Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  For two cents, he’d get in the car and drive.

  And keep going.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bookends

  Going at a clip toward the Grill, they met Uncle Billy tottering homeward from the construction site at Lord’s Chapel.

  “I’ll be et f’r a tater if y’r boy ain’t growed a foot!”

  Dooley cackled, looking at his feet. “Where’s it at?”

  The rector noted that Dooley was slipping back into the vernacular, which, frankly, he had rather missed. Any wild departure from the King’s English, of course, would be remedied just ten days hence. Blast, he hated the thought of driving Dooley to Virginia and depositing him in that place, even if it was helping him learn and grow and expand his horizons.

  Percy turned from the grill and beamed. “Lookit th’ big ball player. You ought t’ be traded to th’ Yankees and that’s a fact.”

  “Dodgers,” said Dooley, laughing again.

  The rector had seen more laughter in his boy this summer than ever before. And why not? He had a steady paycheck, a girl who was crazy about him, a best friend, a family that was pulling itself together, and, generally, a swarm of people who loved him. Not to mention, of course, an education that was annually the cost of a new car—with leather and airbags.

  “Hey, buddyroe,” said J.C., cracking one of his biennial grins.

  “Hey,” said Dooley, sliding into the rear booth. This was his first time hanging with these old guys, and he wasn’t too sure about it. He could have been scarfing down a pizza with Tommy over on the highway.

  “Hey, slugger!” said Mule. “Let’s see that arm!”

  Dooley flexed the muscle in his upper right arm, and everybody helped themselves to squeezing it.

  “A rock,” said J.C., approving.

  Mule nodded soberly.

  “Killer!” said the rector.

  J.C. pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “I’ll treat!”

  “There it is again,” said Mule. “The feelin’ I’m goin’ deaf as a doorknob.”

  “I mean I’ll treat Dooley, not th’ whole bloomin’ booth.”

  “You better have some deep pockets if you’re feeding Dooley Barlowe,” said Father Tim, as proud as if the boy had an appetite for Aristotle.

  “I’ll have a large Coke, large fries, and two hotdogs all th’ way,” announced the editor’s guest.

  “All th’ way?” Mule raised his eyebrows. “I thought you had a girlfriend, you don’t want to be eatin’ onions.”

  “Don’t listen to these turkeys,” said J.C., “they tried to run my . . . my, ah . . . thing with Adele and like to ruined my life. Anything you want to know about women, you ask me.”

  Mule nearly fell out of the booth laughing.

  “What’s goin’ on over here?” asked Velma, who couldn’t bear to hear laughter unless she knew what it was about.

  “You don’t want to know,” said Father Tim.

  “I certainly do want to know!” She put her hands on her hips and squinted at them over her glasses.

  “Oh, shoot,” said Mule. “Can’t a bunch of men have a little joke without women wantin’ to know what it’s about?”

  “No,” said Velma. “So what’s it about?”

  “We’re teachin’ Dooley about the opposite sex,” said Mule.

  “Oh, Lord, help!” Velma looked thoroughly disgusted.

  “I wish y’all would quit,” said Dooley. “I don’t need to know anything about girls, I already know it.”

  “See?” said Velma. “Now, let ’im alone. Dooley, if you ever want to know anything about th’ opposite sex, you come and ask me or Percy, you hear? We’ll tell you th’ blessed truth.”

  “Dadgum!” Mule covered his face with his hands. “He’ll be glad to get back to school after listenin’ to this mess . . . .”

  “Right!” said Dooley.

  Ron Malcolm called to say that he’d be at the rectory Wednesday at noon, with the people from H. Tide.

  Father Tim decided he’d be in the piney woods, as far from that miserable experience as he could get.

  When he finally got the nerve to tell Cynthia, she looked at him blankly.

  “Why are they showing it now if they’re not going to sell it until we move?”

  “The truth is, if they get the right offer and the buyer’s anxious to move in, they’ll sell it now and find us something . . . .”

  He could tell she didn’t believe her ears. “Find us something . . . ?”

  He looked away. “The real estate scene in Mitford, as you know, is historically sluggish. The vestry feels they can’t afford to pass up the offer, if it’s right. People have known for two or three years that it would be on the market, and nobody’s spoken up for it.”

  “The real estate market is historically sluggish because development in Mitford goes at a snail’s pace.” She turned away, and he saw a muscle moving in her cheek. “It’s almost enough to make me vote for Mack Stroupe.”

  “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “I was only kidding, for Pete’s sake, you don’t have to bite my head off.”

  “I didn’t bite your head off.”

  “You most certainly did. And furthermore, your nerves stay absolutely frazzled these days. You tote every barge and lift every bale in Mitford, with nothing left over for yourself. And now you tell me we could be run out of our home, thanks to a parish you have faithfully served for sixteen years? If that’s the way your vestry thinks, Timothy, then I would ask you to do me the favor of lining them up, one by one, and enjoining them to bend over. I will then go down the row and give every distinguished member exactly what they deserve, which is, need I say it, a good, swift kick!”

  She turned and left the study, and he heard her charging up the stairs. Their bedroom door, which was rarely closed, slammed.

  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 Stroup
e.

  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, to 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 n
eeded 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.