When Coot marched from around the car, he was pretending to button his trousers.

“I think I broke my wrist,” said Joseph. “I can feel it.”

“Daddy,” said Coot as he rushed to Joseph. “I told you not to carry more than one bucket.”

“You know me, son. I always try to do too much for the glory of the Lord.”

Joseph was laying it on a little too thick.

When the ushers finished collecting the scattered money from the ground, refilling the buckets, they placed the two buckets into the trunk of the big car. William slammed the trunk closed and locked it. He said to Coot, “Take your father home, Robert. We can all smell the liquor on his breath.”

Then William looked at Joseph with an aggravated look on his face. “You stupid old man.”

“At least I’m drunk,” said Joseph. “What’s your excuse?”

William straightened his collar and walked toward the tent with the other ushers. When they were out of sight, Coot let out a sigh and almost fainted.

“Better hurry,” said Joseph. “That jack mule might get a hankering to come back out here and pray for us.”

Coot stooped beneath the car and emptied the full buckets into a large burlap sack as quietly as he could. One by one, until the sack weighed more than a ten-gallon bucket of mud. When he lifted the heavy sack, he paused. The gravity of what he was doing was finally sinking in. This was not just a huckster game with a decoy wallet. This was theft. Heartless, merciless thievery. He leaned against the car and took a few breaths to think it over.

“Hey,” said Joseph. “What’re you doing?”

“That man on the stage,” said Coot. “I know him.”

Joseph hobbled toward Coot. “The man preaching?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“It’s a long story.”

“The old days, huh?”

“Something like that.”

All of a sudden Coot’s entire life seemed pathetic. He felt ridiculous, stealing pennies and quarters from a bunch of people who were only hoping for miracles. He felt like a child trying to get revenge.

“You gonna be okay?” said Joseph.

“Yeah,” said Coot, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I just wanna go home.”

“Don’t we all, son.”

Sixty-Four
The Mighty

Paul carried a mop and a wooden bucket filled with tar. After putting it off for eight months, he was finally going to patch the barn roof. The roof of Miss Warner’s barn had taken on rain. The problem had gotten so bad that leaks had formed in the cow stalls, making puddles in every nook of the barn. Water had saturated the dry feed and turned the entire barn floor into a soupy brown sludge.

“Would you look at this slop?” said Paul, standing in the barn doorway. He stomped his foot on the ground. His boot almost got stuck in the mud.

“Look at Murgatroyd,” said Vern, pointing to a cow. “She ain’t happy.”