Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

He felt as if he’d been dashed with ice water. All the feelings he’d lately had, the heaviness on his chest, the pounding of blood in his temples, the wrenching in his stomach . . . all rushed in again, except worse.

  He sat at the kitchen table, stricken. They’d never before had words like that. They were both overworked, overstressed, and who wanted to be told they might be dumped on the street?

  He was grieved that this was even a consideration by his own church officers.

  Also, he was humiliated for Ron Malcolm, one of the finest men he’d ever known, and a personal friend into the bargain. Ron Malcolm was behaving like . . . like Ed Coffey, doing whatever it took, and all because of money.

  Money!

  He was glad he didn’t have enough money to matter, glad he’d given most of it away in this fleeting life. Dear God, to see what some people would do for a dollar was enough to make him call his broker and have the whole lot transferred to the coffers of Children’s Hospital.

  What was the amount, anyway, that was left of his mother’s estate? A hundred and forty thousand or so, which he’d been growing for years. Even though he’d dipped into it heavily every time the Children’s Hospital had a need, smart investing had maintained most of the original two hundred thousand.

  Actually, it hadn’t been smart investing, it had been safe investing. He was as timid as a hare when it came to flinging assets around. He wished he’d asked Miss Sadie her investing strategies. There were a thousand things he’d thought of asking after she died, and now it was too late to find out how she’d come up with more than a million bucks for Dooley, even after spending five million on Hope House.

  Should he go upstairs and talk to Cynthia? What would he say?

  He couldn’t remember feeling so weary, so . . . He searched for the word that would express how he felt, but couldn’t find it.

  He didn’t have the energy to say he was sorry. Actually, he didn’t know if he was sorry. What had he said, after all? He couldn’t remember, but it all had something to do with Mack Stroupe.

  Blast Mack Stroupe to the lowest regions of the earth. He was sick of Mack Stroupe.

  So what if he shouldn’t have a napoleon? Hadn’t he waited more than a decade to eat a measly cheeseburger the other day?

  He was no ascetic living in the desert, he was a busy, active clergyman in need of proper nourishment.

  He did the glucometer check and marched to Winnie Ivey’s, blowing past several people who greeted him, but to whom he merely lifted a hand. They stared after him, dumbfounded. They’d never seen the local priest scowling like that. It was completely unlike him.

  The bell on the Sweet Stuff door jingled, which turned the heads of four customers sitting at a table. It was fifth- and sixth-grade teachers from Mitford School, having tea. He could tell at once they wanted to talk, and he turned to leave.

  “Father?” said Winnie, coming through the curtains behind the bake cases. “Can you stay a minute?”

  Good heavens, Winnie Ivey looked as glum and pressed to the wall as he felt. What was wrong with people these days?

  She set out another pot of hot water for the teachers, who were peering at him oddly, and caught his sleeve. “I need to talk to you about something,” she said, whispering.

  They went to the kitchen, which, as always, smelled like a child’s version of paradise—cinnamon, rising dough, baking cookies. Somebody should put the aroma in an aerosol container. It was so soothing that he immediately felt more relaxed.

  “You look terrible,” she said.

  “Oh, well.” If Winnie Ivey didn’t tell him so, Emma Newland certainly would, or, for that matter, any number of others.

  “Father, the most awful thing . . .”

  If it wasn’t one awful thing these days, it was two.

  “That real estate company wants to buy my business.”

  “They do?”

  “And I can’t get a minute’s peace about selling it. After runnin’ ads and prayin’ my head off, here’s my big chance and I feel awful about it.”

  “If you’ve prayed and there’s no peace about a decision, then wait. That’s one rule I stick with.”

  “But they want to buy it right away.”

  “Will they give you your asking price?”

  “Not exactly. Mr. Skinner believes it’s worth seventy-five thousand, but I’m asking sixty, and they want to give me forty-five.”

  “Forty-five thousand for twenty years’ work,” he said, musing. “That’s not much more than two thousand a year.”

  “Oh,” she said, stricken.

  He was feeling worse by the minute. Any longing for a napoleon had flown out the window.

  “I’d really like your advice, Father, I trust what you say.”

  He didn’t like being anyone’s Providence, but she’d asked for help and he’d give her his best shot. He said what he was becoming known for saying in all real estate matters these days.

  “Tell them you’d like to think about it for thirty days.”

  She looked alarmed. “I don’t believe they’d like that.”

  “They probably wouldn’t. That’s true.”

  “And I might not get another offer.”

  “That’s true, too. However, consider this: You’re the only game in town. There’s not another business currently for sale on Main Street, and this is highly desirable property. I think you’re holding the ace.”

  She hugged herself, furrowing her brow and thinking. “Well, I might do that. But . . . it’s risky.”

  He wouldn’t tell her that risk had a certain adrenaline.

  Didn’t he have a bishop? An advocate? He wasn’t hanging out there in space, all alone. Stuart Cullen would go to bat for him. That’s what bishops were for, wasn’t it?

  But Stuart wasn’t in the office and wouldn’t be in for two long weeks, as his wife, according to Stuart’s secretary, had forced the bishop to go away to—she wasn’t sure where, but she thought it was southern France, or at least someplace where they spoke another language and wore bikinis on the beach.

  Dooley, whose job had ended day before yesterday, showed up at the church office with a letter in his hand.

  He sat on the visitor’s bench and examined his tennis shoes, whistled, jiggled his leg, and stared into space while the rector opened it and read:

  My dearest husband,

  I regret that I snapped at you this morning. You snapped, I snapped. And for what? As you left, looking hurt, I wanted to run after you and hold you, but I could not move. I stood upstairs on the landing and moped at the window like a schoolgirl, watching as you went along the sidewalk.

  I saw you stop for a moment and look around, as if you wanted to turn back. You seemed forlorn, and I was overcome with sorrow for anything I might ever do to give you pain. My darling Timothy, who means all the world to me—forgive me.

  It was the slightest thing between us, something that would hardly matter to anyone else, I think. We are both so sensitive, so alike in that region of the heart which fears rejection and resists chastisement.

  As I looked down upon you, I received your hurt as my own, and so have had a double measure all these hours.

  Hurry home, dearest husband!

  Come and kiss me and let us hold one another in that way which God has set aside for us. You are precious to me, more than breath.

  Ever thine,

  Cynthia

  (still your bookend?)

  PS I know it is a pitiable gesture, but I shall roast something savoury for your supper and make your favorite oven-browned potatoes.

  Truce?

  Dooley looked at the ceiling, got up, peered out the window, sat down again, then found some gum on the sole of his left shoe and painstakingly peeled it off. “You an’ Cynthia had a fuss?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?” He was thrilled to hear those words out of Dooley Barlowe. I understand. A mature thing for anyone, much less a fourteen-year-old boy, t
o utter.

  “Jenny and I had a fuss. She blamed me for somethin’ I didn’t do.”

  “Aha.”

  “She said I paid too much attention to Lace Turner the other day.”

  “No kidding . . . .”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Lace wanted to talk about American history, is all, and I talked back.” He shrugged.

  “Right. What did you talk about—I mean, concerning American history?”

  “About going west in a wagon train. I’d like to do that. Lace said she’d like to.” His freckles were showing. “That’s all.”

  “I’m amazed every day,” said the rector, “how people can misunderstand each other about the simplest things.”

  “Lace is writing a story about going west on a wagon train from Springfield, Illinois, where the Donner party started out. In her story, the leader gets killed and a woman has to lead the train.”

  “Wow.”

  “She got A’s for her stories last year.”

  “Well done.”

  “She quit wearin’ that stupid hat.”

  “I noticed.”

  “So, look, I don’t have all day. Are you goin’ to write Cynthia back?”

  “You bet.”

  “I’ve got to go see Poo and Jessie. You goin’ to type or write by hand?”

  “Type. I’ll hurry.”

  He took the cover off the Royal manual and rolled in a sheet of paper.

  Bookend—

  dooley has delivered your letter and is waiting for me to respond. ii have suffered, you have suffered.

  Enough!

  You are dear to me beyond measure. That God allowed us to have thiis union at all stuns me daily/

  “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—”

  love, timothy—who, barely two years ago, you may recall, vowed to cherish you always, no matter what

  Truce.

  ps. ii will gladly wash the dishes and barnabas will dry.

  He had to do something for Esther.

  More billboards on the highway wouldn’t cut it. Esther’s campaign needed one-on-one, it needed looking into people’s eyes and talking about her record. It needed . . . a coffee in someone’s home.

  But not in his home. No, indeed. For a priest to dip his spoon into mayoral coffee was not politically correct. He would have to talk someone else into doing it.

  Esther Bolick laughed in his face. “Are you kidding me?” she said. He should have known better than to call Esther. What a dumb notion; he felt like an idiot. So why did he pick up the phone and call Hessie?

  “You must have the wrong number,” said Hessie Mayhew, and hung up.

  He called the president of ECW, thinking she might be interested in having the mayor do a program at the next monthly meeting.

  “She did a program last year,” said Erlene Douglas, “and we never repeat a speaker unless it’s the bishop or a bigwig.”

  “Put a sign in your window,” he implored Percy, “one of those that says, ‘We’re stickin’ with Esther.’ ”

  “No way,” said Percy. “I run a business. I’m not campaignin’ for anybody. Let ’em tough it out whichever way they can.”

  “Olivia,” he said in his best pulpit voice, “I was wondering if . . .”

  But Olivia, Hoppy, and Lace were going to the coast for the last couple of days before school started, which, except for their honeymoon, would be the first vacation her husband had had in ten years.

  He sat staring at his office bookshelves, drumming his fingers on the desk. Maybe Esther could visit the police station and hand around donuts one morning. Better still, what about giving out balloons at Hattie Cloer’s market on the highway? He was running on fumes with this thing.

  He called Esther’s office, noting that she sounded depressed.

  “I don’t know,” she said, sighing heavily. “Who needs this aggravation? Th’ low-down egg sucker has been campaignin’ practically since Easter, it’s more politics than I can stomach.”

  “But you can’t give up now!”

  “Who says I can’t?” demanded the mayor.

  “Mr. Tim!”

  On his livermush delivery to Betty Craig’s, Jessie met him at the door, carrying a coloring book. “Look!” she said, holding it up for his close inspection.

  “Outstanding!” he said squatting down.

  “Them’s camels. Camels stores water in their humps.”

  “Right. Amazing!”

  “Can I sit on your lap?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He set the bag of livermush down and sought out the slipcovered armchair in the living room. Jessie crawled into his lap and clung to him, sucking her thumb.

  “I thought you were going to try and quit sucking your thumb,” he said, cradling her in his arm.

  “Betty put pepper on it, but I washed it off.”

  He didn’t know much about thumb-sucking, but he knew the cure. It was the thing that cured every other ill in this world, and of which there was far too little in general supply.

  After talking with Pauline, he put another list, however brief, on Emma’s desk.

  But this time, Emma found nothing. Nothing at all.

  The realtors from Orlando had made an offer. A hundred and five thousand, cash. Which was, to a penny, the asking price.

  He hadn’t heard of anybody meeting an asking price lately.

  When he spoke to Ron about it, he felt as if his jaws were frozen, or partially wired shut. “When do they want occupancy?”

  “October fifteenth.”

  “Who’s buying it?”

  “They didn’t specify. Whoever it is may be renting it.”

  “I’d like you to wait on this.”

  “They made it clear they don’t want to drag their feet. They were ready to shell out the cash today, but I won’t sign anything of course, ’til I run all this by the vestry.”

  “I’m going to ask you to do something.”

  “You know I want to help, Father.”

  Did he know that? “I want you to wait on this for ten days. Don’t do anything for ten days.” He didn’t think his now-customary thirty days would wash, but he had to have some time to adjust to this. The thought of the deal being done immediately made him feel trapped, helpless.

  Ron pulled at his chin. “They’ve already said they want me to get back to them by the end of the week. If we make them wait, they could withdraw the offer.”

  “Look. If you think we feel good about being swept out of our house like this, you’ve got another think coming. I’ve got to tell you that I don’t appreciate it, and if you have in mind some early retirement plan I don’t know about, then let’s lay the cards on the table.”

  His heart wasn’t pounding, his brow wasn’t perspiring. He was as cool as a cucumber.

  Ron tried to smile, but couldn’t. “Early retirement? Father, we’d keep you forever, if you’d let us. Retirement wasn’t our idea, it was yours.”

  “And it’s my idea to have ten days to digest all this. Sixteen years in this parish has earned me ten days.” Period.

  He wasn’t taking no for an answer, and Ron knew it.

  “Father! Stop! Wait!”

  It was Winnie Ivey in her apron, running up Main Street behind him.

  “I saw you pass, but I was on th’ phone. Oh, you won’t believe this! You won’t believe it!”

  “I’ll believe it!” he said, laughing at her excitement.

  “I won that cruise! I won it! A cruise to a whole bunch of islands!”

  “Hallelujah!” he said, taking her hands as she jumped up and down. Her bandanna slipped back from her forehead, and graying curls sprung loose.

  “I’ve never won anything, not even a stuffed animal in a shootin’ gallery!”

  “First time for everything!” he said, rejoicing with her.

  “Golden Band said I could go anytime, starting in October! They were the nicest people, they said my entry was ju
st perfect, they said it hit th’ nail on th’ head! I thank you for helpin’ me with it, Father, stop by for a napoleon anytime! Well, gosh, I better get back, I’ve got two customers havin’ donuts and coffee.”

  He watched her dash down the street, thinking he might see her leap off the pavement and fly.

  In two short days, Harley had hauled away three barrows of trash from Cynthia’s garage, washed and waxed her car, mowed the grass at both houses, removed the dead and dying stems of the hosta, and weeded the flower beds.

  “Harley, you’d better slow down,” said the rector, taking a turn at the weeding himself.

  “No, sir, I ain’t goin’ to, I’m glad t’ be workin’, it’s th’ best fix I’ve been in and I thank th’ Lord ’n Master f’r it.”

  Right there, he thought, was another consideration. Any interim living arrangement the vestry might provide may not accommodate Harley Welch.

  Father Tim squatted by the perennial bed and watched the dappled light play over the grass. He and Cynthia had prayed the prayer that never fails, and besides that, what else could they do?

  He pondered the sudden, unexpected idea he’d had this morning as he ran. It had come to him out of the blue and slowed him to a walk. Of course, he’d never done anything like that before. But was that any reason not to do it now? Cynthia would know the answer.

  The rotten thing about this new development with the rectory was that every time he turned around these days, he was standing under an ax waiting to fall. Thirty days here, ten days there, it seemed endless.