Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  The agony he felt was nearly unbearable. He wanted desperately to turn the clock back and have things as they were. He fought an urge to flee the smothering confines of this nightmarish meeting and run into the street.

  “In closing, then,” she said, looking into the faces of everyone assembled, “we’re asking that you respond today, or within a maximum of seven days, to our offer—an offer that is as much designed for the good of Mitford as it is designed to accommodate the interests of Miami Development.”

  The rector stood, hearing the legs of his chair grate against the bare floor, against the overwhelmed silence of the vestry members.

  “We will consider your offer for thirty days,” he said evenly.

  She paused, but was unruffled. “Thirty days, Father? I assume you understand that, in the volatile business of real estate, seven days is generous.”

  He saw his vestry’s surprised alarm that he’d seized control of a sensitive issue. However, they silently reasoned, he’d been the liaison with Miss Sadie all these years. They probably wouldn’t have the property at all if it weren’t for the Father.

  “And you do realize,” Ingrid Swenson continued, “that our legal right to withdraw the offer in view of such a delay puts the sale of your property greatly at risk.”

  He said to her what she had said to him only weeks before.

  “Risk, Miss Swenson, has a certain adrenaline, after all.”

  She kissed his face tenderly—both cheeks, his forehead, his temples, the bridge of his nose. “There,” she said, and trotted off to fetch him a glass of sherry.

  He couldn’t recall feeling so weary. Somehow, the road miles to Florida and back were still lurking in him, and the meeting . . . he felt as if it had delivered a blow to his very gut.

  Ron Malcolm had argued that Miami Development was placing far too much emphasis on the flaws of the structure, and far too little on the valuable and outstanding piece of land that went with it. Though Ron made his case convincingly, even eloquently, Ingrid Swenson was not only unmoved, but in a big hurry to get out of there.

  The rector couldn’t dismiss some deeply intuitive sense that the whole thing was . . . he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. But every time he denied his intuitions, trouble followed. He hadn’t turned sixty-three—or was it sixty-four?—without learning a few things, and paying attention to his instincts was one of the precious few things he’d learned.

  But how could he reasonably argue for holding on to a property that may, indeed, end up under the wrecking ball? His vestry hadn’t said it in so many words, but they wanted the blasted thing behind them—their hands washed, and money in the till.

  He put one of the old needlepoint pillows under his head and lay back on the study sofa. His dog sprawled on the rug beside him and licked his hand.

  Dear God! If not for this consolation of home and all that now came with it, where or what would he be?

  Wandering the waysides, a raving maniac . . . .

  “Now that you’ve rested, dearest . . .”

  He knew that look. He knew that look as well as his own face in the mirror.

  She leaned her head to one side in the way he’d never been able to resist. “You have rested, haven’t you?”

  “Well . . .” He didn’t know which way to step.

  “So here’s my idea. You know how formal the dining room is.”

  “Formal?” The dining room she’d painted that wild, heedless pumpkin color?

  “I mean, with the carved walnut highboy from one of the Georges, and those stately chairs with the brocade cushions—”

  “Spit it out, Kavanagh.”

  “I want to move the dining table into the kitchen.”

  “Are you mad?” he blurted.

  “Only for Thursday night,” she said, cool as a cucumber. “You see, Pauline and Harley aren’t dining room people, and neither is Louella, they’d be stiff as boards in that setting. They know our kitchen, it’s like home to them, it’s . . .”

  He couldn’t believe his ears.

  “ . . . it’s what we have to do,” she said, looking him in the eye. “Pumpkin walls notwithstanding, the dining room seems filled with the presence of . . . old bishops!”

  He had definitely, absolutely heard it all.

  Dooley Barlowe was nowhere to be found, and Harley’s strengths lay in other areas of endeavor. It was fish or cut bait.

  They turned the mahogany table on its side and, by careful engineering, managed to get it through the kitchen door without slashing the inlaid medallion in the center.

  He was certain this was a dream; convinced of it, actually.

  That there was hardly room to stand at the stove and cook, once the table was in and upright, was no surprise at all. Could he open the oven door?

  “Perfect!” she said, obviously elated. “We’ll just use that plaid damask cloth of your mother’s.”

  “That old cloth is worn as thin as a moth’s wing. Hardly suitable,” he said, feeling distinctly grumpy.

  “I love old tablecloths!” she exclaimed.

  He sighed. “What don’t you love?”

  “Grits without butter. Dust balls on ceiling fans. Grumpy husbands.”

  “Aha,” he said, going down on his hands and knees to put a matchbook under a table leg.

  At breakfast the next morning, he found the much-larger table with the worn cloth looking wonderful in the light that streamed through the open windows. She had filled a basket with roses from the side garden and wrapped the basket with tendrils of ivy. Her cranberry-colored glasses, already set out for the evening meal, caught the light and poured ribbons of warm color across the damask.

  Lovely! he mused, careful not to say it aloud.

  Finding Jessie had been uncannily simple, he thought, walking to the office with Barnabas on his red leash. He had given thanks for this miracle over and over again. The chase, after all, might have led anywhere—or nowhere. But they’d gone straight to the door and knocked, and she had answered.

  He would thank Emma Newland from his very heart, he would do something special for her, but what? Emma loved earrings, the bigger, the better. He would buy her a pair of earrings to end all earrings! No fit compensation for what she had done, but a token, nonetheless, of their appreciation for her inspired and creative thinking.

  He pushed open the office door as Snickers rushed past him, snarled hideously into his own dog’s face, barked at an octave that could puncture eardrums, and peed on the front step—seemingly all at once.

  Barnabas dug in and barked back, grievously insulted and totally astounded. From her desk, Emma shouted over the uproar, “I wouldn’t bring him in here if I were you!”

  The rector saw that urging his dog over the threshold would result in a savage engagement with this desperately overwrought creature, an engagement in which someone, possibly even himself, could be injured.

  Furious, he turned on his heel and stomped toward the Grill, dragging his even more furious dog behind.

  He blew past the windows of the Irish Shop, as Minnie Lomax finished dressing a mannequin whose arms, years earlier, had been mistakenly carted off with the trash.

  “Can’t even get in my own office!” he snorted. “Earrings, indeed!”

  “Not again,” sighed Minnie, watching him disappear up the street.

  Passing the Collar Button, he was hailed by one of his parishioners, one who hadn’t been even remotely amused by the announcement that he was going out to Canaan—or anywhere else.

  “Father! You’re looking well!”

  Things were on an even keel again, thanks be to God. After all that uproar, most people seemed to have forgotten he was retiring, and it was business as usual.

  He saw Dooley wheel out of the alley across the street and stop, looking both ways. As he glanced toward the monument, Jenny ran down the library steps, carrying a backpack. She saw Dooley and waved, and he pedaled toward her.

  He didn’t mean to stand there and watch, but he
couldn’t seem to turn away. Although Dooley’s back was to him, he could see Jenny’s face very clearly.

  She was looking at The Local’s summer help as if he had hung the moon.

  “It’s big doin’s,” Mule was saying to J.C. as the rector slid into the booth.

  “What is?” he asked.

  “Th’ real estate market in this town. There’s Lord’s Chapel with that fancy outfit tryin’ to hook Fernbank, Edith Mallory’s Shoe Barn just went on the block, and I hear major money’s lookin’ at Sweet Stuff.”

  “Whose major money?”

  “I don’t know, Winnie’s trying to sell it herself to save the commission, so I don’t have a clue who th’ prospect is. Meantime, some realtor from Lord knows where is handlin’ th’ Shoe Barn, Ron Malcolm’s brokerin’ for Lord’s Chapel, and as for yours truly, I can’t get a lead, much less a listin’.”

  “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink,” said J.C., hammering down on a vegetable plate with a side of country-style steak.

  “Speakin’ of th’ Shoe Barn, what ever became of that witch on a broom?” asked Mule.

  The rector’s stomach churned at the mention of Edith Mallory, who owned the large Shoe Barn property. Her focused, unrelenting pursuit of him before he married Cynthia was something he’d finally managed to put out of his mind.

  “You’re ruinin’ his appetite,” said Percy, pulling up a stool. Percy had fought his own battle with the woman, who also owned the roof under which they were sitting—she’d tried to jack up the rent and blow him off before his lease expired. That’s when the rector discovered that the floor beams of the Grill were rotten and nearly ready to bring the whole building down. Bottom line, Percy walked off with a new lease—on his terms, not hers.

  Percy grinned at the rector. “Boys howdy, you fixed her good, you put her high-and-mighty butt through th’ grinder.”

  “Watch your language,” said Velma, passing with a tray of ham sandwiches.

  “And she ain’t been back, neither! No, sirree bob! Hadn’t had th’ guts to show her face in this town since th’ night you whittled her down to size.”

  J.C. used his favorite epithet for Percy’s lessor.

  “So when are you closing the deal on Fernbank?” asked Mule.

  “I don’t know. We’ll consider their offer for thirty days.”

  Mule gave him an astounded look. “You want to sit around for thirty days with that white elephant eatin’ out of your pocket?”

  He felt suddenly angry, impelled to get up and leave. Chill, he told himself, using advice learned from Dooley Barlowe.

  “Do you play softball?” he asked the Muse editor, who was busy chewing a mouthful.

  “Prezure fum dinnity monce.”

  “Right. So how about you?” he asked Mule. “Scott Murphy wants to get up a game for the residents at Hope House. August tenth. We need players.”

  “I ain’t too bad a catcher.”

  “You’re on,” he said. “Percy, I wouldn’t mind having a cheeseburger all the way. With fries!”

  Percy scratched his head. “Man! In sixteen years, you prob’ly ordered a cheeseburger twice. And never all the way.”

  “Life is short,” he said, still feeling ticked. “And put a strip of bacon on it.”

  “How’s it coming, buddy?”

  “I got Tommy and his dad and Avis. Ol’ Avis says he can hit a ball off th’ field and clean over our house.”

  “No kidding? What do you think about Harley? Think he could do it?”

  “Harley, don’t . . . doesn’t have any teeth.”

  “What do teeth have to do with playing softball?”

  Dooley grinned. “We could see if he wants to.”

  They were setting the table as Cynthia busied herself at the stove. He was leaving in five minutes to pick up Pauline and the kids, and run up the hill for Louella.

  He liked setting the table with Dooley. Bit by bit, little by little, Dooley was coming into his own, something was easier in his spirit. Pauline had been part of it, and Poo, and now Jessie. Each brought with them a portion of the healing that was making Dooley whole. He watched the boy place the knife on the left side of the plate, look at it for a moment, then remove it and place it on the right. Good fellow! He saw, too, the smile playing at the corners of Dooley’s mouth, as if he were thinking of something that pleased him.

  Dooley looked up and caught the rector’s gaze. “What are you staring at?”

  “You. I’m looking at how you’ve grown, and taking into account the fine job you’re doing for Avis—and feeling how good it is to have you home.”

  Dooley colored slightly. He thought for a moment, then said, “So let me drive your car this weekend.”

  Blast if it didn’t fly out of his mouth. “Consider it done!”

  “Low-fat meat loaf, hot from the oven!” he announced, setting the sizzling platter on the table.

  Louella wrinkled her nose. “Low-fat? Pass it on by, honey, you can skip this chile!”

  “Don’t skip this ’un,” said Harley.

  “He was only kidding,” Cynthia declared. “In truth, it contains everything our doctors ever warned us about.”

  He saw the light in Pauline’s face, the softness of expression as she looked upon her scrubbed and freckled children. Thanks be to God! Three out of five . . . .

  He sat down, feeling expansive, and shook out one of the linen napkins left behind, he was amused to recall, by an old bishop who once lived here.

  He waited until all hands were clasped, linking them together in a circle.

  “Our God and our Father, we thank You!” he began.

  “Thank You, Jesus!” boomed Louella in happy accord.

  “We thank You with full hearts for this family gathered here tonight, and ask Your mercy and blessings upon all those who hunger, not only for sustenance, but for the joy, the peace, and the one true salvation which You, through Your Son, freely offer . . . .”

  They had just said “Amen!” when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it! And for heaven’s sake, don’t wait for me. Who on earth . . .” Cynthia trotted down the hall to the door.

  Father Tim passed the platter to Louella and was starting the potatoes around when he heard Cynthia coming back to the kitchen, a heavy tread in her wake.

  “You’ll never guess who’s here!” said his wife.

  Buck Leeper stepped awkwardly into the doorway. In the small, close kitchen, his considerable presence was arresting.

  Good Lord! Finding Buck a place to stay had gone completely out of his head. It hadn’t entered his mind again since he called Mule. He was mortified.

  He stood up, nearly knocking his chair to the floor.

  “Good timing, Buck! We’ll set another plate, there’s more than plenty. Good to see you!” He pumped Buck’s large, callused hand. “You remember Louella, Miss Sadie’s friend and companion. And Dooley, you remember Dooley.”

  Buck nodded. “Dooley . . .”

  “Hey.”

  “And this is Harley Welch, Harley lives with us, and there’s Pauline, Dooley’s mother—as I recall, you brought her a rose when she was in the hospital.”

  Buck flushed and glanced at the floor.

  Rats. He shouldn’t have said that. “This is Dooley’s brother Poo, and this is Jessie, his sister.”

  Poobaw grinned at Buck.

  “I’m hungry!” said Jessie.

  “This is Buck Leeper, everybody, the man who did such a splendid job at Hope House. Can you believe he was born just up the road from me in Mississippi? Keep the potatoes passing, Dooley, there’s the gravy. Ah, I see we forgot to set out the butter for the rolls! Buck, I hope you’re hungry, we’ve got enough for an army. Here, take this chair, we’re glad to have you back in Mitford! Louella, have you got room over there? Dooley, scoot closer to your sister . . . .”

  What a workout. He was exhausted.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Leeper,” said his smiling wife, taking over.<
br />
  Dooley had taken Poo and Jessie to his room; Cynthia, Louella, and Pauline were making tea and coffee; and the men had gone into the study.

  “What it was,” said Harley, “Junior liked t’ run on dirt better’n asphalt, which is why they called ’im th’ Mud Dobber. One ol’ boy said how th’ law was tryin’ t’ jump Junior, said Junior cut out th’ough a cornfield in a ’58 Pontiac with th’ winders down, said he plowed th’ough about a ten-acre stand of corn ’til he come out th’ other side an’ looked around an’ ’is whole backseat was full of roastin’ ears.”

  Buck laughed the laugh that sounded, to the rector, like a kettle boiling.

  “Harley, you ought to tell Buck about your services as a mechanic. There’ll be a lot of vehicles on the Lord’s Chapel job.”

  “Yes, sir, I work on most anything with wheels, but I don’t touch earth-movin’ equipment. Course, I’m goin’ t’ be tied up pretty good, I’m cleanin’ out ’is missus’s basement and garage, then startin’ on th’ attic up yonder.” Harley pointed to the ceiling. “Hit ain’t been touched since one of them old bishops lived here.”

  Pauline came to the door of the study. Jessie was right, thought the rector, she’s pretty.

  “Excuse me . . .”

  “Are you ready for us?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Yes, sir. Cynthia said please come in.”

  Buck stood up from the wing chair, gazing at Pauline.

  Father Tim saw that he appeared, for a moment, as eager and expectant as a boy.

  “I couldn’t do that,” said Buck.

  “Well, you see . . . the truth is, you have to. I looked for a place for you to live and ran into a dead end, and, well, first thing you know, I forgot to keep looking, and there you have it, you’re stuck with us—the sheets are clean and the toilet flushes.”

  Buck laughed. At least he was laughing . . . .