by MagdalenMary495
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program
"Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and
have been used without permission. No
copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.
The dark haired boy sat on an abandoned stump with his face
buried in his hands. If he could just begin this horrible, awful day over
again! If that name could shoot back into his lips and never have been spoken!
If, if, if...
He sat on in dejection, knowing sooner or later he would have to go home. How
he dreaded it. Feared it. Just imagining what Father would say and do filled
his stomach with a queasy churning. He held both his trembling hands between
his knees. Each time he thought he might have braced his nerve enough to stand
and begin the walk home to his doom, his quivering legs betrayed him and he
plopped back down. If only he never had to go home again.
Never had to confess to being so naughty or using that forbidden word.
Father would not be pleased at his behavior today. If only he had thought
before being such a disobedient boy! As soon as Father began to scold, and the
boy had no doubt he was in for a scolding to end all the ones before, his first
stern words would be, “You should have known better!”
He couldn’t deny it. He did know better. Even as he let his temper flare, as
his hands flew to mischief and his mouth uttered that unforgivable name, he’d
known it was wrong. He even knew with one part of his mind each action would
call for swift and certain punishment at home. He didn’t care. Surprisingly,
being as horrible as he could be gave him a heady feeling. A sense of power to
have the Sunday School teacher screaming he was a “holy terror.”
It was only after the deeds were done he began to feel fear. Mrs. Bramwell was
a fearsome figure of wrath as she shouted imprecations at him, listing each crime
one by one. “I certainly expected better behavior from a Barkley!” She
condemned. “What will your Father and Mother say?”
He could feel his throat squeezing shut, a prickling in his eyes. He would NOT
cry. Not in front of the other children, especially not in front of his
disbelieving brother who’d watched his tantrum with mouth agape. Even then,
although he felt some remorse for his actions, he could not be truly sorry for
them. Even for using THAT word.
It wasn’t fair!
The whole day had been too much. Mother insisting he waste a perfectly good
Saturday to help clean the church parsonage for the new preacher and his wife.
As if he didn’t already have every second of that day planned out! Then when
he’d gone grudgingly along to help, Mrs. Bramwell found fault with everything
he did. No matter how well he did it.
“You call that floor swept? Put some muscle into it boy!” “I want that carpet
beaten so not a speck of dust puffs out!” “Is that the way your Mother taught
you to wash a window? Look at those streaks! Do it over!” Well, it was enough
to make anyone throw a fit. Then when he’d just stopped to admire his new
slingshot...just look at it and run his fingers along the satin smooth
wood..she’d taken it away! “I’ll take that! You’re suppose to be working, not
playing.”
Well! There was only so much a boy could stand, especially one denied all those
golden hours of sunshine to stand in the midst of dust, dirt and a bunch a
gaggling girls. He hadn’t really meant to throw the blacking brush at Mrs.
Bramwell or to call her that hurtful name. But when she’d found fault with his
stove blacking it was the last insult. He knew he could polish a stove to
perfection. Mr. Silas always told him so.
“You call that stove shiny, Boy? I call it...” Her last words had been drowned
out in a shriek as she’d dodged the brush filled with blacking that sailed past
her head to hit the once pristine wall of the church parsonage. He’d kicked
over the pan of blacking, watching it mar the shiny surface of the just
polished floor. For good measure, he reached out and yanked as many curls as he
could pull, blond, brunette, black and red. Girls squealed and ran from his
kicking feet. Mrs. Bramwell shouted and ordered but he turned over all the
kitchen chairs just because. In his rage, he’d blurted out the most hurtful,
awfulest word he’d ever heard. It was in the Bible. Mother had read it to them
but she’d told them never to say it because it wasn’t a nice word. It was mean
and hurtful. The shock on Mrs. Bramwell’s face was enough to convince he should
run. Immediately.
He sighed, deeply. Standing up, he ran a dirt streaked arm across his teary
face and started the walk home. Father would be angry. Mother would be
mortified. Probably, he chocked back a sob, Father would take him to the
woodshed. He tried to stiffen his shoulders and be a man. Even if he did get
taken to the woodshed, it was better to get it over with than worry about it.
Still, he couldn’t quite stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks. It was
hard to feel like a man when your father was so much bigger and angrier.
Father was waiting when he got home just as he’d known he would be. No doubt
his tattle tailing brother had gotten home and spilled all about his bad
behavior. One look at Father’s stern face told him he was right.
“Son. I’ve heard an interesting tale from your brother about your day.”
“Yes, sir.” He hung his head too chocked up with misery to look at his Father’s
tight face.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
He sniffed. Shook his head. What was there to say? He’d done all those awful
things and now he’d be punished.
“Your brother has told me you threw a blacking brush at your Sunday School
teacher among other things and called her a forbidden name. Is that true? I
want the truth now, Jarrod Thomas!”
“Yes, Father, “ Jarrod sobbed, “I’m sorry, but I did! I called her a heathen!”
Note from "The Holding Pen" -- if the last line of this story doesn't make you chuckle (or at least smile), visit The Big Valley Discussion Board (a link can be found on the Favorite Links page) to find out what it truly means to be a Heathen!