To Be Where You Are

by Jan Karon

  He laid down the comb. He had just figured out what was naggin’ him about this speech.

  Since the Hometown Grocers Association was finally on the same farm-to-table page as the Local, what could he possibly have to tell these people?

  He sighed and sat on the side of the bed and pulled on his shoes and tied the laces, and went to the coatrack and put on his green jacket and zipped it and saw that the wall calendar of food quotes was still turned to September.

  In wine there is wisdom . . . in water there is bacteria.

  —DAVID AUERBACH

  He flipped up the page and stuck it on the nail and read the quote for October.

  A party without cake is just a meeting.

  —JULIA CHILD

  • • •

  It was a perfect day for a wedding—Happy is the bride the sun shines on—or for that matter, a funeral. No matter how rich you become or how powerful you are, according to Michael Pritchard, when you die, the size of your funeral will pretty much depend on the weather.

  Seventy degrees and not one cloud. The sky had been swept by an immense paintbrush loaded with Carolina blue.

  Twenty-seven people gathered for the service at the rain-soaked graveside, then followed the Kavanaghs’ car to Lord’s Chapel.

  Eleven ECW members, three husbands, and a bumper crop of lesser volunteers were standing by.

  Lois Burton eyed the inventory, making sure nothing and nobody was missing.

  Sugar bowls, creamers, forks, spoons, napkins, tea bags. Nine OMCs, counting the show cake on a Waterford plate with the glass dome, three pounds of salted nuts, three bags of party mints, two pale green brocade tablecloths, four candelabra with unintentionally mismatched candles, two massive flower arrangements donated by Mitford Blossoms, one hundred white dessert plates from China Hut and various Bane and Blessing sales, as many white cups and saucers of various pedigree, three industrial-strength coffeemakers: caff, decaf, and hot water for tea . . .

  A volunteer husband, retired to his new handyman service, was missing.

  ‘Where is Pete?’ she asked Faye Dunlap.

  ‘It was a last-minute call. He’s helping set up umbrellas at Feel Good.’

  Given the sober tenor of today’s affair, she did not pursue this peculiar information.

  • • •

  Esther and Ray Cunningham arrived at one-thirty for the two o’clock service, seeking the more politically esteemed front-row seating.

  She did not want to talk to people; she wanted to sit there and think about her mortality. That’s what a funeral was for.

  She glanced through the Order of Service—Rite II; Esther was a big fan of Rite II. For the first time in all the hullabaloo, she realized she would miss Esther. Esther had been generous, upbeat, and opinionated, and she liked those qualities in people.

  Lois Burton popped down the aisle. ‘I ran over to Shoe Barn this mornin’ for a pair of pumps an’ was thinkin’ of you. If you were still mayorin’, we might get those people to clean up th’ trash in their parkin’ lot!’ Though the old mayor was beyond her prime, Lois liked flattering her just the same.

  Esther gave her a look. ‘Now that th’ Muse has pronounced me dead, I don’t have to think about such as that.’

  • • •

  He made the sign of the cross. ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘It’s been estimated that everybody gets fifteen minutes of fame. Not in Esther’s case. Esther enjoyed forty years of well-deserved celebrity.

  ‘In 1977, Esther’s favorite aunt died. Aunt Margaret’s last will and testament gave Esther first choice of three items cherished by the deceased—a pair of diamond earrings in the shape of footballs—Aunt Margaret was a Redskins fan—a 1970 Chevelle Super Sport with bucket seats, or the recipe for her Orange Marmalade Cake.

  ‘Esther said she struggled with this offer. She and Gene needed a car and she had always wanted a pair of diamond earrings. However, she admitted coveting since childhood the secret recipe her aunt had never shared with a living soul.

  ‘Esther claimed her inheritance and, in a manner of speaking, ran with it.

  ‘For forty years, spirits were lifted when people saw Esther coming with her cake carrier. For forty years she demonstrated the gold standard for generosity. For forty years, she caused everyone who received her iconic cake to feel like a million bucks. After taxes.

  ‘I’m not saying that Esther Bolick was entirely selfless or was doing it all for others. Esther also baked the OMC for Esther—for the mystery of it, she told me. She said that every one she baked had been individual, one of a kind, just like people. Further, she enjoyed creating something beautiful and rare. But let’s not overlook the possibility of an even greater payoff: I think Esther did it for the joy of seeing our everyday faces light up.

  ‘Proverbs 11:25 puts it plainly. He that watereth shall be watered. That simple. We got a blessing, Esther got a blessing. It was a win-win!

  ‘All over town, people are telling their stories of Esther and the OMC. Coot Hendrick remembers the time his elderly mother was ill. It was Christmas and snowing out there on Route Four, and who showed up to deliver hope and good cheer? Esther and Gene Bolick, with chains on their tires and a two-layer OMC.

  ‘There was the year Esther spearheaded the baking of fourteen OMCs, an endeavor that raised enough money at the Bane and Blessing to dig a well in South Africa. Fresh, clean water in a land gone dry. A lifesaver!

  ‘Last June, Esther baked one of our son’s two wedding cakes. There was nothing left of it but a few crumbs, which, loath to waste such treasure, I raked into a Ziploc bag and hid in my coat pocket.

  ‘Indeed, the OMC has marked more life events for me and for Mitford than we can collectively recall. But there’s one event I’ll never forget. This dates back to B.C., Before Cynthia, when I opened my refrigerator to find what Esther had stashed by the milk jug. An entire OMC! For a bachelor! Although this diabetic priest knew better—yes, I did—I could not resist just one . . . small . . . slice.’ Many of the congregants knew what was coming.

  ‘I woke up from a hypoglycemic hyperosmolar nonketotic coma eight days later.’

  Laughter.

  ‘It was worth it!’

  More laughter, followed by applause.

  ‘We don’t have to give the world the emotional spectrum of King Lear or the exalted praise of the Messiah or the figure of David released from marble. We don’t have to do great things to make a difference. We can make a great difference by doing small things graciously. To that end, may we practice, as did Esther, this exhortation in Deuteronomy: Let every man give—as he is able. Esther gave as she was able. One cake at a time.

  ‘Something occurred to me at the graveside. With Esther’s OMC, you didn’t just get cake. You got Esther. Esther delivered every cake personally. She couldn’t wait to see our response to a labor of love that took four-plus hours to bring into the world.

  ‘Indeed, creating an OMC requires a skill set of some magnitude.

  ‘Baking the layers is easy enough. But then come the recipes for the syrup, the filling, and the frosting. As for the frosting—no yogurt, no way. OMC frosting is total heavy cream, full-bore sour cream, and high-octane sugar. And how you apply the frosting will tell the world all it needs to know of your patience and good humor. After decorating the top with orange slices, you may like to present the finished product on a paper doily. The doily, Esther told me, “adds to the cost—but is required for beauty.”

  ‘Our good Winnie Ivey has honored Esther by baking the OMC Bonanza, a spectacular three-layer which is on view today at the reception. She is honoring Esther further by donating ten percent of every sale of OMC, whole or in slices, to the Children’s Hospital. Thank you, Winnie Ivey, you are a treasure.

  ‘Immediately after t
he reception, the ECW will lead us up the hill—in cars, thankfully—to Hope House. There we’ll do what Esther would have done—deliver Winnie’s three-layer to our elders, personally.

  ‘You’re invited to join us in this loving tribute to Esther, and to experience with us the joy and exuberance of giving.’

  He crossed himself, bowed his head.

  ‘Lord, we thank you for Esther’s life among us. It was beautiful and rare. Thank you for all those forty years of giving that modeled your son, Jesus Christ, who walks among us still, delivering—in person—the love, grace, mercy, and forgiveness we were created to receive and enjoy.

  ‘Amen.’

  And the people said, ‘Amen!’

  • • •

  At one-thirty sharp, Avis Packard had left the store in the hands of Otis and Lisa James, his longtime help from the Valley.

  Esther Bolick had not been one to do her grocery shopping in Wesley, like some people he knew. She’d been faithful to the Local, and the Local would be faithful to her.

  He had walked home at a trot and changed into clothes laid out on his unmade bed. This would be a trial run.

  At the reception, he got feedback.

  ‘You’re looking quite grand!’ said Marjorie Douglas, who liked the fat cut off her rump roast, the skin removed from her chicken, and her bacon uncured.

  Grand! So there you go, this was the outfit he’d be wearin’ to th’ Queen City. Jacket, dark britches, T-shirt sayin’ I’d Rather Be in Mitford—which was true—an’ lace-ups. He felt a good bit of weight roll off his chest and nodded his appreciation.

  ‘How lovely to have cake!’ she said. ‘Don’t you agree, Mr. Packard?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I do. I truly do. A party without cake is just a meetin’.’

  • • •

  As clergy for nearly half a century, he was good at pegging people and he smelled a rat. The Queen Mary, aka Esther Cunningham, was headed his way in full sail.

  ‘Lunch tomorrow at noon,’ said Esther. ‘We’d love to see you. I have somethin’ to talk about that’s highly confidential.’

  ‘Ahh,’ he said. He was a dash rattled by the rigors of the day and was unprepared for this. What was on his calendar? Where was his wife, he needed an excuse . . .

  ‘It’s been ages since you put your feet under our table, Father. Ray’s makin’ cornbread. Hot out of th’ oven just for you.’

  She eyed his hesitation.

  ‘Fish or cut bait,’ she said, tapping her foot.

  Cornbread! His sworn favorite, but totally forbidden. Ray’s recipe was secret, the best of the best. Cornbread!

  • • •

  Following the reception, congregants passed through the lych-gates into the luminous October afternoon and the splendor of Acer rubrum come fully into its highest calling.

  Inarguably, today was the peak—three days ahead of the predicted peak. The lavish, lovely, permeating rain had been the tipping point.

  Selfies and group shots were made in the churchyard, beneath the branches of the spectacular October Glory. Several stood and watched as cars rolled out of the parking lot and joined the procession to Hope House. Others strolled up the street, where they were surprised to see tables and umbrellas set up outside Feel Good. All agreed that the umbrellas added a foreign touch, in a good way, to a mug of hot cider.

  They couldn’t yet force themselves to go home or back to work. The uplifting service for Esther, the sugar in the OMCs, the radiant afternoon—it was good to be alive.

  In truth, the locals were happy to see the tourists, and the tourists were delighted to see the townspeople, whom they found to be generally sweet though somewhat peculiar.

  Fall had officially arrived in Mitford.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 6

  On Tuesday, he woke with a good bit of self-recrimination. Lunch at the Cunninghams, not a good idea. As for cornbread—really not a good idea.

  He consulted his wife. ‘Go and be as the butterfly,’ she said. ‘Have only a very small piece.’

  ‘Right. Absolutely. Of course.’

  ‘But truly very small.’ She gave him a look. ‘And no butter.’

  Without Cynthia, he would have been morte years ago.

  • • •

  As I recently attended your birthday party, I know you’re eighty-nine years old.’

  He would be gentle, but she had asked for the truth. ‘By the time the election comes around next November, you’ll be ninety. It must be said, Esther—ninety is a somewhat advanced age to be mayorin’. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I most certainly do not think that, an’ it burns me up that you do! I always gave you credit for havin’ more sense than most people. Advanced in age? Look at yourself. Still meddlin’ in people’s business like you did before you went out to pasture.’

  He hadn’t meddled in anybody’s business in months. Where did she get this information? ‘While it’s true that I’m long in the tooth, let it be said that my grandson and Puny’s twins help keep me young.’

  ‘Listen to me, Father. If we could depend on grandchildren to keep us young, I’d be thrown back to bein’ a babe in arms. I have twenty-seven grans and great-grans and I don’t need them to keep me young.’

  Ray got up from the table and cleared the plates, declining help from their guest.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Esther, leaning in for what would likely be a reveal of the confidential matter. ‘This is October.’

  ‘It is that.’

  ‘Th’ perfect time to start plannin’ for what I have in mind.’

  There was Ray at the sink, grinning big, as if this was the most entertainment he’d had in years. Which, of course, it probably was.

  ‘I want to make a little pre-campaign appearance,’ she said, ‘by ridin’ in th’ Christmas parade.’

  ‘Ah. Always a good thing.’

  ‘But I’ve lost my clout.’

  ‘That’ll be the day. Clout is your middle name.’

  ‘Is that too much to ask for a former mayor who gave all she had to this town?’

  ‘Not too much, no.’

  ‘An’ I want to ride with you.’

  ‘I haven’t been asked to ride in the Christmas parade.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s no reason for me to be in it. I’m still unclear why they asked me to ride in the Independence Day parade a few years ago.’

  ‘Because you’re a majordomo. They gave you that award for bein’ a leading citizen. You have clout.’

  ‘I do not have clout. Not one shred. Not anymore.’

  ‘Don’t make me call Andrew Gregory and beg him to let me ride in that lineup of llamas an’ kids on tricycles. They should be glad to get a substantial participant. It’s not like I’m askin’ to be grand marshal. Let that favor fall on other heads.’

  ‘I believe it’s Winnie this year.’

  ‘Well deserved! She gives all those baked goods to th’ poor. So you call th’ mayor for me. An’ don’t let him know I’m thinkin’ of runnin’ again.’

  ‘For your info, it could be freezing that day, so there will be no kids on tricycles. That’s the Independence Day parade. Anyway, Andrew is a good man, he’ll do it. Just ask him.’

  ‘Who kept th’ big-box stores out of this town? Who steamrolled th’ council for th’ Main Street Christmas lights that everybody loves? I shouldn’t have to ask. I want you to ask.’

  He sat back in the chair. How had Ray survived?

  ‘I’d like to ride in a Cadillac. Th’ Cadillac is makin’ a comeback, you know, it’s not your father’s car anymore.’

  ‘That’s Buick, I think. But there are no Cadillacs in Mitford, Esther. This is not a Cadillac town. It’s more of a Chevy town, a Ford town. With a heavy dose of Asian influence and four-wheel drive.’

  ‘Get me a Cadillac,’ s
he said. ‘Talk to th’ dealership in Holding or Charlotte or wherever they are. Tell ’em who I am. They’ll be flattered an’ they’ll come runnin’. A custom color would be nice. Lavender would be a showstopper, or an upbeat shade of pink. They’ll do that if you tell ’em who I am.’

  ‘Those are not campaign colors, Esther. Black is what you need for a political campaign.’

  ‘There’d be no fun throwin’ candy out of a black car.’

  ‘Santa will be coming along at the rear, as you recall, throwing candy out of his own rig.’ This was a root canal.

  ‘Bah! What that turk flings to the huddled masses is pitiful! A handful! I throw candy in any parade, they expect candy from me.’

  Then again, he may as well relax and enjoy it; the dessert course was still to come. He exhaled. ‘Hardtop, I presume.’

  ‘Of course, hardtop. Didn’t you just tell me it would be freezin’?’

  Ray set a bowl of fruit on the table, with a side of yogurt.

  ‘Greek, Father. We hope you like it. An’ th’ fruit’s all fresh. I even peeled th’ grapes for you.’

  He looked at Ray Cunningham, once the town’s primo purveyor of baby back ribs and all things cholesterol. Ray was a little stooped now, and shriveled, like himself, but still smiling. Ray Cunningham was a sermon on two feet.

  • • •

  What the heck.

  He knew the owner of the dealership, who was a parishioner of the Holding church he had frequently supplied. Thank heaven Jake Tulley would decline such a ridiculous proposition and yours truly would be off the hook. Nossir, he would never have lunch with Esther Cunningham again. Not in this lifetime.

  He rang the dealership.

  Jake would be, in his own words, ‘completely thrilled’ to provide his wife’s brand-new Cadillac CT6 with twin turbo engine, pedestrian collision mitigation, Bose sound system, five massage settings, heated seats—loaded. Sorry, no pink, this baby was a knock-out red. Red Passion, to be exact. ‘Totally sexy!’ said Jake.

  ‘We wouldn’t want to impose on your wife’s . . .’