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Authors: Allan Stratton
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damper on get-togethers. Which is why I got it free for the hauling.”
Percy’s heart raced. “You got the tent?”
“Amen.” And now Floyd got serious. “Perce, we’ve known each other since we were kids. I’m ashamed to say I did you wrong.”
Percy could hardly breathe. He was suddenly back in the playground, swearing down God’s vengeance, as Floyd cleaned his clock. Again and again and again.
“I’m here to say I’m sorry,” Floyd said.
Percy’s eyes welled. “You’re sorry?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Very sorry. Forgive me?”
The next thing Percy knew, he was hugging Floyd and sobbing on his shoulder. Floyd eased him onto the porch step and handed him a handkerchief.
“I’m no do-gooder,” Floyd said quietly, as Percy blew his nose. “I’m just a sinner who wants to get the hell out of Hornets Ridge. That bloody tent’s my main chance. All afternoon, I’ve thought, if folks find thrills in tea towels, what’ll they find in the tent of horrors itself? Only thing is — I can’t just sell tickets. Respectable folks’ll need an excuse to go inside.”
“Maybe a sermon?” Percy blurted. He shook his fist over his head. “That tent is the Lord’s living proof, The Wages of Sin Is Death.”
“My thought exactly,” Floyd enthused. “A God-fearing barn burner on that theme’ll pack ’em in. But heck, Perce, I’m no speaker. I can barely sell toothpicks, much less God.”
“So the Lord has sent you unto me!”
“More or less.” Floyd stuck a finger in his collar. “I remember school, Perce. You gave me nightmares for weeks. No kidding. You were one scary bugger. So here’s what I’m driving at. You’re a preacher without a pulpit. I have a pulpit without a preacher. Whadeja say?”
“I say the Lord has worked a wonder in your heart, Brother Floyd!” Percy wrung out the handkerchief and gave his eyes another wipe. “Yea, it be murder, suicide, adultery, and drink have brung this tent unto us, but through our ministry shall innocent souls be snatched from the Pit. Oh Brother Floyd, I say unto you, all things work together for good for those who love the Lord. Let us pray.”
By midnight, Brother Percy was packed; he had but his Bible, his postcard, a few old clothes; a second pair of shoes, the soles patched together with squares of birch bark, bicycle tires, and tacks; a toothbrush and a comb; and his emerging set of little black books. Unable to sleep, he lit his kerosene lamp, and wandered to the cemetery to spend his last night in Hornets Ridge beside his mother’s grave. As he later wrote:
I knelt beside the wooden cross that marked dear Mother’s resting place and traced the grooves of her name with my finger. “I won’t be able to come by so often, Mother,” I said, “for God has laid a mission on me. But you already know that, smiling down from Heaven. You’re the only one who believed in me, who never made fun, besides blessèd Billy Sunday. As he wrote in my postcard, ‘From a little acorn will grow a mighty oak.’ It’s true. For I’m growing, feet planted in the Word of God, arms branched open in the Light of the World. Before I’m through, I’ll be as famous as Brother Billy. More famous, even. They won’t laugh at me then. They’ll bend their knees and pray before me. I’ll make you proud, Mother. I’ll be crowned with glory and have money enough to buy you the biggest stone in the whole darn cemetery. Better than a stone: you’ll have the statue of an angel. For that’s what you are, it’s what you deserve, and it’s what you’ll have, so help me God.”
For a time, God’s Promise looked to be fulfilled. As recorded in Percy’s little black books, those were the glory days, a time of redemption with Satan on the run. The Bennett murders packed the tent that whole first summer; and come frost, Floyd had finagled invitations from the Deep South, where righteous brethren from the hills of Arkansas to the Florida orange groves were keen on
Percy’s heart raced. “You got the tent?”
“Amen.” And now Floyd got serious. “Perce, we’ve known each other since we were kids. I’m ashamed to say I did you wrong.”
Percy could hardly breathe. He was suddenly back in the playground, swearing down God’s vengeance, as Floyd cleaned his clock. Again and again and again.
“I’m here to say I’m sorry,” Floyd said.
Percy’s eyes welled. “You’re sorry?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Very sorry. Forgive me?”
The next thing Percy knew, he was hugging Floyd and sobbing on his shoulder. Floyd eased him onto the porch step and handed him a handkerchief.
“I’m no do-gooder,” Floyd said quietly, as Percy blew his nose. “I’m just a sinner who wants to get the hell out of Hornets Ridge. That bloody tent’s my main chance. All afternoon, I’ve thought, if folks find thrills in tea towels, what’ll they find in the tent of horrors itself? Only thing is — I can’t just sell tickets. Respectable folks’ll need an excuse to go inside.”
“Maybe a sermon?” Percy blurted. He shook his fist over his head. “That tent is the Lord’s living proof, The Wages of Sin Is Death.”
“My thought exactly,” Floyd enthused. “A God-fearing barn burner on that theme’ll pack ’em in. But heck, Perce, I’m no speaker. I can barely sell toothpicks, much less God.”
“So the Lord has sent you unto me!”
“More or less.” Floyd stuck a finger in his collar. “I remember school, Perce. You gave me nightmares for weeks. No kidding. You were one scary bugger. So here’s what I’m driving at. You’re a preacher without a pulpit. I have a pulpit without a preacher. Whadeja say?”
“I say the Lord has worked a wonder in your heart, Brother Floyd!” Percy wrung out the handkerchief and gave his eyes another wipe. “Yea, it be murder, suicide, adultery, and drink have brung this tent unto us, but through our ministry shall innocent souls be snatched from the Pit. Oh Brother Floyd, I say unto you, all things work together for good for those who love the Lord. Let us pray.”
By midnight, Brother Percy was packed; he had but his Bible, his postcard, a few old clothes; a second pair of shoes, the soles patched together with squares of birch bark, bicycle tires, and tacks; a toothbrush and a comb; and his emerging set of little black books. Unable to sleep, he lit his kerosene lamp, and wandered to the cemetery to spend his last night in Hornets Ridge beside his mother’s grave. As he later wrote:
I knelt beside the wooden cross that marked dear Mother’s resting place and traced the grooves of her name with my finger. “I won’t be able to come by so often, Mother,” I said, “for God has laid a mission on me. But you already know that, smiling down from Heaven. You’re the only one who believed in me, who never made fun, besides blessèd Billy Sunday. As he wrote in my postcard, ‘From a little acorn will grow a mighty oak.’ It’s true. For I’m growing, feet planted in the Word of God, arms branched open in the Light of the World. Before I’m through, I’ll be as famous as Brother Billy. More famous, even. They won’t laugh at me then. They’ll bend their knees and pray before me. I’ll make you proud, Mother. I’ll be crowned with glory and have money enough to buy you the biggest stone in the whole darn cemetery. Better than a stone: you’ll have the statue of an angel. For that’s what you are, it’s what you deserve, and it’s what you’ll have, so help me God.”
For a time, God’s Promise looked to be fulfilled. As recorded in Percy’s little black books, those were the glory days, a time of redemption with Satan on the run. The Bennett murders packed the tent that whole first summer; and come frost, Floyd had finagled invitations from the Deep South, where righteous brethren from the hills of Arkansas to the Florida orange groves were keen on
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