always after you," he
murmured.
The grandmother noticed how
thin his shoulder blades were
just behind-his hat because she
was standing up looking down
on him. "Do you ever pray?"
she asked.
He shook his head. All she saw
was the black hat wiggle
between his shoulder blades.
"Nome," he said.
There was a pistol shot from
the woods, followed closely by
another. Then silence. The old
lady's head jerked around. She
could hear the wind move
through the tree tops like a
long satisfied insuck of breath.
"Bailey Boy!" she called.
"I was a gospel singer for a
while," The Misfit said. "I been
most everything. Been in the
arm service, both land and sea,
at home and abroad, been twict
married, been an undertaker,
been with the railroads, plowed
Mother Earth, been in a
tornado, seen a man burnt alive
oncet," and he looked up at the
children's mother and the little
girl who were sitting close
together, their faces white and
their eyes glassy; "I even seen
a woman flogged," he said.
"Pray, pray," the grandmother
began, "pray, pray . . ."
"I never was a bad boy that I
remember of," The Misfit said
in an almost dreamy voice,
"but somewheres along the line
I done something wrong and
got sent to the penitentiary. I
was buried alive," and he
looked up and held her
attention to him by a steady
stare.
"That's when you should have
started to pray," she said "What
did you do to get sent to the
penitentiary that first time?"
"Turn to the right, it was a
wall," The Misfit said, looking
up again at the cloudless sky.
"Turn to the left, it was a wall.
Look up it was a ceiling, look
down it was a floor. I forget
what I done, lady. I set there
and set there, trying to
remember what it was I done
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
245