Don’t Point a Finger at a Dying Man

Paperclips and Predicaments

“He’s making a fool of me… stealing from me Barb — from the pharmacy. I know it.” Carl stood in the doorway and stared at the sun reflecting off of the immaculate paint of the forest green Cadillac that sat in the driveway.

“Well, Carl, there’s no sense in saying you know it until you do, now is there?”

He paced the living room before abruptly plopping onto the plush, beige couch next to his wife. “Twenty-seven dollars. Twenty-seven!”

“Twenty what?”

“Seven — dollars… missing from the register in less than a month.”

“Hand me the sugar cubes, would you honey? Isn’t this tea lovely?

Carl slid the white porcelain container across the coffee table toward his wife with a shaky hand. “I mean how do you steal from someone who’s been so giving with —”

“Well, how do you know it’s him?”

“Barbara, the alternative here is Miss Vicky. The woman is as pious as they come and I’m not going to —”

“What about Timothy?”

“What? No, he’s the shop boy. Doesn’t even have access to the register. Besides, I asked him.”

“You asked him?”

“I had to… it’s been driving me nuts.

“What did he say?”

“He looked at me like a deer in the headlights — like a 15-year-old does. He’s a kid. He said, Mr. McClellan, I don’t even have access to the register.”

“Well… I still think you should ask Miss Vicky.”

“Thing is, it ain’t just the money. There’s been some merchandise missing from the pharmacy.”

“Merchandise?”

“Yes, there’s been whole boxes of paperclips taken right off of the shelf. The big paper clips, too.”

“Paper clips?”

“And stationary. I haven’t had the time to take a real sharp inventory in a couple of weeks, but I’m certain of it.”

“Well, what would he be doing with all of that?”

“God knows, Barb — he’s a strange bird.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

Bill cocked an eyebrow. “The man has a terminal illness. He’s bullet-proof and he knows it.”

“Oh, Lord Carl.”

“He is! I say one word to him and it’ll be all over town within ten minutes. You point a finger at a dying man, you may as well have the hangin tree picked out, cause they’re coming for you.”

Barbara stirred her tea rhythmically, her once long, dark brown hair, now mostly gray, fell neatly over her shoulder. Though far from her youth and years deep into her retirement, her timeless beauty still shined. She smiled as if she had remembered something funny. “You know the Kelly’s are having a birthday party for their St. Bernard. Can you imagine?”

Carl reached for the black, rectangular humidor on the table in front of him. “That’s the other thing… everything is about his condition. Oh! before I came down with what’s it called, I ran three miles every day. Customers just fawn over it too, makes me sick. For Pete’s sake Barb, would ya get this dang cat off the coffee table? There’s fur everywhere.”

Barbara slid the well-fed Maine Coon off of the edge of the glossy finish of the table. The cat landed on its feet and scurried off with a cross look on its face.

Carl cringed. “Jangus, it’s like a barrel sliding over Niagara Falls.” He clipped off the end of a large cigar as he stared through the den and out of the screen door into the sunlit backyard. “He says all this as he slurps up a double scoop, too. Nearly every day on his 30-minute break, Pistachio Dream. It’s really something else.”

“What is it that the poor boy’s got?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some sort of liver thing I reckon. Wasn’t supposed to live to see 30, and I know the good Lord ain’t exactly smiling when I say it, but that was part of the reason I hired him.”

“Pity?”

“More than just pity, it was a good deed, sure. But…” Carl’s voice trailed off as he lit the cigar and drew heavily on the chocolate-colored stick, his ruddy cheeks ballooning before the thick white smoke came pouring out of his mouth.

“But what?”

“I thought he’d be dead by now, Barb.”

Barbara sat her teacup down. “Oh Carl, that’s an awful thing to say.”

“Is it? The way I see it, I was simply hedging my bet.”

“Your bet?”

“Sure — the boy’s got a troubled past. Not exactly employee of the month material. Set fire to the Weenie-hut Jr, dang near burned the place to the ground. Said the fryer got away from him. Can you imagine?”

“An accident, I’m sure?”

Carl smiled facetiously. “Accident… What about the accident at the Skate Planet two years back? Dan Buckner nearly lost his life when a couple of the wheels came off his roller-skates. And who do you suppose was working the roller skate counter?”

“Oh, dear.”

“The man was trying to spread joy for crying out loud. He hasn’t performed in Rolling Thunder since — and that’s a damn travesty. Those roller skating musicals were bringing folks to the Lord.”

“Now don’t get worked up Carl.”

“Barbara, I’m telling you, the boy has an evil in him.”

“Well…”, she shook her head in confusion. “I just don’t understand why you’d hire him at the pharmacy then.”

Carl took a long draw on the cigar as a lone cat hair dangled from his deeply clefted chin. It danced in the subtle breeze that moved through the house, and Barbara couldn’t help but focus on it. “Do you recall the pastor mentioning that there was someone in need of a job… someone sick? Said it in front of the whole congregation a while back.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t remember… why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t plan on going through with it if I’m being honest. But you know how badly I wanted that deacon position. After everything I’ve done for that church, I really thought this would seal the deal. Well, then they went and gave it away to that youngster fresh out of St George seminary school and I could just about die. I took this burden on my back out of the kindness of my heart— and for what? Egg on my face.”

“Oh, Carl.” Barbara sipped her tea, her eyes closed.