To Be Where You Are

by Jan Karon

  He laughed. ‘A beautiful area. Our cathedral is in Asheville. So. Nice to have spoken with you, Ms. Logan . . .’

  ‘Is anyone else there who may have called?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Only my wife and our cat, Truman, who isn’t talkative.’

  ‘I must have gotten a digit out of place.’ Crisp. All business. ‘Thank you, Father.’ A dial tone.

  He yawned, eyed the cat door, which was blocked this time by a wastebasket. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said to Truman.

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 9

  Christmas banners, Easter banners, all manner of banners adorned the walls of his old office, with poster-size photos of young families snowmobiling, hiking to mountaintops, and diving into various bodies of water.

  He had to admit that Father Brad’s smile was of the light-up-a-room variety. How many parishes could boast a good-looking priest—good-looking, it may be said, in a good way? Outdoorsman, gardenia enthusiast, ex-Marine, and all-around lover of life—he was the picture of health and enthusiasm, complete with a gardenia blossom on his desk.

  ‘Kleim’s Hardy!’ said Father Brad. ‘Blooms well into fall. Tolerates temperatures to zero.’

  Father Brad poured himself a cup of fresh-brewed coffee and a cup of water for his guest. ‘What do you hear from Talbot?’

  ‘Volunteering at a soup kitchen in Toledo.’

  While in Mitford, Henry Talbot had wrecked both his standing as a priest and his long-term marriage, then disappeared. On occasion, a postcard arrived in the Kavanagh mailbox. Postmarks from New Mexico to Ohio. Brief messages indicated he was pulling himself together. ‘Peeling his onion,’ Bishop Martin had said.

  ‘Now here’s a question for you. On the phone from Colorado, you mentioned Mary Ellen, but the wind carried away the context.’

  Father Brad literally burst into laughter. ‘You’re worse than any woman, Father!’

  ‘True! Ever hungry for context.’

  ‘She was on the trip with us—my daughters, their husbands, my granddaughters. It was a wonderful time; she’s a great sport. Had never rafted in white water, but was up for it and good job! Did I say she wrangles a mean breakfast skillet? On a burning log?’

  ‘Terrific! Your daughters?’

  ‘They were skeptical, didn’t really want to include Mary Ellen. But all that has changed. Get this, Father. I prayed for someone like her, but never believed it could happen. We do that, don’t we? Pray for something, but don’t trust God for it.’

  ‘Often guilty of the same offense,’ he said, raising his hand. ‘What’s this about a skillet on a burning log?’

  ‘It’s called a Swedish fire torch. Split a big log in seven or eight pie shapes, leave about six inches of uncut wood at the base, dig a hole, stand the log in the hole. Pour oil or stuff paper around the pie shapes. Throw in a match and there you go—a cooking fire that lasts several hours. Hope to introduce it this year at snow camp.’

  ‘Snow camp is going forward?’

  ‘There’s one eternal problem with snow camping. We’ve got to have snow. And there’s no way to know that yet. I find it exhilarating, but it can be pretty scary for the novice. It can make you search for something deeper in yourself. The year you joined us, it was mud camp.’

  They had a laugh. He had definitely searched for something deeper . . .

  When he signed on with Father Brad, there had been an inch of the predicted six on the ground, followed immediately by sheets of icy rain and not another flake. The campsite was a mud wallow.

  They had taken refuge in a cabin built in 1914 by a moonshiner and converted into a way station for hikers. Historic! Sodden! Freezing! A misery of the first order!

  So considering that they had no snow, could they please go home? No way. Father Brad had other ideas, and God had used the whole tribulation for good. Two of their party of five teenage boys, including Dooley’s brother, Sammy, had turned their lives around.

  ‘Dooley’s sister, Jessie,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think she could sign on out of spite, to prove she’s tough. But she may not be up to it physically. Overweight, a smoker, a problem with pharmaceuticals, barely managing to hang on at school. As you know, camp rules are no drugs, no tobacco, a note from the family doctor, cell phones checked at the church.’

  ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘Mary Ellen was a Girl Scout leader and school counselor. She’s very excited about this. Also, one of our youth group leaders.’

  ‘Have you spoken with Pauline?’

  ‘Pauline asked if I’d talk with Jessie. Jessie can be a pain to catch up with. I’ll swing by her bus stop Monday morning, offer her a ride. If that doesn’t work, we’ll go to plan B.

  ‘You know, by the way, that I’ll carry my phone. There’s the place on the ridge where you can get service. I’ll give you a shout Saturday morning. You heard the news about Pooh?’

  ‘Awesome, as they say. I’m meeting him in the nave at eleven.’

  ‘He didn’t want to talk with me, he wanted to talk with you. You raised Dooley, rescued Jessie, recovered Sammy, and Pauline says you hustled Pooh out of a desperate situation. You’re the magic with the Barlowes.’

  ‘Not with Jessie.’

  ‘Nobody’s magic with Jessie.’ The Lord’s Chapel priest looked uncharacteristically solemn. Then he smiled. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  He believed in Father Brad, who conceded with Goethe that ‘correction is good, but encouragement is better.’ Bottom line, his friend was home from the canyons and in love, ready to pitch in for the youngest of the Barlowes.

  He felt that his own smile may be lighting up at least a fraction of the room.

  • • •

  God wants me to help people like my family. But I don’t want to be a counselor. I want to be a preacher. Like you.’

  ‘The right seminary gives you tools. The Holy Spirit gives you the user’s manual. How the tools are used is different with everybody. A thousand priests, a thousand ministries. All glorifying one God.’

  ‘I just want to help people.’

  The seventeen-year-old sitting with him in the pew might have been a young Dooley or even a younger Sammy. Pooh was equipped with the long legs, red hair, and burning gaze typical of the Barlowes.

  ‘This is wonderful. How did you come to know that’s what you want?’

  ‘God pulled on my heart.’ Pooh’s face colored.

  ‘How did he do that?’

  ‘I’ve been praying for a long time to be able to do something about Sammy and Kenny and Jessie forgiving Mama. And for her to learn how to love them better.

  ‘I finally realized there was nothing I could do. If it got done, it would have to be God.’ Pooh cleared his throat, ran his fingers through his hair. This was hard. ‘A few months ago, God said he . . . would walk with me through whatever it takes.’ His heart pounded. ‘I mean, he didn’t speak out loud or anything.’

  ‘I understand.’

  October morning light illumined the stained windows of the nave—the infant in the manger, the boy in the temple, the man on the cross . . .

  ‘I forgave Mama a long time ago. So it’s been easier for me than for them. Probably my brothers and sister would like to forgive her, but they can’t. And I don’t know how to help people love each other.’ Pooh looked away, then turned back to him with a level gaze. ‘I think there are a lot of families like us.’

  ‘There are. Yes.’

  ‘Jessie is a freak. She does dope, hardly ever does her homework. I don’t see how she can make it to graduation. And yet she’s really smart. She hides how smart she is, like she’s sayin’ you can’t know me, you can’t touch me. She’s at th’ point of totally being kicked out of school. I feel like there’s something I should do to help, but I don’t know . . . ’

  Pooh leaned back, breathed out
. ‘I’ve been thinkin’ maybe I should change my name.’

  ‘I was reading just the other day about a Barlowe,’ said Father Tim. ‘Spencer is his name. A U.S. Air Force Pararescue officer. He received the Medal of Honor a while back. Not everybody gets one of those. Barlowe can be a good name.’

  ‘I mean I should probably change Pooh to my real first name, Henry. I never heard of a preacher named Pooh.’

  ‘A preacher named Pooh. Why not?’ The idea brought a smile to his face. ‘With an h or without? We’ve all been a little confused about that over the years.’

  ‘With the h.’

  ‘You’ll get a few laughs, of course. But God can use your name to illustrate your humanity. I remember your nickname was inspired by a pool ball.’

  ‘Mama brought it home; it was a seven ball and I thought it was the greatest thing in the world. I carried it around everywhere, called it a pooh baw.’

  ‘Such a name will start conversations very handily. In fact . . .’ He was intrigued by the thought. ‘The name Pooh could be a great icebreaker for the name of Jesus.’

  Pooh’s grin was big. He laughed. ‘I’ve had to kick some butt over my name. Sorry I said that. Excuse me.’

  ‘It’s okay. Be yourself with me; say what you need to say. I won’t be your judge, that’s not my job. I’d like to be your helper.’

  ‘I remember when you and Lace came and took me out of th’ Creek—when Mama got burned. It was like being kidnapped; it was really exciting. I won’t forget it.’

  He wouldn’t forget it, either. It had been a moonless night of barking dogs and a slippery bank and a chilling fear of what he and Lace were about to do.

  ‘I know you and your parents attend services at Lord’s Chapel. What denomination are you thinking about?’

  ‘I don’t know much about denominations. Really, I just want to learn to help people, and do it like you.’

  ‘What am I doing that seems right to you?’

  ‘You know how to . . .’ Pooh hesitated, took a deep breath. ‘ . . . love people. I think that’s what helps th’ most.’

  ‘Do you feel God’s love, Pooh?’

  ‘Yessir. I do.’ Pooh wished his heart would quit beating so hard.

  They were silent for a time. Father Tim watched the light come, then go. Amethyst, ruby, emerald; pools of color reflected on pews and floor. On the knee of his brown corduroys, a small lake of sapphire, cast from the Virgin’s robe. It shimmered a moment. Disappeared.

  ‘You must get an undergraduate degree, of course, then apply to graduate school. Eight years to get the job done.’

  ‘I graduate from high school this year. Mom and Dad can’t afford to send me to college, but I could work my way through. I’ve been working after school and in the summer and saving my money, and looking into scholarship programs with my school counselor. This is all new to me, so I don’t know how to think about what to do.’

  ‘Your grades?’

  ‘Really, really good.’

  Pooh’s adoptive father, Buck Leeper, had often been out of work since the economic downturn, and Pauline’s salary as dining room manager at Hope House would not fund higher education. College could be a rough go for Pooh.

  But already he was thinking wrong thoughts. St. Luke had said, What’s impossible for men is possible with God. That’s the road he would travel with this.

  ‘I’d like to do a kind of very unofficial discernment group. Four or five people. Just to ask questions, answer questions. Maybe help you hammer out your feelings and intentions.’

  ‘Does that mean I’d be committed to the Episcopal Church?’

  ‘No strings attached. Whatever path you choose, I feel it could be a positive early exercise.’

  ‘Sounds scary,’ said Pooh.

  ‘It will be good; you’ll find it helpful. Not to worry. Let me look into it and be in touch.’

  ‘Is there anything I should be doing?’

  ‘Praying. And reading God’s word.’

  ‘I’m doing that.’

  ‘That’s step one. As for step two, I have some fact-gathering to do.’

  All things considered, the real step two was money.

  He put his hand on Pooh’s shoulder. ‘Let me pray for you, son. And for your family. We’ll all need to make this journey together.’

  • • •

  The walk up the hill from Lord’s Chapel to Hope House was not for the fainthearted. To think that until a couple of years ago, he’d run up! In any case, this should churn a little density into his bones.

  ‘I been wonderin’ when I gon’ see yo’ face.’

  ‘I was here just a few days ago.’ He stooped toward the recliner and gave Louella a kiss on the forehead. She had forgotten his visit when they processed up with the cake.

  ‘You’d never guess who I was jus’ now missin’.’

  ‘Miss Sadie!’

  ‘I miss Miss Sadie all th’ time. Somebody else.’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘Miss Rose! Gone how long?’

  ‘Five years,’ he said.

  ‘She was what th’ nurses call a hoot, bless ’er heart. Passed in her sleep. I’d like th’ same, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Either that or drop over in the garden by the rosebushes.’

  She laughed her mezzo laugh, undiminished by ninety-plus years.

  He sat next to her recliner on the low stool reserved for his visits. It was a seating arrangement guaranteed to make him feel ten years old.

  ‘Every day, I miss th’ one who raised me.’

  ‘Helped raise you from an infant,’ he said, fond of the old story.

  ‘Bathed an’ dressed me, pulled me aroun’ in that little red wagon, cornrow’d my hair. You never seen th’ like of ribbons she tied in my kinky hair.’

  ‘I get a real sense of Miss Sadie when I come to see you. It’s like getting Louella and Miss Sadie all rolled into one.’

  ‘Rolled into a mighty stout one! They got me wearin’ extra-large now.’

  ‘And we thought that when we get old, we get shrunk.’

  ‘Get drunk?’

  ‘Shrunk!’

  He liked laughing with Louella. Maybe the best way to honor the deceased was to laugh with the living.

  • • •

  Vanita Bentley popped into the Local to shoot a picture of Chucky on his bed by the chewing tobacco display.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t take up the habit!’ said Vanita, who expected Avis to laugh, but he didn’t. ‘What’s he shakin’ for? Is he cold?’

  ‘He’s not cold,’ said Avis. He didn’t know what made him shake, but his dog wadn’t cold; he’d covered him up with a blanket last night and he kept shakin.’ After a while, th’ shakin’ went away and he was fine.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  He, Avis Packard, who knew zero about dogs, had named him Chucky. That was the name that just popped out from the get-go. It had sounded like baby talk, so he tried to think up other names. Bingo, Howdy, Bubba, Scooter. But when he said Chucky, the dog came over and licked his hand, so there you go.

  He didn’t have to answer her question because their police captain had arrived for her three o’clock sugar fix and Vanita Bentley went to snappin’ what she called ‘head shots and verticals.’

  Adele Hogan popped the tab on her Coke can and eyed Avis’s stray, who was trembling on the blanket. Probably kidney disease.

  ‘Reckon you should put an ad in th’ paper?’ The captain hitched up her holster. ‘Advertisin’ a found dog?’

  She and J.C. agreed a few weeks ago that Avis didn’t seem fully with it these days. Haggard, thin as paper, work, work, work, a loner, nobody to go home to. And now a stray dog to feed, walk, whatever, plus carry to the vet. She was the first to admit she was nosy. She liked other people’s business.

 
‘He’ll be right here in th’ store in plain view every day.’ He looked the captain in the eye. ‘Which should be enough advertisin’ for anybody.’

  While it was out of the MPD’s jurisdiction, she thought it worth mentioning. ‘You probably know,’ she said, ‘that havin’ a dog in a food store is a violation of federal and state food safety rules.’

  He had a sick feelin’ in his gut. Adele Hogan was a perfect example of why he had never wanted a wife.

  ‘For th’ police to get involved,’ he said, ‘a complaint would have to come from one of my customers. An’ that’s not goin’ to happen because they’re intelligent people.’ He turned and walked up front. He’d like to knock that woman in the head, which was totally unlike him.

  When he opened the mail yesterday, there was a letter from the Association. They were lookin’ forward to what he had to say; did he have a title for his talk, which they could put in the program?

  So there went another sleepless night, but it had nothin’ to do with Chucky tremblin’ at the foot of the bed.

  He was relieved to see Father Tim and his wife comin’ in with what looked like a list.

  ‘Avis,’ said Father Tim, ‘before we get started, Cynthia and I need to tell you something.’

  He couldn’t handle any complaints or money-back guarantees today, he just couldn’t.

  ‘We really appreciate the Local and all you do for us. Like your pasta station on Wednesday, that’s a winner. Who ever thought they’d find fresh pasta in Mitford?’

  ‘A little triple-virgin olive oil,’ said Avis, automatically reciting his pasta mantra, ‘kosher salt, cracked pepper, lemon zest, grate a little Parmesan . . .’

  ‘That’s how we like it,’ said Miz Kavanagh. ‘And the way you design a meal for your customers—by putting the ingredients on display in one spot, with a recipe to take home. We just did your Tuesday-night meatloaf.’

  ‘Albeit on Wednesday!’ said Father Tim. ‘Very handy to have the onions and garlic and tomato sauce set out with the Worcestershire and bread crumbs. And there’s the health benefit of your grass-fed ground beef, of course.’

  ‘I admit we slip over to Wesley for a few items now and then,’ said Miz Kavanagh. ‘Everybody does, you know. But there’s no place like the Local.’