by Jan Karon
It was morning rush hour in Mitford, largely composed of pickup trucks at urgent speed. Some flying down the mountain to greener job pastures, others flying up the mountain to glean whatever pickings the southbound left behind.
He quickened his step. This was the week that fall color would be at its peak. And the week he was finally to become what he’d so long hankered to be:
Full-time.
‘Hallelujah!’ he exclaimed over the backfire of Ned Colby’s gravel truck.
• • •
SHE CAME AWAKE, but only enough to realize she had survived the night; that the kiss on her cheek acknowledged her as alive and sentient.
More than anything, she wanted to see the face of her husband, but she could not or would not open her eyes. There was something inside that needed to be tended first; something remote—she would have to travel to get there.
Scott was praying for her. His voice resonated in her blood as plucked strings in the sound box of a lute.
‘Amen,’ he said.
Still, she could not open her eyes; the membrane of her lids had come down like a shade, leaving the tears to find an exit on their own.
‘Everything is going to be all right,’ he said, sitting on the side of the bed. ‘Hold on to that, Hope. Everything is going to be all right. I promise.’
God had promised, her husband had promised, Father Tim had promised when they spoke on the phone yesterday. What more could she possibly want or need? ‘Live up to your name!’ her mother had liked to command.
She felt a type of shame. Her body was growing something she had no wish to grow. It could not be surgically removed, nor could she wish or pray it away. She was without power to do anything at all, though she knew with terrible urgency that something must be done.
• • •
‘YOU AIN’T TH’ B-BOSS OF ME.’
‘True. God is the boss of you, with Harley a close second.’
‘Ain’t nobody th’ b-boss of me.’
‘Here are your pruners. When Harley gets back with supplies, we need to be ready for new topsoil. You take that bed, I’ll take this bed, as previously explained. We must cut back the vines, pull ’em off the building, dig out the rootstock, and remove the old debris.’
‘Ain’t nobody gon’ mess around back here, so why’re we b-bustin’ ass to fix it?’
‘If we fix it, people will mess around back here.’
Church suppers. ECW events. Cake sales. And perfect for small weddings. A bench there, or perhaps under the old serviceberry, and maybe next spring a stone walkway from the side entrance of the church to the door of the moderately refurbished Sunday school. It was thrilling.
He shared this vision with Sammy, who stared into the middle distance throughout the dissertation.
‘I’m just going to love him,’ he had said to Cynthia. Famous last words.
• • •
THE MORNING WARMED UP QUICKLY.
They had off-loaded the contents of Harley’s truck into the Sunday school building. Rakes, tarps, a mower, two ladders, and other tools of lawn care and home improvement. The supplies Harley was shopping for this morning would also be stored in the building. Good deal.
‘Looks like there might be a hole in th’ roof.’ Sammy spit into a bare bed. ‘I stood on that rock over yonder and seen it!’
‘Where’s the hole?’
‘Up by th’ bell on top.’
He followed Sammy inside, burrowing beyond the rakes and other gear, into the realm of disabled school furniture and musty banners.
Sammy was using Red Man, he saw the package sticking out of his jeans pocket. A better thing, maybe, than the cigarette, but with its own calamities.
They moved about, looking up to the rafters. No light filtered through the roof decking.
‘No hole,’ he said.
‘There’s water c-comin’ in somewhere, I can tell y’ that.’
‘We can’t see light through the decking.’
‘It smells damp in here, ’at’s enough for me.’
‘First things first. Let’s get the job done outside and we’ll come back to this.’
In the dim light, Sammy turned to him, sneered. ‘You ain’t G-God, you know.’
• • •
HE LEANED ON THE HANDLE of his shovel, feeling decrepit. His upper body had enjoyed no useful benefit from running. He took the hat off his sweat-drenched head and hung it on the doorknob of the school.
Sammy looked at him with disdain. ‘Somebody must’ve used a r-rusty s-saw blade on you.’
It might be a bad haircut, but he felt the heat in his face. Sammy Barlowe was absolutely, totally committed to getting his goat. He would need to be careful where he stepped with this.
He stood his shovel against the wall. He had no idea what he would say. He gave Sammy a steady gaze, prayed, and opened his mouth. Out sailed a quote from Absalom Greer.
‘I’m not goin’ to preach long,’ he said in a remarkably even tone. ‘Just ’til we get done.’
‘Yo, Rev’rend!’
A grinning, toothless Harley flapped his arm out the window of the truck as he scratched into the drive behind the school building.
Harley Welch had saved Sammy Barlowe’s hide.
‘Where are your teeth?’ he asked Harley as they unloaded a bag of organic fertilizer.
‘I don’t wear ’em to work. I save ’em for dress-up.’
‘They’re history,’ said Sammy. ‘He lost ’em.’
‘They ain’t lost, I jis’ don’t know where they’re at.’
‘If they ain’t on th’ windowsill in th’ kitchen, they might be in th’ g-glove compartment with th’ ice scraper, an’ if they ain’t r-rollin’ around with th’ ice scraper, they might be in th’ m-mulch pile over at Miz Baker’s house—’
‘Whoa,’ said Harley. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, dadgummit.’
‘How ’bout on top of th’ toilet tank—’
‘I don’t care if they never turn up,’ said Harley. ‘They’s way too many of ’em, anyhow.’
‘So send them back to Kentucky and ask your dentist to remove a couple.’
‘They costed me too much to be givin’ any back.’
‘Lunch?’ he asked Harley. ‘Did you pick up lunch in Wesley?’
‘Lord help! I plumb forgot.’
‘Go up the street to Feel Good around eleven-thirty. We’ll buy local.’
‘Let me go,’ said Sammy.
‘I need you here.’
Sammy spit into the grass. ‘You don’t need me, you got Harley. I’ll go up th’ street.’
The punitive didn’t come naturally to him, but really—he could punch this kid in the mouth and not think twice about it.
• • •
THE CAFTAN OF THE DAY was decorated with images of hot air balloons. Red, yellow, orange, green. A blue sky full. Definitely a stand-out in the produce section of the Local.
‘I levitate toward bright colors,’ said Shirlene, noting his interest in her garb. ‘I’m in here buyin’ supper; I’m way too tired to cook anything fancy.’
‘I hear you. How’s business?’
‘Pickin’ up a teensy bit!’
‘Great! Glad to hear it.’
‘I’ve decided to give ten percent of all spray tan sales to th’ Children’s Hospital in Wesley. They say you’re a real good customer—or whatever you call it.’
‘We’ll be donors together. That’s wonderful, Shirlene. Thank you.’
‘Plus—I’ve decided to do it whether business is good or not.’
‘That’s the ticket! You’ll be richly blessed.’ He seldom encountered this especially insightful style of philanthropy.
‘An’ since y’all won’t give me any help to meet a nice man, I have taken on th’ job myself.’
> ‘It’s come to that!’
‘I went online.’
He put a gentle squeeze on an avocado.
‘They give you five free samples to lure you in, but listen to this—they all looked like my granpaw! Th’ first one could have been on th’ ground at Iwo Jima, but still very jaunty according to his bio, which I think his great-great-granddaughter wrote. I could pay respects for his service to our country, but as far as—’
The price of lemons these days . . . unbelievable. ‘How were the other four?’
‘You should have seen th’ next one, he was from Memphis. His guitar was in the shape of a crocodile plus all his fingers were tattooed and he had more wrinkles than a Georgia road map. Then one had this huge dog—in the picture he was bundled up with that thing, it was big as a house. His bio said it was th’ light of his life.’ She shivered. ‘Think about that.’
Oh, for a homegrown tomato, but their prime had come and gone. He squinted at the offering of beets.
‘Then there was one with facial hair, I cannot stand facial hair. For one thing, way too much upkeep.’
He passed on to the limes. ‘What about the other fellow?’
‘They wouldn’t give me a picture of him.’
‘Not a good sign.’
‘Delete, delete, delete, that’s today’s courtin’ for you. So they gave me this bonus offer to keep me on th’ hook. One last chance to make up my mind and put thirty-four ninety-five on my card. This one had a motorcycle with a sidecar—they showed his picture and he wasn’t too bad. But—and here’s th’ kicker—eighty-five years old! What do you think is goin’ on?
‘When I was fillin’ in th’ application, I clearly remember typin’ in fifty-eight as th’ max age.’ She paused, startled, smacked her forehead. ‘Oh, please! I just realized—I’m dyslexic! I prob’ly typed in eighty-five!’
‘That’ll do it.’
‘All this is happenin’ ’cause y’all won’t give me any help.’
‘Shirlene, Shirlene, there is no help to give. This is Mitford.’ He liked nothing better than offering help to one and all, but the Cupid business was totally out of his precinct. He felt mildly guilty. ‘Thanks again for what you’re doing for Children’s Hospital. Ride over sometime with my wife and me and see your generosity at work.’
‘Great. Okay. Will do. So I better get out of here. I’m playin’ Scrabble tonight online, an’ whippin’ up a few Brussels sprouts. Do y’all ever do that?’
‘Not terribly often,’ he said.
• • •
AS HE HEADED SOUTH toward home, J.C. was hoofing north.
‘I’ve been lookin’ all over for you. Nobody answers the phone at your place, nobody comes to the door. What’s th’ deal?’
The bag of groceries was heavier than he intended. ‘Have to keep moving. Perishables.’
‘I hear you saved Henry Talbot’s life.’
‘I have nothing to say.’ He walked on.
‘There’s a rumor you checked him into ER Saturday night.’
He took the Fifth.
‘I’ll talk to Wilson.’
‘Wilson will have nothing to say.’
‘Adele and I just got back in town; I’ve got to put this thing to bed for Thursday. You may as well cooperate—I’m headed to the MPD.’
‘There was no police report, so the MPD will have nothing to say.’
‘The night shift at the hospital, they’ll tell me plenty.’
‘As you know, hospital staff can’t speak on private health matters, except anonymously. Which reduces any possible story to hearsay, gossip, and rumor.’
‘You could help me out here, dadgummit—did Talbot try to kill himself?’
‘What he did or didn’t do is nobody’s business but the Talbots’. The only news here is that he left Lord’s Chapel under whatever circumstances the vestry cares to disclose.’
‘People love to talk in this town. One way or th’ other, I can get a story.’
He stopped for a moment, shifted the bag to the other arm. ‘I read a line in the Muse recently. It stated, with some pride: We print good news. Enough damage has been done, J.C. Leave it alone.’
He walked on.
Debris hurtling into the air and falling, falling.
• • •
‘MELITA, DOMI ADSUM!’ he shouted as he came in the side door. Cynthia waved from the kitchen.
‘Or, to translate: Honey, I’m home.’
‘How was it on the job site?’ she said.
He set the bag on the counter, gave his good dog a scratch on the head. ‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘Good. What’s this?’
‘Among other things, fresh pasta. Free sample. Avis says let him know how we like it. He’s setting up a pasta station on Wednesdays and Fridays. Homemade on the spot.’
‘Proof that Mitford takes care of its own.’
‘Cook five to six minutes, toss with olive oil, grate a little parmesan, and we’re done.’
‘I’ll cook, toss, grate, serve, and try to make interesting conversation.’
‘And I’ll wash up,’ he said.
She gave him a hug. ‘How does it look so far?’
‘It’ll be beautiful, I think, though more work than I had in mind. If nobody else enjoys it, you and I will. We can walk down there on summer evenings—sit on a bench, make out . . .’
‘My favorite.’
‘How did your work go?’
‘Still hard.’ She rubbed her eyes in that way grown too familiar. ‘I would love this book to be more than a book, somehow. Flaps and pop-ups and sounds, things going on. But maybe just being a book is enough. You look exhausted.’
‘Mostly mental.’ He climbed onto a stool at the kitchen island. ‘I’m trying not to censure or chastise, just walk out something he needs, just stand with him as best I can. I don’t want to go the tough-love route or any of the other stuff that probably makes more sense.’
‘Drink some water,’ she said, handing him a glass.
‘In the end, grace may not be something the fallible human can extend. We can make each other happy for a minute or two, but I don’t know about grace, maybe all we can deliver is mock grace.’
‘I would take mock grace over no grace at all,’ she said. ‘Consider mock turtle soup. Not half bad, really. Then there’s mock apple pie.’
‘How can you mock an apple?’
‘With Ritz crackers.’
‘Surely not.’
‘It’s true. You can Google it. We had a call from Lace. She says don’t do anything fancy. No picnic in Baxter Park, just my grilled pimiento cheese for lunch in the kitchen. She says she wants nothing more than to be with us. She misses us.’
‘We miss her.’
‘She and Olivia are staying put in the evenings and Skyping Hoppy.’
‘A good plan,’ he said, heading upstairs.
• • •
WEDNESDAY MORNING was one for the books. He was so stiff and sore he could hardly get out of bed and sincerely wished he didn’t have to. He borrowed her keys and drove to the church.
When Harley went to pick up lunch at noon, the stiffness had improved, and the project lay before them in its own astonishing improvement.
Wearing bandannas, he and Sammy leaned on their shovels, eyed their work.
‘What’s it going to need, Sam?’
‘Red maple. About four yards to th’ right so it d-don’t grow onto th’ roof.’
‘Excellent. I agree. What else?’
‘Bench.’
‘Two, maybe?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about topiaries in urns, either side of the door? What do you think?’
‘S-seem like more climbers would work. I’d run ’em on a trellis.’
More spraying an
d pruning. Nobody could ever again call him retired.
‘What else?’
‘Needs a wall back there to like frame things.’
‘A wall! Good thinking.’ This kid was born with an eye. The space just wandered off into Earle Johnson’s yard, which was appointed with whitewashed rocks lining the driveway and an early Buick on blocks.
‘Stone, of course.’
‘I don’t lay no stone.’ A stream of Red Man into the bushes.
‘Me, either. But we probably could, don’t you think?’ He had always wanted to lay a stone wall. ‘We could get a book on how to do it. Dry wall, like in Ireland.’ He’d be on this job ’til he was as old as Methuselah.
‘Yeah. We don’t need to be m-messin’ with no mortar. Harley’s laid stone walls.’
‘Okay, great, we have a plan. But that’s it, we’re done. We’ll go soon.’
‘Where?’
‘Big Mountain Nursery. We’ll look at their maples and check out the stone.’
Color rushed to Sammy’s face. ‘I always wanted t’ g-go there.’
• • •
THEY SAT ON THE STUDY SOFA and watched the news. Cold weather coming, as cold weather does, it was October. Bundle up. Bring in the plants. The usual.
He was thankful for the burning logs, his dog, their cat, the whole caboodle.
She patted his knee. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Pretty beat. But I’ve scarcely ever been so . . .’ He thought about it, making sure he had the right word.
‘. . . happy,’ he said.
Dear Henry,
This will be a mighty short letter, utterly undeserving of your recent three pages which Cynthia and I savored. I will most definitely do better next go-round.
Now to it—you could never guess what scrapes I’ve gotten into since we talked . . .
On Thursday morning, he posted a couple of quotes on the board.
It’s what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it. Oscar Wilde
People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading. {Logan Pearsall Smith
A calm, slow morning. The trees ablaze, Barnabas dozing in a patch of sun in the display window. To borrow a word from Abe, the morning was a bracha. At ten-thirty, the Muse skidded to the door.
