpse, the horses muscled their way through the rusted latch and Grimes’s right palm was sliced open. Searing pain raced up his arm as he watched the horses escape down the darkened path.
Grimes pushed the corpse aside and entered the coach, shutting the door behind him and securing the lock. The dead pounded on the door but the lock held. Grimes opened one of the elixir bottles and poured it over the gaping wound in his palm. He winced as the brown liquid stung his hand. He wrapped it tightly with some cloth to stop the bleeding.
The entire wagon jerked violently, throwing Grimes against the cabin walls. Stunned, he fell to the floor as the wagon rocked from side to side. The undead mob continued to claw and pound at the wood like a pack of starving wolves that had cornered a sheep. Crates full of the bottled elixir toppled over and crashed to the floor, sending shards of glass and brown liquid splashing in Grimes’ face.
“I beg of you, have mercy on me!” Grimes shouted out.
“Mercy?” he heard Pennywaith answer. “Mercy can only be bestowed by God, Mr. Grimes.”
The shaking of the wagon sent to the floor all the objects that hung from the walls, including the lantern which fell upon the spilled elixir and ignited it. The flame spread rapidly throughout the interior of the wagon, blocking the door. Even if he broke through, the monstrous horde outside would surely rip him to pieces. The harsh reality hit Grimes like a leather strap to the face. He was trapped inside the burning wagon.
The immense heat seared his skin. Grimes pressed his body against the wall, but there was no escape from the heat. A flame spit at his face, blistering the skin between the eye and hairline. He desperately clawed at the wall, embedding broken fingernails into the wood, but there was no escape. He screamed and flailed hysterically as the fire closed on his feet.
“It appears that Mrs. Elwood got her miracle after all,” Sheriff Keene said to Perkins as he met him in front of the churchyard.
“I would not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself,” Perkins answered dumbfounded. “Last night, the man was despondent with fever, barely conscious. Now he’s sitting up in bed and talking, the fever seemingly faded away.”
“You don’t suppose it had anything to do with that snake oil that Grimes fellow was selling . . . do you?”
Perkins grinned and looked up to the sky. Not a single cloud for miles; only a brilliant blue canvas staring down at him.
“I doubt it,” he replied knowingly. “At least, not without the aid of a higher power.”
Keene laughed and shook his head.
“Damned if we’ll ever know, I suppose.” Keene took off his hat and wiped the sweat off of his brow. “Not even nine o’clock and the sun’s already hotter than a lit stove. Say, Father, let me buy you a drink.”
“I must decline your gracious offer,” Perkins said appreciatively. “I have a mass to prepare for.”
A horse and wagon stopped in front of them on the street. They looked up to see Odekirk’s rodent-like visage peering down at them and smiling. Inside the wagon was the coffin and headstone intended for Elwood.
“Hate to break the news to you,” Keene announced with some satisfaction, “but it appears Elwood won’t be needin’ your services anytime in the near future.”
“Yes, yes, tremendous stroke of luck!” Odekirk said giddily. “I’ve just come from there. He appears to regain a healthy color.”
“I must say, you’re taking the news rather well, what with losing a prospective client. Suppose now your fine handiwork will go to waste.”
Odekirk glanced to the back of his wagon and laughed.
“Normally, I would admit that I might be less cordial; but you see, I’ve run into to some good luck myself! There was a terrible accident just a few miles outside town. It was that Grimes fellow. Appears he was riding too fast and his rear wheel broke. The violent crash sent a lit lantern and some of that elixir of his smashing to the floor. Apparently, that elixir proved most flammable and the entire wagon must have been engulfed with flame instantly. Nasty mess to clean, but I suppose that’s nature of the business.
“Of course, imagine my surprise when I discovered that Grimes’ measurements were almost identical to ol’ Elwood, right down to the neck size! Now what do you suppose the chances of that are? So, I guess my craftsmanship won’t come to waste after all.” Odekirk tugged at his reins and wagon darted off down the road, his high-pitched laugh fading in the distance.
“Of all the crazy things . . .” Keene said. “I guess Elwood isn’t the only one with luck on his side.”
“There’s no luck involved here, Sheriff,” Perkins noted sullenly. “That coffin was never intended to go empty.”
“How do you suppose, Father?”
“The coffin that Odekirk made was intended for only one man . . . and that man has filled it.”
Keene watched as the priest walked down the street toward the church. It must have been a hundred degrees in the shade, yet Keene felt a chill run down his spine. He turned and swiftly made his way to the saloon. |
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