by Jan Karon
The new wayside pulpit message went by him in a blur.
“Thirty-eight across; the clue is baloney,” said Agnes. Her glasses sat near the tip of her nose as she pored over the folded newspaper with great concentration. “Thirteen letters.”
They’d had their signing lesson, and were on to the crossword as they bumped along on their visitation rounds.
“What do you have so far?”
She told him.
“Umm.” He’d never been good at the crossword, especially if he couldn’t look at the blasted thing. Nonetheless, he wanted to be helpful. “Remind me again about twenty-four down.”
“Claim on property. Four letters. Starts with L.”
“Lien!” he said.
“Of course! That gives us an N in thirty-eight across! Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I’d like to stop and say hello to Jubal. What do you think?”
“Important business to tend to,” she said, tapping the crossword with her pen. “I’ll sit in the truck.”
“God people’s always a-harryin’me.” Though Jubal looked fierce, he opened the door wider.
Father Tim eased across the threshold. “Brought you a dozen eggs.” There was a mighty aroma of something cooking . . .
Jubal took the carton, suspicious, and lifted the lid. “I’ll be dogged!” The old man’s eyes brightened. “Brown Betties is what we called ’em when I was comin’ up. I thank ye.”
“You’re mighty welcome.”
“Don’t be a-tryin’ t’ weasel in on me, now. Preachers are bad t’ weasel in on a man.”
“Hope you enjoy them!”
“They’ll go good with th’ ’coon I shot last e’nin’. That’s him a-cookin’.”
“Coon?” He realized he was backing over the threshold.
“A whopper.”
“Aha!”
“I once boughted a coon dog, but hit turned out a possum dog.”
“Got to scurry, Jubal.”
Jubal squinted at him. “You ain’t up here t’ git a bridge put o’er th’ creek, are ye?”
I hadn’t given it any thought.”
“We don’t want ary bridge o‘er th’ creek; they’d be people a-swarmin’ ever’ whichaway. Nossir, we don’t want no bridges an’ don’t ye be a-tryin’ t’ give us none.”
“You can count on me!”
He stepped off the porch into the yard. “I’ll drop in again if you don’t mind, bring you some more Brown Betties.” You’re in my prayers, he almost said, but caught himself. “By the way, anytime you have a spare squirrel or two, Miss Martha said she’d sure like to have a couple.”
Jubal’s eyes narrowed. “Tell ’at ol’ woman t’ shoot ’er own dadgone squirrel!”
“Come to think of it, I believe she might swap you a pie, or maybe a batch of cookies still warm from the oven.”
Jubal’s jaw dropped.
“Take care of yourself, now!”
He hastened to the truck, his face about to bust from grinning.
“Miss Agnes, we might be working this puzzle ’til Judgment Day. We only have three letters in thirty-eight across.”
“It’ll be finished tonight!” she said, confident. “But I’d covet getting at least two more letters in thirty-eight across before we part. By the way, if there’s time after church on Sunday, will you and Cynthia come and see Clarence’s work?”
“We’d be honored.”
“He’s just gotten the biggest order he’s ever had. It will require a great deal of him for many months.”
“I’ll pray for God to supply all his needs.”
“So many boys to pray for,” she said.
“And girls,” he said, turning into Donny Luster’s yard.
“You’re wearing your yellow shoes!” said Father Tim.
“Mama says I c’n wear ’em one day b’sides Sunday. I picked t’day.”
“They’re mighty nice and shiny.”
She bent low over her shoes, admiring. “I c’n near about see m’self; Donny he rubbed ’em with a biscuit.”
“With a biscuit?”
“Mama says they’s lard in a biscuit; hit makes shoes shiny.”
“I’ll remember that! That’s a very handy tip.”
“Mamaw Ruby teached Mama t’ use a biscuit.”
He sat in the chair beside the bed and took Dovey’s hand; Agnes eased herself into a rocking chair.
“How is your mother, Dovey? Do you hear from her?”
Sissie stood by the bed and patted her mother’s arm. “She’ll be a-cryin’ if you talk about Mamaw Ruby.”
“Crying can be good,” said Father Tim.
Tears ran along Dovey’s cheeks and onto the pillow. “She’s doin’ fine,” Dovey whispered. “She’s turnin’ fifty-two th’ last of May.”
“Mamaw Ruby teaches ‘bout Jesus in th’ prison house.”
“Please hush, Sissie, an’ let our comp’ny talk.”
“I’d like to write her, if you’ll give me her address.”
“Sissie, git me Mama’s address, an’ bring th’ medicine in m’ cup.”
Sissie trotted to the front of the trailer.
“Mama didn’t go t’ kill Daddy,” said Dovey. “He’d beat ’er since we was little, an’ she never done nothin’ about it. Then he went t’ beatin’ me. She’d never picked up a gun in ’er life, but she took ’is twelve-gauge an’ . . .”
She turned her head away from him. “Mama didn’t go t’ do it. He was beatin’ me so bad . . .”
“I understand,” he said. Perhaps he did; perhaps he didn’t.
“Miss Martha, I have a confession to make.”
“It’s about time clergy started confessin’; I read th’ newspapers, you know.”
“Well, we don’t want to go there, do we?”
“Certainly not in my house!” she said, affronted by the whole notion.
“I asked Jubal about sending you and Miss Mary a couple of squirrels.”
“An’ th’ ol’ so-an’-so refused.”
Try as he might, he couldn’t keep from grinning. “He did. Said let Miss Martha shoot her own.”
To his glad surprise, Martha McKinney hooted with laughter.
“Now here’s my confession,” he said. “I told him I thought ... I thought you might bake him a pie. You know—in exchange.”
Miss Martha looked thunderstruck. He had stepped in it, big time.
She folded her arms across her ample bosom and looked down at him from on high. She was a mighty oak; he was a worm.
“Or, maybe”—he was back-pedaling, and no help for it—“a few cookies?”
Lower than a worm.
“A biscuit or two?”
“Meddlin’! If there’s anything I can’t tolerate, it’s meddlin’! I spied evidence of this hopeless affliction when I first laid eyes on you!”
It was true. He was the worst meddler in the world. He bowed his head, resigned to this ineffable flaw in his character.
“Look!” said Miss Mary. “He’s a-prayin’.”
“He’d better be prayin’!”
He heard Agnes chuckling, Miss Mary giggling.
He looked up, as one about to be beheaded.
Miss Martha was as red in the face as a turkey gobbler, trying to hold back her laughter.
“You tell th’ old dirt dauber I’ll bake him a blackberry pie, but if you ever go an’ do such a thing again, I’ll ...”
“You’ll ... ?”
“I’ll give you th’ rollin’ pin an’ let you bake your own bloomin’ pie!”
“Yes, ma’am!” he said, thankful to be among the living.
He’d known he wouldn’t be at home, but he left a note and a carton of eggs on a shelf beside the door.
Dear Robert,
There’s more where these came from.
We hope to see you at Holy Trinity on Sunday. Afterward is the Covered Dish, but no need to bring anything, we’ll have a gracious plenty.
Your friend in Christ,
/>
Fr Kavanagh t
He’d fretted about the covered dish deal. Should he let Robert off the hook because he lived alone and probably didn’t cook, or should he allow him to step up to the plate with the rest of the parish? In any case, the vicar would be bringing a ham; Lily would be baking a cake; his wife would be making enough potato salad for the Roman legions; and all would be well.
“Thank you,” said Agnes when he returned to the truck.
He looked at her, curious, but didn’t ask her meaning.
“How can I find Robert during the day?”
“He has an automotive repair shop in Lambert, about ten miles away. I haven’t been there in years. Lloyd would know how to find it.”
“I’d like to make a call soon. Want to come along?”
“I believe just the two of you would be best.”
“Why did you thank me just now?”
She appeared oddly moved. “For meddling,” she said.
The other people on their list hadn’t been at home. At every stop, they left a new flyer, and inserted quite a few into roadside mailboxes.
Arriving at Meadowgate a little before three, he sat on the top step of the back porch, removed his brown loafer, and shook out what felt like a piece of driveway gravel. Through the screen door he heard Del and Cynthia talking.
“I seen y’r white cat at th’ smokehouse.”
“That’s Violet. She was sunning herself.”
“I’d keep ’er in if I was you.”
“Why is that?”
“Bear.”
“Bear?”
“Spotted one crossin’ th’ road th’ other mornin’.” Long silence, the rattle of a lid against a pot. “Then there’s bobcat an’ coyote.”
“Certainly not!”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Th’ coyotes used t’ didn’ mess around these parts, but now they’ve come over th’ mountain and sometimes carries off little animals, don’t you know.”
He heard his wife’s sharp intake of breath.
“Course, I guess you heard ‘bout th’ painters.”
“The painters?”
“Wild painters. They mostly live in th’ mountains, but some has seen ’em in th’ valley.”
“What on earth is a wild painter?”
“A cat. Like in Africa, but diff’rent. They say they’re extinct, but they ain’t.You ought t’ hear ’em scream. I ain’t never heard ’em scream, but my brother Jack has. He said th’ only way t’ keep a painter from tearin’ y’ t’ pieces is if you shuck off your clothes while you’re runnin’ an’ drop a piece at a time. That gives ’em somethin’ t’ stop an’ chew on so you can git away.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Hawks.”
“Hawks?”
“Yes, ma’am. They’ve been known t’ carry off little animals that cain’t hardly fight back.”
Bolting from the kitchen and slamming the screen door behind her, his wife nearly mowed him down on her way to the smokehouse.
“Fourteen,” said Willie.
“Again?”
“Nineteen lambs, seven calves, fourteen eggs.” Willie gave him one of his very rare grins. “Farmin’ these days is all about numbers, ain’t it?”
Though he dreaded the answer, the question had to be asked.
“How did Del do?”
“Absolutely towering strength. Have never seen her equal. Was a blur the livelong day.”
“But how did she do?”
“I’m so grateful, darling, that you pulled all this together. It was wonderful of you.”
“But?”
“If Del comes again, I’m leaving.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Yanking up rugs, hauling them to the clothesline, beating them within an inch of their lives ...”
He decided not to comment.
“... screeching furniture across the floor, up on the stepladder polishing ceiling fixtures, scrubbing the countertops like there’s no tomorrow ...” His wife looked pale. “And then ...”
“And then?”
“... scaring the daylights out of me about bears and coyotes and an absolute zoo of creatures prowling around out there, including something called wild painters.”
“Panthers,” he said.
“Panthers?”
“Local people say painter for panther.”
He decided the timing wasn’t right to mention that once Lloyd and his helper got going, there’d be—how had Lloyd put it?—a good bit of in and out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Clean Heart
on my life, you would love it—but then, I am happy that He has flung you out into your own backyard, to accomplish His odd and peculiar business.
Fr Harry
While he found e-mail pretty exciting stuff, snail mail continued to exert its charms—one of which was the required afternoon jaunt to the mailbox.
He read George Gaynor’s handwritten letter as he trekked up the driveway, a biting April wind at his back.
