by Jan Karon
‘You’re the best!’ said Father Tim.
‘I’m tryin’!’ said Puny.
• • •
How ’bout that Grace Murphy?’
‘How ’bout that Louella?’ said Cynthia.
They were proud.
• • •
Tonight they would each open their one small present, and in the morning, the big one. The whopper!
He had just finished wrapping the big one when she knocked on the bedroom door.
‘Timothy! The tape?’
‘Hold on.’ She would be surprised. Really surprised. Hadn’t she said ‘practical’? He preferred practical. A few years ago, she had given him a custom-tailored tuxedo and had he worn it? Maybe twice.
‘Okay.’ He opened the door a crack, handed her the tape.
‘Give me a clue!’ she said.
He closed the door. ‘No clues!’
Her present would go under the tree tonight; in the meantime, he hid it at the back of the closet. She wouldn’t come looking for it, of course, but still . . .
• • •
She tied the bow at the top of the box. Even though he wasn’t a ‘man who has everything,’ her husband was hard to buy for. But this was perfect; it would make him happy. Which of course was the agenda all year long, the old sweetie.
• • •
It’s smelling good in here,’ he said.
At six-thirty, the oyster pie was in the oven and their laps were full of Christmas cards.
‘From Marian and Sam Fieldwalker,’ he read aloud. He and Cynthia had spent nearly a year supplying on an Outer Banks island, blessed by the friendship of these good people.
‘We hold you in our prayers, dear Father and Cynthia. Enclosed is Morris Love’s new CD. It is selling like crab cakes at our new pier restaurant! We still miss you in Whitecap. Wishing you a blessed Christmas.’
Morris Love. He was moved by the memory of the man behind the wall and the crucifying music that had poured forth to a curious cleric. He placed the cards on the table by his chair and put the CD in the player. Bach’s Organ Chorale no. 3, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, the Only Son of God . . .’
He was mindful of something like utter satisfaction as she chose a card from the pile.
From the Eire, that faraway, never-to-be-forgotten land where one’s ancestors fought and died and somehow managed to live on in the very stones, she read:
‘The light of the Christmas star to you
The warmth of home and hearth to you
The cheer and good will of friends to you
The love of the Son and God’s peace to you
‘Dear Father and Cynthia, Bella is being married at Broughadoon in March and moving to Dublin with a lovely husband. Wish you could be with us. We shall send an invite in any case. Evelyn and William sit in the sun on days when we have any sun at all and hold hands like children. One could not ask for better. Siochain agus Fairsinge! Your friends forevermore at Broughadoon. Anna and Liam.’
The music soaring into the room, taking them willing captive . . .
From Agnes at Holy Trinity—across a creek and up a hill to a clearing that overlooks the billowing sea of mountains, he read:
‘Wishing you a blessed Christmastide from Holy Trinity, where to our perfect amazement we have cobbled together an official choir of thirteen voices! As you know, one must often wait a very long time for one’s prayers to be answered—and it was worth the waiting! Climb above the clouds and break bread with us any time, we sorely miss you.
‘In the love of Him Who loved us first, Agnes and Clarence’
Ha! Out of Henry’s card fell a photograph. Henry and Lucille! Look there! Both shining with happiness. Lucille in a very fine hat, the two of them on a bench in a photographer’s studio having such joy documented for all time. ‘Look!’ he said, holding up the photo. ‘Look at this miracle!’
‘A very handsome pair. And I just realized I’ll have a sister-in-law! A first!’
Henry was going to meet Lucille’s children and grans over Christmas, so he wouldn’t call at Christmas, but catch up later with all details.
From Memphis, a postcard of a jolly Santa, the message in a script he vaguely recognized:
Hey Buddy let’s go climb a water tower! Your old pal, Tommy.
A card from George Gaynor, who lived undiscovered for many months in the Lord’s Chapel attic where he came to know the creator of all that is seen and unseen.
Father and Cynthia, I am a happily married man and soon to be a father. Pray for me in this as I have no prior experience in either! Continuing in prison ministry in Topeka. You are often in my petitions. But for you, Father, but for you . . .
Merry Christmas!
Yours in Christ, George
From Holly Springs, where he was born into this world so many years ago, and from whence he began his travels to this chair, this fire, this woman, this quiet pleasure:
‘Father, I am spending my golden years doing the thing I love best—sorting through the countless photographs I have taken, first with my Kodak Brownie, then my Holiday Bakelite (I believe this was shot with the Bakelite) and later with the fancy Leicas and Nikons and now with my point-and-shoot! And just look what I found! Merry Christmas to you and yours, Jessica.’
There he was in black and white, in all the skinniness and perplexity of youth, his knees as opalescent as bone china, his hair profuse, his hands too large for his frame, in track shorts and T-shirt, the sun bright on his face.
‘You were adorable!’ said Cynthia.
This was Christmas enough, he thought, right here, right now. With oyster pie soon coming, and at last her paintings.
• • •
He happened to glance out the side door and voilà. Harley’s truck was pulling into Helene’s driveway.
He had completely given up trying to figure this one out.
‘Harley,’ he told Cynthia.
‘La vie est belle!’ she said, clapping her hands.
• • •
She smiled a little, oddly anxious
‘I’ll leave you alone with them. I’d love to know what you think.’
With that, she had sent him padding down the hall to the living room.
He was startled. So many images swarming the room, standing against the sofa, leaning against chairs, lined up against the wall by the fireplace. A forest of paintings.
Her canvases were almost always large, but these appeared larger than life, full of viscera in this silent, unused room.
A great, stalking flamingo. Albino deer in a herd of five, all looking with solemnity into the eyes of the viewer. A rhino peering from behind a tree, the horned snout immense. A nest, greatly magnified, with speckled eggs and an infinitesimal red mushroom sprouting from the moss.
Portraits of people he had never seen but felt at once he knew. An old woman so black you could see the suggestion of blue, wearing a printed head rag and looking solemn with her Bible clasped over her heart. The hand, often a stumbling block for artists, beautifully rendered; he could see veining and blemishes, knuckles grown prominent with age and hard work. Black skin, black garment, black Bible—black on black, yet each component with exquisitely defined nuance.
He looked on the back of the canvas where she had handwritten the title: Chosen.
And there was William! William of Broughadoon, translated from the watercolor she did in Ireland. He was glad to see his friend William, with merriment in his eyes, and wrinkles as numerous as the fairies in Mayo.
• • •
At the close of the Christmas Eve Mass at Lord’s Chapel, Father Brad cited that tonight was indeed the birth of Good News to all the world. And he had some good news to all of Mitford.
Then he asked Jessie, Sarah, Tiffany, and Drew, three policemen and their captain, three firemen and their chief, and two
rescue volunteers to please join him up front. This was a big moment. By way of a seeming accident, God had fulfilled the entire purpose of snow camp for three hurting teens.
He guided Jessie to his side and held her hand.
‘Brothers and sisters in Christ, you see before you, myself being the exception, a choir of angels. In the flesh!
‘Most of you know the story of our emergency situation on the mountain. No cell service to call out for help. Two injuries needing immediate treatment. Drew kept us hydrated and prayed for. Tiffany and Sarah gathered firewood, made hot soup, and heated stones to keep us warm. And these good firemen, police, and rescue volunteers left home and family to haul us down the mountain in baskets. If you ever wondered if your priest is a basket case, now you know.’
Some had wondered, but all laughed.
‘And though everyone in the choir did an amazing job in the nick of time, it is this young woman who made everything come together in perfect harmony. Jessie Leeper hiked two miles to Mitford, alone, at night, along a mountain trail covered by snow, to get help. Then she hiked back up the trail with the volunteers, to make sure we were okay.’
Spontaneous applause.
He spoke to those being recognized. ‘Thanks be to God for his good favor, and to all of you for your hard work and sacrifice. May God mightily bless you and your families for your blessing to us.’ He turned to the congregation. ‘I’m asking our youth team and carryout team to stand at the door with me, so you can thank them. A hug or two would not be unwelcome.’
Hamp Floyd was fighting to keep his eyes open. He had not been up this late since he was a kid waitin’ for Santy Claus. He was a believer in ecumenism, which he could not spell, even though he knew what it meant, so here he was—a flatfoot Baptist in th’ middle of th’ night, trapped in a church that didn’t know when to say amen and go home.
‘I am happy to tell you there’s still more good news,’ said Father Brad. ‘I’ll get you out of here in a moment, I know it’s late.’
He limped on his crutches to Mary Ellen, who was sitting on the front row.
‘But it is never too late . . .’ Father Brad turned a slow red. ‘For love! Right?’
Big applause.
He could hardly believe his flamboyance. But wasn’t that the truth, after all? Wasn’t that what the Good News is about?
Beth and Tommy helped Mary Ellen stand, splint and all, aided by crutches of her own.
A murmur rippled through the congregation. So! Just what they’d been expecting. And Boston, no less. A Yankee! Just like Father Tim did all those years ago. But nice, very nice, Mary Ellen, and certainly good-looking. Well, leave him alone, let him go his way, he was a good man, Father Brad, though he could be a trifle different. Maybe this would cool his ardor for the purchase of a motorcycle, which was occasionally rumored to be his heart’s desire.
‘Mary Ellen Middleton,’ he said, ‘has agreed to be my wife! Sunday, May fifteenth, at two in the afternoon! Weather permitting, dinner on the grounds!’
Unhindered applause. Made the rafters tremble.
‘Go in peace, now, to love and serve the Lord! Alleluia!’
‘Thanks be to God! Alleluia!’
The ringing of the bells, then, with what seemed a particularly joyful abandon, and the great flurry of greetings at the door and in the churchyard.
‘Merry Christmas, Pauline, Buck!’
‘Jessie, Pooh! Merry Christmas!’
‘Merry Christmas, Captain!’
‘Merry Christmas, Chief!’
‘Father Tim! Cynthia! Merry Christmas!’
Advent was past. Christmas was official.
• • •
He and Cynthia collapsed on the sofa, too spent to climb stairs.
She put her head on his shoulder. ‘How much happiness can one take, anyway? No, don’t trouble yourself to answer, honey, that is a moot question.’
As a wind-down, they were having a little Mozart, a few of the irresistible cheese wafers, an unhurried look at their tree . . .
Together they had strung the lights and placed the ornaments, but he alone had flung the tinsel around. ‘Maybe I was too heavy on the tinsel this year.’
‘I love tinsel!’
‘Tell me something, Kav’na.’
She smiled—waiting for the old familiar question from her husband.
‘What don’t you love?’
‘The way I beat myself up about my work, always seeing the flaws. Flaws are good, we learn from flaws, so I should be grateful. But I can’t seem to get a handle on that point of view.’
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘That you could contain that imagery in your heart, in your soul—it’s beyond understanding.
‘I know very little about art, but maybe it’s what you call flaws that make your work so profoundly accessible—open, somehow, and eager. I can’t believe I’m married to you. This is a dream. Do not wake me.’
• • •
At 107 Wisteria Lane, Tim Kavanagh looked at the bedside clock—three A.M., his usual middle-of-the-night wake-up call by way of the golden years.
He remembered he was sleeping in his nightcap, but positively for tonight only. He was bewildered when they unwrapped their small presents after supper. He’d given her a pair of great sunglasses, but was mystified by her gift to him. Was it a potholder?
‘It was going to be socks,’ she said, ‘but it turned into a sort of . . .’ She couldn’t find words.
‘Aha.’
‘They say body heat flies out the top of our heads. It might help.’
It was a mildly humiliating gift—who was he, anyway, Old Father Time? Scrooge in his night stocking? But for her, he would do it. At bedtime, he had turned out the lights and popped the thing on his head.
He eased out of bed. Actually, it felt pretty cozy up there on his bald pate. It was keeping him a tad warmer in a house currently at less than sixty degrees. But still . . .
Before she woke in the morning, he would take it to the front hall and pop it on the head of their bust of St. Francis—where henceforth it would remain.
• • •
Avis woke up, realizing he was hungry. Steak! That’s what he was cravin’.
He rang for a nurse. By the wall clock, it was three-thirty in the morning. He thought the nurse would never come.
‘I’m star-r-r-vin’,’ he said, pushing the words out. ‘Steak.’
The nurse gave him a look.
‘Me . . . me . . . ’
‘Me what?’ she said, mean as a rattler.
‘Me-e-dium rare . . . an’ thank you.’
‘You’re bein’ released this mornin’. Have whatever you want when you get home, we don’t do steak.’
What had he asked for, th’ dern moon?
‘Merry Christmas to . . . to you-u-u, too!’ Ol’ biddy.
24
MITFORD
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 25
They were driving up the hill to see Louella.
‘So how did you feel when you opened your box with the smoothie blender?’ he said.
‘Probably the same way you felt when you opened your box with the smoothie blender.’
They were still amused when they pulled into the Hope House lot.
‘So who gets the odious task of returning their blender?’
‘I’m not returning mine,’ she said, sly as a fox. ‘It has sentimental value.’
Well, there you have it. He would be the one to scramble around for the box his came in and find the shipping label and fill out the return form and seal up the box and haul it to the PO, c’est la vie.
• • •
Taped to Louella’s door was the double spread from the Muse and two pink balloons. The nurses, somewhat diminished in number because of the holiday, were thrilled with the excitement of it all.
‘That Grace, she be th’ one famous. She didn’ jot a single note, jus’ carried it all aroun’ in her curly head.’
‘Grace got a puppy for Christmas,’ said Father Tim. ‘A Jack Russell. We called to congratulate her on the story. A truly remarkable achievement. One of my favorite stories ever!’
‘I wouldn’a tol’ th’ part about wettin’ my pants,’ said Louella.
‘That was one of the best parts!’ said Cynthia.
They had a laugh.
Louella opened her new brush and comb and used them at once. And Cynthia slipped the blue bedroom shoes on Louella’s feet. ‘Merry Christmas, dear Louella!’
‘An’ Merry Christmas to y’all! I got some big feets. Come straight from my daddy, Soot Tobin.’
‘What became of your father?’ said Cynthia. ‘I always wanted to ask.’
‘Miss Sadie’s daddy run him off. He loved my mama an’ wanted to marry her, but Mr. Baxter run him off, said he better not show his black self in this town ag’in. Nobody wanted t’ cross Mr. Baxter, nossir. That hurt my mama, she never got over it. An’ I never laid eyes on my daddy.’
He was washing his hands at the sink, according to visitor regulations. That was the thing about Christmas, he thought. With all the joy and hope and laughter, there’s always, somewhere, the sorrow—just as there was in the manger that pointed to the cross.
Louella held up her feet to see her shoes. ‘They’s a perfect fit! An’ I thank you. I’ll be wearin’ th’ hair offa these good shoes. Now I got somethin’ for y’all. Right there on my dresser in th’ envelope. Open it up; it’s yours to keep. An’ Merry Christmas!’
In the envelope, a photograph. Eight by ten. Sepia.
Miss Sadie and Louella as children, standing in front of their playhouse, happy and proud. A bandaged knee. Socks eaten up by their shoes. Ribbons in their hair.
‘What you cryin’ ’bout, honey?’
‘Life,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s too good. Thank you.’
He leaned down and kissed her cheek; Cynthia gave her a kiss on the other.
