by Jan Karon
"Well, then, I've something to add to it...since we're just playing."
"Do!"
"Yes, I have my own work and I love it and want to continue it, but if I were a clergyman's wife and I truly loved the clergyman, I'd want to do something I failed to mention tonight. More important than teas and teaching, I'd want to take the tenderest care of the clergyman himself."
She was silent for a moment. "That's all," she said softly. "That's all I wanted to say. Good night, Timothy."
After turning off the bedroom light, he went to the alcove window and looked down at the little yellow house with the glow of a lamp burning under the eaves.
"Good night," he whispered, his breath making a vapor on the glass.
"Come home," said Puny, breathless. "What is it?"
"Come quick as you can," she said. He went.
•CHAPTER NINTEEN•
PUNY MET HIM AT THE KITCHEN DOOR.
"You won't believe this," she said.
"What? What is it?"
She marched down the hall to the stairs. "I've never seen anything to beat it."
He raced behind her up the steps. "What happened?"
"The most disgustin' thing in th' world is what it is."
"What's going on?"
She stopped at the guest room. "I've lived on this earth thirty-four years, and I've never...see this little rug? She must of thought she was puttin' th' key in her pocket, and it fell on th' rug, where I found it."
She turned the knob and threw open the door.
Puny was right. He couldn't believe it.
From the unmade bed to the bags of garbage that littered the floor, the room was in complete chaos. Nothing had escaped the disorder— even the pictures hung wildly crooked on the walls.
"Smell that?" demanded his house help. "Nothin in here's been washed or cleaned for two months. You could get arrested for livin' like this."
He walked slowly into the room.
He saw his books scattered about, many of them open and lying face down. Everywhere, garbage bags spilled forth their contents: KitKat wrappers, old newspapers, scribbled notes, soda bottles, crumpled dinner napkins, tin foil, drink cans.
Clothing lay in a soiled heap in the corner.
"A pigsty!" said Puny, clearly enraged. "And look at this bed." Full of crumbs, he saw. The remains of a sandwich lay on the pillow, and an open bag of potato chips had been shoved under the blanket.
The typewriter sat in the only cleared space on the floor, a sheet of paper rolled into the carriage. What he presumed to be a manuscript lay in sections around the room, the bulk of it scattered across the foot of the bed.
He picked up a page and scanned it. His face burned.
"Good Lord!" This was definitely not about the Potato Famine.
"I read one of them pages, and it shamed me t' death. Her writin' must come straight off th' walls of a public restroom. We ought t' jis' heave it into sacks and burn th' lot of it." Puny was trembling with anger. "And what do you think about that?"
She pointed to an empty milk carton on the dressing table.
No, she was pointing to what lay beside it:
The brooch.
"I found it on the landing," said Meg Patrick, white with fury. "I was going to give it to you, but I forgot. It was right there on the dressing table, in your own house, in plain view—it wasn't as if I'd stolen it, for heaven's sake. And what were you doing in my room? I should think you would respect my privacy as I have unfailingly respected yours."
She stood in the hallway outside the guest room, her hands shoved into the pockets of the belted trench coat, glaring at him.
"I considered asking that you merely clean your room, but I realize that isn't what I want to say, after all."
"What do you want to say, then?" He saw that her magnified pupils had dilated alarmingly.
"I want to say that I'll drive you to the airport in Holding or the bus station in Wesley, whichever you prefer, and we'll leave here this evening at eight o'clock sharp. I'll thank you to pick up my books and stack them properly and take that manuscript out of here before I dispose of it personally."
She didn't slam the door until she had cursed his paternal line all the way back to his great-grandfather.
He lugged the suitcases down the stairs and loaded them in the trunk. His cousin had asked to be dropped at the bus station in Wesley.
"I don't have any money," she said, glowering. "I had thought the heart of a cousin would be generously disposed to a relative who has traveled all the way from the home country.
"Further, I believed that my needs would be considered as graciously as yours were considered in Sligo, while you lapped up our hospitality like a stoat."
He choked down a retaliation, which would have been futile, and peeled two bills off the money he'd got from the bank only this morning. He handed them to her without a word.
Dooley came along, so they could pay a surprise visit to Tommy.
His houseguest of two months rode to the station without speaking and disappeared into the terminal without a word of goodbye.
"Gross," said Dooley.
His sentiments exactly.
Before Percy let the jukebox go to the Collar Button man, he discovered it was worth more than five hundred dollars—a lot more. Then, before he could run a classified ad in the Wesley paper, Esther Cunningham talked him out of it for the museum, along with a stack of early advertising signs for Camel cigarettes, Dr. Pepper, and Sunbeam bread.
"Just think of the tax deductions," she said, peering at him over a sausage biscuit from Hardee's. "And think of seein' your name on a little sign on the wall next to that jukebox. How about 'Early Wurlitzer, a gift of Percy and Velma Mosely, proprietors of the Main Street Grill, established World War II.' How's that?"
On Wednesday, the mayor called an informal meeting of intimates at her home, hastening to add that Ray would be cooking barbecue with all the trimmings.
The subject was a festival to celebrate the opening of the first room of the museum and the installation of the Willard Porter statue on the lawn.
"Mayor," said the rector, who arrived early with a sixpack of Diet Sprite, "you are hopelessly prone to festivals."
"There's worse things mayors are prone to," she said. The red splotches had appeared on her face and neck, indicating her special enthusiasm for this project.
She stationed him in the family room where he could watch Ray finish making coleslaw. "Take a load off your feet," she said. "I've got to call the hospital an' see if th' new grandbaby is comin' anytime soon."
"Another grandbaby?" he said to Ray with astonishment.
"Number twenty-four!" Ray said, stirring the homemade dressing into the grated cabbage. "Esther likes to be there when it happens, but this one has been hemmin' and hawin' for better than a week."
"Doesn't want to come out here and face the music, I suppose. And no wonder."
Ray shook his head over the vagaries of modern life.
"Can I give you a hand?"
"You can put th' ice in th' glasses. There'll be six of us. Table's set, chairs are pulled to th' table, cornbread's bakin'. We're on go."
"Oh, well," said Esther, blowing into the room, "not a peep. I guess nobody told it that Cunninghams like to jump out and hop to it."
After dinner, the mayor occupied a velveteen swivel rocker in her family room and opened the meeting for discussion.
"I think we ought to have a band for when we unveil the statue," she said. "Do you think the Presbyterians who play the Advent Walk would do it for nothin'—or charge an arm and a leg?"
"I'll call," said Ernestine Ivory, making notes.
"And I think we ought to have the jukebox fixed so we can play it as a demonstration. But it's going to cost money."
"What doesn't?" said Under Hayes, a local attorney and councilman. "How much?"
"A hundred bucks."
"Are we goin' to charge admission?"
"I should say so! Two dollars a head—man, woman, o
r child—and no discounts for any faction."
"What are our other expenses?"
"That depends on what we come up with at this meeting. Ernestine, tell them our ideas."
"Well, you see," said the secretary blushing deeply as all eyes turned to her, "we came up with this list of fun things to do. We'd start the bidding at a certain dollar figure and auction each one to the highest bidder."
"Give us an example," said the rector.
"Well, we thought we could have somebody kiss a pig. We figured the bidding for that ought to start at a hundred dollars."
"If Esther will do it, I'll personally give you a hundred on the spot," said the rector.
The mayor rose to the challenge. "You can't scare me. I like pigs. Put me down for kissin' the pig."
"On the mouth?" inquired Ernestine, her pen poised.
"Make it a hundred and fifty," said Esther.
"Make it five hundred," said Ray. "Think big! After all, it's for a good cause."
"Five hundred," said Ernestine, writing.
"Who in the dickens," said Under, "can lay out five hundred dollars to see somebody kiss a pig?"
"You've got it all wrong, Under, honey, which wouldn't be the first time. The money is not to see somebody kiss a pig. It's to help renovate the second room in our oneandonly town museum, which will reflect the culture of this unique place and the history of its people, not to mention provide a valuable document for all time."
"But..."
"Kissing a pig is a mere..." Esther searched for a word.
"Adornment!" said Ernestine.
Ray attended the meeting from the kitchen, where he had gone to clean up. "By th' time we renovate twentytwo rooms, th' Porter place will be historic all over again."
"Get Percy to do the hula," said Joe Ivey. "That ought to be worth somethin'."
"Write that down," said Esther. "Fifty dollars. If he played a ukulele, we could get seventyfive."
Ray walked into the room carrying a pot and a drying towel. "Tell 'im to wear a grass skirt," he said. "That'll be a crowd pleaser. And another thing. Somebody could push a peanut down Main Street with their nose. I've seen that done. You could get a bundle for that."
"Depends on who you get to push it," said the rector. "For example, Esther doing it might bring five hundred, whereas Coot Hendrick, not being a town bigwig, would bring less."
"Why don't we put you down for that one?" said Esther, peering intently at the rector.
"I pass."
"Eatin' Miss Rose's cookin'—that would be a good one," said Joe Ivey.
"There ain't enough money in the world to get me to do that," said Ray, who threw the towel over his shoulder and went back to the kitchen.
"Has any consideration been given to a fundraiser with more dignity?" asked Linder.
"Dignity?" sniffed the mayor. "You can't raise cash money with dignity. It's hard enough to sell history, much less dignity."
"Just asking," said Linder.
"The peanut deal will definitely draw a crowd," said Ray, not wanting the idea to lose momentum.
"Do you think they ought to push it all th' way down Main Street?" asked Joe. "Lord have mercy, that's a long way. How about from th' bookstore to th' bakery?"
"Fine," said the mayor. "Write that down."
Ernestine raised her hand. "I've got one," she said, coloring furiously. "You could do a demonstration of how the father's dog reacts to Scripture. Nobody's ever seen a thing like that. You could maybe get a hundred."
The rector sighed. "I sincerely hope all this isn't happening in June."
"June twenty-fourth," replied the mayor, looking at the table where Ray was setting out a homemade apple crisp.
On an afternoon jog that took him across Main Street, he met J.C. Hogan.
"Where are you taking nourishment?" he asked, panting from the run.
"On a hot plate. Mule and Fancy gave it to me. I've burned more than I've consumed."
"Come by the rectory one evening, and Dooley and I will set you up to a hamburger."
"How's your cousin? Haven't seen her around."
He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "Gone. Vamoose. Outta here." He was unable to control the grin that spread across his face.
J.C. emitted one of his rare laughs. "Hasta la vista?"
"Righto. I hear they've started on the Grill."
"I can't think clear enough to write a complete sentence for all the racket goin' on down there."
"Use stringers. I'm sure Hessie Mayhew would fill up a page or two."
"Ha, ha. Have you seen Percy?"
"They're leaving June the tenth. Are you going to publicize the museum festival?"
"What museum festival?"
"Hotfoot it over to the mayor. She'll tell you everything."
J.C. set off at a trot, headed north; the rector sprinted in a southerly direction.
He drove Miss Sadie to see the progress on Hope House. They got out of the car, where she leaned on her cane and gazed across the construction site to the blue swell of mountains,
He looked down at her with affection. "Big things come in little packages, Miss Sadie."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you," he said, putting his arm around her shoulder.
Buck Leeper left a machine operator and walked over to them.
"Buck Leeper, Miss Sadie Baxter, the generous lady responsible for Hope House."
Buck removed his hard hat. He sheepishly extended his hand, then withdrew it. "Dirt," he said.
"Nothing wrong with dirt," she said brightly.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Baxter."
"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Leeper. I hear wonderful things about your abilities, and I'm proud to have you on this job."
"Thank you," he said, clearing his throat.
He was not imagining it at all. There was something different in Buck Leeper's face, something very different.
"See you at the hospital," he told the rector. Making what was clearly an involuntary bow to Miss Sadie, he said, "Ma'am," then turned and hurried away.
"Shy," she pronounced, looking after the superintendent.
"Twenty-four hundred dollars!" said Cynthia, sitting at his kitchen table, drinking tea.
"Amazing."
"What do you think he'll do with it?"
"I don't know. Stuff it between the mattress and box spring, I suppose."
"I wish he wouldn't do that! Life is too short to stuff your money between the mattress and box spring."
"Agreed."
"Five of his drawings will appear in the fall. Hardcover. Coffeetable edition! With other art, of course."
"A grand display for the museum." Uncle Billy Watson would be a local celebrity, at the very least,
"Found a tutor yet?"
"Seems there's a Louise Appleshaw around these parts. Spinster. Terribly good at English, but stern."
"Stern. Oh, dear."
"When it comes to English, Dooley Barlowe needs stern. She'd come in the afternoons, three days a week, and take the evening meal with us."
"Always heating up the oven for somebody or other. Not missing your cousin, are you?" She leaned her head to one side and grinned.
"You mean my attractive, terribly goodlooking cousin?"
"The same."
"Whatever possessed you to call her goodlooking?"
"Oh, but she really is, don't you think? So tall and thin...for those of us who're short and dumpy, she seemed..."
"You aren't short and dumpy. Short yes, but dumpy, no."
"Thank you," she said sweetly. "I'm not searching for a compliment, I promise, but not only do I feel short and dumpy, I feel vastly old..."
"You're a mere child, for heaven's sake. In heart and spirit, quite my junior. Exceedingly my junior."
"Well..." she said, gazing at him.
"You look wonderful. Everyone says so."
"They do?"
"Absolutely."
"Who is everyone?"
"Uncle Billy thinks you're a dish. And Mule Skinner still talks about your legs—it's shocking."
"Really? I love this."
"Be glad we're not playing Emma's favorite game, Last Go Trade."
"What's that?"
"I tell you something wonderful I've heard about you, and you, having the last go, had better be prepared to top it. It is a very taxing game."
"I can play that," she said.
"Remember I've just told you some pretty terrific stuff."
"Ha, I can top it all."
"Fire away, then."
"You're sexy, witty, and fun to be with."
"Who said so?"
"I said so."
"It has to be something someone else has said."
She looked blank. "Oh."
"See there? Nobody has said anything worth repeating."
"Avis Packard said you were a good cook."
"That's scraping the bottom of the barrel."
"And Puny once told me you're not hard on shirts."
"Ah. Lovely."
"Let's see..." She furrowed her brow in mock concentration.
"Well, enough of that game. I knew I didn't like it." He sipped his tea. "So, I'm all those things you said?"
"What did I say? I forgot."
"You know. Sexy, witty, fun to be with."
"You have your moments. You're not all those things across the board, of course."
"Of course."
She laughed. "I love it when you loosen up."
"What don't you love?" he asked, looking at her intently.
She gazed back at him. "Oh, soggy mittens, chocolate without nuts, and a man who can't find it in himself to hold your hand when it's sticking right out there in plain view."
He took her hand that was resting on the table. "What else?" he said.
"Never being asked out to dinner, not even once."
He got up, still holding her hand. "I have just the place!"
Edith Mallory's smoldering cigarette never entered his mind. He thought only of the soft green walls, the intimate, nosmoking corner table he'd admired, the smiling maitre d', and the menu that, apart from the elk, bison, and reindeer, offered fresh mountain trout.
"You've got something the color of hyacinths..." he said.
