Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  Much to everyone’s relief, the primroses actually bloomed. However, no sooner had the eager blossoms appeared than Hessie Mayhew bore down on them with a vengeance, in yards and hidden nooks everywhere. She knew precisely the location of every cluster of primroses in the village, not to mention the exact whereabouts of each woods violet, lilac bush, and pussy willow.

  “It’s Hessie!” warned an innocent bystander on Hessie’s early morning run the day of the tea. “Stand back!”

  Armed with a collection of baskets that she wore on her arms like so many bracelets, Hessie did not allow help from the Episcopal Church Women, nor any of her own presbyters. She worked alone, she worked fast, and she worked smart.

  After going at a trot through neighborhood gardens, huffing up Old Church Lane to a secluded bower of early-blooming shrubs, and combing four miles of country roadside, she showed up at the back door of the rectory at precisely eleven a.m., looking triumphant.

  Sodden with morning dew and black dirt, she delivered a vast quantity of flowers, moss, and grapevine into the hands of the rector’s house help, Puny Guthrie, then flew home to bathe, dress, and put antibiotic cream on her knees, which were skinned when she leaned over to pick a wild trillium and fell sprawling.

  The Episcopal Church Women, who had arrived as one body at ten-thirty, flew into the business of arranging “Hessie’s truck,” as they called it, while Barnabas snored in the garage and Violet paced in her carrier.

  “Are you off?” asked Cynthia, as the rector came at a trot through the hectic kitchen.

  “Off and running. I finished polishing the mail slot, tidying the slipcover on the sofa, and trimming the lavender by the front walk. I also beat the sofa pillows for any incipient dust and coughed for a full five minutes.”

  “Well done!” she said cheerily, giving him a hug.

  “I’ll be home at one-thirty to help the husbands park cars.”

  Help the husbands park cars? he thought as he sprinted toward the office. He was a husband! After all these months, the thought still occasionally slammed him in the solar plexus and took his breath away.

  Nine elderly guests, including the Kavanaghs’ friend Louella, arrived in the van from Hope House and were personally escorted up the steps of the rectory and into the hands of the Altar Guild.

  Up and down Wisteria Lane, men with armbands stitched with primroses and a Jerusalem cross directed traffic, which quickly grew snarled. At one point, the rector leaped into a stalled Chevrolet and managed to roll it to the curb. Women came in car pools, husbands dropped off spouses, daughters delivered mothers, and all in all, the narrow street was as congested as a carnival in Rio.

  “This is th’ biggest thing to hit Mitford since th’ blizzard two years ago,” said Mule Skinner, who was a Baptist, but offered to help out, anyway.

  The rector laughed. “That’s one way to look at it.” Didn’t anybody ever walk in this town?

  “Look here!”

  It was Mack Stroupe in that blasted pickup truck, carting his sign around in their tea traffic. Mack rolled by, chewing on a toothpick and looking straight ahead.

  “You comin’ to the Primrose Tea?” snapped Mule. “If not, get this vehicle out of here, we’re tryin’ to conduct a church function!”

  Four choir members, consisting of a lyric soprano, a mezzo soprano, and two altos, arrived in a convertible, looking windblown and holding on to their hats.

  “Hats is a big thing this year,” observed Uncle Billy Watson, who stood at the curb with Miss Rose and watched the proceedings. Uncle Billy was the only man who showed up at last year’s tea, and now considered his presence at the event to be a tradition.

  Uncle Billy walked out to the street with the help of his cane and tapped Father Tim on the shoulder. “Hit’s like a Chiney puzzle, don’t you know. If you ’uns’d move that’n off to th’ side and git that’n to th’ curb, hit’d be done with.”

  “No more parking on Wisteria,” Ron Malcolm reported to the rector. “We’ll direct the rest of the crowd to the church lot and shoot ’em back here in the Hope House van.”

  A UPS driver, who had clearly made an unwise turn onto Wisteria, sat in his truck in front of the rectory, stunned by the sight of so much traffic on the usually uneventful Holding/Mitford/Wesley run.

  “Hit’s what you call a standstill,” Uncle Billy told J. C. Hogan, who showed up with his Nikon and six rolls of Tri-X.

  As traffic started to flow again, the rector saw Mack Stroupe turn onto Wisteria Lane from Church Hill. Clearly, he was circling the block.

  “I’d like to whop him upside th’ head with a two-by-four,” said Mule. He glared at Mack, who was reared back in the seat with both windows down, listening to a country music station. Mack waved to several women, who immediately turned their heads.

  Mule snorted. “Th’ dumb so-and-so! How would you like to have that peckerwood for mayor?”

  The rector wiped his perspiring forehead. “Watch your blood pressure, buddyroe.”

  “He says he’s goin’ to campaign straight through spring and summer, right up to election in November. Kind of like bein’ tortured by a drippin’ faucet.”

  As the truck passed, Emma Newland stomped over. “I ought to climb in that truck and slap his jaws. What’s he doin’, anyway, trying to sway church people to his way of thinkin’?”

  “Let him be,” Father Tim cautioned his secretary and on-line computer whiz. After all, give Mack enough rope and . . .

  Cynthia was lying in bed, moaning, as he came out of the shower. He went into the bedroom, hastily drying off.

  “Why are you moaning?” he asked, alarmed.

  “Because it helps relieve exhaustion. I hope the windows are closed so the neighbors can’t hear.”

  “The only neighbor close enough to hear is no longer living in the little yellow house next door. She is, in fact, lying right here, doing the moaning.”

  She moaned again. “Moaning is good,” she told him, her face mashed into the pillow. “You should try it.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Warm as a steamed clam from the shower, he put on his pajamas and sat on the side of the bed. “I’m proud of you,” he said, rubbing her back. “That was a tea-and-a-half! The best! In fact, words fail. You’ll have a time topping that one.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m supposed to top it!”

  “Yes, well, not to worry. Next year, we can have Omer Cunningham and his pilot buddies do a flyover. That’ll give the ladies something to talk about.” He’d certainly given all of Mitford something to talk about last May when he flew to Virginia with Omer in his ragwing taildragger. Four hours in Omer’s little plane had gained him more credibility than thirty-six years in the pulpit.

  “A little farther down,” his wife implored. “Ugh. My lower back is killing me from all the standing and baking.”

  “I got the reviews as your guests left.”

  “Only tell me the good ones. I don’t want to hear about the cheese straws, which were as limp as linguine.”

  “ ‘Perfect’ was a word they bandied around quite a bit, and the lemon squares, of course, got their usual share of raves. Some wanted me to know how charming they think you are, and others made lavish remarks about your youth and beauty.”

  He leaned down and kissed her shoulder, inhaling the faintest scent of wisteria. “You are beautiful, Kavanagh.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t suppose there are any special thanks you’d like to offer the poor rube who helped unsnarl four thousand three hundred and seventy-nine cars, trucks, and vans?”

  She rolled over and looked at him, smiling. Then she held her head to one side in that way he couldn’t resist, and pulled him to her and kissed him tenderly.

  “Now you’re talking,” he said.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  Dooley! “Hey, yourself, buddy.”

  “Is Cynthia sending me a box of stuff s
he made for that tea? I can’t talk long.”

  “Two boxes. Went off today.”

  “Man! Thanks!”

  “You’re welcome. How’s school?”

  “Great.”

  Great? Dooley Barlowe was not one to use superlatives. “No kidding?”

  “You’re going to like my grades.”

  Was this the little guy he’d struggled to raise for nearly three years? The Dooley who always shot himself in the foot? The self-assured sound of the boy’s voice made his hair fairly stand on end.

  “We’re going to like you coming home, even better. In just six or seven weeks, you’ll be here . . . .”

  Silence. Was Dooley dreading to tell him he wanted to spend the summer at Meadowgate Farm? The boy’s decision to do that last year had nearly broken his heart, not to mention Cynthia’s. They had, of course, gotten over it, as they watched the boy doing what he loved best—learning more about veterinary medicine at the country practice of Hal Owen.

  “Of course,” said the rector, pushing on, “we want you to go out to Meadowgate, if that’s what you’d like to do.” He swallowed. This year, he was stronger, he could let go.

  “OK,” said Dooley, “that’s what I’d like to do.”

  “Fine. No problem. I’ll call you tomorrow for our usual phone visit. We love you.”

  “I love you back.”

  “Here’s Cynthia.”

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself.” It was their family greeting.

  “So, you big galoot, we sent a box for you and one to share with your friends.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Lemon squares.”

  “I like lemon squares.”

  “Plus raspberry tarts, pecan truffles, and brownies made by the preacher.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yes.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good!” said Cynthia. “Lace Turner asked about you the other day.”

  “That dumb girl that dresses like a guy?”

  “She doesn’t dress like a guy anymore. Oh, and your friend Jenny was asking about you, too.”

  “How’s Tommy?”

  “Missing you. Just as we do. So hurry home, even if you are going to spend the summer at Meadowgate, you big creep.”

  Dooley cackled.

  “We love you.”

  “I love you back.”

  Cynthia placed the receiver on the hook, smiling happily.

  “Now, you poor rube,” she said, “where were we?”

  He sat on the study sofa and took the rubber band off the Mitford Muse.

  Good grief! There he was on the front page, standing bewildered in front of the UPS truck with his nose looking, as usual, like a turnip or a tulip bulb. Why did J. C. Hogan run this odious picture, when he might have photographed his hardworking, good-looking, and thoroughly deserving wife?

  Primrose Tee Draws

  Stand-Out Crowd

  Clearly, Hessie had not written this story, which on first glance appeared to be about golf, but had given her notes to J.C., who forged ahead without checking his spelling.

  Good time had by all . . . same time next year . . . a hundred and thirty guests . . . nine gallons of tea, ten dozen lemon squares, eight dozen raspberry tarts . . . traffic jam . . .

  The phone gave a sharp blast.

  “Hello?”

  “Timothy . . .”

  “Hal! I’ve just been thinking of you and Marge.”

  “Good. And we of you. I’ve got some . . . hard news, and wanted you to know.”

  Hal and Marge Owen were two of his closest, most valued friends. He was afraid to know.

  “I’ve just hired a full-time assistant.”

  “That’s the bad news? It sounds good to me, you work like a Trojan.”

  “Yes, but . . . we won’t be able to have Dooley this summer. My assistant is a young fellow, just starting out, and I’ll have to give him a lot of time and attention. Also, we’re putting him up in Dooley’s room until he gets established.” Hal sighed.

  “But that’s terrific. We know Dooley looked forward to being at Meadowgate—however, circumstances alter cases, as my Mississippi kin used to say.”

  “There’s a large riding stable coming in about a mile down the road, they’ve asked me to vet the horses. That could be a full-time job right there.”

  “I understand. Of course. Your practice is growing.”

  “We’ll miss the boy, Tim, you know how we feel about him, how Rebecca Jane loves him. But look, we’ll have him out to stay the first two weeks he’s home from school—if that works for you.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh, and Tim . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you tell him?”

  “I will. I’ll talk to him about it, get him thinking of what to do this summer. Be good for him.”

  “So why don’t you and Cynthia plan to spend the day when you bring him out? Bring Barnabas, too. Marge will make your favorite.”

  Deep-dish chicken pie, with a crust like French pastry. “We’ll be there!” he said, meaning it.

  “Will you tell him?” he asked Cynthia.

  “No way,” she said.

  Nobody wanted to tell Dooley Barlowe that he couldn’t spend the summer doing what he loved more than anything on earth.

  She opened her eyes and rolled over to find him sitting up in bed.

  “Oh, my dear! Oh, my goodness! What happened?”

  He loved the look on his wife’s face; he wanted to savor it. “It’s already turned a few colors,” he said, removing his hand from his right temple.

  She peered at him as if he were a butterfly on a pin. “Yes! Black . . . and blue and . . . the tiniest bit of yellow.”

  “My old school colors,” he said.

  “But what happened?” He never heard such tsking and gasping.

  “T.D.A.,” he replied.

  “The Dreaded Armoire? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I got up in the middle of the night, in the dark, and went out to the landing and opened the windows to give Barnabas a cool breeze. As I careened through the bedroom on my way to the bathroom, I slammed into the blasted thing.”

  “Oh, no! Oh, heavens. What can I do? And tomorrow’s Sunday!”

  “Spousal abuse,” he muttered. “In today’s TV news climate, my congregation will pick up on it immediately.”

  “Timothy, dearest, I’m so sorry. I’ll get something for you, I don’t know what, but something. Just stay right there and don’t move.”

  She put on her slippers and robe and flew downstairs, Barnabas barking at her heels.

  T.D.A. might stand for “The Dreaded Armoire” as far as his wife was concerned. As far as he was concerned, it stood for something else entirely.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Step by Step

  He was missing her.

  How many times had he gone to the phone to call, only to realize she wasn’t there to answer?

  When Sadie Baxter died last year at the age of ninety, he felt the very rug yanked from under him. She’d been family to him, and a companionable friend; his sister in Christ, and favorite parishioner. In addition, she was Dooley’s benefactor and, for more than half a century, the most generous donor in the parish. Not only had she given Hope House, the new five-million-dollar nursing home at the top of Old Church Lane, she had faithfully kept a roof on Lord’s Chapel while her own roof went begging.

  Sadie Baxter was warbling with the angels, he thought, chuckling at the image. But not because of the money she’d given, no, indeed. Good works, the Scriptures plainly stated, were no passport to heaven. “For by grace are you saved through faith,” Paul wrote in his letter to the Ephesians, “and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God—not of works, lest any man should boast.”

  The issue of works versus grace was about as popular as the issue of sin. Nonetheless, he was set to pr
each on Paul’s remarks, and soon. The whole works ideology was as insidious as so many termites going after the stairs to the altar.

  Emma blew in, literally. As she opened the office door, a gust of cold spring wind snatched it from her hand and sent it crashing against the wall.

  “Lord have mercy!” she shouted, trying to snatch it back against a gale that sent his papers flying. She slammed the door and stood panting in front of it, her glasses crooked on her nose.

  “Have you ever?” she demanded.

  “Ever what?”

  “Seen a winter that lasted nine months goin’ on ten? I said, Harold, why don’t we move to Florida? I never thought I’d live to hear such words come out of my mouth.”

  “And what did Harold say?” he asked, trying to reassemble his papers.

  “You know Baptists,” she replied, hanging up her coat. “They don’t move to Florida; they don’t want to be warm! They want to freeze to death on th’ way to prayer meetin’ and shoot right up to th’ pearly gates and get it over with.”

  The Genghis Khan of church secretaries wagged her finger at him. “It’s enough to make me go back to bein’ Episcopalian.”

  “What’s Harold done now?”

  “Made Snickers sleep in the garage. Can you believe it? Country people don’t like dogs in the house, you know.”

  “I thought Snickers was sleeping in the house.”

  “He was, ’til he ate a steak off Harold’s plate.”

  “Aha.”

  “Down th’ hatch, neat as a pin. But then, guess what?”

  “I can’t guess.”

  “He threw it all up in the closet, on Harold’s shoes.”

  “I can see Harold’s point.”

  “You would,” she said stiffly, sitting at her desk.

  “I would?”

  “Yes. You’re a man,” she announced, glaring at him. “By the way . . .”

  “By the way what?”

  “That bump on your head is the worst-lookin’ mess I ever saw. Can’t you get Cynthia to do somethin’ about it?”