by Jan Karon
“So save me somethin’ to paint,” said Dooley.
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Consider it done! Have you heard from Sammy?”
“He wrote me a letter. I’ll bring it so you and Cynthia can read it. It meant a lot to him to be with everybody at Thanksgiving.”
“Buck and I are going down to see him next week.” Buck Leeper was Dooley’s stepdad, and a zealous teammate in the search for Dooley’s siblings. “We’ll take Poo and Jessie. I hope Sammy will come for Christmas.”
“That would be great.” Dooley sounded pensive. “I’ve been thinking—would you take him all the clothes in my closet except my green sweatshirt and the last pair of jeans Cynthia bought me?”
“He’s a little taller than you, but we’ll give it a try.”
“Umm, don’t take that Italian suit Cynthia made me wear in New York, or the belt that’s hanging on the door.”
“Got it.”
There was a brief silence.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think—I mean, like, really—that we’ll ever find Kenny?”
“Yes!” he said without hesitating. “Yes!”
“You haven’t given up?”
“Never! I don’t know what to do right now, but God has been faithful. Four out of five, son! Let’s keep thanking Him for His providence . . . and praying and believing He’ll lead us to Kenny. Is that a deal?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dooley. “It’s a deal.”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, taking her hand.
They lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling, at the place where the streetlamp shone in and cast its light.
“Tell me,” she said.
“All these years, I’ve remembered the hard things about my father. His indifference to my mother, his coldness toward me, his rage, his depression, the countless times he hurt us.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“When a person spends a lifetime hurting himself and others, it’s hard to remember the good things about him.”
“Yes. I know.”
“I want to start remembering the time he looked at me . . .” His voice broke, and he lay still for a time. “It was only a look, nothing more, but it said everything I’d ever hoped to know.”
There was a long silence.
“And then he walked around the barn with me.” He couldn’t stop the flow of tears, nor did he wish to.
“Tell me about it, dearest.”
He told her.
With all his heart, and with all his soul, he would attempt to put that moment, that dark yet somehow shining hour, at the front of his memories about his father. After all these years, it would be enough.
At last, it would be enough.
Father Tim opened the fifteenth door of their Advent calendar and read aloud a brief exegesis of verses from Luke’s second chapter.
“ ‘And Joseph went up from Nazareth to Bethlehem, to be enrolled with Mary, who was with child.’ ”
Cynthia thumbed the pages of her Bible to a map of the region that extended south from the Sea of Galilee. “From Galilee in the north to Judea in the south seems a long way, Timothy.”
“Maybe ninety to a hundred miles. On a donkey, that’s roughly a week’s travel. It could have taken longer, of course, because of the pregnancy.”
“I wonder what they ate.”
“Whatever it was, they probably bought it from camel trains. They couldn’t have carried many supplies.”
“Isn’t a lot of this terrain open desert?”
“It is.”
“What would the weather have been like?”
“Cold. Very cold,” he said. “Some say too cold for the shepherds around Bethlehem to be in the fields. They would have had their flocks under cover by October or November.”
“So the birth may have occurred earlier, before they left the fields?”
“Very likely. However, the tradition of a late-December Nativity is eighteen centuries old, and I’m not messing with that.”
“Still, if they were traveling in December, nighttime temperatures would have been freezing.” His wife pondered this, shaking her head. “Just think! All that misery over taxes!”
“Some things,” he said, “never change.”
Harold Newland, the postman, bolted through the door at Happy Endings with a bundle of mail secured by a rubber band.
“That’s a load off!” he said, thumping it on the counter next to Margaret Ann.
“How about a cup of hot cider?” Hope thought Harold looked worn, to say the least. Probably all the catalogs, plus the fact that his wife, Emma, was in Atlanta with her pregnant daughter until after Christmas. . . .
“No time to lollygag!” he said, hitching up his belt. “Have a good day!”
“ ‘Thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks!’ ” Hope exclaimed, quoting Shakespeare.
The postcard was on top. She saw it at once.
Margaret Ann eyed Harold’s departure as Hope withdrew the card from beneath the rubber band and turned it over. It was from George Gaynor, known to Mitford as the Man in the Attic. After eight years in prison and a brief job assignment at Happy Endings, he had returned to the prison system as a chaplain.
Inscribed in a bold hand, the card read:
Dear Hope,
Keep living up to your name.
Your brother in Christ,
George
She blinked to hold back the tears. She was trying to live up to her name, but it was growing harder each day.
It was now December 15, and still she’d had no word from Mrs. Mallory. Helen had phoned the Mallory attorneys on her behalf, but they claimed to know nothing about their client’s plans for this particular property, which was one of many in Mitford, Florida, and Spain.
She walked to the window facing Main Street. Though the future seemed as dark as the lowering sky above the town, she would try to hold fast to what was positive and bright.
Holiday sales had been wonderful, she couldn’t complain, and Helen was hoping with her that Happy Endings might remain in Mitford.
Father Tim now knew her secret, which was a source of great relief. He had prayed with her and agreed to compose a letter of reference to Edith Mallory, so it would be ready when needed. She was touched that he said “when” and not “if.”
Though many circumstances were positive, she was, nonetheless, exhausted. The rare-book business on the Internet, coupled with “running the floor,” as Helen would say, had taken a toll. She was bitterly tired at the end of the day, and often slept fitfully. Helen had sharply reminded her that things wouldn’t get better if the shop became hers. “Quite the contrary,” Helen had said. And when would she be able to afford help?
Indeed, she had never wanted to be “management” until the day God had given her the amazing idea of actually owning the shop.
She found herself wringing her hands pitiably, and dropped them to her sides at once. How quickly she went from high to low! She must think of the lovely aspects, the glad outcome, as she’d learned from her reading in Philippians last night.
“. . . whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely . . . think on these things.”
Best of all, best of anything, she would see Scott this evening. He would come directly from work, and in the empty room above the bookstore, they were going to put up a tree and decorate it with strings of colored lights.
Afterward, they’d cross the street together and look up to the middle window where it would stand, luminous and shining, for all the village to see.
Uncle Billy Watson shuffled from one end of the kitchen to the other, holding on to the stove, then to the countertop, then the table.
Here he was pacin’ th’ floor, and him a man hardly able t’ walk in th’ first dadjing place! An’ where was ’is cane? How could he lose ’is cane if he hadn�
�t left th’ house?
He had two weeks t’ come up with Rose’s present, an’ not one blessed notion had passed through his wore-out brain. Nary a one!
Over th’ years, he’d growed plenty tired of hearin’ what Rose’s brother, Willard, had give ’er.
Before Willard died in th’ war in France, he’d give ’er a dolly, he’d give ’er dresses with lace an’ smockin’, he’d give ’er a coat with a rabbit-fur collar, he’d give ’er a little cart an’ a goat t’ pull it, on an’ on ’til a man could heave ’is dinner, an’ then, don’t you know, Willard had give ’er this house they was a-livin’ in, an’ ever’ stick of furnishin’.
If he was t’ miss givin’ Rose a present this Christmas, hit’d be th’ first time in more’n fifty years. Nossir, b’fore he’d let that happen, he’d go down th’ street and buy somethin’ off of a store shelf.
He remembered th’ one year he’d store-bought Rose’s present; th’ Preacher Kavanagh had gone with ’im an’ helped buy ’er a winter coat f’r half off, an’ a pair of red high-heel shoes. Rose had took a fit over them shoes, but she never put ’em on ’er feet. They was still settin’ out on th’ mantel in their bedroom, as decoration.
He didn’t recall if he had any twenties still hid in th’ stacks of newspaper in th’ dinin’ room. Maybe one or two, he didn’t rightly know. . . .
“Bill Watson! Why are you wearing out our good linoleum?” His wife stood at the kitchen door in her chenille robe, with a headful of curlers. He hadn’t seen ’er in them things in a hundred years. She looked like a porkypine.
“I’m tryin’ to figure out somethin’ in m’ brain!” He hollered good ’n’ loud, so she’d be sure an’ hear.
“You say I’m a pain?”
“Yessir, you are, but that ain’t what I said!”
“Speak up, Bill Watson! What’d you say?”
“I said I’m tryin’ t’ figure out y’r Santy Claus!”
“My Santy Claus? Did you say my Santy Claus?” His wife’s face lit up like a Christmas tree—she was grinnin’ like a young ’un, which was a wonder he hadn’t seen in a coon’s age.
“Them was my words, all right!”
“Why, Bill Watson!” She trotted over an’ kissed ’im on th’ cheek s’ hard he near about tumbled over back’ards. “That’s the best news in this whole wide world!”
He was throwing caution to the winds, he was picking up speed, he was flying.
I can do this! he thought, astonished. I can do this! He was no Rembrandt, but he could turn a lurid, sallow skin into something believable, and while his donkey ear was nothing to write home about, it had a certain . . . élan.
The start-up had been slow and time-consuming, boggled by everything from five days of flu to complete ignorance about what to do and how to do it. Now, by George, he had momentum!
Not only was it a liberating thing to have, it had come in the nick of time. With less than five days remaining before Dooley’s visit, and less than ten until Christmas, he and his erstwhile helpers had many a mile to go.
He found he was taking the work to bed with him, so to speak, and having trouble sleeping. Then, after hours of staring at the ceiling and planning his next move, he could hardly wait to roll into the Oxford next morning.
Some of his excitement came, perhaps, from working with his hands. Aside from gardening and cooking, it was a completely fresh experience for someone who’d always gone at life with his head. Whatever it was, he hadn’t felt so energized in years.
Truth be told, while he passionately loved celebrating the liturgy, he’d nearly always dreaded coming up with a fit and useful sermon—he seemed to invest a disproportionate amount of time in woolgathering, pacing the floor, beseeching God, and laboring to have his words expound the Scriptures. Then, on the days the Holy Spirit seemed to abandon him to his own devices, there was the delivering of said words to expectant souls who needed, and deserved, more nourishment than he felt capable of giving.
He wondered if he should feel a little guilty these days about—to put it plainly—having so much fun.
His wife was in bed, pretending to read but surveying him oddly as he sat in the wing chair pretending to do the same.
He was pretending because he couldn’t keep his mind on the book; he was thinking about the angel with the missing wing. He’d taken the color of her outer robe from a painting by Adolphe-William Bouguereau; he’d mixed and mixed the paints until he got something that gained a consensus in the back room.
“That’s it!” Andrew exclaimed.
“Bull’s-eye!” said his chief stippler.
Though white was definitely the color of choice for wings, he had found the white alone to be stark and cold, in need of subtlety. But he’d carried things too far; he had tried too hard to be subtle. He’d like to go back and glaze the wing again. . . .
He’d relished working on this particular figure, liking the way the missing wing gave the piece a whole other balance in his hands. He also loved the exquisite serenity of her countenance—he thought the maker had done a thumping good job.
The only thing was, he didn’t have time to turn back and fiddle with small details, he needed to keep moving forward. . . .
“Sweetheart?”
“Speak, Kavanagh!”
“I’m about to bust.”
He looked up. “Whatever for?”
“To know what you’re up to.” She tilted her head to one side and gazed at him, smiling. “You know I love surprises, but really, Timothy, I don’t think I can make it ’til Christmas.”
“Get over it, girl, you’ll gouge nothing out of me.”
“All that paint on the pants you stuck behind the boiler in the basement . . .”
“You’ve been snooping behind the boiler in the basement?”
“Yes, Father, I confess.”
“Aha.” He went back to his book. Blast!
“And on your hands, of course.”
“What about my hands?” Didn’t he scrub them diligently to remove all traces?
“I can smell it, dear. Oil paint gets into the pores. You’re painting something!”
What could he say? “Curiosity killed the cat!”
When he walked Barnabas to the monument at nine o’clock, he saw the tree glittering in the window above the bookstore. Colored light spilled over the awning and reflected on the rain-wet pavement.
In the face of losing everything one hoped for, lighting a tree was an act of faith. Well done! he thought, pulling his hat down and his collar up.
He walked more briskly, glad to be alive on the hushed and lamplit street where every storefront gleamed with promise.
“ ‘And there were in that same country. . . ,’ ” said his mother.
“ ‘Shepherds abiding!’ ”
“Very good, dear. And where were they abiding?”
“ ‘In the field!’ ”
“And what were they doing?”
“ ‘Keeping watch o’er their flock by night!’ ”
“Yes!” said his mother, pleased. He liked pleasing his mother, for he loved her more than anything, even more than Peggy. He also liked saying “o’er” instead of “over.”
His mother had spent hours teaching him the story of Christ’s birth, and the images she instilled in him had been vivid and thrilling, like a kind of movie cast with a score of animals—the great camels plowing over the desert sands, the donkey on which the Virgin Mary probably rode with Joseph walking beside her, the sheep and cows and horses in the hay-scented stable. . . .
And then, to top it all off, there was the heavenly host.
When as a child he heard the passages from Luke read aloud, he had also, on two separate occasions, heard the proclamation delivered by a multitude of voices. Though Scripture said nothing about the proclamation being sung, he was convinced otherwise—in truth, the music had come to him in the region of his heart as well as his mind, and the sound of the great chorale had been beautiful beyond all imagining.
He’d resigned himself even then to a simple fact: there were things he could never share with another, granting the occasional exception of his mother, who, more than anyone, believed him to speak from a true heart.
Indeed, there was no denying he’d been an often lonely and wildly imaginative child, but he was glad of it; for many things that deserved to be believed, he had believed with all his might.
Here he was with his nose stuck in a book at six o’clock in the evening, under a bare bulb in the back room of the Oxford. He hadn’t meant this thing to devour his every waking moment. . . .
It was all the robes and undergarments that had him out on a limb. Now that he had eyes to see, there seemed to be a thousand folds needing light and shadow. All along, he’d been painting the clothing without light and shadow, knowing that something was wrong, but what?
Blast. What if he packed up the whole business and stored it in the attic until another time? But he knew the answer to that—there would never be another time.
Possibly all that was needed was a kind of smudge that followed the line of a fold—something darker than the garment, yet something simple.
With the book open beside him on the worktable, he mixed a daub of paint and, without thinking, put it on his thumb and worked the color along the left side of the fold of the angel’s robe, then retraced the line with his forefinger and gently smoothed away some of the color.
Ahhhh . . .
There!
Thank you, Lord. . . .
Done.
The pain had moved into the region of her heart and seemed lodged there like a stickpin.
In case the letter had gone astray, she had rewritten it from memory and sent it again, this time declaring it urgent that Mrs. Mallory respond as quickly as possible.
Mrs. Havner had said she could take her time about the apartment.
