by Jan Karon
20
MEADOWGATE
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 12
Snowfall had been fitful in their neck of the woods. Total accumulation, according to the Weather Channel: under three inches.
At six-thirty in the morning, Dooley had a fire going in the kitchen, the coffee was ready, Jack was still asleep.
‘I’ll use one of the sleeping bags,’ said Beth, ‘so you’ll have a bed for two more people.’
‘You do not want to crawl into one of those things,’ said Lace. ‘I promise!’
Willie and Harley came in, stomping snow on the mat at the kitchen door.
‘Mornin’,’ said Willie, removing his hat.
‘We’re here for our marchin’ orders,’ said Harley. ‘We’re set to clear th’ driveway whenever you say. They’re workin’ on th’ roads.’
‘We need the other two tables set up,’ said Lace. ‘But get a cup of coffee first and sit down.’ Lace moved over on the bench. ‘We have toast, fig jam, and bananas.’
‘What’s that in th’ oven?’ said Harley.
‘Five dozen chocolate chip cookies,’ said Beth, who could only hope they would be edible.
They heard thuds above. The Barlowe cousins were up.
‘We’re tryin’ to work out sleeping arrangements if the snow gets heavy,’ said Dooley. ‘We’re short on beds. Any chance you and Willie could bunk in together?’
Harley’s pupils enlarged. ‘Aint’ no way I’m doin’ that.’
‘Ditto,’ said Willie.
Dooley laughed his cackling laugh. ‘Just seein’ if y’all are awake yet.’
‘I’ll be makin’ me a pallet on th’ floor,’ said Harley.
• • •
Next to the fireplace, and surrounded by two angels, seven sheep, and a wizened shepherd, the Virgin Mother and Joseph knelt by a manger that would remain empty until Christmas morning.
Serene though the nativity figures were, the kitchen was upended by the business at hand.
Marge Owen was setting the tables. Lily had wrangled the turkey into the oven at eight A.M.—no stuffing, though a large pan of dressing was under way. Harley had been appointed to run a damp mop, which he claimed was not in his job description.
‘I used to think this ol’ house was a barn,’ said Lily, weaving through the cluster of tables. ‘But git this family together an’ it’s tight. No room to skin a cat!’
‘I’ve never roasted a turkey,’ said Julie, ‘much less made a pan of dressing. You won’t let me help, so may I watch?’
‘Like my granmaw used to say, You’re as welcome as th’ flowers in May.’
‘I remember there are lots of girls in your family, all named after flowers.’
‘Rose, Pansy, Del for delphinium . . . a whole garden full. Eight girls, two boys, none dead. You take Violet, who’s straightenin’ th’ upstairs. She’s th’ star of our family—th’ Dolly Parton, th’ Tammy Wynette rolled into one. Sings at parties all over, wearin’ a cowgirl outfit like Patsy Cline.
‘Violet an’ me, we’re a team. I cater, she sings, yodels, has a full what she calls repertory, but her signature number is ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart.’ Did you ever know Hank Williams? He made it famous.’
‘She ain’t old enough to know Hank Williams!’ said Harley. He had come in here an’ held his hand out for a cookie, and what did he get? A Swiffer, an’ him in his good clothes. He hoped Willie would not see him moppin’ in here with th’ women.
‘Git in th’ corners,’ said Lily, ‘specially over at th’ dog bed. An’ run it under th’ tables.’
Lily stirred giblets into a bowl of crumbled cornbread. ‘A pan of dressin’ is tastier than stuffin’,’ she told Julie, ‘plus stuffin’ slows down th’ roast time.’
‘Lily,’ said Marge, ‘tell Julie about Johnny Cash.’
‘So Violet met Johnny Cash when she was twelve years old. She went right up to ’im an’ didn’t say hey, how you doin’ or nothin’, just busted out singin’ ‘Cheatin’ Heart,’ an’ he fell in an’ sung it with her! Then gave her a quarter an’ said call ’im when she grew up. Don’t you love it?’
‘Did she call him when she grew up?’ said Julie, who liked knowing how other people live.
‘No, bless ’is heart, by that time he was married. Anyway, she’s hitched to Lloyd Goodnight, but barren like in th’ Bible. That fireplace right there? When Father Tim an’ Cynthia lived out here, th’ chimney crashed down in a windstorm in th’ middle of th’ night! Just boom, down it goes in a cloud of dust like you never seen, pourin’ bricks an’ ashes all over th’ floor! Lloyd rebuilt it, brick by brick.
‘As for me, I am not currently married. It’s weird, but all th’ Flower girls who can’t cook a lick, they’re married. And us who can, we’re single, divorced, walked out on, you name it.’
Into the bowl went sautéed celery, onion, and sausage.
‘This dressin’ should’ve set overnight to mix th’ flavors, but it’ll be good, anyhow. I baked th’ cornbread yesterday evenin’ so it’d dry out a little.
‘Take our sister Arbutus, she lives in a brick house with two screen porches and is married to Junior Bentley. What does she do? Paints her nails, bleaches her hair, eats Raisinets, unloads th’ dishwasher when the’ notion strikes. Can’t cook a lick, an’ Junior loves her to death. It’s a mystery.’
Lily looked around the kitchen. ‘Where did Harley get to?’
‘He slipped out,’ said Marge. ‘But the floor looks good.’
‘Did he put th’ mats back at th’ door?’
‘I’m doing it right now.’
‘That’s the way men are, they’ll eat you out of house an’ home but want nothin’ to do with th’ kitchen.’
Lily thought Julie was pretty an’ very nice, but awful pale. Maybe because of carryin’ around a baby predicted to weigh eight pounds. Or maybe she, Lily Flower, was talkin’ too much. She had been accused of wearin’ people out in that particular fashion.
Marge came over and put her arm around Julie. ‘Are all the steps here okay for you?’
‘Oh, yes, my doctor said steps would be fine.’
‘I was running up and down these steps every day ’til the afternoon Rebecca Jane was born.’
‘How was the delivery?’
‘I was fifty-one! A huge surprise! But all went well.’
‘You could go set over there in Dooley’s chair,’ said Lily.
‘I’m okay, really. I guess it was the move across the country, and so many boxes. Thanks.’
‘Now I’m cuttin’ up a apple in here, I like to use a Gala when I can get it. You don’t want th’ apple to stand out, you just want a little sweetness. A little sweetness! That’s what you’re gon’ have here in a couple of weeks. Got a name picked out?’
‘We don’t know if it’s a boy or girl. We asked them not to tell us.’
‘You’re carryin’ it high, looks like. That’s when they say it’s a boy.’
‘Maybe James,’ said Julie. ‘Or Wesley, the middle name of Kenny’s wonderful grandpa.’
Marge was filling water pitchers for the tables. ‘James Wesley would be a handsome name.’
‘James Wesley Barlowe!’ said Lily, breaking two eggs into the bowl. ‘There you go!’
• • •
Father Tim handed over the paper bag. ‘From Miss Pringle.’
Harley looked into the bag with a mixture of relief and despair. Mostly despair; he had hoped the fact of his dentures was unknown to Miss Pringle.
‘Where was they at?’
‘On her back steps.’
‘Lord help. She was off teachin’ an’ I taken ’em out when I was workin’ on ’er porch rail! I guess that’s th’ end of that aggravation.’
‘What aggravation?’
‘All that French talk an’ runnin’ into town
burnin’ gas . . . ’
Harley had as stern a look as he’d ever seen.
‘To say nothin’ of th’ banana puddin’s I’ve toted over there, an’ th’ pan of brownies last week. It’ll be that perfessor now, fixin’ up her porch. Well, let ’im have at it! Let that ol’ geezer bust his thumb hammerin’ down a loose board. We’ll see how far education gits ’im on that deal.’
Harley popped in his dentures, made what could be called a grim grin. ‘How’s that?’ he said, mad as a hornet.
‘Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
God of glory, Lord of love;
Hearts unfold like flow’rs before Thee.
Opening to the Sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness;
Drive the dark of doubt away;
Giver of immortal gladness,
Fill us with the light of day . . .’
Everyone processed from the kitchen to the living room. Beth and Tommy up front, leading the singing to Henry Van Dyke’s hymn of joy.
Next were Dooley, Lace and Jack, then Hoppy, Olivia, Cynthia, Pauline and Buck. After Pauline and Buck, Sammy, Kenny, Julie, Etta, Ethan, Pooh, Rebecca Jane, Doc Owen, Marge Owen, Blake, Amanda, Harley, Willie, Lily, Violet, Beth, Tommy, and bringing up the rear, the priest, vested for the occasion in Advent color. He could have worn jeans and a collar, sure, but Jack liked vestments!
Beth and Tommy took their places with four band members, who were grouped beneath the stairwell. In the corner, wise men and camels en route across the desert to the Holy Family in the kitchen . . .
The congregation, each clutching a program, seated themselves in the Crossroads folding chairs. Jack in boots, new corduroys, checked shirt, navy blazer, and his first tie, sat between his mom and dad on the front row.
The service would be brief, informal, and simple. The family baptism ceremony in July had been properly ceremonious, but, reasoned the celebrant, far too long for a four-year-old.
Father Tim stood before them and signed the cross.
‘Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.’
‘And blessed be his kingdom, now and forever. Amen!’
‘It’s said, Jack, that no Irish family can point to a more ancient background than the Kavanaghs. The name Kavanagh came down from the first king of Leinster in the twelfth century. That’s eight hundred years ago.
‘And because of your new name, you inherit the Kavanagh family motto, which we talked about the other day. It’s a wonderful motto, and here’s how it sounds in the old Irish: Siochain agus Fairsinge. Do you remember what that means?’
‘Peace and plenty!’ said Jack.
‘That’s it! As I look around, I see this motto fulfilled in every face in the room. Peace . . . and plenty . . . graciously provided by God who created us for himself, and who loves each of us devoutly, devotedly, steadfastly, forever.
‘Let it be ordained that this child, Jack, be loved in like manner by each of us gathered here today. When he came to us just six months ago, we were all given the divine opportunity of joy, wonder, and delight in watching him grow, and of supporting him, however we can, in the changing seasons of his life.
‘Will we promise to look out for Jack? Pray for him? Be family to him? And try to be there when he needs us? If so, let us say, We will.’
‘We will!’
‘He can play with my toyth!’ said Etta.
Laughter.
‘Thank you, Etta. That’s the spirit! Will you come forward, Jack?’
Jack slid off this chair and stood by his granpa. He clasped his hands together, dropped them to his side, jiggled his legs, grinned at the congregation.
Father Tim leaned down and placed his hands on Jack’s head. It was as warm as a melon in the sun.
‘Into your hands, O God, we place your child, Jack Brady Kavanagh. Thank you for supporting him in his successes and in his failures, in his joys and in his sorrows. May he grow in grace and in the knowledge of our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.’
‘Amen!’
‘Jack, may he bless you with his peace and keep you in plenty all the days of your life, that you might bring forth much fruit in his kingdom. Brothers and sisters, I present to you, Jack Brady Kavanagh!’
Applause. Tears. Laughter.
Tommy stood and strummed his guitar.
‘Here are the chords,’ said Tommy. ‘Short an’ easy, okay? Here they are again. The words are in your program. Clap twice where it says to, an’ everybody sing big.
‘Jack, Jack, we’ve got your back!’
Clap, clap. ‘Jack Kavanagh!’
‘Again!
‘Jack, Jack, we’ve got your back!’
Clap, clap. ‘Jack Kavanagh!’
Applause. Whistles. Jack laughing.
‘That was fun,’ said Father Tim. ‘You know who else has your back?’
‘Charley!’
Charley barked. More laughter.
‘Jesus!’ said Father Tim. ‘Love him and trust him, for he will always be there for you.’
Jack tugged on his granpa’s chasuble. ‘I have a great idea, Granpa Tim! You an’ Jesus could make my fake cousin an’ fake aunts an’ uncles be real.’
‘Well, now, that is truly a great idea.’ He took Jack’s hand. ‘We’re going to have to pray again, everybody! As Saint Paul instructed us in Colossians, Be instant in prayer!
‘Father, please help us all to be real with Jack and with one another. Help us to seek a true kinship of the heart, always. Through Christ our Lord. Amen!’
‘Amen!’
Father Tim produced a small box from beneath his chasuble.
‘We have something special for you today. It’s from Granny Pauline, Granny Olivia, Granny Cynthia, Granpa Buck, Granpa Hoppy, and myself.’
‘I have a ton of grannies and granpas!’
Laughter, applause.
He opened the lid of the box and showed the contents to Jack.
‘A watch!’
‘Take it out and look at the back. See your new name? With today’s date? Let me help you latch it. Good fit, with room to grow! There, now. What time is it?’
Jack stared hard at the watch face. He wanted to get this perfect.
‘Twenty . . . one . . . minutes after twelve!’ he yelled. Charley barked. All applauded.
Father Tim laughed. ‘But wait!’ he said. ‘There’s more!’
To the clonking of a cowbell wielded by Rebecca Jane, up the hall rolled the red bike, Lace holding one handlebar, Dooley the other.
Just for the heck of it, Father Tim timed the jubilation. Four minutes plus change, which could have gone on till the cows came home, but he brought it to order with Jack at his side.
‘Lunch is scheduled for twelve-thirty,’ said Father Tim. ‘And Jack has a message for us.’
‘Twenty-six minutes after twelve!’ yelled Jack.
‘Time is always ticking away. May we choose, every moment, to love one another as God loves us. Go in peace, now, to love and serve the Lord.’
‘Thanks be to God!’
The Biscuits played. Tommy and Beth sang an old Sunday school standard.
‘Jesus loves the little children,
All the children of the world,
Red and yellow, black and white,
They are precious in His sight . . . ’
Everyone scrambled toward the kitchen; toward the turkey, the ham, the fire on the hearth, the tables with a place set for Miss Sadie . . .
And Jack yelled at the top of his lungs. ‘Thirty minutes after twelve!’
• • •
Whatever the man-cave notion may be, it wasn’t for him. Put him outside in the weather, in the fresh air—with his cows, his dogs, with Lace and his boy, or alone. However you cut it, he did not like to be walled in. He had felt plenty walle
d in by what he owed the pharmaceutical companies, but he had put the checks in the mail yesterday. A truck had rolled off his back.
He and Sammy headed out after lunch to take a bucket of sweet feed to the cattle.
‘Big day for th’ little guy,’ said Sammy. ‘What if we’d had all that g-goin’ on when we were four years old?’
‘Maybe the point is bein’ able to give it even though we didn’t get it.’
‘That’s hard.’
‘Uphill both ways sometimes.’
Snow and frozen grass crunching underfoot.
‘How about with Lace?’ said Sammy. ‘How do you know how to l-love somebody in a really, you know, real way if you were never, like, loved as a k-kid?’ He didn’t know how to talk about this.
‘It took us years to trust each other. There’s no quick fix that I can see.’
‘Nothin’s easy. Right?’ He wanted something to be easy—just one thing, just one thing. Maybe now, with Rio and one more sponsor . . .
‘Dad quotes somebody who talks about a long obedience in the same direction. That’s the magic. Look at you. How many trophies so far?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘All because of stickin’ to it.’ He clapped his brother on the back.
Sammy grinned. ‘It’s all about th’ hardware.’
‘Not about the money?’
‘Trophies are great, but yeah, it’s really about th’ m-money. I have to hustle. I want to play more in th’ b-big tournaments, but no way could I afford it without Rio. They’re th’ cue maker I was tellin’ you about; they called a few minutes ago. They’re gonna sponsor me in some of th’ b-big events.’
‘Hey! Great news! Proud of you!’ He hugged his brother, feeling a weight lift off—he worried about this guy.
‘They’ll cover entry fees and even some of the airfare. But I still need another sponsor.’
‘How does that work?’ Dooley unlatched the cattle gate.
‘Somebody sees you play, they really like what they see, an’ pretty soon you’re w-wearin’ their shirt an’ shootin’ with their cues.’
‘You’ve got to tell everybody, this is big. Here, take th’ bucket an’ rattle it.’
