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 acts was evaluated by God, and determined to be good or bad. If bad, the degree of badness was recorded as a representative black mark on his soul. When he died God would look at his soul, and if it was more white than black he would be allowed into heaven. The other route was to the Devil and the fires of his dungeons. Why did God need money?
The remembrance of being loved moved into Billy's mind, he recalled the words. "Mums, do you love me?" "Yes, Billy, I love you, your father loves you, and God loves you too."
On the street car on their way home from the evening's evangelical meeting, Billy reminded Mrs. Blair that tomorrow was the day he was to visit his Grandmother Munroe, who was now living in West Oakland. This time he would not be riding in the Rickenbacker automobile. He would be taking the street car, and since his "Mums" was not welcome at the Blair's house, he'd be taking the street car alone.
The morning was a long time in coming. Billy was up early. He gave special attention to washing his ears and combing his wavy hair before donning clean jeans and a fresh shirt. He made his bed without having to be told, and greeted the awakening household members with a cheerful, "Good morning, I'm going to my Grandmother Munroe's house."
After breakfast Mrs. Blair handed him a paper bag which contained his change of clothes, a token for the street car, and a note to the conductor in case Billy forgot the verbal directions given him. He said his good-byes to the family members sitting at the breakfast table and walked down the sloping hill of Lyon Avenue to 38th Street, all the time reciting the instructions he was to give the car conductor.
His happiness of the day had been lessened by the morning's news which the Blair's had discussed at breakfast. Standing on the corner, he looked back across the street to where the policeman had lived. He had been a big man and a friend to Billy. Now he was dead. Shot by a burglar. Billy looked at the porch where the policeman had sat to read his paper and remembered how he would come down the steps to talk with Billy, and give his wagon a starting push back up the hill, always cautioning Billy to stay out of the street. Sometimes they would sit on the porch steps, drinking a lemonade, served by the policeman's wife, talking about Billy and his sister and brother or the policeman's younger life. Billy felt the sorrow of the morning's news and wondered about the dead policeman's soul. Was it black? Did God look at it? Is he in Heaven?
The approaching street car came to a stop. Billy climbed aboard, instructed the conductor as to his destination, and dropped the token into the box with the glass window on the conductor's side through which he could see if the correct fare had been deposited. "You'll have to transfer at 14th street," commented the conductor, handing Billy a long strip of flimsy paper with punches in it. "Sit right here and I'll tell you when to get off." The conductor pulled down a single seat to the side of his stool seat and held it down until Billy was well seated.
At each stop as people stood to leave or to pay their fare, they could not help but notice the sign above Billy's head: "RESERVED FOR INSPECTORS". The passengers smiled at Bill or mentioned his presence to the conductor. "Better be careful today. You are being inspected." Billy knew they were joking with him, but it made him feel important, and he liked it.
"This
