July

Issue 46

Clayton Bardell stared at the letter, cursing his good fortune. Five minutes peace they won’t leave me, he told himself. Five minutes—it might be enough, but they won’t give me even that. Already he could hear the creak of Elder Stinson’s buckboard approaching from the main road.

Bardell returned to the letter, determined to afford the dream as much life as possible. The paper was cream, heavy, the weave of pulp fibers fine, yet distinct. The company name—Branson–Plaxis Resorts—stood out, embossed in gold foil; the watermark, the BPR logo, subtly visible beneath his name and the word Congratulations. The matching envelope had been delivered unsealed.

Three hard raps cracked through the silent parsonage. Each blow to the front door, he knew, bore the full force of Elder Stinson’s knuckles and the meat of his right palm. How many times had he gone on “social calls” with the man? Where he, Bardell, might use a single knuckle to rap on the door, or pinched the proffered doorknocker and meekly tapped an apology for interrupting an evening meal, Stinson always charged ahead, daring the door not to collapse under the punishment he dispensed all too eagerly.