by Jan Karon
How long was he willing to live like this?
“Married an’ livin’ single!” he hollered down the dark hallway.
Nothing had changed since Juanita passed. The dining room was still full of everything from a fake Christmas tree to a Santa Claus that dropped his pants while a music box played, not to mention empty cartons stacked to the ceiling and enough tinsel to sink a trawler. His oven ran cold and his thermostat ran hot, and his wife lived with her mama, and every night of his life since Juanita died seven years ago, he’d come home to an empty kitchen and an empty bed, and what was the dadblame use of it all, anyhow?
He sighed and looked around at a room that had frozen in time, inside a house that had frozen with it.
It hit him then, like a bolt of lightning.
He was going out tonight.
Yessir, buddyroe, he was going to Wesley, like half the Mitford population on Friday night!
First, he’d head to Wendy’s for a Bacon Swiss Cheeseburger. . . .
All the way! Large fries! Large Coke! The works.
Then he was hitting the aisles at Wal-Mart for a TV and a VCR.
After Wal-Mart, he was stopping by the mall for two scoops of Rocky Road in a waffle cone. And on the way home, he’d pick up a couple of videos. He felt his adrenaline pumping like an oil derrick.
On Monday, he was calling the cable company, trifling as they may be, and ordering the whole caboodle—whatever they had to offer, that’s what he was getting, the Disney Channel, the sports network, old movies, you name it.
He went to the coat rack by the back door and put on his fleece jacket, zipped it up, and popped a toboggan on his head.
Yessir, this was the ticket. It wasn’t so much that he was lacking a wife as he was lacking a life.
When Earlene called back after feeding her mama, she would wonder where he was. He was always home when Earlene called. He felt in his pocket for his gloves.
“I’m goin’ out, Earlene!” he shouted to the kitchen ceiling. “Out, out, out! Leave a message!”
Of the many and varied fruits of a good marriage, one of Father Tim’s sworn favorites was having someone to be sick with—misery, after all, loved company.
Sitting with her cat, Violet, in her lap, his wife blew her nose and looked at him with red eyes and drooping lids. “I never heard of anything that was both viral and bacterial. I thought we got only one misery at a time.”
“I think it’s the double deal that earned the Crud its name.”
“Anyway, I’ve finally figured out how it feels to have this pernicious blight.”
“Speak,” he said, lying flat and drained on the sofa.
“It feels like you’ve just eaten a dish of Miss Rose’s week-old, unrefrigerated banana pudding and are on your way to the emergency room in the back of a van that’s been lived in through a long, hard winter by seven Russian wolfhounds, all of whom, poor dears, have mange. . . .”
He moaned. Right on the money.
“Plus, you have this horrendous headache—pounding, mind you—and eyes that feel like little sockets of ground glass, something akin to the lethal shards of a Coke bottle that’s been run over by a tractor trailer hurtling at great speed along I-95—”
“North or south?”
“South.”
He raised his head feebly from the sofa. “I’d never have thought of it that way,” he said.
He stood at their bedroom window and looked across the rooftops toward First Baptist and the regimental march of autumn color blazing east to Little Mitford Creek.
The maples were one of the town’s proudest assets, and, as predicted, they were doing their thing, they were strutting their stuff, they were breaking any and all previous records.
Glorious!
He could see only the tops of these honorable trees, but it was enough to demonstrate what he was missing. Blast! The best part of autumn was passing him by, and, into the bargain, his project was moldering. . . .
“How are the trees?” Cynthia croaked from the vicinity of their bed.
“Today may be their peak,” he said, wistful. How could they miss the maples? Nobody missed the maples.
“We’ve got to get up there, Timothy, and take pictures, I haven’t missed a single year since I moved to Mitford.”
“But we’re still sick,” he said, straggling to the bed and thumping into it. “I feel like the Coke bottle under the wheels of your tractor trailer heading north—”
“South! We’ll bundle up to our ears and wear dark glasses so no one can see how frightening we look. I’ll pop on my green felt hat, and you can wear your black thingamabob that transforms you into a cleric from Barchester Towers.”
“Do we have to?” He was whining. He hated whining.
“Yes, dearest, we have to.”
She plucked a tissue from her robe pocket and blew her nose. “Missing the maples would be like missing the queen riding through in a convoy. I figure we have two more days to hang around here being miserable, and by then a storm could take the leaves down and all would be lost.”
“Give me ten minutes,” he said. “I won’t even brush my teeth.”
Though they tried to keep their distance from the crowd that was buzzing around with cameras, they couldn’t help overhearing what Madge Stokes and Fancy Skinner were saying.
“How long have you had it?” demanded Fancy, swaddled to the gills in a pink rabbit-fur jacket over stretch capris.
“Three days,” said Madge, pale and cowering.
“Three days? You’re still contagious, for Pete’s sake, get away from me, oh, please, the Mitford Crud and you’re out and about and breathing on people after only three days!”
“Go jump in the lake,” Cynthia muttered into her coat collar.
Fancy turned from Madge Stokes, who had gone paler still, and stumped the crowd at large. “That’s the way people do these days, they get sick as dogs, but nobody, and I mean nobody, goes to bed anymore and drinks plenty of liquids, they’re all out at the mall or dashing around grocery stores coughing on the cabbage!”
They slunk homeward with their spent roll of Fuji.
“Lookit,” said Percy. “That’s my shot right there.”
The Main Street Grill had come up with its own photo contest—the wall to the right of the door was plastered with images of the Mitford maples, documented with varying degrees of skill.
“See th’ fog? To my way of thinkin,’ that gives it . . . gives it . . .”
“Mystery and intrigue!” said Father Tim.
“That’s what I was goin’ t’ say. Look here, this is Mule and Fancy’s deal. Too dark on th’ left is what Velma said, like somebody was standin’ in their own shadow.”
“That’s somebody’s thumb, actually. Whose shot is that? The one up top.”
“Lew Boyd.”
“Lew has a camera? He never struck me as the camera type.” “Everybody’s got a camera.”
“Great color. And look at the way the light falls on the grass. How many entries so far?”
“Thirteen so far. I got a sign in th’ window, we’ll let ’er rip ’til th’ end of next week.”
“What’s the prize?”
“Free lunch for two.”
“Good deal.”
“Tuesday only, an’ th’ winner has to claim ’is prize by Christmas Eve, or no cigar.”
“Who are the judges?”
“Me an’Velma.”
“You’re not going to award the winner your Tuesday special, I fondly hope.” Percy’s fried gizzards were a prize, all right. . . .
“They can order what they want to,” said Percy. “Up to a point.”
“What’s the point?” He was just checking.
“One entrée, one drink, and one dessert each. And by th’ way, no digital doodah or color Xerox, just straight four-by-six glossy, an’ print your name on th’ back.”
“I think I’ll enter,” he said.
Percy straightened his apron. “I heard you an�
�� Mule and Whatsisface was down at the tea shop chattin’ it up like a bunch of women.”
“You heard right!” he said, slipping toward the rear booth.
There was a brief silence as Percy decided whether to chase that rabbit or let it go. “So what’re you havin’?”
“The usual.”
“I’d rather be hit upside th’ head than poach eggs this mornin’.”
“Come the end of December, you’ll never have to poach another egg as long as you live. So cut me some slack, buddyroe.”
Percy grinned, a rare and astonishing sight. “I’m getting’ out of here b’fore th’ end of December. We’re closin’ shop Christmas Eve, right behind th’ last lunch customer.”
“Christmas Eve?” It was all happening too fast. . . .
“Amen!” said Percy, who wasn’t often given to liturgical language.
Following yet another phone talk with Helen, Hope had bared her heart to Scott Murphy over dinner the previous evening in Wesley. He had held her hand and prayed for her, right there in the restaurant.
Grateful and tremulous, she had come home to sit down with a notepad and gather her thoughts about writing to Edith Mallory, when suddenly the words began to tumble onto the page with scarcely any caution or forethought.
In the end, it had been exactly what she wanted to say.
She would transcribe the hastily composed missive to a sheet of ivory stationery and send it registered mail—something she had never before done with a document of any sort.
The only concern she had in writing the letter was whether to mention Mrs. Mallory’s terrible injuries, which had rendered her unable to speak except in a fashion so garbled that not even her doctors could understand her meaning.
If no reference was made in the letter to such a tragedy, it might be construed as coldness of spirit, or worse.
She would take her cue, then, from rumor—that Mrs. Mallory was now able to communicate, though with painful slowness, to Ed Coffey, the man who had driven her around for so many years in that black Lincoln. A further rumor reported a recent removal of the bandages from Edith Mallory’s head.
In this fearsome and thrilling thing she was about to do, she had every intention of looking always on the bright side.
Dear Mrs. Mallory, she penned at the top of the ivory sheet . . .
I was very happy to hear of your recent improvements, and trust that we shall have continuing good news of your recovery.
I also trust that the following proposal will meet with your deepest approval.
As you are perhaps aware, my longtime employer, Helen Huffman, has recently informed your attorney that due to pressing demands of her Florida business, she will not renew the lease on your old Porter building, long known as Happy Endings Books.
Indeed, it is my heartfelt desire to renew the lease in my own name, and to assume full responsibility as Happy Endings Books’ new owner and manager.
Mrs. Mallory, I speak to you as one businesswoman to another, and believe you will appreciate my wish to be entirely frank.
The monthly lease is now $950 plus utilities, but I will be able during the first six months to pay only $800, plus utilities.
On July first and thereafter, I expect to be fully able to pay the monthly sum of $950 plus utilities without further hindrance.
In the meantime, I will, at my own expense, repaint the interior walls, which are in sore condition, and have a new toilet and front-door lock installed at my expense. These improvements are worth approximately $2,500 by today’s estimations, thus you would recognize a benefit of $1,550 at the very outset of our relationship.
I will work hard, Mrs. Mallory, to make you proud to count Happy Endings among your most responsible tenants. I have had a lifelong love of learning and of books, and cannot express to you the joy it would give me to undertake such a rewarding endeavor—an endeavor which I believe enriches our community immeasurably.
Should you consider my proposal with favor, I shall be happy to dispatch character references at once.
Yours sincerely,
Hope Winchester
Happy Endings Books
The effort to transcribe the letter in ink, without making mistakes, had been considerable. Should she have written instead to Mrs. Mallory’s attorneys? She didn’t know anything about attorneys. And should she have referred to herself as a businesswoman? “Yes!” Helen had insisted. “Absolutely!”
She felt a heaviness between her shoulders, as if she’d toted a barge along Little Mitford Creek.
Slipping the folded, two-page letter inside the envelope, she licked the seal and considered again the ways in which she hoped to make this impossible dream come true.
Money would be scarce, very scarce, especially as Helen would be taking fifty percent of the profits during the first year, in payment for her inventory and for revenue earned from the rare-books realm. In addition to rent and utilities, that would be a heavy outgo. As for income, she had only her mother’s surprising legacy, the forty-seven hundred dollars she had saved since college, and, of course, the five hundred dollars per month she would save if . . .
She drew another sheet of paper from the box.
Dear Mrs. Havner,
Thanks to your many courtesies over the years, I have been happy in my little nest above your tea shop.
I’ve always been especially fond of Thursdays, for the smell ofyour delectable cinnamon rolls wafted up to my aerie and made it all the more a true home!
It is with deep regret, as well as joy unbounded, that I write to tell you I will not be renewing my lease this year. . . .
She drew a shallow breath.
This letter couldn’t be mailed, of course, until she heard from Mrs. Mallory, which, she felt certain, would be only a few days hence.
She spied the folded slip of paper that Scott had given her, lying by the stationery box. When he walked her to the door last night, he had proffered it like a fortune from a cookie.
“This will help,” he said, smiling. “I promise.”
She remembered the tips of his fingers brushing the palm of her hand. . . .
She unfolded the paper now and read once again the inscription in blue ink.
Philippians 4:13: I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
A white cake box had been delivered while he and Cynthia were shopping at The Local.
“What is it?” he asked Puny.
He hoped to the good Lord it wasn’t one of Esther’s orange marmalade cakes. The angst of not being able to eat the whole thing, much less a single, solitary piece . . .
“Fruitcake!” she said, obviously disgusted. “Won’t people ever learn you can’t eat this stuff?”
“Well, yes,” he said, “but Cynthia can, and you, and Dooley. A fine gift!”
“Mister Cunningham made it, it’s your Christmas present. He brought it early so you can start soakin’ it in bourbon or whatever. He said he was willin’ to do th’ bakin’, but he draws th’ line on soakin’.”
Their housekeeper, whom he loved as his own blood, and who had stayed home until the contagion passed, was roughly five months away from delivering a second round of twins.
“You look wonderful, Puny. How are my new grans?”
She grinned. “Kickin’!”
“Keep doing what you’re doing. I’m going to stretch out in the study a few minutes.”
“I’m bakin’ a pie with Sadie Baxter apples an’ fake sugar. I’ll try not t’ make noise.”
“Oh, but make noise! Rattle those pots and pans! That’s what home is about.”
A pie! He fairly skipped into the study.
Cynthia was already prone on their bed. Following endless days of the Crud, the two blocks to the store and back had been right up there with swimming the English Channel.
His good dog heaved himself onto the sofa and laid his head on his master’s feet.
“Barnabas,” he murmured before drowsing off to sleep, “just wait ’til you see
what’s coming.
“Sheep! Shepherds! A camel! Angels! You won’t believe it.”
“Miz Kavanagh, is it all right t’ give Timothy some of this candy fruit?”
“Two cherries!” he said, extending both hands. Why did Peggy have to ask his mother everything? If it was up to Peggy, he could have almost anything he wanted.
“Please,” he remembered to say.
“Very well,” said his mother, “but only two.”
He also wanted raisins and a brazil nut, but he would ask later. He liked a lot of things that went into the fruitcake his mother and Peggy made every year, but he didn’t like them in the cake, he liked them out of the cake.
Coffee perked on the electric range, a lid rattled on a boiling pot, he smelled cinnamon and vanilla. . . .
At the kitchen table, his mother wrote thoughtfully on a sheet of blue paper. “There’ll be the Andersons, of course,” she said to Peggy, “and the Adamses.”
“What about th’ judge?”
“The judge goes without saying. We always have the judge.”
“An’ Rev’ren’ Simon.”
“Yes, I think his influence is good for Timothy.”
“Ain’t you havin’ th’ Nelsons?”
“Oh, yes, and the Nelsons. Definitely!”
“Them Nelson boys’ll be slidin’ down yo’ banister an’ crawlin’ up yo’ curtains,” Peggy muttered.
He didn’t like the Nelson boys; when they came, it was always two against one.
“Can Tommy come?” His father had never allowed Tommy in the house, but since this would be Christmas . . .
“No, dear. I’m sorry. Perhaps another time.”
