At Home in Mitford

by Jan Karon

  “About . . . ?”

  “Why, about Barnabas, of course! Are you putting it in the paper?”

  "J.C. said he would run a picture, but I don’t have a picture.”

  “Why, you most certainly do!” she said, offended. “I gave you one in that pie plate, remember?”

  Of course! A watercolor of Barnabas that was so realistic, so natural, that it might have barked.

  “Cynthia, you are . . . ,” he searched for a word, “terrific.”

  Her eyes seemed very blue as she laughed. “Whenever possible, I like to work ahead of the need,” she said.

  “I need me some shoes,” said Dooley, coming in the door and slamming his books on the kitchen counter.

  He looked up from the counter, where he was working on his sermon. “That,” he said evenly, “was no way to speak to me. At any time or in any place.”

  Dooley met his gaze with defiance. “I still need me some damn shoes.”

  He felt the wrenching impact of Dooley’s hostility, and it was a feeling he did not like. Boys, unfortunately, did not come with owner’s manuals, and to fairly address the issues this particular boy raised would be equal to rebuilding the motor of his Buick. In fact, though he had never done more than raise the hood and stare impotently underneath, he believed he could more easily rebuild a motor than instill respect and obedience in Dooley Barlowe.

  “Dooley,” he said, “there’s something in your voice that makes me feel . . . indifferent to your need. Perhaps you could go out and come in again.”

  Dooley stared at him blankly. In a family of five children, with no money and no stable center, there were a lot of ways to get attention, hostility being only one of them. That this strategy would not work here was a point he must drive home, at all costs.

  There was a cold silence.

  “Actually, I do recommend that very thing. Why don’t you go out the door and come in again? You might say something like ‘Hello’ or ‘What’s up?’ Anything civil.

  “Then you might like to come and tell me all about the shoes you need. You can be assured,” he said, looking into the boy’s eyes, “that I will listen intently.”

  Father Tim could feel the undercurrent in Dooley’s hesitation. He knew he was considering what he was hearing. And he knew he was also considering the alternative.

  Dooley stepped back and cursed with such vehemence that the rector stared in disbelief. Then the boy ran up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door.

  Good Lord! He felt his heart seized with a sudden, thundering fury. He forced himself to sit where he was, until the feeling passed.

  He shut his sermon notebook, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. There was Dooley’s own notebook, which had skidded across the counter. He saw that the boy had written his name many times on the cover, over and over. Trying to make himself real, thought the rector.

  He picked up the notebook and held it next to his own. Two notebooks. Two people trying to make sense out of life.

  An odd thought occurred to him. The boy had lived here for weeks without uttering such words. Given his background, wasn’t that, after all, an extraordinary accomplishment?

  He spoke aloud to himself: “Think on the accomplishment, Timothy. Then act on what just happened.”

  A Scripture from the Psalms came to him: “I will instruct you and teach you in the way which you shall go. I will guide you with my eye.”

  He felt the peace of that promise and went upstairs.

  He knocked, but there was no answer. “Dooley?”

  Silence. Of course, there would be silence.

  He opened the door.

  Dooley sat on the side of the bed, sobbing. His whole body seemed given to grief, frustration, and rage.

  My heart, thought the rector, feeling it wrench with sorrow. I have never had so many sensations of the heart in one short span of time.

  He sat down beside Dooley Barlowe and held him. He held him tightly, as if to say, “Hang on, hang on. I won’t let go.”

  “I want me some onions, don’t you?” asked Dooley, whose face, though red from weeping, was relieved. It was among the few times the rector had seen Dooley looking only eleven years old.

  The hamburgers sizzled in the black iron skillet. “Indeed, I do. Mayonnaise?”

  “Mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, relish, pickles, th’ works.”

  “The works, is it?” He didn’t know when he’d heard the boy call for the works on anything. “Somebody needs to tell you, by the way, that crying is a good thing. I hope you will never let anyone convince you otherwise.” He moved to the stove to turn over the hamburgers.

  Dooley said nothing, but the rector knew he was listening.

  “Gives you a fresh start, you might say. And speaking of fresh starts, I want you to know that I appreciate and accept your apology. That apology gives you and me a fresh start.”

  Dooley was setting plates and silverware on the counter. “D’ you cry?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Did you cry about y’r ol’ dog gittin’ stole?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve felt like it.”

  “I did. I cried about ’at ol’ dog. I miss ’at ol’ dog, even if he has got bad breath. I don’t care if ’e’s got bad breath. It don’t matter none t’ me, I wish ’e’d come back, I’d give ’im a big ol’ bone or . . . or my hamburger, even.”

  The rector swallowed hard.

  “Can I ask you somethin’ else?”

  “Ask away.”

  “If you’re a preacher, how can you git away with lyin’?”

  “Well, first of all, no one ever really gets away with lying, preacher or no preacher. What have I lied about?”

  “About me an’ Goosedown Owen. You said we was goin’ out there ever’ month, and Goosedown could be kind of like mine if I wouldn’t git in fights. You an’ me ain’t bin out there any, and I jis’ bin one time. So, that was a dern lie.”

  It was and it wasn’t. Circumstances alter cases, his Uncle Chester always said.

  “When I told you that, I meant it sincerely. Then, for weeks on end, the weather was bad on Saturday, and there was no use to go to the country to sit around in the house. Then Christmas came, and there was the baptizing, and then the Owens had company, and . . . well, and you ran away. So, you see, circumstances alter cases.”

  Dooley furrowed his brow. He was wearing a red shirt and clean blue jeans, and his cowlick was lying down. “It seemed like a lie.”

  “I understand. And so I won’t make any more promises. I’ll just take you when I can. How’s that?”

  “This weekend?”

  “If we can get your grandfather settled in with his nurse, that could be. Let me look at my calendar. But right now, let’s look at some hamburgers.”

  “Cool,” said Dooley, as the rector set the hot platter on the counter.

  “I’ve got to take Dooley out to the Shoe Barn at four o’clock.” He was putting the change from his pockets into the blue thanks-offering box.

  “Now what?” demanded Emma. “You just got him shoes.”

  “Boys are hard on shoes.”

  “What kind are you gettin’?”

  “Pumps,” said the rector, feeling foolish.

  “Pumps!”

  “That’s what they’re wearing these days.”

  “Pumps?” Emma was astounded.

  “Yes, and I’m thinking of getting a pair for myself while I’m at it.” There. It was done. Hadn’t the bishop said he should do something special for himself?

  “I’m speechless,” said Emma.

  Alleluia, thought the rector.

  “You know, you don’t look so good to me. Are you takin’ your medication?”

  “I have to get it refilled. I’ll do that today.”

  “Are you, ah, seein’ much of your neighbor?”

  He could hardly believe what came out of his mouth. “Not nearly enough!” Where had such a remark come from? His words seemed to hang frozen in the air. He swiveled t
o the bookcase, feeling his face flush.

  “You could fix that,” Emma said reasonably, much to his surprise. “I hear she cooks, she ought to have you over.” There was a meaningful pause. “Or, since you cook, why don’t you have her over?”

  It gave him some pleasure, however small, to know that Emma Garrett was considerably behind the times.

  When he made his now-daily visit to the Mitford jail, he noticed a stack of boxes near the front door.

  “Shoes,” said Rodney. “We’ve had shoes pourin’ in here from all over th’ county. Old shoes, new shoes, black shoes, blue shoes. We’re run over with shoes. Th’ FBI’s goin’ to have t’ take George back t’ Connecticut with a U-Haul.”

  “Tell ’im about the casseroles,” said Joe Joe.

  “Seven casseroles,” said Rodney, reading from a list, “two blueberry pies, a pound of sliced turkey because he missed ’is Thanksgivin’ dinner, and a box of bridge mix from th’ drugstore. Let’s see, we’ve got cream horns and doughnuts from Winnie, a coconut cake from the help up at Miss Sadie’s, and a Bible from ah . . . what’s that name, Joe Joe?”

  “Looks like Cynthia . . . Coppersmith.”

  “We need a check-in counter,” said Rodney.

  A clean-shaven George Gaynor was dressed in his new shirt and pants, sitting on the cot, writing. He stood up and smiled at the rector.

  “How do you like that shave an’ haircut I give ’im?” asked Rodney, who was unlocking the cell door.

  “You could put Joe Ivey clean out of business.”

  “I’m glad to see you,” said George, who shook the rector’s hand with both of his own. He was looking very different from the gaunt, bearded man who had come down from the attic. “Any word on your dog?”

  “Not a word.”

  “I’d like to put up a reward, if Rodney will let me have my money. I had about two hundred dollars in my wallet.”

  “Thank you, George. Thank you.”

  “Make that two twenty-five,” said Joe Joe Guthrie, taking out his billfold.

  “Why don’t we just get up a big reward fund, and I’ll keep it in my drawer,” said the police chief, hitching up his holster. “Money talks, you know.”

  Before he made a visit to The Local, he made a call.

  “Ron, we need to take care of Russell Jacks. Betty Craig has offered to nurse him in her home, which is good, and I expect he’ll need attention for at least three or four months. Whatever you can send, I’ll match.”

  “You’ve done your share of matching,” said Ron Malcolm. “Let me know what it takes, and you’ll have it.”

  “You’re a prince, my friend. Thank God for you! When do we look at renderings?”

  “Could be summer before we see anything. The architect meets with Miss Sadie on Tuesday. Sometime in July, we ought to get a rough idea of square footage, how it’ll be sited, that kind of thing. Before it goes fast, Father, it always goes slow.”

  “My love to Wilma,” said the rector.

  On the way to The Local, he stopped by the Grill. “We’re gettin’ up a reward,” said Mule Skinner, who was sitting at the counter, counting. “Sixty-five, seventy-five, ninety-five, a hundred. . . .”

  Esther Cunningham, who was having a cup of coffee and a piece of lemon pie at a table, raked through a large knitting bag for her checkbook. She gave Mule a check for fifty dollars. “In Mitford, we take care of our own,” she said proudly, reciting her long-established platform.

  “You might as well put your money back in your pocket,” said one of the loan officers from the bank across the street. “That dog is long gone over the state line, if you want my thinkin’.”

  “I personally don’t want it,” snapped Percy. He turned to Father Tim. “We’re goin’ to get ol’ Barnabas back, you just wait’n see.”

  He found Avis Packard behind the meat counter, wearing a butcher’s apron that read The World Famous Local: Fine Wines and Premium Meats.

  “Avis, how’s that duckling you told me about at Uncle Billy’s art show?”

  “You’re lookin’ at it,” said Avis, who reached into his meat case and held up a duckling. “Less grease, more flavor, corn-fed, no chemicals. And there’s a big, fine liver in here to make you a pâté as smooth as silk.”

  The bard of foodstuff, that was Avis Packard.

  “Four point two pounds. Just right for two people. And if I was you,” said Avis, speaking confidentially, “I’d put a nice, crisp champagne behind this dinner.”

  “Wrap it up,” said the rector, who felt dimly troubled that he hadn’t yet extended his proposed invitation for Saturday evening.

  He’d seen Olivia, who was sitting up and looking nearly herself again. The swelling had gone down, and Hoppy was ready to send her home on Sunday. Though still lacking energy, she would be able, he said, to walk around the house and even go shopping for an hour or two with Mrs. Kershaw.

  An enormous relief, he thought. And so was his visit to Russell Jacks, who would be moving to Betty Craig’s trim, small house above the hospital, sometime next week. Two triumphs. Two victories.

  He’d had a call from Marge Owen, who wanted Dooley for the weekend. Perfect timing, in more ways than one, for that meant he could concentrate more fully on his Easter sermon, two Sundays hence. A call to Rodney assured him that George might be allowed to sit between a couple of officers in the eleven o’clock Easter congregation, assuming the FBI had not yet picked him up. “I reckon they think we’ve took ’im to raise,” said Rodney, who could not fathom the red tape of federal bureaus.

  At five o’clock on Friday, as Dooley was packing for Meadowgate, Miss Sadie called.

  “Are your ears burning?” she asked, brightly.

  “Well, let’s see. No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Well, they should be! Louella and I have talked about you the livelong day.”

  “Miss Sadie, I’m shocked that you can’t find anything better to talk about.”

  “You know what we decided?”

  “To string Japanese lanterns around the lawn at Fernbank and have a spring gala.”

  She laughed with delight. “Guess again.”

  “Let’s see . . . to hire a chauffeur and drive to Charlotte for a day of shopping.”

  “Never!” said Miss Sadie. “One more guess.”

  “This is too hard. Wait a minute. You’ve decided to have me up for lunch.”

  “Exactly. But you’d never guess the best part.”

  “Please don’t make me try.”

  “We’re going to give Rodney Underwood a little something for the reward fund.”

  “Well, now . . .”

  “A thousand dollars!”

  “Miss Sadie!”

  “Yes, indeed, and don’t even thank me for it. Louella prayed and I prayed, and we both got the same message.”

  “Are you sure about the sum? You’re sure he didn’t say a hundred? Decimals can be tricky.”

  “We’re sure. With all our hearts, we want you to have your Barnabas back. We’re just broken-hearted about this hideous crime. To think this could happen in Mitford, and in broad daylight.”

  “I’m grateful for your concern . . . more than I can say.”

  “Then you’ll come for lunch on Easter, you and Dooley?”

  “Consider it done!” he told his oldest parishioner.

  After Dooley had gone, he found the ecru lace cloth that a former bishop’s wife had given Lord’s Chapel. He would use that over the rose-colored damask that Puny had laundered after Christmas.

  He would call Jena at Mitford Blossoms first thing in the morning and order . . . what? Roses, of course.

  He polished the brass candlesticks that Walter and Katherine had given him for his fortieth birthday. Forty! He could scarcely remember anything about that turning point, except that he thought he was getting old. Now, he knew the truth. Forty was not old, not in the least. It was sixty that was old, and sixty-one was coming straight at him. He decided not to think further on this s
ore subject.

  He would make something simple to serve before dinner. Perhaps the pâté. But he did not, at all costs, want to seem . . . what was it he did not want to seem? Forward, perhaps, as if the evening had been too carefully arranged.

  He put the tablecloths on and set out his grandmother’s Haviland china and the napkins. Then he went to his study to plan the rest of the meal. For dessert, he thought, maybe pears. Poached in a sauce of coffee and sugar, brandy, and chocolate.

  When should he call? Or, should he knock on her door and invite her in person? He got up and paced the floor, feeling a burning sensation in his stomach. An ulcer, surely! And right before having company for dinner.

  Why should he do anything more than simply pick up the phone and call his neighbor? He had certainly done it in the past, without thinking twice. This was not a good sign.

  He walked into the kitchen and looked around vaguely. Then he went upstairs and peered down upon Cynthia’s small house. He saw Violet sitting on the roof.

  Divine intervention!

  He went downstairs to his desk. “Cynthia,” he said, when she answered the phone, “I’ve just seen Violet sitting on your roof.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. And licking her paws.”

  “Oh, how horrid. First the basement, now the roof. I can’t keep up with her for a minute. And licking her paws! It sounds like she’s killed a bird. I’m telling you the truth, I wish I had a dog!”

  That’s a thought. “Shall I bring her down for you?”

  “No! She can just sit up there till the cows come home. I mean, yes, would you?”

  “I’ll be right over,” he said.

  She met him at the back door.

  That she looked stunning, he saw at once, would be an understatement. Her dress was the color of a clematis he’d once had, so blue it was nearly purple. He found that it did something extraordinary to her eyes.

  “Hello!” she said, smiling. “You’re so wonderful to come. I just hate that you’ll have to drag my old wooden ladder out, it’s heavy as a truck.”

  There was no way he could not notice her perfume. Like wisteria, something from a garden.

  “It’s no problem at all. I know right where it is, from the time Violet got caught in the heating vent.”