To Be Where You Are

by Jan Karon

  He unwrapped a chocolate from the jar.

  He did not like to go to doctors, but he would go to Dr. Seuss if he wadn’t dead.

  ‘Dead as an inkwell,’ Grace had said, lookin’ what you call final.

  • • •

  It’s said that big cities never sleep, but little towns do.

  Or maybe not.

  Sometime after eleven on Christmas night, an eight-point buck, two does, and a fawn plowed south along Main in two inches of fresh snow. For economy, many shops were dark, but Dora Pugh’s Hardware was not. In the lighted display window, two large stuffed brown bears sat at a table, ostensibly admiring a fake fire burning in a fake stove, and a fake, but nonetheless endearing, spruce tree strung with colored lights.

  Disturbing the delicate lacework of red fox tracks, the deer veered left onto the sidewalk. where they gazed at the scene in the window.

  God rest ye merry, gentlemen.

  Let nothing you dismay . . .

  On Ivy Lane, an actual bear, black in this case, clawed down the bird feeder at the Newland residence. Emma recognized the snuffling sound outside their bedroom, and the clank of the chain. She got up at once and rapped sharply on the windowpane.

  ‘Get! Get out! Go away!’ Snickers raised his head, barked once, and went back to sleep. Harold got up and made a beeline to the kitchen, where he polished off the last of a sweet potato soufflé.

  O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining . . .

  Roused for his nightly trek to the bathroom, Abe looked out the window and in the light of the streetlamp saw snow falling. ‘Oy,’ he said, his breath steaming the glass. He had to sell sixteen pairs of work boots by next Tuesday, period. It was his first ever fifty percent off sale—he had done thirty-five percent off, but never fifty, and who would come out to shop in another snow?

  Love came down at Christmas,

  love all lovely, love divine;

  Love was born at Christmas:

  star and angels gave the sign . . .

  At the Wesley College radio station, now annually contracted to transmit holiday music to the Mitford town hall, the psych major manning the turntable fell asleep. He was unaware of an unfortunate scratch, accidentally made by last night’s biology major, in the hymn by Christina Rossetti.

  ‘Love shall be our token, love shall be our token, love shall be our token’ sounded through the nighttime village as if to say, If nothing more, remember this.

  25

  MITFORD

  THURSDAY, JUNE 2

  Stone fireplace, trout stream, hiking trails, the works.

  Dooley and Lace were stealing time from their busy life to spend four days in a mountain cabin, with Jack in tow.

  ‘Late honeymoon, early anniversary,’ said Dooley.

  The kids had stopped by Wisteria Lane this morning, to pick up a food basket Cynthia put together. After all the goodbyes were said, they saw Dooley hurrying back to the house from the Volvo.

  ‘My keys. Thought I left ’em in the car. Gotta get gas at Lew’s, run by her mom’s, and we’re out of here.’

  He was glad for the extra moment with his son. He gave him another pounding on the back. ‘Go and be as the butterfly!’

  Dooley grinned. ‘You’ve said that as long as I can remember. I’m not pullin’ up what it means.’

  It was what God had said to him, a small-town clergyman, another lifetime ago, and what he had tried and was still trying to do.

  ‘I think it means to go unfettered by cares, by the infernal bondage of the mortal. Go with a light heart, trusting God and giving thanks. Go and gather unto yourselves so you can pour out to others.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Go without looking back.’

  Dooley laughed. ‘That’s a lot, Dad. Back atcha!’

  He loved Dooley’s laughter, though his smile was the magic.

  He took out his wallet and found a twenty, just as he’d done for Dooley’s first birthday at the rectory all those years ago when Dooley turned—was it twelve? He remembered the little guy looking solemn, it was his first such currency. ‘I’ll keep it forever!’ Dooley had said, but it was gone in a day.

  ‘We’ll be close behind you to the exit,’ said Father Tim. ‘But praying for you all the way.’

  Dooley gave him a hug. ‘Praying for y’all. Have a great time. Thanks for everything. Stay in touch. We love you.’

  ‘We love you back!’

  And there went a tall kid with long legs, sprinting down the sidewalk.

  Dooley turned, threw up his hand, the early morning light a coronation on his red hair.

  Even from here, he could see it. His son was smiling.

  • • •

  Cynthia had historically called out the wild man in him, in a manner of speaking, and he had been pretty up for being called out. This, however, was wilder than he was used to. He encouraged himself by imagining the look on her face when she got a load of this rig.

  He had written her a note two weeks ago, and stuck it in her favorite coffee mug.

  Pack one bag that will serve for one month.

  Warm climates. Casual.

  Depart our driveway Thursday after next, eight a.m.

  Be there or be square.

  He swallowed hard when he wrote ‘month.’ Wouldn’t two weeks be a better, more sensible deal for everybody? Then again, once they were out there, why not make full use of the investment and stay out for a month? He had never ‘stayed out’ much of anywhere, he was no Shackleton. But right around the corner, he’d be seventy-eight. Or was it seventy-nine? He could never do a quick recall of his age; there must be a medical term for this idiosyncrasy. Anyway, if the RV trip was going to happen, it needed to happen now.

  Not that he planned to croak any time soon, but he needed to travel while he still remembered left from right. Plus Esther Cunningham and Ray, longtime veterans of the roadie lifestyle, were making him a loan he couldn’t refuse.

  Their ‘baby’ had been to New Mexico, Washington State, Wisconsin, and many points in between. Strike while the iron is hot! they said. Seize the moment, life is short, you only live once.

  ‘Bring it back better than we left it,’ said Esther. ‘We might have another trip left in us.’

  He looked at Ray, who did not have another trip left in him—zero—but what could the good fellow say? ‘It’s a honey,’ said Ray.

  He had read Travels with Charley and had had several tutorials with Ray, including three on the parkway to familiarize himself with sharp curves, steep grades, and few passing zones. The third time out, he actually enjoyed it. Why had he waited so long? What had he been afraid of?

  Then came the parking business and the compost business and the awning business and the Wi-Fi terminals and the built-in charging stations, and where was Dooley to help him through all this? Dooley was busy; Dooley would be busy for the rest of his life and he must get used to that.

  They would take it easy, they would not hurry. And of course there would be surprises—they could count on it—but that was precisely what She Who Loves Surprises craved. With the exception of his makeover of the nativity scene, she hadn’t gotten a good deal of surprise out of him, but he’d gotten a great supply of it from her. He hoped this would make up for what had been lacking on his end in a way that would fulfill—possibly even exceed?—any future expectations.

  Being able to leave with a clear conscience was, of course, a benefit not to be overlooked.

  Dooley’s business was thriving and so were Lace and the baby, due to arrive in July. The auction had raised a bundle for the Children’s Hospital—nine of her paintings sold—and the generous check to the hospital from Avis had been a great boon; he was proud to deliver it to the development officer.

  Harley would of course come in to mow and blow, and Truman had been readopted by Meadowgate and promised a cat
door to the laundry room. Who could possibly ask for more?

  He had driven the RV down to Holding and up again, and over to Wesley and beyond. He had backed it under Ray’s jerry-rigged shed and had not sheared off the side mirrors. He was primed.

  Last night he parked the RV in their driveway. ‘Don’t look,’ he said to Cynthia. ‘No fair looking.’

  He had stocked the galley kitchen with their favorite skillet, their favorite saucepans and utensils, provender from the Local, and their smoothie blender.

  Onto shelves over the sofa went Travels with Charley, The Book of Common Prayer, the King James, the Lewis and Clark diaries, The Oxford Book of English Verse, Allen and Greenough’s New Latin Grammar, several novels by dead authors, plenty of Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, and Wendell Berry, maps galore of terra incognita, and a volume of Wordsworth for old times’ sake.

  This morning around seven, he had finished the move-in. Gus’s crate was in place, the suitcases were stowed, and their wedding gear was hanging in the closet. He was buzzing like a kid at Christmas.

  He invited his wife for a grand tour. Over the moon would be a good way to describe her approval.

  At eight A.M. on the dime, he locked up the house, gave Gus a last hurrah at an unwilling nandina bush, and let him into his crate. Gus had ridden shotgun on the trip to Asheville and seemed to like the idea of wheels.

  He prayed again for safe travels. Then climbed into the driver’s seat, buckled up, turned the key in the ignition, and looked at his wife.

  All she knew was, they would arrive for the wedding in Holly Springs in two weeks, and stay for two days.

  Wearing jeans, tennis shoes, a ball cap, and her favorite plaid shirt, she was looking brand-new. On the floor at her feet was a workbag with miles of yarn and the ambitious beginnings of a sweater for Jack and one for the Kavanagh to come.

  ‘Just for fun, sweetheart, can you tell me where we’re going?’

  He was ready for this inquiry.

  ‘Into the wild blue yonder,’ he said.

  He had seldom seen her look so happy.

  • • •

  Avis and Chucky walked from the house to the Local and stood for a moment under the green awning. There came the Volvo and the two RVs motoring down Main, headed south. The dew was still on.

  He knew th’ Volvo would drive four miles, hook a left to th’ interstate, an’ exit south to Brevard.

  Th’ Freelander Coach would exit west to Tennessee an’ eventually south to Holly Springs, Mississippi, where Father Tim was born at. Father Tim had said it was a family weddin’ but wadn’t specific about other destinations.

  The Sportscoach diesel would exit west to Tennessee an’ north to Missouri, which was a haul an’ a half.

  He knew these things because the drivers had provisioned at the Local.

  Th’ Sportscoach had taken on twenty-four large bags of Fritos, two cases of Cheerwine, a case of Bud Light, a 12-pack of Orville Redenbacher’s buttered popcorn, tortilla chips and salsa, a 16-pack of deer jerky, which was ten percent off with a coupon, an’ a seven-an’-a-half-pound beef roast. He had cut Lew th’ extra half-pound to thank him for his business.

  Th’ Volvo had hardly any room to take on serious food items—it would be crammed to th’ gills, according to Dooley, with a golden retriever, fishin’ gear, an iron skillet, a coffeepot, a child’s seat, two huge pieces of luggage, and a bunch of art supplies. Dooley had mostly provisioned with energy bars, coffee, tea, OJ, whole grain cereal, trail mix, banana chips, cheese, yogurt, almond milk, peanut butter, whole wheat bread, and three plastic forks for a pie Miz Harper baked for take-along.

  Dooley tapped the horn three times. Avis waved, Chucky barked.

  Th’ Freelander was a mini-Local on wheels. Triple-virgin olive oil, grass-fed beef, dried fruit, three unripe avocados, romaine, merlot, two pounds of French roast in the bean, Earl Grey tea, whole grain bread and crackers, three cheeses, four lemons, two onions, eggs from uncaged birds, frozen North Pacific salmon, two dozen Gala apples, a hand of unripe bananas, and a quartet of organic raisins. He had refused payment. If he died broke, say la vee.

  Th’ Freelander blew th’ horn; he squinted into th’ light. Father Tim and Cynthia, with Gus hangin’ his head out th’ window . . .

  He threw up his hand, Chucky barked.

  ‘There they go. It’s happenin’. Miz Kavanagh’s big dream.’

  He stepped to the curb and peered at the next vehicle. The diesel Sportscoach was so big it blocked the sun from his eyes, an’ way up there was Lew an’ Earlene gettin’ a bird’s-eye view of him an’ Chucky.

  He threw up his hand, Lew honked, Chucky barked.

  Big suckers, those RVs, glidin’ by like floats in a parade. Gas hogs! Plus, how did you back one up to th’ gas tank without takin’ out th’ tank? Or what if you got someplace and th’ RV park was full? Did you just keep goin’ till you fell asleep at th’ wheel?

  ‘Everybody’s headed someplace but us, Chucky.’ He stooped down and gave his dog a scratch behind the ears. ‘It’s just me an’ you, okay?’

  He wondered why such a thought made him feel so happy.

  This afternoon he would grind a pound of sirloin, pick up extra-sharp cheddar from the cooler, corn tortillas, the whole nine yards. ‘Tacos tonight, how about it?’

  Chucky’s entire rear end was waggin’. Don’t tell him dogs don’t know what’s goin’ on. ‘Miz Sanchez sent us her homemade hot sauce, but I’ll hold th’ sauce on yours.’

  He thought he might put his feet up this evenin’. He’d never once put his feet up. He had an orange crate Johnsie told him he could use, but only if he topped it with a bed pillow, which would aid circulation.

  ‘An’ how about we build us a fire?’

  It had been a cool spring and Lord knows, he hadn’t built a fire in his fireplace in five, maybe ten years. ‘If we burn th’ house down, we’ll get us another house, maybe one of those houses on wheels we just saw rollin’ by. Me an’ you, we’ll head out to Wyoming, what do you think about Wyoming? We’ll see us some cowboys ropin’ steers. Maybe get us a job on a dude ranch.’

  He didn’t exactly know what he was feelin’, seein’ th’ two RVs, solemn and immense, goin’ off to other places. It was like some part of him was set free. But free for what he didn’t know. Maybe free to do whatever he wanted, with th’ best dog he ever had. Come to think of it, th’ only dog he ever had.

  He stepped to the front door of the Local and inserted the key in the lock and went inside and thought again how he loved the smell of this place. ‘Thank you,’ he said, looking up.

  It was good to think you might go somewhere sometime if you wanted to, but right now it felt pretty good just to stay at home in Mitford.

  He turned the sign around to read what everybody wanted to see:

  OPEN.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With eternal thanks to:

  Ivan Held, my lovely, understanding, old-school publisher, aka grill maven.

  The brilliant team who makes it all come together for the reader: Christine Pepe, editor supreme; Sally Kim; Alexis Welby; Katie McKee; Ashley McClay.

  Candace Freeland: daughter, cheerleader, first reader, and hatcher of sublime ideas.

  Dr. Mimi Cogliano: Hail to thee, blithe spirit.

  Dr. Tim Short: As my grandmother would say, you’re worth your weight in gold.

  Tripp Stewart, DMV (this designation awarded only by the University of Pennsylvania): charming, ultra-generous Mitford vet in residence.

  Dawn Buchanan and Marguerite Rueger, league operators, American Poolplayers Association of Central Virginia. Let’s lag!

  Lincoln Perry: controversial, renowned, and generous muralist.

  Everett Barrineau: one of Mitford’s earliest and most ardent champions. Thank you, dear heart.

  Amanda Brown Megargel: gi
fted writer of “Civil War,” a brilliant country song that deserves a savvy publisher.

  Woody Baker: friend, RVer, and cattleman of distinction.

  Patrick Comyn, DVM: thanks for the cow that nearly got away.

  Dannye Romine: poet par excellence (just call her Darling).

  Nancy Bass: friend and cheerleader; David Bass for his introduction to Beef Cattle Science.

  Dr. Gary Haines: my entertaining, skydiving dentist who doesn’t know much about snow camping, but thanks for the laughs.

  Gerry Newman: creator of pastry heaven.

  Keturah Bracey; Reverend Jane Sigloh; Danny and Laurie Crigler of L&D Associates, Inc.; Margaret Leckrone, Foundations Child Development Center; Professor Christopher Bryan; Polly Hawkes; Sheridan Hill; Mike Barfoot, BRPD; Mike Wilcox, BRPD; Sharon Van Dyke, BRPD; Sarita Bennett, DO, CPM; Kim Kepchar; Reverend Sarah Kinney Gaventa; Sarita Bennet; Nadia Badr Cempre; Dan Nakas; Dr. Tom Daniel; Jim Childress; Dr. Sue Mueller; Audi Barlow; Bruce Sullivan; Tony Hancock; Mary Motley Kalergis; Mary Eckenrode Gibson; Patrick Brady; Jacki Bryant; Geoffrey S. Garbaccio; Gail Esterman; Nate and Scott of Blick Art Materials; Reverend Paul Walker; Graham Shannonhouse; Ahmet.

  And to all the devoted readers who love Mitford, please know that Mitford loves you back. Always.

  • • •

  Applause for the legendary Edna Lewis (1916–2006) and Chef Scott Peacock, who developed the recipe for the Orange Marmalade Cake, aka OMC. Early on, it was clear that Mitford needed a baker of seriously high standards—somebody famous for a cake that everyone was nuts about. But it had to be off the grid, completely unique.

  So how about a lusciously moist cake filled and topped with rough-cut orange marmalade? Done! Readers loved the much ado made over this cake by Father Tim and other Mitford characters and wanted the recipe. But there wasn’t one.

  So. When I was writer in residence with Hearst’s Victoria Magazine, the editor hired Ms. Lewis and Chef Peacock to concoct the OMC recipe in their Atlanta home kitchen. Over the years, brave Mitford readers have baked this challenging cake and been awarded rave reviews. (You’ll find the recipe in Jan Karon’s Mitford Cookbook and Kitchen Reader, always available online, or ask your go-to bookstore.) It is my favorite cake of all time, and a funeral service with much ado about the OMC is precisely how one of my best-loved characters would wish to be remembered.