by Jan Karon
‘God loves you, Henry.’
‘“Love can perform a wondrous labor . . . and all the good or bad in me takes on a penetrating savor . . .”’
His hand gripped Henry’s shoulder, to give some mite of warmth.
‘It is very hard to die. Or if I have died, I confess I expected more.’ A deep tremor in Henry’s body, his whole frame agitated, the breath ragged. ‘Perhaps this is purgatory, or I have passed directly to Sheol. But the people . . . the people . . .’
‘Tell me.’
‘They had grown fat on honey and I gave them bitter root. Tell them I learned to love them. Lying here, it came to me that I love them and deeply repent of my cold disfavor toward them and our Lord. I was unable, I was coaching then. Ask them to forgive my manifold sins against God and this parish. It was winter, you see, and I was but ten years old; my sled had come apart against a tree . . .’
He placed his hand on Henry’s head and prayed aloud. ‘Nothing can separate us from your love, O Lord. Thank you for releasing us from the bondage of believing we are worthless and rejected . . .’
‘Up there . . .’ Henry’s voice coarse from the heaving.
The moon had escaped cloud cover and silvered the canopy of branches. ‘Up there, the heavenly realm, and here, O Lord, am I, a worm awaiting your claim. Will you have me?’
‘He will have you, Henry.’
‘“Living darkly, with no ray . . .”’
Their voices mingled on the night air.
‘For you, Lord,’ he prayed, ‘have not given us the spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind . . .’
‘“. . . and quickly killing every trace of light,”’ Henry whispered, ‘“I burn myself away.”’
• • •
‘HARD TO ASSESS,’ said Wilson. ‘No way to know how much or when he took it, he’s too confused to tell us anything.’
‘What was it?’ said Dooley.
‘Acetaminophen and diphenhydramine. The empty bottles were in the pocket of the jacket you brought in. It’s a common mix for the suicide demographic who prefer ingestion.’
‘He left the house at six,’ he said. ‘There were empty water bottles with him on the trail. Let’s say he got the stuff down right away. We found him at one-thirty, one-forty . . .’
‘It’s three forty-five now,’ said Dooley, ‘so around ten hours.’
‘The tests show thickened blood,’ said Wilson, ‘some liver damage, and the kidney function is off. We hung a couple liters of saline on him, gave him an antidote, and the chopper will have him to Winston in forty-five minutes—before five, say, or about eleven hours from the overdose. Twelve hours out and he’s in big trouble. So by a hair, by a hair.’
The doctor he’d recently thought a cub looked pretty old right now.
‘What about ID?’ asked Dooley.
‘On his wrist. A band.’
‘Dad notified his wife.’
‘She’ll have to get here fast.’
‘She won’t be coming,’ he said.
‘Not even the children know what’s happening,’ she’d told him on the phone. ‘I’ve lived the last thirty-four years putting a good face on things for Henry. It’s useless for me to come, for there’s no longer a good face to be put. I love Henry more than life, Father, but I will go through with the divorce. I declare the agony ended forever on this terrible night. I’m sorry—for everything. Thank you for all you’ve done.’
‘I hope we can keep this quiet,’ he told Wilson.
‘Nobody will hear it from me, but I can’t make promises for anyone else. You know the Mitford grapevine.’
They waited in the hall for Talbot’s gurney. ‘My son’s going to be a doctor,’ he said, proud.
Wilson eyed Dooley with approval. ‘You’ll make a good one, I’m sure. Your speciality?’
‘Animals,’ said Dooley. ‘Not people.’
The doctor volunteered a grin. ‘Animals are people, too.’
• • •
THE CHOPPER USED TO LAND in Baxter Park; now there was a helipad on the roof of the hospital. He read again the bronze plaque at the door of the elevator to the pad: A GIFT OF THE IRENE AND CHESTER MCGRAW FAMILY. He remembered that Chester had been flown to Charlotte from the pad he funded, and died en route.
Cutcutcutcutcutcut . . .
At 4:10, the machine lifted off the roof of Mitford Hospital and, in the starless night, burned itself away.
Chapter Fourteen
He had called the bishop at seven-thirty to brief him on the harrowing circumstances of last night.
‘This changes everything,’ Jack Martin had said. ‘I’ll meet you in the vestry a little earlier, say ten-fifteen, we’ll celebrate together. The Lord be with you.’
According to Bill Swanson, Bishop Martin was not only never late, but known to arrive early. Now he was late by more than forty minutes. In alb and stole, he paced the confines of the minuscule room where the choir changed, the priest vested, offerings were counted, and, occasionally, an anxious bridegroom waited.
Bill Swanson’s face was beet-red as he rushed into the vestry and closed the door. ‘Bishop Martin can’t make it, Father. He just got cell phone service. A rockslide on the mountain, quite a few people badly injured. Very serious. No cars getting through, he says.’
He stared as if the senior warden had spoken in another tongue. On every side, wreckage. Debris hurtling into the air and then falling, falling . . .
Bill Swanson’s left eyelid twitched. ‘Bishop says tell you to carry on. What can I do?’
‘Pray.’
‘Say as little as you can, would be my thinking, Father, and let the vestry handle the rest at the parish meeting. All hell will break loose when they get the details. No need for it to break loose in the eleven o’clock.’
The congregation wouldn’t know what to make of seeing Tim Kavanagh in the pulpit; they would be heartily up for the flamboyance of the bishop’s mitre and crozier, and for learning what Talbot had in mind for the bishop’s unexplained visit. They would have the momentary shock of the old priest to work through, which would, perhaps, condition them for the blow to follow.
He could go head down into the wind and make the announcement before the opening hymn. But no, the opening hymn would give them all a chance to settle in and connect with whatever familiar words had been selected. It was a packed house, with people sitting on chairs in the aisle and standing at the rear, the usual case with a visit by the bishop. Something was up, everybody knew that much.
‘I’m ready,’ he said to Bill. Exhausted, strung out, wired, and ready.
Bill Swanson was reeling from this, but thumping him on the back with good cheer. ‘When th’ bishop can’t make it, Father, God himself shows up.’
He embraced Bill and walked from the vestry into the nave and bowed to the cross and ascended the steps to the altar and the organ played and he turned to the people and lifted his hands for them to stand. They rose with a great swoosh, as a single body, and he opened his mouth and the words learned as a child came forth with sweet accord.
When morning gilds the skies
My heart awaking cries
May Jesus Christ be praised!
When evening shadows fall
This rings my curfew call
May Jesus Christ be praised . . .
‘Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,’ he said.
‘And blessed be his kingdom,’ the people said, ‘now and forever.
‘Amen.’
‘Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid: cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee, and worthily magnify thy holy Name; through Christ our Lord.’
‘Amen.’
He felt his heart pie
rced through; the terrible constriction in his throat. His wife knew something had gone wrong. From the second row, gospel side, she gave the sign that she was praying—a slight raising of the forefinger of her right hand held against her cheek. And there was his dazed and sleep-deprived son sitting next to her, and thank God for his support.
‘Bishop Martin is unable to join us this morning. He sends his profound regret from a scene of unthinkable tragedy on the mountain—a rockslide gravely injuring many people. The bishop is unhurt, but traffic will be delayed for some time.
‘We must remember Bishop Martin in our prayers and those who, though unknown to us, are yet brother and sister in this mortal flesh. We ask God for his great mercy upon all whose lives were changed this morning on the mountain . . . and for each of us gathered here today.’
The word mercy struck a chord among the congregants. Why would they need God’s mercy in the same measure as those poor souls in the rockslide?
‘I am grieved to say there is more to tell you this morning. But before it is spoken, I bid you listen carefully to what our Lord Jesus Christ saith:
‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself . . .
‘Our neighbor and your priest, Father Henry Talbot . . .’ He looked to Cynthia. Help me.
‘. . . is in urgent need of your love, your forgiveness, and your prayers. Bishop Martin asks me to tell you that Father Talbot’s duties as priest of this parish are officially ended.’
No gasping or seeming mortifications. Only stunned silence.
‘Father Talbot has charged me to tell you that he is deeply repentant for not serving you as God appointed him to do, and as you hoped and needed him to do.
‘He wished very much to bring you this message himself, but he could not. He bids you goodbye with a love he confesses he never felt toward you . . . until this day. He asks—and I quote him—that you might find it in your hearts to forgive him his manifold sins against God and this parish.’
He felt the tears on his face before he knew he was weeping, and realized instinctively that he would have no control over the display. He could not effectively carry on, nor even turn his face away or flee the pulpit. He was in the grip of a wild grief that paralyzed everything but itself.
He wept face forward, then, into the gale of those aghast at what was happening, wept for the wounds of any clergy gone out into a darkness of self-loathing and beguilement; for the loss and sorrow of those who could not believe, or who had once believed but lost all sense of shield and buckler and any notion of God’s radical tenderness, for the ceaseless besettings of the flesh, for the worthless idols of his own and of others; for those sidetracked, stumped, frozen, flung away, for those both false and true, the just and the unjust, the quick and the dead.
He wept for himself, for the pain of the long years and the exquisite satisfactions of the faith, for the holiness of the mundane, for the thrashing exhaustions and the endless dyings and resurrectings that malign the soul incarnate.
It had come to this, a thing he had subtly feared for more than forty years—that he would weep before the many—and he saw that his wife would not try to talk him down from this precipice, she would trust him to come down himself without falling or leaping.
And people wept with him, most of them. Some turned away, and a few got up and left in a hurry, fearful of the swift and astounding movement of the Holy Spirit among them, and he, too, was afraid—of crying aloud in a kind of ancient howl and humiliating himself still further. But the cry burned out somewhere inside and he swallowed down what remained and the organ began to play, softly, piously. He wished it to be loud and gregarious, at the top of its lungs—Bach or Beethoven, and not the saccharine pipe that summoned the vagabond sins of thought, word, and deed to the altar, though come to think of it, the rail was the very place to be right now, at once, as he, they, all were desperate for the salve of the cup, the Bread of Heaven.
And then it was over. He reached into the pocket of his alb and wondered again how so many manage to make it in this world without carrying a handkerchief. And he drew it out and wiped his eyes and blew his nose as he might at home, and said, ‘Amen.’
And the people said, ‘Amen.’
• • •
AT THE CHURCH DOOR, Buck Leeper gave him a crushing embrace.
A fellow who introduced himself as a visitor nodded and said, ‘Right on.’
The soldier in Army uniform with his family from Wesley waited until others had gone through the line. He embraced the boy—so sober, so young, younger than Dooley.
‘Where are you serving?’ he asked.
‘Armageddon,’ said the boy.
Eileen Douglas threw up her hands and shook her head with wonder and said nothing.
Which, God knows, was saying a lot.
Chapter Fifteen
On Monday, several of the parish communicated their thoughts as they had when he’d served at Lord’s Chapel. Skipping the amenities of the USPS, they posted their envelopes directly into the mail slot of the front door.
Dear Father Tim.
It was so nice to cry in church yesterday. There is so much to cry about in this world, thank you for the opportunity.
Your friend,
Dottie Holzclaw
Father,
I have heard about the laughing thing that breaks out in churches but this is the first I ever knew of the crying thing. Wish I could have been there and wish we could have you back if only for the innovations! (What next, ha ha!)
Sincerely,
Zack Clemmons
(I played first base on our Mitford Reds team—those were the days)
GREEN FAMILY PLUMBING & ELECTRICAL
Dear Father Tim,
Maybe it’s because we used to be Baptists but we have never liked Fr Talbot AT ALL, though now we do because we cried for him and we forgive him and will try to stick with it.
God bless you.
Connie and Elton Green
Charles Dickens said, It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens the temper—so cry away.
Love in Jesus
Beth and Jim Chandler
Father Tim
TEARS ARE OUR HOLY WATER
He stayed in his pajamas on Monday, occupying the hours by listing supplies for Tuesday, talking with Bishop Martin and Bill Swanson, praying, napping, and generally recovering his wits. He had called Harley and was assured that his neighbor was well enough to work tomorrow, if all he did was step and fetch for a couple of days.
After lunch, which was delivered by his wife, he mustered the courage to cut his own hair. Did he want help? No; there was no hair savvy in this house. Cynthia, Puny, Dooley—all had tried cutting his hair at one time or another and it was a worse disaster than he might foist upon himself.
Holding the hand mirror, he backed up to the bathroom mirror and squinted at the job to be done. It drove him crazy trying to hold the mirror with one hand and manipulate the scissors with the other; it was a bloody logistical nightmare that deposited hair in the sink, on the floor, and, as he lacked foresight to use a towel around his neck, inside the collar of his bathrobe.
When he went to retrieve a book from the shelves along the hall, Puny was leaving Dooley’s room with an armload of sheets.
‘Lord help! What have you done to yourself?’
‘What do you mean, done to myself?’
‘Your hair.’
‘I cut it,’ he said, daring further comment.
‘You shouldn’t have messed with th’ sides, I can tell you that.’ And down the stairs she went.
He was fatigued in every part and clearly in denial. All that had happened was too distressing to think a
bout; he held it away from himself.
In the late afternoon, his wife delivered her local gazette: she had been walking in the neighborhood when she saw the moving van headed north. Slowly plowing between the rows of low buildings on Main, the van appeared monstrous, out of place. She had crawled into bed with him, fully clothed, and gone to sleep in her own grieving.
As for the proposed car deal yesterday afternoon, there had been none, of course.
They had come home from church at twelve forty-five, turned off the ringer on the house phone, and after downing two bowls of chicken soup, he’d gone straight to bed. Dooley slept for three and a half hours and headed out with a truckload of clean laundry and a container of egg salad on ice. Three and a half hours’ sleep for a five-and-a-half-hour drive was clearly insufficient, but what could be done? He surrendered his parental concerns to an All-Sufficient God and waited for the marching band.
The woodwinds, brass, and percussion kicked in at ten-thirty p.m.—Dooley was safely in Athens.
On Monday evening, they turned on the ringer; the phone bleated at once. His wife lifted the receiver as if handling a snake.
‘That was Emma. All sorts of rumors have leaked out.’ His wife looked older, exhausted. ‘She says our voice-mail box is full.’
‘Good,’ he said.
The mailbox was full because people wanted answers. Just one more reason former clergy were exhorted to clear out, thereby avoiding involvement in sticky issues of the old parish.
Whatever the leaks may be, he would be hounded by questions—this one in particular:
Why didn’t he, Father Tim, go back to Lord’s Chapel and straighten things out down there?
After getting into bed on Monday night, he realized he had pulled the covers over his head.
• • •
FIRST LIGHT. The sun would be up a little before seven-thirty.
He walked south on Main, dressed in layers—a scarf and cap to take off, a jacket to remove, a vest to be shed when the temperature rose to the predicted upper sixties.
Nobody would find him where he was going, not for a while, anyway. Their work would be uninterrupted, deprived of the gruesome details of Sunday afternoon’s meeting.
