Chapter 5
...The Devil must have his Day
Written April 16,1998
Updated June 4,1998
Any resemblance to any person living or dead is probably intentional, but probably not malicious.
People who live public lives different from their private ones have
a problem in that they have to always be on guard in case the real
person slips through for a moment. The old saying that a good liar
has to have a good memory is never more true than when you are lying
to yourself too. So it was that when Cotton began to formulate his
ideas of revenge he had at all times to maintain the outward
appearance of a pillar of the little community.
Once a month or so he would ride the morning varnish from the
station at Selbyville to Rowel and then interchange to Portland
where he would place his orders with his wholesaler. On his latest
trip he made a short detour to the docks and made a surreptitious
purchase from the manager of a shipping line that traded from China.
When he alighted from the Toenail Ridge Shortline combine at
Selbyville station in the afternoon he oversaw the unloading of his
usual supplies from the baggage section of the car into the wagon
from the store that his brother-in-law had brought and then he took
personal possession of a small brown-paper and string-wrapped
package that he placed under his arm. Cotton's brother-in-law was an
unwilling employee but nevertheless did as he was told and acted as
janitor and servant around the store. He would have departed for
more pleasant climes but was held in the area not by family ties but
by the threat of exposure by his employer, who years before had
caught his wife's brother in a compromising position with a sheep in
the barn back in Nebraska. The pillar of the community had no
compunction about using whatever he had to serve his own ends and
this treatment of his kin-by-marraige was no exception.The
brother-in-law had been baptized John, but he suffered from a
condition that in a later age would be called Thyroid insufficiency,
with the result that regardless of how hot a day it might be, John
was always cold, and therefore few people called him by his
given name, he was rather know in the area as Chilly, or CJ for
short.
CJ drove the wagon of supplies from the station back to the General
Store, his brother-in-law sitting at his side, in silence and
apparent deep thought. On arrival Michael alighted and climbed the
outside stairs to his apartment over the store. He dutifully placed
a kiss on the cheek of his wife and rested a hand in blessing on the
heads of his assembled children, then repaired to his private office
where he locked the door behind him and then sat to address the
opening of the package.
During the boom years of railroad construction, thousands of
Chinese immigrants, both legal and illegal, had entered the Far
West to lend their efforts at laying the steel ribbons across the
continent. They worked for peanuts and were treated like slaves and
sub-humans. But one thing they brought with them was the juice of a
flower that could take all of a man's pain away and make him fly
like an eagle. The main supplier of this drug in the valley was the
Selbyville General Store. It was to this era what aspirin became
later in the century, the universal panacea. What most folks in
Selbyville didn't know, though, was that what they bought from
Michael Cotton was only a third of the strength of that supplied to
him in Portland. This little-minded man had carefully devised a way
to mix the narcotic with rubbing alcohol to increase his profit
300%. Never mind the fact that rubbing alcohol was poisonous. It
acted so slowly that no-one would ever find out anyway. And in the
meantime he commiserated with people in pain, and promised to pray
for them, and emptied their pockets at the expense of their
discomfort.
Bart used to make a little pocket money every now and again by
stacking empty beer bottles out the back of Chuck Parker's saloon,
in preparation for their return to the brewery in Rowel to be
refilled. Chuck Parker was a dour Yorkshireman by birth, and had
drifted into the Pacific Northwest after having been fired from the
New York Police Department for public drunkeness. He had started his
bar after failing as a gold-prospector, like so many others, but had
finally found gold in the brown contents of a whisky bottle. A miner
could work for a month to get a coffee-spoon of gold dust in his
poke, and Parker could have that same spoonful in his hands by the
time the bar closed at midnight, with the miner having only a
headache and a raging thirst to mark its passing. He paid Bart a few
cents to arrange the empties when they had become so disorderly
that his customers couldn't make it to the outhouse. And Bart, ever
mindful of keeping the economy of the valley rolling, would
immediately take his earnings around to Cotton's General Store to
convert them into candy and cola.
A sad passing of the 20th. Century has been the small town General
Store. General was its name and General was its contents. Stock
comprised victuals for man and beast, clothing to cover the frame
from birth to the grave, kitchen staples stored in barrels and
boxes, tobacco furniture and household implements, farming tools,
linens, haberdashery, notions, cordials, fruit in season, even toys.
The store was the meeting place for chat, gossip, impromptu
gatherings, and general thawing-out around the huge pot-belly stove
in winter. Cotton was not a gregarious man but had learned early on
that the use of his premises for social purposes usually also led to
money passing over his counter for one purchase or another.
The biggest attraction in the store for the local kids was the
glass-topped cabinet that contained candy. Here they would dally for
half an hour while they decided how many of each 4 for a penny
candy they would buy. And it was to this cabinet that Bart took
himself with Chuck Parker's nickel. And it was this exact
opportunity for which Michael Cotton had been preparing. The mark of
a good shop-keeper is a good recollection for individual customers
preferences, and whatever else he might be, Cotton was a good
shop-keeper. He knew that young Bart Clay had a deep attraction for
coconut kisses, so he had previously prepared a special batch, in
anticipation of the next time Bart entered the store. Coconut kisses
are balls of toffee rolled in white, flaky coconut.
Bart's special batch were also rolled in opium.
Like many men of small mind,Michael Cotton ruled his family with a
rod of iron. His wife called him Mr. Cotton and his children went
quiet when he entered the room. The three daughters and son never
displayed youthful exuberance when he was in the upstairs apartment
or in the store below, risking stern lecturing from their father if
their youth intruded onto his life. Of course he was the loving and
doting husband and father in public, but like all things in his
life, this was also a lie.
The Cotton children attended Miss Daykey's school-house but rarely
participated in the extra-curricular activities of their peers. Not
for the son the swimming in the lake or the fishing and hunting
expeditions. Not for the daughters the dressing up and pretend games
with rag dolls in the company of their school companions. They were
required to report home immediately after school let out and help in
the store and around the apartment. The boy would chop wood and
stock shelves while the girls would do house-hold chores or serve
customers while their father held court around the stove or on the
front walk. Occasionally, however, the youngest girl would be
permitted by her mother to escape to play with other children. Her
name was Minnie and she was a sweet little ring-curled blonde. She
was also the object of the first deep infatuation that young Bart
had ever experienced. Cotton had no sooner seen Bart leave the store
than Minnie fled down the side stairs and met by chance the young
Shay opening his bag of coconut kisses.
Now Bart was at heart a thoughtful young chap and so, with hardly a
thought about how he was depriving himself of even one of his
lusted-for coconut kisses, he proffered the small white bag to
Minnie. You would probably think that the daughter of the
shop-keeper would get her fill of the little luxuries, but not so
with a child of Michael Cotton's, and so Minnie wasted no time in
diving into the bag for a candy.
Well, just about then, Cotton stepped out onto the boardwalk in
front of his store to continue gossiping with a customer and he saw
the two children standing in front of the bank next door, and he saw
the white bag between them. With a frantic yell he pushed his
companion out of his way and leapt towards the kids, grasping
desperately for the bag. By pure co-incidence, Clay Shay was passing
on his way home from early shift down at the Toenail Ridge
engine-shed and saw the little weasel make a dart for his boy. In
three strides he had crossed the gap and grabbed Cotton by the back
of his collar just as Cotton had grabbed the bag in his outstretched
hand. Minnie took off shrieking and Bart went to ground behind a
tree while Clay hefted the protesting shopkeeper two feet off the
boardwalk, shook him like a craps player trying to buy baby new shoes
and then hefted him far into the middle of Main Street. Cotton
landed in a heap of apron and spats and coconut kisses and settled
gently into the ever-present mud that constituted a carraigeway in Selbyville. Just in time for Rod from up the cross-road to drive past
in his pickup and deposit more mud on him.
Enlightenment comes to different men in different ways. Lying in the
mud, hearing the hoots and guffaws of his neighbours, staring at the
sky through mud-spattered and cracked glasses and breathing
sibbilantly through uneven teeth, Michael Cotton came to the
conclusion that perhaps there was a better way. Of course, it's only
in stories that people can be changed for life by one incident, so
that didn't happen, but at least a step was made in the right
direction and even the smallest step is better than none. The
Chinese say that the longest journey begins with but a single step,
and from flat on his back in the mud and the horse souvenirs, Cotton
embarked on his reformation.
Clay assured himself that Bart was OK, Minnie flew up the outside
stairs to hide in her mother's skirts, the onlookers laughingly
helped the shopkeeper to his feet and the coconut kisses slowly
disappeared into the upper layers of the street, where they
eventually took part in a shortlived awakening of higher thoughts in
a nest of ants who thought with their collective mind that there
really was a God and He had smiled on them.
The Next Exciting Chapter in the story of the Toenail Ridge Shortline!
Opium.
The Chinese smoked their drug but the white
man prefered to dissolve it in alcohol and take it as a medicine.
They called it Laudanum and they consumed it in quantities that
often left otherwise respectible citizens with no memories for days
at a time.