by Jan Karon
‘Buck!’ He loved this big guy who, in a drunken rage, had once thrown a couple of chairs at him but was now as peaceable as the proverbial lamb.
‘Lord bless you, Father. And congratulations.’
An embrace, hard and warm, from the man married to Dooley’s mother. He and Buck had gone down the mountain a couple of years ago, following an elusive trail that led to Sammy.
‘Feeling better?’
‘A whole lot, but now Pauline has whatever it was. How’s Sammy?’
‘He’s . . . all right.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Maybe take him to the construction site with you one day. He has a curious mind, and is pretty savvy about the way things work.’
‘I’d like to do that. An’ Kenny?’
‘A wonderful young man. We’ll miss him greatly when he leaves in January.’ A Barlowe gained, only to be lost—though not for good, as it once seemed.
Buck nodded, sobered by the way of things.
‘Time,’ he said to Buck. ‘It does heal.’
And there was Doc Wilson in his running gear, and J.C. with his Nikon and fancy photographer’s jacket, and Olivia Harper talking with Cynthia, who was decked out in a dress the color of cornflowers.
Across the room, Tad Sherrill, Betty Craig, Puny brushing something off the lapel of the chief’s new uniform, the rowdy crew from the waterworks, Ron Malcolm, Mule and Fancy, Coot in what appeared to be overalls ironed with a crease in the pant legs . . .
Captain Hogan tucked her thumbs in her gun belt and surveyed the room. ‘It’d be a great time for somebody to come in an’ rob th’ town.’
And there went Sissy and Sassy pushing Timmy and Tommy in an all-terrain vehicle resembling a double stroller, and here was Shirlene in a caftan picturing indigenous tribes in a rain forest, with parrots.
It was as good as a coronation.
• • •
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, he glanced out to the deck to see whether he’d put the cover back on the gas grill.
Sammy was sitting on the top step, holding Truman. Sammy’s back was to the door, but he could see the boy’s face in partial profile. Sam was talking to the black-and-white kitten and stroking its head and saying something.
He went to the study, where Cynthia was lying on the sofa, eyes closed.
‘Are you awake, Kav’na?’
‘Just resting my eyes.’
‘Let’s invite Sammy and Kenny and Harley over for burgers and pool this evening. What do you think?’
She smiled, eyes still closed.
‘So amazing. Puny was going to make chili tomorrow, so we have two pounds of Avis’s best. And I just bought a head of cabbage for coleslaw.’
The little miracles. Those were the ones to watch for in this life.
‘I’ll chop!’ he said.
• • •
‘I AIN’T NEVER F-FIRED UP A GRILL,’ said Sammy, who proceeded to fire up the grill, as demonstrated.
‘What if I burn th’ burgers?’
‘Not allowed. Besides, I’ll be standing right here; I won’t let it happen.’
‘Okay, what next?’
‘Next we wash our hands.’
They shared the deep sink in the garage, one of the relics installed by Cynthia’s deceased Uncle Joe Hadleigh. Very handy for a man who changed his own motor oil, which yours truly never did.
‘You might want to use more soap,’ he said.
This would be 101 all the way. He was pretty excited.
They went to the kitchen, where the goods were laid out—spatula, room-temperature ground beef on a platter, salt grinder, pepper grinder, sliced cheddar, et al.
‘Number one,’ he said, ‘is to start with beef that’s eighty-five percent lean. Any leaner than that, the burgers are dry. Avis grinds it coarse for us, not fine. A fine grind can get a little soft and fall apart on the grill. So, eighty-five percent lean, coarse grind. Next thing is, we’re not going to handle the meat too much.’
He ground salt and pepper, lightly worked it into the meat, scooped a handful, and slapped it into shape. ‘Give it a try.’
His sous chef stood transfixed for a moment, took a deep breath, and deftly shaped a thick burger.
‘Perfect.’
Sammy exhaled.
And there was Dooley, albeit above the mantel, seeming nearly present in the flesh.
They carried the platter to the deck. A biting cold. The grill was their fire pit in the heart of the cave.
For him, this was the hard part—when raw meat hits the grate, it sticks. The trick was to flip the burger the moment it released from the grate, and not before.
‘By the way, no pressing down with the spatula. The juices run out, the burger gets dry.’ He was Julia Child in her heyday, he was the entire Food Network.
‘Man.’ Sammy shook his head.
‘Not to worry. It gets easier every time you do it.’ Maybe that wasn’t completely true, but . . . somewhat.
• • •
HE HEARD THE CUE strike the ball, the sound sharp and clean to the ear. He heard Sammy whoop, heard Kenny and Harley laugh. Sam was doing what he loved, in a house with people he could almost trust.
He didn’t need to be in there pretending to learn the game. He was doing something he loved, too—cleaning up the kitchen with his wife.
• • •
CYNTHIA TURNED OFF her bedside lamp. ‘Your Burger Boot Camp was a hit.’
He lay with eyes closed, grinning.
‘A very happy party,’ she said. ‘I’m glad we invited Hélène.’
‘He did a good job, Sam.’
He didn’t want to think beyond that simple and wondrous fact.
• • •
IN THE MURPHYS’ SMALL COTTAGE three blocks away, Hope sat in bed with a book from Happy Endings.
‘Catherine,’ she said.
‘Umm,’ said Scott.
‘Hannah.’
‘Close.’
‘Rebecca?’
‘Ah.’
‘You have a try.’
A long silence, the small wind at the shutters.
‘Laurel!’ said Scott.
‘Pretty.’
Another long silence.
‘This is hard,’ said Scott.
After the long lying-in with fear, a certain joy had come, was a whole new presence in the room. They were praying about the name, of course, so no hurry, it was ready and waiting to be found. And yet she felt the mounting pressure to know their daughter’s name. They were yearning for it, really.
‘Elizabeth is always good,’ he said.
‘True.’
Naming was a peculiar exercise. One headed off in so many directions at once. In some cultures, the child wasn’t named right away, and certainly not before it was born. She spread her hands over the globe of her belly—felt the pulse of her heart beating in the waters of the gulf beneath.
The gift of this child was so miraculous, so out of proportion to human understanding, that . . . who could label such profound mystery with a name?
Chapter Twenty-four
They all felt the reward of having made great advances on the rose garden job.
Not the least of their satisfaction was the maple. Breaking new ground, even with the snow melt loosening the soil, brought the sweat, but he and Harley and Sammy got it in and tamped down the earth and spread the mulch and edged the ring and looked at each other in a way that to him seemed oddly parental.
Even so, it was time to halt their efforts ’til spring; it was too frigid to work productively. Sometime in the next few months, they would choose the stone and have it hauled to the site in May.
Harley and Sammy would have to do in winter what others did in these parts—hunker down and be glad for slim pickings.
He noodled his noggin, as Uncle Billy would say, for a project that might give them income.
He pondered this on Thursday morning, as he went upstairs to Happy Endings’ second floor, to the rooms where Hope had made a home when she bought the business.
She had hung curtains at the windows facing the street and set a lamp there. When walking Barnabas to the monument in the evenings, he had relished seeing the glow above the store, had felt a certain gladness. We are not alone in this world; there is a light in the window.
And at Christmas, there was Hope’s shining tree where the lamp had been. It was nothing more than a lighted tree in a window—but in a window long dark. That had been the joy of it.
He found the printer paper and tucked it under his arm and went to the stairs. The upper floor smelled of peppermint oil, a good thing.
• • •
HE WENT ALONE to the Feel Good for a quick lunch, hoping to connect with Omer while he was at it.
‘Any thoughts?’ he asked Wanda.
‘I’m still thinkin’,’ she said, filling his tea glass.
She was wearing the cowboy hat again—not a good sign as far as her disposition for the day was concerned.
‘How could something so simple require so much thought?’ he said. ‘Six or seven people come in, behave decently, sit in a corner with relative privacy, and order breakfast. At an average cost of, say, seven bucks, that’s roughly fifty dollars’ worth of business, plus tips.’
The arched eyebrow. ‘Mighty few preachers leave tips.’
‘We’re a thrifty lot, all right.’
‘Cheap,’ she said.
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Why don’t you use a church for your prayer breakfast?’
‘There is a serious problem with using a church for a prayer breakfast.’
‘What?’
‘Churches do not serve breakfast.’
There was her lopsided look that passed for a grin. ‘All right. But no shoutin’, Bible-thumpin’, or altar calls.’
‘Not from me.’
‘And thanks for th’ business. While you’re at it, maybe you can pray for this place to keep runnin’ a black bottom line. Everything’s goin’ sky-high and nobody wants to do a day’s work.’
‘I will pray for that.’
‘So it’s okay to pray for a bottom line?’
‘Absolutely. God allowed this business to come into your hands. He gave you the gumption to work hard and give your customers honest value. He wants you to succeed.
‘So, there’s every reason to ask,’ he said, ‘and—to give thanks for his continued good favor.’
Wanda’s spirits appeared to brighten.
In breezed Omer, with his piano-key grin lighting up the place.
‘Flyboy!’ someone called. Omer threw up his hand, removed his cap, and turned to greet the proprietor. ‘The usual, please, ma’am.’
Wanda brightened a good deal more.
Why tarry? As soon as Wanda brought Omer’s glass of tea, he launched.
‘Omer. You’ve been single for a while?’ He was nonchalant as anything, eating his salad with grilled chicken.
‘Twelve, thirteen years.’
‘Any children? I can’t recall.’
‘No kids. Just a couple of ragwings.’
‘Would you be interested in meeting someone who plays Scrabble?’
Omer gave him an uncharacteristically dark look. ‘Who?’
He realized he should have talked to Omer before he said anything to Shirlene. What if Omer had enough Scrabble in his life and wasn’t interested?
‘Fancy Skinner’s sister, Shirlene. From Bristol.’ He was suddenly, mortally, uncomfortable.
‘Bristol,’ said Omer, staring at his tea glass. ‘Th’ woman with th’ spray gun who moved here?’
‘Right. There’s a story in last week’s Muse.’
‘I don’t know. I’m not handy at women.’
He hadn’t been handy at women, either, and look at him now. An old married guy trying to fix people up.
‘Guess it’s been too long. I’m just a gnarly ’Nam vet livin’ on four acres with a patch of potatoes and a dog. Not much goin’ on with me—a few yard sales, a little Scrabble online.’
The perfect demographic! Nailed! How often does that happen in life?
‘Pretty dull,’ said Omer.
‘Dull? Not in the least. How about your halfway house ministry? I wouldn’t call that dull. So maybe we could have lunch. With my wife. And Shirlene.’
‘Lunch,’ said Omer. ‘I don’t think so, Father.’
‘Coffee?’
‘I don’t drink coffee.’
This was a nut to crack.
‘What kind of dog?’
‘Mutt. Named Patsy.’ And there was Omer’s smile again.
‘I believe Shirlene is currently looking for a dog.’
‘Good for the head. By the way, I’ve been meaning to bring you some potatoes. I’ll drop ’em by th’ bookstore, guaranteed. Yukon Gold or russet?’
‘Either way. We like both. And thanks.’
This wasn’t going terribly well. He would have to ask Cynthia to give a hand here.
• • •
‘I DID IT BACKWARDS,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how I get myself into these things.’
‘Meddling, sweetheart, that’s how. You have a special knack for it.’
‘What to do?’ he said.
‘Leave it alone for a while. You didn’t name a time for lunch. You were vague, right?’
‘Vague. Yes. Which reminds me, I never told Shirlene that he’s over her maximum age limit.’
‘By how much?’
‘I don’t know. Five or six years. Maybe more.’
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘You trump me by six years and I don’t think any damage has been done. Not yet, anyway.’
‘It’s not over ’til it’s over, Kav’na.’
They were lying in bed, his favorite tryst for plain talk.
‘Your book. Is it ever going to end?’
‘I just began it in September. Really, sweetheart, it’s only November. This is what I do.’
‘Will you ever . . . retire?’ A disgraceful word, but there it was. ‘It is very consuming, your work.’
‘True. But why have work that isn’t consuming?’
He had no idea what to say to this. ‘You’re definitely worse than I am.’
‘In which of many ways?’
‘You never want to go anywhere,’ he said, ‘yet I’m the one with the reputation for never wanting to go anywhere.’
‘I told you I would love to take the RV trip. When everything is done here.’
‘What is everything? And what do you mean by done?’
She couldn’t answer this; she simply didn’t know; she would have to play it by ear, she said.
He switched off his bedside lamp and held her hand, and prayed something best suited, in his opinion, for early morning, though indeed it was never too late in the day for these ardent petitions.
‘Almighty and eternal God, so draw our hearts to you, so guide our minds, so fill our imaginations, so control our wills, that we may be wholly yours, utterly dedicated unto you, and then use us, we pray, as you will, and always to your glory and the welfare of your people, through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.’
‘Amen!’ said his wife.
• • •
WINTER COULD GET plenty long up here. In a few short months, they usually saw all of Mark Twain’s storied hundred and forty-nine weather modes.
After Christmas, the bookstore would be ‘quiet’ according to Hope and ‘dead’ according to Marcie. And he was at a standstill on the rose garden.
He didn’t want to ‘snuggle in’ for the winter. He wanted to do someth
ing that got his blood up and skip the depression he sometimes suffered when ‘earth stood hard as iron.’
There was the trail behind the hospital. Though he expected to be done at the bookstore when Hope’s sister came on in January, it could be May before weather was good to work outdoors. As for the planning and organizing of a project like this, he could work on that anytime—preferably right away.
He had swung into the trail when he was running on Tuesday. One had to be especially adroit to run back there. The many exposed tree roots and general wear and tear were dangerous for walkers and runners alike. Those were issues the town crew could work on. As for the trash, it wasn’t conveniently confined to the perimeter of the trail, but meandered far into the woods. He would crew that job himself.
He had made it to the turnaround, which seemed a popular spot for trash disposal, then got out of there. Was he nuts? Maybe, but he still wanted to see the place redeemed.
The town wouldn’t spring for amenities; he would need to provide appropriate trash bins and signage. Signage was important. A few hardy shrubs, topsoil, mulch. And later, way later, a couple of iron benches.
He and Sammy and Harley could walk the trail together, then spend a few evenings by the fire, thinking it through. Hadn’t Sammy’s woodland shade garden, which he saw the day he first met the boy, been something to marvel at?
Philosophy wasn’t his long suit. But in the scheme of things, of what real importance was a ruined walking trail or a neglected rose garden? Yesterday, he had selected a book at random and discovered this by Abraham Verghese in Cutting for Stone:
‘We are all fixing what is broken. It is the task of a lifetime.’
Only one problem. He was running out of money. There were a few CDs lying about and earning a drop in the bucket, but nothing was due to roll over anytime soon.
• • •
TRUMAN HAD DONE all in his power to move the imperial heart of Violet Number Four—or was it Five? Violet was having none of it. She was still offended, and still using the top of the refrigerator to remove herself from the rabble below.
The Old Gentleman was another matter. He had adopted the black-and-white stray after a considerable trial period, and life was good.
