“AMEN!” “HALLELUJAH!” “GLORY TO GOD!” The folks shouted. And they fished in their pockets and their purses and came up with whatever coins they happened to have on hand, which Brothers Tharp and Dowdy began to relieve them of. Sharline said to Hoppy, “There goes our gasoline money for the next town.”
“Art Bedwell would fill our tank for nothing,” he said to her.
“I told you he could preach, didn’t I?” she said. “He could talk anybody into anything. But he couldn’t talk me into his bed.”
A feller sitting behind them tapped Hoppy on the shoulder and asked, “How much was ye fixing to charge for that pitcher show?”
“It’s a nickel for kids and a dime for grown-ups.”
“Maw,” the feller said to the woman beside him, “hang on to some of that.”
And sure enough, Hoppy could discern by glancing around him, not everyone was coughing up all their cash.
Brothers Tharp and Dowdy deposited their plates on the table beside the pulpit. “Is this all?” Emmett Binns asked of the audience. “Times is hard, yes, but that’s a offering the Lord would look upon with sorrow. Are some of you holding back on me? I sure would hate to think that this tiny little collection is the best you can do.” He ranted onward for another ten minutes about the evil of money and the fact that money wouldn’t do a bit of good at a camp meeting. He finally got off the subject after declaring, “I just don’t want to know that ary a one of ye paid ary a cent to see a sinful pitcher show.”
Then he shrugged his shoulders, shifted his tone into full booming declamatory and began an exhortation to get converts to come down to the mourner’s bench. These were the souls who would be saved at the nighttime baptism, and each of them did an awful lot of hooting and hollering in the process of declaring their readiness for salvation. Their spirit infected the whole crowd, and there was shouting and screaming from all over. Some folks were so seized by the spirit that they fell on the ground and kicked and thrashed as well as screamed. There were even kids among them, flat out on the ground, crying for mercy and weeping with joy. It didn’t seem to Hoppy that they were “getting happy,” but he had to allow that it was probably good for everybody, to get it all out. It was probably a way of letting off their troubles, their frets and frustrations. There had been many a time, before Sharline, when Hoppy himself had sure felt like he could use a good scream or two.
But it sure was a real spectacle. The man behind Hoppy remarked, “Who needs a pitcher show if we get to watch all this carrying-on?”
Sharline was needed to play the piano for the closing hymn, which was “I Am Thine, O Lord.” Hoppy had noticed that Sharline never sang along with the others, but assumed it was just because she was just too busy pounding the keyboard. Later when they were alone again and getting their equipment and gear ready for the evening show, he asked her why she didn’t sing along in the hymns, and she simply said, “I don’t foller the words.” And a bit later she smiled I am thine, O Lord.” His heart swole.
His heart swole even more that night when he discovered that their audience was bigger than ever. There were not only most of the people who lived hereabouts and had come to the shows and the first three episodes of “The Painted Stallion,” but also a sizeable portion of the “furriners”—the campers at the camp meeting who had come from over the mountains—were in attendance, although some of the latter had requested either to be allowed to barter whatever foodstuffs or personal belongings they could for admission or else they tried to sneak in, an easy thing to do since there were no gates or doors or walls to stop them from it. Hoppy told his ticket-seller, Sharline, to just let the freeloaders in, at least for tonight. The more honorable spectators, who couldn’t afford the admission but didn’t want to sneak in, approached Hoppy with assorted offers of chickens, eggs, slabs of bacon, butter, the shirts off their backs, and even sexual favors. Since some of them had brought the family cow along for the trip, Hoppy was willing to accept a pail of fresh milk. Otherwise he just said, to the poor, as most of them were, “Be my guest,” and let them all in.
One person he didn’t say “Be my guest” to was Emmett Binns, who, having concluded the mass baptism on Mulberry River with spare time enough afterwards to change from his wet clothes into dry clothes—“civilian” clothes that left him scarcely recognizable—decided to, as he put it to Hoppy, “See what all the fuss is about.”
“Ten cents,” Hoppy said.
Brother Binns gave Sharline a dime and hung around to watch her juggling six balls and being made to disappear by the magician, but then the preacher found himself a seat in an inconspicuous spot outside the brush arbor where the rest of the people wouldn’t notice him.
That night’s show didn’t make them much profit, especially since Sharline’s concessions—the candy and popcorn, etc.—went largely unsold because most everyone was stuffed on the supper leftovers of the perpetual dinner-on-the-grounds.
When full dark settled in, before starting the projector, Hoppy asked Sharline if she could give the audience a kind of rundown of what had already happened in “The Painted Stallion” in the first three episodes that most of them had missed. She was glad to oblige. Standing at the pulpit in the light of a kerosene lantern, wearing her ten-gallon hat and her Clarksville dress, she delivered with the patience of a schoolteacher a summary of the beginning of the serial, which proceeded reasonably into her reading of the captions for the serial as it began.
As the first images unfolded on the screen, there was a reaction such as Hoppy had never before witnessed among his audiences: a group gasp, a noisy shared intaking of breath, and an assortment of exclamations of surprise and delight, each prefaced with “Well,” an interjection of satisfaction: “Well, can you beat that!” “Well, as I live and breathe!” “Well, burn my clothes!” “Well, hush my mouth!” “Well, who’d’ve thort it!” If the hollering of the camp meeting was “getting happy,” this was getting happier.
Hoppy wandered down the edges of the brush arbor, to relish their facial and verbal expressions. He had always enjoyed observing his audiences, but now he was watching a multitude who were having their first experience with pitcher shows. And were clearly beside themselves with pleasure. He couldn’t help thinking of the night before, of Sharline’s losing her virginity; most of these folks were sort of having their entertainment virginity taken away. He could easily discriminate between them and the townspeople who had already seen several pitcher shows: the latter were almost smug and gloating, knowing they’d lost their virginity but reliving the experience through the others.
Emmett Binns was doing his dead-level-best to refrain from expressing any reaction whatsoever. The only way he could do this was by fixing his face into a permanent scowl of disapproval. But as the serial ended and the main feature, “Rustler’s Valley,” began, Binns allowed himself to get transported into the story and to feel the same pleasant escape from this world as everyone else was feeling. He was even heard to remark, “How about that!” and “Head ’em off at the pass, fellers!”
When the show was all over, and folks were reluctantly making their way back to their tent homes (and even a few covered wagons like those in “The Painted Stallion”) on the outskirts of the field, Binns hung around. “That shore is some kind of marvelment,” he commented to Hoppy and Sharline. “If that don’t beat all. If that don’t skin the mule and hang up the hide.”
To be friendly, Hoppy offered, “Care for a snort, Reverend?”
Binns looked around him to see if they were being observed, but everyone else had gone away. “I don’t reckon a little one would kill me,” he said.
Hoppy got out the jug of Chism’s Dew and three glasses, and they sat around and sipped, as the lightning bugs cavorted and in the far woods Sharline’s fairies commenced dancing.
Binns was full of praise for the Chism’s Dew, which, he allowed, put all other spirituous beverages to utter shame. After his third drink, Binns remarked, “You know, I’ve been thinking, me an
d you ought to go into partnership together. Instead of competing with each other, we ought to have combined camp meetings and pitcher shows all over the place. What do you say?”
Hoppy started to laugh but caught himself. “I’d have to sleep on it,” he said.
Binns shifted his look to Sharline. “And you? Where are you sleeping?”
“Same place,” she said.
Chapter ten
But it was harder to sleep than it had been the previous night. “There sure are a lot of them out there,” Sharline observed, as they lay listening to the sounds of their temporary neighbors. Even though the closest one, a covered wagon, was parked at least a hundred feet away, it seemed that Topper no longer had the nocturnal seclusion that it usually had, and the night’s usual chorus of crickets, frogs etc. was overlaid with the buzz of voices. Their words couldn’t be understood, but there sure was a lot of talking going on. Hoppy imagined that most of them were discussing the pitcher show, either “The Painted Stallion” or “Rustler’s Valley” or both. He doubted that anyone was talking about Brother Binns’ sermon, and that was certainly a big advantage that pitcher shows had over religion: you could sociably discuss the plot and characters afterwards.
Hoppy was surprised at himself for not being able to dismiss, right off the bat, Emmett Binns’ offer, and during the mighty long time it would take him to fall asleep he would weigh the pros and cons of it, and come up with a line of reasoning such as that Binns was seeking to capitalize on the popularity and memorability of pitcher shows in order to draw and keep a larger audience for his revival meetings. Binns had the power to pull folks out of the most remote corners of the Ozarks, folks who would trek long distances to get religion but wouldn’t make such a trip just for pitcher shows, and maybe there was something to be said for the idea of using Binns as a drawing card.
Hoppy and Sharline did not make love that night. It might have helped them get to sleep easier if they had, but Sharline was still a bit sore from the tear in her maidenhead, and both of them were too conscious of being surrounded by the tents and shacks and covered wagons holding the population of the camp meeting. So they were content to hold each other closely, as the narrow lower bunk required them to do, and to whisper at length their night thoughts and their expressions of great nearness to each other, as well as their opinions on Emmett Binns’ offer.
“I don’t like him,” Sharline said. “And I sure don’t want to travel with him. What town are we going to next?”
“Deer,” he said.
She kissed him. “You’re a dear, too. Where do we go from here?”
“Deer,” he said. “That’s the name of the town, up in Newton County.”
“Let’s not tell him, or anybody else, in case it might get back to him.”
“Okay, but why not?”
“We don’t want him a-follering us.”
“You don’t think it might pull in a right smart of a bigger audience if we jined up with him?”
“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’m going to buy some paint at Bedwell’s store and paint us a sign on both sides of Topper, and I don’t want that sign even to mention Emmett Binns.”
“All right,” he said, “but I told him we’d sleep on the idee, so who knows what we might decide after a good night’s sleep. You have sweet dreams, hon.” He gave her a squeeze and closed his eyes.
“Landon, if you wake up along in the night and I’m not here, don’t get riled. I just might have to go out and visit with my fairy friends.”
“Promise me ye won’t go out in just your slip,” he requested.
But if she ever did get up and go out during that night, other than to heed a call a nature, he didn’t know about it. When he woke up, at last, it was to the sound of the furriners’ various roosters greeting the morn, and Sharline wasn’t there, but she was right outside of Topper, fixing breakfast on the kerosene stove. Hoppy decided one of the nicest things about her was fresh readymade coffee with ham and eggs and biscuits all set to eat.
After breakfast, he walked with her over to Art Bedwell’s store, where he got himself some makings of cigarettes and she bought a pint can of black paint and a two-inch lettering brush.
He had one request: “Don’t make the letters too big.” He liked all that empty white space that covered Topper, and he didn’t think Topper would appreciate being marked up with black paint.
She kept the letters just big enough to be seen from a distance, and here is what they said:
HOPALONG’S ROAMING PICTURE SHOWS
MOVING PICTURES ON THE MOVE
And in much smaller letters, down below, she painted:
Landon “Hopalong” Boyd, prop.
Sharline Whitlow, ass’t.
She duplicated the sign on the opposite side of Topper. Her lettering was very neat. It was so clean and sharp, Hoppy reflected that if they had to quit traveling and go to work for a living and she didn’t want to teach school, she could earn a fair living as a sign painter. And he told her how much he admired her work.
But she had another talent too that he would never have guessed. A bunch of folks came over to look at the new sign painted on Topper’s sides, and among the folks was Emmett Binns, who said “Good morning, Brother Boyd, and good morning, Sister Sharline. Right nice sign you got there. Sister, I was wondering if you’d have time this morning to give me another haircut.”
All Hoppy could think was: another? Sharline replied, “It’ll cost ye two bits, same as usual.”
“Where do ye want to do it?” Binns asked.
“Why, right here’s good enough, I reckon. Let me get my scissors.” She climbed up into Topper and fetched from her toesack bag of possessions a pair of scissors and a comb. She got a spare sheet to cover him with. He sat in one of their chairs in the yard beside Topper, and she went to work, and Hoppy felt more jealous than he’d ever felt in a right smart spell. But it didn’t take very long, not even as long as it’d take a woman to make love to a man. She did a good job, and Binns was left looking more presentable.
As he paid her the quarter, he asked of Hoppy, “Well, did ye get a chance to sleep on my offer last night?”
“Yeah, we did, but we aint made up our mind yet.” Hoppy appreciated the first person plural he was using. And he appreciated not coming right out with a flat turn-down but instead leaving Binns wondering.
Binns was studying the new sign on Topper’s side. “Are you two actually living together inside of that?” he asked. Sharline merely gave her head a slight nod, and Binns said, “I could marry ye, so it would look respectable and wouldn’t be such a sin.”
It took Hoppy a moment to realize that Binns meant performing a marriage service, not marrying Sharline his own self. Then Hoppy said, “We’ll have to sleep on that notion too,” and gave Binns such a look as would tell him to mind his own business.
“Suit yourselfs,” Binns said. “I just hate to see such open sinning going on right here in the camp meeting.”
“You don’t have to see,” Sharline said. “Nor nobody else neither.”
Binns reached out and touched her name where she had lettered it on Topper. “You’re advertising right there that you’re with him,” he pointed out. The paint was still wet and he smeared her name and got some paint on his fingertips. “Oops,” he said. They did not offer him anything to wipe his fingers with, and he didn’t want to use his best handkerchief, so he went off in search of a rag or a place to wash.
Hoppy and Sharline inspected the smeared sign. “Let’s just wait until it’s dry,” Hoppy suggested. “And then we’ll get some white paint to cover it and you can start over and do it again. And maybe you ought to put at the bottom, ‘Haircuts, twenty-five cents.’” He hadn’t meant to be funny, but Sharline laughed. “You never tole me you was a barber,” he said.
“You aint jealous, are ye? Do you want I should do you?”
“Might as well,” he said. “But I won’t pay ye two bits.”
So she gave him a haircut, the fir
st he’d had since early spring, the first he’d ever had from a female barber, which was real exciting, even arousing. He did indeed get jealous, wondering if Emmett Binns had experienced the same arousal beneath her hands.
“Do you think we ought to get married?” he said.
She did not say anything. Her hands stopped working on his head. He had to crane his neck to see behind him, to see what her face was doing. She was just looking sort of bemused, but with a teeny smile on the edges of her mouth. At length she spoke. “Is that a proposal?”
“Since the preacher brought it up, I just wondered what you thought of the idee.”
“Some day,” she said, “when I get to know you better, I’d sure be proud to hear you make a proper proposal.”
“Some day I just might,” he allowed.
Hoppy helped her wash the dishes and tidy up around Topper, and he took their water bucket off to the spring to refill it. The spring, which was in a sort of ravine at the foot of the mountain, was in steady demand by the many campers, and Hoppy had to wait in line to get his chance to fill his bucket. The spring appeared to be drying up in the drought and his bucket took a while to fill.
Sharline cooked a couple dozen fried apple pies to contribute to the dinner-on-the-grounds, and then there wasn’t too much left of the morning to kill before dinnertime, but the two of them went out in their ten-gallon hats and wandered amongst the crowd of folks who were finding ways to kill the morning. Groups of kids surrounded them and tugged at their hands and wanted to know what was going to happen in “The Painted Stallion.” Would that there wagon train ever make it all the way to Santa Fe? Would the injuns get ’em all? Would that Injun chief on the paint horse save the good guys? And what kind of pitcher show would they be showing tonight? Some of the older kids had more complicated questions about how did they manage to capture all those things on the celluloid that ran through the machine. How could they get the sound on that celluloid? It sure was a wonder. What was the world a-coming to?
The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 3 Page 11
