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 woodpile 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 unmannersable 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 tumble 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
