by Jan Karon
Mack Stroupe stood near the door, shaking hands as if the event were in his honor. He frequently stepped outside to smoke, where he flipped the butts into the pansy bed.
Esther Cunningham steamed in with Ray, their five beautiful daughters, and a mixture of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, including Sissy and Sassy, who had come in tow with Puny, straight from day care. He lifted Sissy into his arms and sat next to Puny in the block of seats occupied by the Cunningham contingent.
“This is the most aggravation in th’ world,” announced his house help. “I had to let your toilets go to come over here and mess with this foolishness.”
“You can let my toilets go anytime,” he said, jiggling Sissy.
She glared at Mack Stroupe, who was laughing his loud, whinnying laugh and talking with a band of supporters. “If I wadn’t a Christian, I’d march over there an’ scratch his eyes out!” She examined her nails, as if she might really consider doing such a thing.
Joe Joe Guthrie, Puny’s husband and the Cunninghams’ grandson, slipped in next to them. “What do you think, Father?”
Joe Joe looked at him the way so many had looked at him over the years, as if he could prophesy exactly how things would turn out. It was not one of the ways he enjoyed being looked at.
The recounting was labored, taking nearly three hours. People milled around, going in and out, smoking, muttering, laughing. Some of those accustomed to an early dinner drove over to the highway, wolfed down a pizza, and returned smelling of pepperoni.
Others stayed glued to their seats, counting every vote with the three Board of Elections officials. Sassy fell asleep, while Sissy tore around the hall as if on wheels.
At a little before seven, he moved across the aisle to sit with the Bolicks. “The end is near,” said Gene, looking worn.
The votes were running neck and neck. Mack or Esther would pull ahead in the counting, and then the other would catch up and move ahead.
As the stack of ballots slowly dwindled, the laughing and muttering, hooting and yelping died down.
Something had better happen here pretty quick, he thought, as the last three ballots were held up and counted.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” exclaimed the Board of Elections official, “according to the recount, which ya’ll have witnessed here with your own eyes . . . it’s a tie.”
A communal gasp resounded through the hall, followed by murmurs and shouts.
“What we do . . .” the elections official said, trying to speak over the hubbub. The hubbub escalated wildly.
He pounded the mayor’s podium with the gavel. “According to th’ by-laws, what we do in such a case is . . . we flip a coin.”
The rector leaned forward in his chair. Flip a coin? You determine the well-being of a whole town by flipping a coin?
“God help us,” said Esther Bolick.
He saw that Esther Cunningham had turned deathly pale. Where were the fiery splotches, the indomitable spirit? Come on, Esther . . .
He prayed the prayer that never fails.
“Ladies first,” said the elections official. “Heads . . . or tails?”
Breathless silence.
Esther Cunningham stood and peered into the crowd as if she were about to deliver the Gettysburg Address.
“Heads!” she said in a voice that thundered beyond the back row and bounced off the wall.
The elections official looked toward the door. “Mr. Stroupe?”
Mack Stroupe shrugged.
The official put his hand into his pocket and brought it out again, looking embarrassed. “Ah, anybody got a nickel or a dime?”
Someone rushed to give him a quarter, as the other two officials drew near, ready to verify the outcome.
He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and bowed slightly over the coin. Then, working his mouth silently as if uttering an official oath, he flipped it.
Around Town
—by Vanita Bentley
Last night, in the parish hole of Lord’s Chapel, Bane and Blessing co-chairs Esther Bolick and Hessie Mayhe, were feted at a supper in their honor.
Along with nearly eighty voluntears, some from other Mitford churches, Bolck and Mayhew raised $22,000 and were praised for their “heroic endeavor” by Father Timothy Kavanagh.
“Hero simply means someone who models the ideal” said Rev. Kavanagh, “and these voluntears have done this for all of us.
“Also, a hero can be someone who saves lives in a valiant way and these voluntears have almost certainly done that, as well.”
The reverend said Bane proceeds have been used for food and medical supplys to Zaiear, pure well water in several east African villages, and a ambulance for Landon, where two children died last yr for lack of medical ade.
“The Bane has always been a blessing to others,” he said. “But this year, thanks to the outstanding organizational skills of two women and their willingness to serve as unto the Lord, we may all celebrate a special triumph for His kingdom.”
Bolk and Mayew were presented with plaques and other voluntears were each given a bag of goodies by local merchants.
Mrs. Bvolk whose jaws were wired shut due an accident reported here previously got to request a special dinner of mashed potatoes and gravey to celebrate being able to eat real food again.
If time does, indeed, fly, it was the season when it became a Concorde jet, as far as the rector was concerned.
Following the annual All-Church Thanksgiving Feast, which, thankfully, was held this year at First Baptist, events went into overdrive.
Cynthia drove Dooley back to school on St. Andrew’s Day, while the rector prepared the sermon for the first Sunday of Advent and began the serious business of trying to juggle the innumerable Advent activities, not the least of which was Lessons and Carols, to be performed this year on a grand scale with the addition of a visiting choir and an organist from Cambridge, England, all of whom would stay over in parish homes for five days and participate in the Advent Walk on December 15, after which everyone would come to the rectory for a light supper in front of the fire.
“Light supper, heavy dessert,” said Cynthia, paging frantically through their cookbooks.
He panted just thinking about it all, and so did his wife, who was making something for everyone on her list, and running behind.
“Whatever you do,” she told him at least three times, “don’t look in there.” Upon saying this, she would point to the armoire, which he always stayed as far away from as possible.
Then, of course, there was the annual trek into the woods at the north end of the Fernbank property, to hew down a Fraser fir with the Youth Group, which would become the Jesse tree in front of the altar, followed by a visit to the Sunday School to discuss the meaning of the ornaments the children would be making for the tree, and the courtesy call on the Christmas pageant rehearsal, which this year, much to the shock of the parents and the dismay of at least two teachers, would be done in modern dress, inspired by the recent success of the movie Hamlet in which Hamlet had worn blue jeans with what appeared to be a golf shirt.
“What will we do with all these wings?” wailed a teacher who had voted for traditional costumes, and lost.
He made himself scarce whenever the wrangling over the pageant issue erupted, and gave himself to the more rewarding annual task of negotiating with Jena Ivey for forty-five white poinsettias and the cartload of boxwood, balsam, fir, and gypsophila to be used on Christmas Eve for the greening of the church.
“Why can’t you do the negotiating?” he once asked a member of the Altar Guild.
“Because she likes you better and you get a better price,” he was told. This notion of improved economics had engraved the mission in stone and caused it to belong, forever, to him.
He had to remember to order the Belgian chocolates for the nurses at the hospital, and meet with the organist and choir director to thrash through the music for the Christmas Eve services, and put in his two cents’ worth about the furniture being ordered for the
new upstairs Sunday School rooms, and call Dooley’s schoolmate’s parents to see if they’d bring him to Mitford on their way to Holding, and check to see if anybody was going to visit Homeless Hobbes and sing carols with him this year, and go through what Andrew Gregory didn’t want at Fernbank and help Harley haul it to Pauline’s tiny house behind the post office so it would look like a home in time for . . .
“We’ve done it again,” proclaimed his wife, shaking her head.
They gazed at each other, spent and pale.
“Next year,” she said, relieved, “it will be different.”
Next year, he would not be running around like a chicken with its head cut off, because next year, he would not have a parish.
Suddenly his eyes misted, just thinking about it.
Less than twelve months hence, his parishioners would be standing around him in the parish hall, singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” and giving him money, and a plaque of some sort, and tins of mixed nuts.
After the wedding, Winnie and Thomas planned to move into her cottage by the creek, while Scott Murphy would move his wok and precious few other possessions into Winnie’s present quarters, once the home of Olivia Harper’s socialite mother.
“Musical chairs!” said Cynthia.
It was the season of good news and glad tidings, in every way. Joe Ivey was moving back to Mitford.
“Hallelujah!” Father Tim said.
Winnie looked pleased as punch. “He said people kept askin’ if Elvis was really dead, and he just couldn’t take it anymore. He’ll barber in that little room behind th’ Sweet Stuff kitchen.”
“Baking and barbering!” said the jubilant rector. “I like it!” A little off the sides and a fruit tart to go.
“Look!” said Jessie. “A baby in a box.”
She stood on tiptoes, holding her doll, and gazed into the crèche that had belonged to his grandmother.
He realized she didn’t know about the Babe, and wondered how his life could be so sheltered that he should be surprised.
He glanced at his watch and picked her up and stood looking down upon the crèche with her. Standing there in the lamplit study, he told her about the Babe and why He came, as she sucked her thumb and patted his shoulder and listened intently.
Four days before Christmas, and he was running ragged like the rest of crazed humanity. He resisted glancing at his watch again, and set her down gently as the front doorbell gave a blast.
If that wasn’t a fruitcake from the ECW, he’d eat his hat. Or, more likely, it was the annual oranges from Walter.
“I came to say . . . so long.” Buck Leeper stood in the stinging cold, bareheaded.
He had dreaded this moment. “Come in, Buck!”
“I can’t, I’m on my way to Mississippi, I just—”
“Buck!” Jessie came trotting down the hall and grabbed the superintendent around the legs, as Barnabas raced in from the kitchen, barking.
“Please,” said the rector, standing back for Buck to come in. “We’re keeping Jessie while Pauline shops for pots and pans. Come on back, we’ll scare up something hot for the road.”
“Well,” Buck said, awkward, then stooped and picked Jessie up in his arms.
They walked down the hall and into the study, where a fire simmered on the hearth. Buck stood in the doorway as if in a trance, taking in the tree ablaze with tiny lights and the train running around its base.
Suddenly the rector saw the room with new eyes, also—the freshly pungent garlands over the mantel and the candles burning on his desk, reflected in the window. He had been passing in and out of this room for days, scarcely noticing, enjoying it with his head instead of his heart.
Buck abruptly set Jessie down and squatted beside her on one knee. “Look, you have a good Christmas,” he said, speaking with some difficulty.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Buck, please don’t go off nowhere!”
“I’ve got to,” he said.
She threw her arms around his neck, sobbing. “Me an’ Poo wanted you to live with us!”
Buck held her close and covered his eyes with his hand.
“Don’t cry,” said Jessie, clinging to him and patting his shoulder. “Please don’t cry, Buck.”
He stood and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. “Thanks for . . . everything. Your job is in good hands. I’ll let myself out.”
Buck stalked out of the study and up the hall, closing the front door behind him. The rector had been oddly frozen in place, unable to move; Jessie stood at the study door, crying, holding her doll.
The clock ticked, the train whistled and clacked, the fire hissed.
He walked over to her with a heavy heart and touched her shoulder.
She looked up at him, stricken. “Buck shouldn’t of done that,” she said.
Seven-thirty a.m., and he’d already gone through yesterday’s mail, typed two letters, and been to see Louella.
Surely he could take ten minutes . . .
He walked to the end of the corridor and opened the door without knocking, just as he’d always done.
“Oh, rats, I might have known that was you,” said Esther Cunningham, using both hands to hide something on her desk.
“What’s the deal? What’re you hiding? Aha! A sausage biscuit!”
“It’s no such thing, it’s a ham biscuit!”
“Sausage, ham, what’s the difference?”
“I specifically spoke to th’ Lord about sausage,” she said, her eyes snapping, “so lay off.”
“Esther, Esther.”
He sat down and put his feet up on the Danish modern coffee table, grinning.
She grinned in return, gave him a thumbs-up, then threw back her head and roared with laughter.
Ah, but it was good to hear the mayor laughing again.
As a bachelor, he had wondered every year what to do on Christmas eve. With both a five o’clock and a midnight service, he struggled to figure out when or what to eat, whether to open a few presents after he returned home at nearly one a.m. on Christmas morning, or wait and do the whole thing on Christmas afternoon while he was still exhausted from the night before.
Now it was all put into perspective and, like his bishop who loved being told what to do for a change, he listened eagerly to his wife.
“We’re having a sit-down dinner at two o’clock on Christmas Eve, and we’ll open one present each before we go to the midnight service. We will open our presents from Dooley on Christmas morning, because he can’t wait around ’til us old people get the stiffness out of our joints, and after brunch at precisely one o’clock, we’ll open the whole shebang.”
She put her hands on her hips and continued to dish out the battle plan.
“For brunch, of course, we’ll invite Harley upstairs. The menu will include roasted chicken and oyster pie, which I’ll do while you squeeze the juice and bake the asparagus puffs.”
All she needed was a few military epaulets.
“After that, Dooley will go to Pauline’s and spend the night, and our Christmas dinner will be served in front of the fire, and we shall both wear our robes and slippers!”
She took a deep breath and smiled like a schoolgirl. “How’s that?”
How was that? It was better than good, it was wonderful, it was fabulous. He gave her a grunting bear hug and made her laugh, which was a sound he courted from his overworked wife these days.
He reached up to the closet shelf for the camera and touched the box of his mother’s things—the handkerchiefs, her wedding ring, an evening purse, buttons . . .
He stood there, not seeing the box with his eyes, but in his memory. It was covered with wallpaper from their dining room in Holly Springs a half century, an eon, ago. Cream colored roses with pale green leaves . . .
He would not take it down, but it had somehow released memories of his mother’s Christmases, and the scent of chickory coffee and steaming puddings and cookies baking on great sheets; his friends from seminary gathering �
��round her table; and the guest room with its swirl of gifts and carefully selected surprises, tied with the signature white satin ribbon.
He stood there, still touching the box, recalling what C.S. Lewis had said. It was something which, long ago, had expressed his own feelings so clearly.
“With my mother’s death,” Lewis wrote, “all settled happiness, all that was tranquil and reliable, disappeared from my life. There was to be much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of Joy; but no more of the old security. It was sea and islands now; the great continent had sunk like Atlantis . . . .”
“Mother . . .” he whispered into the darkened warmth of the closet. “I remember . . . .”
He wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t seen Mack Stroupe again at Lord’s Chapel. It appeared that even his hotdog stand was closed—perhaps for the holidays, he thought.
He didn’t want to consider whether he’d ever see Edith Mallory again.
“I do this every year!” said Cynthia, looking alarmed.
“Do what?”
“Forget the cream for tomorrow’s oyster pie. And of course no one will be open tomorrow.”
It was that lovely lull between the five o’clock and midnight services of Christmas Eve, and he was sitting by the fire in a state of contentment that he hadn’t felt in some time. Tonight, after the simplicity of the five o’clock, which was always held without the choir and the lush profusion of garlands and greenery, would come the swelling rush of voices and organ, and the breathtaking spectacle of the nave bedecked, as if by grace, with balsam, fir, and the flickering lights of candles.
He roused himself as from a dream. “I’ll run out and find some. I think Hattie Cloer is open ’til eight.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. You cook, I fetch. I get a much better deal.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead, then went to the kitchen peg for his jacket.
