Part 4 (2/2)

Leon said, ”It is better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and an angry woman.”

”It is a joy to the just to do judgment,” she said, ”and destruction shall be to the workers of iniquity.” She stood up. She felt more cheerful now. There was nothing she liked better than quoting the Scriptures. Also, she had a plan.

”G.o.d help the Preacher,” Leon said.

He watched them go out to the car. Ralph got in before her, sliding in back end first, Aunt Ella hanging on to his leg. Then Aunt Ella got in and drove.

2.

He wasn't out riding, as she'd somehow expected him to be (though it was dark). He was sitting at the round table in the diningroom, writing. He was less than six feet from the window she watched through, and she put off knocking. It was the first really good look at him she'd gotten. The light over the table was the only one they had on in the house, as near as she could tell from the porch. His wife must have gone to bed. He had on a clean blue works.h.i.+rt with the sleeves rolled up, and horn-rimmed gla.s.ses she'd never seen on him before. There were papers scattered all over the table, and books lying open. He'd been at it for a long time, she could see, and the way he was working-writing a sentence, reading a page from one of the books, writing two more words, scowling and chewing on his pencil, reading some more-she knew he was going to be at it for a while yet. Working on next Sunday's sermon, she guessed. His sermons were humdingers, that was the truth. They could make you perspire.

He was a nice-looking preacher, really. He was tall as a stalk of fieldcorn, though not as tall as Leon, of course. He had big broad shoulders and a chest like a stove; nice tanned skin; a handsome face with a cleft in the chin. It wasn't a weak face or the usual kind of liar's face (Aunt Ella trusted her judgment in these matters), and it wasn't the face of a stupid person. The face of a young man too tall for his grade all the length of his childhood, a mother's pride and joy too often praised-for his voice, a big ba.s.s voice that could fill the whole church; for his marks in school; for his hearing the call of the Lord; for his height and for his weird gray-blue eyes, and for the lock that fell over his forehead, suspiciously casual, from his otherwise straight hair.

”What's he doing?” Ralph whispered, just audible over the clicking of the crickets and the rustle of the maple leaves.

”I don't know,” she whispered. ”Writing something.”

”Oh,” he said.

”Shhh!”

The Preacher put down his pencil and got up. He arched his back and stretched, pulling his chin into his neck. Then he picked up the cup from beside his papers on the table and walked toward the kitchen. When he reached the door Aunt Ella heard the Preacher's wife calling, ”You coming to bed, Bill?”

He looked cross. ”Pretty soon, honey,” he said. He was too far away for her to see his features clearly.

His wife's voice said, ”All you care about is your preachin.”

”Now Betty Jane, that's not so.”

She said nothing more, and his blurry shape stood undecided. He went on standing in the doorway a long while, his hands around the cup, but then at last he went into the kitchen.

”What's he doing?” Ralph asked.

”Shh.” She raised one finger to her lips. ”Gone for some coffee.”

Ralph tried to get closer, to help her watch, but the porch wasn't wide enough-not a proper porch at all but a concrete square with wrought-iron ornamental supports on each side and a roof over it. He couldn't get both crutches up onto it at once, and when he did he couldn't get his feet on it right. He stood with one crutch on the cement and one in the gra.s.s, hovering precariously between them like a beetle with some of its legs missing.

The Preacher came back in and set the cup on the table. He stood a minute listening for something more from the bedroom, then pulled out his chair and brushed his hair back and sat down. It was true, Aunt Ella reflected, uneasy at heart, that the Preacher was a worker. It was a piece of luck when a country church like the Ebenezer Baptist got a man like that. Mostly they either got old men that ought to be retired years ago or young men not smart enough to get called to a church in town. Why he'd come had been a puzzle to them all until the day that horse appeared. Then they knew. Pretty soon he'd put up a white fence made out of boards and had barrels for the horse to run between. You might have seen him riding along anywhere between here and the other side of Cobden. But she had to be fair, the Preacher got his work done. He put on the best weddings the church had ever seen, and he went and prayed with the sick and decrepit, and he built up church attendance till they hardly knew what to do with the offering. If he had his way, they'd be putting up a new brick church before long, and he'd probably fill it, too.

He looked like no more than an overgrown boy, she thought, feeling still more uneasy. She'd looked after she didn't know how many young ones just like him-but not so tall. She could see as well as Leon James how he must have felt, that first minute, when his wife came in and told him she'd run some old lady off the road, maybe sent her to Glory. Maybe if Ed Hume and the Howard boy had believed her when she told them the truth, if they'd gone along with him only because he was the Preacher, knowing all he said was lies ...

”Aunt Ella,” Ralph whispered.

”Hush,” she said.

”Aunt Ella, I'm cold,” he said. He was shaking like a leaf, trying to balance on the crutches and hug himself.

”Won't be long now,” she said. She was about to knock. She stood with her fist raised near the door, hesitating not from curiosity now but because she wasn't sure she wanted to go through with it. That very second the Preacher's wife came in from the bedroom. Quickly, Aunt Ella got in front of the window again so Ralph wouldn't see.

The Preacher's wife had nothing on but a pale blue nightgown that didn't hide one thing. She came over and stood beside him, with one hand on the nape of his neck, and she said very sweetly, ”Billy?”

Just then, like a house tipping over, Ralph fell down. Aunt Ella got her face back out of the window as quick as she could and knocked at the door. She got a glimpse of the Preacher's wife running for the bedroom. Ralph couldn't get up.

The Preacher was white as a sheet when he came to the door. ”Who is it?” he said. He bent down a ways, squinting, holding his gla.s.ses in his two hands.

”Ella Reikert,” she said. ”I'm sorry to call so late.”

”Good evening,” the Preacher said. He looked past her. ”Evening, Brother Ralph.”

”Evening,” Ralph said. He was trying to pull himself up on the crutches. His mouth was twisted all out of shape from the effort, and his eyes were crossed, but he made a quick s.n.a.t.c.h at his hatbrim.

The Preacher said, ”Won't you come in?” He showed Aunt Ella into the parlor, and when Ralph didn't come he went outside to help. When finally they were all sitting down, Aunt Ella said, ”I owe you an apology, Brother Flood. I ought not to been so stubborn.”

The Preacher smiled, but a trifle vaguely, looking at his interlocked fingers. ”We all make mistakes,” he said.

She studied him.

He said with more spirit, ”Leg giving you any discomfort, Ralph?” Just talking he sounded more musical than the ba.s.ses in the choir when they sang.

”I'm all right,” Ralph said. ”Your wife did it.” He shaped the words with extreme care, and every one of them came out clearly. When he finished he smiled with pleasure and crossed his eyes on purpose.

”I was sinfully proud,” Aunt Ella said. ”Better is the end of a thing than the beginning thereof, and the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit.”

”Well, then too,” the Preacher said, smiling kindly, ”our eyes play tricks on us.”

Again, longer this time, she studied him. That man was truly obstinate. His neck was an iron sinew and his brow was bra.s.s. Except that it was worse than just stubbornness; it was as though he was an invisible man and could do whatever he pleased against her. If one of them was blind or confused or crotchety, if one of them was slipping back into petulant childish fibbing, it had to be her. She wondered in sudden panic if even Leon and Darthamae believed her. ”Put on charity,” he'd said. Well enough for him. You could choose to step on an ant or not, but the ant had no say about it. No sir! She was shaking so badly she had to keep her hands folded.

Ralph said something neither of them caught and began to say it again more slowly, but Aunt Ella interrupted. She felt a rush of wicked pleasure the instant she knew she was actually going to say it. ”That's not what we came here to talk about, Brother Flood. I'm here to see about buying your palomino horse.”

His eyebrows went up, and a second later he laughed. ”Sister Reikert, that horse is worth two hundred dollars.”

”I'm willing to pay, if I look at him and see it's fair.”

Now it was the Preacher's turn to do the squinting. ”Golly,” he said finally, ”I'm sorry, Sister. I'm really not thinking of selling him. Star's like one of the family.” He laughed again.

”Well, you think about it,” she said. ”Call me if you change your mind.”

”I'm afraid that's not likely,” the Preacher said.

And so it was done, or would be done pretty soon now. She felt light, as though she were sitting in empty air. She said, ”Ralph, we better go home now.” Ralph opened his mouth and eyes wide, reaching over the chair arms for his crutches. And so they left.

At the door the Preacher said, puzzled-looking, ”What did you want him for, Sister Reikert?”

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