doing whatever the other boys of the town are doing. You should be playing baseball with them, or swimming, or whatever they're up to. But instead, you're down on the shore with a Negro girl and then swept out with the tide."
"I wonder," said Turner slowly, "if it's only the folks on Malaga Island who can make you think what they want you to think."
"So now you're impertinent, too."
Turner stood, and it suddenly seemed to him that his father was much smaller than he had been before. There simply wasn't as much of him as he remembered.
The only awkwardness the moment lacked was the omnipotent presence of Mr. Stonecrop, who soon remedied the absence. He knocked and opened the parsonage door at the same time, understanding that his importance in the town, his importance in the church, and the importance of his mission gave him the right to step in on the minister whom he paid every Sunday morning from his tithes and offerings.
"Buckminster!" he hollered. "Buckminster!" Mrs. Buckminster did not come out from the kitchen, but the iron skillet for the late dinner clanged sharply twice.
Immediately, Mr. Stonecrop's presence filled the parlor, and before either Reverend Buckminster or Turner had said a single word—before they had even thought a single thought—Mr. Stonecrop was announcing that all of the boats were back in, that the Negro girl had been taken to Dr. Pelham and there would be five or six stitches but that was all, that his bill would be sent on to the town, and that it was likely not to be inexpensive. "That's always the way of it," declared Mr. Stonecrop. "God sees fit to let something happen to a Malaga pauper, and Phippsburg pays the bill. It's a scandal."
"I will pay the bill," said Reverend Buckminster.
"Only appropriate," said Mr. Stonecrop. "All of First Congregational is wondering what on earth a minister's son is doing out in a dory with a Negro girl."
"She was hurt, and he was taking her back to the island. He didn't know the tide would carry him out."
Mr. Stonecrop raised a craggy eyebrow. "The congregation will wonder what he was doing on the shore with her in the first place," Mr. Stonecrop pointed out.
"Well," said Reverend Buckminster, "the congregation must think what it will think."
"The congregation, Minister, will tell you what it thinks, and what it wants you to think," said Mr. Stonecrop, and the words wound like barbed wire around the Buckminsters.
The door to the kitchen opened. "Pie, anyone?" Mrs. Buckminster asked, her voice quavery. They sat down to the blueberry pie, and Mr. Stonecrop thanked them for it by offering suggestions on household discipline: the ship to be more tightly run, the loose cannon to be tethered, the runaway colt to be penned in. "A minister's house in order, a church in order. A minister's house in disorder, a church in disorder." Mr. Stonecrop intoned his creed and smiled as if pleased with himself.
When Mr. Stonecrop finally left, promising to send Dr. Pelham's bill the next morning, the house breathed slowly and quietly.
"The whole pie is gone," said Mrs. Buckminster. "He ate half of it himself."
'"The congregation, Minister, will tell you what it thinks, and what it wants you to think,'" Reverend Buckminster repeated quietly. Turner's mother held him by the elbow.'"The congregation, Minister, will tell you what it wants you to think.'"
He looked at his son for a long time. He put a hand out to his shoulder. "Good Lord, Turner," he said finally, "you're getting so much bigger these days."
By the time Turner went to bed that night—having had his supper after his blueberry pie—the silver moon had set, and the racing stars had puffed out their fiery white chests. Turner looked at them through his window; he could almost see them puffing. In the dark, the cranked horn of a doryman sounded, and then another, higher pitched. Back and forth they talked to each other, braving the immense presence of the dark.
On that very same night, Turner had
"I wonder," said Turner slowly, "if it's only the folks on Malaga Island who can make you think what they want you to think."
"So now you're impertinent, too."
Turner stood, and it suddenly seemed to him that his father was much smaller than he had been before. There simply wasn't as much of him as he remembered.
The only awkwardness the moment lacked was the omnipotent presence of Mr. Stonecrop, who soon remedied the absence. He knocked and opened the parsonage door at the same time, understanding that his importance in the town, his importance in the church, and the importance of his mission gave him the right to step in on the minister whom he paid every Sunday morning from his tithes and offerings.
"Buckminster!" he hollered. "Buckminster!" Mrs. Buckminster did not come out from the kitchen, but the iron skillet for the late dinner clanged sharply twice.
Immediately, Mr. Stonecrop's presence filled the parlor, and before either Reverend Buckminster or Turner had said a single word—before they had even thought a single thought—Mr. Stonecrop was announcing that all of the boats were back in, that the Negro girl had been taken to Dr. Pelham and there would be five or six stitches but that was all, that his bill would be sent on to the town, and that it was likely not to be inexpensive. "That's always the way of it," declared Mr. Stonecrop. "God sees fit to let something happen to a Malaga pauper, and Phippsburg pays the bill. It's a scandal."
"I will pay the bill," said Reverend Buckminster.
"Only appropriate," said Mr. Stonecrop. "All of First Congregational is wondering what on earth a minister's son is doing out in a dory with a Negro girl."
"She was hurt, and he was taking her back to the island. He didn't know the tide would carry him out."
Mr. Stonecrop raised a craggy eyebrow. "The congregation will wonder what he was doing on the shore with her in the first place," Mr. Stonecrop pointed out.
"Well," said Reverend Buckminster, "the congregation must think what it will think."
"The congregation, Minister, will tell you what it thinks, and what it wants you to think," said Mr. Stonecrop, and the words wound like barbed wire around the Buckminsters.
The door to the kitchen opened. "Pie, anyone?" Mrs. Buckminster asked, her voice quavery. They sat down to the blueberry pie, and Mr. Stonecrop thanked them for it by offering suggestions on household discipline: the ship to be more tightly run, the loose cannon to be tethered, the runaway colt to be penned in. "A minister's house in order, a church in order. A minister's house in disorder, a church in disorder." Mr. Stonecrop intoned his creed and smiled as if pleased with himself.
When Mr. Stonecrop finally left, promising to send Dr. Pelham's bill the next morning, the house breathed slowly and quietly.
"The whole pie is gone," said Mrs. Buckminster. "He ate half of it himself."
'"The congregation, Minister, will tell you what it thinks, and what it wants you to think,'" Reverend Buckminster repeated quietly. Turner's mother held him by the elbow.'"The congregation, Minister, will tell you what it wants you to think.'"
He looked at his son for a long time. He put a hand out to his shoulder. "Good Lord, Turner," he said finally, "you're getting so much bigger these days."
By the time Turner went to bed that night—having had his supper after his blueberry pie—the silver moon had set, and the racing stars had puffed out their fiery white chests. Turner looked at them through his window; he could almost see them puffing. In the dark, the cranked horn of a doryman sounded, and then another, higher pitched. Back and forth they talked to each other, braving the immense presence of the dark.
On that very same night, Turner had
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