by Jan Karon
He was doing his homework.
He spent several hours on the phone, compiling a list of schools and contacts, including a priest who helped socially and economically disadvantaged boys get into major boarding and prep schools.
Dooley would need testing, along with English, science, and algebra placement. Clearly, he would need tutoring in English. And no, it wouldn't be the way he spoke that could make or break him but the way he pulled an English composition together.
Last but certainly not least, they would need the strong approval and support of two or three current teachers.
At three o'clock, he left the whole exhausting task and, for refreshment, went to make hospital calls.
If making hospital calls was his idea of refreshment, he later realized, he was in trouble.
Joe Ivey was out of town for the day, with a Closed sign on his door at the top of the stairs. Feeling like a sneak thief, he called Fancy Skinner who had a cancellation and could take him.
"Good grief! I can't believe what's goin' on with this stuff over your ears. It's that chipmunk look again. I thought I cured you of that.
"If I was a man and saw Joe Ivey comin' down th' street, I'd cross to th' other side. What did he use to cut your hair, anyway, a rusty saw blade?
"Do you know how much coffee I've had this mornin'? You won't believe it. A potful! I never drink a potful of coffee! I declare, it makes me talk a blue streak. Look how my hands are shakin'. I hope I don't cut your ear off or jab a hole in your head. Hold still, for gosh sake. See what I mean about those clumps over your ears? There you go! Look at that. A hundred times better—and I'm not even finished.
"I guess you know what's goin on at the Grill. Mule is so depressed, you wouldn't believe it. You'd think he was losin' the roof over his head. He said you're goin' to work on changin' her mind. Bein' a preacher and all, you can probably talk her into whatever. I personally don't care if we get a dress shop. I order everything out of catalogs. That is the latest thing, orderin' out of catalogs, which is fine except for shoes. I wouldn't order shoes out of a catalog, would you?
"Oh, no, can you see that little bitty nerve jumpin' in my eye? That is so embarrassin'. I forget that happens if I drink a potful of coffee. Why I did it, I don't know. I don't have the slightest idea. Mule said, 'Don't drink this potful of coffee,' but then he went to the Grill and I drank it. Do you ever do somethin' somebody tells you plainly not to do, and you know they're right, but you can't help yourself?
"Your scalp is tense. You should try to relax. I bet bein' a preacher is hard. I mean, all those people lookin' to see if you're walkin' what you're talkin', right?
"I never did ask if you want a Diet Coke. Or would you like a Sprite? You tell me. I offer cold drinks as a courtesy. I would offer coffee, but it's a mess to clean up—like a fireplace. Mule said, 'Do you want to burn the fireplace this winter?' I said, 'No, it's a mess to clean up.' I bet you burn a fireplace, though. You look like you'd burn a fireplace.
"Oh, mercy, wasn't that some winter we had? Have you ever? I am not over that yet. A blizzard! Can you believe it? And snow in April. Or was it March? I don't know. Since I opened this shop, I can't keep up.
"I declare, look at you. You are handsome as all get-out. Do you have a girlfriend? Mule told me somethin' about your neighbor. What was it? Let's see. Oh, yeah. I shouldn't tell that, but what the heck—he said she has great legs. Do you really like her? You don't have to answer—I know that's a personal question. But I hope you do, because people shouldn't live alone. It's not good for your health. Of course, you've got a dog. They say that helps.
"Well! What do you think? See how it slenderizes your face? You ought to let me give you a mask sometime. No, I mean it. Men in Los Angelees and New York do it all the time. It cleans out your pores. Oh, and Italians, they do masks. They even carry handbags, did you know that? Italian men are different. .My girlfriend used to date an Italian. He was so macho, you wouldn't believe it. How can you be macho and carry a handbag, I wonder? I don't have the slightest idea.
"Oh, law, this coffee has got me flyin' to the moon. That'll be ten dollars. No, six! I forgot—you're clergy."
He closed the door to the study, then closed his eyes and prayed.
He might as well expect water to flow uphill as to expect this phone call to do any good—but where was his faith?
Ed Coffey answered the phone at Edith's condominium in Boca Raton.
"She's with someone on the patio, Father."
"I can call later."
"Oh, no, sir. I'm sure Miz Mallory would like to talk to you."
He waited an eternity.
"Hello," Edith said, exhaling smoke into the receiver.
"Edith, it's Tim."
"Yes, Timothy," He might have been someone from the IRS for all the enthusiasm he heard in her voice.
"How's the weather down there?"
"Fine."
He pushed on. "Same here. You mentioned you wanted to talk about something before you go off to Spain...?"
"Nothing urgent."
Was she talking through clenched teeth? "Aha. When are you coming home, may I ask?"
"I don't know. But I do know why you're calling me."
"Yes, well, to find out what you wanted to talk about before Spain..."
"You're calling because your precious Grill is going to be yanked out from under you, and you think you can talk me out of it."
"Edith..."
"I don't know what you men find to love about that tacky hole in the wall. My husband went there every morning of his life. You would have thought they were paying him to open up the place. Magdolen and I begged him to eat something sensible in his own home, but no! He marched right down there and ate God knows what and came home reeking of grease—which, in my opinion, killed him."
"Grease?"
"Gorging himself on sausage and biscuits and grits and every other thing that wrecked havoc with his doctor's orders, and where is he now?"
At peace, he wanted to say. "A double rent hike is..."
"...is the smart thing to do, Timothy. My accountant is here. That's exactly what we've been discussing. Put yourself in my shoes." He heard the familiar whine overtaking her indignation. "If I don't look after Edith, who will?"
Her mood was changing. She was batting her eyelashes, he could just feel it. "I'd like to talk with you when you come home," he said.
She breathed into the phone. "I won't let you get away with one single, weensy thing, though I do hope you'll try."
"I don't have a clue," said the mayor, sucking up the last of her Diet Coke through a straw. "If somebody wants to hike rent, they hike rent. It's still a free country, though God knows how long that'll last with th' rabble we've sent to Washington."
"Can't we declare it historic or something?"
"That won't change a thing. Come to think of it, why don't you talk to th' landlord about it? I hear she's taken a shine to you."
He blanched. "Mayor, if you can't help us fight progress around here, who can?"
"Truth is, I'm feelin' too old to fight progress. And if you let on I said that, I'll say you lied. I just want to get in th' Winnebago with Ray and go to Colorado for a little fishin'."
"Take me with you!" he implored.
They had concluded the antiphonal reading of the psalm when he looked up and saw an extraordinary sight.
Barnabas was trotting up the aisle, as a couple of astonished ushers stared after him.
He arrived at the front pew on the gospel side and halted, turning to stare into the face of an alarmed congregant.
Was this a dream? No, it was a nightmare, for Barnabas was now licking a perfect stranger—a visitor, no less—on the right ear.
"Let love be genuine," said the lay reader, carrying on with the scripture reading, "hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good..."
How had he forgotten to close the garage door? He had never forgotten to close the garage door. He could hear laughter breaking out like measl
es.
"...outdo one another in showing honor. Do not lag in zeal, be ardent inspirit..."
Barnabas looked toward the lectern, then gave a sigh and lay down, his head on the visitor's foot. The man wiped his glasses and his ear with a handkerchief and, smiling broadly, gave his rapt attention to the remainder of the reading from Romans.
"Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.'"
That his dog stood for the Nicene Creed and again for the dismissal hymn was, he concluded, something to marvel at.
Dear Cynthia,
It won't be long until lights will burn again in the darkened windows of the little yellow house; bushes will bloom, trees will leaf out, the wrens will build a nest under your eave. So, hurry home, and help these good things to happen.
If you'll let me know when you're arriving, I'd like to fetch you from the airport.
All is well here, only one upset which I'll tell you about. Am investigating schools for Dooley. Thankfully, there are quite a few out there, but must get some tutoring into him before fall. Will likely go on a tour of schools as soon as his classes at Mitford School are over in fune.
We will be glad to have you home.
He pondered how to sign it. He might even have agonized over it, but he refused. Did he love her? Of course. That had never been the question.
Love, Timothy
"Where are th' KitKats that was in the kitchen drawer?"
"Where are the KitKats that were in the kitchen drawer?"
"Yeah, where're they at?" asked Dooley.
"Where are they."
"I'm askin' you. They ain't in there."
"They aren't in there."
"That's what I said."
He was unable to keep from laughing. "Dooley Barlowe, I'd like to wring your neck."
"You'll have t' catch me," Dooley said, grinning.
"Ask the question in proper English, for Pete's sake. You talk like a Rhodes scholar for Marge Owen. Come on—give me a break."
"Where are the dern KitKats?"
"That's better. And the answer is, I don't know."
"That woman eat 'em is what I think."
"Did you eat them and forget you did it?"
"I don't forget stuff like that. I remember eatin' candy, 'specially since I was savin' those for me and Tommy."
"I'll look into it," he said. Which was worse—the nervous tic that had lately begun to jump in his right cheek or the wrenching in his stomach?
"Cats?" she said, staring at him blankly. "I despise cats."
"No. The candy. The candy that was in the drawer to the left of the sink. That is Dooley's candy drawer."
"I don't know anything about candy," she said with distaste, "as I never touch sweets."
What could he say?
The fog was dense, the afternoon was cold, and her plane was late.
He drank coffee in the terminal cafe that was the size of his bedroom closet and stared out the window, searching the skies. "Heavy weather in Charlotte," they told him at the flight counter. "It's going to be an hour, maybe two."
He read an abandoned newspaper, checked his urine, jotted sermon notes on the back of a napkin, paced the floor, and observed the reading material of a few desultory air travelers. Grisham, Clancy, and Steel seemed to win, hands down.
The fog had turned to rain when the Fokker commuter descended, two and a half hours behind its scheduled arrival.
He watched her come through the door and down the steps of the plane as an eager airline attendant thrust an umbrella over her head.
He felt that some connection had been broken, as if he might have to start all over again to know her, and that she was walking toward him as if from a very great distance.
Holding onto an airline umbrella with one hand, he helped Cynthia into the front seat, put Violets crate on the back seat, and piled luggage into the trunk.
His feet were soaked. Who had known the skies were going to give way, when all had been sunshine and bird song in Mitford at noon?
He returned the umbrella to the desk and dashed to the car.
"Blast," he said, sliding under the steering wheel. The faintest scent of wisteria greeted him.
"Thank you, Timothy."
"For what?"
"For waiting. For coming at all. For getting drenched into the bargain."
"My pleasure," he said, trying to mean it.
As they neared Mitford, she grew silent and rummaged in her purse.
"Oh, no!" she said.
"What is it?"
"My house key! It was on the key ring I left in the apartment. Oh, no."
"Don't worry. I have your key, remember? That's how I got in to find the lights at Christmas."
"Thank heaven!" She sank back against the seat and smiled at him.
He was struck by her warm presence and the way she looked in the purple wool suit the color of hyacinths.
Although their conversation hadn't flowed like wine, he felt better— consoled, somehow.
But he couldn't find her key.
She sat in the kitchen with Violet howling in the crate and Barnabas going berserk in the garage while he searched his bureau drawers. He had meant to put the key on his key ring but had never done it, and he kicked himself for the stupid way in which he managed to lose important things. He wouldn't even think about the brooch, not now, for it was all too much.
He went back to the kitchen. "You're not the only one who can't find your house key. I put it in the bureau drawer, and it's simply not there." He switched on the burner under the tea kettle and sat down across the table from her.
"Oh, dear," she said.
Violet howled. He heard Barnabas lunging against the door from the garage to the hallway.
"Perhaps one of your windows isn't burglarproof?"
"I never lock the windows on the side toward your house, because I raise them so often in summer."
"Then I could use your stepladder—mine isn't high enough to reach—and we'll have you in your house in no time."
"Wonderful! I shall make all this up to you, somehow."
"Don't even think about it. Let's have a cup of tea first, shall we?"
"I'd love a cup of tea! And do you have a bit of milk for Violet?"
"If Dooley hasn't downed the whole gallon," he said, foraging through the refrigerator.
He left Cynthia with tea and a plate of shortbread, and Violet with a dish of milk, to fetch his slicker that was hanging in the garage.
As he stepped back into the hall, he heard voices in the kitchen.
"H'lo."
"Hello. I'm Cynthia from next door."
"Meg Patrick."
"Yes, well..."
He heard the refrigerator door open and shut. His cousin was probably dressed in that motheaten chenille robe and those scuffs that were out at the toe. He shuddered to think.
"Are you...enjoying your visit?" Cynthia asked.
"Righto. Very pleasant, all the comforts. And such a thoughtful man, my cousin."
"Yes, he is that. Are you...close cousins?"
"Actually not. Third. Although in Ireland, third cousins often become very close, indeed—it's not unusual for them to marry."
"Really?"
"My own mother married her third cousin."
"I see."
"Well, cheerio."
"Cheerio."
He stepped into the kitchen as his cousin stomped up the stairs, and he saw that Cynthia's eyes were wide with a kind of wonder.
He was rummaging in the kitchen handy drawer for a chisel and hammer when the phone rang.
"Would you answer, please? Just tell them I'm busy and I'll call back."
He could hardly wait to lug that blasted stepladder out of her basement and drag it around her house in the pou
ring rain, looking for a burglarfriendly window.
"Hello?" said Cynthia.
"Hellooo, is the man of the house in?"
"He's busy now. May he call you back?"
"Just tell him Edith is home and dying to have the little chat we talked about the other evening. Perhaps over dinner. Why doesn't he ring me later? Tell him I can have my car sent down...anytime."
"Oh?"
"You must be the little house help I hear so much about."
Cynthia slammed the receiver on the hook.
"Good heavens," she whispered, turning a scorching shade of red. "I hung up on her. I don't know what came over me."
"Who was it...exactly?"
"I don't know what's gotten into me, I...I've never hung up on anyone in my life, and now I've done it twice in a row."
He slowly put the hammer in one pocket.
"It was Edith," she said. "That woman in the Lincoln."
He put the chisel in the other pocket.
"They're positively queuing up for you."
There was a very odd look on her face. Was she going to burst into tears or throw something at him? He stood unprotected in the middle of the floor. "Queuing...up?" he croaked.
"First your socalled cousin who seems to have moved in permanently, and thanks for never telling me she's a raving beauty! And now this...this Edith who says she'll send her car down for you anytime, so you can have the little chat you're so looking forward to. I'm terribly sorry you had to fetch me from the airport, as it has clearly taken you away from a very demanding social schedule."
She grabbed Violet's crate and flew out the door and down the steps before he could gain any locomotion whatever.
"Cynthia! Where are you going?" he shouted from the back door. The rain was not only steady, it was pouring.
She turned around and glared at him, already drenched. "To a place where people are honest and decent and tell the plain truth instead of lies!"
"I hope this Valhalla isn't next door, because you can't get in."
