Billy Creekmore Page 2

  Naturally, the service took a turn after that, and nothing went along in the usual way. Somehow or other the preacher pulled the snakes off himself without being bit, then he started praying over me with Mr. Beadle himself dropped to his knees. The boys sang some hymns for my soul while I knelt in the aisle acting pious and remorseful. Up by the altar, the snakes were coiled in their little wire box, hissing so loud you could hear ‘em in the silence between hymns.

  For a while I was singled out and special, even if it was for being purified of a demon. On the walk back some of the boys drifted behind like they was afraid, while some clustered around me like I might help ‘em see visions of their own. No one stepped on my heel or sent a rock singing my way, which are just two of the things boys did when a grown-up wasn’t looking.

  But it didn’t last. An hour later I was just another Appalachian orphan at the Guardian Angels Home for Boys, the charity farm for the sons of the wayward and the dead, doing Sunday chores. Some was repairing the fence and some was cleaning the pigsty. It was a mean-spirited little farm, dreary and run-down. All the farm animals were angry and fierce, nothing cuddly or cute at all. Chickens pecked us, and geese nipped our heels. Barn cats darted out from bales of hay just to hiss and scratch at the air when we passed. The haggard old mule stared at us from his stall with dull eyes.

  “What’d that ghost look like?” asked Rufus. It was early afternoon, and we was spreading straw on the barn floor. “Seemed to be awful threatenin’.”

  “Oh, he was handsome! Wore a top hat and carried a watch chain. Looked like he was a millionaire when he was alive.”

  “How ‘bout that!” he said. “Wonder why such a good-lookin’ spirit would want to harm the preacher?”

  “He didn’t say,” I replied quick, hoping he’d drop the subject. Honestly, pretending to see spirits could be an awful burden. I didn’t want to be dishonest with Rufus, but I didn’t know how to get out of the lie. Plus, it was hard to explain. I sensed spirits, but I didn’t see ‘em. It warn’t nothing like what I went on about in the chapel. It was altogether different from my storytelling, which I could tap into any time I wanted. I didn’t have no control over sensing spirits.

  “Maybe the spirit don’t like the way the preacher tries to scare us to Heaven with his snakes.”

  “Bet you’re right,” I said.

  The cows started mooing and stamping, turning to glare at us with their great moony eyes. They didn’t like talking.

  On our way outta the barn, Rufus and I put down our pails of milk to give the mule a pat. “One night, Rufus, you and I are gonna ride this mule outta here. He’s gonna take us to a new life away from the Beadles and the preacher.”

  Rufus scratched him under his chin, and his eyes almost flickered with pleasure. “I don’t know, Billy. This mule is awful beaten down. Why, he don’t even have a name.”

  “Well …,” I started. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I know someone goin’ off to a new life. This mornin’ I heard Mr. Beadle tell Peggy that one of the boys was leavin’ with Mr. Colder tonight to apprentice in his factory.”

  “Is that the truth? Well, I wonder who it could be?”

  “I’m bettin’ on Walter Barnes,” I said. “He’s gettin’ so nasty, I’m thinkin’ Mr. Beadle would like to get rid of him.”

  “You could be right,” Rufus replied. “But it seems to me he’s too big. I think Willis would take to the work better.” Rufus had such a grown-up way of talking. He was awful smart for a little boy. Didn’t seem to be growing none but kept up with his reading and writing better than anyone else at the orphanage.

  The rest of the day went by dreary and slow. We painted and weeded, repaired and swept. At the end of the day, we was glad to sit down to eat our supper. A few of us stayed behind afterward, drying plates and wiping pots, listening to Peggy tell us about the circus she saw in Albright last year.

  “It was grand, boys, grand! Trick riders and acrobats, and a tableau of Roman statues! The actors were painted white from head to toe, and they were so still in their poses, you thought they were made of marble instead of flesh and blood.”

  “Imagine!” said Rufus, his eyes bright with wonder.

  We all agreed it seemed like a fine life—traveling and performing and making up new acts to dazzle folks in your spare time.

  Just then an automobile came up the road. It was Mr. Colder. All of us boys ran out and cheered him, waving our caps so he’d blow the horn for us. It was the only automobile we ever saw, and it was terribly exciting. He sounded the horn a few times for us, then waddled to the porch to shake hands with Mr. Beadle.

  When the two men disappeared into the house, some of the boys dared to climb in the car and sit in the seats. I watched ‘em take turns sitting in the driver’s seat, pretending to drive off. Who was gonna be the lucky one? I wondered. They was happy as could be, turning the wheel, and inspecting the hood ornament. Pretty soon Peggy came onto the porch and scolded us for touching what warn’t ours.

  “I’m warning you! Mr. Beadle will be coming out here in a moment! Making such a racket, you are! Someone’ll be getting the switch for sure!” No one paid attention till she stomped her foot, then off they scattered, and the lot of us went to bed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I SPY

  on the Dinner Party

  and

  HEAR MR. BEADLE

  Tell

  TWO LIES

  Like I said, I’m a curious person, and I was having an awful time falling asleep. I lay in the dark wondering who Mr. Colder was gonna take off till I just couldn’t stand it no more. Close to the time I figured the Beadles and Mr. Colder would be starting in on Peggy’s pie, I crept off and planted myself under the Beadles’ dining room window. It was a warm August evening, one of the last warm evenings of the year, and the moon was full and bright. The window was open, and when I looked in I saw Mr. Colder stuffing his face.

  “Mrs. Beadle, your pie would win a prize at any fair.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Colder,” she said, blushing away. “I do take pride in my baking, but no more than virtue would allow.” I couldn’t believe she was pretending she baked that peach pie!

  “Dear Mrs. Beadle,” Mr. Colder went on, “I certainly hope you do not waste your talents on the miscreant boys in your charge! It would do them more harm than good.”

  “I quite agree, Mr. Colder,” she said. “Do you know, at first I felt quite badly about serving them the dry bread and thin soups that we do. I thought it was unchristian to keep them so hungry and thin. Time has taught me differently. Now I see them in a clearer light.”

  “As we all do,” said Mr. Colder. “We were naive when we first came across this class of child, weren’t we? Thought they needed love and education, warm food and a comfy bed, didn’t we? How wrong we were! Oh no, it’s work they need! Work and a spartan life are the only ways to elevate them to a nobler stature.”

  On and on they talked about what we needed to better ourselves. Then Mrs. Beadle excused herself, and the men got down to business.

  “I need a quick boy,” explained Mr. Colder, “one who can move about in the close quarters of the furnace room.”

  Peggy bustled in to clear the dessert dishes, but Mr. Colder waved her away.

  “I believe I have just the boy for you, dear Mr. Colder,” said Mr. Beadle. “He’s well coordinated and smart enough, but there’s one slight problem.”

  “What could that be?” asked Mr. Colder. He leaned back in his chair, arching his back so that his big belly nearly bust his shirt.

  “His age, Mr. Colder. I can’t be certain, but I think he is only ten.”

  “Perhaps you’ve misread his birth certificate. Or maybe you’ve lost it?”

  “These things are so difficult to keep track of,” moaned Mr. Beadle. “We’ve had so many boys come and go.”

  “Difficult work you do, Beadle,” said Mr. Colder in a most respectful voice.

  “Thank you, Mr. Colder. Your words
are most gratifying. And you, sir, you too are providing a great service to this class. You give them a chance to make an honest living so they won’t repeat the mistakes of their parents.”

  They were so full of congratulations for each other, I almost got sick.

  Mr. Colder cleared his throat, getting ready to say something awful important.

  “Now, back to this boy you speak of … The most important thing for a boy in the glassworks is speed. I need an agile boy who’s quick on his feet! By the time a boy is eleven or twelve, he’s too old to learn the trade! His body’s too big and clumsy. The breakage and waste the bigger boys incur is intolerable! I have to deduct the breakages from their pay or else I’d never make a profit. No, the government is shortsighted. Most boys of eleven or twelve are just too old. And it’s a loss, a loss for them!”

  “Right you are, Mr. Colder.”

  “So, about this boy … perhaps he’s merely small for twelve. Is there any documentation for the boy? A record of his baptism? A birth certificate, perhaps?”

  “Come to think of it,” said Mr. Beadle in a most solemn voice. “I believe his records were lost in the flood. When the river overflowed two years back, a box of records stored in the cellar was washed out.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. What a bald-faced lie that was! There warn’t no flood to speak of.

  “Very well then. I’ll pay you the usual fee if he’s successful. A month will tell.”

  “I’ll ask Peggy to get him ready to go. His name is Jones, by the way, Meek Jones.”

  Off Mr. Beadle went to fetch Peggy. Mr. Colder stuck his finger in the side of the pie and licked it. He was leaning back in his chair, patting his big belly, when I left. I heeled it back in the dark and slipped into my cot.

  Soon enough Peggy came in with a little knapsack for Meek. She bundled up his things and told him he was off to learn a trade, and warn’t that a fine thing, and that Mr. Colder was waiting to take him away in his motorcar. She made it sound ever so bright, but I thought I heard her voice catch, and I wondered if she warn’t holding back a few tears.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I Predict

  SOMEONE’S DEATH,

  RUFUS STARTS A CLUB,

  and

  AUTUMN BRINGS

  A LONG, COLD RAIN

  “We was both wrong,” I told Rufus Twilly soon as he woke up. I nodded to the empty bed. “It was Meek Jones.” “But he ain’t twelve,” said Rufus, rubbing the sleep outta his eyes. “He won’t be till next year.”

  “I know. Mr. Beadle said he didn’t know exactly how old he was. Told Mr. Colder a flood washed away his birth certificate.”

  “That’s a lie plain as day,” said Rufus.

  “Seems Mr. Colder pays him a fee for findin’ a good worker.”

  “For Heaven’s sake!” said Rufus. “How do you know?”

  “I went spyin’ on them last night. Hid under the dinin’ room window and heard every word they said. I’d have asked you to come, but you was sound asleep.”

  “Well, wake me up next time!” said Rufus. “I like spyin’ at night.”

  I told him I would.

  The day progressed normal. Mr. Beadle warn’t in the dining hall for breakfast or lunch so we said our prayers sloppy and quick. Peggy slipped us extra biscuits and second ladles of soup. Geese nipped, cows kicked, and barn cats hissed. After lunch Mrs. Beadle, all cranky and creased in her face, gave us our lessons in the cellar. She wrote the names of the presidents on the blackboard with her squeaky chalk and made us copy ‘em down. She was an awful teacher, but, to be fair, I don’t think a better one could have made a lesson stick. We was too worn out for that, ‘cept for Rufus. He was focused as could be, taking care not to let his ink spill and writing slow in his composition book. I let my mind wander, thinking about what lay beyond the mountains surrounding the orphanage and generally enjoying the coolness of the room.

  Before we left, Mrs. Beadle called me over. She had a new postcard from my pa, the first one I had since Christmas. She dropped it in my hands, then scurried away, like she was too afraid to let her fingers touch mine or look too long in my face. There was a picture of George Washington on the card, a drawing of a statue in a park surrounded by flowery trees. All the boys wanted to see it, for we hadn’t ever seen but one other picture of him, the one Mrs. Beadle had hanging in our little classroom in the cellar. The words were written in blue ink—“with love from your pa” it said, as usual. I let the boys pass it around, feeling ever so mournful as I watched it go from hand to hand.

  Why my pa sent these cards, I couldn’t say. If he thought they’d lift my spirits, he was sorely wrong. On the hill above the chapel was the little graveyard where the boys that died of pneumonia and measles lay buried. I looked at the crosses, wishing I could do more than just sense spirits, wishing I really could talk to the dead. Maybe they could tell me why my pa didn’t come get me, or if my mother forgave me for causing her death. Perhaps the spirits knew why he didn’t just forget me entirely instead of sending me a card every now and then. It was shameful knowing that my pa was alive but didn’t want to raise me.

  Back in the dormitory I put the card in a little tin box I kept under my cot. Inside were a dozen others, and the only thing I had of my mother’s—a broken string of beads. They were blue glass, frosted with gold and white. When I was younger I used to think they looked like planets.

  Mr. Beadle was back by supper, leading us in our blessings and overseeing our table manners. He made Walter Barnes leave the table before he was done eating for slurping his soup and boxed another boy on the ears for burping. He was revving up to give some boy a whipping, and all of us were getting pretty tense, especially Rufus, who tended to hiccup when he got scared. I could hear him stifle a few, so I pushed him under the table where there’d be less of a chance Mr. Beadle would hear.

  As we trudged back to the dormitory, I felt cold air from the river sinking into me. The day was ending fast and autumn was on its way. Soon we’d be wearing our jackets all day, even sleeping in ‘em, for we didn’t have more than a thin blanket on our beds.

  Up ahead some of the boys were throwing stones into the woods. A bird cried out.

  “Say, Billy,” Willis Dawson called out, “what’s that whippoorwill saying?”

  I had convinced the boys that my powers with the dead included understanding birds, since everyone knows they’re the messengers between the living and the dead. I put a yearning look on my face and raised one hand to my chin. Boys stopped throwing stones and gathered round, waiting for me to talk. The sadness I felt ever since receiving my pa’s card was disappearing, and I could feel a story coming on.

  “It’s sayin’ someone we all know is gonna die soon….” I stared off into the distance like I was all consumed with translating what I heard. “And it says … not to worry none, for it’s gonna be a merciful death that’ll put an end to sufferin’….”

  “Maybe Mr. Beadle’s gonna die.” Walter Barnes smirked. “That’d put an end to my suffering.” He took aim at the broken branch of a box elder and let a stone fly. It reached its mark with a sharp cracking sound. Walter was a good shot, and in general, I stayed out of his way.

  “Is Mr. Beadle gonna die, Billy?” asked Frank Vickers. “Where’d we all go if Mr. Beadle dies?” Even I was getting the cold shudders from standing in the near dark talking about death.

  “Whippoorwill don’t wanna say who’s gonna die,” I said. “He only says not to worry none, ‘cause, like I said, it’ll be a merciful death. He says everyone should turn round to the left three times, then spit on the ground to ward off any evil spirits lurkin’ about.”

  Even Walter Barnes, brash and hard-hearted as he was, turned and spat. No more birds cried out from the woods, and it was too dark to throw stones, so we turned in for the night.

  Weeks passed, and late summer became autumn. Leaves turned colors, then crinkled up and fell. Before it turned winter, a long, cold rain came. The paths got muddy and the
river swelled. During the day we worked at shoveling mud outta the barn and laying down straw. Mrs. Beadle was having more and more of her spells, what with the wet weather and the short days, so there warn’t no lessons to kill the time before lunch.

  One gray day when the rain stopped for a bit, Rufus came up with the idea of starting a club. He marched us into the woods and made us sit around a rock.

  “This here’s the Robbers Club,” said Rufus to the circle of faces. “Everybody that wants to join has to take an oath and mix his blood on this here rock. All the members must swear to stick to the club and never tell our secrets to no one; and if anybody does somethin’ to anyone in the club, he must be banished and all members must swear revenge. Whoever hunts that person down has to bring back his scalp to this here rock. Then we’ll have us an honor ceremony and cut a scar on his cheek and name him a warrior.”

  Everybody was willing, so Rufus pulled out his pocketknife and squeezed the top of his middle finger plump and jabbed it till a drop of blood came out. He smeared his blood on the top of the rock and told all of us to do the same. We passed the knife and mixed our blood, serious and quiet like we was in church.

  “Do we always have to kill the people?” asked Frank Vickers.

  “Oh yes,” said Rufus. “It’s best to do so.”

  “What’s the business of this club?” asked Willis Dawson.

  “Robbin’ and stealin’ so we can meet ransom if one of us is kidnapped by pirates.”

  At this Walter Barnes let out a snort of disgust and left since he didn’t have no tolerance for games about pirates. Killing and scalping didn’t make no difference to him, but he couldn’t stand anything like pirates or life in the olden days that come straight from books.