by Jan Karon
‘A month early?’
‘Taking no chances. If anything goes off track up here, there’s no safety net, she could bleed to death.
‘We’re looking at a Cesarean, of course, and with God’s help, a healthy baby. Depending on circumstances, there could be a hysterectomy at the time of delivery.’
Hoppy removed his glasses. ‘If the delivery isn’t successful, needless to say it will be devastating to the Murphys. A hysterectomy would add another kind of death sentence. When you’re back at Lord’s Chapel, I know you’ll encourage prayer for this.’
When he was back at Lord’s Chapel . . . everyone would assume he’d go back.
‘As to your own predicament . . .’ Hoppy gave him an ironic smile. ‘. . . if you stick to your exercise regimen and keep your weight down, I believe you could manage it physically. So the issue is how you would manage it . . .’ Hoppy tapped his forehead with a pencil. ‘. . . up here.’
‘Did you know about Talbot?’
‘Nothing specific, just that clergy have their struggles; I thought his disconnect might eventually turn around. Olivia has had real concerns about him, but frankly, I’ve been too caught up in the Sudan business to pay much attention. How are you feeling?’
He had no words for how he was feeling. ‘What if I take it on and can’t go the distance? That would be twice for the parish. You know they resented my retirement.’
‘Yes, but not everyone. Most people understood. What they resented was you swigging down that Coke and eating the bloody cake. My guess is, they’ll kiss your ring.’
‘Come on.’
‘Trust me. As for your medical aptitude, Wilson says your cholesterol is good and the diabetes is under control. But you know how fast that can go off the cliff.
‘If you move forward with picking up Talbot’s pieces, you’ll need help. You’re prone to try doing it all, which took you out of full-time in the first place. To do it all and deprive others of doing is . . .’ Hoppy studied the puzzle. ‘. . . a misguided notion.’
‘And how many years were you burning the candle at both ends and calling for more wax?’
Hoppy laughed. ‘Touché, Father. In any case, whatever happens, Wilson is up to handling it. Your job is to avoid giving him anything to handle.’
Hoppy turned to a bank of drawers beneath the window seat, pulled one out, removed an open bag of jelly beans, and offered a sampling. ‘Have a green, they’re the best.’
He did as prescribed. ‘I thought you were on the wagon.’
His former doctor laughed, popped a jelly bean. ‘I was, and will be again. No jelly beans in Yida.’
Hoppy adjusted his reading glasses, bent over the puzzle. ‘Ecclesiastical setback. Blank, p, blank, blank.’
‘Apse,’ he said.
• • •
HE CHECKED HIS COMMITMENTS FOR TODAY.
Lunch @ Feel Good.
Mustang diagnostic
Another big day on the calendar.
How would he like going from zero to a hundred and sixty mph? Why couldn’t there be some reasonable in-between? He loathed zero and despised a hundred and sixty. Why couldn’t he ever find a cruising speed?
The pressure of the open-ended timetable was too much; he had to have a cutoff date. ‘Jesus,’ he said under his breath.
Barnabas looked up from his bed at the hearth. Good! His dog had not lost his hearing. It was he, Timothy, who had lost his, for he was getting no feedback. Zero.
What about Thursday? Maybe he could take a week to make the decision, but he couldn’t bear the pressure of it for a week. He wanted, needed it to happen quickly, as quickly as God would permit. Thursday would be extremely fair to all. ‘But late Thursday,’ he declared to his dog.
He consulted his calendar.
Written with a kind of slapdash joy in the slot for Thursday:
Happy Endings 9 a.m.
The Happy Endings stint had completely slipped his mind. He had planned to go in early, take his own beans, and learn to operate a coffee maker that also did the grinding. But how could he think about stuffing a full day’s commitment at the bookstore into Thursday’s need for an urgent decision?
Friday was open, a total blank; he could call the bishop on Friday. For that matter, he could do the bookstore on Friday—Friday was payday in these parts, a good day for buying books; he would notify Hope, who, he felt certain, would be just as grateful for help on Friday.
Barnabas came over, lay at his feet, looked up.
No. Thursday was the day he would call the bishop. And Thursday was the day he would work at the bookstore—no way would he disappoint Hope, and no way would he disappoint his dog, who, he believed, was definitely up for sooner rather than later.
• • •
‘IT’S YOUR CARBURETOR,’ said Jeb Adderholt.
Jeb paused to allow for shocked silence or possibly an enjoyable stream of strong language, but he could not bestow this small pleasure upon Jeb Adderholt.
The phone line between Mitford and Wesley enjoyed its characteristic crackle and hum. Something about a throttle shaft . . .
‘Plus your radiator’s rotted out pretty bad.’
‘Ah.’
‘An’ your heater, you know that heater’s never worked right. Th’ old folks say this’ll be th’ worst winter in a decade.’
‘They say that every year.’ He was now old folks, himself, and as far as he was concerned, the winter could do whatever it pleased.
Jeb cleared his throat, moving in for the kill. ‘Have you noticed your clutch is slippin’?’
‘How would I notice that?’
‘When you’re goin’ uphill,’ said Jeb as if speaking to someone from a foreign country.
‘Right. Yes, I’ve noticed that. Anything else?’
‘It’s gon’ cost more to fix than it’s worth.’ Jeb named a price, but given the hum, it was muffled and indistinct.
He would pick it up tomorrow and pay Jeb for the diagnostic. So much for his sharp little ride.
Having driven previously used vehicles all his life, he had no idea how to buy a new car. Before the vintage Mustang, there was the motor scooter, and before that, eight years of foot travel, and before that, the antiquated Buick, and prior to the Buick, he could scarcely remember. He would subscribe to Consumer Reports or Lew would probably know, or Dooley. Dooley! Of course. Dooley would go nuts over helping him buy a new vehicle.
He left Dooley a voice message, feeling better already.
• • •
‘ARE YOU HAVING LUNCH with the turkeys?’ His wife was whipped from yesterday, and so was he. But would they give in and lie down or whatever people do when they’re whipped?
‘I don’t feel I should have lunch. Things are too . . .’ He shrugged.
‘But it’s the day the sign goes up, sweetheart.’ She dumped coffee grounds into the kitchen compost bin. ‘I think you should have lunch.’
‘All that boondoggling . . .’ he said, vague.
‘Boondoggling beats sitting around trying to figure out what God is up to. He’s given you a target date, which I think you should let Bishop Martin know.’
‘Why let the bishop know that I don’t know?’
‘You’d be letting him know that you’ll know by Thursday. He could relax a little. But what do I know about bishops? Maybe they don’t need to relax. We, however, need to keep praying and trusting God, and moving ahead to things like lunch and dry-cleaning and a dozen eggs at the Local.’
She was right, of course, but still . . .
‘Puny’s coming in today instead of tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and bringing the boys.’ She rubbed her eyes, something she did more often these days. ‘As for me, I’m having lunch in Wesley with Irene McGraw, she’s just back from Georgia.’
‘Tell her I enjoyed breaking into her hous
e. Nice artwork.’
‘The capital campaign meeting is after lunch. I’ll have a report. In the meantime, you and I need to plan something fun—like dinner and a movie. All we ever do is dinner. What was the last movie we saw?’
‘Babe, I think. Do we have a VCR player?’
‘VCRs went out of style ages ago. It’s DVDs now. Just a disc. Like a CD.’
‘Do we have any?’ he said.
‘No. We would have to order a movie that comes in through our TV.’
‘Do you know how to do that?’
‘I’ve never done it,’ she said. ‘All I know how to do is watch 60 Minutes and PBS.’
‘Puny knows technology. Get her to show you,’ he said.
‘Get her to show you, and I’ll make dinner.’
He was supposed to know this stuff, but he had never, not once, known this stuff. He was pretty good at softball and handy with a hammer and paintbrush, which should be enough for anybody.
‘What do other people do in the evenings?’
‘Shirlene Hatfield plays Scrabble online. J. C. Hogan once confessed he cleans Adele’s Glock .45. Let’s see—Mule and Fancy watch reality TV.’
‘How do you know these things?’
‘People talk,’ he said. ‘Then there’s Esther Bolick. She sleeps in her recliner for a couple of hours after dinner, then goes to bed and watches Johnny Carson reruns.’
‘Maybe we just need to get out more.’
‘We got out all day yesterday.’ She wasn’t listening. ‘From dawn to dusk.’
She peered at her reflection in the chrome of the toaster, and did something with her hair. ‘That was yesterday. Let’s go and be as—’
‘Don’t even say it,’ he said.
• • •
‘I HAVE GOOD NEWS!’ Puny announced as he came downstairs.
She was ‘lit up like a Christmas tree,’ as Nanny Howard used to say. His mind flew to the good news Puny had handed him twice before in recent years—twins. He couldn’t take another set of twins, he just couldn’t.
‘Joe Joe’s our new police chief, he’ll be officially installed th’ first week of November.’
‘Congratulations!’ One more frog off the bank. ‘Tell Joe Joe I’m proud as the dickens.’ He gave her a hug.
‘It’s goin’ to be in th’ paper real soon,’ she said. ‘There’ll be a reception at Town Hall, we want y’all to come.’
‘Consider it done!’ he said.
She looked abashed. ‘I guess I should have told you about Joe Joe last, an’ told you th’ bad news first.’
‘What bad news?’
‘Your cue stick’s missin’.’
‘My cue stick?’
‘I dust in there ever’ week, cue rack an’ all, an’ th’ one in your slot’s not there this mornin’.’
He walked up the hall to see for himself, fighting the anger rising like bile. Among other things, that was a pretty nice cue stick.
The empty slot was a slap in the face. He took a deep breath. If he ran this to ground, there would be consequences. He could not do that now, he could not fly off in any direction other than the one he was currently navigating. Unless something forced his hand, he would pretend not to notice.
Puny was peeling apples at the sink. ‘Don’t mention this to Cynthia,’ he said.
• • •
IT WAS YES AND THEN IT WAS NO, it was up and then it was down.
He thought of calling Stuart, his former bishop, oldest friend, and fellow seminarian, but a kind of torpor prevailed. Why?
To relieve the constriction in his chest, he prayed for Henry Talbot and Henry Winchester, two Henrys needy in matters more desperate than his own.
And why couldn’t he firmly grasp the idea of returning to Lord’s Chapel and logically examine it? The notion seemed a wisp, a snowflake disappearing on the upturned palm.
He needed the solemn confines of a monk’s cell; he needed air and open space.
• • •
‘. . . AND UNDER THE SHADOW of your wings I will rejoice,’ he prayed from the psalm. ‘My soul clings to you, / Your right hand holds me fast . . .’
Perhaps more than the decision itself, he wanted light in his darkened mind, something luminous to see by.
While shaving, he had an impulse toward the ridiculous. He scarcely ever did anything ridiculous.
Puny’s ten-month-old twin boys were in the kitchen in their bouncing chairs, each with a pacifier. He was not a fan of the pacifier but it would be politically incorrect to express that opinion in his own household.
‘Tommy,’ he said, standing near the door while Puny swept the side porch. ‘What do you think?’
Tommy burst into tears, the pacifier fell to the floor; Violet pounced and skittered it to the corner of the room.
Puny opened the door a crack. ‘What’s goin’ on in there?’
‘I asked Tommy a question and he started crying. Sorry.’
‘Could you please pick ’im up? I got to get these steps cleaned off, you wouldn’ believe th’ raccoon poop out here.’ She closed the door.
He picked up Tommy, all eighteen pounds, jiggled him as he had jiggled Puny’s first set of twins, Sissy and Sassy. Jiggling was good—Tommy stopped crying.
Puny opened the door again. ‘What did you ask ’im?’
‘Oh, nothing much. He’s fine now.’
She closed the door; he put Tommy in the chair, went after the pacifier, washed it under the hot water tap, and stuck it back where it belonged.
Timmy, his very own namesake, looked up at him with Carolina-blue eyes.
‘What do you think, Timmy?’
Timmy took the pacifier from his mouth, laughed, and handed it over.
‘Thanks for sharing,’ he said. ‘Maybe later.’
Out of the mouths of babes, so to speak. He kissed both boys on the tops of their heads.
• • •
THE WIND WAS UP, and bitter; the twelve o’clock news had called this the coldest September since 1972.
He was the Michelin man in long-sleeve knit shirt, clerical collar, crew-neck sweater, vest, wool scarf, flannel-lined jacket, long socks, corduroys, and gloves.
On his way to lunch, he peered through the window at Happy Endings. The dark interior gave him a sinking feeling. He noticed the wind hammering a sign on the door.
Open Wednesday and Thursday
Ten to six
Until further notice
Thank you for your patience
Beneath the text, someone had written in red ink: Pray for Hope!
• • •
‘WANDA’S FEEL GOOD CAFÉ’ was rendered in dark green paint on a white background; the whatchamacallit over the E in CAFÉ was a bold slash of red.
He recognized the men on the scaffolding, one without a jacket. ‘Hey, Luke, you’ll be a popsicle. What are you doing up there in this cold?’
‘Need th’ money, Father. Pizza, beer, and a month’s rent.’
‘No beer, no pizza,’ hollered Jeff, ‘but a whole bunch of baby diapers and a tank of oil. We’re just gettin’ it screwed into th’ brick and we’re out of here.’
‘You turned it around mighty fast,’ he called up.
‘Gotta do what it takes. My baby’s sick. Pray for us.’
‘Consider it done.’
Luke spit off the side of the scaffolding. ‘Don’t leave me out, Preacher.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re in. God be with you.’
And there was Hessie Mayhew with a point-and-shoot, a notebook protruding from her coat pocket.
‘Hessie! How are you?’
She leaned back, shooting skyward at the sign. ‘Whoever came up with this wacko name . . .’
‘Your boss came up with it.’
‘How was
Ireland?’
‘Green,’ he said.
‘Well, stand over there under th’ sign and let me get a shot. Th’ sign’s so high up, I have to either shoot from across the street to get you both in, or stand here and get th’ sign and just your head.’
‘Get Wanda to stand out here, it’s her sign.’
‘She already stood out here for about two seconds. She was nothing but a blur, the lunch crowd was coming in.’
‘So get J.C. to stand under the sign, he likes to get his picture in the paper.’
‘He already stood under the sign. But the painters got in front of the F an’ th’ G, so I told ’em to move and they ended up in front of the W an’ th’ L.’
‘I’d keep it simple and just shoot the sign,’ he said, making for the door. ‘Tell the guys to squat down.’
• • •
WANDA’S FEEL GOOD felt plenty good. Smelled good, too. Glad to be here, he peeled off gloves, scarf, jacket.
The place was packed. He stashed his gear on top of other gear on the coat rack and headed for their table.
‘Mule?’
Mule grinned. ‘Th’ Miami look.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m tryin’ to help Shirlene and Fancy get a little action goin’.’
He pulled out his chair, dumbfounded. Though Mule looked ridiculous in a short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt, he also looked ten years younger, albeit a funny color.
J.C. took a swig of coffee. ‘Real estate’s so slow he’s gone to freezin’ his ass as a sandwich board for a beauty shop.’
‘Y’all are pasty,’ said Mule, giving them the eye. ‘Why be pasty when you could look like you’ve been somewhere and seen a little sunshine?’
‘I have been somewhere,’ he said, though he hadn’t seen much sunshine.
J.C. ripped a paper napkin from the metal holder. ‘Wait’ll you hear what it costs to get yourself sprayed.’
‘It’s not about money,’ said Mule, ‘it’s about lookin’ good. When you look good, you feel good, and when you feel good, you, ah, look good.’
‘Where’s he getting this stuff?’ he asked J.C.
