find."
"Good, good," Preacher Judd said rubbing his hands together. "You can let me make the outfit. I'm real good at it."
While Widow Case went to look for a sheet, Preacher Judd ate one of the sandwiches, took one and handed it down to Cinderella. Cinderella promptly took the bread off of it, ate the meat, and laid the mustard sides down on her knees.
When the meat was chewed, she took to the mustard bread, cramming it into her mouth and smacking her lips loudly.
"Is that good, sugar?" Preacher Judd asked.
Cinderella smiled some mustard bread at him, and he couldn't help but think the mustard looked a lot like baby shit, and he had to turn his head away.
"This do?" Widow Case said, coming into the room with a slightly yellowed sheet and a pair of scissors.
"That's the thing," Preacher Judd said, taking a swig from his ice tea. He set the tea down and called to Cinderella.
"Come on, sugar, let's you and me go in the bedroom there and get you fixed up and surprise your mama."
It took a bit of coaxing, but he finally got her up and took her into the bedroom with the sheet and scissors. He half-closed the bedroom door and called out to the widow,
"You're going to like this."
After a moment, Widow Case heard the scissors snipping away and Cinderella grunting like a hog to trough. When the scissor sound stopped, she heard Preacher Judd talking in a low voice, trying to coach Cinderella on something, but as she wanted it to be a surprise, she quit trying to hear. She went over to the couch and fiddled with a sandwich, but she didn't eat it. As soon as she'd gotten out of eyesight of Preacher Judd, she'd upended the last of his root beer and it was as bad as he said. It sort of made her stomach sick and didn't encourage her to add any food to it.
Suddenly the bedroom door was knocked back, and Cinderella, having a big time of it, charged into the room with her arms held out in front of her yelling, "Woooo, woooo, goats."
Widow Case let out a laugh. Cinderella ran around the room yelling, "Woooo, woooo, goats," until she tripped over the coffee table and sent the sandwich makings and herself flying.
Preacher Judd, who'd followed her in after a second, went over and helped her up. The Widow Case, who had curled up on the couch in natural defense against the flying food and retarded girl, now uncurled when she saw something dangling on Preacher Judd's arm. She knew what it was, but she asked anyway. "What's that?"
"One of your piller cases. For a trick-or-treat sack."
"Oh," Widow Case said stiffly, and she went to straightening up the coffee table and picking the ham and makings off the floor.
Preacher Judd saw that the sun was no longer visible. He walked over to a window and looked out. The tumble bug of night was even more blue-black now and the moon was out, big as a dinner plate, and looking like it had gravy stains on it.
"I think we've got to go now," he said. "We'll be back in a few hours, just long enough to run the houses around here."
"Whoa, whoa," Widow Case said. "Trick-or-treatin' I can go for, but I can't let my daughter go off with no strange man."
"I ain't strange. I'm a preacher."
"You strike me as an all right fella that wants to do things right, but I still can't let you take my daughter off without me going. People would talk."
Preacher Judd started to sweat. "I'll pay you some money to let me take her on."
Widow Case stared at him. She had moved up close now and he could smell root beer on her breath. Right then he knew what she'd done and he didn't like it any. It wasn't that he'd wanted it, but somehow it seemed dishonest to him that she swigged it without asking him. He thought she was going to pour it out. He started to say as much when she spoke up.
"I don't like the sound of that none, you offering me money."
"I just want her for the night," he said, pulling Cinderella close to him. "She'd have fun."
"I don't like the sound of that no better. Maybe you ain't as right thinking as I
"Good, good," Preacher Judd said rubbing his hands together. "You can let me make the outfit. I'm real good at it."
While Widow Case went to look for a sheet, Preacher Judd ate one of the sandwiches, took one and handed it down to Cinderella. Cinderella promptly took the bread off of it, ate the meat, and laid the mustard sides down on her knees.
When the meat was chewed, she took to the mustard bread, cramming it into her mouth and smacking her lips loudly.
"Is that good, sugar?" Preacher Judd asked.
Cinderella smiled some mustard bread at him, and he couldn't help but think the mustard looked a lot like baby shit, and he had to turn his head away.
"This do?" Widow Case said, coming into the room with a slightly yellowed sheet and a pair of scissors.
"That's the thing," Preacher Judd said, taking a swig from his ice tea. He set the tea down and called to Cinderella.
"Come on, sugar, let's you and me go in the bedroom there and get you fixed up and surprise your mama."
It took a bit of coaxing, but he finally got her up and took her into the bedroom with the sheet and scissors. He half-closed the bedroom door and called out to the widow,
"You're going to like this."
After a moment, Widow Case heard the scissors snipping away and Cinderella grunting like a hog to trough. When the scissor sound stopped, she heard Preacher Judd talking in a low voice, trying to coach Cinderella on something, but as she wanted it to be a surprise, she quit trying to hear. She went over to the couch and fiddled with a sandwich, but she didn't eat it. As soon as she'd gotten out of eyesight of Preacher Judd, she'd upended the last of his root beer and it was as bad as he said. It sort of made her stomach sick and didn't encourage her to add any food to it.
Suddenly the bedroom door was knocked back, and Cinderella, having a big time of it, charged into the room with her arms held out in front of her yelling, "Woooo, woooo, goats."
Widow Case let out a laugh. Cinderella ran around the room yelling, "Woooo, woooo, goats," until she tripped over the coffee table and sent the sandwich makings and herself flying.
Preacher Judd, who'd followed her in after a second, went over and helped her up. The Widow Case, who had curled up on the couch in natural defense against the flying food and retarded girl, now uncurled when she saw something dangling on Preacher Judd's arm. She knew what it was, but she asked anyway. "What's that?"
"One of your piller cases. For a trick-or-treat sack."
"Oh," Widow Case said stiffly, and she went to straightening up the coffee table and picking the ham and makings off the floor.
Preacher Judd saw that the sun was no longer visible. He walked over to a window and looked out. The tumble bug of night was even more blue-black now and the moon was out, big as a dinner plate, and looking like it had gravy stains on it.
"I think we've got to go now," he said. "We'll be back in a few hours, just long enough to run the houses around here."
"Whoa, whoa," Widow Case said. "Trick-or-treatin' I can go for, but I can't let my daughter go off with no strange man."
"I ain't strange. I'm a preacher."
"You strike me as an all right fella that wants to do things right, but I still can't let you take my daughter off without me going. People would talk."
Preacher Judd started to sweat. "I'll pay you some money to let me take her on."
Widow Case stared at him. She had moved up close now and he could smell root beer on her breath. Right then he knew what she'd done and he didn't like it any. It wasn't that he'd wanted it, but somehow it seemed dishonest to him that she swigged it without asking him. He thought she was going to pour it out. He started to say as much when she spoke up.
"I don't like the sound of that none, you offering me money."
"I just want her for the night," he said, pulling Cinderella close to him. "She'd have fun."
"I don't like the sound of that no better. Maybe you ain't as right thinking as I
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