by Jan Karon
‘It’s no fit place for running, of course. I more often used the school track for running, and used the trail to hide. Why do you think God allowed it all?’
‘Why did you allow it?’
‘I wanted to do what I wanted to do and figured it was his job to stop me.’
‘He was the policeman.’
‘And I was the truant who demanded no rebuke, nor any disgrace.’
‘Some weeks ago, he stopped you. What now?’
‘I wish he had taken me, and yet here it is, a life to be lived. I have no answer to what now. He spoke to me on the trail that night and said quite plainly, You’re mine.
‘It made me angry. Why would he speak to vermin? It didn’t make me feel chosen; it made me feel he would speak directly to anybody, a cheap thing. And if I were his, for what was I his? What use could I possibly be?’
‘Give yourself time, let him show you.’
‘That night was a foxhole. One might suppose I’d gotten, at the very least, a religion out of it, but I did not. There were all the bells and whistles, and yet I was not transported beyond my sense of ruin.
‘I’m thinking that I missed something, that when he said I was his, I failed to respond in an acceptable way, I blew it. Because now I feel I might really wish to belong to him. But I don’t know how, and even so, maybe it’s too late.’
‘It’s never too late. Watch and wait.’
‘You know how to cut through the bull, Father, and I have a lot to cut through. On the walk over here, I stepped behind the school gym and wept for myself, that I could summon the courage to expose my worthlessness to all eyes. I’ve always felt worthless. Perhaps I became a priest to veil that notion of myself, but it didn’t work. I was all the more aware of my little value.
‘On the street just now, I was grateful for the spittle and cold looks. Grateful, because in facing their scorn, I felt a certain worth, after all.’
‘Thank you for coming to see me, Henry. It means a great deal.’
‘I came to thank you. But for you and your son, I was gone from this world. You were part of what forced me to this.’ He touched his bald pate. ‘Some actually call it fashion, I call it penance . . . though in the end, maybe that’s just more bull. Who knows?’
‘Mary?’
‘Gone from me completely. The wonder is that she stuck it out so long. I feel utterly naked, she was my shield and defender. If I’m to have any shield now, it must be God himself. There’s no one for me and everyone against me.’
‘I’m for you.’
‘I guess I believe it or I couldn’t be here. I’ve been sick, and I’m not well yet. I don’t know if I was ever quite well or ever can be.’
‘I remember,’ he said, ‘not knowing if I was ever well or ever could be. I was ordained, and yet all the seasons were Lenten; there was no relationship with him. I was a soul in prison, bound to stick it out and go on with the show of being his man.’
‘What changed?’
‘I think you could say I came to the end of myself. I really did want a show all my own, and he had to hammer me pretty hard to make me see that it was all his. We don’t like relinquishing the power we never had anyway, even though running the show ourselves never works.
‘I surrendered everything to him. What did I have to lose? What I had to gain was—believe it, Henry—everything. It’s so simple that it baffles us; we’re more enamored of what’s grinding and hard.’
‘Grinding and hard. Yes. Pray for me.’
‘I do pray for you. I believe quite a few in this town pray for you.’
‘I could never have said this a few weeks ago. But I want what you have.’
‘What I’ve come to have—out of all that was grinding and hard—is a relationship. Bonhoeffer said it’s not about hero worship, but intimacy with God.’
‘No. I can’t do the relationship business.’
‘From the Miserere Mei, Deus. “Make me hear of joy and gladness, that the body you have broken may rejoice.” You can have joy and gladness just as I got it, by petitioning God in a simple prayer delivered with a full heart.’
‘I’m not ready for . . . intimacy. I want it, but it terrifies me. What is close and visceral has always terrified me.’
‘It terrified me,’ he said. ‘Stood my hair on end—back when I had any to stand.’
It was mighty good to laugh.
Chapter Twenty-six
Their turkey order was in at the Local, the side dishes planned, the invitations out. All but Louella’s.
CNN was busy covering the world on Louella’s big-screen TV. He sat on the stool and took her hand.
‘You’re the gravy on our biscuit, Cynthia says. And we don’t see you half enough. Dooley will be home at Thanksgiving—could you come for dinner at our house? I’ll pick you up and deliver you back no worse for wear.’
‘Only place I go to supper these times is down th’ hall or Room Number One. I would sho’ like to do it, honey, but I’m past all that.’
He rattled off the menu. ‘I could bring you a plate.’
‘No, no, y’all go on an’ have a happy time an’ bring Dooley up to visit when you can. He’ll be good medicine for me an’ everybody else.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
She glanced at CNN, writ large on her wall.
‘What you think about these politics goin’ on?’
‘We must pray for wisdom,’ he said.
She leaned forward, cupped her ear. ‘Who’s William?’
• • •
THEY WOULDN’T ATTEND the All-Church Feast this year, they would have their feast at home. Dooley, Lace, Sammy, Kenny, Olivia, Hélène, Harley, Coot—the democratic system at work. Ten of them around the table set up in the study, with take-outs for the Murphys and Coot.
Dooley would actually have three Thanksgiving dinners. One at the yellow house; one with his mother and Buck, Jessie and Pooh; and a third with Marge, Hal, and Rebecca on the following day at Meadowgate, a feast to which he and Cynthia and Lace and Sammy and Kenny and Pooh and Jessie were also invited, along with his proffered ham.
So, okay. For the dinner on Wisteria Lane, he would pick up the turkey from Avis and the yeast rolls from Winnie; Puny would make a sweet potato soufflé; and Cynthia would do a classic green bean casserole and two pumpkin pies, sweetened with something parading as sugar.
Oh, and the cranberry relish, which he would concoct, and so forth and so on.
His head was spinning.
• • •
‘DARLING, please deliver yourself to the Collar Button man at three o’clock on Tuesday.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘He’s going to measure you.’
A startling thing to be told. ‘I don’t want to be measured.’
‘And wear your leading citizen ribbon.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it sets an example for your successor next year. It’s a lovely thing to be seen wearing. It gives people an uplift, I should think, knowing that we even have a leading citizen.’
‘What am I being measured for? A clown suit?’
‘That’s close,’ she said.
• • •
THE COLLAR BUTTON MAN lit a match, applied the flame to the bowl of his pipe, and there went the fond habit of puffing away to get the thing going.
‘Mrs. Kavanagh wants you to have an especially nice suit, Father.’
‘I have a nice suit.’
‘Where did you get it, may I ask?’
‘At the Suit Barn.’
‘That is not a nice suit. Trust me.’ The tobacco kindled, glowed. The Collar Button man smiled as if transported.
He had never taken a vow of poverty, but a bespoke suit? Throwing dollars down the drain. And what if he gained an ounce or two? Or more to the point
, lost five pounds as he was hoping to do before Christmas?
There was no wiggle room in any article of bespoke clothing. It was made to fit the person one is right now, at the very moment of measurement, when only moments later, one would no longer be that same person.
‘Surely you won’t be tailoring it?’
‘Surely not! It will be done by a distinguished tailor in New York City, which will take rather a long while and be completely worth the wait.’
The Collar Button man drew on his pipe, exhaled. The cherry-scented smoke formed a minor halo above the proprietor’s head. ‘It will last a lifetime, and make your wife very happy into the bargain.’
‘Well, there you go,’ he said. ‘Measure away.’
• • •
THE CORKBOARD WAS EXPANDING its subject range.
‘The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions—the little soon forgotten charities of a kiss or smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment, and the countless infinitesimals of pleasurable and genial feelings.’ Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The countless infinitesimals. He had enjoyed these with great thanksgiving, and if preference could be had in this life, he would take infinitesimals any day.
Coot was dusting the rubber plant—a bloody nuisance which he would like to toss out the door. The garbage guys would be amazed to see the monstrous thing sitting on the sidewalk.
He called Hope. ‘I was wondering . . . what do you think . . . could we get rid of the rubber plant?’
‘The customer who gave it to me is still living,’ she said. That was a no.
‘So she visits the bookstore regularly?’
‘Only on occasion. She calls in her order and Scott delivers it to her door when he goes down the mountain.’
‘So . . . ?’
‘I think it’s not yet safe to give it away.’
‘Actually, we couldn’t give it away. Trust me.’
She laughed. ‘Whatever you decide, Father. I’ll leave the dirty work to you.’
While popping a few raisins, he had an idea. The red paint left from doing his basement door would give the faded pot new life.
‘If you could put a little polish on the leaves,’ he said to Coot.
He queried Marcie when she came in to place an order with their distributor.
‘I don’t know, Father. It’s not that bad now that Coot shined it up. It looks almost real.’
‘You think someone would give money for it?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but you never know.’
‘One man’s trash,’ he said, quoting a sign on a Wesley junk shop, ‘is another man’s bling.’
• • •
BRAHMS WAS THE COMPOSER of the day. Not the best pairing for Quo Vadis, but such was life. He dug the book out of his backpack and put it on the counter. Winnie had just arrived with a sugar-free cookie for the bookseller, ready to spend her fifteen-minute break with the poets.
‘Lord help,’ she said, ‘here comes Shirlene. It’s forty-eight degrees out there, she’ll be a popsicle.’
The caftan of the day was azure, as he believed his wife might call it. Printed with foaming waves washing onto a sandy shore and a random display of seashells. Somewhere around Shirlene’s equator were distant islands with palm trees.
‘I don’t know, I just don’t know,’ Winnie said to him, sotto voce. ‘Aren’t you freezin’, Shirlene?’
‘No, I’m burnin’ up. Flashin’ all over the place. But you know what I want, more than anything? For people when they see me to be reminded in their hearts . . .’ She lifted her arms; mountains rose from a tropical sea. ‘. . . that somewhere on the planet the sun is shinin’, the waves are breakin’ on the beach, and all is well with this troubled world. That is so important.’
‘Well, there you go,’ said Winnie. ‘You’re doin’ a service. Which I myself will be doin’ shortly by goin’ back to work.’
‘What’s up?’ he asked Shirlene.
‘Look at this, Father, an’ see what you think.’
She opened her book on dog breeds and laid it on the counter. ‘I can’t really find a picture of th’ dog I have in mind, I don’t know what breed it is. But here’s one I guess would be okay. I might go look for one like this at th’ shelter. What do you think?’
‘You will never find this breed at the shelter. Not the Wesley shelter, anyway.’
‘Why not?’
‘This is an expensive dog, not the sort you’d find in these hills.’
‘Expensive dogs get lost and run away, too.’
Winnie peered at the photograph. ‘You would have to go to Los Angelees, California, to find that poor thing wanderin’ th’ street. Maybe you should just go to the shelter and see what they have.’
And in swung Omer Cunningham in his aviator cap with earflaps, and Patsy on a leash.
‘Ooh,’ said Shirlene. ‘That is exactly th’ dog I am lookin’ for!’
‘This dog is taken,’ said Omer.
‘What’s its name?’
‘Patsy.’
‘Patsy! This is exactly the dog I would love to have. Look at its face.’ Shirlene stooped to pat Patsy—palm trees swayed. ‘Patsy, Patsy, I would sleep with you!’
‘She’s sleepin’ with me,’ said Omer.
Shirlene looked up and smiled. ‘Well, she is one lucky girl.’
‘Whoa,’ said Winnie. ‘I gotta get on my break.’
He was staying in the tall grass. He wouldn’t say a word, no, sir. Let them figure out the yard sale and Scrabble business, he was glad to get this thing off his hands.
‘Here you go, Father.’ Omer thumped a bag on the counter. ‘Russets and Yukon Gold.’
He examined a russet. ‘Beautiful! Prizewinning! My goodness, look at this.’ He said what people in his Mississippi childhood always said when given a worthy gift. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Free as th’ air we breathe,’ said Omer. ‘Y’all like mashed potatoes?’
‘We do. Definitely.’
‘Drop a turnip in there. Cook it and mash it in with your potatoes. Adds a really nice flavor.’
Shirlene stared at Omer.
‘I’ve heard of doin’ that,’ she said. ‘But I never met anybody that does it. Do you use real butter?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Life is short.’
Patsy was straining at the leash and headed for the door. ‘Gotta go, Father. See you at th’ Feel Good. Patsy’s after a squirrel.’
And there went Omer.
‘Ohmigosh,’ said Shirlene. ‘Who was that?’
‘That? Ah . . .’
‘He was adorable.’ She went to the window and looked out. Omer was dashing across to the post office, Patsy in the lead. ‘Free as th’ air we breathe. That was darlin’.’
‘So, Shirlene, thanks for letting me transfer my certificate. I’ve decided what I’d like to do with it, and thank you very much, it was very generous of you.’
‘I wish you’d use it for yourself.’
‘I know, and I probably should, but I’m putting the certificate in the spring auction for the Children’s Hospital.’
‘Oh, that is so good. That is absolutely brilliant.’
‘Well, thanks,’ he said. ‘Are you spending Thanksgiving with your sister?’
‘I’m goin’ home to Bristol to see Mama and do her highlights. Who did you say that was?’
‘I apologize for not introducing you.’ Rude, indeed, but so be it. ‘That was the fellow you see in the little yellow airplane, headed south.’
‘I’ve never seen anybody headed south in a little yellow airplane.’
‘You’re probably working when he flies over.’
Shirlene gathered up her book. ‘So, when are we goin’ to have lunch with Homer?’
‘One of these days, for sure.’
Winnie waited for Shirlene’s departure before emerging from the poet’s gallery. ‘Holy smoke!’ she said, grinning. ‘You should fix them up.’
‘Not me,’ he said.
• • •
HE FOUND COOT in the storage room under the stairs, tears streaming.
‘What is it, buddy?’ He put his arm around the one who was their ‘fixture.’
‘I cain’t say.’
‘You can say it to me. I’m your friend. You’re our friend.’
‘Friend,’ said Coot. ‘F-R- . . .’ Coot looked at him, at a loss. ‘F-R- . . .’
‘I-E-,’ he said.
‘N-D.’
‘That’s it!’
‘I miss Mama.’
‘Of course.’
‘I always said she was mean as a rattler, an’ she was, but I miss ’er. She was my mama.’
They stayed under the stairs awhile. It was a good place to have a cry.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Saturday, December 1
Dear Henry,
A blessed Advent to you and Peggy and Sister!
Am writing from the bookstore to say what a wonderful Thanksgiving we had and I trust your own summoned a plenitude of grace. You sounded the best yet when we spoke.
And while we covered most of the bases, I feel the urge now to send something to greet you at the mailbox. I’m one for the cards and letters, myself, and am grateful for your faithfulness to us in that regard.
Dooley left here early on the 29th and Lace is on her way to Virginia as I write. D and L appear genuinely in love—it is a sight to see.
Actually, he had seen more than was intended.
On walking past the door to the deck, he had glanced out. They stood by the railing, wrapped in each other’s arms. He saw plainly the look on Dooley’s face, a look he had certainly never seen before. In something like slow motion, they kissed.
He had moved quickly into the kitchen, struck to the marrow by the power of that moment, a gift unwittingly captured for all time.
• • •
UP AND DOWN MAIN, an angel formed of tiny lights had been installed on every lamppost; alleluias and glorias poured forth from the sound system at the Town Hall, and ready or not, it was December first, and Christmas in Mitford was official.
