by Jan Karon
He showed Buck to the guest room at the top of the stairs, where the superintendent’s size somehow made the space much smaller. Buck chewed a toothpick, and carefully scanned the room and its adjoining bath.
“I believe you’ll be comfortable, and don’t worry about a thing. We’ll have you out of here in no time, into a place of your own.”
“If you’re sure . . .”
“More than sure! Oh. By the way—do you play softball?”
Buck took the toothpick out of his mouth. “I’ve kicked more tail on a softball field than I ever kicked on a construction site. Before I hired on with Emil, I coached softball for a construction outfit in Tucson. The last couple of years I was there, we won every game, two seasons in a row.”
Dooley suddenly appeared at the guest room door.
“I’m on his team,” he said.
Buck offered to deliver Pauline and the children, while he took Louella to Hope House.
“I had a big time,” said Louella, looking misty-eyed. “You and Miss Cynthia, you’re family.”
“Always will be,” he said, meaning it.
At the door of Room Number One, he kissed her goodnight, loving the vaguely cinnamon smell of her cheek that had something of home in it.
Emma looked at him over her half-glasses.
“I guess you’re hot about Snickers runnin’ you off the other day.”
“You might say that.”
“How did I know you’d bring Barnabas to work? You never do, anymore. And besides, Snickers has never been here but twice, it seems like he deserved a turn . . . .”
“Ummm.”
“Emily Hastings called, she said she has an axe to pick with you.”
An axe to grind, a bone to pick, what difference did it make?
“Esther Bolick called, said things are looking up, Hessie Mayhew’s th’ biggest help since Santa’s elves.”
“Good.”
“Hal Owen called, said it’s time for Barnabas to get his shots.”
“Right.”
“Evie Adams called, guess what Miss Pattie’s done now?”
“Can’t guess,” he said curtly, taking the cover off his Royal manual.
“She goes up and down the halls at Hope House, stealing the Jell-O off everybody’s trays.”
“That’s a lot of Jell-O.”
“Don’t you care?”
“About what?”
“Stealing from old people.”
“Miss Pattie is old people.”
“So?”
He would like nothing better than to knock his secretary in the head. “So they have a staff of forty-plus at Hope House, I’m sure they can come up with some kind of curtailment of her behavior.”
“Some kind of what?”
He didn’t answer.
“How can you use that old thing?” she asked, glaring at his Royal manual.
He refused to respond.
There was a long silence as she peered at her computer monitor, and he rolled a sheet of paper into the carriage of his machine.
“So when are you going to give me some more names to find?” she inquired at last, trying to make up.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Waiting
“Will you do it?” he asked his wife.
“Of course I won’t do it! It’s not my job to do it.”
“Deacons,” he reminded her, “are supposed to do the dirty work.”
“You amaze me, Timothy. You bury the dead, counsel the raving, and heedlessly pry into people’s souls, yet when it comes to this . . .”
“I can’t do it,” he said.
“You have to do it.”
Of course he had to do it. He knew that all along. He was only seeing how far he could get her to bend.
Not far.
“Dooley . . .”
He picked a piece of lint from his trousers. He stared at his right loafer, which appeared to have been licked by his dog, or possibly the twins, and after he had polished it only yesterday . . . .
“Yessir?”
Barnabas collapsed at his feet and yawned hugely, indicating his extreme boredom. Not a good sign.
“Well, Dooley . . .”
Dooley looked him squarely in the eye.
“It’s about Jenny. I mean, it’s not about Jenny, exactly. It’s more indirectly than directly about Jenny, although we could leave her out of it altogether, actually . . . .”
“What about Jenny?”
“Like I said, it’s not exactly about Jenny. It’s more about . . .”
“About what?”
Had he seen this scenario in a movie? In a cartoon? He was old, he was retiring, he was out of here. He rose from the chair, then forced himself to sit again.
“It’s about sex!” Good Lord, had he shouted?
“Sex?” Dooley’s eyes were perfectly innocent. They might have been discussing Egyptology.
“Sex. Yes. You know.” Hal Owen would have done this for him, Hal had raised a boy, why hadn’t he thought of that before?
Dooley looked as if he might go to sleep on the footstool where he was sitting. “What about sex?”
“Well, for openers, what do you know about it? If you know anything at all, do you know what you need to know? And how do you know if you know what you need to know, that is to say, you can never be too sure that you know what you need to know, until—”
He actually felt a light spray as Dooley erupted with laughter in his very face. The boy grabbed his sides and threw back his head and hooted. Following that, he fell from the footstool onto the floor, where he rolled around in the fetal position, still clutching his sides and cackling like a hyena.
Father Tim had prayed for years to see Dooley Barlowe break down and really laugh. But this was ridiculous.
“When you’re over your hysteria,” he said, “we’ll continue our discussion.”
Not knowing what else to do, he examined his fingernails and tried to retain whatever dignity he’d come in here with.
“Good heavens, Timothy. You look awful! Is it done?”
“It’s done.”
“What did you tell him?”
“It’s more like . . . what he told me.”
“Really?” she said, amused. “And what did he tell you?”
“He knows it all.”
“Most teenagers do. Figuratively speaking.”
“And there’s nothing to worry about, he’s not even interested in kissing a girl.”
Cynthia smiled patiently. “Right, darling,” she said.
He wouldn’t say a word to anybody about the two-thousand-dollar check Mack Stroupe had put in the collection plate on Sunday. He only hoped Emma would keep quiet about it.
On that score, at least, she was pretty dependable, though she’d been the one to tell him about the check. From the beginning, his instructions were, “Don’t talk to me about the money, I don’t need to know.” As he’d often said, he didn’t want to look into the faces of his parishioners and see dollar signs.
“Harley, ever played any softball?”
“No, sir, Rev’rend, I ain’t been one t’ play sports.”
“Ah, well.”
“I can run as good as th’ next ’un, but hittin’ and catchin’ ain’t my call.”
The rector was peering into the tank of Harley’s toilet, which had lately developed a tendency to run.
“I thank you f’r lookin’ into my toilet, hit’s bad t’ keep me awake at night, settin’ on th’ other side of th’ wall from m’ head.”
“It’s old as Methuselah, but I think I can fix it.”
“I want you t’ let me fix somethin’ f’r you, now, Rev’rend, I’m runnin’ behind on that.”
“Can’t think of anything that needs it,” he said, taking a wrench out of his tool kit.
“Maybe it’s somethin’ that don’t need fixin’, jis’ tendin’ to.”
“Well, now.” Wouldn’t Dooley rather get his driving lesson from a bona fide race car mechanic than a prea
cher? He was sure Harley could make the lesson far more interesting, and even teach Dooley some professional safety tips from the track. Besides, even with the new torque in the Buick, Harley’s truck would be a much more compelling vehicle to a fourteen-year-old boy.
“There is something you could do,” he said, “if you’re going to be around Saturday afternoon.”
He could feel the bat in his hands. How many years had it been since he’d slammed a ball over the fence? Too many! He’d better get in shape, he thought, huffing up Old Church Lane in his running gear. Barnabas bounded along in front on the red leash.
Cooler today, but humid. Overcast skies, rain predicted. And didn’t the garden need it? He’d worn a hood, just in case.
He wished he could get his wife to run with him, but no way. She was a slave to her drawing board, and lately looking the worse for it. The unofficial job of deacon, the job of organizing their jam-packed household, and the job of children’s author/illustrator were wearing on her. And hadn’t he helped put another portion on her already full plate by stowing Buck in the guest room?
He was frankly stumped about how to find housing for the superintendent, and with the attic job gearing up, Buck hardly had time to look around for himself. Maybe Scott Murphy would take in a boarder . . . .
He ran up to the low stone wall overlooking what he called the Land of Counterpane, and thumped down with Barnabas, panting.
There was the view that Louella and all the other residents farther along the hill could wake up and see every day of their lives. A feast for the eyes! He didn’t get up here much, but when he did . . .
It was here, sitting on this wall, that he had known, at last, he could marry her, must marry her, and experienced the terrible anxiety of what it could mean to lose her. And it was here that he and Cynthia decided they both wanted to stay in Mitford when he retired.
Was he on time for the train? He looked at his watch. Another few minutes. Perhaps he would wait. Was life so all-fired urgent that he couldn’t find five minutes to see a sight that always blessed and delighted him?
He was utterly alone in this place where, for all its singular beauty, few people ever came. It was set steeply above the village, it was off the beaten path, it was . . .
He heard the car below him, on the gravel road that ran along the side of the gorge and was seldom used except by a few local families.
He peered down and saw the black car pull to the shoulder of the road and stop. A man opened the driver’s door and leaned out, looking around, then closed the door again. He was wearing a hat, a cap of some kind.
Mighty fine car to be out on Tucker’s Mill Road, he thought, glancing again at his watch. Maybe the train would be early.
The pickup truck didn’t move so slowly. He saw the plume of dust through the trees, then saw the blue truck screech to a stop beside the black car. A man jumped out, walked around the front of the truck, and stood for a moment by the car. It appeared that he was handed something through the car window.
The driver quickly got back in the truck, gunned the motor, and drove away, leaving a cloud of dust to settle over everything in its wake.
He watched as the car backed onto a narrow turnout, reversed direction, and rolled almost silently along Tucker’s Mill.
By George, there was the train; he heard its horn faintly in the distance. Around the track it came, breaking through the trees by the red barn . . .
That scene he had just witnessed—had there been something strangely unsettling about it?
. . . then it huffed along the side of the open fields by the row of tiny houses and disappeared behind the trees.
He hadn’t been able to tell from this vantage point what kind of car it was, but then, what difference did it make, anyway?
“Enough!” he said to his dog, and they bounded down the slope toward Baxter Park in the first drops of a misting rain.
Instead of turning into the park, he decided to run to the bottom of the hill and pop into Oxford Antiques. He’d inquire about Andrew and look for a present for Cynthia’s birthday. He was barely getting in under the wire, considering that July 20 was two days hence.
Marcie Guthrie, Puny’s mother-in-law and one of the mayor’s five good-looking deluxe-size daughters, was reading a romance novel behind the cash register. “Father! Bring your dog in, but tell him to watch his tail!”
He tethered Barnabas to the leg of a heavy table. “Marcie, give me a few ideas for my wife’s birthday, and I’ll give you my eternal thanks.”
“Well! Goodness! Let’s see.”
Cynthia was nearly as simple in her wants as he, thanks be to God. And she always seemed touchingly grateful when he gave her a gift.
“It must be something . . . wonderful,” he said.
“I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. “The very thing! Come over here.”
He trotted behind her to a gigantic walnut secretary with beveled glass doors. “There!” she said.
“Oh, no. That’s far too large!”
“Not the secretary. The lap desk!”
Aha! Sitting next to the secretary on a Georgian buffet was a lap desk of exquisite proportions. That was it, all right, he knew it at once. A small lap desk with a pen drawer, a built-in inkstand, and a leather writing surface. Perfect!
He was afraid to ask.
“Four hundred and seventy-nine dollars!” she informed him. “It’s not that old, just turn-of-the-century.”
“Ummm.”
“But for you, only four hundred. Andrew said whenever you come in to buy, to give you a special discount.”
“Done!” he said, feeling a combination of vast relief, excitement over such a find, and momentary guilt for shelling out four hundred bucks. “I’ll bring you a check in the morning. Will you wrap it?”
“Of course, and look at this little drawer. Lined with old Chinese tea paper, and here’s one of the original pen nibs.”
His guilt vanished at once.
“Have you heard about Andrew?” she asked.
“How is he, when is he coming home?”
“He doesn’t know. It all sounds mysterious to me. He usually never stays away so long. But of course, it is his mama’s hometown and he’s probably visitin’ cousins an’ all . . . .”
“Probably. I seldom see him, but when he’s not here, I miss him.”
“He’s called twice to see how business is. He sounds . . . different.”
“Oh? How do you mean, different?”
“I mean, well, really happy or somethin’.”
“Cousins can do that for you,” he said, grinning. He suddenly realized he missed his own cousin, the only blood kin he had on the face of the earth. He’d call Walter tonight.
He put his hood up and sprinted along Main Street with his dog. May as well make one more stop, then head for home.
“Winnie?”
He parked Barnabas by the door and peered over the bakery counter.
“I’m comin’!” she said, breezing through the curtains that hid the bakery kitchen. “Father, I’m glad it’s you!”
“I hear you got a bite!”
“Maybe a nibble, I don’t know.”
“What’s the scoop?”
“Well, this real estate agency wants to know everything, so I sent ’em all the information, but nobody’s turned up to see it yet.”
“Terrific!” He didn’t really think it was terrific, but what else could he say? “Who’s the realtor?”
“Somebody named H. Tide Realty from—I forget, maybe Florida.”
Florida again. “How do you feel about it?”
“After waitin’ for somebody to be interested, when this finally happened, it kind of . . .”
“Kind of what?”
“Made me sick.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“Definitely.”
She looked uncertain.
“You know we want you to stay. But if you decide to go, remember we’ll stand beh
ind that, too.”
Winnie looked relieved. “Good! I don’t know why, but I always feel better when I talk to you.”
“Maybe it’s the collar.”
“Have a napoleon!” she urged, in her usual burst of generosity.
“Get thee behind me, absolutely not. But tell you what—I’ve got a houseful, so bag me a dozen donuts, Dooley will love that, and Harley, too, and let’s see, a dozen oatmeal cookies . . .”
“Low-fat!” she said.
“Great. Now, what about that pie on the right? The one with the lattice top?”
“Cherry!”
“My favorite. Box it up!” Spending four hundred dollars had made him feel so good, he was trying to do it all over again.
Rhody Davis’s leg was being amputated today.
He was praying for her this morning at first light, soon after reading Blaise Pascal. A young man who lived in the seventeenth century knew what Rhody Davis and several others on his current prayer list needed more than anything else.
“There is a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of every person,” Pascal wrote. “And it can never be filled by any created thing. It can only be filled by God, made known through Jesus Christ.”
Pascal had dazzled Europe with his sophisticated mathematical equations when he was only sixteen, and written about the God-shaped vacuum when he wasn’t much older.
Nearly every day of his priesthood, Father Tim had seen what happened when people tried filling that vacuum with any created thing. Pauline had tried to fill it with alcohol. Rhody Davis had tried to fill it with someone else’s child . . . .
He closed his eyes and prayed for all those who turn to the created thing, expecting much and receiving nothing.
The talk on the street was that Mack Stroupe was responsible for hooking the Fernbank sale, which would do wonders for Mitford’s economy. Not only would such an enterprise draw people from other parts of the country, maybe even the world, but a major part of the staff would be locals. All that landscaping, all that maintenance, all that ocean of roofing and plumbing—and all that money flowing into Mitford pockets.
