n that day in April, just before Balaam Gimble put his shovel into the ground, the small Texas town of Willoughby was blithely minding its own--albeit languishing--business:
Rudy Janacek was overhauling Cecil Bell's tractor engine and wondering if Cecil had ever changed the oil in that poor engine in his life.
Juanita and Richard Greer were anticipating their seventh wedding anniversary.
J. D. Vernon, avid outdoorsman, was reading a catalogue of hunting accessories and weighing the merits of the new deer-attracting scents.
Nanetta Wilson, polish and cloth at the ready, was gliding across the considerable floor space of her home, just daring a speck of dust to show its face.
Elsewhere on that day in April:
Two hours away in Houston, David Wilson, dutiful son unto Nanetta, was sitting in a glass-skinned office tower, thinking about lipstick.
Two states away in Denver, masseur Ernie Ruiz was kneading a client's deltoids; wealthy developer Howard J. Liggett was feeling fit as he played golf with a group of potential investors.
But then, on that day in April, Balaam Gimble had to go and put his shovel into the ground. And within six months:
The town of Willoughby would have five hundred unneeded Mason jars, four unneeded bed-and-breakfast rooms, and a collective broken heart.
Nanetta Wilson would have a broken hip.
David Wilson would sabotage a job that paid him $60,000 a year.
Rudy Janacek would be addicted to Internet pornography.
Juanita and Richard Greer would be separated.
Ernie Ruiz would be mauled by Bambi and have to escape on a riding lawn mower. That would not be the low point of his day.
Howard J. Liggett would be, to quote his chief physician, "not at all a well man."
J. D. Vernon, not to be outdone, would be dead.
Later, looking back on it all, Balaam Gimble would say that if he had known on that day in April that he had the power to do so much good in the world, he'd have used an even bigger shovel.