by Jan Karon
As for Joe Joe’s swearin’-in next Saturday, who but the chief’s own mother had signed up to bake three hundred cookies and two sheet cakes? Marcie Guthrie was th’ pot callin’ th’ kettle black.
And there was that bloomin’ plastic bag still flappin’ around on the awning of the Wool Shop. She guessed she’d have to climb up there herself and yank it down. She despised plastic bags. Wasn’t there a gazillion of the dern things out in the ocean with flip-flops and milk jugs whirlin’ around in a gigantic cesspool?
When she was mayor again, plastic bags would be outlawed. The merchants would have to use recycled paper and they would not like it. What is this, a socialist state? For crap’s sake, Esther, this is America. Nossir, they would fight her tooth an’ nail on that little ord’nance.
‘Bring it on!’ she shouted.
She bent over the steering wheel, coughing. Lord help, she was gettin’ a cough like nobody’s business. A wrackin’ cough, is what her mother used to call it. It had been so bad last night that Ray got up and slept in the guest room.
She pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror.
Blotches. Big time. And her heart bangin’ around everywhichaway.
She had never paid much attention to her heart or any of her other organs, she just let ’em do whatever they had in mind, and what business was it of hers?
Lord help, it was kickin’ around in there. She pulled into a parking lot and rolled the window down. She was hot as a firecracker, and where was she anyway? Was this Wesley or Mitford? She turned on the radio, maybe they would know.
• • •
‘I FOUND HER PULLED OVER in front of Shoe Barn. Motor runnin’, radio goin’.’
Hamp Floyd, Mitford’s fire chief, had gone to buy boots for rabbit hunting.
‘She was slumped over the steerin’ wheel; been listenin’ to Rush Limbaugh. He was talkin’ about the government gettin’ rid of Social Security.’
That’ll do it, he thought.
‘I got the ambulance to take her to ER; I’m up at the hospital ’til somebody can get here. Her preacher’s out of town. One of the nurses said call you, you’d come.’
‘Is she . . . ?’ Was this last rites? Good Lord!
‘They’re puttin’ her in ICU, is all I know.’
‘Where’s Ray?’
‘Somewhere in Wesley, he don’t carry a cell phone.’
‘I’ll be right there,’ he said.
Who would sub? Not his wife, who was at the eye doctor in Winston-Salem.
‘Coot,’ he said, ‘can you step here a minute?’
• • •
‘FATHER. Do . . . o . . . o me a favor.’
‘Anything,’ he said. Heaven knows, a big chunk of Mitford history was lying right here, hooked to two IVs, a heart monitor, and a tank of oxygen.
‘Climb up on that awnin’ at th’ Wo . . . o . . . ol . . . en Shop . . .’
There was a long pause, the monitor beeping.
‘. . . an’ get that da-a-adgum plastic bag down.’
‘Consider it done,’ he said.
• • •
CYNTHIA’S DIAGNOSIS: MACULAR HOLE.
Neither had ever heard of it.
She explained the fairly rare condition as best she could. ‘They’ll remove fluid from my right eye and replace it with a bubble of gas. I’ll have to lie facedown for two weeks.’
Facedown? Two weeks? Unbelievable!
‘I’d like to wait ’til after Christmas. But my vision in that eye is going fast, it’s decreased from twenty/forty to twenty/one hundred. I may have to shut down the book ’til this is behind me.’
‘What will it be after the procedure? Good as new?’
‘It takes about six months to regain full vision.’
He found the whole prospect gruesome. He declined to ask how she would lie facedown on the post-op trek from Winston, much less at home.
Around seven, he laid out her new robe and ran her bath, then made a simple dinner, which he carried upstairs.
‘The good news,’ she said, ‘is that Irene isn’t going back to Florida for the winter. Except for Christmas, she’s staying here and painting.’
It was rare for any of the Florida crowd to spend a winter in these parts. To them, snow was good only for Christmas card scenes, and ice storms were good for nothing.
‘She invited me to paint with her in her studio—I’ll do several pieces for the auction.’ A small light in his wife’s eyes. ‘We can have her over for dinner and a movie!’
‘What does she hear from Kim?’
‘Irene will take several of her grandchildren out to Los Angeles in March. Kim is thrilled about having all these nieces and nephews. Okay, your turn,’ she said, ready for his gazette.
Esther had suffered a stroke which affected her left side—droopy eye, some temporary speech impairment, arm movement disabled. This hateful circumstance was accompanied by the early stages of pneumonia.
Ray had been located at Wesley’s big-box home improvement store and summoned to the hospital, where he said repeatedly to the nurses, I tried to tell her; we all tried to tell her. Wilson wrote a prescription for Ray. The daughters showed up, saying in chorus, We tried to tell her; Mama never listens.
To add to the shopping cart of health issues, Wilson suspected artery blockage, possibly valve stenosis, but these tests could not be done until tomorrow. There was a distinct possibility that Esther would be ferried to Charlotte via the copter service.
On his way off the floor, the charge nurse had caught up with him. ‘She said tell you or somebody to be sure that big bag of Snickers behind th’ TV in her den makes it to the swearin’-in. She wants th’ kids to have that candy.’ The nurse gave him a meaningful look. ‘Super important, she said.’
‘The swearing-in is more than a week away. Will she still be in the hospital?’
‘Probably not, but she said if I don’t pass that message along, I’ll get plenty of time to think about where I went wrong.’ The nurse thought this was hilarious, but also true.
Esther’s famous candy giveaway. Even on her deathbed—and he hoped this wasn’t it—Esther would be in campaign mode.
As for life closer to home, he reported that Dooley was getting in late tonight, and would visit next door before coming over around eleven. He would stay up to greet him. And here was some good news: Dooley was requesting only one family dinner, not two, hoping that tomorrow night might be good for Cynthia.
‘He’ll be spending time with Kenny and Sammy, anyway, so maybe tomorrow is a good night for Buck and Pauline and Jessie and Pooh—if that works. We’ll make it easy.’
He was accustomed to his wife being up for anything; it was unsettling to see her drained of the energy he unfairly relied upon.
‘You’ll be able to see better after the surgery,’ he said. ‘But there is a downside. You’ve always told me I’m pretty good-looking, and now you’ll know the bitter truth.’
She laughed a little.
He tucked her in with a quote from Victor Hugo.
‘“Sleep in peace, God is awake.”’
• • •
THE FIRE HAD DIED DOWN and he didn’t poke it up. The room was warm against the October night.
‘Can you use a snack?’ he asked Dooley.
‘What is it?’
‘Cynthia’s egg salad, made this morning, with extra mayo on whole wheat from Winnie.’
‘I could use a snack.’
He opened the container of egg salad, gave Dooley a root beer. ‘Cynthia turned your bed down.’
‘Five-star,’ said Dooley. ‘Thanks a lot. Has Sammy been nicer to you?’
‘I haven’t seen him since Saturday.’
‘He was different tonight.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He didn�
��t try to pick a fight. Harley and Kenny say he’s doing better.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘So something you did must have worked.’
‘Time will tell,’ he said, pouring himself a glass of water. ‘I missed my trip to see the truck because of the funeral.’
‘I’ll run you down Saturday, it’s only two hours. I’ll kick the tires for you.’
He laughed. ‘You’re a good guy.’
‘You, too, Dad. Cheers.’
Chapter Twenty-two
In all his days in ministry, he couldn’t remember fixing anybody up. Not directly, anyway. He had prayed for Puny to find a husband and she did, but he hadn’t exactly brokered the deal.
‘I suppose we could have them over for dinner and a movie,’ said his wife.
He measured out a spoonful of honey for his oatmeal. ‘What if it doesn’t work?’
‘They could just be friends.’
‘What would I say to Omer?’
‘That you’d like him to meet someone who loves Scrabble.’
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘But dinner and a movie? That’s four hours. Shouldn’t it be just coffee? I read that somewhere. Or maybe lunch at the Feel Good?’
‘Lunch. I’ll join you.’
His wife didn’t often join him for lunch. ‘Yay-y!’ he said.
• • •
BEFORE STRAPPING ON HIS BACKPACK, he made a call.
‘Add this to my tab, please. As soon as you can, take an extension ladder to the Woolen Shop and remove the plastic bag that’s caught on the awning thingamajig.’
‘That’d be y’r retractable lateral arm,’ said Harley.
• • •
IT WAS TEACHER’S WORKDAY at Mitford School; Miss Mooney arrived at Happy Endings at ten sharp.
‘I need a great audio book,’ she said. ‘I have only fifteen minutes of wild liberty.’
‘Out of Africa!’ he said, trying to give her a break on an O title.
‘Already have it; I’ll take a quick look. If its okay, I’ll be here at three o’clock sharp. Coot’s reading lesson.’
‘How are the lessons coming?’
‘He’s very eager and hardworking. I dislike asking, but you could give a hand.’
‘In what way?’
‘He needs someone to read to him on occasion, it would be a great help.’
‘I can do that,’ he said.
‘And it would be wonderful if you could ask for something in return. Something he could teach you.’
Coot’s ancestor, Hezekiah Hendrick, had founded the town. He had always wanted more understanding of that family lore.
Abe jangled in around ten-thirty.
‘I’m here to buy a book.’
‘It’s about time, buddy.’
‘But only with a free coffee.’
‘Always available.’
‘I’ve just realized my cell phone is bigger than my bookcase.’
‘Oy!’ he said.
Abe had a laugh, poured himself a cup. ‘So what’s left in the O Sale? October is toast, there should be a big markdown.’
‘We started with a big markdown.’
‘Right. But the markdown of the markdown adds a little pizzazz in the home stretch.’
He had discussed the notion with Hope, who hadn’t been averse to another five percent off a few titles at the end. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’ He scrolled their O inventory on the computer.
‘Othello. The play.’
‘No Shakespeare,’ said Abe.
‘Of Mice and Men.’
‘I have mice already.’
‘Old Man and the Sea.’
‘Not into fishing.’
‘That’s my best offer on markdowns.’
‘Great,’ said Abe. ‘I’m off the hook ’til November. I’ve been meaning to ask, why do you think gentiles were invented?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Somebody has to pay retail.’
Winnie arrived with a bakery box.
‘What are y’all laughin’ about?’
‘Not much,’ said Abe.
‘Chocolate donuts!’ Winnie lifted the box lid. ‘Two days old, but still good.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I pass.’
‘I’m in,’ said Abe. ‘Why us?’
‘Overstock,’ said Winnie. ‘It’s turned too cold for tourists, we have to get rid of ’em somehow. Where’s Coot? He likes chocolate.’
‘Buying supplies.’
The door opening, a blast of frigid air. ‘I love chocolate!’ said Shirlene, shucking out of her coat.
‘Help yourself,’ said Winnie, ‘but th’ one with sprinkles is for Coot.’
‘What brings you three doors north?’ He got an eyeful of the caftan-of-the-day: Palm trees. Monkeys. Distant islands.
‘I’m thinkin’ of gettin’ a dog and wanted your advice. I see you out with your dog all th’ time and figured you would know.’
‘Here’s my advice,’ said Abe. ‘Don’t get a dog.’
‘Why not?’
‘Vet bills through the roof.’
‘Get a cat,’ said Winnie. ‘You won’t have to walk your legs off, go out in th’ rain, or carry a poop bag in your pocket.’
‘I’m single, I think I should get a dog.’
‘What breed?’ he said.
‘I have no idea, that’s what I wanted to ask you. Not th’ breed of your dog, I can tell you that, he’s bigger than my sofa.’
‘You definitely want a barkin’ dog,’ said Winnie. ‘But not a yappin’ dog. An’ somethin’ small enough to sleep with, to keep you company.’
‘Ooh,’ said Shirlene, ‘I don’t think so. Where I come from, we don’t sleep with dogs.’
‘Me, either,’ said Abe.
‘Dogs are always after somethin’,’ said Winnie. ‘Sittin’ by th’ table, starin’ at you ’til you could keel over. I mean, dogs are so—’
‘Earnest!’ he said as his dog parked himself in front of Winnie and stared at the bakery box.
‘See?’ said Winnie. ‘Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life?’
‘That is th’ biggest dog I ever saw,’ said Shirlene, stepping back. ‘Did you adopt him?’
‘He adopted me.’
‘So what do you have?’ Shirlene asked Winnie. ‘A dog or a cat?
‘Goldfish. Two, actually.’
‘Not much good against intruders,’ said Abe.
‘A golden is a fine dog,’ he said. ‘Very noble and socially agreeable.’
‘Could I take it to th’ salon with me?’
‘You could,’ said Winnie, ‘’til it got hip dysplasia and could not climb the stairs.’
‘As for a cat,’ said Abe, ‘if it knew you wanted it to go with you to the salon, it would not go.’
‘Right,’ said Winnie. ‘You could not let it know you wanted it to go, and then maybe it would go.’
‘Somebody buy a book,’ he said. For Pete’s sake.
‘I could buy a book on dog breeds,’ said Shirlene. ‘What a fun idea!’
‘Right this way,’ he said.
‘Three great books on dog breeds.’ He placed them on the table next to the rubber plant. ‘See what you think.’
Shirlene chose a book, thumped into a wing chair. He stood on one foot, then the other.
‘Shirlene. Cynthia and I would like you to meet someone who loves Scrabble.’ He was relieved to drag his wife into this.
‘Really? Who?’
‘Just, you know, a friend. Very nice. Has a garden. Potatoes, mostly.’
‘But who?’
‘You don’t know this person.’
‘Is it a man, is it a woman? Scrabble is totally unisex.’
‘A man.�
��
‘What’s his name?’
‘Omer.’
‘Homer?’
‘Omer. No H.’
‘Are you tryin’ to fix me up?’
‘Well . . .’
‘You are so cute to do this!’ She sat forward in the chair. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Big. Great smile.’
‘Wait a minute. Big. How big?’
‘Maybe six-two.’
‘Toned?’
‘Um. I don’t know about toned. Trim, for sure.’
‘Trim is great! Handsome?’
‘That’s a judgment you’d have to make for yourself.’
‘Okay, but I mean really—is he handsome?’
‘Shirlene, Shirlene. Are you in?’
She pondered this. ‘Big. Nice. Great smile.’
‘Trim,’ he said, to reprise. ‘Has a garden. Loves Scrabble.’
‘Wow. So, yes! Wow! I’m in!’
Lord help, he was glad to be done with it.
‘You are really cute to do this, Father. I am so excited. Maybe I don’t need to get a dog.’
‘Time will tell,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to put together a lunch before long. At the Feel Good, okay?’
‘How’s my tan?’
‘Your tan?’
‘Do I need a refresher? What do you think?’
‘Talk to your sister,’ he said.
It was sort of a cool thing to get people together, albeit a little scary. Compared, however, to the apprehension of arranging the Kim and Irene meeting, this should be a piece of cake.
• • •
DOOLEY, SAMMY, POOH, AND JESSIE blew in after lunch, smelling distinctly of pepperoni. Jessie’s dog, Bouncer, brought up the rear.
Jessie was a plump, rosy-cheeked thirteen-year-old with a mane of chestnut hair and a good bit of makeup. Outgoing, loud, affectionate. A few years ago, he and Cynthia and Pauline had driven to Lakeland, Florida, and rescued Jessie from a dire situation with a relative. Pooh, sometimes plain Poo, and recently turned fifteen, had been with his mother all along. Pooh was nuts for his older brothers, and for baseball, softball, most any ball—from whence sprang the original nickname, Poobaw, after the pool ball he lugged around as a toddler.
