by Jan Karon
He felt the moist, quick breath on his face. Good grief! He sat up and looked at the clock.
Two in the morning.
“OK, OK, I’m coming,” he whispered to Barnabas. Mighty unusual behavior ...
He rolled out of bed and put on his shoes and threw on his robe and trooped down the stairs behind his obviously frantic dog.
When he opened the backdoor, Barnabas shot from the kitchen like a ball from a cannon, and vanished into the moonless night. He heard the occupants of the henhouse squawking to high heaven, and Willie’s dogs baying from their kennel.
“Barnabas!” he shouted in his pulpit voice.
The farm dogs were awake and also wanting outside. So be it. He opened the door and let the pack loose.
More barking and baying as the whole caboodle vanished into the black ink of early morning.
He’d acted hastily by not putting his dog on a leash, and also by letting the rest of the canines run wild in the night.
Del’s reportage had them pretty nervous these days; truth be told, he’d rather not know about the perils of country life. Ignorance is bliss! he thought, recalling one of his mother’s favorite proverbs.
He poured his first coffee of the morning and sat at the kitchen table—he and Cynthia had precisely an hour and a half of calm until Lloyd and Buster showed up.
“Could have been something he ate, God forbid, on our walk in the pasture.”
Cynthia looked contrite. “I have a confession to make.”
“Your priest will hear it, my child.”
“I gave him a dab of gravy last night with a bite of tenderloin.”
“Aha! The truth will out, Kavanagh!”
She covered her face with her hands in mock fear and peered at him through her fingers.
“Small bite?” he asked. “Big bite?”
“Big bite. He’s a big dog.”
“You know he’s supposed to have dry food only.”
She uncovered her face. “Right. And you’re supposed to have only sugar-free cherry pie.”
“Cynthia, Cynthia ...”
“Life is short, Timothy. For us, for dogs ...”
“True enough. But ...”
“We’ve denied him for weeks now, and he really wanted a bite. For old times’ sake, you might say. I guess it was a little too much for his system. So, sue me.”
“If it hadn’t been for that forbidden act, he wouldn’t have come home with this.” He displayed the evidence. “Of course, I have no idea what to make of it.”
“Then I’m forgiven?”
“Absolutely forgiven. But next time ...”
“Next time?”
He laughed. “You take him out at two in the morning!”
Small blue and white checks on a scrap of lightweight cotton. Shirt material.
As Barnabas snored under the table, Father Tim examined again the torn patch of cloth which his good dog had delivered on returning from his moonless run.
What if he carried forth this foolish notion and no one laughed? Would that dishonor the man they’d come to honor?
“Psalm fifteen,” he told the graveside gathering, “says ‘the cheerful heart hath a continual feast.’ And Proverbs seventeen twenty-two asserts that ‘a merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’
“Indeed, one of the translations of that proverb reads ‘a cheerful disposition is good for your health; gloom and doom leave you bone-tired.’
“Bill Watson spent his life modeling a better way to live, a healthier way, really, by inviting us to share in a continual feast of laughter. Sadder even than the loss of this old friend is that most of us never really got it, never quite understood the sweet importance of this simple, yet profound ministry in which he faithfully persevered.
“Indeed, the quality I loved best about our good brother was his faithful perseverance.
“When the tide seemed to turn against loving, he loved anyway. When doing the wrong thing was far easier than doing the right thing, he did the right thing anyway. And when circumstances sought to prevail against laughter, he laughed anyway.
“I’m reminded of how an ardent cook loves us with her cooking or baking, just as Esther Bolick has loved so many with her orange marmalade cakes. In the same way, Uncle Billy loved us with his jokes. And oh, how he relished making us laugh, prayed to make us laugh! And we did.
“I hope you’ll pitch in with me to remember Bill Watson with a few of his favorite jokes. We have wept and we will weep again over the loss of his warm and loyal friendship. But I know he’s safe in the arms of our Lord, Jesus Christ, precisely where God promises that each of His children will be after death.
“This wondrous truth is something to joyfully celebrate. And I invite us to celebrate with laughter. May its glad music waft heavenward, expressing our heartfelt gratitude for the unique and tender gift of William ... Benfield ... Watson.”
He nodded to Old Man Mueller, who, only a few years ago, had regularly sat on the Porter place lawn with Uncle Billy and watched cars circle the monument.
The elderly man stood in his ancient jacket and best trousers and cleared his throat and looked around at the forty other souls gathered under the tent on this unseasonably hot day.
“Feller went to a doctor and told ’im what all was wrong.”
He sneezed, and dug a beleaguered handkerchief from his pants pocket.
“So, th’ doctor give ’im a whole lot of advice about how t’ git well.” He proceeded to blow his nose with considerable diligence.
“In a little bit, th’ feller started t’ leave an’ the’ doctor says, ‘Hold on! You ain’t paid me f‘r my advice.’ Feller says, ‘That’s right, b’cause I ain’t goin’ t’ take it!’ ”
Old Man Mueller sat down hard on the metal folding chair, under which his dog, Luther, was sleeping. A gentle breeze moved beneath the tent.
I’ve stepped in it now, thought Father Tim. Not a soul laughed—or for that matter, even smiled. He prayed silently as Percy Mosely rose and straightened the collar of his knit shirt.
Percy wished to the dickens he’d worn a jacket and tie, it hadn’t even occurred to him until he stood up here to make a fool of himself. But if he was going to be a fool, he wanted to be the best fool he could possibly be—for Uncle Billy’s sake. “Put your heart in it!” Father Tim had said.
“A deputy sheriff caught a tourist drivin’ too fast, don’t you know. Well, sir, he pulled th’ tourist over an’ said, ‘Where’re you from?’ Th’ tourist said, ‘Chicago.’ ‘Don’t try pullin’ that stuff on me,’ said th’ deputy. ‘Your license plate says Illinoise! ’”
Percy swayed slightly on his feet as a wave of sheer terror passed over him. Had he done it? Had he told the joke? His mind was a blank. He sat down.
In the back row, the mayor’s secretary giggled, but glanced at the coffin and clapped her hand over her mouth. The Mitford postmaster, whose mother lived in Illinois, chuckled.
The vicar crossed himself.
Solemn as a judge, J. C. Hogan rose to his feet and wiped his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. He wouldn’t do this for just anybody, no way, but he’d do it for Uncle Billy. In his opinion, Uncle Billy was an out-and-out hero to have lived with that old crone for a hundred years.
The editor buttoned the suit jacket he’d just unbuttoned; if he was a drinking man, he’d have had a little shooter before this thing got rolling. And what was he supposed to do, anyway? Talk like Uncle Billy, or talk like himself? He decided to do a combo deal.
“Did you hear the one about the guy who hit his first golf ball and made a hole in one? Well, sir, he th‘owed that club down an’ stomped off, said, ‘Shoot, they ain’t nothin’ to this game, I quit!’”
The postmaster laughed out loud. The mayor’s secretary cackled like a laying hen. Avis Packard, seated in the corner by the tent pole, let go with what sounded like a guffaw.
The golfers in the crowd had been identified.
Exhausted, J.C. thumped into the met
al chair.
The vicar felt a rivulet of sweat running down his back. And where was his own laughter? He had blabbed on and on about the consolations of laughter, and not a peep out of yours truly who’d concocted this notion in the first place.
Mule Skinner stood, nodded to the crowd, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat. This was his favorite Uncle Billy joke, hands down, and he was honored to tell it—if he could remember it. That was the trick. When he’d practiced it last night on Fancy, he’d left a gaping hole in the middle that made the punch line go south.
“A ol’ man and a ol’ woman was settin’ on th’ porch, don’t you know.”
Heads nodded. This was one of Uncle Billy’s classics.
“Th’ ol’ woman said, ‘You know what I’d like t’ have?’ Ol’ man said, ‘What’s ’at?’
“She says, ‘A big ol’ bowl of vaniller ice cream with choc’late sauce an’ nuts on top!’”
Uncle Billy, himself, couldn’t do it better! thought the vicar.
“He says,‘By jing, I’ll jis’ go down t’ th’ store an’ git us some.’ She says, ‘You better write that down or you’ll fergit it!‘ He says, ‘I ain’t goin’ t’ fergit it.’
“Went to th’ store, come back a good bit later with a paper sack. Hands it over, she looks in there, sees two ham san’wiches.”
Several people sat slightly forward on their folding chairs.
“She lifted th’ top off one of them san’wiches, says, ‘Dadgummit, I told you you’d fergit! I wanted mustard on mine!’”
The whole company roared with laughter, save Miss Rose, who sat stiff and frowning on the front row.
“That was my favorite Uncle Billy joke!” someone exclaimed.
Coot Hendrick stood for a moment then sat back down. He didn’t think he could go through with this. But he didn’t want to show disrespect to Uncle Billy’s memory.
He stood again, cleared his throat, scratched himself—and went for it.
“A farmer was haulin’ manure, don’t you know, an’ ‘is truck broke down in front of a mental institution. One of th’ patients, he leaned over th’ fence an’ said, ‘What’re you goin’ t’ do with that manure?’
“Farmer said, ‘I’m goin’ t’ put it on my strawberries.’
“Feller said, ‘We might be crazy, but we put whipped cream on ours!’”
Bingo! Laughter all around!
On the front row, Lew Boyd slapped his leg, a type of response the vicar knew Uncle Billy always valued.
Thank You, Lord!
Dr. Hoppy Harper unfolded himself from the metal chair like a carpenter’s ruler. He was the tallest one beneath the tent, which inspired a good deal of respect right off the bat.
The town doctor turned to those assembled.
“Uncle Billy told this joke quite a few years ago, when he and Miss Rose came to dinner at Father Tim’s rectory. I’ve never forgotten that evening, for lots of reasons, and especially because another of my favorite patients was then living—Miss Sadie Baxter.”
More nodding of heads. A few murmurs. Miss Sadie Baxter!
“Uncle Billy, I hope I don’t let you down.”
Hoppy shoved his hands into the sport coat he was wearing over his green scrubs.
“A fella wanted to learn to sky dive ... don’t you know. He goes to this school and he takes a few weeks of training, and pretty soon, it comes time to make his jump.
“So he goes up in this little plane and bails out, and down he shoots like a ton of bricks. He gets down a ways ... don’t you know, and starts pulling on his cord, but nothing happens. He’s really traveling now, still pulling that cord. Nothing. Switches over to his emergency cord, same thing—nothing happens; he’s looking at the tree tops. All of a sudden, here comes this other guy shootin’ up from the ground like a rocket. And the guy going down says, ‘Hey buddy, d’you know anything about parachutes?’ And the one coming up says, ‘Afraid not; d’you know anything about gas stoves?’”
Laughter and applause. This would be a tough act to follow.
Father Tim waited for the laughter to subside and stepped forward.
“A census taker was makin’ ’is rounds, don’t you know.”
A burst of laughter.
“I love this one!” Hessie Mayhew whispered to the mayor’s secretary.
“Well, sir, he went up to a house an’ knocked an’ a woman come to th’ door. He said, ‘How many young‘uns you got, an’ what’re their names?’
“Woman starts countin’ on her fingers, don’t you know, says, ‘We got Jenny an’ Penny, they’re ten.We got Hester an’ Lester, they’re twelve. We got Billie an’ Willie, they’re fourteen ...’
“Census taker says ...”
A large knot rose suddenly in his throat. Uncle Billy felt so near, so present that the vicar was jarred profoundly. And what in heaven’s name did the census taker say? His wits had deserted him; he was sinking like a stone.
Miss Rose stood, clutching a handbag made in 1946 of cork rounds from the caps of soda pop bottles.
“Th’ census taker says,” she proclaimed at the top of her lungs, “‘D’you mean t’ tell me you got twins ever) time?’
“An’ th’ woman says, ‘Law, no, they was hundreds of times we didn’t git nothin’!’”
Cleansed somehow in spirit, and feeling an unexpected sense of renewal, those assembled watched the coffin being lowered into place. It was a graveside procedure scarcely seen nowadays, and one that signaled an indisputable finality.
“Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother, William Benfield Watson, and commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ ...”
He’d always felt daunted by Rose Watson’s countenance, for it bore so clearly the marks of her illness. Indeed, it appeared as if some deep and terrible rage had surfaced, and hardened there for all to witness.
She wore a black cocktail hat of uncertain antiquity, and a black suit he remembered from their days at Lord’s Chapel. It was made memorable by its padded shoulders from the forties, and a lapel that had been largely eaten away by moths.
Betty Craig gripped Miss Rose’s arm, looking spent but encouraged, as people delivered their condolences and departed the graveside.
“Miss Rose ...”
He took the old woman’s cold hands, feeling frozen as a mullet himself. Though he believed he was somehow responsible for her well-being, he hadn’t a clue how to proceed.
She threw back her head and mowed him down with her fierce gaze. “I saved your bloomin’ neck!” she squawked.
“Yes, you did! By heaven, you did!”
He was suddenly laughing at his own miserable ineptness, and at the same time, weeping for her loss. “And God bless you for it!”
He found himself doing the unthinkable—he was hugging Rose Watson and patting her on the back for a fare-thee-well.
“Timothy, there’s a chicken at the back door!”
“Invite it in.”
“I’m serious.”
He walked to the screen door and looked out to the porch.
One of their Rhode Island Reds.
“The plot thickens,” he said.
He showed the swatch of cloth to Sammy. “Look what Barnabas brought home this morning at two-thirty.”
He thought Sammy looked oddly pale. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“W-what about it?”
“Here’s what I’m thinking. When Barnabas went out to do his business, the poacher happened to be at the hen house ...”
“What’s a poacher?”
“It’s a British term for someone who trespasses on a property to hunt or fish, or steal game. So, Barnabas starts barking, the poacher starts running, and bingo! Barnabas catches up and nabs a piece of his shirt.”
“If chickens are g-gettin’ out on their own like th’-th’-th’ one this mornin’, there p-prob’ly ain’t any p
oacher. Th’ chickens’re jis’ somehow ...”—Sammy shrugged—“... f-flyin’ th’ coop.”
“I believe the poacher dropped the chicken,” said the vicar.
“Whatever,” said Sammy.
Chilly tonight.
He put a match to the paper; the flame devoured it, and licked at the kindling. As Cynthia worked at the kitchen table, and Sammy watched TV in his room, he had a few calls to make.
The smell of popcorn wafted from the kitchen. An open fire and popcorn! Blessings galore, he thought ...
“I need a favor. I understand how pressured you are, and this one, frankly, is huge.”
“I know you, Father; you’d do it for me.”
“Yes,” he said.
“If you hadn’t done me the greatest of favors, I wouldn’t be the happiest of men. What do you need?”
Father Tim outlined the plan.
“I’ll come in my scrubs; I’m hardly out of them these days.”
“I’ll meet you at noon—at the crossroads of Farmer and Bentley, in the parking lot at Kirby’s Store. I’m in a red truck, considerably faded.”
“I’m considerably faded, myself, but I’ll see you then.”
Lord, he prayed again, reveal the mystery; let it be a mystery no more ...
“Hey, son. I’m missing you; just wanted to hear your voice.”
Dooley had never warmed to such outpourings; nonetheless, Father Tim found it best to speak these things. The loss of loved ones always made him reflect ...
“I’ll be done with finals May tenth, and home on the eleventh.”
“We’re praying about your finals; don’t worry, you can nail them. You’ll never guess what I’ve been thinking. Remember the time we walked to Mitford School together—it was your first day. You went ahead of me, then thought twice about it and asked me to walk up ahead. You didn’t want anybody to think a preacher was following you around.”
Dooley cackled. “Yeah, well, I got over it.”
At the sound of the laughter he loved, Father Tim’s spirit lifted up. He would tell him about the money this summer. Maybe they’d trek out to the sheep pasture and sit on the big rock by the pond, or maybe they’d sit in the library—Dooley could have the leather wing chair for this auspicious occasion. Shoot, they might even haul around a few dirt roads in the new truck.
