So when Thurm discovered my disheveled carcass sitting at the breakfast nook the next morning, he found me borderline catatonic.
“Wow, you should consider a transfusion, or maybe an adrenaline shot,” he quipped.
“Well, did you get any sleep?” I moved only the minimal facial muscles necessary to form words.
“Not really. Between Harry’s snoring and your periodic yelps, I didn’t sleep much at all. What was that all about?”
“Harry kept kicking me. And I mean all night long.” I yawned.
Thurm smiled. “Restless Leg Syndrome.”
“Excuse me?”
“Restless Leg Syndrome,” he repeated. “Harry must have RLS.”
“You’re making that up. You know I’m exhausted, and you think in my weakened, delusional state of mind I’m going to fall for one of your whoppers.”
“Not this time, Elmo. This is legit,” Thurm insisted. “My grandfather had it. I swear on his humble grave. It usually kicks in at night—so to speak—and people with Restless Leg Syndrome have no control over it. So don’t take Harry’s kicks personal.”
“I just wish I’d known ahead of time. Do you think Harry even knows?”
“He’s been married for twenty-five years to the same lady, sleeping in the same bed. He knows.” Thurm answered.
“Yeah. I bet she’s an amputee by now,” I wondered. “Or maybe she wears shin guards under her pajamas.”
Even though I was exhausted, the whole thing struck me as quite funny. I took a sip of strong black coffee and shook my head in an attempt to wake up. “Hey Thurm, you got a minute?”
“Sure, what is it?” He pulled up a chair to the table.
I took another hit of coffee then started. “Since I never really made it to a deep sleep last night, I did a lot of dreaming. Most of it’s long gone, but I do remember the last dream I had before I got kicked the final time and just got up. Are you any good at interpreting dreams?”
Thurm leaned back and grabbed a pastry from the counter. “I’m no Daniel, but I’ll take a stab at it. Tell me about your dream.”
“Okay. You know the outside basketball court up on the roof of the First Church Education Building?
“Sure.” Thurm nodded his head. “I play in an intramural men’s league up there each spring.”
“In my dream, I was up on that roof, and there was some sort of children’s activity going on—VBS or something. Hundreds of kids were playing on that basketball court with balls and toys and such. And for some reason, there was a big hole in the retaining wall that surrounds the roof to keep people from falling off to the street below.”
Thurm interrupted. “Let me get this straight. You and a bunch of children are up playing on the roof of the Education Building, and there’s a hole in the retaining wall?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what did you do?”
“I wasn’t sure what to do. No other adults were around, but there were hundreds of kids running every which way.”
Thurm leaned forward in his chair. “What happened next?
“I had to do something fast, or some kid was going to run through the hole and plummet six floors to his death. So I just stepped in front of the hole and held out my arms, hoping I would catch them if they ran toward the hole, to save them from falling.” I paused, reliving the scene in my mind. “What do you think it means?”
A serious, contemplative look covered Thurm’s face as he just sat there quietly for a moment. Then he finally stood up. “I have no idea what your dream means, Elmo. But one thing I can tell you for sure. It’ll never be made into a movie.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know,” Thurm paused. “Think Holden Caulfield.”
Huh? I was just too tired to get it.
“If I were you, I’d take a shower before our first session,” he suggested over his shoulder as he headed back to our room. “And don’t tell anyone else about your dreams.”
Loitering in the Great Room, engaged in assorted casual conversations, our group waited for the morning session to begin. In strode Smitty Fitzsimons and Dr. Jorgensen. Horace had spent the night over at Smitty’s palatial cabin, which overlooked the 18th green. No full-size bed for Dr. J. No incessant Harry Simpkins’s leg kicks. He looked fresh—the fresh look of a man who’d had a wonderful, uninterrupted night’s sleep. But I wasn’t bitter. Just tired. Horace and Smitty worked the room shaking hands and doling out morning greetings to everyone.
When they got to me, Dr. Jorgensen put his arm around my shoulders. “Smitty, I’m not sure you’ve been formally introduced to Elmo Jenkins, our current intern. Elmo here is doing a fine job for us. He even covered my tail when I missed the graveside service for Deacon Phillips.” He snickered, “He and Thurman had to do the service dressed casually in golf shirts.”
“Golf shirts—my kind of guy!” Smitty grinned from ear to ear. “Oh, I remember this young man. He’s the one who ate all of the hors d'oeuvres at our Open House last April. I believe you came with my niece Dolly?” he recalled while shaking my hand.
I smiled. “Yes, sir. That’s correct. Quite the soirée, as I recall. That’s where I met Tom Applebee, which led to my internship at First Church, for which I am very grateful.”
“Elmo,” Dr Jorgensen said, relaxing his grip on my shoulders. “Smitty here plays an important role not only in the life of our church, but also in the life of our city. I believe he has his finger in just about everything on this end of the state. He’s a good guy to get to know.”
“Well, nice seeing you again, Mr. Fitzsimons,” I said, shaking his hand again. “And thank you for having us here at your beautiful retreat center for a few days. It’s a magnificent place.”
“You’re more than welcome, Elmo. And I hope to see you again next spring at our annual Open House. I’m inviting you now—with or without that rascal niece of mine.”
“Wonderful,” I said, as they moved on to the next staff member. Of course, I had absolutely no intention of attending that chalky party again. And forget Dolly. I had Bonnie on my mind these days. I made a mental note to call her at the lunch break.
We all settled into our proper places as Tom Applebee started things off with a brief prayer. I have a habit of keeping my eyes open during prayers at meetings and services. It’s amazing the things that quietly take place while someone is praying. Today was no exception. While Tom prayed for a productive session, Smitty and Horace whispered back and forth, pointing at Bernard Coggins. Since these were the two most powerful men at First Church, and Bernard was sitting just to my left, I decided I’d better shut my eyes or they might start pointing at me. When Tom concluded his prayer and we all opened our eyes, Smitty was long gone.
I wonder what that was all about.
Smitty Fitzsimons was a deacon at First Church, but he was not and never had been Chairman of the Deacons. Unlike most churches, the Chairman of the Deacons at First Church was mostly a ceremonial office. The real power was to be found in the heads of the different church committees. Smitty chaired two of the most important ones—the Personnel Committee and the Property Committee. Whoever coined the phrase, “Money brings power and influence,” surely had Smitty Fitzsimons in mind. Smitty could be the quintessential poster child for that phrase. I had a sneaky feeling whatever had just transpired during Tom’s opening prayer didn’t forebode well for ol’ Bernard Coggins.
In our first session, Dr. Jorgensen gave us the annual State of the Church speech. We learned that giving was up 11% over last year, and that the church now had just over 13,000 members. With about 10,000 of those people nowhere to be found, I thought to myself. There is some truth to the supposition that it’s much harder to get your name removed from a church membership roll than it would be to stroll freely into the Oval Office.
Here I was fighting my cynicism again as Dr. Jorgensen shared the numbers of souls saved and baptized. But all I was hearing was yada, yada, yada. How had I become so calloused to the greater
purposes of God? Sure, First Church was old school, using old school terminology and old school methods. But people’s lives were being changed for the better. The fact is no matter how goofy the local church may get, it’s still God’s hand-picked vehicle to bring mankind to Himself. So I purposed to lose the cynical attitude and get with the program—or plan, or paradigm, or whatever the latest nomenclature happened to be.
After Dr. Jorgensen finished, Tom discussed the concept of personal sacrifice, particularly related to working in the ministry. He thanked the entire staff for their personal sacrifices, their dedication to the task, and their great team spirit. He then finished the session by presenting two staff awards. Each year the entire staff voted for the Most Dedicated staff member and for the Best Team Player.
Doreen McGinty won the Most Dedicated award for the fourth year in a row. Every staff member at First Church fully appreciated the difficulty of rounding up a hundred-plus volunteers each and every weekend to work in the preschool and children’s departments. Doreen spent three to four hours every Saturday evening working the phones and covering all the bases, even though Saturday was technically her day off. Good children’s directors are few and far between. A smart church bends over backwards to keep a good one. And First Church was indeed a smart church. The Most Dedicated award came with a three-day family getaway weekend to Orlando. Doreen had three kids of her own, so the package was a nice perk for her.
The Best Team Player award had to go to a different winner each year, which made last year’s winner, Johnny Rochelle, ineligible this time around. Also ineligible: Dr. Jorgensen, Tom Applebee, Doreen McGinty (as this year’s Most Dedicated winner), and the church intern. That would be me. It may not seem like a big deal, but to be picked by your co-workers as The Best Team Player was indeed a huge honor. The Best Team Player award also came with the famed and coveted Mystery Trip for two. Only Dr. Jorgensen and Tom Applebee knew the destination spot. Last year, Johnny and his wife Sari got to spend a week in Tahiti.
As Tom opened the envelope with the winner’s name inside, the anticipation in the Great Room grew thicker than fudge on a sundae. Everyone would joyfully celebrate the winner, but deep down inside they all desperately wanted to win. Tom smiled as he looked at the card. “And this year’s winner of the Best Team Player award, chosen by a vote of his peers, is—Harry Simpkins!”
“YEEESSS!” Harry hollered. He leapt off the couch he shared with Bob Stevens, spilling coffee all over Bob’s tan Dockers. Harry didn’t care. He was too pumped with adrenaline. Harry had never won before, though some of the other staff members had won multiple times. The other staff stood to congratulate him
“Chalk one up for the night kicker,” I whispered in Thurm’s ear.
Lost in the commotion I noticed Bob Stevens—eyes narrowed, futilely trying to towel off the coffee stain on his slacks. Somehow I doubted he’d voted for Harry.
And finally the crème de la crème, this year’s Mystery Trip: a week in Scotland with accommodations at a newly refurbished castle, including tee times at the Old Course at St. Andrews. Rubbing my tender left ankle I tried to imagine what it would be like to play a round of golf with Harry.
I shuddered.
During the break that morning before the second session, I ran into Fred Snooker.
“Elmo,” he called, heading across the room toward me. “What do you have planned for the free time after lunch?”
“Thurm asked me to play tennis again, but to be honest I’m looking for an out. There’s only so much shame one man can take.” I laughed.
“You’re that bad?”
“It’s actually quite painful to watch.”
“No one is that bad,” he argued.
“No, I really am,” I insisted. “Think of watching your family pet get hit by an eighteen-wheeler.”
“Ouch! That would be hard to watch.” He gritted his teeth. “Well, since you’re looking for an excuse, why don’t you spend an hour with me? You can invite Thurm to come if you’d like. I brought The Black Toe Enigma scrapbook with me. I can explain the story and show you the artifacts. If you’re interested, I’ll reserve the Crow’s Nest. It’ll be quiet there.”
“Let’s do it. Where do I find the Crow’s Nest?”
Fred pointed to the elevator door at the end of the south hall. “Just take that elevator all the way to the top. It opens into the Crow’s Nest.”
The second morning session was a blur. All the staff members presented their proposed budgets for next year. Since I didn’t have one, I semi-snoozed through the presentations, staying just lucid enough to look attentive.
Next up—lunch. After a quick gourmet hamburger with French-cut potatoes, I slipped away to give Bonnie a call.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Hey Bonnie, it’s Elmo.”
“Elmo, I’m glad you called. There’s been a development.”
A development? Sounds like a new neighborhood or something going in. “I don’t follow you.”
“The concert is off,” she stated matter-of-factly.
Uh oh. What have I screwed up now? “What do you mean the concert’s off?”
“Apparently your main man John Mayer ingested some bad sushi or something, and had to cancel his next few concert dates due to food poisoning. What a bonehead,” she added, laughing.
I loved it when she threw sarcasm around. Kind of like a good girl’s profanity. “Well, crud.”
“Let me offer an alternative,” she said. “I’ll swing by Ticketmaster on the way home from work and get the tickets refunded.”
I knew I liked this girl.
“Then why don’t you just come to my place for dinner tonight? We can eat and maybe watch a movie. My roommate Peg will be here, but she’ll be sequestered in her room finishing her term paper. What do you think?”
“Sounds like a plan. A good plan. They’ve cut our agenda down some, so we’ll be getting back to town around six.” I said, realizing I was smiling.
“Then make it seven at my place. Do you like Italian food?”
“I’ll enjoy anything prepared by your hands.”
She paused briefly. “Well, that was a bit cheesy.”
I yawned. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night. But that’s another story. Gotta run. I have a meeting with Fred Snooker. See you tonight.”
“Bye, Elmo.”
The Crow’s Nest sat on the pinnacle at one end of the Main Lodge. Shaped like an octagon, it offered a 360-degree scenic view overlooking the entire Golden Stallion development. Absolutely stunning.
Thurm and I met in the south hall and rode the elevator together up to the Crow’s Nest. We found Fred there waiting for us, holding an old leather photo album.
“Gentlemen, have a seat. Can I get you a cold drink?” he offered.
“No thanks.” I looked at Thurm who shook his head.
Fred sat down. “Where do you want to begin?”
“I can’t speak for Thurm, but I need you to start at the beginning. I’m intrigued but totally clueless about this big toe thing.”
“It’s The Black Toe Enigma,” Fred said, gently correcting me. “Thurm, what have you heard about this?”
“Not a whole lot, Pastor Snooker. I’ve heard some of the teenagers mention some spooky tooth thing about hidden messages and secret influences. You know, kind of a local Da Vinci Code thing.”
“Well, The Black Toe Enigma was around long before they determined Da Vinci had a code.” Fred placed the photo album on the table. “My predecessor, Aaron Spencer, gave me this album sometime in the late ‘50s. You can see it’s quite old. The Black Toe legend had been passed along by oral tradition for years until Aaron decided to document it. He chronicled everything he could find out about it and also started collecting what I call the ‘TBT Artifacts.’ Ninety percent of what’s in this album was already compiled before he passed it on to me. I’ve added a handful of additional artifacts over the years as they surfac
ed. That gum wrapper you gave me the other day, Elmo, is the first new find in over ten years.”
“What exactly is The Black Toe Enigma?” I asked.
Fred leaned forward, folding his hands together. “An enigma by definition is ambiguous or inexplicable, and that’s what we have here. I can read you the legend and show you the artifacts, but from there your guess is as good as mine. Remember this thing is over a hundred years old—if you believe the legend.”
Thurm jumped in. “What does the legend say?”
“Let me just read it to you,” Fred said, as he slowly, and carefully opened the album. The first page appeared to be a faded, yellowed piece of paper with several typed paragraphs, obviously typed on an old manual ribbon-style typewriter. Fred had covered the page in plastic to preserve it. He started reading.
The Legend of The Black Toe
Researched and Compiled by Rev. Aaron Spencer
May 16, 1947
Legend has it The Black Toe Enigma began sometime before the turn of the century. It all started with an ill-fated hunting trip. Wiley Smith, Chairman of the Deacons at the time, and another unnamed church member got lost while hunting together late in the fall. An unexpected snow storm caught them off guard while they were many miles away from their camp site. The disoriented hunters stumbled around for several hours in the blinding snow until Wiley stepped through a partially-frozen stream breaking his right ankle and saturating his boot with water, a dangerous predicament in the sub-freezing temperature. The other much younger man took off his own boot and put it on the Chairman’s foot, then carried him on his shoulders for many hours until they found shelter.
When rescuers finally discovered Wiley, he was delirious and the other man was nowhere to be found. Wiley could only remember that the young man had saved his life, and that frostbite had caused the other man’s toes to turn black. The rescuer never came forward, and for reasons still unclear, Wiley Smith never chose to identify him.
From that time on, the church folk suspected the presence of an anonymous person amongst the flock at First Church who was strong, courageous, and wise . . . and whose blackened, frostbitten toes remained hidden by his right shoe. As Wiley Smith grew older, he would occasionally mention that he’d conferred with The Black Toe. The whispers would circulate, and the legend grew.
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