Sugar Creek Gang Set Books 7-12

by Paul Hutchens

  That made me like my dad a lot.

  However, I didn’t have time to think about it because, right that second, I heard her say in a worried voice, “Yes, dear, but weeds grow in a garden without anyone planting them.”

  That made me feel all sad inside, and for some reason I could see our own garden, which every spring and summer had all kinds of weeds—ragweed, smartweed, big ugly jimsonweed, and lots of other kinds.

  And I remembered something my dad had said to me once last summer: “Say, Bill, do you know how to keep the big weeds out of our garden without having to pull up or cut out even one of them?” And when I said, “No, how, Dad?” he said, “Just kill all of them while they are little.”

  Well, I didn’t want Mom or Dad to know I’d heard them talking about me, so I sneaked out the back door very carefully and started talking in a friendly voice to Mixy, saying, “Listen, Mixy, do you know how to keep all the great big mice out of our barn? You just catch all the mice while they’re little—it’s as easy as pie.”

  Mixy looked up from her empty milk pan and mewed and looked down at the pan. She looked at me and mewed again, and then walked over to me and rubbed her sides against my boots as though she liked me a lot. I thought Mixy was a very nice cat right that minute, so I said to her, “I’m awful glad you like me, Mixy, even if nobody else around this place does.”

  Pretty soon Dad and I were out doing the rest of the chores while Mom was getting supper. Almost right away it began to get dark, and we went in to supper.

  “Wash your hands and go get Charlotte Ann,” Mom said to me. “I think she’s awake now.”

  Charlotte Ann is my baby sister and, even though she is a girl, is a pretty neat baby. In fact, she’s wonderful.

  In a few minutes, Dad and Mom and Charlotte Ann and I were all sitting around our kitchen table.

  At our house we always bowed our heads before every meal, different ones of us asking the blessing, whichever one of us Dad called on. When I was little I said a little poem prayer, but I didn’t do it anymore because Dad thought I was too big. Since I was an actual Christian, in spite of having jimsonweed in my heart, I always prayed whenever Dad told me to. I just hoped that he wouldn’t ask me tonight.

  Well, he looked around the table at all of us, and Mom helped Charlotte Ann fold her hands, which she didn’t want to do but kept wiggling and squirming and reaching for things on the table, which were too far away. “Well, let’s see—whom shall we ask to pray tonight?” Dad said.

  His question was cut short by the telephone ringing, which meant that one of us had to answer the phone.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, “maybe it’s one of the gang—”

  “I’ll get it,” Mom said. “I’m expecting a call—I say, I’ll get it!” She raised her voice, because I was already out of my chair and halfway to the living room door.

  When Mom came back a minute later, she was smiling as though she’d had some wonderful news. She said, “It was Mrs. Long. Mr. Long won’t be home tomorrow, so she can go to church with us. Isn’t that wonderful? It’s an answer to prayer.”

  I spoke up then and said, “How about Shorty? Is he going too?”

  I don’t know what there was in my voice that shouldn’t have been there when I asked that question, but Mom said in an astonished tone of voice, “Why, Bill Collins! The very idea! Don’t you want him to go to church and Sunday school and learn something about being a Christian? Do you want him to grow up to be a heathen? What’s the matter with you?”

  I gulped. Mom had read my thoughts like an open book. “Of course,” I said, “he ought to go to church, but—”

  “But what?” she said.

  “He’s awful mean to the gang,” I said. “He—”

  “Perhaps we’d better ask the blessing now,” Dad said in a kind voice, and we bowed our heads while he prayed a short prayer, which ended something like this: “And bless our minister tomorrow. Put into his heart the things he ought to say that will do us all the most good. Make his sermon like a plow and hoe and rake that will make the gardens of our hearts what they all ought to be. Bless Shorty Long and his mother and father, and the Till family, all of which we ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  For some reason when Dad finished, I seemed to feel that maybe I didn’t actually hate our new teacher, not very much anyway, and I thought that maybe Shorty Long, even if he was a terribly tough boy, would be better if he had somebody to pull some of the weeds out of him.

  After supper we all took our regular Saturday night baths and went to bed.

  And the next thing I knew it was a wonderful morning, with the sun shining on the snow and sleigh bells jingling on people’s horses because some of our neighbors lived on roads where the snowplow hadn’t been through yet. They couldn’t use their cars and so had to use sleds instead. It was going to be a wonderful day all day, I thought, and was glad I was alive.

  7

  Just before nine o’clock we all started in our car toward Little Jim’s house, which was closer than Tom Till’s or Shorty Long’s. Little Jim came tumbling out his back door, his short legs carrying him fast out to the road. He got in, and I was certainly pleased to see him. Mom and Dad and Charlotte Ann were in the front seat so that Charlotte Ann would be closer to our car heater and keep warm because it was a cold morning.

  “How is your mother this morning?” Mom asked Little Jim.

  He piped up in his mouselike voice, “She’s better than last night. Dad and I took breakfast to her in bed.”

  That is what my dad does for my mom when she doesn’t feel well. In fact, sometimes when Dad gets up extra early before Mom does, he sneaks out into our kitchen quietly and makes coffee and carries a cupful in and surprises her even when she is perfectly well, which Dad says is maybe one reason that Mom keeps on liking him so well.

  Our car turned north on the road that leads to Tom’s house and crossed the snow-covered Sugar Creek bridge. While we were on the bridge, Little Jim said to me, “Look, there’s an oak tree that still has its leaves on, and maybe it’ll keep ’em on all winter.”

  Then we came to Tom’s weathered, old-looking house and barn, and Dad pulled up at the side of the road in front of their mailbox, which had “John Till” on it. He honked the horn for Tom to come out and get in.

  There was a new path, which maybe Tom had shoveled for his mom yesterday so she could get the mail. In a minute now, I thought, their side door would open, and Little Tom would come zipping out, with his kind of old-looking coat on, and he would come crunch, crunch, crunch through the snow path to where we were.

  But Tom didn’t come right away. Dad honked again so that he would be sure to hear. Then, when he still didn’t come and there wasn’t any curtain moving at their window to let us know anybody was home and that Tom would be here in a minute, Mom said to me, “Bill, you better run in and tell him we’re here. We have to stop at Longs’ yet, and we don’t want to be late.”

  I opened the door and was getting out when Little Jim tumbled out right after me, saying, “I’ll go with you.” And since neither his mom nor his dad were there to tell him not to, both of us went squishing up the snow path toward the Tills’ side door.

  There had been a little wind during the night, and some snow had drifted back onto the path. I was glad we had on our boots, so our good Sunday shoes wouldn’t get wet and their shine spoiled.

  I knocked at Tom’s door and waited, but nobody answered. Little Jim and I listened, but all I could hear was somebody moving around inside as if he was in a hurry—as if maybe there had been some things on the floor and somebody was in a hurry to straighten up the room because company was coming.

  Then I heard a door shutting somewhere in the house, and I knew it was the door between their living room and kitchen. Then I heard footsteps coming toward our door, and I wondered what was wrong. I was sure something was but didn’t know what.

  The next thing I knew the door opened in front of me, and there stood Tom, with his red h
air mussed up and his old clothes on, and his eyes were kind of red, and it looked as if he had been crying. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t go. Mother’s got the flu, and I have to take care of her and keep the fire going.”

  “Can’t your daddy do that?” Little Jim asked in a disappointed voice.

  Little Tom swallowed hard as if there was a tear in his throat and said, “Daddy’s not home again. He—he’s—not home.”

  I knew what he meant, but he was ashamed to say it. Probably his dad had gotten drunk again and was maybe right that very minute in the Sugar Creek jail.

  “Where’s Bob?” Little Jim wanted to know.

  Tom stood there in the half-open kitchen door and said, “He got up early and went over to Shorty Long’s. They’re going to hunt pigeons.”

  And I knew what that meant. Sometimes some of the farmers in our neighborhood had too many pigeons, and the Sugar Creek Gang would go to their different barns and shut all the doors and windows quick and help catch the pigeons for them, and sometimes you could get fifteen cents apiece for them if you sold them.

  If Shorty Long and Bob had gone hunting pigeons together, it meant that Shorty Long wouldn’t want to go to Sunday school with us when we stopped at their house to get his mother to take her to church. It also meant that Shorty and Bob had maybe decided to like each other, since neither one of them liked the Sugar Creek Gang.

  Tom didn’t know what I’d been thinking, so he piped up and said to Little Jim, “I’m sorry I can’t go, but I can’t. You tell the teacher I’ll try to come next week, and tell her I studied my Sunday school lesson, and—wait a minute!” He turned and, leaving the door open, hurried back inside the house, where he opened the door to their living room and went in, as though he had gone after something. He shut the door after him real quick, as if he was trying to keep the cold air in the kitchen from getting into that other room.

  But in that split minute while the door was open, I saw that they had a big double bed in their living room and that Tom’s mother was in it, all covered up. There was a small table beside her bed with a glass half full of water, but the room looked kind of topsy-turvy as if the housekeeping was being done by a boy instead of a mother.

  A second later Tom was out again, shutting the door behind him, coming straight to Little Jim and me, and holding out his hand. “Here—here’s my offering.” He handed me a small offering envelope like the ones we used in our church.

  Without trying to, I noticed it had two very small coins in it. I guessed they were dimes, which maybe Tom himself had saved from catching pigeons.

  Just then, his mother coughed, a kind of sad, sick cough that sounded as if maybe she was a lot sicker than she ought to be. I knew that, if my mom was as sick as that, Dad would have a doctor out to see her right away, so I said, “Has the doctor been here?”

  Little Tom frowned and said, “Nope, we can’t—nope, I guess Mom will get well. She always does.”

  Our car horn honked, and I knew the folks were wondering what on earth was keeping us so long. There didn’t seem to be anything we could do, but I knew somebody ought to do something for Tom’s mom, because that cough sounded dangerous. Why, she might even get pneumonia, I thought. She might even have it now.

  As quick as Little Jim and I reached the car and climbed into the backseat, we told Mom and Dad. While I was excitedly telling them, I noticed that the muscles in Dad’s jaws were working, and I knew he was thinking and also that he was half angry inside that anybody had to have such a mean husband as old hook-nosed John Till.

  Mom said with a very determined voice, “Theodore, you take the boys on to Sunday school. Be sure to stop for Mrs. Long. Here, Bill, you hold Charlotte Ann. If Mrs. Till has the flu, I can’t keep Charlotte Ann here with me.”

  Dad started to say something, but Mom had already made up her mind, and it was too late. She was already halfway out of the car when she said, “You can come on back and get me in time for church—no, wait a minute. I want Tom to go to Sunday school too. I’ll send him right out.”

  Mom was out of the car and going up the snow path toward the old house when Little Jim said, “The doctor’s going to stop at our house at ten o’clock to see Mother. I’ll bet he’d stop to see Tom’s mother too if anybody asked him to.”

  “They can’t afford a doctor,” I said, remembering what Tom had tried to say a few minutes ago.

  But I hadn’t any more than got the words out of my mouth than Dad spoke up almost fiercely, as if he was angry at somebody or something, and he said, “But I can. If Tom’s mother needs a doctor, she’s going to have one.”

  With that, he shoved open his door, saying, “You boys wait here a minute. I’ll be right back.” He slammed the door, circled the car, and went swishing with very determined steps through that snow path to Tom’s side door, where he disappeared inside, leaving Little Jim and Charlotte Ann and me in the car. The engine was running, and the heater fan was circulating warm air all over the car, so we wouldn’t get cold.

  I still had Little Tom’s offering envelope in my hand, and it reminded me of how maybe Tom had earned the money. So I said to Little Jim, “I hope Shorty Long and Bob don’t stop at our barn, because we don’t have too many pigeons. And besides, there’s a nest up in our cupola with some baby pigeons in it. If they catch the mother and father, the babies will freeze or maybe starve to death.”

  Then Dad came out to the car, bringing Tom with him, and all of us except Mom drove on toward Shorty Long’s house to get Shorty’s mother.

  Fifteen minutes later maybe, our car pulled up in front of the little white church on top of the hill right across from the two-room brick schoolhouse where the Sugar Creek Literary Society met once a month on Wednesday nights. All of us except Dad got out to go inside the church. Shorty Long’s mother was carrying Charlotte Ann and was going to take care of her until Dad got back.

  “I’m going to the parsonage to call the doctor to stop at your house,” Dad said to Tom, “and I’m taking a radio to your mother, so if she feels able she can listen to a gospel program.”

  I looked quick at Little Tom. He might feel ashamed to be reminded that his folks couldn’t afford a doctor and also that they didn’t have a radio, knowing it all was because of his dad. But Tom was looking in another direction and was swallowing hard as if he had taken too big a bite of something and hadn’t chewed it long enough but was trying to swallow it. Then he whirled around and hurried up the cement steps to the church’s door, with Little Jim and me right after him.

  Just inside the vestibule, fastened to the wall, was what was called “The Minister’s Question Box.” It had a little slit in the top for people to put in Bible questions they wanted explained and also for any extra offering people wanted the minister to have. I saw Little Jim pull one of his small hands out of his pocket and slip a folded piece of paper into the box, kind of bashful-like. Then all of us went to where our classes would be sitting.

  As soon as Sunday school was over and church started, I noticed Mr. Black come in. I was surprised to see him come to church, but I knew our minister would preach a good sermon as he always does, and it wouldn’t hurt even a schoolteacher to hear a good sermon maybe once a week.

  8

  Two or three times while our minister was preaching a very interesting sermon, which even a boy could understand, my thoughts flew away like birds, and for quite a while I didn’t even know I was in church because I was far away in my thoughts.

  As you may know, our minister was Sylvia’s father, and Sylvia was a very polite, kind of pretty girl with a good singing voice. She always had her hair looking very neat with a ribbon or something in it the way girls wear their hair, and she was Big Jim’s favorite girl.

  I was sitting beside Big Jim, and Dragonfly was beside me, with the rest of the Sugar Creek Gang in different places in the church. Our parents didn’t let us all sit together if they could help it because the minister got more attention himself if we sat in different place
s—not that any of us tried to be mischievous in church. In fact, we always tried not to be.

  Suddenly Sylvia’s kind-voiced dad was talking about how wonderful it was that, when you knew you had done something wrong and were sorry for it, you could pray straight to the Lord Himself and confess your sins to Him and He would make your heart clean. “The blood of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, will cleanse you from all sin, right that very minute,” Sylvia’s dad said. It seemed a wonderful thing to believe, and it made me feel good all inside of me.

  And then almost right away, he went on to say, quoting another verse from the Bible, “‘Come now, and let us reason together,’ says the Lord, ‘though your sins are as scarlet, they will be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they will be like wool.’”

  I had learned that verse by heart once in a summer Bible school. And all of a sudden, my thoughts were flying, and I was remembering Poetry’s pet lamb, whose wool was not white one morning when the lamb fell down in a mud puddle, and I was remembering Poetry’s funny poetry:

  Poetry had a little lamb,

  Its fleece a dirty black,

  The only place its wool was white

  Was high up on its back.

  Also, I was at that very minute reminded of another poem, which I had seen yesterday, written on yellow paper and pinned with a brown stick on the white stomach of a snowman. That poem still didn’t seem funny. For some reason I decided I was going to try to be what is called a gentleman and try to act like one in school, even if I didn’t like my teacher.

  I didn’t hear any more of Sylvia’s dad’s sermon for a while, because I happened to look out the church window, which didn’t have stained glass as some of the churches in town did, and I saw somebody’s barn just on the other side of the little cemetery. There were a lot of pigeons flying over the barn and in the sky. And I remembered Shorty Long and Big Bob Till and wondered where they were and what they were doing.