The Devil’s Biscuit
by John D. Connelley
Sunday morning breakfast: orange juice, fried eggs, bacon, sometimes sausage, and a small platter of large biscuits; two for Billy, one for his sister, one for his mom, and always one left over; no one ever took it. His dad always had two pieces of toast with two pats of butter per slice. That’s the way things were until, one morning, Billy reached for that last biscuit.
“No, no, leave the last one. That’s the Devil’s biscuit,” Billy’s mom said.
“Really, Mom, why can’t I have the last one?”
“Because... that’s the way it is.”
“What if someone eats it?”
“You don’t want to find out,” his mom said and quickly took the platter to the kitchen.
Next Sunday, Billy was the last to leave the table. His sister had called for their mom to come help with her tangled barrette. He eyed the biscuit. He looked around. He picked it up. He smelled it. He put it back down. He looked around again. He picked up the platter and took it to the kitchen.
Billy’s mom walked back into the dining room, paused, then left. Perhaps, he hoped, she thought she had already taken the biscuit to its mystical destination. Billy pondered about waiting to see what his mom did with the biscuit; or he could eat it. Fifteen seconds later, Billy was in the back yard dusting the crumbs off his chin and shirt.
“Billy,” his mom called out the back door.
He felt his body stiffen as if an electric shock had pulsed through his body.
“Yes, Mom.” His throat was dry.
“You can play for an hour, then you have to get ready. Okay?”
“Okay.”
It worked.
Church. Boring. Uncomfortable. Itchy suit. Choking tie. Squirming body. Pinch on the leg from Mom. Over. Whew.
In the parking lot, Billy saw a tall, thin man in a black suit standing by the back fence. He was really scootched up against it. Billy thought he looked hungry.
On the way home, the family stopped for ice cream. It happened so infrequently, it was always a surprise. The man at the drive-through looked familiar. He stared at the cones he handed out, one by one. He slightly licked his lips as the last one went to Billy.
At home, Billy was in the back yard chasing his dog, Buster. As the dog zipped away, Billy stopped to catch his breath; he noticed how long his shadow was. Buster gave a timid growl from behind, and Billy turned. The tall, thin man was facing him. No black suit. No ice cream cones. Just overalls and a yellow-stained T-shirt.
“You ate my biscuit.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“A half hour out of church, and you tell a lie.”
“No, I mean yes... I ate your biscuit.”
“Why?”
“I was hungry.”
“You lie again. Do you know what it means to be hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Truly hungry?”
Billy thought about pictures of starving people he had seen in his health class. “No.”
“Yet, you ate my biscuit. And after your mother told you whose it was.”
“I didn’t really believe her.”
“So, you thought she lied.”
“No, not exactly. Just joking.”
“You even asked what would happen. And she told you, yes?”
“Not exactly.”
“What, exactly, did she say?”
“That I wouldn’t want to know.”
“’You don’t want to find out.’ Isn’t that exactly what she said?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Billy, are you ready to find out?”
As the tall, thin man reached for Billy, Buster sank his teeth into the back of the man’s leg. Billy ducked and dashed for the back door. He skidded inside, spun around and, as soon as Buster got in, slammed it. Billy peered through the window but saw no tall, thin man.
“Billy!” said his mom, trotting into the room.
“It’s the Devil! I ate his biscuit! He’s after me!”
“Billy, that’s ridiculous. That was just a story. I eat that last biscuit. I can’t wolf them down as fast as you, so I eat it later.”
“But... the Devil!”
“What an imagination. Fueled by guilt, no doubt. Now, stop slamming doors. The Devil, really!”
Billy’s mom left the room, and Billy resumed peering out the window. “We know what happened, don’t we, Buster?”
Buster went to his water dish and lapped loudly.
Next Sunday breakfast, Billy eyed the last biscuit as he ate his bacon and eggs.
“Billy, would you clear the table? I’ve got to fix the hem on my dress really quick.”
“Sure, Mom.”
Billy cleared the table, leaving the platter with its lonely biscuit for last. Finally, he picked up the platter and took it to the kitchen. He stared at it for a moment, then slowly backed away.
The sermon that day was about the Garden of Eden. Billy paid attention — for once.
Copyright © 2017 by John D. Connelley
