by Jan Karon
“Arrested development!” he exclaimed. There! His voice was back, thanks be to God.
A chill breeze moved her skirt against his legs.
“Wouldn’t you like to go inside?” he asked, feeling the moss under him like a sodden pew cushion.
“No, let’s just sit out here and freeze together.” The junco flew in and out among the branches, singing. “Let’s see,” she said, closing her eyes, “you’re mad at me because you had to go up on the roof and fetch Violet.”
“Not at all. It gave me a different perspective.”
“Then you’re furious because when I made fish stew last week, you could smell it cooking and I didn’t offer you any.”
“I had a cold,” he said, sniffing, “and could not possibly have smelled a thing.”
Cynthia laughed uproariously. He hadn’t thought it a bit amusing. Would this visit never end?
“Timothy,” she said, “I have inquired discreetly and was told it’s no form of disrespect for a friend to call a priest by his first name.”
“That is absolutely correct.”
“Only one thing remains to be decided, then.”
“And what’s that?” he asked, knowing full well that the dampness from the moss had seeped into the seat of his pants.
“Are we friends?”
He thought she looked surprisingly anxious.
“Of course, we’re friends. Would I have hauled that ox cart ladder of yours up from anyone else’s basement? Or climbed to the roof, reeling with vertigo, if we weren’t friends?”
“Oh, Timothy, it’s so hard to know how to do in this life. Why, I was terrified to come to your door and demand to know why you were mad at me.”
“Why were you terrified?”
“Because I thought you might tell me, you see! But of course, it’s obvious that you’re not going to tell me anything. Which is fine. Because now it feels better. It feels like it was before.”
“Then why don’t we have a cup of tea?” he inquired.
“Perfect!” she exclaimed. “I just love having a cup of tea.”
“Andrew!” he said, seeing the antique dealer unlocking the door to the Oxford.
“Father, good morning! You’re looking well.” Andrew greeted him with a vigorous handshake. “And thin, I must say.”
“Fit is what I’d like to be, but for now, thin will do nicely, thank you. How are you, my friend?”
“Couldn’t be better, actually. Trying to get away for a quick trip to Florida before the spring deluge.”
Andrew swung open one of the heavy double doors to his shop, and the fragrance of old wood and lemon oil wafted out like incense.
“Come in and have coffee with me. It’s been months since we’ve talked, there’s catching up to do! And God knows, I’d like to hear every detail about the man in the attic.”
“Not today, I’m afraid. Too many duties call. But soon,” he said.
“I’ll consider that a promise,” said Andrew, dropping the keys into the pocket of his jacket.
“Getting away for a bit of golf?” asked the rector.
“Yes, I think I’ll keep the shop open and let one of the Cunningham daughters look after things. Just three or four days, meeting one of my children down there, and taking part in a tournament. Hoping to get your neighbor to go along with me for company; my son and his wife would be taking us in.”
"Aha!”
The phone rang in Andrew’s office at the rear of the shop.
“Soon, then,” said the proprietor, waving good-bye and stepping quickly inside.
When he dropped into the Oxford on Thursday to look at an old book on roses that had been dedicated to Queen Victoria, he found Marcie Guthrie in charge.
That she looked like a carbon copy of her mother from behind was no surprise. It was when she turned around that the surprise came, for the mayor’s eldest daughter was astonishingly beautiful. And though she, like the mayor, wore a size twenty dress, she swept along in it with admirable grace.
“Mama says you’re goin’ to make a speech at the festival.”
“I am, that, God willing, but what I’m going to say is quite another matter. Do you think they’d sit still for a warmed-over sermon on sloth?”
“Nope,” she laughed, showing her dazzling teeth.
“Well, then, what about plain laziness, the very worst enemy of the rose gardener?”
“I thought Japanese beetles were,” said Marcie, wrinkling her brow.
“Is your proprietor off to the links?”
“Left yesterday.”
“Drove down with a friend, I hope. It’s quite a distance.”
“Oh, no. No, he went by himself. And just as well. He was in a stew about something. I’d never seen him like that! Fussy, you might say, like a baby with colic.”
The rector felt suddenly joyful. “Speaking of babies, aren’t you a grandmother again?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” said a radiant Marcie, who whipped out an accordion-fold photo album that displayed all seven of her grandchildren. “Now, if we could just find someone for Joe Joe,” she said wistfully. “He’s the only single one I’ve got left.”
Father Tim sat down at a walnut tea table and with earnest delight looked carefully at every smiling face.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Surprising Question
While Dooley was getting his homework done on Thursday night, the rector walked out to the back stoop and sat on the railing. Surely, there would be freezing nights to come, and the balm of these last few evenings was to be savored.
He saw lights in Cynthia’s house. He wondered what she did with her time in the evenings when she was not going out to the country club. He, too, might have had a membership at the club; the vestry offered him one upon arrival. But no, he wasn’t a golfer, he wasn’t a swimmer, and when he entertained, he liked very much to do it at home. So, he’d requested that the funds available for club membership be given instead to a children’s hunger fund that he knew to be stable in its financial ethics. He had never once regretted doing this, nor had anyone been piqued with him for doing it.
He heard his neighbor’s back door slam.
“Violet!” Cynthia hissed. “Violet, you miserable, witless creature, come back here this minute!”
The rector then heard a deafening cacophony of sound, which he recognized as an all-out, three-alarm catfight.
“Violet!” shouted her mistress, “I will positively murder you for this!”
If only Barnabas were here, he chuckled to himself, those cats would have an instant parting of the ways.
He walked to the hedge. “Cynthia!” he called. “Do you need help?”
Cynthia flew to her side of the hedge in a robe and slippers, her head bristling with the familiar pink rollers.
“Timothy! Violet got out and two toms are killing each other! I’ve got to get her back inside. She’s in heat!”
Good grief, thought the rector, who grabbed the rake propped against the porch and stumbled through the dark hedge.
“You were wonderful,” said a wide-eyed Cynthia, sitting in her workroom on what appeared to be a doll-size love seat. “Just wonderful. First, you ran off those marauding toms, and then you crawled down the coal shaft to rescue Violet. You will never, ever know how I appreciate this. No, never!” she said, fiercely.
She had poured two glasses of the stunning sherry she appeared to keep just for him.
“You should see yourself!” she said, marveling at the coal dust that covered him from head to foot.
Ha, she should see herself! he thought, in those odd slippers and that old robe and curlers sticking up like chimney pots this way and that.
He laughed. “We’re a pair, I’m sure. And here I thought you might be . . . traveling this weekend.”
“Traveling?” she asked, looking at him intently. “Oh.” A pause. “Traveling. Well,” she said, obviously flustered, “as you can see, I am not traveling, I am right here at home, where I am
perfectly, perfectly happy.”
“Aha.”
He looked around her small studio. Every inch of wall space was covered with some cheerful drawing or watercolor, or picture cut from a magazine. She had lettered a scripture from the sixteenth chapter of Proverbs that was pushpinned over her drawing table: “Commit thy works unto the Lord and thy thoughts shall be established.”
“That,” he said, “is a commendable way to do it.”
“For me, it’s the only way. I don’t work at all without committing it to God first. I’ve done it the other way, and giving it to Him makes all the difference.”
Period! The rector smiled. He liked Cynthia’s practical relationship with God. It had none of the boldness of Olivia Davenport’s glorious faith. It was simple and easy. Cynthia, it appeared, was definitely down to earth about heavenly things.
“Well, then,” he said, setting his empty glass on a shelf brimming with children’s books, “I must go to my young scholar. He’s studying for a test tomorrow, and I’ll give him a hand if he needs it.”
She smiled and tilted her head to one side. “You’re lovely,” she said.
“And so are you,” he heard himself reply.
“What are you grinnin’ all over yourself about?” Dooley asked, his eyes bleary with approaching sleep.
“I am not grinning all over myself.” He sat on the side of the bed. “Did your studying go well? Did you need me to help?”
“Naw, I got ’at ol’ mess figgered out.”
“I’ll be praying for you tomorrow at one o’clock when your test begins.”
“Prayin’ ain’t goin’ t’ knock ’at ol’ test in th’ head.”
“You’re right about that, my friend. However, praying will help you knock it in the head.”
Dooley yawned and turned over. “’night,” he said.
“ ’night,” said the rector, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Father, he prayed silently, thank you for sending this boy into my life. Thank you for the joy and the sorrow he brings. Be with him always, to surround him with right influences, and when tests of any kind must come, give him wisdom and strength to act according to your will. Look over his mother, also, and the other children, wherever they are. Feed and clothe them, keep them from harm, and bring them one day into a full relationship with your Son.
He sat for a long time with his hand on the sleeping boy’s shoulder, feeling his heart moved with tenderness.
Then he went downstairs and picked up the phone. “Cynthia, I just remembered something.”
“What’s that?” she asked brightly.
“I’d like you to come for dinner tomorrow evening . . . if you don’t have other plans.”
“Why, no,” she said. “I’d love to come!”
As he went to the refrigerator, he was surprised to find that his forehead had broken out in a light sweat.
He opened the freezer door and removed the duckling.
When he came home for lunch on Friday, Puny had steamed up the kitchen windows with her cooking projects.
“I’m leavin’ you a stewed hen and some p’tato salad for the weekend.”
“A million thanks.”
He sat down at the counter and peered beneath the top slice of bread on his sandwich. Tofu!
“I never thought to see the day I’d touch that stuff,” said Puny, who was watching him out of the corner of her eye, “but I read where it’s good for people like you, so eat hearty! You wouldn’t believe how it feels when you slice it. Ooooh.” She shuddered with disgust.
“I would infinitely prefer a cake of your fried cornbread.”
“You can infinitely all you want to, I’m not makin’ you any more cornbread for a whole month. I marked th’ calendar.”
He ate his sandwich with some alarm, but said nothing.
“I seen your dinin’ table, it looks like Charles and Diana are comin’. Who’re you havin’?”
With some difficulty, the rector swallowed the last of his sandwich and wiped his mouth. “That, Miss Bradshaw,” he said with unconcealed delight, “is for me to know and you to find out.”
After settling Dooley into his room with a model airplane, he went to the refrigerator. The timing would be perfect for dinner at seven.
To say that he was astounded at what he discovered would be an understatement. Puny Bradshaw had mistaken his prize duckling for a chicken, and stewed it.
“Only if it’s decaf,” said Cynthia. “Otherwise, I’d be awake till Thanksgiving!”
“We wouldn’t want that,” said her host, who summarily brought in a silver tray with a pot of coffee, cups, and two dishes of poached pears.
“Oh! I just love pears.”
“Cynthia,” he inquired, “what don’t you love?”
She thought for a moment as he poured a fragrant cup of coffee.
“Ummm. People who are never on time. It’s so thoughtless, the way they rob us of the hours we spend waiting.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Let’s see what else. Garden slugs!”
“Aha.”
“Artificial flowers!”
“Ditto.”
“Loud music. Stale crackers. Cursing. Complaining.”
He laughed.
“You’ll be relieved to know that I won’t ask you such a silly question,” she said. “I’d much rather ask you something else.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“What were your parents like?”
He poured his own coffee and handed her a dish of pears.
“My mother was a beautiful woman with a loving spirit. She could also be obstinate, strict, and cold at times, but, usually, only toward my father, who was always obstinate, strict, and cold.” He looked at her with a wry smile.
“My mother was a Baptist, the granddaughter of a great Mississippi preacher. She was well-read in the Scriptures, had a mind of her own and an arresting wit, into the bargain. When I was an infant, she gave me to the Lord, as Hannah gave Samuel.
“She raised me on Scripture, and the extraordinary thing is, she caused me to love it. Some who’re raised that way end up reviling it, because it’s taught in the wrong spirit. But who could not love what my mother taught? She was adored by everyone. Everyone except, I regret to say, my father.”
His guest stirred cream into her coffee, listening intently.
“My mother, brimming with passion, with love for God and for people—my father, remote, arrogant, handsome, disliked. I remember what my Uncle Gus once said: ‘A highfalutin’, half-frozen Episcopalian and a hidebound, Bibletotin’ Baptist. The North Pole and the South Pole, under the same roof!’ Why did they marry? I believe my mother saw in him something tender and felt she could change him.”
“Oh, dear,” said Cynthia, with feeling.
“At the age of ten or so, I had learned one of the most crucial verses on marriage.” He laughed, remembering his mother’s frequent allusion to it. “ ‘Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers . . . for what communion hath light with darkness?’ My father did have a dark spirit, and her brightness seemed to drive him even further into the darkness.
“The church was a terrific issue for years. Mother attended Father’s church until, as she liked to say, she was overcome by frostbite. Finally, he quit the church entirely, and Mother returned to her Baptist roots. With me in tow.”
He took a sip of coffee from the Haviland cup. His guest, who was herself a storyteller, seemed transfixed. “What did you think of that?” she wanted to know.
“I liked it. It was like drawing your chair up to the hearth. Church suppers, hymn sings, a sense of family. A great sense of family. I found there something I never found with my father: a kind of unconditional love. But unconditional love with salt, for there was a real honor of God’s bottom line. Walnut Grove was a simple church, and it caused me to treasure simplicity. It was also where I very likely developed my early desire to be a pastor.
“I never wanted to r
ise to bishop. I only wanted to pastor a small congregation, and to weave myself into the life of a parish in . . . in an intimate way.”
“I see that you’ve done that, with wonderful results.”
“I don’t know. I very often don’t know.”
“Well, of course, you don’t! That’s not unusual. I very often don’t know if a watercolor is right. I wish I had someone to run to, to say look at this, what do you think? That’s terrific, they might say, keep doing it. Or, haven’t you made all the heads too big?”
He laughed.
“These pears,” she said, “are ravishing, to put it plainly.”
He laughed. “One of the qualities I like in you is that you put things plainly.”
“What else do you like about me?” she asked, unashamedly licking the sauce off her spoon.
“Now, Cynthia . . .” He felt a mild panic.
“Oh, just say! And then I’ll tell you what I like about you.”
To think that he might have been sitting here in perfect peace, in his burgundy dressing gown and old slippers, reading or dozing. . . . “Well, then. Are the rules complete candor? Or shall we shade the truth and flatter one another?”
“Complete truth!”
“ ‘These are the things that ye shall do,’ ” he quoted from the book of Zechariah. “‘Speak every man truth to his neighbor.’ ”
“You see!” she said, laughing.
He sat back on the old sofa with the haphazard slipcover. “One of the things I like about you is that you are . . .” He relished a very long pause, as her eyes grew wide with mock expectancy. “. . . fun,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, lovely!”
“One of the things I like about you,” he continued, warming to his subject, “is . . . your enthusiasm.”
“Really?”
“Yet another thing I like about you is your courage.”
“My courage?”
“Yes. You haven’t told me any stories of your valor, but it’s something I sense, nonetheless. Of course, the thing I like most about you is that you’re far too kind to make me continue this list. That is, until I get to know you better.”
“Done!” she said, scraping the last of the sauce from the bottom of her dish and licking the spoon a final time. She set the dish on the coffee table and pushed up her sleeves. “Now, to you.”
