A New Song

by Jan Karon

  “You definitely don’t have gout,” he said.

  “Have they gotten you any help yet? Even Harold has help.”

  “Everybody pitches in.” He wondered why on earth he’d called.

  “I haven’t checked Ed Sikes in Oregon, if that’s why you called. We just got in a few days ago, and I’m up to my ears in laundry, plus Snickers has fleas and they’re so bad they’re jumpin’ on th’ counter, I thought I’d spilled pepper. Th’ termite man is on his way right now, you wouldn’t believe what it’s goin’ to cost and I have to be out of th’ house for three hours while they do it, and then come home and vacuum for five straight days, it’s all that rain we had, I’m sure Barnabas is covered with fleas. . . .”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “Well, I don’t know why he doesn’t have fleas, the way th’ weather’s been, fleas breed in weather like we’ve had.”

  His erstwhile secretary was positively hopping mad that his dog didn’t have fleas.

  “Speakin’ of fleas, did you hear what Rodney Underwood just got to hunt criminals, you’d never guess.”

  “True. I wouldn’t.”

  “A rockwilder! You should see people scatterin’ when it trots down th’ street, Adele Hogan walks it every morning and it drags Joe Joe Guthrie around every evening, I’d hate to be a criminal in this town! Speakin’ of criminal, have you heard what Miss Pattie’s done now?”

  Miss Pattie was a Hope House resident whose mind had been lost some years ago and was found only on the rarest of occasions. Her antics had long been of particular interest to Emma.

  “Miss Pattie’s too old to get into mischief, I should think.”

  “Well, think again, she steals everything she can get her hands on in Mr. Berman’s room, then goes and throws it out her window.”

  “No!”

  “His money, his bedroom shoes, his good leather belt, you name it. He got undressed the other night and looked around for his pajamas and they weren’t there, so he draped himself in a blanket like a red Indian and called the nurse and told her if Miss Pattie didn’t stop this mess, his son will sue for a million dollars.”

  “Can’t the staff do something?”

  “They locked her window, that’s the best they can do, they say she’s going through a phase.”

  “What does Mr. Berman say?”

  “He says she has a terrible crush on him.”

  “That makes sense,” he said, recalling that Mr. Berman was a very handsome old man.

  “Speakin’ of crazy people, Coot Hendrick actually believes he’s going to win th’ election. Can you imagine havin’ a mayor who’s two san’wiches short of a full picnic?”

  He suddenly realized that Emma’s sluice gate had opened and he was being swept along as if by a raging torrent.

  “So, Emma, glad to hear you had a great time in New Orleans. Let me know what you find out about Ed Sikes.”

  He hung up and wiped his face with his handkerchief.

  The search committee was meeting regularly, chatting each other up in the churchyard, whispering among themselves in the parish hall, polling the congregation for general opinion, and basically going about the task of replacement as if eager to unload their interim.

  When he laughed with Sam Fieldwalker about their apparent urgency, his senior warden insisted that quite the opposite was true. The committee was hastening to do their job, yes, but in fact, several parishioners had expressed a desire to have their interim remain full-time. Besides, Father Tim was too young to retire. Hadn’t Father Grace served St. John’s until he was eighty-seven?

  Not every interim was urged by the parish to stay on. In fact, many were viewed with suspicion and some with utter disregard. He remembered what one of his early bishops was fond of saying—that the interim who didn’t make enemies was a man who wasn’t doing his job. The job, it was popularly supposed, was to stir things up, to throw out the old and make way for the new.

  Who could, after all, forget Father Harry?

  Father Harry, who was seventy-one when his life as an interim began, thoroughly relished the task of disrupting the comfort level of a parish. His style was to barge in and take command before they knew what hit them.

  If the congregation was attached to Rite Two, he celebrated Rite One. If they were stubbornly fond of traditional music, he switched them to praise songs. If they venerated their choir and organ, he had them sing a cappella for weeks on end. If they believed children should be seen and not heard, he invited the small fry to take up collection and read simpler Epistles. If their former priest had avoided the very mention of mammon, Father Harry talked about it at considerable length, with special emphasis on tithing. Further, he enjoyed reinstituting the observance of Morning Prayer, which, if not entirely forgotten by most parishes, was thought to be quaintly antique.

  When the incoming priest was finally in place, the congregants were so relieved to be done with the old troublemaker, they went for almost anything the newcomer cooked up.

  Father Harry could get the job done, all right. As for himself, Father Tim leaned rather more to what C. S. Lewis had said about worship procedures in Letters to Malcolm.

  “A good shoe is a shoe you don’t notice. . . . The perfect church service would be one we were almost unaware of; our attention would have been on God. But every novelty prevents this. It fixes our attention on the service itself, and thinking about worship is a different thing from worshipping.”

  He relished a note left on his desk by nine-year-old Margaret Wheeler.

  Deer Father Tim when we get a new priest I hope he is just like you.

  Love, Margaret PS But I hope he has kids!!!

  Mayoral Candidate Agrees with Opponent

  Andrew Gregory, one of two mayoral candidates for the election on November 3, says he agrees with his opponent, local native Coot Hendrick.

  “Mr. Hendrick is absolutely right to fight for the preservation of early Mitford history, though the hope of winning this particular battle appears lost. If elected, I shall do everything in my power to preserve what is good and positive about Mitford. One of my first projects will be to encourage owners of several local buildings to seek listings on our National Register, and receive federal funding assistance for much-needed restoration.

  “For nearly two decades, our incumbent mayor, Esther Cunningham, has set an example of community service that raised the standard of this office for all time. It will be a privilege to try and carry on her remarkable vision.”

  Gregory said that, if elected, he would also work to bring “sensitive, balanced growth to Mitford, which includes increased lodging, food and retail opportunities.”

  Gregory, his wife, Anna, and his brother-in-law, Anthony Nocelli, are owners of the popular Lucera Restaurant, located in their private residence known to one and all as Fernbank. Mr. Gregory is also the owner/proprietor of Oxford Antique Shop, a Main Street landmark.

  Town Council Meeting Turns Musical

  Mrs. Beulah Mae Hendrick, 92-year-old mother of Mitford mayoral candidate, Coot Hendrick, was a surprise visitor at last Monday’s meeting of the town council.

  Mrs. Hendrick was allowed to open the meeting with a song learned from her grandfather, who was the son of Mitford’s founder, Hezikiah Hendrick. Local legend has it that Hezikiah Hendrick shot five Union soldiers running from their regiment, and buried them on what is now property belonging to Ms. Edith Mallory.

  State law rules that property containing grave sights can not be be disturbed or developed. Ms. Mallory contends there is no proof or evidence that such graves exist on her 90-acre property. Ms. Mallory is currently beginning construction on a 3,000 sq. ft. extension of her home, Clear Day, near or on the sight of the stone foundations of the old Hendrick cabin.

  Mrs. Hendrick, who stood beside her wheelchair to sing the song, said afterward, “It will prove we’re right!” A written copy of the lyrics was sent to Ms. Mallory by certified mail last Tuesday morning.

  Shot five Ya
nkees

  a-runnin’ from th’ war

  Caught ’em in a cornfield

  Sleepin’ by a f’ar

  Now they’ll not run no more, oh

  They’ll not run no more!

  Dug five graves

  With a mattock and a hoe

  Buried ’em in th’ ground

  Before th’ first snow

  Now they’ll not run no more, oh

  They’ll not run no more!

  Mr. Coot Hendrick said, “Mama has known and sung this song all her life, which right there ought to be proof the graves exist.”

  At press time, a spokesman reported that the town council has received a letter from Ms. Mallory’s lawyer in Florida, stating that no proof of graves exists, and the matter is officially closed. He also said nobody could dig five graves with a mattock and a hoe, and that folk songs do not document real life.

  A town council spokesman said, “I think it’s a low-down shame to shoot people in their sleep, even if they are Yankees.”

  Ms. Mallory has issued a firm restriction against any digging or trespassing on her property, and has posted signs to that effect.

  New Name, Location For Hair House

  Ms. Fancy Skinner, proprietor of Mitford’s popular Hair House, is moving her beauty Salon uptown and changing its name.

  Ms. Skinner, who currently operates Hair House in her basement off Lilac Road, stated, “It’s time to go Main Street!!

  “I and my customers agree this calls for a more uptown name. The new name will be A Cut Above.”

  Ms. Skinner is moving in over the Sweet Stuff Bakery, which means that all hair work in Mitford will now be concentrated in one building, as Joe Ivey barbers on the street level behind the Sweet Stuff Bakery kitchen.

  A Cut Above will feature all hair services for both sexes, with cuts starting at $12 and up. Fancy’s Face Food, a specialty skincare line with organic ingredients, will be available. “But don’t even think about using it,” says Ms. Skinner, “unless you want to look and feel ten to fifteen years younger and make an all-around better showing for yourself.”

  A grand opening will held on Tuesday, beginning at nine a.m. with sugar-free gum for all, and a door prize of acrylic nails.

  Congratulations to A cut Above!!!!

  Local Laughs

  —by Anonymous

  Seen the new sign in Percy Mosely’s window?

  “Shoes are required to eat in the Main Street Grill. Socks can eat anyplace they want to.”

  Then there’s the sign on the door of the labor room at Mitford Hospital:

  “Push, push, push.”

  I guess by now everybody’s heard about Evie Adams’s midnight snail hunt. Seems she was out with a salt shaker and flashlight hunting down snails in her flowerbed, when one of Chief Rodney Underwood’s officers rode by her house on South Main and saw this light bobbing around in her yard. The officer who shall be nameless parked up the street and tiptoed down to Evie’s with his pistol cocked. He said the moon was out and he thought it was pretty odd that the burglar was wearing a chenille robe and hair curlers.

  After he nearly scared the daylights out of her, Evie handed him an extra salt shaker and made him help finish the flower bed, all of which is to say Evie got the last laugh.

  Well, that’s it for now!! See you back here next week and don’t take any wooden nickels.

  Displaying her skills with the ability to fax directly from her computer, he found Emma’s note at the office.

 
 
 
 
 
 
  He couldn’t believe this was happening.

  As he approached Morris Love’s place on an afternoon walk, his dog suddenly lurched forward with all the power and muscle of a horse. The leash jerked from his unsuspecting hand and Barnabas dove under the gate in a flash. Déjà vu!

  His anger erupted with such violence, he was astounded. “Barnabas!” he thundered.

  Was he so dim-witted he couldn’t have prepared for this, anticipated it, expected it to happen? He would never walk this way again, Barnabas was confined to the yard and the back porch ’til doomsday. He’d been treated like a king for years and was now exercising royal privileges. Father Tim couldn’t believe the stubborn, willful, selfish disobedience of a dog he’d done everything for. . . .

  “Barnabas! Come now!” He hardly recognized his own voice; it gave him a positive chill. If he were a dog, he’d either flee the county at the sound of it or slink back to face the music and get it over with.

  Hearing the booming bark fade deeper into the Love jungle, he scaled the wall and dropped down on the other side, breathing hard. He didn’t want to go through this nonsense again, he really didn’t. He certainly didn’t want his churlish neighbor ranting at him as if he were some rum-nosed chicken poacher. So what if Morris Love had had a hard time of it? Hadn’t plenty of other people, and was that any excuse for refusing to exercise at least a modicum of human kindness toward a neighbor?

  He was huffing and blowing as if he’d done the Nags Head Wood Run instead of a mile-long lap through the neighborhood.

  He hadn’t, for some time, been forced to use Holy Scripture on his dog, a ploy that worked best to keep Barnabas from leaping into the arms of the unsuspecting, or giving their ears and noses a good licking. Though he had no precedent for the current circumstances, it was worth a try.

  “ ‘I delight to do thy will, O my God, yea, thy law is within my heart!’ ” He fairly bellowed the line from the psalmist; he thought he’d made the leaves tremble on a bush.

  Silence. He felt like a maniac.

  Ah, well.

  What if he simply gave up and went home? Barnabas would follow eventually; he’d be lying outside their front door in no time flat, looking doleful. But what would that solve? It would only give his dog the dumb notion he could do it again anytime he liked. No, indeed, he was going in after his dog and dragging him home by the collar, and no treats for a week, maybe a month. . . .

  He stormed down the driveway as if going to a fire, whistling and calling right and left. There was an occasional thrashing in the bushes. Birds started up and flew above him, chattering. A squirrel dashed across his path as he came upon the house.

  Beside the drive as it curved toward the front door was something he hadn’t noticed before. It was an antiquated verdigris plaque set into a concrete slab and nearly taken by ivy. A house marker, he supposed. He stooped and squinted at the engraving: Nouvelle Chanson, 1947.

  He wasn’t eager to disturb his neighbor, no, indeed, but what could he do? He stood up and let it fly. “Barnabas! ”

  “Is that you again?” Morris Love shouted from an upstairs window.

  “Yes, dadgummit, Mr. Love, it is.”

  “Out! Out!”

  Please, no more of that drivel. “I can’t go out ’til I find my dog. My dog, Mr. Love! I’m sorry, for heaven’s sake.” He stomped through the undergrowth at the side of the house, where he thought he heard a commotion.

  “Barnabas! Come!” Now there was furious barking at what could be the rear of the house. He suddenly felt the insects chewing on his legs, and if that weren’t enough, it was steaming in here. Until he came over the wall, he hadn’t noticed the humidity, nor had he realized his desperate thirst.

  “Your dog has treed a squirrel off the west side!” Morris Love’s hoarse announcement was matter-of-fact.

  Father Tim darted into grass that grew to his waist; Lord only knows what was lurking on the ground. He needed a machete, a sling, a hay baler, to get through this stuff. Slogging to the rear of the house, he stumbled over a pile of bricks that had toppled from a chimney and lay hidden in the grass. He fell onto a jagged piece of mortar and hauled himself up. Stubbed toes, skinned knees, cut hands, chewed legs . . . he was biting his tongue. />
  He forged along the endless rear of the house and rounded the corner, dripping with sweat. Aha, by George, there he was, the impudent beast, sitting on his rear end at the foot of a tree and gazing heavenward as if in prayer.

  His dog turned his head and gave him the sort of look that precedes the guillotine.

  Speechless, his master pointed to his feet, shod in running shoes. Barnabas thoughtfully considered this gesture for some moments, then arose slowly and, head down, walked toward his master and sat a couple of yards away. Father Tim made the pointing gesture again. Barnabas arose, plodded over, and sat by his master’s right foot.

  He reached down and plucked the leash from the grass.

  “Forgiveness,” he said aloud to his dog, “is giving up my right to hurt you because you have hurt me.” He didn’t know where that particular wisdom had come from, but there it was.

  Barnabas sat, looking stoic.

  He put his hand through the loop and wrapped the leash around his arm twice. Then, giving his eaten legs a vigorous, overall slapping, he turned to get the heck out of here.

  He heard Morris Love laughing behind one of the many shuttered windows on the second floor. It was an odd laughter, to say the least, composed of short explosions of sound.

  “Mr. Love,” he yelled. “I hope we’re entertaining you sufficiently.”

  “More than sufficiently.” Morris Love quit laughing, and the coldness in his voice returned. “You know the way out, Father.”

  “Yes, indeed, it’s becoming all too familiar.” His own tone of voice wasn’t exactly the one used in greeting people at the church door.

  Blast. That high wall ahead must be the back of another wing, though there were no windows. Or perhaps it was the rear of the loggia he’d glimpsed earlier. From the look of things, this meant a longer distance to the front, through a deeper, yet denser thicket.