One thing that Freddy McTill learned, second row front, at the Free
Will Baptist Church was that he couldn’t figure what God was
gonna do. He figured that it had something to do with what Sunday
it was, and how Brother McClain felt on that Sunday. On one Sunday,
“Gawd” would be merciful, next week He’d be vengeful,
like Freddy’s mother was — according to his father, when
he was smoking and bullshitting with the other men. The men would
form a circle, smoke, and talk about their wives, and who was doing
it to who.
On the Sunday afternoon that the Reverend was sour grapes on God,
Lem Faircott came to his house to play. Brother McClain had bellowed
about how those who were not saved would burn in hell, with some regular
poking with the fork from the Devil. Lots of folks believed him. The
crowd at the altar call was three deep, and there was lots of moaning
and sobbing.
Lem was older than Freddy, two years older. He wanted to climb on
the fat cottonwood trees that Freddy’s dad had cut down to make
room for their new house. By the time they got home from church the
sun was high and warm. They stripped off their shirts and Freddy donned
play clothes.
“You’ll rip your Sunday clothes for sure, climbing around,”
his mother said.
Lem leapt from horizontal trunk to horizontal trunk like a lemur.
Freddy watched in awe.
“Goddamned this is great!” shouted Lem.
Freddy hunkered down and looked around. He was vigilant, looked at
his hands, then at Lem. “You just used the Lord’s name
in vain.”
“Yep.”
“Ain’t you scared that he’ll strike you?”
“My dad says that’s malarkey.”
Freddy glanced around. Lem leapt to the tallest tree and smirked down
at him.
“My mom says it’ll happen. He’ll strike you like
lightin’.”
“My mom, too. My dad says it’s crap. Look at me. I been
doing it forever. I ain’t struck.”
Freddy gave a furtive glance at the house. “Mama?” He
waited for a response.
“Come on, fraidy cat. He ain’t gonna strike ya.”
Freddy crawled up on the skinny end of the smallest log, the one that
Lem had started on. He walked carefully to the high end, and then
pulled himself up to the highest trunk. He teetered on the apex of
the curve, walked cautiously towards Lem’s perch.
“Damn,” mumbled Freddy. He waited for the strike.
“I don’t see no strike,” Lem said.
“I be Goddamned!” Freddy hunkered down and looked around.
“Told ya.”
“Ain’t that a hell of a thing,” he said and marched
to the high end of the log. He laughed and poked Lem’s shoulder.
“Ain’t that a hell of a thing.”
Robert Muncrief is a retired contractor. He lives
and writes with his wife, Jahna, in a house that he built in Graton
CA.
