by Jan Karon
“Pray about it? I’ve prayed about th’ whole deal ’til I’m blue in th’ face. He don’t hear me n’more.”
Donny turned away and took a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and lit it with a book match. He inhaled, and angrily flipped the dead match into the bushes.
“You pray,” he told the vicar.
They were headed toward Meadowgate with Sissie, a grocery bag stuffed with pajamas, a derelict toy bear, and a change of clothes. Dooley and Sammy drove ahead in the Jeep.
Father Tim glanced down at Sissie, who was looking glum. “Can you tell me what you learned today in Sunday School?”
Sissie kicked at the dashboard with the toe of a yellow shoe. “Sammy, he give us a seed apiece an’ a little pot with dirt in it. I went off an’ f’rgot mine.”
“We’ll give you another one. Did he say anything about the seed?”
“Cynthy, she said a seed’s got t’ git light... an’ what else?”
“Water,” said Cynthia. “And food.”
“She said Jesus is all them things, an’ when He lives in us, He makes us grow.”
“Well done, Sissie. Have you ever watched a seed grow?”
“No.”
“You will when you get to our house,” said Cynthia. “Can you believe that the little seed we gave everyone this morning is really a very tall sunflower, as high as this truck?”
Sissie shook her head. “No.”
“Me, neither,” said the vicar.
“Sho-o-o!” Sissie looked around their desecrated kitchen and wrinkled her nose. “Hit stinks in you’uns’ house.”
“M-might be y’r upper 1—lip,” said Sammy.
Father Tim crawled into bed and punched up his pillow. As all beds were taken, Sissie sprawled on the loveseat in their bedroom, snoring beneath a quilt.
“A full house,” he said, feeling both the weight and the providence of such a circumstance.
His wife heaved a sigh. “I always wanted children. But I never dreamed they’d all belong to other people.”
As he was leaving the house at a little after six on Monday, he saw Willie trotting to the porch in the dusky first light. He was toting his hat and looking defeated.
“Took ’em out of th’ nest yesterday evenin’. Eleven.”
“You counted the chickens?”
“Eleven.”
“Blast. We lost one, then.”
“Yessir. But didn’t hear nothin’ in th’ night.”
Willie shook his head. He was totally mystified, and plenty disgusted into the bargain. The whole thing was a dadgum aggravation.
He did all he could to assure Dovey, and promised to visit again on Tuesday. Afterward, he scooted to Dora Pugh’s Hardware, jingling the bell above the door.
“I been lookin’ for you in th’ obituaries!” said Dora.
“Don’t look there yet!”
“Have you heard about Coot Hendrick’s new job?”
“Coot’s working?” As far as he knew, Coot hadn’t struck a lick at a snake in at least two decades.
“Has a hundred and seventy people under him.”
“What?”
“Weed—eats th’town graveyard.”
He laughed. “Ah, Dora, you’re a sly one.”
“I hear Bill Sprouse up at First Baptist cut his chin pretty bad while shavin’, said he had his mind on his sermon.”
“I’ll be darned. Sorry to hear it.”
“They say he should’ve kep‘his mind on his chin and cut ’is sermon.”
“You got me twice in a row!”
Dora cackled.
“What’s your best deal on a garden spade?”
“You want a good garden spade or a sorry garden spade?”
“Better give me a good garden spade.”
“Thirty-four ninety—five.”
“Done,” he said, reaching into his hip pocket.
He noted that Dora was smoking him over. “You’ve sure let your hair get long.”
“Only around the collar,” he said. “Nothing much happening on top.”
It was definitely that time again.
He raced up Main Street and crossed to The Local, carrying the shovel.
“Avis, how’s business?”
“Can’t complain. How’s yours?”
“Growing,” he said, pulling out the grocery list. “We’ve got a crowd at the house—two strapping boys and a five-year-old. If you could put this together for me, I’ll pick it up in a cou—ple of hours.”
“You need a U-Haul,” said Avis, looking at the list. “I see Ol’ Dooley’s home—steak and p’tatoes.” He scanned the list. “Nothin‘on here for a little kid; better get you some peanut butter an’jelly.”
“Brilliant! And while I’m thinking of it, add a couple of cake mixes. Chocolate.”
“You heard th‘one about th’guy who broke into th’dress store three nights in a row?”
“Haven’t heard it.”
“Told th‘judge he picked out a dress for his wife an’ had to exchange it two times.”
Father Tim burst out laughing. He’d never known the poker-faced Avis Packard to tell a joke in the twenty years he’d known him. Miracles, he was glad to be reminded, happen all the time.
He had a few minutes to fill the tank and shoot the breeze, but no time for lunch.
Wheeling into Lew’s, he realized he dreaded seeing J. C.
It wasn’t his place to report what he’d stumbled upon, and yet, shouldn’t J.C. know that his worst fear had come to pass? On the other hand, J. C. would find out soon enough—someone would surely spill the beans; carrying on in a patrol car wouldn’t go unnoticed in Mitford, not by a long shot.
He thought the Muse editor looked... what? Tan? Slimmer?
And Percy, he observed, was definitely looking younger. “It’s layin’ up in bed ’til six o’clock,” said Percy, who’d risen before five for more than forty years.
Mule, on the other hand, looked like he’d always looked which, in a world of change, was sort of comforting, thought Father Tim.
“You know how th’ Presbyterians don’t pay their preacher anything to speak of,” said Mule.
That news had been on the street for years.
“Th’ other night, somebody broke in through his bedroom window, and held a gun on ’im.”
“Good grief!” said Father Tim.
“Told ol’ Henry not to move; said he was huntin’ for his money. Henry said, ‘Let me get up an’ turn on th’ light, an’ I’ll hunt with you.’”
Father Tim hooted with laughter, as did the rest of the Turkey Club.
Percy unzipped his lunch bag. “I guess you heard about th’ carrier pigeon that rolled in twelve hours late.”
Nobody had heard it.
“Said it was such a nice day, it decided to walk.”
J.C. rolled his eyes.
“What’s going on?” asked Father Tim. “All of a sudden, Mitford is Joke City. I get jokes from Dora Pugh, a joke from Avis, of all people ...”
“It’s an Uncle Billy kind of thing,” said Mule. “Holdin’ on to th’ tradition.”
“Yeah,” said Percy.
J.C. hauled a foil-wrapped lump from his briefcase. “Eat more fiber, tell more jokes. It’s sort of a health deal that’s goin’ around.”
“Speaking of health, looks like you’re dropping a little weight.”
“I blew off six pounds.” J.C. peeled away the foil.
“And what’s with the tan?”
“Yard work, buddyroe, yard work.”
The fumes from J.C.’s lunch were killer. The vicar glanced at his watch.
“You heard about th’ guy who was so short you could see his feet on his driver’s license?” asked J.C.
Mule groaned.
“Th’ same guy had his appendix out, it left a scar on his neck.”
What an amazing outbreak, thought Father Tim, something like measles...
“You heard th’ one about two guys who rented a boat t
o go fishin’ on th’ lake?” asked J.C.
“Haven’t heard it,” said Father Tim.
“Th’ first day, they caught thirty fish.”
“That’s a joke right there,” said Mule, who never caught anything to speak of.
“When they started back to shore, one said ...”—J.C. took an enormous bite of his sandwich—“ ‘Bettermarkisspotsowecancomebackt’ morrow.’”
“What’d he say?” asked Percy.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, for Pete’s sake.” This was definitely one of Mule’s personal peeves.
J.C. gulped. “So, next day when they were goin’ to rent a boat, the guy said, ‘Did you mark our spot?’ Other one says, ‘Yeah, I put a big X on the bottom of th’ boat.’ His buddy says, ‘That was pretty stupid; what if we don’t get the same boat this time?ʼ”
J.C. burst into laughter, a sound something like ham sizzling in lard.
“Oh, man.” Another of Mule’s personal peeves was people who laughed at their own jokes.
Watching J.C. hoot his head off, Father Tim felt a stab of pity. Innocence was always bliss. “Any news of Edith?”
“I hear she keeps sayinʼ th’ same thing over anʼ over. God is, God is, like that.”
He’d been right, thought the vicar. Edith was making a complete and full confession of His Being. There were miracles everywhere.
J.C. peered at Mule’s lunch. “Mineʼs tuna fish on whole wheat. Whatʼs yours?”
“Ravioli.” Mule stabbed his lunch with a plastic fork, which snapped in two. “Shoot a monkey, wait a minute. Maybe itʼs...” The realtor looked bewildered. “I don’t know what it is.”
“I’m out of here,” said Father Tim.
“I don’t know what to do,” he told Betty Craig on the porch of the town museum.
“If you don’t do somethinʼ, you’ll be seein’ me in Broughton next time.”
“That bad?”
“If you only knew.”
“Then tell me, so I’ll know.”
“But you don’t want tʼ know.”
Nor did he want to be the one to remove Rose Watson from the house her brother built, the home she’d loved and lived in nearly all her life. Further, he certainly didn’t think much of the nursing home in Holding. And, as the only way to get into Hope House was for someone to die, he darn sure wasn’t praying along that line.
Time. That’s what he needed. Time, and the prayer that never fails.
“Father, I’ll give you another week and after that, I’m done. I’m sorry, ’cause you’ve been awful good to me, but I’m only human. I am not a saint with a halo.”
“Oh, yes you are, Betty!”
“An’ don’t go flatterin’ me, now, ’cause it wonʼt work.”
A week. To do the impossible.
On Tuesday morning, he figured he should slip over to the house in the woods, check it out, and get this thing behind them once and for all.
There was no need to say anything to anybody here. Heaven knows, there was enough going on at Meadowgate, including an improvised kindergarten in the attic, where Sissie was painting and coloring, and asking questions a mile a minute.
While the boys were still sleeping, he’d go over alone, see what was what, and if he needed to involve the county police, Justice and his partner looked like fellows who could take care of business.
Then again, maybe he shouldn’t go alone...
“Barnabas!” he said, taking down the red leash. “How about a walk in the woods?”
As they neared the house, Barnabas growled.
Probably, he thought, because something was hanging from the light fixture on the porch.
He approached cautiously and saw that a couple of wire hangers contained a pair of beat-up khakis, stained briefs that washing hadn’t improved, a pair of white socks, and a shirt.
A blue and white checked shirt.
He walked onto the porch and examined the sleeves. Someone had tried to close the gap in the left sleeve with an awkward go at stitchery. The clothes were still damp to the touch. Wash day at the house in the woods; the thought made his hair stand on end.
He would leave as quietly as he’d come, and return to the farmhouse at a clip; the phone number of the county police was on a notepad hard by the phone.
Suddenly, Barnabas dove off the porch, barking wildly, and raced around the side of the house. Father Tim ran after him.
A naked man cowered beside the woodshed as Barnabas stood a couple of yards away, barking in a booming baritone that echoed from the surrounding woods.
“Git this dog offa me!”
“You’re on our property illegally, my dogʼs just doing his job.” His heart was thundering. He knew this face well, though he’d seen it only once. “And—heʼs got all day to do it.”
Barnabas’s incessant barking was punctuated by his low growl, not a pretty sound.
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong, I’m jis’ passin’ through f’r a little warsh-up in y’r creek.” The man hunkered over, trying to cover himself. “You cain’t blame a God-fearin’ man f‘r usin’ yʼr creek.”
“I could blame him for using my chickens.”
“What chickens?”
“The ones you stole from our henhouse and cooked in your fire pit over there. Those chickens.”
Barnabas stopped barking and settled into a low growl. The growl, thought the vicar, was even more alarming than the bark.
“I ain’t stole no chickens ...”
“Letʼs don’t pretend. I know who you are; you know who I am, and I believe I know why you’re here. Let’s get down to it, or I’ll let my dog run you out to the state road and all the way to Kirby’s Store. After that, you’re on your own.
“I been dog bit a time or two; I ain’t skeered.”
“Yes, but you ain’t been bit by this dog.”
“Let me git m’ clothes on; I’ll go away from here.You’ll not see me ag’in.” He held up both hands. Father Tim noticed that his hands were trembling.
“Stick around awhile; we’ve got a lot to say to each other.”
“I’m naked as a jaybird, f’r God’s sake ...”
“Living up to your name, then. I’m told you’re known to the federal government as Jaybird Johnson, a name you stole from a man who died on one of your job sites.”
“I don’t know what y’r talkin’ about.” The one-eyed Clyde Barlowe, alias Jaybird Johnson, moved suddenly toward the rear of the woodshed. Barnabas launched himself in that direction and nailed Clyde at the corner of the building. Standing only inches away, Barnabas snarled at their prey so fiercely that even the hair on Father Tim’s neck stood up.
“Lord God have mercy!” shouted Clyde.
“Tell me about the mercy you showed your son, Sammy, when you held him at gunpoint.”
“I donʼ know what y’r talkin’ about.”
“I see you call on God.”
Clyde spit vehemently. “That’s a manner of speakin’, they ain’t no such of a thing as God.”
“Why don’t I leave my dog with you while I go make a phone call to the county police? It takes roughly eight minutes to walk to the house, and ten or fifteen for the police to arrive. That would give you plenty of time to get better acquainted with my friend here. Let me formally introduce you—his name is Barnabas. Barnabas, this is Clyde Barlowe, the father of Dooley and Sammy, who never gave any of his children a moment’s love or protection.”
Clyde uttered an oath, and dropped to his haunches, his back to the woodshed. “I’ll git y’ f’r this, I’ll git y’ f’r stealin’ m’ boys. I never signed nothin’ sayin’ you could take m’ boys.”
Father Tim sat on a stump. Barnabas hadn’t once taken his eyes off the target. “Good fellow, Barnabas, keep doing what you’re doing. So, Clyde, tell me why you’re here. And please—donʼt waste my time or yours, or I’ll have to ask Barnabas to get to the heart of the matter.”
“When Sammy run out on me, I knowed where he’d go, he’d go to
them as stole m’ other boy from me. So I hitched up tʼ Mitford an’ they tol’ me where you was at. I come on thʼ place off of thʼ state road anʼ seen this house. I was goin’ t’ git Sammy t’ come back to ’is rightful home.”
“Looks like you weren’t in any hurry to contact Sammy.”
“When I seen y’r henhouse, I figured they wonʼt no use t’ let a pen of chickens go t’ waste.”
“So you planned to eat up the chickens and then come and get Sammy.”
“Looked like a good plan tʼ me.”
“Clyde, you need somebody to help you think things through.”
“I know how t’ take a hen off thʼ roost slick as grease. I can git by dogs, by donkeys, you name it.”
Father Tim didn’t know how he got by the guineas, but that was a story for another day.
“You’ve got a lot of offenses going here, including larceny. A judge could throw the book at you—something like two hundred and forty days.”
Father Tim knew the anguish both boys had suffered over their father. If he called in the police, Timothy Kavanagh would have to testify in court; the court date could drag on; and Dooley and Sammy would be seriously affected, to say the least. Bottom line, the summer they’d all looked forward to would be ruined.
“Let a man git ‘is britches on, f’r God’s sake. That’d be th’ Christian thing to do.”
“Look at it this way, Clyde:
“I know where your trailer is.
“I know something you don’t want the government to know.
“I have a patch of your shirt that I will use as evidence.
“My witness can easily get you two hundred and forty days behind bars.
“And—if push ever comes to shove—I will take the stand against you on Sammy’s behalf. You don’t have a chance.”
The sun had moved from behind the oak tree. Clyde shaded his eyes with his hands.
“Here’s what I’m telling you:You don’t ever want to come back here.”
Barnabas sat down, still eyeing Clyde.
“In case a judge ever needs to see it, I’m keeping the shirt. Get your britches on, and may God have mercy on your soul.”
