Preacher's Boy

I wasn't the one wanted to be a preacher. It was Pa, and he's clean and good enough for eight or ten people. They should be plenty satisfied with that and not go laying impossible demands on his offspring.

Of course, Beth is clean and good in the way girls her age tend to be. Which makes her a pain in the neck to me and a joy and comfort to the rest of the world. No one's keeping score on Letty yet. She's still a baby to their way of thinking. Poor Elliot. I guess he's kind of in the baby category, too. So it is always and only me that gets the pursed lips and tut-tuts and "Robbie, you of all people! And your father a minister!"

All right, back to the problem of Mabel Cramm's bloomers. No one got caught. There was mighty speculation, as I think I've said, down at the livery stable. Neither Willie nor me was privy to those conversations, but I think I can assure you that our names never came up in that sniggering talk.

The ladies of Leonardstown were noisily appalled, and whatever their menfolk might have thought privately, there was a general agreement, at least among the members of our Congregational church, that it was yet another evidence of the creeping moral decay that was rotting America from the core like a worm in an apple. Previously, they had been able to look down their noses at the other forty-four states, but America's worm had invaded the Green Mountains of Vermont and crawled all the way into our beautiful little village.

In addition to the shocking affair of the flying bloomers, there was the rowdy crowd that hung around the livery stable. They weren't just talking horseflesh, that was plain. You don't do that much snorting and knee slapping discussing gait and coat and size of livery-stable mares and geldings.

And then there were the Italian stonecutters. Now, the Italians go to the Catholic church in Tyler if they go anywhere at all, and in my opinion that isn't any business of the old-time New England Protestant population. But while the pious folks were on the subject of wickedness, they started in on the Italian population as well. Those men were drinking something considerably harder than the local cider—and none of them even pretended it was for medicinal purposes. Everyone knew that certain of the Italian women brewed their own, so to speak. But in a state that enshrined prohibition as law, maybe it was high time the sheriff stopped looking the other way.

And getting closer to home, there was the current preacher at the Congregational church. Whether you were Methodist, Baptist, Unitarian, or nothing at all, you still looked to the tall white steeple on Main Street as a symbol of purity and piety come from Heaven straight down to earth. There was, it was noted, a certain lack of rigor in the current occupant. According to the going opinion, he was a good man, but he was far too easy on sin.

Then I had to go and make matters worse. I was sitting with Willie in the evening service. Ma knows it is a burden for me to have to go to church twice on Sundays, and Wednesday-night prayer meeting to boot, so sometimes she lets me sit with Willie, making me promise to behave. Willie's aunt's pew is right behind the Westons'. I was behaving, just like I promised, but fate intervened.

The church was stuffy as a coffin. What was I doing in church on such a night? My mind drifted miles away. I was a sweating private on the lines waiting for Johnny Reb to show the whites of his eyes over the rise. The rise being Mrs. Weston's back, which is about as broad as East Hill. Boy, it was hot. I pulled out one of the pew fans from the rack in front of me and begun to flap a little breeze toward my sweaty face. That was when I saw it. Right in the middle of the sermon, there was a large black spider crawling up that generous expanse of brown silk, heading for Mrs. Weston's high-necked collar.

I punched Willie with the fan, and we both watched fascinated to see how far the spider would get before Mrs. Weston knew it was there and what would happen if and when it got to the top of her collar. Well, what happened was it crept right up that stiff collar, teetered, and was about to get its balance and ruin all our fun. So I leaned over as if in prayer, and, delicate as a Civil War surgeon removing a bullet, put the edge of the fan under the spider's four lower legs and tipped it right down the back of Mrs. Weston's dress.

At first, Mrs. Weston just twitched a bit, but before long she began wiggling like a caterpillar when you tickle it with a stick. And the way she wiggled and pawed, you had to figure that the creature had made its way around to the front and was exploring the territory on the other side of the world. I tried to control myself, but before I knew it, a livery-stable-sized snort just popped right out of my mouth. That got Willie going and only made matters worse.

Suddenly I realized that there was silence where there should have been preaching. I felt it before I looked up. There standing at my elbow in the aisle was the tall form of my father. He wasn't saying a word. He was just looking at me. Nobody ever sobered up as fast as I did that night. Pa never said a thing. He just marched back up the aisle, climbed the stairs to the platform, and took up preaching where he left off, leaving my face as red as the side of a new-painted barn. While every eye was on Pa, Mrs. Weston seized the opportunity to escape down the aisle and out the door.

It doesn't make much sense to me even now, but that night I raced home—the manse is just up the hill behind the church—ran up two flights of stairs to Elliot's and my bedroom, and climbed under the quilt. I guess I was hoping if Pa didn't see me right off, he'd forget the whole incident. It was Elliot, not Pa, who came looking for me.

"Oooo, Robbie, you in big trouble."

I stuck my head under the pillow. I was in no mood to deal with Elliot.

"You scare', Robbie?"

"No, I am not scare'."

"Den why you hidin'?"

I threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. "I'm not hiding, you dummy! Just go away and leave me alone, will you?" He stood there with his mouth open, looking more dumb than ever, which made me yell all the louder. "Get outta here," I said. "Take your stupid self out of my sight!"

"What is going on up here?" Pa was standing in the doorway. He's so tall, he has to stoop a little or bump his head on the doorjamb when he comes into our bedroom, which is under the eaves.

I shut up yelling pretty quick. He was staring at me something fierce, but I didn't want him to think I was as ashamed as I felt, so I made myself look him in the eyes.

He turned toward Elliot. "Elliot," he said quietly, "please go downstairs. I need to talk to Robbie a minute."

Elliot smiled his sweet silly smile, "'kay, Pa." Sometimes that smile could drive me near crazy.

Pa waited until Elliot had clumped down the stairs. "Well, Robbie," he said, "I don't know where to begin."

I just sniffed. I was still furious, though I couldn't have told you who I was mad at.

He waited a minute, but when he realized I wasn't going to say anything, he went on. "I'm less concerned about your behavior in church than I am about your behavior just now toward your brother."

I shrugged my shoulders. Nobody needed to tell me I shouldn't have yelled that way at Elliot. But I didn't want him saying so.

I guess he realized that it wasn't the time for a lecture on Elliot. "As for your behavior in church—"

"I don't know why I always got to go to church—"

"Because you're a member of this family."