Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good

by Jan Karon

  ‘I spoke with the senior warden at Lord’s Chapel.’

  ‘Bill Swanson,’ he said. ‘A good man.’

  ‘Bill says the vestry has been able to hold things together, but barely. Bill was ready to come to me, but Talbot beat him to it. Apparently, everyone knows something is terribly wrong, but very few know what or how much. When the truth breaks, the floodwaters will come in over our heads.’

  He saw himself going to Talbot’s office, trying to find words to counsel or console, but it was a shallow offering. For the first time, he noted the sound of the hearth fire—the sharp spit and crackle of hardwood.

  ‘Any one of these issues begs immediate dismissal. It was imperative for Talbot to leave Lord’s Chapel at once, but he implored me to allow him a final voice. Your Methodist pastor, I believe you know her, will supply September thirtieth, and I agreed to give Talbot October seventh. He wants to make a type of confession to the congregation, an apology for letting them down, for not . . . caring for them as he’d hoped to do.’

  The bishop took a folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, pressed it to his eyes. ‘He gets good marks for that.

  ‘He begged for this concession, and I granted it. I’ve made arrangements to be there, of course. I said earlier that I don’t gamble, but this is an exception. His apology to the parish could be healing for all concerned—or it could be a further disaster.’

  He agreed, but said nothing.

  ‘Parishes seldom get closure when a priest leaves under strained circumstances. It could help them, and the interim, considerably.’

  ‘I saw him at the church office a day or two ago.’

  ‘He may have been there removing a few personal items—discreetly, I hope. We won’t say anything to the parish until the seventh. There’s no need to extend the agony over roughly two weeks. They’ll simply know the bishop is coming—which I hope will give us a stronger turnout and more people to hear Talbot’s remarks firsthand.’

  ‘Bill knows what’s going on?’

  ‘He does. And he knows I’m talking with you, but I trust him not to spread any of it. The parish was told that Talbot is taking a little time off with family, which I presume to be true.’

  Jack Martin got up and used the poker to rearrange a log, then stood with his back to the fire. His eyes weren’t blue, they were green. Startling.

  ‘I need the right person to step in at once. On the eighth, actually, if such a miracle could be wrought.

  ‘There’s a priest from Colorado who would do well in this circumstance—he’s been through it all before. He would supply until the Search Committee finds the right candidate, then perhaps he’d be a candidate for the long haul.’

  ‘What sort of man?’

  ‘Ex-Marine. Sixty-three. Hikes, stays fit, likes the mountains. Lost his wife to ovarian cancer two years ago. Very good at this kind of thing, though probably not available ’til January first. On the other hand, Father . . .’

  The bishop returned to his chair, thoughtful.

  ‘On the other hand, you know your way around the cure, you’re a familiar figure and a trusted friend. That counts for a great deal.

  ‘We wouldn’t ask you to be the one for the short stint, to fill in ’til Father Brad comes in January. We’d be asking you to step in at once and stick with it ’til the Search Committee secures another priest.’

  Good Lord.

  ‘I’m asking you to supply as vicar until we find the right candidate.’

  He was fairly stunned. To be asked at all, and then to be asked for such a quick turnaround . . . the eighth of October was two weeks away.

  ‘This is scary,’ he said.

  ‘For both of us. Talbot’s movers arrive Monday morning, following the service on the seventh. The field would be clear for the interim to make a fresh start.’

  He took a glass of water from the coffee tray, drank; collected himself. ‘What about his wife, Mary?’

  The bishop gave a faint smile. ‘She’s said to refer to Mitford as a hick town. That happens often, you know—the spouse feeling disaffected. As it turns out, Talbot says she loves him unconditionally and doesn’t want to lose him—even in view of his misdeeds. He admits that he cares for her deeply, but sees divorce as punishment to himself. A selfish view, of course, that often masquerades as noble.’

  ‘She knows about the infidelity?’

  ‘He says he confessed it to her.’

  ‘His repentance . . .’

  ‘Is genuine, I feel. But it’s regretful that he didn’t confess the whole story to me, I would have liked that for his sake. What do you know about him?’

  ‘We got on well enough, but the parish was a bit standoffish and it was hard for him. He’s a man who likes to please and be accepted. But don’t we all?’

  ‘God help the fellow who follows a well-loved priest of sixteen years—a tricky business.’

  ‘I must discuss this with my wife, of course, and commit it to prayer. I can’t give you an answer today.’

  He would say, What do you think? And she would say, What do you want? And he would say, I don’t know. And she would say, You’ll make the right choice. During this conversation, her eyes would do the real talking. Because she had watched his health go south when he was full-time, her eyes would say, No.

  He had worked hard at being retired, at battling with the psychological upheaval of losing an entire identity—there were times when he even missed the stress of it—but he was running the course pretty well now; had actually gained a bit of momentum. Going full-time at this point would create another upheaval, one guaranteed to be deeper still.

  But hadn’t he wanted something greater than the middling life, hadn’t he battered the door of heaven with his endless, What next, what now?

  ‘Though my retirement was pretty much doctor’s orders,’ he said, ‘some of the parish were upset by it. I don’t know how they’d take to a revolving door.’

  ‘You’re a healer, Father. Your former bishop, Stuart Cullen, says so, and I’m a Cullen fan.’

  He’d never thought he was a healer; he’d always felt the need of healing, himself.

  ‘The way you brought the mountain parish back last year was most extraordinary—mite nigh impossible, as my Kentucky grandfather would say. The diocese is proud of what you did there with God’s help.’ Jack Martin rubbed his forehead, thoughtful. ‘What would you say you’re about as a priest?’

  ‘To see the useless made useful, the scattered made whole.’

  ‘The Coke and cake business. I trust there will be no more of that, whatever you decide.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘This invitation is somewhat unsettling, I should think. After several years of retirement, you may have found your sweet spot. But there’s what Bonhoeffer said: “We must be ready to allow ourselves to be interrupted by God.”

  ‘You understand that it would help to know right away. If you decline, we can find someone to supply for a few weeks and then the candidate from Colorado would step in, but that’s a lot to put a parish through. It would be lovely if . . .’

  The bishop’s words hung in the air like mist in the hollows.

  ‘What can be done for Henry Talbot?’ he said.

  ‘We have three clinicians. He could see one or all, and all of it would be completely private. I told him this, but he doesn’t believe he deserves help. Perhaps that can change.’

  They sat for a time, silent, looking at the fire. The bishop turned to him as if startled by a thought.

  ‘Let me pray for you, Father.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. He bowed his head, sentient to the rigors of the bishop’s distress and his own.

  ‘Lord of healing, Lord of grace, thank you for your servant, Timothy, whom you raised up to share with others your unconditional love. Thank you for his steadfast fai
th in you, and for his gentle ways among your flock. If Lord’s Chapel again be his charge, Father, equip his every need and send him out with strength and vigor to do your perfect will. May his shepherd’s heart be a healing balm to the parish, and a witness of your infinite love for each of us. Thank you, Lord, for your Holy Presence in our lives as we struggle to love one another as you love us. May your name be glorified now and forever, through Christ our Lord, Amen.’

  ‘Amen. Thank you.’

  ‘Whatever you decide, Father, I’d like you to be there on the seventh.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘To return to your wife for a moment—she’s well liked, as you know, a woman of considerable character and, it’s said, strong opinion.’

  ‘Alis volat propriis,’ he said.

  ‘Flies with her own wings.’ Jack Martin smiled. ‘I have such a one, myself, thank God. In any case, I’m sure Mrs. Kavanagh would be a great help to you, and we’ll help her however we can. If she’d like someone to talk with about this, have her call me.’

  They stood and walked to the office door together and shook hands, each holding the gaze of the other.

  ‘Say nothing to anyone but close family. If you decide to step in, you’d begin October eighth. It will be a kind of holocaust for a time—I’ll look after you and send help when needed. You realize that the length of your stay at Lord’s Chapel could be six months, a year, possibly longer.’

  ‘Indefinite,’ he said. ‘Like everything else in life.’

  ‘The Lord be with you,’ said Jack Martin.

  ‘And also with you.’

  They embraced, and he turned and walked down the hall and went into the nave, where he knelt at the silent rail.

  His mind was clamor itself, a hectic marketplace with hawking on every side. They were coming up on the Feast Day of Saint Matthew, who quoted Christ’s injunction to forgive ‘seventy times seven.’ For some of the parish, that would not be enough. He envisioned himself standing once more in the Lord’s Chapel pulpit and felt a terrible thirst, not so much for water as for—what?

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, unable to form a further petition. He pressed his forehead against the railing. He would take any wisdom right now—not the big decision, that would be asking too much too soon; the smallest scrap would do. He remained at the railing for a time, then stood and bowed to the cross, and walked out a side door into the sublime mountain air.

  • • •

  THE SIGHT OF HER CAR coming up the hill was a benediction. ‘Good timing,’ he said, climbing in.

  She handed him the box of raisins. ‘Did your six o’clock oatmeal see you through?’

  ‘Barely,’ he said, buckling up.

  ‘We’re off to the most divine spot for a real breakfast. I’ll take the scenic route.’

  Along streets mottled by the shade of pin oaks, he told her everything.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said, swigging from a bottle of water.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ll know,’ she said.

  He couldn’t see her eyes. ‘What about you? What do you want?’

  ‘I would hate sharing you again with so many people.’

  She had never gotten used to that, but she had been generous and patient, and he had been grateful.

  ‘Your exhaustion would be hard to watch,’ she said.

  ‘But I’ve been doing better.’

  Except for Ireland. He had exhausted himself in Sligo with what she called his ‘household parish,’ but it had been a wonderful time, really; he would never forget the joy that came forth in the end.

  ‘You will lose families in this fallout, you will try to mend broken hearts; you will try to fix everything.’

  Of course he would try to fix everything. What was a priest for, if not to get into people’s business and, with God’s help, do a little fixing? To operate otherwise cut the parson out of a very big piece of the pie.

  She drove into the parking lot of a small restaurant, turned off the ignition, and gave him a steady look. ‘But if you decide to do it, Timothy, I’ll do it with you. All the way.’

  Her eyes were blue, with nothing more said there.

  He patted her knee.

  Two weeks. He felt the rock in his stomach and doubted that breakfast could fix that.

  • • •

  ON THE WAY HOME, they avoided further discussion of the matter, and spent themselves on foolishness.

  ‘When was the War of 1812 fought?’ he said, and she laughed, though it wasn’t funny.

  They were giddy, a little haywire.

  ‘So, on a cruise ship,’ he said, ‘what time is the midnight buffet?’

  Chapter Nine

  There was something to be said for the invitation being dropped into their lives like a grenade.

  One, it demanded that he concentrate every power on making the right decision. If he could focus so obsessively, so completely as this on his relationship with God . . .

  Two, there was no room to agonize over what to do about Sammy.

  Restless beside his wife, who had fallen asleep at once, he sought peace in the familiar. Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, and awaken hope, that we may know thee as thou art revealed in Scripture and the breaking of bread. Grant this for the sake of thy love, amen.

  For the sake of thy love, he thought. For the sake of thy love.

  Ardent for sleep of any kind or duration, he decided he needed a cutoff date, a personal deadline for calling in his answer. He wished for an easy way out—the parting of waters, the audible voice.

  • • •

  IT WAS FREEZING OUT THERE, with a stern wind to boot. Barnabas had done his morning business and made for the door in under sixty seconds.

  On his knees, he brushed back the ashes of last evening’s fire and kindled a small one for Morning Prayer—two splits of oak and one of maple, atop kindling that would bring the fire quickly. Flames licked up; he was an acolyte at the tapers.

  In any decision making, he’d learned to wait for the peace; it was heedless to make a move without it. There was no time for waiting, and yet waiting was imperative.

  He remained on his knees, prayed aloud. ‘Heavenly Father, in whom we live and move and have our being: We humbly pray thee so to guide and govern us by thy Holy Spirit, that in all the cares and occupations of our life we may not forget thee, but may remember that we are ever walking in thy sight . . .’

  He moved directly then to the abridged version. ‘Help me, Jesus.’

  • • •

  IN THE WILDS OF NEW JERSEY, Walter was usually stirring by five a.m.

  As he dialed, he could see his first cousin, semi-retired from the law firm and a little stooped, in a bathrobe of considerable antiquity. He would be fetching the WSJ from the hallway, taking Katherine a cup of tea in bed, then rooting in beside her to read and argue aloud with the editorials.

  ‘Are you out of your mind, Timothy?’

  ‘I feel I should do it,’ he said. ‘For the parish. It will be a hard time.’

  ‘Should do it? Why should? I’m not party to all God has to say about such matters, but I do know this—the business of killing yourself for other people is a lot of hogwash. Take this on and you’ll be up to all the tricks you pulled in Ireland, saving souls right and left with hardly a minute to draw your breath.’

  ‘It isn’t the parson who saves souls—you know that.’

  ‘I know, I know, but somebody has to be hands and feet, and you’ve done that nobly for forty-plus years. Give yourself a break, cousin, refresh yourself, learn how to live before you die. And face it—you haven’t even begun to retire. Two years in two different parishes, plus a good years’ worth of supply up hill and down
dale, not to mention being the very backbone of the Children’s Hospital. A question—how many vacations have you had in your adult life? By my count, four, and they were all working vacations. Right? Am I right?’

  A sermon from a lawyer. There were few things worse.

  • • •

  HE CALLED HIS FORMER DOCTOR at home and told him of the bishop’s offer, then, and walked north toward Hoppy’s house.

  He would talk with Sammy, posing no threats, avoiding blame, speaking the truth in love.

  Sammy was not hopeless. Look at Dooley, how he’d been born into neglect and violence only to become a young man set on bettering himself, sharing his wealth but also conserving it in the right places. It seemed too good to be true.

  • • •

  HOPPY WAS A WEEK AWAY from his first trip to the Upper Nile and a leap into the unknown. Here a leap, there a leap—it was a frog pond.

  They sat at the table in the Harpers’ kitchen, where for years Hoppy had worked an early morning crossword. His old friend and parishioner was looking terrific, better than ever. Retirement in the early stages.

  ‘What do you know about Hope Murphy?’ he said. He felt reluctant, somehow, to go directly to the issue at hand. ‘Are you at liberty to talk about it?’

  ‘Wilson mentioned that she trusts you, says you already know something of what’s going on. I feel comfortable telling you more—but in strict confidence. She’s a private person, as you’re aware. The medical term is placenta previa.

  ‘The placenta, or afterbirth, is a temporary organ that transfers oxygen and nutrients from the mother to the fetus. In Hope’s case, the placenta has attached itself to the lower segment of the uterus and is covering the cervical canal. Two problems: the baby has no way to exit, and as the cervix dilates, bleeding can be excessive.’

  ‘The bleeding . . .’

  ‘Increases the risk for preterm rupture of the membranes, which can lead to premature labor. This can be life-threatening—for mother and infant.’

  ‘The outcome as you see it?’

  ‘Wilson says the bleeding has been fairly minor so far, but he’s taking no chances. Bed rest will control it to some extent. She’ll be under the care of a specialist in Charlotte, with Wilson doing the day-to-day stuff here. They’ll want her in Charlotte at thirty-two weeks.’