Hope Takes Flight Page 3

  She began to pay attention to what Owen was saying. He was speaking of their younger brothers and sisters and their hard lot at home. “I don’t like to be judgmental,” he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “but those kids don’t have it easy. I can’t see why they’ve stayed as long as they have.”

  Amos knew at once that Owen was referring to Agnes and agreed. “Yes, it’s strange. Logan and Peter are both old enough to be out on their own, but they haven’t gotten away. Maybe they just don’t have enough get-up-and-go. I don’t know. I’ve never understood it.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” Owen said abruptly. “Gavin won’t be around long. He’s downright sick of farm life. Doesn’t talk about anything but cars and motors and engines! He begged me to help him get away when I talked to him yesterday.”

  Amos nodded. “Yes, he talked to me, too, and I’d like to help him. He has real talent.”

  Rose, too, was concerned. “We’ve all got to help him.”

  Allie, Owen’s wife, who had been quiet during breakfast, spoke up. “He’s like my brother Joey. Doesn’t care about anything but cars.” At the age of twenty-two, Joey Dupree was traveling around the country, driving in races whenever he could and generally working as a mechanic for the other racers. “Maybe Joey will know of something Gavin could do.”

  “It’s that Agnes!” Lylah said with a flash of anger. “She treats those kids like dirt!”

  No one said anything for a moment, realizing their father would never put Agnes out of the house. It seemed hopeless.

  Finally Owen said, “Well, let’s make this a day to remember, anyway. The county fair’s in town, I see. We’ll take them out to the fairgrounds, treat them to a fine meal in a big restaurant. We’ll show them the best time they ever had, okay?”

  The rest of them took up on the idea immediately. They finished their meal, collected the children, and started back to the farm.

  As soon as they got there, Amos informed them of the plan. At once everyone began getting ready—washing, combing their hair, putting on their best clothes. Gavin, however, took no pains at all with his personal dress. Instead, he came out to talk to Owen, who was standing by the cars.

  “Wish you’d left your car with me so I coulda worked on it. Cleaned it up, got it all tuned up,” he said wistfully. “That ol’ heap of yours is in bad shape, Owen.”

  Owen glanced over at the 1908 Hupmobile. “Well, I got it cheap, but it had been wrecked. Pretty good car, though,” he said, admiring the brass headlights and the square lantern that gleamed where he had polished them. The open two-seater boasted a steering wheel on the left side, a lever for a brake, and had wooden spokes and small tires.

  Gavin walked over to the automobile and ran his hands over the chassis almost lovingly. “Hmm. Sliding gear transmission and magneto ignition,” he murmured, and began to explain how it all worked.

  Owen’s strong face grew thoughtful as he listened to the boy. He knew how Gavin felt. He himself had been trapped on the farm as a young man, escaping only after Agnes came to rule the house. He longed to find some way to help Gavin and finally said, “You know, maybe we can get you a job as a mechanic’s helper in town.”

  “Why, that’d be great, Owen!” Gavin exclaimed. “Do you really think I could?”

  Owen studied the boy for a moment. “God can do anything, Gavin. If he can make a world, he can get you off this old farm.” He smiled, went over, threw his arm around his brother, and gave him a squeeze. “We’ll see what God can do, but we’ll give him all the help we can.”

  Just then the door opened, and the clan boiled out, everyone jabbering excitedly. They piled into the cars and Amos led the way, followed by Owen’s Hupmobile, and trailed by the old Model-A Gavin had found wrecked and had restored. All the way to town, Owen kept looking back to make sure the ancient car hadn’t quit, as it usually did. But the small caravan rolled safely into Fort Smith and followed the traffic flowing toward the fairgrounds. Finally they pulled up, along with hundreds of cars that filled the huge lot.

  Spilling out of the cars, the group joined the crowd moving toward the front gate, where Amos paid the twenty-five-cent admission fee for all of them. For the next two hours, they wandered around the carnival, taking in the sideshows, letting Jerry and Maury ride the Ferris wheel. Soon Lenora and Christie demanded their turn. With much squealing and clinging to one another, they took their first ride in outer space.

  There were merry-go-rounds and other rides, and it did Amos good to see how much fun they had. He whispered, “Rose, I should have done this before. These kids don’t have anything. Just look how much a little carnival means to them.”

  “I know, Amos.” Rose squeezed his hand warmly. “We’ll have to have the girls…the boys, too…come and visit us in New York. Not all at once, of course, but one at a time. We can show them around, find them jobs.” Her dark eyes glowed. She’d always been a compassionate person, and now she cast a sympathetic eye at her young relations, saying firmly, “You’re right. We’ll have to do more for them.”

  By noon, they were all hungry, despite having eaten popcorn and exploring the mystery of cotton candy. “Why, I’d as soon eat grass as this stuff!” Logan sputtered. Lylah laughed at him, and then Amos led them into a large tent where they had hot dogs, heavily laced with mustard and chowchow, and ice cream for dessert, all washed down with glass after glass of lemonade.

  “Probably make us all sick.” Owen grinned. “But I guess it’s worth it.”

  That afternoon, they took in some of the agricultural exhibitions. “I see enough horses and cows and pigs when I’m home,” Pete complained. “Let’s go back to the fairgrounds.”

  The others agreed, and they went back. This time, as they entered the midway area, they heard a barker making his spiel. “Step right up!” he cried out in a shrill tone, and everyone pressed forward to crowd around the platform.

  Several men wearing robes were standing in front of the tent. The painted canvas behind the barker read: BOXING SHOW! GREATEST BOXERS IN AMERICA! WIN $100 IF YOU CAN STAY IN THE RING FOR 5 ROUNDS!

  The barker was warming to his task. “Now, some of you young men out there, hear this! Want to impress your sweetheart? No better way to do it than to demonstrate your skill in the manly art of self-defense.” He waved a thin arm toward the robed men behind him. “We have here three of the finest proponents of the art of boxing to be found in this great country of ours. All of them have boxed in New York, Chicago, and other great cities of America. Now then, we are offering you a deal you can’t refuse! We got Jackie Smith,” he gestured toward the smallest of the men. “One hundred twenty-six pounds for you lightweight fellows.” He motioned to the next man, who was obviously larger. “At 160 pounds, we have Cole Kelly for you middleweights—” He paused, adding dramatically, “And we have Killer Morgan for those of you who’ve lived a full life!”

  He let the titter of laughter ripple through the crowd, then said, “Killer weighs in at 210 pounds and doesn’t get much work. Not many men want to get in the same ring with him. Now, which of you fellas will be first to make an easy hundred bucks?”

  The shill continued his patter and, without too much trouble, found volunteers to fight the lightweight and the middleweight. While he talked on, a big man, tall and ponderous, made his way through the crowd. Coming up behind Owen, he tapped him on the shoulder. “Hello, Preacher. Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this.”

  Owen turned and, recognizing the man who’d spoken, smiled. “Hello, Governor.” A glint of humor sparked in his eyes. “Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this, either.”

  Governor Al Benning laughed loudly, and some of the spectators who had recognized him turned to watch, listening avidly. “That’s where you’re wrong. Look at these votes around here, Preacher,” he said. “Any time you get this many folks together, you’ll find a politician right in the middle of them!”

  A laugh went around the crowd, and someone yelled, “That�
�s the way, Guv! We’re for you!”

  Al Benning was one of the most popular governors Arkansas had ever had. Though the man had never seen the inside of a college, he was a shrewd, able politician and had learned to do the infighting necessary to rise to the top of the heap. He knew, it seemed, half the people in his home state. Everywhere he went, he could call hundreds—even thousands—of men and women by their first names.

  Now, seeing Owen and remembering a story he had read about him—“Fighter Turned Preacher”—he saw an opportunity to make a little splash, perhaps sway a few votes in the upcoming election.

  “Well, now, Preacher,” he said, “I’ve been wondering for years when you were going to stop preaching and get back to your regular trade. I always thought you’d be the one to whup Jack Johnson.” He shook his head sadly. “You was the one white hope that I had some confidence in.”

  Jack Johnson, the black heavyweight champion, had ruled the boxing world for years. The search for the Great White Hope had swept the country, but no white man had been found who could outbox the crafty champion until the previous April, when Jess Willard had knocked him out to regain the heavyweight championship of the world.

  “I guess any fighting I do will be with the devil, Governor,” Owen said with a smile and a shake of his head. Then he grinned. “I’m having a meeting in Little Rock next week. I’d sure like to see you there in the front row.”

  Benning grinned. “Get me up with the rest of the sinners where you can rake us with both guns?”

  “Something like that. Will you come?”

  Benning knew the crowd was listening, and a thought came to him. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Preacher.” He glanced up at the huge heavyweight fighter on the platform. “I know you’re not a gambling man, so I’ll just make you an offer.” He waved his hands and shook his head to indicate his sincerity. “Not a bet, you understand, just an offer.”

  “An offer?” Owen asked. “What kind of offer?”

  “You get up there and go five rounds with that fellow, and I’ll come five straight nights to your meeting in Little Rock.”

  Owen hesitated. He glanced at Amos, whose lips formed the words, Do it, Owen. Recklessly, he agreed. “Why, I’ll take you up on that offer. I’d do just about anything to get a man who needs God in hearing sound of the gospel.”

  A shout went up and the shill said, “Now, there’s a sport for you! Do I understand, sir, that you’re a minister of the gospel?”

  Owen nodded. “That’s right. I’m an evangelist.”

  A satisfied smile curved the barker’s lips. “Well, we’re always glad to entertain the ministry here, aren’t we, Killer?”

  The huge boxer looked the part—battered lips, scar tissue over his eyes, shoulders bulky under the robe. He grinned, exposing broken teeth. “I ain’t had a preacher to whip in quite a while!” he said loudly. “Bring the reverend on back.”

  It was a barker’s dream, for everyone within hearing distance clambered forward to buy a seat. “Well, ordinarily the price is fifty cents for admission,” he said, seizing his opportunity. “But seeing as how we have the governor here, I’m afraid we’re going to have to charge a dollar.”

  A cry of protest went up, but there was no shortage of takers. The ticket taker handed out tickets until he finally had to say, “No more room!” And still the people surged forward to get into the tent.

  “I’ll be your second,” Amos told Owen. “Don’t drink anything if they offer it to you. It’ll probably be doped.”

  He gave his family the tickets he had bought for them, then he and Owen accompanied the barker back to a small dressing room, barely big enough for the boxers with the show. But they were already dressed, and Owen quickly stripped down and put on a pair of rather smelly trunks he found and shrugged on an equally ripe bathrobe.

  “I’m not sure,” he said uneasily, as he slipped the robe on, “that I’m doing the right thing.”

  “Well, I’m not either,” Amos admitted. “That pug looks pretty tough. Don’t let him mess you up. If he gives you too much trouble, just go down for the count.”

  “Take a dive?” Owen smiled. “I never took one in my life, Amos, and I’m not going to start now.”

  In the large tent where the fight was to be held, Logan and Pete had used their considerable height and strength to muscle their way to good seats down at the front. The seats themselves consisted of rickety folding chairs that swayed dangerously when one sat on them. But the family found themselves places, and talked excitedly of the fight.

  The men—Will, Logan, Peter, and Gavin—were all bright-eyed with anticipation. Will especially had taken great pride in his son’s pugilistic career and now leaned forward, his face alive with excitement. “I bet he floors that gorilla in the first round,” he muttered hopefully.

  “I don’t know, Pa,” Gavin said, shaking his head. “Owen hasn’t fought in a long time. That fighter looks pretty tough to me.”

  “We shouldn’t have let him do this,” Lylah said nervously, but she knew stopping Owen would have been a difficult task.

  Behind the crowd, Governor Benning had drawn the manager to one side and was whispering in his ear. “I sure hate to think of having to sit in church five nights in a row,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a folded bill and showed it to the thin entrepreneur. “There’s a hundred here if your man puts the preacher away so I don’t have to do that.”

  The barker grinned. “Don’t worry about it, Guv,” he said confidently. “I’ll put a bug in Morgan’s ear. He’ll flatten the preacher so fast it’ll make your head swim!”

  The manager was a good showman, and he began the event with the lightweight and a smallish young man with no skill, but with great enthusiasm, who lasted four rounds with the fighter called Jackie Smith.

  The second fight was shorter. A burly farm boy, stripped to the waist and bulging with muscles, plodded after Cole Kelly, who toyed with him for three rounds. Then the fighter sent a thunderous right to catch the young farmer in the jaw and put him out like a light.

  Finally the barker stepped to the center of the ring. “Ladies and gentlemen, we now have the feature presentation of the evening. In this corner, the Reverend Owen Stuart, weighing in at 183 pounds. And in this corner, we have a contender for the heavyweight championship of the world, at 210 pounds, Killer Morgan. Come out, gentlemen, and get your instructions.”

  Owen slapped his gloves together and strode out into the middle of the ring. He stared across at the beetle-browed Morgan. “Good afternoon, Brother. I hope you are well.”

  Morgan grunted, and his thick lips curled into a snarl. “Better say your prayers, Preacher. I’m gonna tear your head off!”

  The manager muttered the usual instructions. “Break clean. Go to your neutral corner in case of a knockdown.” Then he sent the two men back. Owen shook off his robe, and the bell sounded.

  Morgan, with the hundred-dollar bonus in his mind, rushed across the ring like an enraged bull and threw a right at Owen’s head that, had it landed, would have ended the fight right then and there.

  Owen simply moved his head to one side and allowed the burly heavyweight to go rushing by him. He had such grace that it was like a matador allowing the ponderous bull to go by, following the motion of the cape.

  The crowd yelled and Morgan turned, his face red with anger. He’d been slow. This time he came in more carefully. “Don’t worry, Sweetie-pie,” he taunted. “I’ll catch up with you yet. You can run but you can’t hide.”

  Owen, up on the balls of his feet, moved backward, easily catching the punches the big man threw at him on his gloves, or else flipping them. His feet whispered sibilantly on the canvas floor and he was aware that he was enjoying himself, which was a little strange, he thought, considering he never liked fighting all that much. However, he was pleased at the opportunity to get the governor to one of his meetings, and for the first round, he thought about what he might preach to such an august member of his congre
gation.

  The first round ended, and Morgan went back and slumped down on his stool. “What’s the matter with you!” the barker hissed. “Quit playing around and put this guy away!”

  “He’s slippery,” Morgan growled. He spat out a mouthful of water and glared across the ring at Owen. “Pretty good, too. But I’ll get him this time.”

  But it was not that easy. In the second round, try as he might, he could not land a clean blow on the weaving, dodging, shadowy form of Owen Stuart. Around and around the ring they moved, Owen throwing light lefts that connected sharply and effortlessly sidestepping Morgan’s punches.

  The crowd began to cheer, and by round four, the barker was desperate. “You’ve gotta spike this guy, Killer!” he said. “It’s gonna make us look bad if you don’t and, besides, we’ll be out a hundred bucks!”

  “I’ll get him this time,” Morgan muttered. “I’ll rough him up and get him to lookin’ down…then I’ll nail him.”

  The bell sounded for the final round, and Amos was ecstatic. “Just three more minutes, Kid! Keep on dancing around that big ape!”

  “Okay, Brother, I’ll do what I can.”

  Owen went out once again, but had barely reached the center of the ring before he was met by another mad bull rush, Morgan throwing leather from every angle. Owen was caught off guard, and a hard left caught him high on the head. It made the stars dance before his eyes and put a metallic taste in his mouth, a sensation he remembered clearly from the old days. He was driven backwards, and for thirty seconds, the bully Morgan threw every punch he had. Some of them were landing below the belt, which brought a sickness to Owen’s mouth.