Billy Don't. William OSB Baker
Okay. After this coop is done. Then we will take turns. Okay?" Billy countered.
"I can't stay that long. My Grandmother wants me to go to the store for her." It wasn't the truth, but it supported Bax's position. "You rake three wheelbarrow loads and then we'll take turns. Okay?" Billy countered.
"Okay." Bax was not happy with Billy's terms but knew it was the best he was to get.
"But, I got’ta go home after this coop." The two boys set to work. The wooden beam laid on the ground as a foundation for the coop prevented Bax from raking the manure out of the coop and into the yard. A pile was made just inside the doorway from where Billy loaded the wheelbarrow and made his three trips over the circuitous roadway he had created.
"My turn to wheelbarrow." Bax dropped the rake and exited from the coop.
"Okay." Grudgingly, Billy stepped aside to let Bax pass before entering the coop for his unwanted turn at raking. The wheelbarrow became their point of interest. "Bet ya can't go all the way over and back without getting off the track I made," challenged Billy.
"Bet’cha I can." Bax followed the meandering track as it wound its way among the strewn water containers and eventually to the fence. His trip was expertly piloted, never getting off Billy's track. "Did it," reported Bax.
"Bet’cha ya can't follow this one," chided Billy, setting off with another load and making a new, more challenging track. The boys continued taking turns, raking then wheel barrowing, with alternate turns in creating a more difficult and circuitous route for the other to follow. "Thought you had to go," commented Billy as they moved to the second coop.
"I can go later. Anyway, she just wanted a loaf of bread. Bet’cha ya can't stay on this one." Bax moved quickly, pushing the wheelbarrow in several overlapping circles around the water containers imitating the sounds of a racing motorcycle.
Inside the house Mrs. Blair became conscious of the increased cackling coming from the chicken yard. "That boy," she thought aloud, "what is he up to now?" She turned from her stocking darning to look out the large living room window overlooking the backyard. What she saw made her conclude that Bax was chasing the chickens in circles with the wheelbarrow. Quickly, she set aside her darning needle and made for the back porch. "Why, I swear by the Lord Almighty, if that Baxter boy isn't as bad as Billy." She called at the top of her voice. "David Baxter. You stop chasing those chickens and get yourself home. You hear me. Put down that wheelbarrow and get home this minute or I'll put the strap to both of you."
Bax stopped dead in his tracks, dumbfounded by the sudden appearance of Mrs. Blair, and the direct hostile attack. Then, slowly, he began to put the pieces together. Obediently, he set down the wheelbarrow, looked toward Billy, hunched his shoulders in an expression of helplessness and started for the gate.
"He wasn't doin' noth’n"' Billy shouted his anger. "We ain't hurtn' yer God damn old chickens." His temper had taken over. "Bax don't have to go." He screamed the words.
"Oh yes he does." She hollered the words. "And, you best get yourself up here this minute."
"I ain't going to and Bax don't have to go. We didn't do nothn'." He knew he'd gone too far.
"Mr. Baxter, you get home, and Billy, you march yourself up here this minute, you hear me!" Her words blistered Billy's ears. Billy knew from her voice that he was in trouble. Big trouble.
He moved toward the gate, passing Bax who was waiting for him to lead the way. "I'll see ya later." Billy mumbled the words, not wanting his voice to reach the back porch.
Bax did not reply, and without looking in Mrs. Blair's direction he went off toward his house. Billy was mad. He slammed the gate closed, then looked up at Mrs. Blair with fiery eyes, communicating his anger and defiance. He stomped up the pathway registering his disobedient spirit and absence of fear for what lay ahead. At the bottom of the stairs he hesitated, then resolved to his fate, climbed the stairs while hatefully staring at the object of his anger.
"You have the Devil in you, Billy. You have used the Lord's name in vain. I am going to wash your mouth out with soap." She reached out, grabbed Bill's ear and twisted it hard, bringing tears to his eyes along with loud screams of pain and hatred. She led him by the ear to the pantry and reached for the soap setting on the window sill. Beyond the soap, her eyes fell upon the chicken yard gate. It was open. "Billy," the words come in a rush, “ the gate is open and the chickens are getting out!”
Billy felt the tight twist on his ear relax. He bolted for the pantry door, rounded the corner through the washroom, out the back door and took the long flight of stairs in three jumps.
She followed close on his heels, calling and daring him to flee with promises of much more than a soapy mouth should he not stop and help. Billy stopped, his purpose for the moment being to gather the chickens back into the yard. "Shoo, shoo, chick." He waved his arms directing the chickens toward the gate. Mrs. Blair joined in gathering the chickens from the driveway and the grape arbor. Together they recaptured the flock with the exception of a persistent rooster. Billy chased after it, and cornered it against the Baxter's fence. Being careful to avoid its flapping wings, Billy slid his hands down over the rooster's back, held it firmly in his hands and carried it to the gate. Mrs. Blair opened the gate, and Billy tossed the rooster inside.
Without warning, Mrs. Blair reached out and grabbed Billy's still burning ear, and led him off to the pantry, where the bar of awful tasting soap was thrust again and again into his mouth. He fought back. He kicked and screamed. It was all to no avail. The punishment was meted out and Billy returned to the chicken coops to complete his chore, alone.
CHAPTER FIVE
People were standing, waving their arms and churning their bodies to the rhythm of the chanting plea for divine forgiveness. In unison the throng swayed to and fro, following the robed leader standing on a crude wooden platform at the front of the low ceiling, unfinished basement room, serving as a house of God.
"Forgive, forgive," shouted the robed leader with his arms held high and head thrown back. "Amen, Amen," echoed the congregation. The cycle was repeated, over and over again. The intensity of the swaying throng increased. Screams for God's recognition and forgiveness reverberated through the crowded room.
The room was hot, sweltering hot. Sweating bodies fouled the air. The pleading voices reached frenzied pitches of sacrificial self-giving to the religious calling of the leader. Several people moved forward to the front of the crude platform and kneeled with arms raised to the robed preacher. Slowly the frenzied throng returned to the chant, "forgive, forgive," and a few sat down. The leader lowered his arms, bowed his head in silent prayer, and by standing still, brought the congregation to the end of their wild and loud Godly demonstration.
The preacher then moved to the first of the kneeling church members and asked, "What have you brought for the Lord's House?" A monetary donation was announced and placed in the plate held by the preacher. "The Lord forgives you. You are faithful to the House of the Lord." He moved to the next worshipper and extracted his contribution in return for a word of forgiveness. And so it went until all the kneeling persons who had continued to gather round him had received their message of recognition.
The remainder of the congregation formed in a line to pass the preacher's station, where they placed an offering in the metal plate held high above their heads by the religious leader.
"Here Billy, put this in God's hands." Mrs. Blair handed him a dime for the collection plate. He took his place in the line, reached for the plate and released his contribution. "God forgives you, son."
Billy felt nothing, only small and scared. Mrs. Blair took Billy's hand. They climbed the stairs out of the foul air leaving behind the place where people came to give their money to God. Billy knew about money. Without money he was unable to buy candy or to go to the Saturday matinee. A dime was important, and he had given it away. For what he wondered? Why did God need money? Did it help him to see how black his soul was? Billy was confused.
Constantly he was being told his soul would turn black because of the bad things he did. Mrs. Blair described it as a living process in which each of his