At Home in Mitford

by Jan Karon

  Recently, he’d heard that the bishop’s wife was trying to collect a party to walk a portion of the Appalachian Trail, but since he attracted mosquitoes in swarms, this was not an option.

  When he arrived at the office earlier than usual, Uncle Billy was sitting on the single step in front of the door, wearing his deceased brother-in-law’s finest three-piece suit, and smelling strongly of mothballs.

  When he saw Father Tim approaching, he removed his hat.

  “Mornin’, Preacher.”

  “Good morning to you, Uncle Billy. You’re out mighty early.”

  “Me and Rose like to get up with the chickens,” he said, his gold tooth gleaming.

  Uncle Billy looked carefully at the books that lined the office walls, as the rector made coffee.

  “I always did want to git educated,” he said soberly. “But I lived down in th’ valley and couldn’t stay with my schoolin’, don’t you know. I learned to do sums, and I’ve drawed a few pictures in m’ time, but that’s about all.”

  “What kind of pictures?”

  “Oh, dogs and th’ like. And mountains. And fields and flowers and orchards an’ all. Outdoor things, don’t you know, that’s what I like.”

  “Well, sir, I’d be pleased to see some of your drawings when the notion strikes.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a few here and there, hid back. I’ll bring you some, if you’re sure you want t’ see ’em. They’re not much, they’re drawed with pencil, and I’ve not showed ’em off to any but Rose.”

  Father Tim poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Uncle Billy. “How is Miss Rose?”

  “Oh, well, mean as ever, y’ might say.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Mean as all get-out, don’t you know. But that’s ’er illness. Sometimes she’s good as gold, and those’re the times I live for. When I come up from the valley and found Rose and married ’er, I thought I was one lucky man, and I still do. We been married forty-three years now, and I knowed she was sick. Right off, I knowed what I was gettin’ into. I’ve never spent a night away from ’er, don’t you know, she’s all I’ve got, and I’m thankful.”

  Father Tim knew that Miss Rose was schizophrenic and on daily medication.

  “I never went back to m’ people after I married Rose, I never seen ’em no more. Maybe I should have went back, but I couldn’t leave ’er. The first years, we didn’t have a car, I done my work at home, don’t you know, canin’ chairs, makin’ bird-houses, paintin’ signs. Rose, she had plenty of money comin’ in from Willard, but she always said, ‘Billy, this ain’t your’n, it’s mine, don’t touch it, you git your own.’ She kind of scorned me sometimes, but it was ’er illness.

  “Some days, she’d come and set on m’ lap an’ call me ’er Sweet William. She’d laugh an’ go on, and dance to th’ radio, an’ I’d git s’ fired up thinkin’ she was well, hit was pitiful. Then she’d turn right around and be like a rattler a strikin’. It’s grieved me that she never got better, like I thought she might.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help, Uncle Billy?”

  “Well, sir, I don’t know what it would be. The Baptists tried, the Presbyterians tried, the Methodists did their part, don’t you know. We’ve gone around to ’em all, but ain’t nothin’ worked. I wasn’t much on comin’ over here because of all th’ kneelin’ and gettin’ up and down and all, but we like it.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And you know you don’t have to kneel. You can stand or you can sit, just as well. Jesus prayed in both those ways.”

  There was silence as Uncle Billy took a grateful sip of his coffee, and considered this.

  “You know, Uncle Billy, our church can’t heal Miss Rose any more than the Methodists or the Baptists can. Only God can heal. But we’ll do all we can, you have my word.”

  “I thank you, Preacher.”

  Father Tim turned the answering machine on, as he usually did when counseling, and sat down in his swivel chair. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

  “Well, you see, all those years ago when Willard, her brother, died, he knowed his baby sister had a illness of some kind, so he left ’er that big ol’ house, don’t you know, an’ all them fine antiques. An’ th’ way he left it was, it would all go t’ the town when she passed.

  “Now what’s been worryin’ me is that if Rose passes before I do, I won’t have no place t’ call home.

  “Sometimes in th’ winter, she won’t run the furnace and gits awful sick in the chest, but she won’t let me git the doctor. That’s when I go to thinkin’, I’ll be on th’ state, I’ll be on th’ welfare, if she takes a bad turn.”

  “I see.”

  “All kind of people want to buy that place, nobody knows that the town’ll get it, except Rose’s old lawyer over in Wesley.”

  “I’m not much at lawyering,” said the rector.

  “But I believe the town could make a special dispensation, if they cared to. I believe there could be a way for you to go on living there, no matter what they decide to do with the property.

  “Why don’t you let me look into it, and if you’ll come back next week sometime and bring me those drawings of yours, we’ll talk it over.”

  “I’d hate f’r word to git out about th’ town endin’ up with th’ place. Rose never did like to talk about that, don’t you know.”

  “Nobody will hear it from me.”

  Uncle Billy grinned. “Well, Preacher, you’ve took a load off my mind, and that’s a fact. I’ve been wrestlin’ with this f’r a good while, and I’m just goin’ to set it down in th’ road and leave it.”

  “That’s a good plan, Uncle Billy. God asks us not to worry about tomorrow.”

  “That’s a hard one, Preacher.”

  “It sure is. And it takes practice. Just stick with today, is what he recommends. Of course, it helps to stick with him, while we’re at it.”

  “I’ve been stickin’ with him for a good many years. Not like I ought to, but I want t’ do better, don’t you know.”

  “Why don’t we have a prayer?” He put his arm around Uncle Billy’s shoulders.

  “Father, we thank you for Bill Watson’s faith in you, and for his willingness to let you be in control. We turn this matter over to you now, and ask for the wisdom to proceed, through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

  "A-men! Y’ know, the Lord always has knowed me as Bill instead of Billy, just like you said!”

  When the two men parted, he made a phone call to his cousin, Walter, who was also his attorney.

  Then he got down to business with his sermon. Oddly enough, his meeting with Uncle Billy had given him just the insight he needed on a certain difficult point.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Father, but there’s bats in your belfry.” Russell Jacks pushed open the door of the office and peered in.

  “Ah, well, Russell! It’s been that way since an early age. Come in, come in!”

  Russell had been the sexton at the Chapel of Our Lord and Savior for nearly twenty years, but, due to a back ailment, had been living in the valley with his daughter for a year.

  “I’m mighty glad to see you, my friend,” said Father Tim, wringing Russell’s gnarled hand with real feeling. “Welcome home!”

  “Soon as we get them bats out of there, I’ll scrape up th’ droppin’s and work ’em in th’ flower beds.”

  Russell Jacks was back and, without missing a beat, ready to get on with his work.

  “When in the nation is our bells comin’ home?” he wanted to know.

  “October, November, around then. All the way from England, at last! It’s been a long, dry spell with no bells chiming at Lord’s Chapel. And it’s been a long, dry spell without you, Russell. Tell me about your back. Is it in good working order?”

  “I’d do that, Father, but I’ve got my little granboy standin’ outside.” Russell was clasping his hat over his heart, as he usually did in the presence of clergy.

  “Let’s bring him in, then!” Father Tim
stepped to the door and looked out. There, standing at the corner of the stone building, was a barefoot, freckle-faced, red-haired boy in dirty overalls.

  I declare, thought the rector. Tom Sawyer!

  “His mama’s poorly,” said Russell, “and cain’t half watch after ’im. She kind of looked after me when I was down and out, an’ I told her I’d look after him awhile. He’s th’ oldest of five.”

  It occurred to the rector that somewhere in his office, though he couldn’t recall where, was one last box of Little Debbies. He reached behind a volume of Bonhoeffer’s Life Together, and pulled out the box of creme-filled cookies.

  “What’s your grandboy’s name?”

  “Dooley!” said Russell Jacks with evident pride.

  “Dooley!” he called out the door, “Come in and let’s have a look at you!”

  The boy came and stood on the sidewalk, staring at the rector. Now that he could see him up close, Father Tim was surprised by a certain look in his eyes, a look that made him appear older than his years.

  “Ain’t this a church place?” the boy asked, skeptically.

  “Why, yes, it’s a church office.”

  “I cain’t come in, then, I ain’t washed.”

  “You don’t have to wash to come in.”

  "You ain’t lyin’, I reckon, bein’ a preacher an’ all.”

  “No. No, I’m not lying.”

  The boy bounded up the single step and through the door, searching the room with his quick gaze. “You got any place in here where I can take a dump?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The One for the Job

  It had been a week since Puny Bradshaw had rung his doorbell at precisely eight o’clock in the morning and started taking over his house.

  Fortunately, he was just going out the door as she came in, thereby sparing himself the awful trial of having to tell her what to do.

  He was humiliated to think that, the night before, he had hidden his laundry in a pillowcase and stuffed it into the back of his closet, like some sneak thief or chicken poacher. What was considerably worse is that she had found it. When he came home around noon to pick up his sermon notebook, she met him in the hall.

  “Father,” she said, shamelessly holding up the most ragged pair of shorts he owned, “your underwear looks like it’s been in a catfight. How in the world do you preach a sermon in these things?”

  He was so stunned by this display that he hadn’t been able to reply.

  “Don’t mind me,” she said, seeing that he minded very much. “My granpaw was a preacher, and I waited on ’im hand and foot for years, so you might say I’m cut out for this job. Tell you what, next time I’m at Wal-Mart over in Wesley, I’ll get you a dozen pairs, ’cause I’m goin’ to use these for cleanin’ rags!”

  When he arrived home that afternoon at five-thirty, he found a steaming, but spotless, kitchen and a red-cheeked Puny.

  “That bushel of tomatoes like to killed me!” she declared. “After I froze that big load of squash, I found some jars in your garage, sterilized ’em in your soup pot, and canned ever’ one in th’ bushel. Looky here,” she said, proudly, pointing to fourteen Mason jars containing vermillion tomatoes.

  “Puny,” he exclaimed with joyful amazement, “this is a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Not only that, but I scrubbed your bathroom ’til it shines, and I want to tell you right now, Father, if I’m goin’ to stay here—and I dearly need th’ work—you’re goin’ to have to put your toilet seat up when you relieve yourself.”

  He felt his face burn. A little Emma, her employer thought, darkly. Now I’ve got one at the office and one at home, a matched set.

  He could not, however, dismiss the joy of seeing fourteen jars of tomatoes lined up on his kitchen counter.

  On Friday afternoon, he arrived at the rectory to find the house filled with ravishing aromas.

  Baked chicken. Squash casserole. Steamed broccoli. Corn on the cob. And frozen yogurt topped with cooked Baxter apples. Oh, ye of little faith, why didst thou doubt? he quoted to himself.

  “I know about that old diabetes stuff, my granpaw had it worse’n you,” Puny told him with satisfaction. “An’ not only can I cook for diabetes, I can cook for high blood pressure, heart trouble, nervous stomach, and constipation.”

  During the past twelve years, he had sometimes asked in a fit of frustration, “Lord, what have I done to deserve Emma Garrett?” Now, he found himself asking with a full heart, “Lord, what have I done to deserve Puny Bradshaw?”

  He chose his best suit, just back from the cleaners in Wesley, and hung it on the hook behind his bedroom door. He laid out a pair of brand-new boxer shorts, which Puny Bradshaw had kindly fetched from Wal-Mart, and a shirt she had ironed to perfection. Then he shined his black loafers, put away the kit, and remembered to get a clean handkerchief from his top drawer.

  He had already had morning prayer and studied the challenging message of Luke 12: “Therefore, I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you shall eat, nor about your body, what you shall put on. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing.

  “Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds?”

  There was not one man in a thousand who considered these words more than poetical vapor, he thought as he dressed. Don’t be anxious? Most mortals considered anxiety, and plenty of it, an absolute requirement for getting the job done. Yet, over and over again, the believer was cautioned to abandon anxiety, and look only to God.

  Whatever else that might be, it certainly wasn’t common sense.

  But “common sense is not faith,” Oswald Chambers had written, “and faith is not common sense.”

  He was entering that part of the week in which his sermon was continually on his mind. “Let me say I believe God will supply all my need,” Chambers had written, “and then let me run dry, with no outlook, and see whether I will go through the trial of faith, or . . . sink back to something lower.”

  He put his handkerchief in his pocket, and looked into the full-length mirror on the back of the guest room door.

  There. That would do.

  He picked up his sermon notebook, went to the garage to say good-bye to Barnabas, and set out walking to his early meeting with Mayor Cunningham.

  In her office at the town hall, Esther Cunningham was eating a sausage biscuit with an order of fries and drinking a Diet Coke, which Father Tim found remarkable, considering that it was only 7:00 a.m.

  “Top of the morning!” she said, lifting her cup in a grand salute. “Come in, sit down, take a number!”

  There were, indeed, a few places to sit in the mayor’s office. When she was first elected fourteen years ago, she had rented a U-Haul truck and brought all her den furniture from home, much to the astonishment of her husband. There was a powder blue sofa, a leather love seat, two club chairs, an ottoman, and a Danish Modern cocktail table. None of which did much to conceal the fact that the walls were slowly mildewing from the effect of a roof leak that no one, in as many years, had been able to locate.

  “How do you like that fine snap in the air this morning?” he asked, sitting in a club chair across from Esther.

  “There’s nothin’ I like better! Ray and me are takin’ the RV and headin’ for the first trout stream we can find. Right after the next granbaby, of course.”

  The mayor was known for her several beautiful daughters and astonishing number of grandchildren, but he could not recall the latest head count.

  “And what number will this be?”

  “Twenty-three!” she said. A brass band might have struck up behind her.

  “Aha!” he said, looking around for a coffeepot. As far as he could tell, there was not a drop in the place. “Esther, your girls are doing all in their power to raise our taxes.”

  “Don’t complain. So far, you’ve got two garbage collectors, a postman, a bank teller,
a policeman, and a park ranger out of th’ deal. Not to mention a fireman and a drove of Sunday school teachers.”

  “How quickly I forget. Well, shall we get right to business?”

  “We’d better. I’ve got a council meeting at eight o’clock about namin’ the town flower. They’ve chewed on this thing ’til I’m about half sick of it, and now the Wesley paper wants a story, and they won’t let us alone ’til we announce it.

  “Whichever flower it falls out to be, we’re goin’ to paint it on signs comin’ into town, put a plaque at the monument, set aside a special day with a parade, get the governor to come for the ceremony . . . I never saw such a to-do since the Baxter Apple Bake-Off.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said the rector, who had personally baked sixteen deep-dish pies last year to raise money for the library.

  “What do you think the town flower should be? You’re a gardener.” She wadded up her biscuit wrapper and lobbed a fine pass into the wastebasket.

  “The pansy vote is mighty strong, of course.”

  “Well, but look at all the rose arbors up Old Church Lane.”

  “That’s right, but they’re out of general view. What do tourists see in the window boxes along Main Street? Pansies! Around the town monument? Pansies every year! And the shop gardens? Full of pansies!”

  “Would you want to invite somebody to Pansy Day? I mean, think about it, would you call somebody in Raleigh or Salisbury and say come on up for Pansy Day?”

  “Ah, Mayor, you’ve got a point there. I wouldn’t have your job for the world.”

  “I’ve had it too long, to tell the truth. I wouldn’t want you to spread this, but I’m groomin’ one of my grans for the next election.”

  “Imagine that!”

  “Now, while I finish my cholesterol fix, why don’t you tell me what’s up?”