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 ain’ 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 woodpile. 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 woodpile. “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 woodpile today 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.”
XX
Maum Hannah was coming out of her door and, after closing it behind her, she hobbled painfully down the steps. Her clean white apron was starched stiff and her wide-brimmed, black sailor hat, which she wore only to church or on important occasions, was perched uncertainly on top of the fresh white bandanna that bound her head.
“Auntie is a faithful Christian in dis world. E sho is. We ought not to fret em if we can help it. Neither me, neither you.”
“Ma is done too old to be all de time gwine round a-catchin chillen for people. E ought to let somebody else do em now.” Ben sniffled and wiped his eyes and nose on his ragged coat sleeve.
Mary laughed. “Nobody ain’ gwine have none now. Auntie is gwine to school today.”
“School? Fo Gawd’s sake, shut you mout’, May-e. You talk too much crazy talk to be a grown ’oman. You know Ma ain’ gwine to no school.” Ben’s short patience had given out,
