by Jan Karon
He laughed.
“I could just pop through the hedge,” she said.
“Indeed, not. I’ll ask Dooley to come for it. And I have two lemon pies here that Puny baked yesterday. I’ll send one over.”
“I love lemon pies!” she said.
“Of course, we’d be very glad to have you join us here. Dooley will be getting his science project done on the floor of the study, so if you wouldn’t mind a bit of a muddle . . .”
“Oh, but you should see the muddle here! I’d be glad to exchange my muddle for yours!”
“All right, then, fish stew and lemon pie it is! Give us an hour, if you will.”
“I will! And I look forward to it,” she said.
He couldn’t help thinking that his neighbor sounded like a very young girl who’d just been invited to a tea party.
While he was shaving, the phone rang.
Dooley appeared at the bathroom door and handed him the cordless. “It’s a woman,” he said, and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet seat to listen.
Father Tim held the phone away from the lather on his face. “Hello?”
“Father, this is Olivia.”
“Olivia! You’ve been much on my mind.”
“I could feel it. I’ve strongly felt your prayers. Something odd seems to be happening.”
“I’m all ears.” And all lather, he thought, noting that he’d gotten a great deal of it on the phone.
“I feel I’m being released from the fear of seeking a transplant, it has just . . . I feel the fear is being lifted, somehow. You know I’ve pored over every possibility, every hazard, I’ve done my homework—it doesn’t make sense to consider a transplant, even Leo finally agreed with that. I thought it was all settled, and now . . . and this is the oddest thing of all, there’s a sense in which I’m afraid of losing the fear.”
“Fear is one of the Enemy’s deadliest strategies. Fight this fear, Olivia.”
Dooley watched him.
“But how strange that I might be having . . . a change of heart,” she said.
“Have you told this to the one who wants to hear it even more than I?”
“No,” she said, “I just don’t feel sure enough, I feel confused. Will you pray for me to have wisdom in this? I don’t want to die, Father. I thought I was resigned to it, but I’m not. I’m not!”
“You know I love it when you talk like this,” he said.
“Pray for me,” she said, and the lightness of her voice touched him.
“You sure git a lot of calls from women,” Dooley said sullenly, taking the phone. The rector noticed that the boy’s cowlick was standing straight up.
“My friend, a priest gets a lot of calls from everybody. In fact, there are times when I’d like nothing better than to open the window and throw the phone in the yard!”
“I could tell ’em you ain’t here.”
“Aren’t here.”
No response.
“That, however, would be a lie, wouldn’t it?”
“I reckon.”
“No reckon about it. It would be a lie, and a lie is a hateful thing.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, telling a lie is like eating peanuts. One leads to another. In no time at all, you’ve gone through a bagful.”
He rinsed the razor under the tap. “Worst of all, you become a slave to something that isn’t real.”
“We been readin’ about slaves. I wouldn’t want t’ be one.”
“Let me say again that lying will make you a slave, for whoever tells a lie is the servant of that lie. I hope you’ll hide that in your heart, son.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Now, why don’t we do something with that cowlick before company comes?”
Cynthia arrived, wearing a pair of blue oven mitts and carrying a large stew pot.
She set the pot on the stove and handed Dooley the book that was tucked under her arm. “This is for you. It’s my latest book, and it has a boy with red hair in it.”
Dooley looked at the cover. “’is ol’ Vi’let stuff’s f’r babies,” he said, offended.
“It most certainly is not! It’s for readers up to ten years old!”
“I’m eleven,” said Dooley, “but I’m grown for my age.”
A likely story! thought the rector.
“Okay, do this,” said Cynthia. “Read it. And if you don’t like it, you never have to read another Violet book as long as you live.”
“Dooley has been known to make up his mind in advance of the facts.”
“I understand perfectly. I was afflicted with that very trait for years on end.”
“Are we havin’ hot chocolate tonight?” Dooley asked.
“We are, as soon as you’ve finished your science project. Double marshmallows for you. While I’m in the kitchen, why don’t you poke up the fire for Miss Coppersmith?”
“Call me Cynthia,” she said to Dooley.
“Would you like to see our train?” asked Dooley.
“Oh, I would! I love trains.”
Was there anything his neighbor didn’t love, he wondered.
“What’s ’at smell?”
Father Tim took the lid off the steaming pot, and the aroma lifted from it like a fragrant cloud. “This, my friend, is a delicacy of the rarest sort.
In plain language, fish stew.”
“Yuck! I’m not eatin’ ’at stuff.”
“Thanks be to God! There’ll be more for the rest of us.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” said their neighbor with some asperity. “There’s octopus in here.”
Dooley looked at the pot with alarm.
“Not to mention good old scrod.”
“Scrod?”
“And fish eyes. Mmmmm. Delicious! My favorite! So tender.”
“Yuck! Gag!” said Dooley, fleeing to the study.
Cynthia laughed with delight. “I hope you’ll forgive an innocent lie.”
“Well,” he said, grinning, “but just this once.”
“I done read half of that book,” said Dooley, who had finished eating his fried bologna sandwich and was working on his science project. “I read it while you all was in th’ kitchen.”
“And what did you think?” asked Cynthia.
“Cool.”
“Thank you,” she said, obviously pleased.
The table had been moved from the bookcase to the fireplace and covered with a damask cloth that had come with the rectory. Dooley had lighted a green Christmas candle and set it in a saucer and, overall, the effect was so festive that they lingered over the lemon pie and coffee.
“Again, your bouillabaisse was outstanding.”
“I’m glad you liked it.” She smiled, almost shyly.
“Gross!” said Dooley.
“By the way,” said his neighbor, “if you catch any moles this spring, I’d truly like to have one.”
The idea was so grisly that Barnabas, who was lying by the fire, caught the sense of it and growled.
A dead mole! He’d never had such an odd and unwholesome request in his life.
“I’m about t’ puke,” said Dooley, vanishing into the kitchen.
“I suppose you think Beatrix Potter drew her creatures from imagination, or from one fleeting glance at something scampering across the path?”
“You mean she didn’t?”
“Of course not! She drew from life. Or death, if you will.”
“You’re by far the most unusual, that is to say, unique person I’ve had the privilege of meeting in years.”
“You’re only too kind to call me unusual. I’ve been called worse!”
He smiled. “You don’t say!”
“Peculiar . . .”
“No!”
“Curious . . .”
“Certainly not.”
“And even eccentric . . .”
“Entirely inaccurate!”
She sighed.
“There are those,” he said, “who call me odd, as well, so I
understand. I was without a car for nearly eight years and took up with a maverick dog who’s disciplined only by the recitation of Scripture.”
“How I wish that all of us might be disciplined that way.”
There, he thought. What a grand thing to say.
“How did you become an artist?”
“My mother was artistic, my father too. And I was an only child. They taught me to see. Yes, I think that’s the very best way to put it. I didn’t just look at a painting or a picture, I looked at every single facet of it. And a tiny flower that most people tread underfoot, well, we’d look at it very closely, and find such extraordinary detail.”
“ ‘To see the world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower,’ ” he quoted from Blake.
“ ‘Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour,’ ” she replied.
“For that alone, you deserve a mole. I can’t bring myself to make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”
She laughed. “I’ve learned not to live on any promises other than God’s, actually.”
“That’s wisdom, indeed. The kind one usually comes by the hard way.”
“It was hard, all right. I was married for many years to a man who became . . . an important public figure. I’m perhaps the least public person on earth. That’s a terrible kind of division to have in a marriage. And he wanted children, he was desperate for children, and I couldn’t give them to him. I learned he had at least three, all by different women.”
Her eyes, which he always found so vividly blue, appeared oddly gray.
His mother’s death had been the keenest pain in his memory, and his conflict with his father had refused to give him any lasting peace. Yet, compared to the grief and heartache revealed to him by others, he felt he had lived a nearly idyllic existence.
“I must tell you,” she said, “that I never dreamed I’d be sitting here now—alive. And happier than I’ve ever been or ever dreamed of being. Successful in my work, with my own home and no mortgage, and a gracious neighbor who’s gone out of his way to make me feel welcome.”
“I must admit something.”
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t gone out of my way in the least.”
“Oh, rats!” she said, laughing. “I was hoping you had!” Her eyes were blue again. “But what about you? Have you ever had a broken heart?”
One thing he could say for his neighbor. She caught one off-guard. While several had asked if he’d ever been in love, no one had ever directly inquired after his heart.
“Dooley,” he called to the kitchen, without taking his eyes from Cynthia, “isn’t it about time for hot chocolate?”
He made the hot chocolate with milk, put three mugs on a tray, and walked back to the study, where he found his neighbor on her hands and knees with Dooley, waiting for the train to come through the tunnel.
Rain pattered on the roof, the boy looked happy and confident, there was laughter in his home, and, as he set the tray on the table, the fire crackled invitingly.
He wasn’t unaware that it all combined to give him a feeling of unutterable pleasure.
A renewed running schedule had increased his energy. He had finished his Lenten homilies, and Dooley Barlowe had said “thank you” all of four times.
Evie Adams’s mother had stopped putting the wet wash in the oven. And the nursing-home building committee had chosen an architect. What did it matter that the bells were once again delayed, when so many other things were chiming along nicely?
On Sunday morning, as he and Dooley were starting out for the eight o’clock service, he saw his neighbor walking briskly up the sidewalk. She was wearing a small hat and navy suit and looking, he thought, quite a picture.
“Good morning!” he called out.
“Good morning to you! Hi, Dooley! You look terrific in suspenders! I thought I’d just pop over to your early service and see what’s up with the Anglicans before I go along to the Presbyterians.”
“We’ll be thrilled to have you.”
“Thanks! It’s such a beautiful morning, I thought I’d get there a bit early and enjoy the calm.”
As she said that, he, for some unexplainable reason, looked down at her shapely legs, which brought her feet into view.
Seeing what must have been a bewildered look on his face, she also looked down. She was still wearing her terry cloth bedroom shoes with the embroidered violets.
“Oh, no,” she said, miserably. Without another word, she turned and fled into the little house.
" ’at was funny,” said Dooley.
He hated even to think it, but he could understand perfectly why she should never have been a senator’s wife.
“Peedaddle!” said Emma, attempting to total the first quarter’s offerings. “We didn’t collect a hundred and eighty thousand! It was only eighteen thousand!”
“Decimals can be tricky,” he said. “However, that’s not bad, considering the recession.”
“What recession?”
“I know you’ve been busy with your wedding plans, but do you mean to say you didn’t know we’re in a recession?”
“All I know is, the post office has cut back so far, Harold has to bring his own toilet tissue to work.”
“No!”
“Yes, can you believe it? And with stamps gone up, to boot.”
The phone rang, and Emma listened patiently to the caller before handing the receiver to Father Tim. “Evie Adams,” she whispered.
“Hello, Evie. How are you?”
That, thought Emma, is not a good question to ask Evie Adams.
“Is that right? You don’t say! Aha. I understand. I’m sorry. Well, then . . . I’ll come by right after lunch. Yes, of course, I’ll pray for you.”
He hung up and shook his head. “Last week, Miss Pattie took her bath while holding an open umbrella over her head.”
“No!”
“Well, there was a drip in the shower nozzle.”
“That explains it,” said Emma.
“And when Evie had a bridge luncheon yesterday, Miss Pattie made a centerpiece out of Evie’s red pumps and filled them with daffodils.”
“That sounds kinda cute. I wouldn’t mind tryin’ that.”
“Well, we’ll see what your new husband would think of such a thing.”
“My new husband!” Emma said, almost rapturously. “Do you know he begged me last night to do it at the courthouse, he’s so bashful about this big weddin’. Dottie told him no way am I wearin’ that red suit with the black trim to the courthouse. We have slaved over that outfit.”
“I can imagine.”
“I saw your neighbor comin’ out of the early service on Sunday.”
“Really?”
“And I saw Hoppy Harper drive off with Olivia Davenport after the eleven o’clock.”
“Is that right?”
“Is she still dyin’?”
“She is still living. Which is more than I can say for most people.”
“Well, you don’t have to get huffy about it,” she replied.
He opened a letter containing photos of a former parishioner’s new grandchild. Amazing! The infant looked precisely like Dick Satterfield, wearing a crocheted hat.
“You know what you ought to do?” Emma asked suddenly.
“I can’t imagine.”
“You ought to get out more. Take Dooley to a movie in Wesley. Boys like movies.”
He continued to read the letter that came with the photos.
“Or,” she said, peering at him over her glasses, “take your neighbor.”
He swiveled in his chair to face the bookcase. “Harold and Dottie and I saw a great movie the other night. The, ah, something, something, something was th’ name. You know, everybody’s talkin’ about it.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh, peedaddle! I can’t think of th’ name to save my life. You know what it is. Th’ something, something, something.”
“Who’s in it?�
�� he asked, tepidly.
“Oh, ah, what’s his name. You know.”
He did not know and did not want to know.
“Can’t you think?” she asked. “It was all over TV, sayin’ it was comin’ to a theater near you.” She furrowed her brow. “Seems like it starts with a B. Th’ something, something, B-something.”
“Aha.”
“This just drives me crazy. Don’t you know all those clips of it on TV, there’s this woman with long, black hair, kind of like Loretta Young, and this man that looks like Caesar Romero but it’s not. I know you know who I mean, kind of tall.”
Dear God, thought Father Tim, when You made Emma Garrett, You broke the mold.
“Well, anyway,” she said, “you ought to go see it. It’s at th’ Avon over in Wesley. It’s that new place over around the Farmer’s Market. You know. You make a turn somewhere around there, I can’t remember if it’s left or right, and then there’s a tire store maybe on the corner.
“Oh no, I think that’s a launderette. Well, anyway, you can’t make a U-turn there, so I’d go on down to the post office and turn around in their parking lot—that’s what Harold does.
“I think it’s the post office—it might be the library—and then in a block or two, you’re there. Can’t miss it.”
Is there no balm in Gilead? he wondered.
He still wasn’t sleeping soundly. Recently, he not only had trouble falling asleep, but staying asleep. In the night watches, as the psalmist had called them, he found himself wondering again and again about Andrew Gregory and the hollow table legs Rodney had mentioned and the newspaper clipping he’d seen at the Oxford.
He was relieved to discover that he couldn’t imagine Andrew doing such a thing as trafficking in stolen goods, jewels or otherwise. Andrew Gregory breaking into the church and hiding jewels in a closet he very likely knew nothing about? Andrew Gregory in his beautiful suits and cashmere jackets, stumbling around in the dark like a common thief? No. It wouldn’t work. Never! Andrew Gregory could not possibly be involved, thanks be to God.
After such thoughts, which he went over again and again, he would drift off to sleep, only to awaken with fresh concerns.
While the stolen jewels mentioned in the clipping had been in necklaces and such, couldn’t those same jewels have been taken from their mountings, to prevent a link to the museum theft? And could it be that those very jewels were put into the leg of an English farm table, perhaps, and shipped to Andrew in one of those vast containers he received twice a year? And if the authorities had linked the thefts to antique dealers, wouldn’t he have removed the jewels from his own premises at once? And possibly into a church, where no one would ever think of looking?
