Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: End (02/13/06)
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TITLE: Wallace's Grand Finale | Previous Challenge Entry
By Daniel Hall
02/14/06 -
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No one really knew Wallace. By his name, and the scraggly, red hair snaking off his head and face, I suspected he had Scotch-Irish blood, but his temper proved it. Once angered, his leathery face would freckle, his brawn would twitch, his mouth would spew spit and damnations, and anyone nearby had better own two healthy legs. Fortunately, Wallace and people avoided each other.
His shack and his worthless, no-named mutt were way out from our small town. He hunted and fished year round -our lawman ignored him arguing that Wallace was surviving, not sporting, but I think the lawman liked having his head atop his shoulders-, and scavenged for berries, mushrooms, and the like. Somewhere, Wallace had money, because now and then he and his dog came to town and bought such items as ammo, socks, and kiwis of all things. Wallace was an odd man; I have no idea how he got that way.
Being a part-time veterinarian, I met him when he came knocking on my door holding his collapsed dog. He stood in the doorway glaring at me. I stared at him, shivered, figured he would say nothing, took his dog, and disappeared into the back. Wallace waited outside.
I had no idea what was wrong with that dog. I stared at it, poked it, did other procedures, knew it was alive, but had no idea. Fear wetted my brow as I considered returning a dead dog to fiery Wallace. I closed my eyes, and begged a favor from the Almighty. I reckon He heard me, because when I said amen, a soggy tongue crossed my lips. I breathed again.
When I walked that weak mutt out to Wallace, he stared at it, tried not to smile, and muttered, "What I owe?"
I told him to forget it since I didn't do anything. He said he'd pay one way or another. I wasn't sure what he meant, but I imagined bills and coins descending my throat. I thought awhile, prayed, and said, "I don't think I fixed him, so you come to church Sunday, and that'll do."
Wallace appeared regretful of his prior obstinacy, but after eyeing the dog, he nodded. They disappeared down the road.
That Sunday, as I exited my door for church, Wallace and his dog were waiting on my steps. I greeted him; he nodded. We went to church.
Everyone was surprised to see Wallace and his dog sauntering in for the first time. No one meant to be rude, but everyone quivered and stared from a distance. Widow Jameson paled and looked downright unhealthy. Not a word was said about the dog. We took the back pew, and Wallace sat on the edge by the mutt.
Being a baptismal service, we watched as Preacher came splashing into the baptistery. Wallace didn't seem surprised, and when Preacher led in a song, I noticed Wallace's lips moving without sound. I assumed he was acquainted with church.
I ignored Wallace and listened to Preacher talk about God's love, my wretchedness, Christ's salvation, all things I had heard time and again. Then, Tom and Betty Ralston, and little Bobby Langerhorn were baptized. Everyone chuckled when Bobby's legs scissored the air as he went under, everyone except Wallace.
I turned and saw Wallace shoot up, his dirty face lined with tears, and rush down the aisle bawling and shouting, "Save meh, Jesus, save meh!"
All giggles became gasps. Widow Jameson fainted. I secured the mutt.
Wallace reached the platform and shouted, "Thanky, Jesus, Thanky!" He paused, his back to the audience, his scraggly hair swaying side to side. Gasps resounded again when he shouted, "I'ma gettin batized!" and dashed forward.
Preacher grabbed Bobby and flattened himself against the back wall. Bobby screamed high, loud, and long.
Wallace ignored him, climbed atop a choir chair, leaped, soared, and belly-flopped into the baptistery soaking the air.
We heard swishing and saw Bobby spitting. Everything quieted and we waited.
Wallace arose sucking air. (Gasps all around.) He shook like a dog drying, then climbed out, watered the aisle, nudged his dog with his foot, and they left.
A minute of absolute silence and stillness followed, until good Mr. Dawson remembered poor widow Jameson. She revived, and everything normalized, except our memories, and that choir chair on which someone has etched, WALLACE'S GRAND FINALE.
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Great work!
This doesn't take away from the fact that the Writer has brought laughter and joyful entertainment to his audience.