The Coffin Maker: Part 5

Gerry followed Darwin outside The Coffin Shop and saw a crowd awaiting Darwin. The townsfolk had confronted the sheriff, reporting a clean sweep of every household robbed of all its lifesavings. The sheriff tried to calm them down but the exceptional refutes from the angry mass, forming with growing hate into a riot, disproved any innocence the sheriff tried to uphold Darwin with. The crowd saw Darwin standing in front of the coffin shop, calmly holding his hands behind his back.

A woman came forward, turning red with vicious rage. “You took everythin', you back-stabbin', scum! My family set aside thousands and thousands, and you robbed me of my inheritance, of my livelihood, of my worth!” The crowd shouted testimonies of stolen money, blaming Darwin for every penny missing.

Darwin stood in silence, allowing the accusations to last, which quickly turned into insults and blatant degrading. The woman who first yelled reached by the waist of a stranger shouting next to her and drew forth the man’s gun. She pointed it daringly at Darwin, to which the crowd instantly chanted, “Shoot him! Shoot him! Shoot him!” She cocked the gun and took another foot towards Darwin.

“I demand a duel!” Darwin declared, but it was hardly heard over the cacophony of chants.

“Wait!” the sheriff erupted and sprinted towards Darwin! He dashed in front of Darwin with his arms sprawled out. “Wait!”

The woman flung her wrist holding the gun to motion the sheriff out of her way. “Move, coward!”

“He has a right to a duel if he declares!”

“Oh, horseshit, sheriff! He don’t have a right to nothin’!” The crowd cheered and spit vile insults at Darwin.

“Listen to me! I’d give anyone of you a fair shot at a duel if you were in the same spot as he was. It’s how we run things around here in Oxhorn, you understand? Every man and woman gets a shot to defend themselves.” They quieted down, coming to terms with the sheriff’s point. “Justice’ll be served cold in the law of a duel, and justice is fair,” the sheriff continued on like a preacher. “If you win, I lock you up. If you lose, Gerry locks you up.”

Gerry hung his head. He hadn’t heard the sheriff say that in almost a week. He had become the omen of death once again.

“Fine,” the woman grunted. “I’ll duel him.”

Darwin leaned over his right shoulder and glanced at Gerry. “You’re certain you don’t own a gun?” Even if he did Gerry wouldn’t give him one. Gerry shook his head.

“Hell,” the sheriff withdrew his own long-barreled revolver and held it out for Darwin. Darwin graciously accepted the weapon and stuffed it in his right pants pocket.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea for Darwin to pass through. He meticulously planted heel then toe, heel then toe, as he made his way towards the woman, waiting in the middle of the dirt road for him. He cautiously spun around and placed himself back-to-back with the woman, who was seething with rage; puffing profusely through her nostrils. They took slow, careful, long strides in synchronization – one step, two steps, three steps… As Darwin took his steps, Gerry noticed Darwin was pressing his hand against his chest, feeling around his torso. Gerry had seen men feel their hearts beating out of their chest as they faced death, but it caught his attention as Darwin had just informed Gerry that he had accepted his death. Gerry hoped Darwin had accepted his death; there was no secret who he wished died this time.

They took their final paces; seven steps, eight steps, nine… The tenth step came and Darwin stuck his heel in the ground and spun carefully around to face the woman. Without hesitation, the woman sprung forth her gun and aimed at Darwin, pulling the trigger instantly. Darwin didn’t even reach for the gun before the bullet struck him in the center of his chest. His body fell backwards and dropped against the earth. There were cheers.

The sheriff sighed and rubbed his forehead, like he lost a bet. He reached in his vest and slapped money in Gerry’s hand. He plodded over to Darwin’s body and gently tapped him on the shoulder with his boot. “Damn shame,” he said. The sheriff bent down, grunting as he placed a hand on his knee, and took back his long-barreled revolver. He exhaled heavily and with a single finger gestured for the woman to come. She approached and gladly held her hands out front with her wrists pressed together. The sheriff reached in his back pocket and took out handcuffs, strapping them loosely over the woman’s wrists.

Gerry stared at Darwin’s corpse. It surprised him how little his complexion had changed now lifeless, as he was a naturally pale man. For the first time Gerry didn’t need to measure the corpse on the ground. He simply bent down, tucking his right arm under the legs and his left through the armpits, squatted, and lifted. It surprised him once more how light the man weighed, as he was a naturally gaunt man.

Gerry lay the newly dead on a table in the room off to the side of his shop and pulled the red-stained coffin from the wall. Lifting the coffin onto a shorter table with wheels for moving, next to the latest fallen of Oxhorn, Gerry opened the coffin and pushed Darwin inside. Gerry went back to the workstation and grabbed a handful of nails along with a hammer. He walked back into the far room and set the nails on the table. He closed the coffin and nailed it shut.

Gerry decided he was finished for the day, though the light from the sun struck two o’ clock, and he locked up his shop. He saw the sheriff drinking out of his flask and walking towards the saloon, nearly tripping over himself as he stumbled forward.

Gerry jogged over to the sheriff and stood him up straight. “Easy, sheriff.”

The sheriff moaned and grumbled ineloquent, drunken slurs, “Doesn’t even… told ‘em, and made me a foooool…” he hiccoughed low and deep, like the warning of vomit, but only belched a putrid smell.

“You shouldn’t drink anymore for the day,” Gerry advised.

“No?” the sheriff questioned authoritatively as he looked around for Gerry. “I’m sheriff! A… a damn… poor excuse for a sheriff.” He snorted in the snot of his runny nose and hung his head low. “Never get ‘em. Never do a right thing, Gerry.”

Gerry was inexperienced in consoling a friend and equally inexperienced in friendship. So he said nothing.

“Can’t fiiiiind the money!” the sheriff drawled intoxicatingly.

“The money Darwin stole?” Gerry clarified.

“Told ‘em. There’s nothin’ yet. Ooohhh, folks think he kept big baaags of money under the floorboards—” he hiccoughed violently. “Nope! He wouldn’t do that.”

“Did you check?”

“Did I check? Pfft!” the sheriff mimicked him. “Nope!”

“Why not?”

“Ha! It’s in the desert! You bury money where you bury people.” The sheriff slapped Gerry’s chest. “You should know that.” He made himself roar with laughter. “It’s gone," the sheriff continued, swinging his flask in the air to gesture to vastness of the landscape. "Aaaaall their money is gone, Gerry. He ain’t gonna tell us where he buried it now. You know why?” The sheriff craned his neck, breathed sharply like his lungs were filled with shards of glass, and whispered close in Gerry’s ear; wafts of strong whiskey singeing Gerry's nose, “Dead men got no debts to pay.”

Gerry was done with the conversation. He escorted the inebriated sheriff to his home.

Gerry wasn’t tired, but it was too late to craft another coffin. More so, he had finally filled in the gaps along the wall. He laid in his bed in his own home. Occasionally he slept on a mattress he rolled up in the shop if he was working late or just not tired, but tonight he wanted to be home. He didn’t want to sleep in the room with Darwin.

Gerry turned over to his left side in his bed and saw his auburn coffin. It never bothered him before, but tonight it seemed to peer over him, haunted him in his sleep. It felt occupied. Perhaps it was because Gerry knew Darwin was so intimate with his own coffin that now Gerry wished he didn't know in what he would be laid to rest.

There was a sudden banging outside. Bang, bang, bang! – it repeated in a rhythm: bang, bang, bang, then silence. Bang, bang, bang! Silence. Gerry dressed himself and opened the front door. He listened for the sound. Bang, bang, bang! It was coming from inside his coffin shop.

Gerry quickly ran to his shop and twisted the doorknob, but it was locked still. It shocked Gerry and he shouldered into the door. He fumbled through his pocket for the key and stuck it in the lock.

He swung the door wide open. The banging was coming from the back room. Where Darwin’s body lay. Gerry went over to his workstation and found a crowbar in the moonlight and gripped it with both hands. He could hear muttering and furious whispering. He turned the corner to the back room and looked. There was Cicero, slamming his fist on Darwin’s coffin.

“The show must finish,” Cicero muttered angrily.

“Cicero?” Gerry lowered the crowbar. “You’re alive.”

“It’s almost done, the show is almost there,” Cicero didn’t acknowledge Gerry.

“Cicero, he’s dead.”

“No!” Cicero turned sharply towards Gerry.

“Yes. Darwin is dead.”

Cicero began laughing quietly, which grew louder and louder until it was hysterical, maniacal. “Master is not dead!” he shouted gleefully in his falsetto. Cicero laughed at the coffin and began dancing. He started banging along the edges of the coffin. “Master cannot die! Oh no, no! Master has died a hundred times!”

“What do you mean he’s died a hundred times?” Gerry asked, unsure of the words he spoke.

Cicero squealed and grabbed Gerry by the shirt with his fists, “Master never stays dead. His shirt won’t let him, ha ha ha! The circus! The circus! Ha ha ha ha haaa!”

Cicero pranced past Gerry towards the front door. “Wait!” Gerry called out. “Where were you? When Darwin was shot, where were you?”

“Master was shot, but he didn’t die, no,” Cicero continued prancing.

“Were you hiding the money? Where is the money he stole?” Gerry shouted.

“I was under the floor—Master said they can't see me, and it’s not good for people to see me, he says.”

“Under the floor?” Gerry followed Cicero outside and around the shop, where the caravan was parked. “Cicero,” Gerry insisted. “Did you hide the money in the floorboards?”

“I hid under the floor, yes.” Cicero climbed up the seat and held the reins.

“Did you hide the money under the floor?” Gerry slammed his hand against the caravan. The caravan suddenly shook violently. Gerry jolted back in fright.

“Master has the money now! Ha ha ha ha ha!!” Cicero cracked the whip. The horse neighed and galloped forward, carrying the caravan into the night. Gerry brushed his hair back with his fingers and sighed in exasperation.

He watched the caravan ride off, the faint cackling of Cicero in the distance echoed through the dark. Gerry decided he wouldn’t wait until morning to bury Darwin. He came around the side of the shop and parked his buggy in front of the door. Gerry went inside and back into the far room to push the table on wheels that held the red-stained coffin. As he pushed he felt an impressive weight while he rolled the table across the shop. Perhaps he was tired, he thought to himself. Gerry pushed the coffin in the side of the buggy and took off west.

In the barren vineyard, Gerry dug a hole next to the short man’s grave, though this time the hole was longer. Gerry followed the same system he had done for thirty years: dig the hole, open the door, lay out the ramp, slide the coffin down into the grave, and bury it. And so he did exactly that. The coffin slid down the ramp and fell into the grave; a cloud of dust exploded under the coffin from the impact. Gerry laid Darwin to rest.

Once he returned Gerry locked up his shop. He walked along the dirt road; the soft crunching of crumpled earth beneath his shoes was the only sound he heard. Gerry looked over his left shoulder and saw the inn. It was none of his business but he felt a strong desire to ease his curiosity; especially since the sheriff refused to look under the floorboards for the stolen money as he insisted Darwin had buried it somewhere in the open desert. Gerry turned around and headed towards the inn.

He was surprised to discover the inn was unlocked. No lights were on, nobody was there. He walked behind the counter and examined the ledger. He looked through the guest list names and occupancies; Darwin Kazan, room four. Gerry shut the ledger and walked down the creaking hall.

The door to the fourth room was cracked open; a room of thick darkness was locked inside. Gerry walked towards the door and gently pressed his hand against it. He pushed it open and saw a bed, a chest, a tall lamp, and a rocking chair were the only things in it. He entered the room and looked around. Gerry walked towards the bed and noticed scratch marks in the wood by the legs of the bed. He clasped his hands around the bars of the bed frame and swung it to the left. There under the bed was a plank of wood sticking up just above the floor. Gerry bent down and used his calloused fingers to grip the side of the plank and yanked it upwards. He could see a hole in the ground had been tunneled beneath him with a small oil lamp flickering below. Gerry removed the other planks beside the empty space and made a hole wide enough to enter. Dropping his legs inside, Gerry jumped in the hole and landed next to the oil lamp.

The tunnel looked quickly hollowed with shovel marks cut unevenly around the whole perimeter. It was small, only wide enough for someone as tall as Darwin to lay out comfortably, but not bigger. The height was short enough to squat around in but not even in hunchback could Gerry walk around. He took the oil lamp by the handle with his left hand and surveyed the tunnel, shining the light around. There was no money. Nothing was there. Only a small metal object caught the light from the oil lamp near the back. Gerry squat to the ground and waddled to the metal object; he saw it was curved and had two sets of ropes tied on one side of it. As he got closer, he realized it was meant to be worn like an undershirt; and the ropes were meant to loop over someone, over their shoulders. And then he shined the light on it. In the center was a dent, slightly charred from gun powder. It was from a bullet.

Gerry took the oil lamp with him and quickly climbed out of the tunnel and sprinted out of the inn. He ran across the road and climbed on his buggy, cracking the whip, and headed west.

Gerry thought through it all; he was piecing together what happened. He remembered Darwin felt his chest before the duel – checking to see if the armor was still in place to catch the woman’s bullet. Cicero talked about Darwin’s metal shirt, “Master has a special shirt, yes. Hard! His shirt is metal—” He told Gerry this when he came into town. “Master never stays dead! His shirt won’t let him!” he heard Cicero taunting him in his head. "Master has died a hundred times!" They had planned this; they have done this before.

Thunder rolled in the sky over the desert.

Gerry recalled how persistent Darwin was about his premonition; he believed he was going to be murdered – he wanted it. Why? Gerry thought hard, cracking the whip of the reins. The horse galloped faster. He figured it out. “My friend, no one ever gets away with crime,” Darwin’s voice came to him. “You’ve heard the old saying, haven’t you? You’re either caught or you die a criminal, but you never outlive a chase.” You die a criminal. Darwin demanded his death so the chase could end. He accepted death. No one is looking for a dead man. “Dead men got no debts to pay,” the phantom whiskey breath stung Gerry’s nose as he recited the sheriff’s drunken rambling.

Lightning flashed hot in the sky. A thunderstorm was about to come.

But what was the circus and the show? Gerry tried to understand what the caravan was for and why Darwin needed it. The show, he thought, must’ve been the duel. His death, a public performance. But the circus, why did that matter? Cicero arrived with the cloak over the caravan, perhaps to hide the stolen money later. But it didn’t make sense. If he was alive, where was Darwin if in the caravan—

It dawned on him what happened.

Lightning struck through the black sky, thunder rolled over the desert, and heavy rain began to cover the world.

Gerry reached the barren vineyard and brought his horse to a halt, the horse standing on its hind legs and neighing fiercely.

The rich soil from the fresh grave softened from the downpour as Gerry stood over it with his shovel. He held it high in the air and cut through a lump of the wet dirt.

Gerry thought back to earlier that night, when he found Cicero in the far room of his shop banging on the coffin. He wasn’t banging on the coffin to mourn; he was nailing it shut again. He was removing Darwin out of the coffin. More so, Gerry realized, Cicero was the thief. It's why he said Darwin didn't want anyone to see him. The door to the shop was locked when Cicero was inside; Cicero was a locksmith. He was the one who broke into the houses and stole all the money for Darwin. Gerry then remembered all the questions Darwin asked when he arrived: where he buried the fallen, if he handled the bodies himself, how business was in Oxhorn; collecting information for Cicero – how much the coffin weighed. When he buried Darwin, the coffin wasn’t light. It wasn’t empty at all.

The iron spade of the shovel struck the wood of the red-stained coffin. Gerry spread the mud away from the top and found the seal. He went back to the carriage and grabbed the oil lamp along with a crowbar. Gerry stuck the crowbar in the seal of the coffin and pried it open. A note was inside nailed to the lid of the coffin. He quickly ripped it off before the rain could wash away the ink. Gerry held the lamp up to the note; it read, “My friend, the coffin was indeed gorgeous. –D”

Gerry knew Darwin wasn’t inside. He knew Darwin was sitting in the back of the caravan with tens of thousands of dollars he robbed from Oxhorn. And then Gerry realized the final piece. The scream in the night; what the knife was for. He slowly held the oil lamp over the coffin and looked down in horror. Staring back at him were the cold, dead eyes of the chimpanzee.

The end.