by Jan Karon
“What kind of dessert?”
“Beats me, we just got this idea. Maybe a couple of cakes. And I’ll make the coffee. I know how to operate the coffee machine, he’s had it for a hundred years.”
Mule looked suspicious. “So who’ll pick up th’ tab for th’ cakes?”
“We’ll pass the hat. Maybe collect enough to get Percy and Velma a ticket to Washington, to see the cherry blossoms. What do you think?”
“Yeah!” said Mule, grinning. “Great idea!”
“So see you for lunch tomorrow!” Father Tim felt his adrenaline pump up a notch.
What was he thinking, to add a party at the Grill on the same day of the Christmas Eve mass at Lord’s Chapel, and the trimming of the tree, and the secret setup of the Nativity scene in the living room, and getting everything in order for their big dinner on Christmas Day?
Was he out of his mind?
The answer, of course, was yes.
He was glazing Joseph’s overgarment when J. C. Hogan barreled into the room.
“Whoa!” said Father Tim. What was this, anyway, Grand Central Station?
J.C. slung his bulging, unzipped briefcase into a chair. “I hear you’re livin’ down here now, got a cot in th’ back room.”
“Who let you in?”
“I let myself in. Fred’s unloadin’ a truck in the alley, an’ Andrew’s up th’ street.” He unfurled a pocket handkerchief and wiped his face. “What’s goin’ on? I been lookin’ for your obit.”
“Who told you I’m down here?”
“Everybody knows you’re down here. So what’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“What’s that you’re paintin’? Looks like some of my kin people.” J.C. cackled.
“Look, J.C., you need to keep this to yourself. The whole thing is meant to be a surprise for Cynthia. I’d like your word.”
“I’m not much on keepin’ secrets!” J.C. eyed the figures on the shelf. “Don’t tell me you did all this!”
“I didn’t do all this.”
“Looks like a Nativity scene. . . .”
“It is. And, believe me—if you say anything to anybody, I’ll personally knock you in the head.”
“OK, all right, they’ll never hear it from me. Man, this is great. I didn’t know you could do stuff like this.”
“Neither did I.”
“Where’s your stable?”
“Don’t have a stable.”
“Everybody knows you got to have a stable for a Nativity scene. A little baby can’t just lay out in th’ weather, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Preacher?” Uncle Billy stuck his head in the door.
“Uncle Billy! What are you doing downtown?”
“Buyin’ lumber!” said the old man, his gold tooth gleaming. “Dora, she tol’ me you’re workin’ here.”
“Did Hoppy say you could be out and about?”
“He said I could walk aroun’ in th’ yard. I figured a man could exchange that f’r walkin’ down th’ street.”
“What kind of lumber?”
He tapped the bundle under his arm. “I’m makin’ Rose a present. Christmas is comin,’ don’t you know.”
“Look,” said the Muse editor, “I’m outta here. Let’s have lunch at th’ tea shop after Christmas.”
“Will do. By the way, we’re getting together a little celebration for Percy and Velma, right after lunch on Christmas Eve. Hope you’ll be there.”
“Of course I’ll be there, I’m in th’ dadgum newspaper business, it’s my job to be there.”
“Their forty-plus years at the Grill are worth a front page,” said Father Tim, meaning it.
“Don’t preach me a sermon, buddyroe!” J.C. grabbed his briefcase and shot through the door,
Father Tim grinned. “Uncle Billy, no rest for the wicked and the righteous don’t need none.”
Uncle Billy grinned back; he liked it when th’ preacher stole one of his sayin’s.
“I hope you and Miss Rose can be there. You’ve both got a long history with the Grill.”
“Nossir, I can’t make it, I’ve got a awful job of work t’ do an’ no time t’ th’ow away. What’s this you’re a-workin’ on?”
“I’m restoring a Nativity scene as a surprise for Cynthia.”
The old man stared at the shelf, his mouth open. “I’ll be et f’r a tater.”
Father Tim realized that he liked sharing the figures; they took on added meaning when he saw them through other eyes.
“Did you make all them animals an’ such?”
“No, sir, I only painted them. And fixed them up a little, here and there.”
“They’re beauteous,” said Uncle Billy, deeply moved. He’d learned that word as a boy and didn’t get a chance to use it much. “Beauteous!”
“Thank you.”
“There’s y’r wise men. An’ y’r sheep. Law, they’s a whole flock of ’em, an real as life! An’ y’r angel—look at that! Jis’ one angel, is it?”
“Yes, sir. There were two, but I dropped one and broke it.” The thought pained him, still.
“An’ y’r Baby Jesus, He’s th’ main show. Where’s He at?”
Father Tim took the Babe in the manger from the box and held it forth in his hands. He felt oddly parental.
“Husky little feller!”
“He is!”
“Where’s y’r stable at?”
“We don’t have a stable. We’ve got all we can do to get the figures done by Christmas Eve.”
“This crowd needs theirself a stable,” said Uncle Billy. “Wouldn’t take no time a’tall t’ knock one together.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Uncle Billy, but I’m not much with a hammer and nails. I don’t suppose you’d have a joke—a fellow needs a laugh or two to help his work along.”
“I had a pretty good ’un a while back, but I’ve done forgot it.”
“Aha!”
“M’ noggin’s s’ full of this an’ that, I cain’t hardly recall m’ Christian name.”
“That can happen this time of year.”
“Here’s one t’ hold you ’til I can git back t’ m’ joke job. A man fell in th’ lake, don’t you know, and was a-drownin’ when a feller come along an’ pulled ’im out. Th’ man’s preacher said, ‘You ought t’ give that feller fifty dollars f’r savin’ y’r life!’ Man said, ‘Could I make that twenty-five? I was half dead when he pulled me out.’ ”
“Father Tim?”
“Hope! Come in, come in!” The floodgates had opened.
“Uncle Billy!” she said, extending her hand. “How are you feeling? I’m glad to see you out!”
“I’m goin’ t’ make it!”
Hope looked flushed, thought Father Tim. The winter cold had rouged everyone’s cheeks.
“Father, I wanted to tell you something . . .”
He thought his favorite bookseller looked shy as a dove, and especially pretty into the bargain.
“It’s something special, but I can come back. . . .”
Fred poked his head in the doorway and eyed the crowd. “Sorry about that, sir, I was helpin’ unload a truck.”
“Don’t worry about it, Fred.”
“There’s a call for you. You want to take it out here?”
“I’m a-goin’,” said Uncle Billy. “We’ll see y’uns in th’ funny papers.”
“Thanks for the joke.” said Father Tim. “I’m going to laugh when I get a minute!”
Fred shucked off his heavy gloves. “Uncle Billy, you need a ride home?”
“Nossir, I’m rustin’ like a gate hinge, I need t’ trot home by m’self.”
Father Tim stepped into the shop area and took the cordless from Fred.
“Tim Kavanagh here. . . .
“Yes. Yes, I do,” he said. “For many years. . . .
“Strong character, immeasurably hardworking, honest and forthright in every regard. . . .
“In truth, I can’t say enough good things. . . .
“Aha! Thanks be to God! I hope you’ll attend to it immediately, time is certainly flying. . . . ”
He paced around a Regency chest-on-chest, the phone to his ear.
“Yes, indeed, it will be good for all concerned—you have my word on it. . . .
“Well done, then. God bless you!”
He trotted to the back room, where Hope was gazing at the figures on the shelf.
She turned and smiled at him with genuine fondness. “My goodness, Father, you look like the Cheshire cat!”
“As it turns out, my dear, I have something special to tell you, too! But why don’t you go first?” She took a deep breath.
In all the years he’d known Hope Winchester, he had never seen her look so . . . joyful, that was it!
“I wanted to tell you . . .”
“Yes?”
“ . . . that I’m in love.”
Tears sprang at once to his eyes.
“It’s Scott, Father.”
“Yes,” he said. “And I have no words to express my happiness for you both.”
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes and gave her an enthusiastic hug.
The Good Lord had certainly picked a fine way to fill the empty chair at their Christmas dinner table.
“Oh, and Father . . .” She opened her purse and withdrew an envelope. “Before I forget, I have something to show you. . . .”
The goldfish were swimming about in a crystal bowl, hidden from view in the laundry room; the ice skates were done up in bright paper and tucked away on the floor of his closet; the refrigerator and pantry were loaded with supplies; and he wasn’t making another trip to Wesley ’til after the thaw—period, zip, end of discussion.
He’d made his list and checked it twice, and was, in a manner of speaking, wrapping things up. The issue of the haircut, however, remained unresolved.
Full of expectation, he trooped up Lilac Road to visit Joe Ivey.
“I only barber when I want to,” said Joe, occupied with a cross-stitch image of Santa Claus disappearing down a chimney.
“Well, then. Do you want to?”
“Nossir,” said Joe, “I don’t want to.”
So, one, he had given it his best shot, and failed.
And, two, there was no way on God’s green earth he was putting his head in the hands of Fancy Skinner. No more lamb-to-the-slaughter for this country parson!
Three, there had been no time to do it while in Wesley today, and if he wasn’t running over there again anytime soon, one of their overpriced haircuts wasn’t an option, anyway.
“Fred,” he said, “have you ever cut hair?”
“I cut my wife’s hair once.”
Once. Didn’t sound encouraging.
“Turned out she looked s’ much like ’er brother, they thought he’d gone t’ wearin’ a skirt.”
“Umm.”
“I was in th’ doghouse for a good while. But you take my gran’daddy, he was a barber an’ a half. Used to barber th’ men at shearin’ time. Barbered th’ neighbors, too, had a good little business set up on th’ back porch.”
“I see.”
“Ever’ now an’ again, he pulled teeth on th’ side.”
“Enterprising!” And Dooley wasn’t an option, either. Dooley Barlowe had once given him what appeared to be a scallop design along his neck. He checked his watch; he had strict orders to be home in forty-five minutes. . . .
“Is it you that’s wantin’ a haircut?”
“It is, Fred, it is.” He heaved a sigh.
“I wouldn’t have said anything . . .” Fred left his sentence unfinished, but raised one eyebrow.
Time was flying; it was fish or cut bait. “What do you need to do the job?”
“Scissors an’ a comb.”
“I’ve got a comb,” said Father Tim.
“I’ve got scissors,” said Fred.
“While you’re at it, I’ve been having a little trouble with my left molar.”
They laughed. If worse came to worst, he could wear a hat when he left the house, and, as for the Christmas Eve service, it would be pretty dark in the candlelit nave, anyhow.
“Hop on your stool,” said Fred, “an’ I’ll be right back.”
He did as he was told. Lord, he prayed, I’d appreciate it if You’d be in on this. . . .
He had mentioned it to Cynthia this morning, but only in a casual, offhand way. He didn’t want to get excited, it was too soon.
I will almost certainly have something for you next year. . . .
It isn’t anything fancy, and God knows, it will be a challenge. . . .
But he couldn’t help getting excited. Every time he thought about it, he felt his heart beat a jot faster; he picked up his gait as he walked home, and recalled that he’d twice found himself whistling in the mall.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Will wonders never cease!” How he loved this earnest boy with his intense gaze and tousled hair and faithful remnant of freckles.
“I don’t want my father’s name anymore.” Dooley stared into the blazing fire on the study hearth, his brow furrowed.
There was a long silence; the fire crackled; the clock ticked.
Dooley turned to face him. “So what if I take your name?”
Dooley Kavanagh! It was something he’d discussed with Cynthia, and prayed about more than a few times. Now he did his own staring into the fire, searching his own heart. Lord, I need wisdom here. . . .
Dooley’s voice was hoarse with feeling. “Barlowe is a bad name to have.”
“But you’ll make it a good name to have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Barlowe. In fact, you’re already making it a good name to have. I’m proud of you, son.”
“But I don’t want anything of his. Nothing!”
“You have something quite precious of his—your brothers and little sister.”
Though the winter dark had come, no lamps were lit; firelight illumined the study.
“If you were to take the Kavanagh name, you would do it great honor. In truth, nothing would make me prouder. Yet Barlowe is a name that came to you by a long and winding stream—I remember reading about a Barlowe who was co-captain with Sir Walter Raleigh on Raleigh’s first voyage to Virginia in the sixteenth century. The fact that he helped get the ship there and back to England was no mean feat in those days.”
Dooley shrugged.
“Your family roots are Anglo-Saxon and can be traced to the ancient territories of England. Thus, your name embodies far more than the connection to a man who abandoned you and brought great suffering—you might say it’s part of what you’re made of . . .”
The ticking of the clock, the snoring of his dog . . .
“ . . . and, son . . .”
“Yes?”
“You’re made of very fine stuff.”
Dooley gazed into the fire, unspeaking.
“Why don’t you think about it a while longer? Make sure of your feelings.”
Dooley waited, then nodded, his lips tight. “OK.”
“Please know that I respect your feelings. Though I never thought of changing my name, there were times when I’d have given anything to sever connections with my own father.”
Dooley looked surprised.
“We’ll talk about it one of these days.” He checked his watch. “You said you need to be out of here by six-thirty. It’s six twenty-five.”
Dooley sat back in the chair, making no move to leave. “It’s going to be really good at Meadowgate next summer.”
“Yes! It will be.”
“I always kind of missed you and Cynthia when I was out there.”
“You did?” He remembered how bereft he’d felt when Dooley chose Meadowgate over staying with them for the summer; it had wrenched his soul.
Dooley looked at his loafers.
“Anything else on your mind, son?”
“Yes, sir.” Dooley took a deep breath. “I want to thank you.�
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“For what?”
“For everything.”
What could he say? “I thank you back.”
“Well. . . ,” said Dooley.
“Going to a movie?”
“Out to dinner.”
“Aha.” That explained the blazer.
“With Lace.”
He was the nosiest man on the planet, but he was keeping his mouth shut.
“It’s her birthday.”
“Her birthday! How old?”
“Nineteen. A year younger than me.”
“Aha.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out two twenties.
“Where are you taking her?”
“To Miss Sadie’s.”
Several people in town referred to the Gregorys’ Italian restaurant, Lucera, as Miss Sadie’s, given its location on the main floor of Fernbank.
“Well, then!” he said, withdrawing another twenty. Lucera was no drive-through; as he recalled, the veal piccata was a cool $24.95. “The car keys are on the hall table.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Dooley grinned and, making certain Mr. Jackson faced the same way on all three bills, folded them and stuck them in the pocket of his khakis. “Her curfew is eleven-thirty. I’ll be in right after.”
“Dooley . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
I love you, he wanted to say. “Have fun! Give Lace our love. Tell her happy birthday!”
“Yep. I will.”
“Be careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Remember the heater takes a while to warm up, and the radio only gets one station.”
“Got it. Catch you later.”
“They’re calling for snow tonight!”
Dooley disappeared through the kitchen doorway; Father Tim raced behind him into the hall.
“Dooley?”
Dooley turned; the light of the lamp by the stair shone on his face. “Yes, sir?”
“I love you,” he said, hoarse as a frog.
“Where the dickens are my handle pulls?”
His wife confronted him before he’d hardly gotten up the back steps from the garbage can.
“What handle pulls is that?”
“The ones that were on my cabinets below the silver drawer! How is a body supposed to open the doors?”
“Poke a dadjing knife blade under th’ door and hit’ll pop right open.” It was freezing cold this morning; Uncle Billy stuck one hand in his jacket pocket and brandished his cane with the other. “Let me in th’ house, by johnny!”
