by Jan Karon
“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 behind 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.
According to several reports, Fernbank was already sold, it was a done deal.
Mack Stroupe was looking good.
He called the mayor’s office.
“She’s not in,” said the painfully shy Ernestine Ivory, who gave the mayor a hand two days a week.
“May I ask where she is?”
“Down at the school. She’s doing a special program for the children.”
“Children can’t vote,” he said.
“Yes, Father, that’s true. But their parents can.”
Bingo. “Tell her I called.”
Harley nodded, looking sober.
“Don’t let him talk you into anything you don’t think is right . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“ . . . or safe. Especially safe!”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t.”
The rector sighed and moved closer to Harley’s oscillating fan.
“Now, don’t you worry, Rev’rend. I’ll watch after ’im like m’ own young ’un.”
“I know you will.”
“Hit’ll work some of th’ juice out of ’im.”
“Right.”
“While I’ve got a educated man settin’ here, I’d be beholden if you’d give me a little help with m’ homework an’ all.”
“Your homework?”
“Lace has it in ’er head t’ educate me, she’s givin’ me a test in a day or two.”
“How do you feel about getting educated?”
“I’ve a good mind t’ quit, but she’s got ’er heart set on learnin’ me somethin’. Lace has had a good bit of hard knocks, I don’t want t’ let ’er down.”
“That’s right. How c
an I help you?”
“Well, looky here. Sixty seventh-grade students toured th’ Statue of Liberty in New York City. Two-thirds of ’em climbed to th’ halfway point, and one-fourth of ’em was able t’ climb all th’ way to th’ top. Now, th’ remainin’ group, they stayed down on th’ base of th’ pedestal, it says here. How many students didn’t climb th’ steps? I can’t figger it t’ save m’ neck.”
The rector mopped his brow. “Oh, boy.”
“Here’s another’n, this ’uns easier. The torch of th’ Statue of Liberty is three hundred an’ five foot from th’ bottom of th’ base. If th’ pedestal on which th’ statue rests is eighty-nine foot high, how high is th’ base?”
“Let me go get a drink of water and I’ll come back and see what I can do.”
As he drank a glass of water at Harley’s kitchen sink, he heard him muttering in the next room, “Elton washes winders at a office buildin’. Some offices has four winders and some has six . . .”
How did he get himself into these scrapes, anyway?
He kissed the nape of her neck, just under the ponytail she’d lately taken to sporting.
“Is there anything special you’d like to do for your birthday?” Please, Lord, don’t let her say a domestic retreat. I don’t have time, she doesn’t have time, it can’t happen.
She sighed. “We’re both exhausted, dearest. Let’s don’t do any fancy dinners or tangos, let’s get Chinese take-out from Wesley, lock our bedroom door, and just be.”
And what would their teeming household think about such a thing? Oh, well.
“I can handle that,” he said, drawing her close.
“Ron, was there ever any discussion with Miami Development about Fernbank’s apple orchard? There are a hundred and sixty-two trees up there, and all are still bearing.”
“She mentioned the orchard the first time she was here. They’d tear it out. That’s where most of the cottages will be built.”
A small point, but it stung him. Those trees had dropped their fruit into any hand that passed, for years. They had filled Mitford’s freezers with pies and cobblers, and crowded endless pantry shelves with sauce and jelly.
An even smaller point, perhaps, but he noticed that Ron had said “will be built.”
A new day-care program was getting under way at Lord’s Chapel as Buck Leeper’s crew began their invasion of the attic.
Given that the only access to the attic was through the trapdoor over the pulpit, merely getting into the attic was a project.
Under Buck’s supervision, the crew removed stones from the east wall, cut through studs, sheeting, and insulation, installed a new header and a sill, and created a double-door entrance. Until the outside steps could be built, ladders and scaffolding permitted the crew to haul up endless feet of lumber for classroom partitions and a restroom.
It was all going forward exactly as he expected: his very hair, what was left of it, was filled with a fine dust, as were the pews and all that lay below. Kneelers got their share, so that when parishioners wearing black arose from prayer, the fronts of skirts and trousers displayed a clear mark of piety.
Anybody else, he thought, would have retired and left the attic project to the next poor fellow, but he had celebrated and preached beneath the vast, empty loft for sixteen years, dreaming of the day they could fill it with children.
Yes, there’d be the patter of little feet above the heads of the congregation, though measures would be taken to muffle the sound considerably. In any case, it was a sound he’d be glad to hear.
Puny met him at the front door with Sissy on one hip and Sassy on the other.
“Father, I jis’ don’t think I can keep bringin’ th’ girls to work with me, even though I know how much it means to you to have ’em here.” She looked unusually distressed.
He took Sissy and walked down the hall behind his house help.
“Ba!” said the happy twin, bashing him on the head with a plastic frying pan. “Ba!”
“That’s what she calls you, did you know that?”
“Really?”
“That’s your name. When I show her your wedding picture at home, she always says Ba!”
He felt honored. Ba! He’d never had another name before, except Father.
He sat down at the kitchen table and took a twin on either knee, which he immediately geared to the jiggling mode. “I know it’s hard for you trying to work with two little ones . . . .”
“I cain’t hardly get my work done anymore, but I hated to put ’em out to day care, they’ll only be babies once, and I didn’t want . . .” Puny looked close to tears. “I didn’t want to miss that!”
“Of course not! I know it’s a strain for you, but we’ll work with you on it. We’re pleased with all you do, Puny. You’re the best, and always have been.”
Her face brightened. He loved the look of the red-haired, freckle-faced Puny Guthrie, who was like blood kin, the closest thing to a daughter he’d ever have. Besides, who else would clean the mildew off his shoes, wipe behind the picture frames, mend his shirts, bake cornbread deserving of a blue ribbon, and keep the clothes closets looking like racks at a department store? What she was able to do, even with two toddlers in tow, was more than anyone else would do, he was sure of it.
“The church day care will be open next week. Hang on, and if you’d like to put them in for a day or two to see how it goes, well . . .”
“Thank you, Father! You’re a wonderful granpaw. Would you mind holdin’ ’em a minute while I run up and bring th’ laundry down?”
“Mama, Mama!” yelled Sassy.
“Ba!” sighed Sissy, snuggling against him.
He nuzzled the two heads of tousled hair and thought that, all things considered, he was a very fortunate man. He needed challenges in his life . . . But wait a minute, did he need that warm, wet feeling spreading over his left knee?
He had showered, she had bathed in a tubful of scented bubbles; she had laid out his clean robe, he had plumped up the pillows behind her head; they had devoured their chicken with almonds, shrimp with lobster sauce, and two spring rolls.
“What’s your fortune?” she asked, looking discontented with her own.
“I will uncover a surprise and receive great recognition.”
“Poop, darling, you’re always receiving great recognition. Everyone loves you, it’s like being married to the Pope. Here’s mine. ‘Prepare for victory ahead!’ Who writes this stuff?”
“Now,” he urged.
“OK!”
“Close your eyes.”
“I love this part,” she said, putting her hands over her eyes. “Don’t you want me to guess?”
“Absolutely not. We’re going straight to the punch line.”
He trotted to the closet, retrieved the box which Marcie had wrapped in the signature brown paper of Oxford Antiques, and thumped it on the bed next to his wife.
“OK. You can look.”
“A box! I love boxes!”
“Heave to, Kavanagh.”
She tore the raffia bow off, and the paper, and pulled back the tape on top of the box.
He helped remove the writing desk and set it on her lap.
“Timothy!” she whispered, unbelieving.
“Happy birthday, my love.”
No two ways about it, he had hit a home run.
They lay in bed, holding each other, the room warmed by the glow of her bedside lamp.
“You’re wonderful,” he said, meaning it.
She smiled. “But I’m old!”
“Old? You? Never!”
“Just look at these crow’s feet . . . .”
“I don’t see any crow’s feet,” he said, kissing her crow’s feet.
“Father, this is Lottie Greer.”
Lottie Greer—the spinster sister of Absalom Greer, the elderly revival preacher who had loved Sadie Baxter . . .
“It’s Absalom.” He heard the fear in her voice.
“What is it?”
�
�It’s pneumonia. He wants you to pray.”
“I will, Miss Lottie, and others with me. Shall I come?”
“He said to just pray. There’s fluid in his lungs.”
He told her he was available anytime, that she should let him know what he could do. Then he called Cynthia and the all-church prayer chain.
He had come to love Absalom Greer. The eloquent, unschooled preacher had been a force in his life and those of countless others, including Pauline and Lace. He was among the last of the old warriors who fearlessly confronted the issue of sin, preached repentence and salvation, and pulled no punches when it came to the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
Bottom line, the old man was his brother. He would go out on Sunday.
What was he waiting for?
The question was unspoken, but every time he ran into a member of the vestry, he felt the weight of it. Thirty days? For what? Ingrid Swenson didn’t look like somebody who could be bluffed into coughing up two ninety-five after she offered one ninety-eight. But the point was, the property was fully worth two ninety-five, and in his opinion, Miami Development was trying to steal it. To be bluffed themselves was a humiliation not to be suffered lightly.
The answer was, he didn’t know what he was waiting for. He only knew that selling Fernbank to Miami Development was something that didn’t feel right. Maybe it would feel right later—then again, later could be too late.
He hated this, he hated it.
He tried to act nonchalant by puttering in the side garden as they backed out of the driveway. Dooley was lit up like downtown Holding at Christmas, and Harley was generating a few kilowatts himself.
He looked up and waved, and they waved back.
Four-thirty. Dooley had left work a half hour early, and they had promised to be back at the rectory around six.
He looked through the hedge to the little yellow house. A window box needed fixing, the bolt had come loose and the box was hanging whomper-jawed under the studio window.
