by Jan Karon
He’d spent Wednesday doing almost nothing, trying not to feel guilty about his decision. He’d taken it as a day to reflect and pray, to know whether the peace he felt about declining was real. And yes, thus far it was real.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t put a shine on the consequences. When the bishop’s offer came to be public knowledge, as it assuredly would, some might see his refusal as a shirking of duty. A few would be scornful, some would feel betrayed, a handful would understand, and the rest wouldn’t care.
He was frankly surprised by his decision—but profoundly relieved. Relieved, for one thing, because it hadn’t actually been his decision. El Shaddai had spoken in that way which is not speaking, to a confused cleric vested in robe and pajamas by his home fire.
In truth, he should ring Asheville now, before the shop opened and while his head was still relatively unfrayed. He crossed himself, a schoolboy sent up the hall to the headmaster.
The pleasant but brief conversation was over before he quite realized it. He stood in the middle of the room, dazed.
Bishop Martin had been disappointed though not completely surprised, and would ring up at once the Colorado mountain-climbing priest known to be ‘fond of the guitar in the early service.’ They confirmed their meeting in the vestry at Lord’s Chapel a half hour before the eleven o’clock on the seventh.
‘And Timothy,’ the bishop said at the end, ‘I have every confidence in your decision.’
It was as if he were coming back from a kind of death, and hearing the familiar Ninth for the first time.
Under the watchful gaze of his dog, he picked up a coffee spoon and with something like astonished joy, conducted the remainder of the sublime third movement.
• • •
THE BELL JANGLING ON THE DOOR. Ten after ten. He was ready.
‘Esther?’ Good Lord!
‘It’s me,’ said Esther Bolick, thumping a Sweet Stuff bag onto the sales counter. ‘The new me.’
‘I liked the old you.’
‘Old? I’m runnin’ from that word doin’ eighty miles an hour.’
‘But a tan? I’ve never seen you with a tan.’
‘I have never been tan, and will never be tan again. I thought, what the heck, you and Cynthia paid to get my hair dyed, why not give that poor child a break and get sprayed?’
‘How was it?’
‘Hosed down like a squash plant, arms an’ legs everywhichaway. What do you think about my hair?’
She twirled around, a bit unsteady.
‘I like it. That’s the ticket. You look younger by ten years.’
‘I thought I’d never get out of there, Fancy Skinner drives me crazy. I brought you something to say thanks for your nice gift. It was wonderful of y’all to do that.’
She patted his hand, pushed the bag to him. For some reason he couldn’t understand, Esther Bolick didn’t get it that sweets were verboten where he was concerned. When news of his diabetes swept through the parish like a brush fire, she delivered him a full-blown two-layer OMC as a consolation. He’d put it in the fridge and slammed the door and leaned against it as if the thing might break out of there and have its way with him. Which of course it did. He had been in the hospital a mere nine days.
‘You wouldn’t believe what they charge for a single slice,’ she said. ‘Go ahead, I brought you a fork.’
She thrust her hand into her coat pocket and handed over a sterling dessert fork loosely wrapped in a paper napkin.
‘Do you think I should?’
‘Why shouldn’t you?
‘Well, I mean, you know—diabetes.’
‘Oh, pshaw,’ she said, bored by this confession. ‘Just take one bite, and I’ll finish it.’
‘Deal,’ he said, digging in.
‘So?’ she said, giving him a fierce look.
‘It’s good. It’s really good.’
‘But?’ She arched an eyebrow.
‘But not as good as yours, Esther, and you can take that to the bank.’
‘Ha!’ she said. ‘You have not lost your silver tongue, Father. And look at this.’
She whipped a piece of paper from her handbag, showed it to him up close. ‘My first check.’
‘Wow.’
‘Wow is right, they did a big wedding last Saturday at Linville. Th’ OMC was forty-two inches high and seven layers, I took a picture.’
‘Forty-two inches.’ He marveled. ‘Seven layers!’
‘How ’bout them apples?’
‘Gene would be thrilled. So you think you’re going to like being retired from the OMC?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she snapped. She grabbed the fork, wiped it with the napkin, dug in. ‘Uh-huh. I was afraid of somethin’ like this. A little too sweet. She deviated from th’ recipe.’
‘Are you sure?’ He felt the need to protect Winnie.
‘She’s not supposed to deviate from th’ recipe, Father. It’s in th’ letter of agreement.’ She waggled the fork at him. ‘A letter of agreement is just that—two people agreeing. I don’t suppose you have a cup of coffee—a cup of coffee would certainly improve th’ taste.’
‘Right this way,’ he said.
First Things First!!!! A Belated Tribute to Miss Sadie Baxter
by VANITA BENTLEY
My husband says I have never before publicly (much less privately) admitted to being wrong, but I am doing it here and proud to say What was I thinking?
I jumped the gun on trying to find a living leading citizen when we ha=ve a dead deceased leading citizen who needs to be recognized FIRST!!!! Miss Sadie Baxter bless her heart, who left us eight years ago in June (Mr. Hogan pls check me on this) was as generous a benefactor as any lttle town could ever hope to have.
From her house on the ridge above Main Street Miss Baxter is said to have rocked in her rocker and prayed for this town and the little cars and people she could see from up there moving around on the streets below. Have you ever heard anything so sweet as that? I personally have not.
So what I am proposing is that we name Miss Sadie Baxter who never married but gave her ALL to friends and neighbors, is that we name her Mitford’s LEADING CITIZEN even though she is crossed over and put a plaque in the town museum so we can always remember where these great gifts came from:
1. Hope House, our state of the art nursing facility for people of all races, colors, religions, walks of life and you name it
2. Baxter Park between Main and Churchill—Little Mitford Creek runs through it!! Have you ever been to Baxter Park? You should GO!! It is so pretty and shady. Remember to pick up your trash and do not park in there at night as the MPD often checks it out.
3. The orchards of Baxter apples that you and I pick from every fall and make apple butter or have somebody make for us is now owned by Mayor Gregory who is carrying on the tradition of letting townspeople pick there for free. But once again: PICK UP YOUR TRASH!!!! And thank you Mayor Gregory!!
4. Thirteen rooms at Childrens Hospital in Wesley were given by Miss Sadie who said it was one for each apostle plus One room in honor of her dear lifelong friend Louella Baxter Marshall a resident at our own beautiful Hope House. Have you ever been to Hope House? You should go and take the children and sing hymns and kiss the elderly (though not in flu season)—they would LOVE it and so would YOU!!!!
5. The slate roof on the historic Lord’s Chapel (her father gave the whole church in nineteen hundred and something—Mr. Hogan w eigh in on the exact date pls)
The plaque will be written by Fr Timothy Kavanagh her dear friend and priest who will say all the wonderful things on the plaque that you and I don’t know how to say.
So I hope you will get behind this and go see the plaque at our Town Museum any time after November 1, admission to students and senior citizens $2. $4 to everybody else opposite the monument. Be sure and play the jukebo
x, all proceeds go to the new Guttering Project.
P. S. We did receive 14 votes for Father Tim as Leading Citizen 7 for Winnie Ivey who gives bakery goods to the needy –4 for Wanda Basinger who has given us such a great place to have a nice lunch (a big YUM on the fries)—2 for Coot Hendrik who is a town fixture and 1 for me, I am so HONORED to be included—thank you!!
• • •
AT ELEVEN-THIRTY, he had $32.67 in the till.
J.C. swung in with his briefcase, deposited it on the sales counter. ‘So what do you think of today’s lead?’
‘Very good, excellent. It’s about time we recognized all she did for us. I agree one hundred percent. Why didn’t somebody tell me I’m writing the plaque?’
‘You didn’t ask,’ said J.C.
‘Buy a book.’
‘I don’t have time to read.’
‘Buy a book anyway. We need the money.’
‘What should I buy?’
‘Something by Churchill. Or David McCullough. Or a book of poetry—that would give you a good worming.’
Or, he wanted to say, how about a book on whacking the exclamation mark, getting to know the comma, giving the quote mark a try?
‘I’ll pop your briefcase under the counter and you can have at it. Free coffee to your left.’
‘I’m in,’ said J.C.
• • •
‘DON’T TRY TO SELL ME A BOOK, Father, I’m not here to buy a book, I’m here to read my needlepoint magazine in peace and drink somebody else’s coffee and try to get my nerves settled. Think “freeload” when you see me comin’.’
Winnie Kendall had a frazzled look.
‘We have never had such a run on fig newtons, I don’t understand it, hardly anybody eats fig newtons anymore, but sixteen dozen down th’ hatch since Monday, we think it’s somethin’ goin’ on at th’ college in Wesley. An’ th’ OMC, oh, my Lord, it is sailin’ out of there by th’ slice an’ whole, ’cause everybody wants to see if I got it right, an’ some don’t mind tellin’ me I didn’t even though I go exactly by the recipe. So Thomas said, “For th’ Lord’s sake, Winnie, go up to th’ bookstore for a while and I’ll handle things down here.”
‘God love ’er, Hope has let me do this little trick for three years—it is a lifesaver.’
‘Make yourself at home,’ he said. ‘Take a chair, any chair.’
‘I like th’ one in th’ Poetry section. Hardly anybody ever wanders back there.’
‘Ah, but there’s a poetry renaissance coming, I hear. A slender volume recently hit the Times’ bestseller list. A first!’
‘Oh, boy,’ said Winnie, giving him a wink. ‘That’ll run me over to Ancient Greek History for sure.’
• • •
HE WAS READING the Muse when the best-looking woman in town stopped by.
‘Listen to this,’ he said. ‘“Make your magnolia leaves shine! Just rub on any cooking oil and voila! Dry, dusty leaves in indoor arrangements look brand-new.” Did you know this?’
His wife handed over a box of raisins. ‘We don’t have any magnolia leaves in indoor arrangements.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘in case we ever do.’
• • •
HE RANG JEB ADDERHOLT.
‘Better let me get it back to you, Father. Wouldn’t want you on th’ road in it.’
‘But you shouldn’t be driving it, either.’
‘Nossir, we’ll tow it over.’
‘Put it in the garage next to my wife’s car,’ he said. ‘Back it in for me, if you would.’
Red Mustang turns into white elephant.
No customers were around when the mayor came in, just Winnie reading the bedraggled Sunday Times in her hideout.
Andrew sat on the stool in front of the sales counter. ‘This is confidential, Father. Anyone about?’
‘Someone’s in the Poetry section,’ he said. ‘You might keep your voice down.’
He had never admitted to anyone, including Cynthia, that there had been talk of Tim Kavanagh running for mayor. Esther and Andrew had both suggested it in years past and J.C. and Mule had supported the notion.
But all that time and tribulation and weighing of issues—and no vote? The mayor was but a ceremonial head. As for the pay—last time he heard, it was $200 a month, which was probably commensurate with the weight of the issues involved.
The toughest call the council had faced in the last couple of years was whether to allow dogs in Baxter Park. Why, dogs had visited Baxter Park for as long as he could remember—and now they could enjoy it legally, always a good thing.
Even if he could get elected, it wasn’t as if it were a lifetime commitment. Two years and you were done, unless, of course, you ran and were elected again. He could do two years. Maybe he could make a difference, though things around town seemed perfectly fine to him. As for the notion of increasing tourism, it was unquestionably a nonpolluting way of improving the economy, and most tourists were harmless, anyway. All they wanted was to get out of the heat, have a nice lunch, take up the parking spaces, and go home until the following summer.
‘Esther Cunningham was in to see me,’ said the mayor.
‘Wanting her old job back!’ he said.
‘How did you know?’
‘I was kidding. But you’re serious?’
‘Not entirely. It’s more like she wants to give me input on how to handle the job in general and hammer the merchants in particular. A kind of Mafia arrangement in which she’s the godfather, and I’m the capo who dunks ’em in concrete and drops ’em in the river.’
‘Esther, Esther,’ he said.
‘She’s legendary, of course, and frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she runs again. How old is she, anyway?’
‘Seventysomething is my guess. Maybe more.’
‘If she tosses in her hat,’ said Andrew, ‘she’ll have no opposition from me. I will not run against Hannibal and his elephants.’
‘Good thinking.’
‘But that’s not why I stepped over to see you. I’d like to ask you to do something important.’
So much for the mayor business; this would probably be the town council pitch. Which meant spending money out of pocket, giving talks, shaking hands, kissing babies, and trying to wither the opponents, if there were any. He was glad he’d worn his best jacket; this was serious stuff.
‘This is a big one,’ said Andrew. ‘We like to work well in advance on this one.’
The mayor was beaming. ‘I’m asking you to be grand marshal of the Independence Day parade next July. You’d be driving Miss Sadie’s ’58 Plymouth Belvedere. It looks like it just rolled off the showroom floor.’
There was something outright consoling about the especially vigorous handshake.
• • •
‘M’ NAME’S IN TODAY’S PAPER.’
At one-thirty, the ravenous bookstore clerk was eating his sandwich and Coot Hendrik was wearing a grin that Uncle Billy would have said ‘like to busted his face open.’
‘You were one of only four people who got a vote.’
‘Five,’ said Coot. ‘Down at th’ café, they said it was five people.’
‘Correct, yes. Five.’
‘I got m’ name in th’ paper last week, too.’
‘You did, I remember.’
Coot was visibly moved by two such public attentions, and didn’t say anything for a time.
‘You could read this ’un to me, if you wouldn’t object. They read it out too fast at th’ café, I could listen to it ag’in.’
He turned to the front page, scanned the piece, and did as directed. ‘Four votes for Wanda Basinger who has given us such a great place to have lunch, and two . . . for Coot Hendrik . . . who is a town fixture.’
Coot looked deeply into his coffee cup. ‘I was wonderin’—what exactl
y is a town fixture?’
‘Let’s step over there,’ he said, heading for the store dictionary. He thumbed through to F, to Fi.
‘You are a town fixture because you . . .’ He ran his forefinger slowly beneath the definition as Coot looked on. ‘. . . are invariably present in and long associated with this town.’
Coot nodded, grew thoughtful. ‘’At means you’re a town fixture, too.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ he said. ‘Come to think of it, your name is in this book.’
‘They ain’t no way.’
He thumbed back to C and ahead to Co.
‘Right here. Coot. Plain as day.’
Coot stooped, had a close look. ‘How’d it git in here?’
‘It’s the name of . . . “an aquatic, slow-flying, slate-colored bird of the rail family, resembling a duck.”’
Coot blinked. ‘Are they any way I could borry this book?’
‘Not this book. But I might have a dictionary in paperback.’
The chances were better than good that Coot couldn’t read. How would you go about teaching a full-grown adult to read? Maybe there was a book about that around here . . .
• • •
ESTHER CUNNINGHAM WAS PEERING in the display window; he could see her but she didn’t see him. Actually, her attention was riveted on the quotes taped to the glass; he saw her mouth moving as she read them one by one.
The bell jangled.
‘Esther!’
She was the Queen Mary sailing into Boston Harbor, flags flying. ‘I hear you’re gainfully employed again,’ she said.
‘No rest for the wicked, an’ th’ righteous don’t need none.’ Uncle Billy had authored that particular quote.
‘Was it your idea to tape that stuff on th’ window?’
‘I can’t really take credit for that.’
‘Credit? There’d be no credit to take for postin’ litter that’s goin’ to fall in the street and blow around ’til th’ cows come home.’
‘It makes good reading,’ he said.
‘That may well be, but such clutter on a public display window is not a good model for other merchants. As I recall, I passed a regulation on that very thing. Do you, Father, of all people, want to set a bad example for Main Street? To have every Tom, Dick, and Harry litterin’ their windows with fingerprints and gummy tape?’
