The thought of the two animals mating sent a quick rush of longing through the boy. How simple it must be to come together with the freedom of wilderness creatures.
Clay-Boy had never made love to a girl. Desire and yearning would engulf him at the thought and would remain with him, a persistent ache. At school he would boast to the other boys about his conquests, but the other boys must have been as innocent as he to have believed his lies.
The thought and the deed were equally sinful, and he would pray earnestly to God to relieve him of his wicked thoughts. Each year at the Revival at the Baptist Church, when the minister would work himself into a tremulous frenzy of salvation, when, in a voice worn to a rasping whisper, he would plead for God to touch the sinners in his congregation, Clay-Boy would sit in rigid terror, knowing that God could see into his mind, knew the ugly lust that was entwined in his brain, and he knew that he was past even God’s help, for that Healing Touch fell on all shoulders but his own. He would watch with envy those who were saved go marching off to the Mourners Bench, and he knew without doubt that there was nothing ahead for him but the eternal fires of Hell.
Sometimes to flush the evil from his mind, to bring the solace of pure thought, he would try to envision some person, someone stronger than himself, someone who might serve as a good example.
He brought into his fevered brain the image of Miss Parker, his English teacher, a red-headed spinster, a gifted teacher, whose sole passion in life was for the works of William Shakespear. Almost immediately his mind cooled and his body relaxed.
When he had finished milking the cow, Clay-Boy gave Chance a slap on the rump, picked up the bucket of foamy milk, and walked back through the whirling dance of snow to the house. Sleet was mixed with the snow now, and it fell into the bucket like miniature meteorites plunging to their death with a hiss in the warm milk.
“Daddy home yet?” he asked Olivia as he walked into the kitchen.
“Not yet,” answered Olivia from the kitchen sink, where she was plucking the feathers from the turkey.
He placed the bucket of milk on the kitchen table and strained it into the scalded clean Mason jars Olivia had standing ready.
When this was done, he placed the filled jars in the refrigerator, then turned to join his grandparents and his brothers and sisters, who were in the living room listening to Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio.
“Buttermilk’s still got to be churned, Clay-Boy,” called Olivia.
“Churnen is woman’s work, Mama,” said Clay-Boy resentfully.
“Work is work, boy,” replied Olivia. “I’d do it, but I’ve got my hands full with this turkey.”
“Why can’t Becky do it?”
“Because she splashes all over creation. I don’t know what’s the matter with that child!”
“The matter with her is she’s thirteen years old,” answered Clay-Boy.
“She’ll live through it,” smiled Olivia. “I just hope the rest of us do.”
Clay-Boy picked up the old earthenware butter churn and carried it by the handles into the living room. Grandma Ida had drifted off to sleep in the wing-backed chair, but Grandpa Homer was leaning toward the radio along with the children waiting for Mister Mayor of Wistful Vista to be admitted to the McGee household.
Clay-Boy inserted the long wooden dasher into the churn and began the steady upward and downward churning that would turn the sour clabber into buttermilk.
“Well, good evening, Mr. Mayor,” cried Molly McGee as they heard the sound of a door opening and the booming voice of Hizzonor calling Merry Christmas to one and all.
“I can’t hear with you slappen that buttermilk around,” said Becky to Clay-Boy.
“Go jump in a lake,” Clay-Boy advised Becky.
“Y’all heish,” warned Grandpa Homer. “The Mayor’s brought somebody with him.”
The Mayor had brought Clark Dennis with him, and as Dennis’ rich voice began singing “Silent Night” Clay-Boy stopped his churning and Olivia came to the door to listen to the end.
“Hot damn, that man can sing!” exclaimed Grandpa Homer, who slapped his knee sharply with his open palm to emphasize his admiration.
Grandma Ida had wakened briefly during the song, but drifted off to sleep again. Now she came awake with a start when Fibber opened the door to his closet and all its contents spilled forth.
“What’s the matter?” gasped Grandma Ida.
“The end of the world done come,” shouted Homer, “and you slept right through it!”
“It was just Fibber’s closet,” murmured Grandma Ida, her eyes lighting on Clay-Boy, who was disgustedly slopping the dasher up and down in the churn. “You want me to do that for you, honey?”
“You want to, Grandma?”
“No, I do not, but I’d a heap rather do it than see you take on so.”
Gratefully, Clay-Boy moved the butter churn to a position by his grandmother’s chair, and she took up her chore with considerable energy.
Olivia was trussing up the turkey when she heard a knock at the door. She delayed answering the door for a moment, fearing bad news. Clay was late. Had there been an accident? Was someone waiting there to tell her that Clay was hurt or dead? She pushed the turkey away, rose from her seat and, still shadowed by apprehension, crossed and opened the door.
The caller was Birdshot Sprouse, a tall, obliging, not-too-bright boy, no older than Clay-Boy, but already a man. Birdshot got his name from a fight he had with C. C. Harkness over a coon. When each of the boys had claimed the prize after a long midnight scramble through creeks and gullies, C. C. Harkness had settled the matter by unloading his double-barrel 21-gauge shotgun in his friend’s general direction. Several of the pellets entered Birdshot’s left wrist when he raised his arms to protect his face. Doc Campbell had removed as many of the pellets as he could find. When the wound healed over, Birdshot discovered that some had been left behind. He found too that by clenching and unclenching his fist he could make the little blue dots just beneath the skin move about across the sinews and veins. It was kind of a curiosity and it gave Birdshot a name and made him famous in the community.
Birdshot was the son of Skunk Sprouse who made a slim living as a fur trapper along the Rockfish River where it cascaded through the pass on the other side of Spencer’s Mountain. Home to Birdshot was where he laid his head. Sometimes it was at his father’s shanty, but more often it was wherever he happened to be when night fell, in some farmer’s hayloft or in the back room of the pool hall. Birdshot did odd jobs about the village. He would help slaughter hogs for fifty cents. For a dollar he would hoe corn in the blazing hot sun from dawn to dusk. He had worked often for Clay Spencer, was devoted to him, and he knew that Olivia would feed him if he appeared at mealtime.
“Come on in out of the cold,” invited Olivia.
Birdshot stepped just inside the door, closing it behind him. There he waited for further instructions before venturing into the room.
“Merry Christmas, Miss ’Livy,” he said with a shy smile.
“You too, Birdshot,” replied Olivia. “You had your supper?”
“Yes ma’am. Had me a can of Vienna Sausage and a box of crackers and a bottle of Nehi down at the pool hall.” He peered off into the adjoining room. “Where’s your boys and girls?”
“They’re in there listenen to Fibber and Molly,” answered Olivia. “Go on in if you want to.”
“I got a surprise for ’em,” said Birdshot proudly.
In the woods, or on the river, or out in the fields, Birdshot was right at home, but he wasn’t too sure how to act inside a house. He didn’t seem exactly certain how to get from the kitchen door to the living room. Olivia solved the problem by leading the way.
“Hey, Birdshot,” called the children.
“Hey, everybody,” said Birdshot. He beamed with the importance of news not yet shared.
“Birdshot says he’s got a surprise,” said Olivia.
“What’s that?” asked Clay-Boy.
“They got a Missionary Box down at the post office. Woman just brought it out from Charlottesville on a truck. Says she’s goen to start handen out things just as soon as they get a crowd.”
“Let’s go!” shouted Becky.
The children shot up from their seats like a covey of quail taking flight.
“Wait a minute!” cried Olivia.
A chorus of groans sounded as the children paused in their headlong dash for the clothes closet.
“You’ve forgotten somethen,” said Olivia.
Mystified, the children paused, trying to think what it was they might have forgotten.
“We don’t accept charity in this family,” said Olivia.
Groans of despair flooded the room. The disappointment in the children’s faces was almost too great for Olivia to bear, but she stood her ground, knowing how greatly Clay disapproved of accepting any handout.
“Aw shoot, ’Livy,” scolded her mother. “What wrong can it be in ’em getten a toy or an apple or a candy bar?”
“Clay feels real strong about it. He won’t even allow me to take that WPA food the government’s handen out.”
“There’s such a thing as a man being too proud,” said Ida, and pursed her lips to show her disapproval.
“There’s such a thing as a man providen for his own,” said Olivia hotly. “And Clay Spencer does that!”
“I don’t see him in evidence nowhere tonight providen for his own,” said Ida triumphantly.
“He’ll be here,” said Olivia emphatically.
Birdshot Sprouse shifted his feet uncertainly. He realized that he had precipitated some family crisis. He knew no way to relieve it, and had no idea how to extricate himself from it.
“Mama, couldn’t we just go down there and watch other people get things from the box?” asked Clay-Boy.
“What fun would that be?” asked Olivia.
“It’s somethen to do.”
“Isn’t it somethen to do sitten here listenen to the radio and waiten for Santa Claus?”
“I’ll be goen,” said Birdshot, and waited for someone to dismiss him.
“I’ll walk along with you,” said Clay-Boy. “Get a little fresh air.” His statement was a challenge to Olivia. The younger children still had to ask permission, but he had reached the point with his parents where he could state his intentions and sometimes meet with no opposition, usually much to his surprise.
Olivia considered objecting, but the sight of her tall, almost man-son, stopped her. Where had the growth come from so suddenly? It seemed only yesterday he had reached her shoulder. Now he was actually looking down at her.
“Can’t we go too, Mama?” asked Shirley. “We won’t take anything from the Missionary Box.”
“We’ll just watch,” pleaded Becky earnestly.
“Please, Mama,” several voices said.
“Aw,” said Homer, “Let ’em go, daughter.”
“Well, as long as your brother’s goen,” said Olivia, “I don’t see what harm it can do to watch.”
There was a traffic jam at the clothes closet as the whole brood dived in, and each somehow came out with his own jacket and warm sweater and overshoes and galoshes. Pattie-Cake had to be helped on with her snowsuit, but a system had evolved where each of the older children automatically helped one of the others until the entire group was dressed.
“Don’t y’all stay late,” called Olivia as the group trooped out of the door. “Hold Pattie-Cake’s hand.”
With Clay-Boy leading the way and Birdshot carrying Pattie-Cake on his shoulders, the children made their way through a path made by Clay-Boy’s tracks. The feathery snow sifted gently into their tracks, obliterating them almost as soon as they were left behind.
There was one street light in the informal square which made up the cluster of buildings where the village business was conducted. The post office, the barber shop and the pool hall sat side by side. Directly across the street was the building called the commissary, which in better days had housed the company-owned general store, as well as the business offices of the company which operated the mill. Railroad tracks led off past the back of the commissary to the gang room, which before the company had closed was filled with light and grinding sound, night and day as the great diamond saws cut the huge blocks of soapstone into manageable slabs.
But this night the gang room and the commissary and the post office were dark and silent. A misty light spilled from the windows of the pool hall, but the frosted windows cut off any view from the outside of the sinful gambling and whiskey-drinking and oath-saying that went on in that wicked place.
Birdshot and Clay-Boy herded their little tribe of Spencer children through the crowd which had gathered around the truck. The grinding poverty of the Depression years had already stamped the older faces with a gaunt gray pallor, but the prospect of a gift, of some slight change from the ordinary, the elusive Christmas Spirit, had animated thin faces and brought hope to defeated eyes. Each newcomer joined the group silently, without any greeting to his neighbor. They were proud and independent people. Accepting any kind of outside help went against their grain, but they had put aside their pride this night so that their children might receive some token of Christmas which they themselves were unable to provide.
Gifts were already being passed out by a small, determinedly cheerful lady in a fur parka, ski pants and Wellington boots. She had discovered the area in the fall when she and her husband had driven along the back-country roads to admire the autumn leaves. Few of the people knew her name. She was called simply the “city lady” by those to whom she had distributed food and clothing on trips she had made following her discovery of the proud and suffering community.
The children, with the exception of the Spencers, formed an orderly line and as each child accepted a gaily wrapped package, the city lady called “Merry Christmas,” and gave each child a hug or a pat on the head.
The Spencer children watched, their eyes wide with wonder and envy, as some child would shyly accept a gift, have the wrapping torn from it by the time he returned to his parent, to discover baseball bats and wind-up toys (some that worked and some that only worked a little bit), doll clothes, warm socks, slightly used gloves, handkerchiefs in boxes, sweet-smelling soap, music boxes, hand lotion, sparkling rings, a mechanical duck that quacked and walked, metal bracelets, an alabaster egg, a fire engine, a goldfish bowl containing colored rocks and a turreted castle, and kaleidoscopes which, held up to the single street lamp, turned the scene into the memory of a thousand shattered rainbows.
Bitter looks were exchanged among the Spencer children. More than once Becky started to join the line waiting for toys, but Clay-Boy’s stern look restrained her.
“Look!” cried Claude Winston to his father, displaying a pair of used, but still serviceable, ice skates.
“See what I got!” exclaimed Willie Witt, holding up a little red train engine which chuffed smoke and rang a sturdy little tin bell when it was wound.
“The Bobbsey Twins,” said Elsie Berman ecstatically, then placed the book inside her coat to keep it from being spoiled by the falling snow.
“Here’s one for a big boy,” announced the city lady. There being no big boys who had not yet received presents, the lady pointed to Clay-Boy and offered the present. “You?”
“You take it,” Clay-Boy urged Birdshot.
Sheepishly, Birdshot moved toward the center of the circle. He muttered something inaudible when the city lady presented him with a large package and called “Merry Christmas.”
Birdshot did not know what the package contained, but he felt some need to show his gratitude. In desperation a way occurred to him. Other people had found it entertaining, and besides, he had nothing else to offer. Mutely he raised his left wrist and furiously clenched and unclenched his fist.
The city lady seemed not to understand what was expected of her until Birdshot pointed with the index finger of his right hand to the spot underneath his skin where the bird shot p
ellets danced their grotesque ballet across sinew and vein.
The city lady appeared for a moment as if she were about to back away; but then she looked out into the crowd where she saw one person indicate his own head with his index finger then slowly revolve the finger.
The city lady herself was possessed of physical abnormality. She was double-jointed, and in reply to Birdshot’s traveling pellets, she stuck out her hand and began rapidly revolving her thumb a full three hundred and sixty degrees. In his fascination Birdshot forgot to continue his part of the performance, but continued to stare until the lady brought her own performance to an end, but there in the wet snow, in the cold December night, Birdshot Sprouse experienced a unique kind of communication which he had never felt before with another human being. He had reached out to touch someone and that someone had not turned away, but had reached back.
“Merry Christmas,” said the city lady quietly. Birdshot nodded. “I’m beholden to you,” he replied, then turned and ran back to the Spencer children.
“Open it,” urged Clay-Boy when Birdshot returned to the group, still holding the bulky package, showing it to each of the children in turn with a sheepish grin.
Clumsily, Birdshot tore away the wrapping paper to reveal a rich brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows and buttons of real leather and a soft brown silk lining.
“You take it, Clay-Boy,” said Birdshot. “It’s too nice for me.”
“Put it on and stop being silly,” said Clay-Boy.
Birdshot slipped his thin arms and shoulders into the jacket and the transition was almost magical. The boy seemed to stand taller. The long skinny wrists were covered and his normally inexpressive face took on an appearance of intelligence and attractive alertness.
“How you feel?” whispered Clay-Boy.
“Like a dude,” Birdshot admitted with a blush, and looked around at the crowd, saw himself reflected in their eyes and found they were looking at him, not as an oddity, but as a man.
The Homecoming Page 4
