Preacher''s Boy

I tried not to remember how far I had to go. Didn't those veterans walk home from way down South somewhere? I kept telling myself just to keep one foot in front of the other, not to think of the distance, just to keep going down the road.

  I kept remembering those wounded soldiers. How had they kept marching hour after hour? They sang, didn't they? I tried a chorus of "John Brown's Body," but "moldering in the grave" brought to mind that they'd hanged John Brown. It didn't seem lucky to sing about a man who had ended up on the gallows.

  During the third verse of "Onward, Christian Soldiers" I heard a great commotion. My first thought was that it was all happening inside my head, that something like a charge of the black powder they use up at the quarry was going off inside my skull. I grabbed my head between both hands, hoping against hope to keep it from exploding right there in the middle of the Tyler road. Then I heard a honk like that of a giant goose right on my rump. Bad head or not, I jumped, I tell you, high as a hound after a treed coon.

  "Get out of the middle of the road, you young fool! Do you want to be run down?"

  The thing that had stopped just short of my rear end was a bright red motorcar. This motorcar made the one I'd seen in Tyler look like a toy. It was huge—with lanterns, black leather seats, one behind the other—and it had a wheel to steer with. A man, his face almost as red as the motorcar, was at the wheel. Beside him sat a woman, beautiful as an angel, in a huge hat with netting tied over it and under her chin.

  I didn't move an inch. I guess I did look like some kind of fool standing there staring, my mouth wider than a granite quarry. A motorcar! There'd never been a motorcar on this road since the blinking things got themselves invented. I couldn't do anything but just stand there and gape. It was the most beautiful machine I had ever laid my eyes on, growling like it was raring to leap up and pounce on the road.

  The driver was getting more impatient by the second. "Move, I say. Move."

  "Oh, Oliver," said the woman. "He's just a boy. He's probably never seen a motorcar before."

  I had, but I wasn't about to argue. I moved, though, to let them pass. "Excuse me," I said.

  The machine began to roar and move forward, but as it did so, a figure popped up from the back, waving both arms. "Robbie! Robbie! I catch 'em!"

  I did what turned out to be the smartest thing I could have done. I fainted dead away.

  14. The Prodigal Son Returns to the Fold

  THE NEXT THING I KNEW, I WAS LYING STRETCHED OUT in the ditch with three heads hovering over me, blocking out the sun.

  "He not dead! He not dead!" Elliot was hollering over the roar of the motor as I came around.

  "No, but he's been hurt." The lady was examining my bandage. Pa's garden hat was in her hand. "We're terribly sorry," she said to me. "My husband had no intention—"

  "What were you doing wandering out alone in your condition?" the man demanded. "Where are your parents that they'd let you..." Abruptly, he turned from me to Elliot. "And you, who are you? And what were you doing in my motorcar?" He looked at Elliot, not pitying like most people do, but furious. "Why, you little—You must have climbed in when we stopped at the store. I knew we shouldn't stop."

  "Shh, Oliver, not now, please. The child's been hurt." She fanned my face with Pa's hat. "Feeling any better?" she asked.

  I nodded. It seemed wise not to recover too quickly.

  "Well, on your feet, then," the man said. "I suppose we'll have to take you home." He looked at Elliot. "Both of you."

  Elliot looked at me, a troubled expression clouding his face. "But dey bad—" he muttered.

  "It's all right, Elliot," I whispered quickly. "The bad fellers were in a different car. This one's fine."

  The woman helped me to my feet. Elliot tried to dust my knickers and stockings, but I brushed away his hand. I didn't want to try the man's patience further by keeping him waiting.

  Between Elliot and the lady, I managed to climb up into the back seat. Elliot clambered up after me and made to crouch down between the seats. "It's okay, Elliot. You can ride the rest of the way on the seat by me."

  "Where do you boys live, then?" the driver asked once we were all settled in the motorcar.

  "Tyler," I said.

  Elliot poked me in the ribs. "Robbie," he whispered. "Da's a lie."

  I ignored him. "Tyler," I said louder.

  "Both of you?"

  "We're brothers," I said. Elliot grinned proudly.

  "Where on God's earth is Tyler?" the man asked.

  "Straight down this road, sir." I mouthed the word Pa at Elliot. He nodded solemnly. "Just a little way." The driver craned around and gave me a look. I didn't blink, so he eased forward.

  The road to Tyler is bumpy and dusty, but I hardly noticed. I felt like I had hitched a ride in Elijah's chariot on a straight path to the Pearly Gates. I was riding in a motorcar! The one thing I had wanted most to do before the world went bust, and God had let me do it. Moreover, God hadn't given me just a ride, He had provided a saving help in my time of trouble. The Reverend Pelham could have his white robes and golden crowns and choirs of angels; I was in Heaven already.

  I grabbed Elliot's hand. "Can you believe it, Elliot? You and me? We're riding in a genuine motorcar!"

  "Is dat good?"

  "It's a miracle!" I yelled over the racket of the motor. "A genuine miracle!"

  "Wheeee!" cried Elliot. Then he leaned over and kissed my hand.

  And do you know? From that very moment I stopped all pretense of being an apeist and signed on as a true believer for all eternity. How could I not? God had worked a personal miracle especially for me.

  The main street of Leonardstown becomes, at the town limits, the Tyler road, and roughly ten miles later, Main Street, Tyler. By the time less than half those miles had rolled under the rubber wheels, our driver was getting audibly impatient. Seems they were trying to get to Burlington and had no idea how they had got on this "back road to nowhere." I couldn't see why anyone would complain. We were whizzing (well, rattling is more accurate) down the road by at least fifteen miles an hour. Tyler is hardly more than fifty miles from Burlington. He'd be there before suppertime. I kept my observations to myself.

  I can't tell you how it saddened me to reach the city limits. No matter that every rock and rut along the way jarred my poor brain against my pitiful skull; I wanted to go on riding in that heavenly chariot forever. When I saw the courthouse, however, I pulled myself together. Duty demanded it.

  "Right here," I said. "Thank you for the ride."

  He stopped smack in front of the courthouse. I could see people beginning to gather from all directions, coming to stare at the motorcar. I was briefly tempted to wait, so that it would be me sitting in the back seat that they would see and envy, but I put old Satan behind me. "C'mon, Elliot," I said, climbing down carefully so as not to jar my head. "Thank the nice lady and man."

  "Sank you," he said sweetly.

  "You live at the courthouse?" The man was about to get riled at me again, but he saw all the people come crowding near, reaching out to touch his treasured vehicle. He was anxious then to be rid of me and Elliot and move out of danger.

  The lady waved at us. "Take care of yourselves, boys," she called as they pulled away from the curb. We waved back. Then I grabbed Elliot's hand, and we started up the long flight of granite steps to the courthouse door where my duty lay in wait.

  Elliot opened the door for me, looking anxiously at my face for signs of fainting. I was dizzy as a top, but I managed to smile. "Now, we go in there," I said, pointing at the heavy double doors that I fig ured must open into the courtroom itself. "I think Pa's in there."

  I knew at once who was the judge and who were the jury. I could see the back of poor Zeb's head bent over a table at the front. There were maybe thirty or so people sitting in what looked like church pews. Before I could locate Pa, he spotted us standing at the back of the big room. He came hurrying from where he had been sitting. "Robbie, Elliot, what on earth...?"

&n
bsp; "Shh," warned a large man standing near the door. "No talking in here."

  Pa guided us back into the vestibule. "What are you boys doing here?" He looked at me closely. "You've no business being out of bed, Robbie."

  "We ride da motorcar," Elliot said, but Pa wasn't listening.

  "Here," he said, taking me by the elbow. "At least sit down." He led me over to a long wooden bench. I was glad to sink down on it.

  "Robbie, what in the name of Heaven—?"

  "Pa." How could I explain everything? "I got to testify."

  He didn't interrupt me, just waited patiently for me to figure out how to put the words together. "First. I was never kidnapped. So if they hang him, it would be—it would be just like I'd murdered him."

  "Then the note...?"

  "It—it was kind of a ... joke." My head was hanging nearly to my boots. "No one was meant to see it. It—it was sort of a mistake that it got into Zeb's pocket at all."

  He could tell there was more to the story, but he put his hand on my shoulder to indicate I didn't have to go into all the gory details just then. "We'll talk about that later," he said. "The pressing matter is what will happen to Mr. Finch today. I don't think they plan to hang him, Robbie, but no matter. If there was no kidnapping, the judge must be told."

  I looked up into his kind, honest face. I bet Abraham Lincoln didn't have as good and honest a face as my pa. The problem with such a face is it makes the other feller have to search his own false soul, so I bared mine. "Truth is," I said, "I run away. After I dunked Ned Weston, I was afraid ... Pa, the truth is I nearly drowned Ned Weston. I was scared—and shamed." I could feel tears starting behind my eyes. I didn't want to cry like a weakling just when I was trying so hard to be strong and do what was good and proper.

  He sat down on the bench beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. "Thank you for telling me, Robbie. You're right, we need to talk to the judge straightaway."

  Standing with Pa before the judge in his little back room, I wanted to confess everything. I started with Mabel Cramm's bloomers and how I turned into an apeist, wanting nothing but the pleasures of life before the end come. How I stole vegetables from my own parents and how I had succumbed to anger and nearly drowned Ned Weston.

  About then the judge interrupted me. "I don't need to know everything that's on your conscience, son. That's between you and your Maker. I just need to know if you were kidnapped by Zebulon Finch."

  "No, sir, I was not."

  "Then the note they found on him was something of a hoax?"

  It seemed wise to agree.

  "But he did attack you?"

  "Yessir, he hit me, but that was partly my fault. Me and Vile—Violet Finch, that's his daughter—we stole his booze. He had gone down to get some more."

  "From the drugstore?"

  "He favors Willerton's Digestive Remedy. You may not know, sir, but Willerton's is mighty near pure alcohol."

  "I see," he said, something like a smile playing around his mouth.

  "The booze just makes him crazy, and really, I attacked him first."

  He looked at me thoughtfully. " You were the aggressor? Are you saying that Mr. Finch hit you in self-defense?" It was clear he didn't believe me.

  "See," I said, "I thought he was fixing to hurt Vile—Violet—so I jumped him. He was just striking back. He didn't mean to really hurt me. I know he didn't. It was more or less an accident."

  "I see." The judge exchanged glances with Pa, who nodded his head. His Honor called one of the constables and told him to take Elliot and me out to the bench in the vestibule and then go buy us each a bottle of Moxie, which we couldn't drink in the courtroom but we could out on the bench where we'd sat before.

  "Ed?"

  I nearly dropped my Moxie. "Vile! Where you been?"

  "Around," she said. She stared at my drink.

  "Here," I said. "Have some. It's right tasty."

  She took a long drag from my bottle. I could see she was reluctant to hand it back.

  "Nah, you keep it. I had plenty."

  "You wan' mine?" Elliot held out his bottle.

  She nodded. Vile finished off both bottles of Moxie without hardly taking a breath. "Thanks for coming," she said, giving me and Elliot the empty bottles. "I was just listening in there before I came out here." She jerked her head at the courtroom door. "I think they're going to let him go."

  "Good," I said. "That's good."

  "Who's your pal?" she asked, nodding at Elliot.

  "It's my brother," I said. "Say hello to Violet, Elliot."

  "Hey, Bilet," Elliot said. "How you?"

  "I'm doing great," Vile said. "Just great, thanks." It was the first time I'd seen her really smile.

  My head was throbbing fierce, and all I wanted to do was stretch out on the bench and go to sleep, but I was determined not to go puny in front of Vile. It seemed years before the doors finally opened and people begun to filter out of the courtroom. The ones from Leonardstown smiled at me and Elliot, gave Vile a stare, and hurried on out. Pa and Zeb were about the last ones out the double doors. Zeb was kind of shuffling from one foot to the other, not daring to raise his head.

  "It's all right, Paw," Vile said. "Ed don't hold nothing against you."

  "Ed?" Pa looked puzzled.

  "It—it was kind of a game," I said. "Vile—Violet knows good and well that my real name is Robbie, don't you, Violet?"

  "Huh?" She gave me one of her sharpest looks. "Oh, yeah. Sure, Robbie?"

  "Violet," Pa said, "you and your father will be coming back to Leonardstown with us." He pulled his watch out of his pocket. "But we're going to have to step on it if we're going to make the last train."

  "Robbie cain' walk too good," Elliot said.

  "Want a piggyback, son?"

  As embarrassing as it was to climb on Pa's back like I was a five-year-old, I was grateful to Elliot. Vile or no Vile, I'd done all the walking I could manage for one day.

  15. The End and Beginning of Many Things

  THE COURT PUT PA IN CHARGE OF ZEB FOR THE NEXT three months. Pa got him a job working at the Leonardstown Hotel, where they could have a room and three meals a day. The judge had said Zeb could remain in Pa's custody as long as he went to work every day and didn't touch alcohol. The damage to Wolcott's Drugstore was considerable, but Mr. Wolcott agreed that Zeb could pay him a bit out of his salary every week to help make restitution.

  If there was a sheriff on Zeb's tail, the officer never appeared. By September Vile had stopped snatching every handbill in sight. Seems she couldn't read well enough on the run to see if they pertained to Zeb or not, so she stole them all, just in case.

  I thought at that point that everything was going to end happily ever after, but it didn't quite work out that way, and since I am back on the Ten Commandments, I have to tell you the truth of things. First of all, school opened like always. For me it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. I sat right behind Rachel Martin again. Miss Bigelow, despite the business about the snake, decided to come back another year. She'd gotten prettier over the summer. I wasn't the only one who thought so. Willie even remarked on it out loud. She was nice, too. Miss Bigelow, I mean. Rachel Martin continued to ignore me.

  Miss Bigelow was especially good to Vile, who she never failed to address as Violet and made everyone else do the same. It didn't make a bit of difference, though. Vile cordially hated going to school. She was so far behind every other eleven-year-old that she claimed it was like drinking pure bile to recite her lessons. She used to say that school was worse than jail. "And here I was so worried about poor old Paw getting caged up, and I'm the one who's lost their freedom."

  Willie and me tried to make life easier for her. We really did. Even Pa helped. He offered to give her extra tutoring, but Vile claimed she had something that made her break into hives if she got too close to a preacher. I told her that was nonsense, but she showed me these red spots on her arms and said, "See!" I suspect they were bedbug bites, but I decided to leave it be. Next
thing she'd claim she couldn't sleep in a regular bed.

  Elliot was crazy about her, but Elliot likes everybody. The interesting thing is that Vile liked him back. Sometimes she would come up to the house not to see me but just to play paper dolls with Elliot and Letty. It was the only time I ever saw her acting like a regular little girl.

  Anyhow, the first snow fell in October soon after Zeb's three-month parole was up. They disappeared the night after it snowed, heading, I guess, for warmer territory. They were originally from somewhere farther south. Anyhow, I got a postal card from Vile at Christmastime written in smudged pencil. They had made their way as far as Massachusetts, hopping trains. Zeb was mostly behaving himself, she said. She herself was working in a mill, which she didn't mind at all since no one made her recite lessons in a mill. I mustn't worry. She had taken the primer that Pa had given her and was teaching herself. Couldn't I tell how much her writing had improved even without her having to go to school? She spelled writing as ritin. And that was about the best spelling on the card. I spent more than an hour puzzling out what she was trying to say. It made me furious that she didn't know what was good for her. She could have had a swell life here in Leonardstown with us, but she threw it away.

  It made me sad, too. Even if she was happier in Massachusetts, she was like a buddy to Willie and Elliot and me. We all miss her. Now that I'm back to being a Christian, I pray she'll come back. She hasn't so far.

  The whole town was planning to stay up on December the thirty-first and watch the new century dawn. Deacon Slaughter and Mr. Weston had already determined that our celebration would be simple and in the good taste befitting a God-fearing town in Vermont. Unlike those festivities being advertised in the larger cities, Leonardstown would tolerate no raucous behavior, drunkenness, or dancing in the street. (Not that anyone would be tempted to dance on a street of packed snow in their winter boots.) There was to be a band concert in the town hall at seven P.M., followed by prayer meetings in the individual churches. The plan was that everyone would assemble on the green afterward and say a proper farewell to the nine-teenth century and welcome the twentieth. Willie and I had stuffed our pockets with strings of firecrackers and matches in honor of the occasion. But when the concert and prayer meetings were over, it was still not ten-fifteen and the temperature was plunging faster than a wild goose full of buckshot.