The Auctioneer

As you all know so well, I have for years taken as my special missionary concern the plight of the orphans of Vietnam. Now a wonderful opportunity to serve God has come to me, and indirectly to you. Three days ago I received an invitation to serve on a delegation of clergy to the government of Vietnam to discuss facilitating the care of these needy children. Then, today, even as I was considering whether I was meant to leave my own parishioners, and whether I could afford the plane fare, a ticket was slipped under my door for the midnight flight to Hong Kong, where I can connect with a flight to Saigon. This anonymous donation from one or more of you came to me like the answer to my prayers and like an assurance that my participation in this delegation is meant to be.

Although I know that this probably means that Harlowe will not have a preacher at all this year, 1 hope that you will feel that through me you are all helping to save the lives of these poor children—the victims, in part, of America’s tragic involvement in Southeast Asia. May your prayers go with me, as mine are with you.

Janet Solossen

The service went on—the Lesson, the Responsive Reading, the Anthem. It seemed a normal service, and it was hard to realize that the man in the robes was Mudgett. Jimmy Ward preached the sermon, taking for his text “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” Much to Mim’s relief, he seemed exactly like Jimmy Ward, stumbling and apologizing and getting tangled in his words.

Afterwards, Mudgett made the announcements: coffee after the service, a fellowship dinner on Thursday, a meeting of the Women’s Overseas Mission group to sort clothing for the Vietnamese orphans. “We plan,” he said, “to continue church services on a regular basis while the preacher’s gone. Anyone who wants to help should speak to Mr. Ward or myself after the service.”

“That’s not even the way Red Mudgett talks,” Mim said on the way home.

“He was ever a weasel, that one,” Ma said. “Ain’t nothin’ he could do would surprise me.”

6

The week came when there were no nonessentials left. They couldn’t let Ma’s couch go, and not even Perly could have raised any cash for the kitchen table and benches John had put together from some old planks in the barn. As if he sensed their difficulty, the auctioneer came himself with Gore.

Dixie ran up the path to meet Lassie, her silky tail waving. John watched from the doorway as the two men approached. When they stood on the stoop facing him, he opened the storm door and stepped out to join them.

“There’s nothin’ left, Perly,” he said, his body firmly planted between Perly and his door. “There’s no point you stickin’ round. You can’t squeeze blood from a turnip.”

The auctioneer looked down on John, his brown eyes heavy with concern. “You’ve been very generous,” he said slowly. He stood so close that John inched back until he could feel the glass of the door against his shoulder blades.

Gore leaned on the cornerpost of the house, turning the handle of a rake around and around in his hands, not meeting John’s eyes. Finally he put the rake down and said, “It don’t matter, Johnny. All we want’s your guns.”

“My guns!”

Perly stooped to pick a sprig of mint growing near the door. He put it in his mouth and chewed it. “With hunting season coming up, we thought a special firearms auction might be a good idea.”

“So it’s come to disarmin’ us,” John said, standing solidly before his door.

Perly threw back his dark head and laughed. “If you’re working for law and order,” he said, “you have to admit it’s not a bad idea.”

“It happens I need my gun,” John said.

“What for?” Perly said. “Town records show you haven’t taken out a hunting license for ten years.”

“A farmer needs a gun,” John said.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got an old muzzle-loader?” Perly asked, glancing through the door into the kitchen. “Those are fetching a pretty price these days.”