At Home in Mitford

by Jan Karon

  "Y’ought t’ make ’at hole bigger,” said Dooley, who was helping him install the roses before he went off to Meadowgate. “’at hole ain’t near big enough.”

  “How do you know it isn’t?”

  “I jis’ know, is all.”

  When they were putting the rotted manure in the holes, the rector realized he’d forgotten to bring a second pair of gloves.

  “I ain’t scared of no cow poop,” said the boy, working it deftly into the soil with his hands.

  “Good fellow. And what did Jenny have to say the other day?”

  "Said she was sorry I got in trouble f’r knockin’ Buster Austin’s lights out. Said he was askin’ for it, he’s always goin’ aroun’ askin’ for it.”

  “Yes, but do you always have to be the one to give him what he asks for?”

  “I ain’t goin’ to, n’more.”

  "Thanks be to God. And why is that?”

  " ’cause.”

  “Because why, may I ask?”

  Dooley took a deep breath. There was a long silence, and then he spoke carefully. “Jis’ ’cause,” he said.

  “Here’s the deal,” said Walter, who called before the evening news. “Katherine and I have it all worked out. We meet you at the Shannon Airport on July 21. We take a bus to the train in Limerick City and go up to Sligo, where we stay three weeks in a marvelous old farmhouse near Lough Gill. Then we take a car down to Claremorris and Roscommon, perhaps all the way to Ballinasloe. Margaret says we’ll find a few family archives at an abbey in Ballinasloe, but you know how she varnishes the plain truth.”

  “There’s no way under heaven I can do this now, there are too many . . .”

  “Timothy, for God’s sake! You’ve been making excuses about this trip for fifteen years! Come now, old fellow, if you wait until you have time, you’ll never set foot outside Mitford.”

  “That’s true. I agree with you completely.”

  “Then, let’s do it! Katherine and I could go on our own, of course, but we’d much rather go with you in tow. You know how we’ve talked about splitting up in three directions during the day, to pursue the family secrets, then coming together every evening at dinner to put it all in one pot. What ground we could cover! It would be an experience of a lifetime, following those crooked turns back to our ancestral castle. Timothy, this is the year for it! Trust me on this.”

  “Walter, I have a boy now, you know, with a long summer stretching ahead of him like a jet runway. He needs someone to hold down the fort. And his grandfather, recovering from pneumonia, and a parishioner who’s waiting for a heart transplant, and a five-million-dollar nursing home on the drawing board. What’s more, I just put in a dozen vastly expensive roses, which will need looking after. You must understand, I simply can’t do it. Perhaps next year . . .”

  “Cousin, you deceive yourself. There will always be a boy and a nursing home and a case of pneumonia, in a manner of speaking.”

  He noticed that Walter sounded genuinely disappointed.

  “I despise saying no, again and again, to this wonderful dream . . .” His voice trailed off. He was miserably disappointed in his own everlasting inability to get up and go, to take strong action and seize control, and do all the things that other people seemed able to do, and which the world admired so much.

  There were times when he felt the Ireland trip was the most possible thing in life, and his heart would lift up and he’d begin to plan and read and even daydream about it. Then, suddenly, it seemed ridiculously impossible, a trivial pursuit in a world of so much suffering and pain. It was vain to go gadding after one’s thoroughly dead ancestors and a vague ruin of a castle.

  “And another thing,” he said, having a sudden revival of energy, “Barnabas is missing, and if that twenty-five-hundred-dollar reward works—as a lot of people think it will—who would be here to welcome him back?” There! That was something Walter could not knock down, not in the least.

  “Well, of course,” his cousin said, reasonably. “You’re right. Katherine will be disappointed, but perhaps we’ll screw up our enthusiasm and go anyway, just the two of us. We’ll bring the research home and see what you can make of it.”

  “Yes!” he said, immeasurably relieved, “That’s a terrific idea. You do the footwork, I’ll pore over the papers and the dates and try to make sense of everything, and then, perhaps, we could all go later and fill in the holes.” Why did he have to say that? He could never leave well enough alone.

  On June 13, remembering the date at the top of Willard Porter’s letter, he took Miss Sadie a birthday card. The walk up the hill warmed him considerably, and he wished for his running clothes, which he hadn’t donned in weeks. He must call Hoppy but fervently disliked telling the truth about the neglect of his exercise and diet program.

  He had done so well, for so long, and then he had lost control. A few days off his medication here, a few taboo foods on his plate there, and the first thing he knew, he was again overweight, fatigued, low in spirits, and generally aggravated by the aggressive takeover agenda of his hateful disorder.

  When Louella offered him a piece of coconut birthday cake, he responded with such severity that she was taken aback.

  “Sorry, Louella, I was snapping at myself, not at you. Please forgive me.”

  Miss Sadie was breezing about the bedroom, rouging her cheeks, and getting ready to drive to town with Louella to pick up Q-tips at the drugstore.

  “I’m glad to see you got over being tired. Happy birthday!” He kissed her forehead. “May there be many more to come.”

  “I want all God can give me!” she said brightly. “Oh, and I’m thrilled to say that Olivia Davenport would love to have Mama’s hats. But when I told her there were thirty-two of them, she was kind of shocked, I think.”

  “I’ll see that’s taken care of in the next few days. Now, what may I do for you on your birthday? I have a half hour or so.” He thought she might like a piece of furniture moved, perhaps, or something carried to the basement.

  “You’ve done more than enough, already. More than enough! But if you could spare the time, one day soon, I’d dearly love to know what’s carved on that beam in Willard’s attic.”

  He had an odd, sinking feeling when Dooley went to his room to pack for Meadowgate. He could feel it coming; the house already seemed forlorn. What had he done all those years with no dog and no boy, just the everlasting monotony of his own company? He supposed he hadn’t noticed very much that he was alone, proving the old adage that “you can’t miss what you never had.”

  He paced the floor of his study, thinking, It’s only for three or four weeks, imagine what you can get done around here with no interruptions, no bologna to fry, no hamburgers to fix, no jeans to wash, no homework to help with. He tried to imagine himself sitting with his feet up, reading Archbishop Carey’s book, but somehow that didn’t seem very interesting, at all.

  He heard Dooley thumping down the stairs, dragging a suitcase that was evidently filled with lead.

  “What are you taking in that thing, anyway?”

  “Jis’ some ol’ poop f’r Rebecca Jane.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Jis’ a baseball and a dump truck an’ stuff like ’at.”

  “Hal will be here any minute. I pray you’ll remember what we discussed.”

  “Say please and thank you, don’t cuss, wash m’ hands, don’t sass Miz Owen, change m’ underwear, make m’ bed. That’s all, ain’t it?”

  “No, that ain’t all,” said the rector.

  “An’ say m’ prayers?”

  “Right. Good fellow. And I’ll call you twice a week, and try to get out there before too long.” He was astounded that he’d just heard himself say ‘ain’t,’ as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was good that Dooley Barlowe was going away for a while, as he’d begun talking exactly like him.

  He’d been right, of course. The house seemed hollow as a gourd. He heard his footsteps echo dully in the
hall.

  He took two carrots out of the refrigerator and walked to the garage. “Well, Jack,” he said, stooping down and putting the carrots in the rabbit cage, “it’s just you and me, old boy.”

  He walked back to the study, and looked at the clock on the mantle. Five-fifteen. Maybe he should run. Puny hadn’t come today, so maybe he’d walk to The Local and get something for dinner. He felt ravenous, as he’d skipped lunch, quite without meaning to. He’d worked on his sermon until twelve-thirty, and then the phone had started ringing, and somehow the afternoon had slipped away and he’d come home to say good-bye to Dooley, and here he was, standing in the middle of the floor as bereft as if he’d lost his last friend.

  He gazed out on Baxter Park, half-hidden from view behind the rhododendron hedge. The light had stolen softly across the wide, open park bordered on all sides by darkly green hedges. What a treasure, that park, and yet he never used it, nor even encouraged Dooley to go there. A perfect place to sit and read. To sit and think. To have a picnic.

  A picnic?

  He looked in the refrigerator and found four lemons and made a jar of lemonade. He found cold chicken and then a fine wedge of Brie and French rolls. There were berries left from breakfast and Puny’s banana bread that hadn’t even been cut.

  He put it all into a picnic basket with damask napkins and fetched a starched tablecloth out of the bottom drawer of the buffet.

  He stopped suddenly and shook his head. Once again, he had put the cart before the horse.

  “Cynthia?” he said, when she answered the phone, “would you like to go on a picnic?” He feared the worst. She was probably off to the country club, perhaps to a dinner dance with a full orchestra.

  “You would?” He had certainly not meant to sound so joyful.

  Cynthia sat on the tablecloth in her denim skirt and chambray blouse, with a large napkin across her lap. She held her palms up. “Surely it’s not raining?”

  “No, indeed. That was dew off the leaves. We’re not having rain.” He poured the lemonade into crystal glasses. How happy he was with his idea, with an idea that was quite unlike his usual ideas. Perhaps he wasn’t as thoroughly dull, after all, as he’d felt when talking with Walter.

  “Cynthia,” he said, raising his glass, “here’s to your next book, and all your future books! To your illustrations, may they come alive on the page! To your happiness, to your health, and to your prosperity!”

  They drank.

  “My!” she said, “that was a toast and a half. Goodness!”

  “A picnic, Cynthia, think of it! How long has it been since you were on a picnic?”

  “Shall I tell you the truth?”

  “Of course. Always.”

  “Yesterday,” she said simply.

  He was fairly devastated. To think he’d imagined he was clever and original, and then, to learn it was all merely humdrum and everyday. Andrew Gregory, he supposed, feeling a slow drip on his pants from the perspiring glass.

  “Violet and I found a mossy bank on Little Mitford Creek and had deviled eggs and popcorn and tuna on toast.”

  He was so relieved, he might have shouted. A roller coaster. Being with Cynthia was like being on a roller coaster, his feelings dipped and soared so uncontrollably.

  “I sketched ladybugs and moss, it was wonderful. Violet slept in the sun, and a butterfly lighted on her ear. Can you imagine?”

  He could, but only with some effort. He leaned against the bench, which they’d spread the cloth beside. Surely he’d reached the very gates of heaven, where he found a balmy breeze, a place far removed from the fret of getting and spending, and, best of all, someone agreeable to talk with.

  They lingered on in the twilight, the evening birdsong loud and vibrant in the hedges.

  He knew he would ask her, sooner or later, but each time he thought of it, his heart pounded. “Cynthia,” he said, at last, glad for the fading light, “what does going steady mean . . . exactly?”

  “Well, it’s one of those wonderful things that means just what it says. You go with someone. Steadily! And you don’t go out with anybody else.”

  “I already don’t go out with anybody else.”

  “Yes, but I do. Or did! Or, even might again.” She tilted her head to one side, smiling.

  “What’s wrong with things as they are?” He felt slightly annoyed.

  "Things as they are are so . . . unofficial. I never know when I might see you. It would be lovely to have something to look forward to with you, like going out to a movie or having you in for dinner more often, just simple things.”

  “I don’t understand why we have to go steady to do those things.”

  “Well, of course, we don’t have to. It would just be nicer, to know that someone was special, set apart.”

  He cleared his throat. “You’ve . . . been seeing Andrew Gregory, I believe.”

  “Andrew is lovely, really he is. Very gracious and lots of fun. But it’s Churchill this and Churchill that, and I can’t bear Churchill! He was horrid to his wife, rude to his guests, and cursed like a sailor. And every time we went to the club, I got a terrible knot in my stomach, I’m just not good at that sort of thing. Besides, he likes bridge, and I positively loathe it!” She gazed at him intently.

  “You’re clearly the most interesting woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “I do. You’re easy to be with, you’re thoughtful and amusing, you’re enormously talented, and, yes, very lovely to look at.” There. He’d said everything.

  Why was this so difficult? She had, after all, asked a simple yes or no question: Would you like to go steady? Yet, he felt as if he needed to write a full sermon in reply.

  “The truth is,” he said, “I’m fearful of anything that might interfere with my . . .”

  “With your work.”

  “Yes.”

  “Typical.”

  “What do you mean, typical?”

  “Men are always afraid that someone might interfere with their work.” Now, she seemed annoyed. “You could try looking at it as something to enhance your work, as a welcome diversion that may help you along in your work.”

  A fresh way of looking at it, he thought, with some surprise.

  “You know, the knot that comes with a party at the country club is mild to what I’m feeling right now.”

  “What are you feeling?”

  “So nervous I could throw up. I have never in my life argued for anything like this. It never occurred to me that a simple question would turn into a Platonic debate. After all, Timothy, I did not ask you to marry me!” She stood up suddenly, and he rose, also, catching her arm.

  “Please! Don’t be upset. It was a wonderful question, I should be flattered and grateful beyond words that you asked me. I’m sorry.”

  Without thinking, he put his arms around her and drew her close, entering that territory of wisteria which infused even the faint warmth of her breath on his cheek. Her softness was a shock to him, to the place where he kept his heart orderly and guarded, and he realized it wasn’t hammering at all, it was completely at peace.

  They heard it before they felt it. “Rain!” they cried, in unison, and, grabbing up the hamper and cloth, fled across the park as it came down in a sudden torrent.

  The peace was still there, he thought, lying awake at three o’clock in the morning, listening to the murmur of the rain. It was a palpable thing, this feeling, undefiled by concern or doubt. He prayed for Cynthia, admiring her courage to speak up. “Come boldly to the throne of Grace,” Paul had written to the Hebrews. He liked her boldness!

  He was filled with a certain excited expectation for the summer, as if his own school had been let out.

  It felt as if thunder were vibrating through the bed.

  Horrified, he sat up and saw lights flashing wildly around the room. In the sound that filled the air like another presence, he heard an oddly familiar rhythm: cut, cut, cut, cut, cut.

  He sprang out
of bed and went to the alcove window, but could see nothing more than the flashing light that seemed to be swinging rapidly in circles, like a beacon. Without switching on the hall light, he raced down the stairs to the kitchen window.

  A helicopter! In Baxter Park. And people running, and there, just as the light flashed across it, Hoppy’s blue Volvo.

  Good Lord! Olivia!

  He slipped his feet into his garden shoes by the door and ran toward the hedge and through it, blinded by the light and sickened by the deafening roar.

  He saw Hoppy and two others taking Olivia from the car.

  “I’m here!” he shouted, fighting the storm of feeling that rose in him.

  “Pray!” yelled Hoppy, who had lifted her in his arms. Olivia looked at him and reached out. He was able to touch only her fingertips as Hoppy rushed her to the helicopter door and handed her in to waiting hands. Then, the doctor climbed in, and the door closed.

  Someone backed the car across the park, deeply trenching the rain-soaked grass, and almost immediately, the helicopter was lifting, lifting, was in the air, and vanishing over the tops of the trees.

  “Philippians four-thirteen, for Pete’s sake,” he whispered hoarsely to the sudden darkness.

  “What a horrid nightmare! What was it all about?” Cynthia came through her hedge with a flashlight.

  “It’s Olivia. I don’t know what the mission is. I pray to God she’s flying to her heart.” Flying to her heart! A miracle of miracles.

  Cynthia took his hand, dropping the flashlight by her side. It beamed on his feet. “Oh, dear,” she said, looking down. He had lost one of his untied tennis shoes, the other was covered with mud, his pajama legs were soaked nearly to the knees, and Violet was nuzzling his ankle.

  He put his arms around Cynthia and held her. How good it was to hold someone, especially after the shock of that alarming mission in the park. “So lovely,” she murmured against his shoulder, stroking his cheek. “Two dear hugs in one night. It’s almost as good as . . .”