Scarlet Sister Mary (1928, Bobbs-Merrill Company)/Chapter 19
Peach buds were swelling, trees were in bloom, birds chirped around them, but Mary and crippled Budda Ben sat on the wood-pile talking so earnestly she completely forgot to enjoy the morning's bright sunshine. Misery filled his dull red-rimmed eyes. His high-pitched outbursts of fury were pitiful. Mary begged him to be quiet, not to make himself sick. Ranting could do no good in the world; what was done was done.
Ben was raving against all the preachers and church deacons in the whole world, cursing them, hoping they would have to hop in Perdition's hottest flames until that fire itself froze stiff. They did a low-down trick when they turned him out of the church yesterday. He would never forgive them. Never. They were a dirty bunch of rascals.
When they called that meeting Friday night to examine all the members of the church and see if they were living right enough to take the Lord's Supper on Sunday, he knew they were up to something.
One by one they passed every single member and said all were in good standing until his name was brought up. Then Andrew, the blacksmith, stood up and rebuked him before the whole congregation for cursing little children and blaspheming God's name. Andrew did not tell the people that the children were his and Doll's no-mannered bunch, or how those children tormented him every day God sent. Budda never meddled the pesky black devils. He never meddled anybody. He spent his days sitting here on the wood-pile cutting tough pine stumps into light wood splinters for everybody in the Quarters who needed them. No day passed without one of those same children coming for some of his nice, fat, pine splinters. When he half-soled shoes for Andrew or Doll, he always took extra pains because Andrew was a deacon in the church. Yet those children discounted him and plagued him, and laughed at him because he couldn't run them down and catch them and beat hell out of them. Andrew had no right to be unmannerable to him. Not a bit. He told Andrew right to his big black face what he was, too. Then all the other deacons sided with Andrew against him and said he was too sinful to be a church-member. Sunday, yesterday, right before the whole congregation at Heaven's Gate Church. Andrew read his name out and the damned fat black pastor stood up in the pulpit and told him to get on his knees and pray until he got forgiveness. It was a sin and a shame. A piece of low-down meanness. Maum Hannah had broken down and cried.
He could hear her crying in the night last night, crying all by herself, begging God to forgive him and have mercy on him, when he had not done a thing but tell what God himself loves, the truth. Those children were devils, Everybody in the Quarters knew it. Andrew and Doll knew it too.
"But I hear-say you got so vexed you cussed all de deacons right in de Friday night meetin, Budda." Mary said it kindly, gently, but Ben was struck all but dumb with fresh rage.
"No, I ain' cussed em nuttin. Whoever say I cussed all de deacons Friday night—whoever say sich a ting is a—a"
Ben's voice was too hoarse to be shrill, and it broke into a fierce squeak. Mary put her hand on his shoulder and patted it. "Hush, Budda—hush! You ain' hurtin a soul but yousef now. Not a soul. You has talked enough ugly talk dis mornin to send you to Hell. Fo Gawd's sake stop it. You's a fallen member now, but don' fret about it. Abusin de deacons ain' gwine put you back whe you was. Do keep quiet. When you git ready, you can pray an' seek an' find peace an' jine de church again. If I was you I wouldn' let my mind run on Andrew no more. You leave em to Gawd an' Doll. Dey'll keep em humble enough."
Poor pitiful Budda. Mary felt like crying herself to see how hurt he was, yet his curses were funny enough to make a dog laugh.
"But I ain' been to blame, Si May-e," Ben heaved. "Andrew's an' Doll's chillen makes game o me all de time. Dey don' never stop. De very next time dey does it I'm gwine to brain em wid dis same ax." His brawny fingers twisted around the ax handle and squeezed it viciously, but Mary laughed cheerfully.
"Hush, Budda. You wouldn' hurt a flea, much less brain Andrew's chillen. You know dat. Nobody ain' got a better heart dan you, Budda, even if you does cuss awful bad sometimes. But you must quit a-frettin 'bout what you can' help. Looka how nice de sun is a-shinin up yonder in de sky, a-makin de day most as warm as summer. Be tanksful, Budda. Tank Gawd for life. Dat's de way to do. Quit you gwinen on, a-frettin so till you's all but fool in de head. I don' see how Auntie stands to put up wid you."
"Ma ain' slept none, not since Friday night," Ben said. "An' I—I ain' slept none neither. All 'cause dem devil deacons is a bunch o fools—dey ain' nuttin but a lot o dirty—low-down"
"If you don' shut you mout', I gwine to leave you. I come all de way out here to make some nice pleasant talk an' cheer you up an' all, but I see you ain' gwine to listen to me. I got too much to do yonder home to waste my good time a-wranglin wid a crazy man like you. I'm done weary a-listenin at blaspheme. Sometimes Gawd strikes people dead for blaspheme. If death was to hit you now, Budda, an' catch you wid dat turrible talk in you mout', Jedus! You'd go as straight to Hell as a martin to his gourd. You must be forgot how awful Hell is. I'm glad de deacons got dat picture o Satan an' all down below a-comin here next Friday night, so you can see good how bad Hell is."
Ben's being turned out of the church was not anything new, but for him to take it so hard certainly was. He had never been so upset before. He was more upset than he ought to be, as many times as he had experienced falling from grace. He must be worried because the picture that was going to be shown Friday night at the church was a picture of Hell, real Hell, just as it was in truth. Mary had not gone to church yesterday, but everybody who went was full of the news; a picture of Hell was coming up on Friday's boat so all the people could see what sinners had to meet when they died.
Reverend Duncan said nobody living could understand how hot Hell really is, but this picture would give them some kind of idea. Although Mary had not gone inside Heaven's Gate Church for years, she was going to stand outside and look through a window and get some idea of how Hell looked.
"Budda," she said, "I come here to say, le's me an' you go look at de picture o Hell."
"I don' want to see em," Ben growled, "I uin' got no money to spend on no picture o Hell. I'll see Hell soon enough."
"I got money, I'll pay you way. Dey ain' gwine charge much if we stand outside an' look at em through de window."
Ben shook his head. His eyes were hard, his mouth was tortured and bitter.
Mary turned her eyes from his unhappy face to the quiet sky where a cloudless spring sun shone white, casting a bright sheen on Budda's black skin and deepening the lines of his haggard face. God's throne was somewhere beyond that dazzling light.
Mary's keen eyes searched the brightness and the blue sky all around it, but no sign of the Great I Am or His angels could be seen anywhere at all. Only a lone buzzard borne on rigid wings sailed slowly about between the earth and Heaven. As Mary watched him, his shadow floated silently down the Quarter street, then veered toward the wood-pile. She got hurriedly to her feet. That shadow must not come too near to her now. Lord, no!
"Look out, Budda! A buzzard shadow is a-comin," she cried, and the pieces of wood slipped about under his feet as he stumbled away from the dreaded thing.
Her words had startled him. "Whe e dey, May-e?" he asked anxiously, as he shivered with nervous terror.
But the fearsome thing had moved on, and Mary laughed with honest relief.
"You can set still now. E's gone. I b'lieve e was aimin at me, an' not you, but I was too smart for em dat time. Too smart, tank Gawd. I sho hates to see a buzzard shadow. I ruther be close to a buzzard sef, wouldn' you?"
Budda reflected and shook his head gloomily. Either one was poor company for people.
She took a long deep breath and stretched, then yawned as her bare feet sought a firmer footing on the wood-pile. "I got to go, Budda. Soon as I cook a pot o peas an' rice for de chillen's dinner, I'm gwine to see Andrew and ax em to make some crutches for Keepsie."
"Andrew? You wouldn' let Keepsie walk wid crutches Andrew made, Si May-e? I can' stand for Andrew to make em. You go get Brer Dee to make em, not Andrew"
"Brer Dee can make crutches for old people, but dey would be too heavy for a lil boy. I want to get Keepsie some light ones so e can hop along to school fast as de other chillen can walk an' hop along joyful too."
Budda pulled his ragged old hat farther down over his eyes. "I been crippled all my life, but I rather drag myself on my belly like a snake and eat dirt, dan to walk on any crutches Andrew ever made. Gawd, how I hate em." And he spat far to show how much.
"Fo Gawd's sake, hush, Budda. Looka Auntie a-comin. Auntie can' stand people to talk ugly talk. Specially about Andrew. Auntie thinks Andrew comes next to Jedus' own sef."
When his breast began making a queer husky sound and heaving in jerks, Mary thought such hard talking had shut off his wind, for he was weakened down with worry and vexation. But when a big round bright drop of water fell through the air, she knew he was crying. Budda Ben, of all people in the whole world! She had never seen him shed a tear before.
"Budda! Budda!"—she shook his arm,—"if you cry here on dis wood-pile to-day I'll lay down on de ground an' holler same like a dog. Fo Gawd's sake, stop. Cuss all you want to, be mean much as you please, but don' cry. I can' stand to see you cry."
For a minute, Ben could not control his sobbing. Then Mary whispered that all the church-members would be peeping out of their doors at him, and they would be so glad to see his sorrow they would jump up and crack their heels together with joy. Ben dropped the ax and glared at her.
"I ain' cryin about bein a fallen member. No," he bawled, "I'm a-cryin because you don' mind de way Andrew done me."