“I am sure that if your son wants badly enough to be a minister he won’t let this set-back stand in his way.”
“I didn’t quite understand you, sir,” said Clay.
“I said I’m sure that if your son’s passion to preach the gospel is strong enough he’ll find some way to prepare himself,” said Dean Beck.
“That boy don’t want to be no preacher,” said Clay. “He just wants a college education.”
The dean consulted the application in front of him. “But he’s applied here for a ministerial scholarship,” he insisted.
That Clay-Boy could have done so terrible a thing seemed inconceivable to Clay. He could only conclude that a monstrous error had been made, that someone had failed to read the small print or that the wrong kind of application had been sent to Clay-Boy in the first place.
“Friend Beck,” said Clay, “somebody has got things screwed up somethen royal. I’d rather see that boy of mine a jailbird than a Baptist preacher.”
“What have you got against Baptist preachers?” asked the dean.
“Well, it ain’t a thing against the preacher. That one we got up at New Dominion seems to be one hundred per cent. It’s the Baptists that galls me. I don’t know what kind you got down here, but where I live we got the Hard Shells. They don’t allow smoken, drinken, card-playen, dancen, cussen, kissen, huggen or loven in any shape, form or size. They’re against lipstick, face powder, rouge, and frizzled hair. I know what I’m talken about, Mr. Beck. I’m married to a Baptist and she might bring my children up Christian, but I’ll be damned if I’ll have a Baptist preacher in the family.”
“I’m certain that if your son knows your feelings on the matter, then this application was in error,” said Dean Beck.
“He ought to know,” Clay said. “And I’ll make double-sure he knows when I get home. Now, let me get somethen straight. You teach anythen else down here beside the preachen business?”
“Yes,” said Dean Beck, “we have courses of instruction in business administration, the social sciences, the arts, and medicine and law.”
“Well, Clay-Boy ought to find somethen he’d like out of one of them,” said Clay. “Now, let me ask you another thing. If that boy of mine learned himself a little Latin between now and the time this college opens up again, would you take him in?”
Dean Beck considered for a moment. Fathers had tried to bully, to coax, to bribe or to beg him to accept their sons. None of them had been so direct or so determined as the man who now confronted him.
“Suppose I were to say no to you, Neighbor Spencer?” asked Dean Beck. “What would you do?”
“This ain’t the only goldurned college in the country,” said Clay. “I’d find another one.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Dean Beck. “Bring young Clay back when he’s completed one high school semester of Latin. If the boy’s anything like his father I believe he’ll be an asset to all of us.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Clay sincerely.
“However, it is too late for a scholarship this year. Perhaps that will come later, but the first semester, if he proves himself acceptable that is, he will have to pay the regular college fees. You’ll find them all listed in this catalogue.”
“Thank you, Dean,” said Clay accepting the catalogue. The two men rose and shook hands. “If you’re ever up in Nelson County,” said Clay, “I hope you’ll drop by and pay us a visit.”
“I will indeed,” Dean Beck promised.
After Clay had gone Miss Montrose went to the dean’s office, opened the door and said, “Bravo!”
Dean Beck was leaning back in his big leather chair. He was smiling a satisfied smile while he bit on his pipe.
“What else was I to do, Miss Montrose?” he laughed. “He’s right. This ain’t the only goldurned college in the country.”
Chapter 13
Darkness was falling when Clay arrived back in New Dominion. He was hungry and he knew that supper would be ready, but before going home he decided to report the day’s happenings to Miss Parker. Miss Parker boarded with a family over in the section of New Dominion called Riverside Drive. Clay found her sitting alone in the porch swing reading in the fading light of day from The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.
“Miss Parker,” said Clay, “I’ve been down to the University of Richmond. I found out why they turned Clay-Boy down.”
“I would be most curious to know,” said Miss Parker.
“Seems to go to college you got to know the subject of Latin, and Clay-Boy never took it up,” said Clay.
“I knew it had to be something of that kind,” said Miss Parker, “He was so qualified in every other way. If I’d only known I could have found some way for Clay-Boy to have studied Latin.”
“I talked to a real nice feller down there, name of Beck…”
“The Dean!” Miss Parker exclaimed.
“That’s what he said he was,” continued Clay. “And I found out somethen else, Miss Parker. That boy had signed the wrong kind of paper or somethen, because they got the fool idea from somewhere that Clay-Boy wanted to be a Baptist preacher.”
“They got that fool idea from me, Mr. Spencer,” said Miss Parker. “If the blame rests anywhere it must be on me because I was the one who talked Mr. Goodson, your wife and Clay-Boy into the idea in the first place.”
“Miss Parker,” said Clay, “I always took you for a lady.”
“Then you were mistaken, Mr. Spencer,” said Miss Parker. “I’m only an old-maid school teacher who selfishly wanted to see just one of her children make something of himself.”
“Maybe you still will, Miss Parker,” said Clay. “I got the preachen business all straightened out. He’ll take some other kind of trade at the College.”
“You don’t mean there’s still a chance?” exclaimed Miss Parker.
“If Clay-Boy can get one high school semester of Latin here there’s still a chance,” answered Clay.
“Then we will get it for him by all means,” said Miss Parker. She had been depressed ever since Clay-Boy’s scholarship had been turned down. Now that there was a new opportunity for the boy, a new light came into her eyes and a quiver of excitement sounded in her voice.
“There’s not a soul in New Dominion who knows Latin,” she said. “That’s why we’ve never taught it. Perhaps in Charlottesville we could find someone to tutor him.”
“That wouldn’t be much help, Miss Parker,” objected Clay. “I’ve got no way to get him over there.”
“That’s the least of our worries,” said Miss Parker. “I’ll see that he gets there. The first thing we’ll have to do is find him a teacher.”
***
When Clay reached home he walked into the kitchen and looked sternly at Olivia for a moment.
“What’s the matter with you, you crazy thing?” she demanded.
“Thought you’d put one over on me, didn’t you?” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talken about.”
Hearing his father’s voice, Clay-Boy walked from the living room into the kitchen.
“Howdy, preacher,” said Clay in a sugary voice.
Clay-Boy stared at his father sheepishly but could not speak.
“What is the subject you are goen to talk on down there at the Baptist church in the mornen?” asked Clay. “Maybe you ought to talk about the sin of conniven against your daddy, and maybe your mama and Preacher Goodson and Miss Parker can all sit up on the front row so they can hear real good.”
Clay-Boy could not tell if his father’s anger were real or if it were pretended, but he began to suspect that Clay was not as disturbed as he seemed to be and that his father might even be enjoying the role he was playing.
“Daddy,” he said, “it didn’t mean I had to become a preacher. It just meant I could have become one if I wanted to after I graduated.”
“Boy,” said Clay, “as near as I can make out, it would have been the same as apprenticen as a plumber a
nd then taken up the electrical trade. Now I’ve been down yonder in Richmond all day long and I’ve got this thing straightened out. They’re goen to give you another chance and this time you can take your pick of anythen they’re offeren.”
“How come they’re given him another chance, Clay?” asked Olivia.
“Well, there’s somethen he’s got to do first,” answered Clay. “He’s got to learn some kind of foreign language named Latin.”
“There’s a Latin grammar down at the library,” said Clay-Boy. “Maybe I could teach it to myself.”
“Well, you go ahead and try it,” said Clay, “but I’ve already talked it over with Miss Parker and she seems to think she can find somebody over in Charlottesville that can teach it to you.”
***
As it turned out, a teacher was found much closer to home than Charlottesville. When Mr. Goodson heard from Miss Parker the reason the scholarship was not awarded to Clay-Boy, he came immediately to the Spencer home.
Clay had been up on the mountain working on his house, but he arrived home soon after darkness had fallen. He found Olivia feeding the children at the kitchen table.
“Clay,” she said, “go on in the liven room. Mr. Goodson’s in there and he wants to see you.”
“I’ve been wanten to see that ripstaver myself,” said Clay. “Just to warn him never again to try to make a preacher out of my boy.”
“Clay,” admonished Olivia, “don’t you say a word about that unless he brings it up. Now go on in there. He’s been waiten a long time.”
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 o
f 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.
Spencer's Mountain Page 19