At Home in Mitford

by Jan Karon

  “As going steady?”

  “Umhmm.”

  He laughed a little. "Almost, perhaps. But surely, not quite.”

  It was four-thirty in the morning when he fell to his knees by his bed and began to pray intensely. When he arose from the rug, creaking in his joints and assailed by a burning thirst, he was amazed to see it was six o’clock.

  All day, he felt derailed, cut loose from his moorings. The loss of sleep, the accumulating fatigue, maybe it was his age, after all. He had forgotten to call Hoppy, but that was just as well, in view of things. He would see him next week, without fail, assuming Hoppy had returned from wherever he’d gone. If he hadn’t returned, he most assuredly did not want to see the new doctor, Wilson, who seemed wet behind the ears.

  In the office mailbox, a card from Emma.

  “Having wonderful time, do not wish you were here, ha, ha. You should have seen Harold talking to Mickey Mouse, I got a whole roll of snaps. Much love, Emma.”

  He dropped by the Grill for a late breakfast, comforted by the familiar surroundings and Percy’s dependable nosiness.

  “I heard that copter set down in th’ park last night, it like t’ scared Velma to death. Truth is, you look like you been scared t’ death, you’re white as a sheet.”

  “I come in here to be cheered up, and, instead, I get brought down. Do I really look white as a sheet?”

  “Warshed out. Gray, like. Sickly . . .”

  “That’s enough, thank you very much.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  He sat in the booth and buttered his toast. Just when he should be gaining a second wind, he was crashing and burning. It seemed a good time to write Stuart Cullen, perhaps even a good time to go see him in person. But he hated the thought of the long drive. Perhaps he would take Cynthia along. There! A brilliant idea. She and Martha would get on famously, and wouldn’t Stuart be fairly astounded?

  “It’s like this . . .” he would explain. It’s like what? Well, of course, he didn’t know, exactly, so he’d just let Stuart figure it out, and then tell him.

  J.C. Hogan slipped into the booth with his bulging, half-open briefcase. “When you goin’ to have a letter from the man in the attic? I need to fill up some space, advertisin’s dropped off.”

  “A letter from George Gaynor isn’t exactly filler. But I just got a letter, and you can have it next week.”

  “Too late. I’d like to get it today, for Monday’s paper.”

  “Let me finish my breakfast. I just came from the office, but I’ll go back again.”

  J. C. got up, jolting the table, and nearly dumping the rector’s breakfast in his lap. “Just run it upstairs where I’ll be layin’ out the center spread.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Father Tim said, crisply.

  Coot Hendrick slipped into the booth, wearing a red cap from the hardware. “I wish t’ God a feller could git ’im a plate of gizzards in this place.”

  "Gizzards, is it?”

  “I was raised on gizzards, like ’em better’n white meat.”

  “You won’t be gettin’ no gizzard plate around here,” yelled Percy, who could overhear the back booth from the grill.

  “Heard anything ’bout y’r dog?” Coot wanted to know.

  He dipped his toast in the poached egg. “Not a word.”

  “I don’t think y’r goin’ to.”

  “Is that right?”

  “If hit was anybody aroun’ here that stoled ’im, they’d’ve jumped on that money like a beagle on a rabbit. Nossir, I think that dog’s long gone.”

  Percy threw his spatula down and walked over. “Lemme tell you somethin’, buddyroe, you say one more word to th’ Father ’bout that dog bein’ long gone, and you’re th’ one’s gonna be long gone, you hear?”

  “You don’t have t’ git s’ bent out of shape,” said Coot. “It ain’t nothin’ but a dog.”

  “Th’ only fella I ever th’owed out of here was Parrish Guthrie. I said that’d be th’ only one, and I wouldn’t want t’ break my promise. Why don’t you go on over yonder and set by th’ window?”

  Coot got up without taking his eyes off the owner and stomped over to the table by the window.

  “Don’t pay no attention to him,” growled Percy. “He ain’t got a lick of sense.”

  “Percy, you didn’t have to do that, but I thank you for it. Coot’s all right, he didn’t mean any harm.”

  Just then, the door opened with some force, and Homeless Hobbes stumbled in on his crutch. “Father Tim!” he shouted. “Are you in here? I’ve found your dog! I’ve found Barnabas!”

  The rector bolted from his seat in the booth and stood frozen by the counter.

  “He’s way up th’ hill behind th’ creek. They had ’im tied out, I saw ’im with my own eyes. I went up there t’ take food t’ a sick feller, ol’ Barnabas got a load of me and like to barked his head off. Some pretty rough characters come out of that house and dragged him inside.”

  “How’d he look?”

  “I hate t’ tell you, he looked starved-like, pore.”

  “I’m callin’ Rodney,” said Percy, taking the receiver off the wall phone.

  “I asked around about th’ jack legs that’s livin’ there—they say they’re bad news, drugs or somethin’ else low-down. One feller said they might be armed. I’d want Rodney t’ be plenty careful.”

  As the few early lunch customers fixed their mute attention on the unfolding drama, Percy held the phone to Father Tim. “He’s on th’ line.”

  “Hello, Rodney! Something wonderful has happened. Homeless says he’s seen Barnabas at a house up the creek. Yes, yes. A little starved-looking, he says. I see. Well, I’ll ask him.

  “Can you tell Rodney where the house is?”

  “I don’t think you can get there from here. I’d have t’ ride with ’im t’ show ’im.”

  “Rodney, he’d have to ride with you, it’s up the hill behind the creek. He says he hears they might be armed, drugs could be involved. Yes. Fine. We’ll be at the Grill.”

  “Anybody wants a doughnut,” Percy said to his customers, “it’s on th’ house!”

  He shook hands with Homeless and Rodney. “I’ll be at home, then. The Lord be with you.”

  As the two men left, Percy stared after them. “I know ol’ Homeless comes t’ town Tuesday nights to go through Avis’s garbage, but that’s th’ only time I ever seen ’im in broad daylight.”

  It was nearly three o’clock before he saw the police car pull up to the curb, and he was standing at the door as Rodney came up the walk. He saw at once that the mission had not been successful.

  “Nothin’,” said the police chief. “We got s’ dern lost tryin’ to find th’ way in there, Homeless had walked in before, and when we finally come up on that house, it was tight as a drum. Nobody at home, no dog barkin’, nothin’. I hated t’ come tell you.” Rodney stood with one foot on the top step, looking downcast.

  “Well, then.”

  “We seen two old vehicles on th’ place, a car under a tarp and a van they’d kind of pushed off in th’ bushes.”

  “Did you look at the license plate on the car?”

  “I did. Wrote it down on my report. Hang on,” he said, going to the curb and taking a clipboard from the front seat. He walked back to the porch stoop, slowly, looking at the report. “Let’s see, here. VAT 7841.”

  “That’s it! That was on the license plate of the car that took Barnabas. I forgot all about it ’til this very moment. VAT!”

  “Well, all I can do is keep an eye on th’ place. I’ll send Joe Joe back in th’ evenin’ and again tomorrow. We’ll turn up somethin’. Since you had ’im more’n three days, state law says you own ’im, so they’ve kidnapped ’im, pure an’ simple, and looks like abuse into the bargain. They don’t have a snowball’s chance.”

  He felt torn between elation and disappointment. “Thank you, my friend. Keep me posted.”

  He went into the study and sat on the sofa, feelin
g a desperate fatigue. He also felt an aching thirst again, which he knew was a warning, but he was too tired to get off the sofa and get a glass of water. “In a minute,” he murmured aloud, leaning his head back. “I’ll do it in a minute.”

  On Saturday evening, the phone rang. “Father Tim, it’s me. Joe Joe.”

  "Joe Joe!”

  “I went over there and looked around, but I didn’t find anything. I tried knockin’ on a few doors along the road, but all I could scare up was an old woman and two little kids, they didn’t know much. It’s spooky back in there, that’s where all the liquor used to be made. But don’t you worry, I’m goin’ again tomorrow, right after church.”

  Church! He had completely forgotten the crux of his sermon.

  “Thank you, Joe Joe, God bless you,” he said, going at once to his desk.

  There! It was “Tough Times, Tender Hearts,” typed rather more neatly than usual, and appearing to be in good order. He turned out the lights and went upstairs. A good night’s sleep and the press of Sunday off his shoulders, and he’d be as good as new. Next week, maybe he’d ask Cynthia to go to a movie.

  “Nothin’,” said Rodney, when he called after church. “Joe Joe went up there and come back empty-handed. Th’ cars hadn’t moved, and there was no sign of a dog except a few piles of poop under a tree, I guess where they’d tied ’im up. I tell you what, my instincts got to workin’ on this, an’ Tuesday, I’m goin’ to stake a man out in th’ woods around there.

  “Maybe us prowlin’ around in a police car has run ’em off, but, anyway, I smell a rat.”

  “Smelling rats is your job, and you’re mighty good at it. Remember how you jumped on that candy wrapper?”

  “You got to look for th’ little things,” Rodney said, with dignified authority.

  He had no sooner put the phone on the hook than it rang again.

  “You comin’ out here t’day?”

  “Dooley! Well, no, no, I’m not. Not today.”

  “I thought you might be comin’ out.”

  “I want to get out next Sunday, but not today, we’ve had a lot of excitement. We think we may have found Barnabas.”

  “You ain’t!”

  “Oh, I think we have. We’ll see. Rodney’s going to stake a man out in the woods to observe the place, it’s up on the hill above the creek. Homeless carried food to somebody up there and saw him. Barnabas barked at him, he said.”

  " ’at’s super,” said Dooley. “’at’s great!”

  “I’ll keep you posted. Doing all right, are you?”

  “Yep, but Rebecca Jane sleeps all th’ time, looks like. I done played ’ith them ol’ dogs and rode ’at ol’ horse and all.”

  “Well, let’s keep in touch. Are you doing what we talked about?”

  “I forgot t’ change m’ underwear last night.”

  “Well, then, tonight you get another chance.”

  “Tell Granpaw hey.”

  “I will.”

  “Tell Cynthia hey, and ol’ Vi’let and Jack an’ all.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “Well, bye,” said Dooley, hanging up.

  With a warm rush of feeling, he realized that Dooley Barlowe was homesick.

  He was getting ready to take a hot shower when the phone rang by his bed.

  “Father?” His doctor’s voice told him the whole story.

  “She’s through it! Everything looks good, she’s resting. Leo Baldwin is a master. Thank God for Leo. They washed up at eight o’clock last night. I would have called you earlier, but I couldn’t, I dropped down on a bed in Leo’s office, and I was outta here. Today has been hectic, this . . .” His voice broke slightly. “This is a great answer to prayer, Father, thank you, thank you.”

  He had never heard his friend sound this way, and he was swept up in the joy of it. “Tell me everything, if you have the strength.”

  “We took the copter to Charlotte, put her on a Lear, and flew to Boston. An ambulance was waiting, we were at Mass General in a little under three hours. The donor was a boy, eighteen years old, motorcycle, no helmet, closed head injury. Rotten business. They had hooked him to a respirator at the scene, brought him in, did brain scans, there was no blood flow to the brain.

  “The emergency room doctor called Leo, Leo talked to the parents, they consented, and Leo called me. What an uncanny, unbelievable miracle! Thousands to one, you know.” Hoppy was silent for a moment and cleared his throat.

  “She’ll be at Mass till we find out whether she’s rejecting, probably a couple of weeks, then Leo wants her here in Boston for four to six months.”

  “That’s the bad news.”

  “I’ll fly up whenever I can. Thank God for Wilson, I got him in the nick of time.”

  “God’s timing is always perfect.”

  “I’m beginning to see that, even about . . . Carol.”

  “Get the names of the parents who gave their consent; I’d like to pray for them.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “In the morning, the ol’ red-eye special. Wilson has probably croaked by now, but he’s young, he can handle it. Keep those prayers coming, pal.”

  “Consider it done,” he said, knowing that was one prescription he wouldn’t forget to refill.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Bells

  On Monday, he refilled his medication after a visit to the hospital and breakfast at the Grill, and hurried to the office. Perhaps he should start taking Monday off, like a lot of clergy. But the thought of losing a full day seemed disorienting.

  He began his list of calls. “Miss Sadie?”

  “Good morning, Father!”

  “Remember you asked me to think about a name for the nursing home? I believe the Scripture you want engraved over the front door is Psalm thirty-three, verse twenty-two, ‘Let thy mercy, O Lord, be upon us, according as we hope in thee.’ ”

  “You have the best memory! But, of course, you’re young.”

  “Well, then. What do you think of the name Hope House?”

  “Hope House? Perfect! Absolutely perfect, Father, I knew I could count on you. Instead of somebody saying their poor mother has gone to a nursing home, they can say she’s living at Hope House!”

  “The other matter, the matter of the beam in the attic, well, I haven’t gotten to it, yet, but I shall. Now, to the good news. We think we’ve found Barnabas.”

  After calling a disgruntled J.C. Hogan to say he’d deliver George Gaynor’s letter at lunchtime, he called Cynthia.

  “What are you up to?” he asked.

  “No good!” she said brightly. “Trying to make the crossover from a Violet book to another kind of book is hair-raising. I mean, what if I can’t do it? What if I’m meant to do cats for the rest of my life? So, I’m forcing myself along, and I’m drawing a . . . ah, well, to tell the truth, a mouse!”

  “From memory, I devoutly hope.”

  “From life. It’s in a cage on my drawing board. I plan to reward it with Gouda and let it go in the hedge.”

  “Cynthia, Cynthia.”

  “Here’s the scoop. The story is about a mouse who lived in the stables where Jesus was born. It’s about looking at life from down under, as it were, a mere mouse observing the high drama of a lowly birth.”

  “I like it.”

  “It’s for children four to eight, so I’ve even lowered the age of my reading audience. Timothy, I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be. Philippians four-thirteen, for Pete’s sake.”

  She laughed. “I needed that.”

  “How are the rabbits?”

  “Wonderful! They help me so much, I’ve sketched pages and pages. I really wanted to do a rabbit book, I think, but I feel strongly led to do this.”

  “Follow your heart,” he said. “And speaking of hearts, Olivia came through the surgery splendidly. She’s resting.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Thank you for your prayers. I also called to
say I think we’ve found Barnabas.”

  “Timothy!”

  “We’ll see. So far, a bit of a holdup, but I’ll keep you posted. And I think Dooley’s homesick.”

  “Will wonders never cease?”

  "Let’s hope not. How about a movie this week?”

  “You’re really asking me to a movie?” she said, with amazement. “That’s instant proof that wonders never cease!”

  On Wednesday, a postcard: “I’ve got a suntan you won’t believe. Harold’s legs are fried. See you in the funny papers, ha ha. Love, Emma.”

  From Stuart:

  “Thanks for your note. As always, it was good to have word from you. Of course, you may come for a visit and bring Cynthia Coppersmith. Next Tuesday is a conflict, as I shall be away then. Can you come the following Tuesday, perhaps? Martha insists on having you here for lunch, though I have gallantly offered a pricey restaurant. I count my blessings!

  “Just give Norma a ring, so it can go on my calendar at the office. Ever yours in His peace.”

  Rodney called at eleven.

  “They’re as good as nailed. They’re runnin’ drugs in and out of there by th’ shipload. They keep Barnabas for a watchdog, and when they don’t want ’im barkin’, they muzzle ’im. Might be a pretty sophisticated operation. Anyway, it’s worse than just a bunch of good ol’ boys bein’ bad.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We’re goin’ in after ’em, that’s what. Th’ trick is, we got to go in when there’s a load of dope settin’ in there. Last night, they drove out with th’ van, Joe Joe run down to ’is car and called us on th’ radio, and by th’ time we got th’ call in to th’ state, they’d disappeared. They may be drivin’ it to a truck somewhere right around here, and loadin’ it on. I’m goin’ to keep Joe Joe out there.”

  “Be careful, Rodney. I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Me either. That’s why I’m countin’ on you to do one of th’ main things th’ Lord hired you to do—pray.”

  What was going on wouldn’t bear thinking about, there was no use in it. Instead, he would keep busy, he would call Dooley. He felt rotten that he’d packed him off somewhere, just as he’d begun to set down roots.