Meantime — it all happened in a flash, zip, boom, bang, just like that — Digger had managed to regain control of the limousine. It lurched away from the whining wire cables on the right and slid over against the cliff on the left side, just missing the casket, which swished by at about ten miles an hour, picking up speed with every yard.
Also meantime — it happened in a blur — Undertaker Gravely and Pearly Poggs, having seen in the rear view mirrors the abrupt exit of the casket and its contents, exchanged horrified unspeakables (“Sweet Jesus,” Pearly; “Mother of God,” Willard). Then:
“Keep going, Pearly,” squealed Willard.
“I ain’t plannin’ to stop, Willard,” quoth Pearly in a shaky voice.
Also meantime — swish, zoom — dear old Crazy Bill in the casket caught up with the shrieking Banker Means about ten yards down the hill, and as all hands in the limousine scampered from the car, but very cautiously, holding on to it, a sight all swore they would remember to their dying days was barely discernible through the fog. The casket, poor old one-legged Bill Grapeseed at the controls, had affixed itself against the amplitudinous hindquarters of the howling Banker Means. It was noted by one of the more farsighted pallbearers that Banker Means was still wearing his derby. But that was about the extent of it, since the fog below took over and all that was left were dwindling screams. Soon they were gone.
“Well, fellows,” said Digger after a while, “ya wanta git back in and see if we kin make it to the top?”
They didn’t want to, but what else was there to do? First, though, Digger suggested that it would be a good idea to kind of see if they couldn’t figure out some way of making a clear spot in front and behind the tires so as to get some initial traction.
At which one of the chaps, a dour, skinny old fellow not noted for a sense of humor, muttered dryly that if they all “peed afore an’ behind it jest might melt the ice.” No one took that seriously, they being all too damn frozen to think of such a suggestion. Digger opened the tool box on the rear of the Packard and handed out a jack handle, a small shovel, three stout wooden tomato stakes.
So, scrunched down against the icy wind and rain, the five stalwart chaps dug into the side of the high dirt wall, using the tools and their hands, their white pallbearer gloves soon turning torn and dirty. It took about ten minutes to accumulate a fair-sized pile of dirt, pebbles, and outcrop coal. This was scattered in front of the tires, all got in, Digger took it easy, the limousine got traction, away they went.
They were rescued sometime after midnight, the county ash trucks having to take care of the main roads first. It had been a miserable experience high up there in the old cemetery, the wind howling, ghosts of poor old indigents hovering in the foggy mist around the front of the cars. As the skinny old chap who had suggested they piddle their way out of the predicament said on the way down the well-ashed hilclass="underline"
“Somethin’ liken this’n goin’ on ’s liable ta maken a God-fearin’ person outta an athyfist.”
“Amen,” came the chorus.
Next day the sun came out, the ice melted, birds perked up and resumed their mating calls, excitement ran high. The sheriff and all of his deputies together with half the population of the county hastened out to Cemetery Hill, everyone eager to see where Banker Means and Crazy Bill had finally wound up.
Bill was located first, around nine thirty, nine forty. Incredible, considering the many hairpin curves, he had made it almost to the very bottom of the hill. When found he was sitting up in the casket, the lid having come open, with what about a third of the over-awed viewers thought was a satisfied smirk on his face. But another third insisted it was actually a real happy grin. The last third figured it was merely the way a person’s mouth looks when he has misplaced his false teeth.
Under Willard Gravely’s supervision Bill was gently pushed back down into the coffin, the lid was nailed back on, and eight or ten husky chaps picked up the coffin and carried it through brush, snow, and barren rhododendron up to where the hearse was parked on the road. Joe Simmons — the bug about licked — back at the wheel, Willard beside Joe, the hearse left for Willard’s undertaking parlor, there to deposit old Bill Grapeseed for the time being, then back to Cemetery Hill to await the discovery of Ainsley Means. It was one down, one to go.
Ainsley was located about one thirty in the afternoon, his shiny black derby, glistening in the sun far down at the bottom of the three hundred foot ravine, being the clue. It was a hell of a job getting the heavy body back up to the road. It required a stretcher, a couple of hundred feet of stout rope, the cable of the winch on the tow truck, and the energetic help of a bunch of able-bodied men. Around four fifteen the task was completed. All agreed that they were “plumb tuckered out.”
That took care of Wednesday. On Thursday, Bill, ensconced in a nine hundred and seventy-five dollar metal casket (Willard’s donation), with a brand new set of false teeth donated by Hiram Cloksley (they had been around the house ever since his deceased grandfather bought a new pair long ago), was given a real sendoff, the poor little tumblydown, leaky-roofed Hard Rock Church of the Old Testament packed, excited mourners standing in the aisles and in the rear.
It was by far the biggest turnout the Reverend Stokes had ever experienced. But he was more than equal to the task. Here was a Heaven-sent opportunity to bring the fallen and those who had never embraced the faith close to the Almighty. Thundering and roaring, in great voice, he started with Matthew 14:31 (“O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?”), reminding “the puny little turnout of the previous ceremony for our late brother William Grapeseed, God rest his kind soul” that he had no doubt at all that his lesson Tuesday morning, Deuteronomy 32:35 — and here he roared out the trenchant part: “To me belongeth vengenance and recompense; their feet shall slide in due time” — had fallen on deaf, nay, doubting ears. But what of now, oh ye doubters, what of now?
He went on like that for over an hour, his Adam’s apple bulging, the gist being that what had happened on Cemetery Hill should be a warning to all backsliders, all those who had fallen away from the Holy Scripture. Get back in God’s Holy Grace before it is too late.
After that an impressive cortege, considering the indisputably lowly position in life of the deceased — there were twelve cars, four pickups, Herman Beaver’s big red tow truck, and, of course, the two funeral vehicles — departed for Potter’s Field, but not before Willard and Elias Scattergood had given grave consideration to paying for a plot for Bill in the well-kept cemetery north of town. They finally agreed that Bill would not have been happy there, too many fourflushers.
Ainsley was buried on Friday morning. Everyone thought that, considering the condition of the body when brought up from the ravine, Willard “did hisself proud.” Of course the pastor of the richest church in town eulogized Ainsley to high heaven. But no one snickered, consideration being felt for the widow, a meek, nervous creature who had been made to toe a mighty strict line all through the marriage.
Naturally, Ainsley’s funeral outdid that of Bill’s, but the talk around town was all in favor of Bill, he having emerged as a hero, a fellow to admire, one who never quit, never gave up; good old Bill, yes sir.
A year has gone by since the above events. The widow Means, word has it, who retired to Florida — there were no children — has blossomed into a pretty damn good looking woman. Further word is that she is being sparked by a retired minister, a widower. The bank, sold at a reasonable price to the employees by the widow, is doing well, repossessions are down, the interest rate also, the rate charged for loans.
But the most astonishing result of Grapeseed’s Revenge, as the extraordinary happening has come to be known, has been the enormous increase in the number of worshippers who religiously attend, never miss, the services of the Hard Rock Church of the Old Testament. Collections have improved (“Praise the Lord,”, exclaims the jubilant Reverend Stokes a dozen times a day) to the extent that the church roof has been repaired, it has been painted inside and out, twenty new pews have been purchased, and next week an expert organ tuner is coming from Pittsburgh to pump new life into the old organ. And right now Reverend Stokes is seriously considering trading in his 1972 Buick; it has 87,654 miles on it. He’s looking at a secondhand Olds 88 with only 27,402 miles which the dealer is holding for $3675, not counting the six percent discount accorded to men of the cloth.