Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good

by Jan Karon

  ‘How about into the valley where the train runs every day blowing its horn, and the river turns its face to the sun and catches the reflection of clouds passing over?’

  ‘That sound good,’ she said, thoughtful. ‘I’m not afraid to go. You might get Dooley to sing.’

  ‘He’d be honored.’

  ‘No organ back of ’im, just ’is voice. An’ you could put a little pinch or two on that place where you buried Miss Sadie’s urn in th’ churchyard.’

  Beloved. He had written the word on a slip of paper and, unable to speak, handed it to the fellow who would engrave Sadie Baxter’s small headstone.

  ‘An’ a little pinch in th’ ol’ part of th’ buryin’ ground where some of my people are at.’

  He took her hand and held it.

  ‘An’ you might maybe put a teaspoonful in th’ bushes up at Fernbank.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll be burning some fat on this run.’

  ‘In th’ lilacs. Th’ ones on th’ south side by th’ porch steps. Miss Sadie an’ me used to drag a little bench out there an’ peel apples in th’ sunshine.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ he had said. ‘But I believe we’ve got a while yet.’

  He slipped into the room and sat by her chair on the low stool he always occupied during these visits. On the stool, he was twelve years old. Indeed, he felt some primordial consolation when he was with Louella, something that reached back beyond his earthly beginning. Perhaps because it was Peggy’s dark-skinned arms in which he slept as an infant as his mother and father drove the Buick from Grandpa and Nanny Howard’s town house out to a new life in the Mississippi countryside. It had been Peggy he ran to when his heart was broken or his knee gashed when he fell on a rusty plowshare. It had been Peggy he always ran to, except when he turned ten, and suddenly there was no Peggy to run to.

  He had a moment of yearning for those days. The ‘old fled days,’ the Irish called their years of tribulation. In tribulation, there had been a certain sweetness, too, as marrow in a remorseless bone.

  Louella opened one eye, then the other. ‘I see you,’ she said, chuckling a little. ‘I see you on yo’ stool. Where you been so long?’ She pressed the remote on the chair arm and raised the recliner to an upright position.

  He stood and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Been to Ireland,’ he said, happy.

  Louella reached for her dentures on the TV table, installed them. ‘Where th’ fairies are!’

  ‘That’s it. Where have you been?’ He sat again on the stool.

  ‘Dreamin’ I was in that little wagon, bumpin’ all over town. I dream a lot ’bout that wagon, ’bout Miss Sadie pullin’ me around, darin’ somebody to call me that bad word we don’ use no more.’

  I have a brother, he wanted to say, but couldn’t.

  Then again, maybe he could. Maybe he should. As a kid, a dime had burned a hole in his pocket before he learned the secret promises of saving. This far greater secret, kept from all but Cynthia and Dooley and Lace, had burned a hole somewhere in him, and it was still smoking.

  ‘Can I tell you something . . . that no one else needs to know just now?’

  ‘’Tween us an’ th’ Lord.’

  Louella would be ninety years old any day. What if she forgot her declaration and told a nurse, or . . . He felt the shame of his selfishly endless noodling.

  ‘I have a brother.’ There it went, like a string winding off a ball.

  ‘I declare.’

  ‘My father,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘With the woman who helped raise me.’

  ‘Black like me,’ said Louella.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Happen all th’ time. When you find out?’

  ‘July, when I went down to Mississippi.’

  ‘They some bad jokes ’bout Miss’ippi.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’

  She looked at him with the inexplicable fondness that came from that other dimension.

  ‘I met him,’ he said.

  ‘He’s a good man?’

  ‘A very good man. Tall, handsome—like my father.’

  ‘He dark?’

  ‘Not very, but yes. He writes poetry.’

  She nodded, affirming this in some way.

  ‘His mama livin’?’

  ‘She’s about your age. I saw her for the first time since I was a boy. Peggy is her name—she left when I was ten, it was a hard thing. No one knew why she left, though she thinks my mother knew.’

  ‘How old a man?’

  ‘Sixty. Retired from the railroad. He was a porter, and later a conductor on a train that ran from New Orleans to Chicago. The City of New Orleans, it’s called. He once got a hundred-dollar tip from Elvis Presley.’ He was oddly pleased with the Elvis scrap of Henry’s history.

  ‘A porter was a fine thing to be back then. A society of gentlemen, is what my gran’ma said.’

  ‘He didn’t have enough red blood cells, he would have died without a transfusion of cells, so I gave him some of mine.’ Tears sprang to his eyes; Holly Springs and all that came with it had been a time of tearing apart and putting back together, and then Ireland with its own riving and mending, and now home to try and find his center again.

  ‘He gon’ make it?’

  ‘We believe so, we pray so.’

  She patted the arm of the recliner. ‘This th’ prayer chair, you know.’

  ‘His name’s Henry. Henry Winchester.’

  ‘A fine name,’ she said. ‘I’ll pray for Henry an’ Peggy and you th’ same. I’m glad you got a brother, honey, real glad.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He had hung on to Miss Sadie; he was hanging on to Louella. All that they were he would never have again. He remembered what Peggy told him her mother had said after the cruel loss of her young son. All us got is us.

  ‘This is the prayer stool,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘We need to talk about you now.’

  • • •

  HE MADE A RIGHT off the elevator, hoping to connect with Dooley’s mother, Pauline. She was dining room coordinator at Hope House, and a darned good one.

  Pauline’s years of alcohol addiction had been damaging in the extreme. Sammy was probably six or seven when she deserted four of her five children, taking only her son Pooh with her. Her husband, Clyde, in many ways more dysfunctional than Pauline, had taken Sammy. Kenny had been traded by his mother to a complete stranger for a gallon of whisky, a move which, in the end, was a very good thing. Jessie, the youngest, had been abducted by a psycho cousin of Pauline’s, and Dooley ended up on the rectory doorstep at age eleven. He had driven to Lakeland with Cynthia and Pauline a few years back to recover Jessie, and thus most of the worst scenarios, he hoped, had played out for the Barlowes. And thank God, there had been healing in Pauline’s new life as a believer—she had married Buck Leeper, also a recovering alcoholic, and they seemed to be coming along better than expected, with Jessie and Pooh doing well in Mitford School. Dooley would see his mother on occasion, but was reserved; Kenny and Sammy refused to see her at all.

  ‘Father!’ she said, standing from her desk in the small office. The tears began. There were nearly always tears when they met. He gave her a hug and handed over his handkerchief.

  ‘How are you?’ he said.

  She smiled a little, nodded. ‘God is good.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that myself. And Buck?’

  ‘The best. He’s doing well.’

  ‘Any work?’

  ‘Comes and goes.’

  ‘Feast or famine,’ he said of the construction business in general.

  ‘How is Sammy?’

  ‘Hurting.’ He never veiled the truth with her if he could help it.

  She nodded, wiped her eyes with the handkerchief.

  ‘And Kenny is a wonderful young man. The coup
le he ended up with—it was a blessing, as you know.’

  ‘So thankful.’

  ‘Dooley will be home toward the end of October, I’m hoping we can arrange something, break bread together.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘And Sammy—back to Sammy. When it comes to shooting pool, he’s a genius. All we have to do is figure out how to channel genius.’

  She looked away from him. ‘One day . . .’

  ‘Yes, oh, yes, definitely. One day.’ One day there would be an end to the hurting. There had to be an end to it.

  • • •

  THEY WALKED OUT with Barnabas to the flower borders, carrying mugs of Earl Grey.

  His wife looked west over the trees; a breeze stirred her hair, the sleeves of her blouse. ‘’T will be a lovely sunset,’ she said.

  Hydrangeas blooming, digitalis thriving, black mulch from the pile where the garage once stood. Harley had done a fine job of keeping things in order.

  ‘I told Louella about Henry.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  He cleared his throat and made the announcement in what she called his Old Testament voice. ‘I’m wearing a suit tomorrow night.’

  She laughed, put her arm around him. If he never wore a tux again, it would be too soon.

  ‘Forgive me for pushing you to the brink?’ she said.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Bookends?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Puny left you a wonderful salmon and pasta dish, but I’m hungry for liver and onions tonight, will you have some? It might be fun just to try it, darling.’

  ‘Never,’ he said.

  Chapter Four

  At first light, he got up and sat on the floor by his dog and buried his hand in the bristly coat and prayed, silent.

  Almighty God, whose Son our Savior Jesus Christ was lifted high upon the cross that he might draw the whole world unto himself: Mercifully grant that we, who glory in the mystery of our redemption, may have grace to take up our cross and follow him; who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, in glory everlasting.

  His dog rolled on his side and looked up—it was that slow, lingering look that spoke volumes could he but read them. He thought the look might be saying, It’s okay, it’s fine down here; I don’t mind, you can stop feeling guilty now.

  • • •

  ‘HEY, DAD.’

  ‘Hey, yourself.’ Always the unabashed joy of hearing, Hey, Dad.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Off to the doctor. Hoppy’s retired, as you know, so it’s Wilson these days. How about you?’

  ‘Killed,’ said Dooley.

  Midterms. ‘Hang in.’

  Dooley laughed. ‘Is that the best you can do? Hang in?’

  ‘It works, buddy, it works. I’m praying. Don’t worry about anything.’

  Dooley was doing well in school. Long haul that it would be, the boy was keeping his eye on the ball of having a successful country vet practice, maybe raising a few cattle.

  He remembered bearing down hard on the books, going for the high marks and professorial praise, believing he would no longer be a shadow in his father’s eyes, but a viable being pumping real blood and real sweat and hitting the mark.

  ‘How was Hoppy’s retirement party?’ asked Dooley.

  ‘A little tearful here and there. Hoppy’s been good medicine for us, we’ll miss him keenly.’

  ‘Lace said you told the Uncle Billy joke.’

  ‘They asked me to say a few words. Uncle Billy’s still bringing the house down. Lace was a great surprise, by the way, didn’t know she could make it. A lot of people noticed the ring.’

  A long pause. No information forthcoming.

  ‘She denied that it was an engagement ring,’ he said, assuring Dooley of her discretion. ‘I guess friendship rings can look a lot like engagement rings.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Dooley.

  ‘Big doin’s down here for your October weekends. We look forward to seeing her midmonth, and you on the twenty-sixth.’

  ‘Can’t wait. When do the guys come home? I can’t get through to Kenny or Harley’s cell; I guess they’re pretty much in the boonies.’

  ‘Miss Pringle arrived this morning from Boston, she says Harley and your brothers will be here tomorrow evening. We’re loading up on ground sirloin and buns.’

  ‘We can talk about Kenny when I get home?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘About the college business.’

  ‘And maybe figure out something for Sammy.’ Sammy the willful, Sammy the shark, Sammy who would not be tethered or tamed. He loved Dooley’s younger brother but couldn’t manage him, and maybe that was a good thing—or maybe not.

  • • •

  ‘THERE WE WERE, two of three misfits who didn’t show up as penguins. Deep breath.’

  ‘Any man can be roped, Doctor, but not every man tied.’

  ‘I was just out of the shower when the call came—had to get to the hospital and yank an appendix, or else. Long story short, too late to go home and don the tux—deep breath—wife already at the club and couldn’t bring it by the hospital. So—into a clean set of scrubs and off to the revelry.’

  ‘You were the envy of every man there.’

  ‘Who was the other fellow out of uniform? I’ve seen him around, but can’t remember his name.’

  ‘Omer Cunningham, our former mayor’s brother-in-law. He’s flown Hoppy in and out of a few tight spots in these mountains, though his aircraft is hardly suited to the job. The poor man’s helicopter, he calls it.’

  ‘A character,’ said Wilson.

  ‘Great guy. ’Nam vet. I’ve been up with him a couple of times. Flies a ragwing taildragger.’

  His doctor sat on a rolling stool, palpated his feet and legs.

  ‘Greek to me. Was that a pair of overalls he was wearing? I’m a city boy, Father, we don’t know these things.’

  ‘Overalls with a hammer-hanger, as I recall. Which city?’

  ‘Born in Boston, moved to New Haven young enough to lose the broad a. Exercise?’

  ‘Just starting to run again after a trip with my wife. Two miles now and then, I’ll do better.’

  ‘Ireland, wasn’t it?’

  ‘County Sligo.’

  ‘The Wilsons populated a good bit of the Eire. My set came over from Tyrone.’ His doctor looked up. ‘You had a rough time a couple of years back. Any depression these days?’

  ‘Nobody will let me be depressed,’ he said. ‘I have two women watching me like hawks. Of course, there was that moment in front of the mirror a few days back. That was pretty depressing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Obviously over the line by ten pounds, maybe twelve.’

  ‘Let’s check it.’

  He stepped out of his loafers and pulled off his watch, vain soul that he was; Wilson popped him on the scales. Miserere nobis. One seventy-nine.

  He was nearly always 165 on Hoppy’s scale, but this was obviously not Hoppy’s scale. This thing had big red numbers and was digital.

  ‘Who changed this scale?’ he said.

  ‘This is my scale.’

  ‘What was the matter with Hoppy’s scale? It could have stayed right here.’

  ‘Dr. Harper took his scale with him, carried it home on my golf cart. He’s fond of it, it weighs him four pounds lighter.’

  There was professionalism for you. So if he had weighed 165 on Hoppy’s scale, plus the four Hoppy had cheated him out of, that was 169, and so he had, indeed, gained ten pounds since his last visit—if Wilson’s scale was accurate.

  ‘Is this scale accurate?’

  ‘On the money.’

  He stepped off the thing. ‘There you have it, then, Doctor—the depression you were asking about.’


  Nurse Kennedy handed him a prescription on the way out. He eyed it, nonplussed, and handed it back. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It says, “Run three times a week. Three miles a day first week, four miles a day ensuing weeks. Drink plenty water. See you Nov.”’

  ‘Four miles one way or round-trip?’

  ‘Round-trip. He’s too easy on his patients. Dr. Harper made grown men cry.’

  See there, Hoppy had been out of here only a few days, and was already spoken of in past tense. That was retirement for you.

  ‘Dr. Wilson is a runner,’ she said.

  ‘Really? Does he follow his own prescription?’

  ‘He’s hard on himself, but soft on others. He does fifteen miles three times a week, sometimes twenty.’

  He couldn’t take any more.

  ‘Are you going to retire, too?’ he asked Kennedy. She had been at the hospital clinic a hundred years; she was the one who welcomed him back when he awoke from the last coma; he was accustomed to her.

  ‘Heavens, no, Father, I’ll be here ’til the cows come home.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  • • •

  THEY LAY ON THE STUDY SOFA under a couple of blankets, her feet to the south, his to the north, the fire on the hearth turning to embers.

  Though he couldn’t see it rising over Little Mitford Creek, a waning moon silvered the branches of the maple, the Japanese cherry, the pickets of their fence. He raised his head for a better view of the celestial vault, wishing he could see Cassiopeia and Perseus and Camelopardalis—constellations whose names he loved pronouncing as a boy—but moonshine obscured such aloof regions.

  ‘I brought you flowers last Tuesday for our anniversary,’ he said, ‘but I’m due for another round.’

  ‘I should bring you flowers. I’ve been bossy.’

  ‘I’ve been . . .’ He thought about what he’d been. ‘. . . caustic.’

  ‘I wonder if my being bossy makes you caustic. Or did your being caustic make me bossy?’

  ‘All I know,’ he said, ‘is that Barnabas is downstairs and seems to like it, the checks are still rolling in to Violet, and I love you better than life.’

  ‘I love you back,’ she said.

  ‘To carry forth the full confession, I’m also sorry I fell asleep after your great dinner on Tuesday.’