Mansfield Bell was a straight-laced CPA here in Fort Stockton, pretty much a man who lived his life by accounts and ledgers.  Debits and credits.  A fixture at the Optimistic Rotarians Club here in town, he was the type of guy people trusted with their taxes and looked to for advice with investments.  He drove a ’63 Chevrolet Impala sedan, not even the hardtop version, and would have one glass of wine or one mixed drink when he took his wife, Gladys, to the Silver Slipper Supper Club on Saturday night for dinner.

He served as an elder over at Second Baptist, heading up the finance committee.  More than once he had to stand up to Brother Bob to make sure the right steps were taken to account for the tithes and offerings in ways that were transparent, proper, and above board.  “You handle it in any way you see fit right up to and including you going to jail,” Brother Bob told him at the end of one meeting.  “Stop short before I have to go to jail.”  Mansfield Bell didn’t see the humor in that.  The rest of the elders weren’t sure there was meant to be any humor in it.

And then, in 1967, a confluence of events shifted everything.  Folks around town said that it was probably the heart attack that started it all.  Others said that it was Bonnie.  Some even suggested it was the Pontiac.  The reality of it was that all three were so interwoven that it would be nearly impossible to untangle them.  That’s usually how those things work.

Mansfield Bell was sitting at his desk at Liberty Bell Accounting and Financial Services going over the tax returns of Rex Hall and Rex Hall Drug when he had a shooting pain in his left arm, followed by what felt like a punch to his chest by someone younger, bigger, and who held a grudge.  By virtue of the fact that his father and grandfather both died of heart attacks in their fifties, Mansfield had the wherewithal to grab the phone and call the Fort Stockton Fire Department and tell them they needed to send an ambulance over.

By the time they got him loaded up in the back of the Ford Country Sedan wagon and over to Fort Stockton Memorial Hospital and Animal Research Facility, Mansfield Bell was in full cardiac arrest. He was walking toward the light, seeing what he thought might be Jesus, and hearing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, when doctors delivered three shocks right to his chest with electric paddles. The jolts lifted Bell right up off the table and caused his Hush Puppies to be blown smooth off both feet. Jesus turned around and walked back through the tunnel of light and the Mormons put the kibosh on the hymn midway through the third verse.

Brother Bob called it a miracle. Gladys said it was repayment for all the good things he’d done in life. Mansfield Bell thought it was a chance to reevaluate.

Two events followed that came to be known as ‘The Bonnies’.  Bell took the 1963 Chevrolet Impala down to Big Chief Pontiac and traded it in on a 1967 Pontiac Bonneville Coupe.  The Bonneville was as long and low as anything on the road in 1967.  The lack of a vinyl top highlighted the smooth Coke bottle lines.  The 400 cubic inch V8 linked with a three-speed Turbo Hydra-Matic automatic transmission assured Mansfield that he could outrun damn near anything but death itself.

The second part of the ‘Two Bonnies’ was similarly low slung and sexy, but a good bit more expensive.

Bonnie Buckingham was born in Alabama, some would say on the wrong side of the tracks.  That is not to say she was not without her talents and assets.  In fact, she was only able to get out of the small town of Gunterville by being wise beyond her years, capable beyond her means, and as resourceful as any young woman in the south in 1967 could be.  Guntersville is known for its tasty treats and local souvenirs.  There were fewer of each when Bonnie Buckingham left town.

I suppose it was fate that brought Bonnie to town just as Mansfield Bell was recovering from his near-death experience. Nobody was sure, but it might have been right after she hit town that Bell bought the Bonneville. That timing would make sense. Bonnie had purchased a one-way ticket to Somewhere on the Greyhound bus. When she hit Fort Stockton and ran into Mansfield Bell at the Dairy Twin, she knew she’d found what she was looking for. She was employed as his secretary the following day, despite her limited office skills. Within weeks she was riding copilot in the Pontiac on business trips around Pecos country and then eventually places more exotic throughout southwest Texas.

For her part, Gladys was initially put off by the new employee, and then resentful. She eventually accepted the situation, while at the same time making sure Bell’s life insurance policies were increased in value, right along with the amount of salt she added to his diet. She encouraged him to enjoy after dinner cigars and a few more drinks at the Silver Slipper Supper Club, though they went out far less than they used to.

Mansfield Bell, feeling as though he was living on borrowed time had committed himself to making the very most of every waking moment.  Bonnie was an integral part of making that a reality.

In return for her ample affections and sultry talents, Bonnie was promised that she would one day become the new Mrs. Bell and co-owner of Liberty Bell Accounting and Financial Services. “Just give me time,” he said to her as she sat next to him on the pleated burgundy vinyl bench seat and tuned in to jazz songs from KFSX on the AM radio in the middle of the dash. Mansfield’s hands were not firmly on the 10 and 2 positions atop the translucent wheel for long. The under dash air conditioning system was the only thing cooling their passions, and it couldn’t keep up.

Once an accountant, always an accountant. Bell kept impeccable and detailed records of every trip the couple took. Receipts were kept for every meal and motel. Proving old habits are impossible to break, documentation went further than just receipts. Bell’s Polaroid camera documented the relationship in detail the IRS would never ask for. Bonnie in the hotel room. Bonnie in the bathroom. Bonnie in the Bonneville. Bonnie enjoyed a Chesterfield after entertaining Bell, so she is smoking in a lot of the pictures. Most of them.

Within six months Bonnie was getting waxed more often than the Pontiac, but she was no closer to becoming Bonnie Bell than she had been the day she was hired. Between his lifestyle, his diet, his smoking, and his out of town trips, however, Mansfield Bell was depreciating his remaining time on earth faster than he was writing the Bonneville off his taxes. Somewhere, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was getting warmed up again.

One Monday morning in the early summer of 1968 Bonnie came into work and the Bonneville was not in the parking lot out front, as it always was.  There was a Cadillac parked out front instead.  Brand new.  Black.  An Eldorado, she thought, though she couldn’t be sure.  Inside the office of Liberty Bell Accounting and Financial Services, Gladys Bell sat behind the desk in her husband’s office, dressed in a black leather skirt and boots that matched the interior of the Cadillac out front.  An attorney sat quietly in one of the green leatherette chairs on the other side.

“Ah, yes.”  Mrs. Bell said.  “Do come in.  Don’t bother to sit.  This won’t take long.”

A nondescript banker’s box sat atop the oak desk.  Quite a number of things had indiscriminately been tossed inside.  There appeared to be a lot of receipts.  Pay stubs.  Pictures.  Lots of pictures.  So many pictures.  They weren’t labeled or dated, but Bonnie recognized each one.  Some made her grin just a bit.  Others made her blush.  There weren’t any she hadn’t posed for.  There also weren’t any she thought would be seen by anyone other than Mansfield Bell.

The last thing Gladys tossed into the box was a Greyhound bus ticket.  “That’ll be all.  Your particular set of talents are no longer required at Liberty Bell Accounting and Financial Services.  You will need to find another firm in which to fudgel.”

Bonnie Buckingham was looking for someplace when she stumbled off the bus in Fort Stockton.  Turned out she just needed to keep looking.