Spencer's Mountain (25 page)

Clay-Boy had been left in the living room to entertain Mr. Goodson. The two of them had been talking earnestly, and when Clay entered the minister rose and offered his hand.

“Keep your seat, friend,” urged Clay, but Mr. Goodson remained standing.

“I know you're anxious to get on with your supper, Clay,” said Mr. Goodson, “so I'll tell you why I'm here. I understand from Miss Parker that if Clay-Boy can get one high school semester of Latin before fall there's still a chance they'll accept him at the University.”

“That's about the size of it,” said Clay. “Yes sir.”

“Well, it happens that I took Latin when I was a student at the University of Richmond. I believe I can teach it to Clay-Boy.”

“I'll be a ring-tail squealer!” exclaimed Clay joyfully.

“Of course, I'm not a recognized teacher,” said Mr. Goodson hastily.

“That's don't make a damn to me,” said Clay. “You could give him a guarantee or a warrant or somethen sayen he can talk Latin as good as anybody else, couldn't you?”

“Yes, I could do that.”

“Honey, did you hear that?” asked Clay of Olivia, who had come to the door.

“I certainly did, and I want you to know we appreciate it, Mr. Goodson,” said Olivia.

“That brings up somethen we ought to talk about right
now,” said Clay. “How much are you goen to charge to tell this boy about Latin?”

“I wouldn't think of taking anything,” said Mr. Goodson. “It would be a great pleasure for me.”

“No, sir,” said Clay. “I wouldn't think of letten you do it for nothen.”

“You don't have to pay me anything,” insisted Mr. Goodson. “But if you really want to do something for me you can take me fishing with you again.”

“Preacher,” said Clay solemnly, “we've been fishen together for the first and last time. I like you too much to lose you.”

“All right then, Clay,” grinned Mr. Goodson, but then with an innocent smile he added, “however, if you still insist on doing something for me to pay for Clay-Boy's lessons, there is nothing that would mean more for me than to see you in church.”

The full impact of what the preacher had said did not strike Clay right at first. But then as the meaning of what had been said began to sink into his brain, Clay whitened, but then his face turned red with frustration as he groped for words and not even profanity would come to his lips.

Mr. Goodson, still smiling his innocent smile, held out his hand and said, “See you Sunday?”

“I'll be there,” said Clay grimly and took the preacher's outstretched hand.

“And I'll see you at the parsonage tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, Clay-Boy.”

“Yes sir.”

“I have all the textbooks we'll need, so you don't need to bring a thing. Good night, all.”

Olivia walked to the front door with the minister. When she returned to the kitchen she found that Clay had joined the children at the table and was busily buttering biscuits. He looked up at her and grinned wickedly.

“I'd like to shoot you with a gun,” Olivia said.

“What's the matter with you, old woman?” he said.

“Promising that preacher you'd come to church,” said
Olivia. “You know good and well the roof would fall in if you ever set foot in it.”

“You wait till Sunday morning, said Clay. “I made a bargain with that feller and I aim to keep it.”

***

The following morning at nine o'clock Clay-Boy reported to Mr. Goodson at the parsonage. No mention was made of the price that was being exacted for the lessons. Together Mr. Goodson and Clay-Boy set out on the make-up program and by lunch time they had covered the first five lessons of Latin grammar.

In the afternoon at the library he reviewed what they had covered that morning and when night came, after supper, when all the dishes had been cleared away from the dining table, he sat down to study again.

“I want it quiet around here so that boy can learn his Latin,” Clay said to the younger children. “If I hear a peep from anybody from now till bedtime they're goen to get a tannen.”

All evening the children, the grandparents, Clay and Olivia went about their work or their preparation for bed as quietly as they could while Clay-Boy in the kitchen prepared his homework.

Somehow during the week word leaked out that Clay Spencer was going to join the church. Since he had been known from his boyhood to be a heathen who smoked, played cards, drank whiskey and did all those things abhorrent to the Baptists of New Dominion, many doubted the truth of the rumor.

Clay's brother Anse came to him at the mill and said, “There's a lot of funnen and joken goen around about you joinen the church and I thought you ought to know about it.”

“It's the Lord's truth, Anse,” said Clay. “I've got religion.”

“I never thought I'd see the day,” said Anse wonderingly.

“I reckon I've been heathen enough for two men in my lifetime,” said Clay. “Looks like it's about time for me to get on the right side of the Lord.”

“You're doen it for Livy. Is that it?” asked Anse.

“Nope,” said Clay. “I'm doen it for myself.”

“Well,” said Anse, “I think it's only fair to tell you that there's a whole crowd getten together to come to the church on Sunday just to see if it's true or not.”

There was an extraordinarily large congregation at the service at the Baptist church the following Sunday morning. Often a woman had trouble dragging her man to church with her, but this morning as many men as women had attended. Standing aside from the group of regular churchgoers was another group, made up of known sinners and rousers.

There was Obed Miller, the village drunk, sober now and chuckling softly to himself for no apparent reason. Slim Temple, the champion pool-shooter of the village, who was almost never seen outside The Pool Hall and who was closer to a church this morning than he had ever been before, stood uncomfortably at the edge of the crowd. Even Odell Harper, the village dandy, had turned up. What made Odell a dandy was that he traveled with a fast crowd of gamblers in Charlottesville and wore a suit all week end and even some working nights. All of them were good friends of Clay's.

Five minutes before the service was due to begin a little procession made its way out of Clay Spencer's yard and down the hill to the Baptist church. At the head of the group were Olivia and Clay. Following them, two by two, hand in hand, came their brood of red-headed children.

Only once did Clay show any sign that he recognized the stir their appearance caused. He was starting up the steps to the Baptist church when one of his cronies called out, “Great God Almighty, Clay Spencer's really goen in.”

Clay turned, and over the head of the worshipers who were coming in behind him, called, “You're damned right I'm goen in there and it wouldn't do you bunch of heathens no harm to come on in neither!”

Olivia was blushing to the roots of her hair when Clay took her by the arm and led his family to a pew near the front of the church. As they entered every fan stopped dead and every whisper ceased. Clay had never been with his family to church before, but he was conscious that his entrance had attracted the eye of every worshiper. Olivia and the children
sat stiff and straight, their eyes cast straight before them. But Clay sat still only for a moment before turning to examine his neighbors. Some of the men he had difficulty recognizing because he was so accustomed to seeing them covered with dust from the mill, and the women he had never seen before in their Sunday finery. Finally Clay's eyes met those of his mother-in-law, who sat looking with thanksgiving because the soul she thought was lost might now be saved after all. Clay returned her look with a reassuring smile and she said softly, but in a voice that could be heard by everyone in the silent room, “Welcome to the House of the Lord, Clay Spencer.”

“I'm proud to be here, Miss Ida,” he said and the fans began to fan again and the hushed voices began to whisper again and at least the initial crisis was over.

Preacher Goodson came out of his little study behind the rostrum. When he reached the pulpit he announced that the opening hymn would be Number 37.

Ordinarily the burden of the singing fell on the choir, which was led by Lucy Godlove and was composed of the best singers of the church. The others of the congregation merely held their hymnals in front of them and followed the words with their lips or hummed along with the choir.

Olivia found Hymn Number 37 and when she held the hymnal up Clay noted with pleasure that it was one of his favorite hymns, “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder”—a spirited hymn and a joyous one to sing. After the pianist's introduction the choir began to sing heartily, but from the congregation itself only one voice raised itself above a whisper. It was Clay Spencer and he was singing with a vigor that matched the entire choir.

Clay sang the opening stanza practically solo because even the choir had stopped to listen to his singing, but when the second stanza began Lucy Godlove gave a signal and the choir joined in the refrain. Then some members of the congregation began to sing, and by the end of the hymn it was as if a contest had developed between the choir and the congregation to see which could outsing the other.

For the remainder of the service Clay sat and listened attentively to Mr. Goodson's sermon. When people began streaming out of church after the closing hymn, Clay found his way blocked by Lucy Godlove.

“Clay Spencer,” she cried, “a voice like yours was made to sing the Lord's praises. Next Sunday we'd be honored if you'd sit with the choir.”

Olivia had been wondering whether Clay might continue going to church or if he had come only this once to satisfy the bargain he had made with Mr. Goodson, so she waited for Clay's answer with more than ordinary interest.

“You can count on me, Miss Lucy,” replied Clay.

“Amen,” said Lucy.

“Likewise,” said Clay, and nodding amiably to people on all sides, he led his wife and brood out of the churchyard and up the road to his house.

***

For Clay-Boy time melted into one continuous Latin lesson. He worked with Mr. Goodson in the morning and alone in the afternoons and evenings. If he happened to look up from his book and catch sight of his sister he thought
puella
. If he saw a farmer on his way to the library he said to himself
agricola
, and if Pattie-Cake, as she sometimes did, would throw her arms around him and say “I love you,” he automatically repeated in his mind,
amo
,
amas
,
amat
,
amamus
,
amatis
,
amant
.

One night when it was near bedtime and when all the other children were asleep, Clay-Boy, tired of sitting, stood and walked around the kitchen, holding the textbook in his hands, and tried to keep awake. Once he came to the door to the living room where his parents and grandparents were talking quietly.

“How you doen, son?” Clay called.

“Pretty good, Daddy,” he said, blinking out at them and becoming aware of his family for the first time since he had sat down to study three hours before.

“I can even read a little of it,” he said proudly.

“I've never even seen what Latin looks like,” said Olivia. “Let me take a look at that book.”

She opened the book and examined the strange-looking words. “I don't see how you can make head nor tails of it,” she said wonderingly. “
Larentia carnem cupit,
” she said. “What does that mean?”

Clay-Boy took the book. “It's an exercise you're supposed to translate into English.
Larentia carnem cupit.
That means Larentia wants meat.
Itaque Faustulus cum cane ad silvam discedit.
Which means, ‘Therefore Faustulus,' I guess that's the husband, ‘with his dog goes out into the woods.'”

“What happens next?” asked Clay, his attention attracted by the sound of a good hunting story.

Clay-Boy continued his translation slowly and with difficulty. “The man takes a bow and arrow. He sends his dog out there in the forest. Vegator—I guess that's the dog's name—runs through the forest. Faustulus waits down by the river. Finally the dog comes down through the woods chasing a deer. He runs quickly through the woods. The deer falls… flees to the river. Faustulus wounds the deer with an arrow and then kills it with a spear. With care he carries the deer home.”

“I'll be damned,” exclaimed Clay. “They must of been some kind of Indians or somethen shooten with a bow and arrow.”

“No, they were Romans,” explained Clay-Boy. “They lived over there where it's Italy now, where Mussolini lives.”

“I'd like to shoot that old bohunk with a bow and arrow,” commented Clay.

Old Zebulon stirred. Everybody had thought he was asleep but he had been listening to the story.

“It was the white deer,” muttered the old man. “I told everybody when it happened it marked that boy.”

A shiver went down Clay-Boy's spine. He had forgotten
his grandfather's prophecy, made that day in the fall when he had killed the white deer.

“That boy will break new ground,” the old man said.

Clay-Boy had lived with superstition all his life and he did not find it at all difficult to believe that the killing of the deer had been an omen. But an omen of what? He did not have the time to speculate. He was too occupied learning Latin.

***

Claris came to the library every day. When he first began the Latin lessons he had been rude to her, had insisted that her visits took up his time, but she had adapted herself to the ordeal he was going through. She became less frivolous and cut out her teasing altogether, and when she offered to help him by hearing his vocabulary or translations he had accepted her help and she became as devoted to his cause as he was.