Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good

by Jan Karon

  Every remaining freckle. Every red hair. The light in his eyes. The crooked grin. The works. Lace was holding a life-sized portrait in oil of Dooley Barlowe Kavanagh, from the waist up, wearing a T-shirt that read LOVE IS AN ACT OF ENDLESS FORGIVENESS.

  A surge of feeling. ‘Well done,’ he said.

  ‘Remember the little Baptist church on the way to Meadowgate from Holy Trinity?’ said Lace. ‘The message on the shirt was on their wayside pulpit one morning; we all liked it.’

  Cynthia embraced Lace, held her tight. ‘You’re so gifted, so gifted. Hard to find the words.’

  ‘I had the shirt made for him,’ she said. ‘And one for me, too. It reminds us both.’

  Barnabas came over to look, wagged his tail. They inspected the brushstrokes, the candor of the eyes, the facial expression which Lace found ‘a little dubious.’

  ‘Let’s hang it as is, no frame to distract the eye,’ said Cynthia. ‘But where?’

  ‘Over the mantel!’ he said.

  Agreed.

  He toted in the ladder and removed the mirror.

  ‘I think of Harley,’ he said, handing the mirror down to Lace.

  ‘Never a jot of formal education, but he wanted more than anything for you to have it. He was proud of every step you took, every book you read, and then you turned around and started teaching him, and it was literally life-changing. He says learning American history from you was better than going west with Lewis and Clark.’

  This amused her. She handed up the canvas.

  ‘I went to see him before I came over,’ she said. ‘He is so adorable. He had his teeth in; I hardly knew him. I said, Harley, who was the Indian woman who traveled with Lewis and Clark? That is really an unfair question because her name just drives people crazy trying to pronounce it and it’s been years since Harley studied the expedition. He didn’t hesitate a minute. Sock-ah-ja-wee-ah, he said. So I said, What is another name for the prairie hen? and he said, Grouse—an’ they got four toes on each foot!’

  They sat at the kitchen island and admired the portrait ‘forty ways from Sunday,’ as his mother would have said, and split one of Winnie’s napoleons three ways.

  • • •

  ‘HE DON’T EVEN TALK LIKE Dooley n’more. It’s like he’s somebody else, like that stupid dirtbag dean’s kid over at Bud’s. What’s Dooley tryin’ to prove, anyhow, always thinkin’ he knows it all? He thinks his money makes him some kind of big shot, some kind of god? He wants a truck, he gets a truck, he wants a cue stick, he gets a cue stick.’

  The snow in these mountains was a lovely thing. The heater in Harley’s truck was another lovely thing.

  ‘I don’t care if I live or die, it don’t matter to me, I know I don’t want to be like Dooley or you or Harley or nobody else, I want to be like myself.’

  Come, Holy Spirit.

  ‘I believe you’re missing something here,’ he said. ‘You think all good things just fall into your brother’s lap and are there for the taking?

  ‘Let me tell you about Dooley. He helped raise four kids, remember? Walked you to school because there was no car to go in and no bus out that way, and nobody else to do it.

  ‘And how about putting food on the table? He was ten years old, but he saw it as his job, and he managed that scary responsibility as best he could. Nobody starved to death, you’re all still here.

  ‘And yes, Miss Sadie provided money for his education, but do you think Dooley went off to that fine, expensive school and got by on money?

  ‘Dooley didn’t know how he was going to get by. He wanted to run away from that school, he wanted to come home where the love was. But he toughed it out with all those guys with privileged backgrounds and fast cars, who laughed at him and called him a hillbilly. He dug down deep, where most of us have to go in this life, and he found gold. He found a way to do more than just get by, he found the guts to go against all the odds and, with God’s help, make something of himself.

  ‘And maybe you think school is a piece of cake for your hotshot brother, that he just breezes through and has a good time. You would be wrong. School is hard. That’s what makes it good. And because he has two more years, plus vet school, that makes it double hard—and double good. Because when he gets through, he’ll have a way to help ease some of the suffering in this world.

  ‘You brought us a kitten. You wanted it to have something to eat, a good home, a safe place. That’s what Dooley wants for the animals he’ll spend his life treating. A few years ago, a pony gashed its belly on a barbed-wire fence. It was dying. Dooley helped save its life. Barnabas was struck by a car and would have died, no question. But Dooley and Lace knew what to do and that good dog is still with us.

  ‘You said that when Dooley wants a cue, he buys a cue. And he just bought a beautiful stick for you. Is this the hotshot brother who considers himself a god? Looks to me like it’s a brother who’s thoughtful of your needs, a brother who wants the best for you because he loves you. Actually, you’ve got two brothers who fit that description. Two!’

  He pulled into the parking lot of the nursery and turned off the ignition.

  ‘I hope you’re listening to me, Sam. You’re about to lose your place at Miss Pringle’s because you’ve openly defied the few things asked of you. You’ll be on the street, and for what?

  ‘Most of your life, you’ve been up against it, and it looks like that’s where you want to stay. You didn’t have a choice when you were younger, but now you do.

  ‘Do you want to shoot great pool or would you rather be dead?

  ‘Do you want to build beautiful gardens or would you rather be dead?

  ‘Do you want people to love you, really love you and care about you, or would you rather be dead and miss all that?

  ‘You can’t have it both ways.

  ‘If you choose life, if you choose to honor yourself and others, too, I’ll help you get on with it. Harley will help, Kenny will help, Cynthia, Miss Pringle, a lot of people will help.

  ‘So you’ve got help—and you’ve got talent. And better than that, you’ve got God. God is on your side, Sam, because he loves you. Why does he love you, why does he love me? We can’t fully understand it, but that’s what God does, no matter how stupid or crazy we are, God loves us anyway. He wants the best for us, anyway. You steal my car and wreck it, I love you anyway. Do something like that again, I’ll love you anyway, and I’ll also do this: I’ll press charges, and it won’t be good.

  ‘The party’s over, Sam.’

  He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, felt the flinch.

  ‘But the fun is just beginning. Let’s go in and buy a tree.’

  • • •

  HIS MAMA HAD NOT EATEN a bite in three days.

  ‘You want a nanner?’ he’d say. ‘Hit’s ripe.’ Good as she loved ripe bananas, she’d shake her head no. ‘Read me out of that book,’ she’d say with the hoarse sound she’d picked up lately.

  He’d got home before dark after going over town for a special treat. Maybe that would do the job. He stomped snow off his boots and hung up his jacket on a nail by the door.

  Things was peaceful as water in a spoon. The oil heater was goin’ and the TV wadn’t blarin’ a’tall.

  ‘Miz Ivey sent you a jelly donut, hit’s blueberry, you want it?’

  ‘Nossir, you eat it y’rself. Read me out of that book.’

  He took the book off the mantelpiece and showed her the cover. To keep things new every time, they played like they had not done this before.

  ‘C-A-T,’ he spelled out. ‘Cat! There’s th’ cat.’

  ‘In a hat,’ she said, beating him to it.

  What he did was go by the pictures and make it up out of his head with what he remembered from his teacher Miss Mooney.

  He sat down in his chair. ‘Th’ sun . . . did not . . .’ He hesitated, studied the wor
d. ‘. . . sh-h-h . . . shine . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. She crossed her arms over her sunken chest and closed her eyes. ‘Th’ sun don’t shine of a night.’

  ‘It was too wet . . . to plow. Wait a minute. To play!’

  ‘That’s right. Too wet.’

  ‘Hit was stormin’ pretty bad an’ we had to set in th’ house.’

  ‘Set in th’ house,’ she said. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘They won’t nothin’ to do but set.’

  He held the book close so she could see the picture of two young ’uns settin’, but her eyes were shut tight as a henhouse door.

  ‘I remember back when Mama was livin’,’ she said.

  The icy rain began. Patpatpatpat . . .

  ‘We would set in th’ house an’ wait for th’ rag man, he’d come by hollerin’, Rag man, rag man! We was happy as a dog with two tails to see ’im, he was a little bitty man with a black mustache. He give us money for rags an’ with nine young ’uns in the’ house we had a-plenty to sell—thirty-cent, forty-cent worth ’bout near ever’ time.’

  Look like all that talkin’ had wore her out. He hurried to a page where things was goin’ on, where them big letters bunched together to make a loud word.

  ‘Then somethin’ went BUMP!’ He jumped when he hollered that word, he couldn’t help hisself.

  ‘Good gravy!’ His mama opened her eyes. ‘What was that?’

  ‘He’s comin’ in now! He’s steppin’ on th’ mat, he’s comin’ in th’ house!’ He had goose bumps all up his right leg.

  ‘Who’s comin’ in th’ house?’

  ‘Th’ CAT! An’ here’s what he says.’ He ’bout near remembered this word for word. ‘Says we gon’ have lots of fun that is funny.’ Yessir, he was gettin’ the hang of this.

  ‘Fun that is funny. I sure like that,’ she said. ‘Keep a-goin’.’

  He thought she sounded tired, real tired.

  ‘Now here in a little bit, th’ cat is throwin’ a fish up in th’ air. Ol’ fish hollers out, says, Put me down, I do not want to fall. An’ th’ cat, he says, I ain’t gon’ let you fall!’

  Patpatpatpat . . .

  ‘You ain’t gon’ let me fall, are ye, son?’

  He was startled by this, by the way she was breathing. ‘No, ma’am, I ain’t. Not for nothin’.’

  She was needin’ a little pick-me-up, he could tell. ‘You want you a dip?’ He moved her walker and got in next to her bed and looked on her night table for the snuff jar. A little dip always perked her up.

  Her hands was crossed over her chest, her eyes closed, her breathing had calmed down. ‘I’ve got all I want of ever’thing. You’re a good son.’

  His heart flopped around. She’d never said nothin’ like that before. He didn’t know what to answer back.

  Nossir, she was not actin’ like Beulah Mae Hendrick. She had to eat a bite, even if he had to call the neighbor woman to make her do it.

  He went to the kitchen and gobbled the donut in three bites and made a bowl of hot oatmeal with sugar and the last of the milk and listened to the rain chiming in the downspout. They said over town it might turn to ice by mornin’. He cocked his head to hear it better, cupped his hand about his ear. It was as good as any music on the radio.

  ‘Mama!’ he said, carrying the warm bowl to her bed. ‘Looky here.’

  Her mouth was open but she wadn’t snoring. He passed the oatmeal close to her pillow so she could smell it and set up.

  But she didn’t set up.

  • • •

  HE REMEMBERED THAT he hadn’t said anything about Sammy’s determination to be himself. That was the very thing they all wanted him to be. He wished he had made that clear.

  But he’d said enough. It was time to listen.

  He got up from the chair in the study and called Henry. He had the strange sense of missing his brother.

  ‘I talked to somebody in the doctor’s office, she had acute myelogenous lukemia,’ said Henry. ‘A relative helped with a stem cell transplant. That was five years ago. Now she’s driving a delivery truck, owns a florist business, and went on a trip to Alabama in September. That’s what I’m hoping for. But maybe not Alabama.’ Henry laughed.

  ‘Maybe North Carolina.’ His heart galloped when he said it.

  • • •

  THE SNOW HAD CIRCLED like a plane over Atlanta and come back to land again.

  Early in the year for this much snow. It seemed only days ago that the leaves had turned, and now this. He felt the odd sense of captivity that he sometimes experienced in winter, in the mountains.

  Eight-thirty. His wife was in bed, reading. He watched her squint at the page, but said nothing.

  He had an appointment with the truck guy in Hendersonville on Tuesday. Harley knew something about buying trucks. All he, Timothy, knew to do was to kick the tires and walk around the vehicle, looking stern, which was his Grandfather Kavanagh’s style.

  He didn’t recognize the caller ID.

  ‘Father, I’m the Hendricks’ neighbor, Jenny Thomas.’

  ‘Good evening, Jenny.’

  ‘Miz Hendrick passed a little while ago and Coot is asking for you. He’s devastated. I know the roads are bad, I doubt you can get here, but perhaps you could give me some pointers. I’m a caregiver for forty-two years, but consoling the bereaved is . . . I do other things much better.’

  ‘Let me think about this, Miss Thomas. I’ll call you back right away.’

  No way was he taking his wife’s car out in this. Route 4 was three-plus miles outside the town limits. The county would be plowing that area, but not the side roads.

  He rang Esther Cunningham.

  ‘I’ll get right on it and call you back.’ He could hear her adrenaline pumping.

  Completely confident that Esther would come through, he dressed in roughly three layers, including a hooded, oiled jacket from his first Ireland trip. But it would be the boots that mattered.

  • • •

  JIMMY PRESTWOOD BRAKED A PLOW at the corner of Wisteria and Main. He clambered in. ‘Special order just for you, Reverend. From th’ gov’nor, they said.’

  At the highway, they connected with a county truck.

  ‘Supervisor said pick you up. Where you goin’?’

  ‘Route 4, Brush Mountain Road, third house off the highway.’

  ‘I can’t take my plow down in there.’

  ‘I’ll walk in.’

  ‘This is some kind of weather for October. They already got three inches in Banner Elk and more comin’. You got a light to see by?’

  He patted his jacket pocket. ‘New battery. You’re picking me up, I hope.’

  ‘By th’ time I head back this way, it’ll be one, two o’clock. This is gettin’ pretty bad. But I could try to make it back by one. Yeah, you bein’ clergy. I’ll get you at one.’

  ‘I’ll be at the highway at one. For God’s sake, don’t forget me.’

  Was he nuts? That had certainly been said on more than one occasion. His wife had given him that worried look, something that usually kick-started a worry or two of his own.

  He switched on the flashlight, jumped down from the plow, and headed into the night.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  • • •

  SEMINARY DIDN’T TEACH SPECIFICALLY about consoling the bereaved; that was something that came with on-the-job training.

  Coot Hendrick was indeed devastated.

  ‘She said I was a good son.’ Coot repeated this again and again, sobbing.

  ‘Yes, that’s what a lot of people say you’ve been.’

  ‘Maybe she ain’t gone. Seem like I seen her breathe. Did you see ’er breathe?’

  They went into Coot’s bedroom while the Hendricks’ neighbor removed the garments of the deceased and did what had
to be done with the body. Something was awry with the phones, the usual in bad weather, and they couldn’t contact the funeral home. In any case, his walk from the highway assured him that their vehicle wouldn’t fare well down here.

  No, she didn’t know anyone who could watch with Coot tonight, but she would stay until he fell asleep and come back first thing in the morning.

  ‘Do you do this for all your patients?’

  ‘Miz Hendrick wasn’t really a patient. I just looked in on her, organized her medicine box, took a hot meal now and then. Coot did all he could, and the county sent someone, too. We managed.’

  ‘I believe you must be an angel,’ he said.

  She shook her head no, smiled. ‘I owe God big time.’

  He told Coot he was sorry, which he was, and that Beulah Mae had lived a long life, which she had. Mostly, he was simply there, a warm body in a sweater with a reindeer on the front.

  He found a tea bag and made tea and added sugar and gave it to Coot. Then he sat next to him on the side of the bed and held on to his old friend and didn’t let go for a long while.

  • • •

  HE WAS THANKING GOD for the clear, frozen night and the brilliance of the stars so thickly set in the great bowl, and for the headlights of the plow coming his way, pretty much on time. He had to climb over the berm of snow kicked up by the plow at the edge of the highway.

  Safely home, he emailed the news to Emma, which was as good as announcing it at a town meeting.

  Two-fifteen. He was spent. Beyond spent. After a hot shower, he sat in the wing chair in their bedroom, too exhausted to get in bed.

  ‘I will never do that again,’ said his wife, meaning it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let you go off into the night in a snowplow, for Pete’s sake. I have never been and never will be the clergy-spouse poster child, but heaven knows, I have tried to let you do what you feel led to do, without interfering.’

  ‘I was fine,’ he said.

  ‘Quoth the raven,’ she said, turning off the lamp on her side.

  • • •

  THE PLANNING WENT SWIFTLY.

  To give the temperature time to warm up, the funeral service would be conducted on Tuesday afternoon.