by Jan Karon
‘Now,’ he said, ‘about that letter.’
Chapter Seven
His wife lolled around their bedroom in bare feet and nightgown, a working girl commanding the favors of Saturday morning.
‘I’ve been thinking about your visit with Esther,’ she said. ‘She’ll never get her hair colored if left to her own devices.’
‘True.’
‘So why don’t we buy her a gift certificate while the special is on? We can deliver it after church tomorrow.’
‘Great idea,’ he said. Maybe that would put the spark back in Esther’s eyes. ‘You’ll pick it up today?’
‘No, no, when I bring you back from the mechanic in Wesley, you can take my car and pick up the gift card on your way to the apple stand.’
He had forsaken the services of A Cut Above years ago, but not before Fancy Skinner turned his face seasick-green with a concoction guaranteed to make him look ‘fresh.’ It was humiliating that he’d fallen for such a dumb trick, and he hadn’t set foot in the place since.
On the other hand, the gift for Esther would be a mission with true significance, unlike taking the Mustang in for evaluation—a couple thousand plus change, he could feel it coming.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘and I’ll drop in to see if there’s anything new in Hope’s S for September Sale.’
‘Bring home a Maurice Sendak if she has one—any Maurice Sendak.’
‘No author names with S on sale, just titles,’ he said, privy to such knowledge.
A whole morning of missions—and apple pie, albeit sugar-free, at the end. He felt the small excitement of it.
• • •
HE CIRCLED THE BLOCK in the Mazda, didn’t find a parking spot, and drove to Lew Boyd’s. He would walk up to A Cut Above and swing by Happy Endings on his way back. He liked the old bookstore, with its board-and-batten walls, the creaking floor, the yellow cat that minded its own business and never jumped on his lap when he sat reading in an armchair.
‘Park in front of that RV yonder,’ said Lew. ‘He ain’t goin’ nowhere.’
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Crankcase. Th’ PCV system is disruptin’ th’ normal air/fuel ratio balance.’
‘That’ll do it,’ he said.
‘Where’s your ragtop at?’
‘Wesley. It may be ready for last rites.’
‘Wish I could take care of it for you, but I don’t do Mustangs. Too finicky.’
‘How’s Earlene?’
He liked to inquire after the Tennessee wife Lew Boyd had kept secret for months, then sprung on Mitford like a jack-in-the-box.
‘She got the Christmas decorations down.’ Lew wiped his hands on a rag looped around his belt.
‘The Christmas decorations,’ he said.
‘Th’ ones left up since Juanita passed twelve years ago.’
‘Have you seen a limo come through lately—driver in a cap?’
‘Oh, yeah, he came in for a fill-up, decked out in a uniform. Used th’ coffee machine.’
‘When was that?’
‘Maybe two, three days ago.’
‘Anybody you ever saw before?’
‘Nope.’
‘Anybody in the car with him?’
‘Too dark to see in th’ back. I asked him if he had Mick Jagger in there; he said, Not this time.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘Nothin’ comes to mind. Looked like he was in a hurry.’
‘Where was the tag from?’
‘North Carolina. A car service. He pumped premium, I checked th’ oil, he bought two packs of peanuts, a Coke, and a water. Paid cash, Bud took th’ money. End of report.’
‘So. Anything else new?’
‘I got a great sandwich vendor; you boys need to come back here an’ eat. What you doin’ for lunch these days?’
‘We’re down at the Feel Good.’
‘Th’ Feel Good? Where’s that at?’
‘The old tea shop. The new name’s not official yet, the sign goes up next week.’
‘Weird name. Plus I put in a microwave at th’ Red Man rack—state-of-th’-art—an’ a coffee machine you won’t believe.’
‘I hear folks in Virginia sell fried chicken at their gas stations.’
‘I’m not doin’ fried chicken. Don’t hold your breath on fried chicken, I got all th’ grease I can handle.’
• • •
TO ATONE FOR A PALTRY TWO DAYS on the asphalt, he ran up the stairs.
Shouldn’t have done that. He stopped on the landing, heart racing, to catch his breath.
Fancy Skinner would not be allowed to talk his ear off, nor would he be lured into her chair for any reason whatsoever. He would conduct his business and get out of there.
The marching band. He needed to figure out how to change his ringtone.
‘Hey, buddy.’
‘Hey, Dad. I hear Sammy acted out.’
‘He did.’
‘Wish I could be there. Kenny says he busted his cue.’
‘Yep.’
‘He loved that cue.’
We often break what we love, he thought, but didn’t say it.
‘What can we do?’ said Dooley.
Counseling, a special school . . . These were easy answers, but they didn’t seem right and he didn’t know why.
‘He was getting a grip on things,’ he said, ‘when he was with us at Meadowgate.’ Or so it seemed.
He felt responsible for whatever had gone awry, for the momentum lost in his relationship with Sammy. He had no choice but to take the game seriously and become a pool-shooting family member able to fill in for Harley or Kenny or Dooley as needed.
The rules Dooley had laid down for his brother were tough but good: The table was for practice, and sharpening his game with an eye toward competition. As for who was allowed to play, it was family and family friends only. Dooley had helped hammer out the house rule of no language, no smoking, and Sammy would arrange table times with Cynthia.
He gave Dooley the only answer he had. ‘We must keep praying.’
He wanted life to feel simple, for college and vet school to be over and Dooley established in his practice at Meadowgate. He and Cynthia would go out on weekends and give a hand around the place—he would bake a ham, help with the weed-eating. And maybe there would be grandchildren. He hadn’t known he wanted all that until just now, this moment.
‘We miss you, buddy.’
‘Miss y’all back. Gotta go, Dad.’
He knew what it had taken for Dooley to call him Dad, to give the word life in their relationship. He remembered the first time he addressed his father, Matthew, as Dad. It was a naked, intimate designation compared to the formality of Father. He’d been embarrassed to say it and his father had been astonished. But he kept saying it because he believed the word itself would somehow soften things, change things.
He stood on the landing for a time before opening the door.
‘I hope th’ roof won’t be fallin’ in.’
Dressed in pink tights, pink V-neck sweater, and spike heels, and pushing a broom, Fancy Skinner stopped dead in her tracks. He gawked. Mitford’s premier hairstylist was an entirely different skin color.
‘Fancy? How are you?’
‘We haven’t seen you up here since Clinton left office. How was your trip to Italy?’
‘Ireland,’ he said.
‘Meet my baby sister, Shirlene Hatfield from Bristol; she’s new in town. She’ll be introducin’ Mitford to spray tan.’
He shook hands with Shirlene, who, unlike her blond and fairly shapely sister, was a big girl with a bushel of coal-black hair, wearing an orthodontic smile, and a caftan printed with tropical birdlife.
‘Tim Kavanagh. Welcome to Mitford.’
Shirlene pumped
his hand, bracelets jangling. ‘I just pushed your population count up to eleven hundred an’ thirty-two.’
‘Terrific. Congratulations. We’re glad to have you.’
‘Would you like to see our spray tan booth?’
‘Your . . . ?’
‘Spray tan booth, right there in the corner.’
Something like a round phone booth loomed in the corner.
‘It’s th’ first in the high country. It was a huge investment; I personally brought that into the business. You just walk in, take your clothes off, an’ a recording tells you what to do.
‘It is so easy, you won’t believe it. You just do like this . . .’ The clamor of bracelets as she flung forth her arms.
‘Then you turn like this . . .’ She gave a balletic whirl. Toucans flew from banana trees.
‘Wow,’ he said.
‘Plus it’s very private, I mean, we don’t look in at you or anything. As for your choices, I’m personally wearin’ th’ Boca, and Fance got th’ very popular Palm Beach.’
‘A gift certificate,’ he said, hoarse. ‘While the special’s on.’
‘Or,’ said Shirlene, ‘if you’re watchin’ your budget, which we all have to do, we can give you th’ Miami or th’ West Palm Beach.’
‘You won’t believe this,’ said Fancy, ‘but we were talkin’ about you just five minutes ago.’
‘Oh, my gosh, is this him? Father Tim?’
‘Shirlene has a question for you. I told her you know everything and everybody.’ If looks could kill, he’d be morte.
‘I wouldn’t say that. Just dropped in to get a gift certificate for color. While the special’s on.’
‘For your wife?’ said Fancy.
‘A friend.’
The cocked eyebrow. ‘Cynthia still colorin’ her own hair?’
‘She is.’
‘Speakin’ of color,’ said Shirlene, ‘what do you think about our new look? I told Fancy we cannot make it on perms and acrylic nails, we need to get more men in here. We didn’t want ya’ll runnin’ over to Wesley ’cause our walls are pink.’
‘So now they’re green.’ Fancy gave him the fish eye. Clearly, this woman would never forgive his infidelity.
‘A great improvement!’ he said.
‘Do you run over to Wesley?’ asked Shirlene.
‘He does,’ said Fancy.
‘I need a gift certificate.’ He spoke as if to the deaf.
Fancy shoved the broom in a corner. ‘Let me go in back an’ find th’ dern things. Do you want it in an envelope?’
‘Thank you. That would be good.’
‘Shirlene, he needs a trim. I’ve got highlights in ten minutes, you’ll have to do ’is trim.’
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I’m not here for a trim.’
‘See those little puffs over ’is ears? They look like chrysanthemums. An back there on his neck, see his collar? We like to keep his hair off his collar at all times.’
‘You really ought to do it while th’ special’s on,’ said Shirlene. ‘This is th’ very last day you can get a trim for ten dollars.’
‘A deal you will never see again in this lifetime,’ said Fancy. ‘Why anybody would blow good gas on a trip to Wesley is beyond me. Give ’im a glass of wine, Shirlene, I’ll go find th’ bloomin’ gift cards.’
‘Wine?’ he said. ‘It’s ten forty-five.’
‘Well, it’s there if you want it,’ said Shirlene. ‘It’s been a very successful promotion.’
‘Hello, baby . . .’
‘Oh, shoot, that’s my cell.’ Shirlene snatched the thing from the folds of her caftan and checked the ID. ‘No way am I takin’ this—it’s Charlie Jackson, th’ big creep.’
‘Hello, baby . . .’
‘If he ever said what’s on his mind, he’d be speechless.’
She hit the Off button and held the phone aloft. ‘Ta-da, my new Barry White ringtone. You gotta love it. So here’s my question, Father. Where are the single men in this town?’
‘That’s a hard one. Very slim pickings.’
On impulse, he walked to the window and looked through the slats of the blind. ‘There’s one right there.’ He could count on Avis.
Shirlene peered across the street at Avis Packard, who, innocent of visual interrogation, stood under his green awning smoking a fag, as the Irish liked to say.
‘Oh, boy, I’ve seen him a time or two. He’d have to quit smokin’. Yes, sir, he’d have to quit that foolishness. An’ that haircut looks like his mama did it. Lord help, get a load of those high-water britches. He’d be a handful.’
Shirlene turned from the window; bracelets chattered. ‘Anybody else you can think of?’
‘That’s my best shot.’
He wouldn’t mention Tony Nocelli, Lucera’s chef and co-owner, who was a good-looking Italian and brother-in-law to the mayor. Local lore credited Tony with making more than one heart go arrhythmic.
‘There are actually two or maybe three single men in Bristol, but they just aren’t, like, qualified.’
He checked his watch.
‘You know what I’m lookin’ for?’ Shirlene sat in her swivel chair. ‘Somebody to play Scrabble with—you know what I mean, Father? Somebody to cook for, I love to cook—somebody who has a garden and is kind to others. Oh, and I’m crazy about yard sales, it would be nice to have somebody fun to do that with.
‘So, it’s not like I’m askin’ for th’ moon—I know better than to ask for th’ moon. I had th’ moon one time an’ I’m totally over that, it stayed in full eclipse for fourteen years.’
Shirlene heaved a sigh. ‘I sold my house in Bristol an’ most of th’ proceeds are standin’ right over there in th’ corner.’
They looked toward the corner, respectful.
‘Spray tan is a lifetime investment. But I’m bankin’ on it bein’ a big hit in Mitford.’ She blinked, close to tears.
‘That’s the spirit!’
He noticed a tic in his left eyelid. Where were the barbershops of yore, where a man could go for peace and understanding, a doze in the chair? Nowhere, that’s where. It was over, the good life was gone with the wind; a man was forced to seek the comfort of his own home.
‘I cannot find th’ gift cards,’ said Fancy. ‘I’ll have to hand-write th’ dern thing, or we can just call whoever it is and tell ’er to come in.’
Fancy was fishing for a name. ‘Hand-write it, then,’ he said, ‘and thank you.’
Shirlene circled their lone customer. ‘You would look gorgeous with a light application of spray tan, wouldn’t he, Fance?’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said.
‘I would definitely recommend th’ Miami for you. It’s not a real heavy beach look as much as a sun-kissed look, you know what I mean? It’s more like, Hello, I’ve been down at my summerhouse fishin’ for a couple of days.’
He pulled out his wallet. ‘How much?’
‘Depends if it’s full color, highlights, or both.’ Fancy drummed her fingers on the counter.
‘Both!’ he said, reckless. Definitely the last time he’d climb the stairs to this Gehenna.
Fancy popped in a stick of Dentyne; the chewing commenced. ‘You ought to get th’ conditionin’ treatment with that. Only fifteen dollars extra—it puts th’ shine back in. I personally use th’ conditionin’ treatment every time, otherwise you don’t get your money’s worth out of th’ highlights.’
‘Fine. Okay. The works.’ Though he cared very much about Esther Bolick, this was ridiculous. He gouged a couple of fifties from his wallet.
‘Keep goin’,’ said Fancy.
‘What’s that?’
‘Another fifty, an’ I’ll give you change.’
He was grinding his left molars. Keep calm and carry on, the Brits liked to say.
; ‘How’d you find your wife?’ asked Shirlene. ‘I hear you were pretty old when you got married.’
‘She moved next door and asked ’im to go steady,’ said Fancy.
Shirlene threw back her head and hooted with laughter. ‘That is so funny, I am crazy about that. Moved next door an’ asked you to go steady?’
‘It worked,’ he said.
• • •
HE HUNG A RIGHT toward Happy Endings. It was getting cooler. Breezy. Fall was in the air.
For the first time since coming home, he had the contentment of feeling rooted into Mitford like a turnip.
On impulse, he sat on the bench in front of the shoe store and dialed the unpainted house in the Mississippi countryside, the house with the swept yard and the gregarious garden patch and Sister’s pink Cadillac parked out front. God had opened a window for him in Holly Springs, with a view into lives he wouldn’t have known save for the note that read, Come home.
‘All right?’
‘Peggy!’ he said. ‘It’s Timothy.’
‘Oh, Timothy, we been talkin’ ’bout you, Henry was gon’ call if we didn’ hear.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not too good jus’ now, not too good. Bad rashes all over his skin—he has to stay greased up like a chicken, an’ his eyes so dry they sometimes stick shut.’
He felt the desperation of it in his bones.
‘An’ he’s droppin’ weight,’ said Peggy. ‘That’s what worry me.’
Keeping Henry in the clear was like keeping a feather in the air by the force of one’s own breath. ‘What do the doctors say?’
‘Say stay out of th’ sun, rest good, an’ keep th’ faith. It’s somethin’ like GVD, I don’ know . . .’
‘GVHD. Graft versus host disease. His cells recognize my cells as foreign and go on the attack.’
‘Somethin’ like that, yes.’
‘The good news is, the immune cells can also attack any leukemia cells that may be left.’ He was putting a shine on things for her sake, but felt a nauseous anxiety in his gut. ‘His medication seems to be doing the job?’
‘Oh, yes, he has it all, he’s gon’ be all right. God didn’t send you to save his life, then drop ’im like a hot potato.’
‘Does he feel like talking?’
