by Jan Karon
“The hair dryer?”
“To dry you off!” she said, pleased to be helpful.
He had heard of time warps, and was utterly delighted to be in one. Ella Bridgewater’s cottage was as pleasant as anything he’d seen in years. He felt instantly at home. In truth, it appeared as if his own mother might have placed Ella’s turn-of-the-century furniture and the numerous family photographs in polished silver frames.
Small flames licked up from a single log in the fireplace, and a stack of wood lay by the hearth, ready for anything.
He inhaled deeply of the glorious aroma in the house, which seemed largely composed of salt air, wood smoke, and sea bass with lemon butter. Sitting by the fire as Ella prepared lunch, the clock ticking on the mantel, he felt as contented as a country squire.
This, he presumed, was the place where antimacassars went when they died—they were in evidence everywhere, and starched to beat the band. His mother had used sugar water to starch her own; as a child he’d had an awful desire to eat the one on the piecrust table; it made his mouth fairly water to see it.
Ella brought a small etched glass and a decanter. “There you are!” she said, clearly delighted to have his company. “That’s my plum wine, I hope you like it, it won a blue ribbon in 1978! Lunch in ten minutes. And now you’re settled, I’ll send Louise in.”
She went briskly to an adjoining room, out of which a canary momentarily flew. It made a beeline for the piano, where it perched on the bench and cocked its head at him.
“Louise, do sing for Father Timothy, he’s come all the way from Whitecap.”
To his astonishment, Louise began to warble with great charm and enthusiasm, and finished her rendition perched on an antimacassar atop the piano.
“Amazing!” he said. “Bring her to St. John’s for a solo!” They could do worse than sit and listen to one of God’s creatures sing from the depths of an unfettered heart.
The rain increased to gusting, wind-driven sheets that made the small house shudder as they sat at the table.
“Minor and I made plans to marry, and then, two weeks before the ceremony was to take place in our little church down the road, he was ballooning over Nova Scotia, and . . . well . . .”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Ella lifted her glass in a salute, and soldiered on as hostess. “Plums are very hard to find nowadays, unless you buy them in a store, and I’m hardly ever tempted to do that. You know what the problem is?”
“I confess I don’t.”
“Everyone works away from home these days, they don’t keep their fruit trees sprayed or pruned, and the poor things simply fall down in the pasture or the yard or wherever, and that’s the end of it.”
“ ‘The world is too much with us; late and soon,’ ” he said, quoting Wordsworth. “ ‘Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;/ little we see in Nature that is ours;/ we have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!’ ”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “Amen!”
He was feeling anxious as they finished their dessert. “Do you have a TV we could watch for weather news?”
Ella sighed. “There hasn’t been a TV in this house for years! Do you remember when the Dallas Cowboys beat the Denver Broncos in the Super Bowl?”
“I don’t believe I do,” he said.
“Mother and I were watching the game, sitting right over there, when the screen went black as pitch. I remember to this day what Mother said, she said, ‘Ella, do you think this happened because I bet two dollars on the Cowboys with Joe?’ Joe was our postmaster. We tried to have it fixed, but it was dead as a doornail, and we never replaced it.”
A clap of thunder broke above them so loudly that he started from his chair. “Just . . . looking for a phone!” he said.
He dialed Dove Cottage as Ella stood by, peering at him anxiously. Her mother had taught her never to use a phone in a storm. She was, in fact, eager to unplug everything electrical, including the lamps, though she supposed that wouldn’t be proper during a visit by clergy.
Cynthia reported that things were fine at home, and she was praying for him. While his wife implored him to do nothing reckless in such bad weather, he should, nonetheless, hurry home.
He was wanting out of here fast, though he felt compelled by common courtesy to look at a couple of photographs before leaving. There was Minor standing by a hot-air balloon, quite fit and handsome in a flight suit. Glaring from an oval frame, Mrs. Bridgewater appeared sufficiently formidable to wither the hollyhocks that served as background.
“I just hate this storm. I walked down to church last night and raked Mother’s grave and dusted the pews . . . but you’ll see it all another day.” Ella’s rouge was two perfectly circular spots. “And I wanted to show you our live oak. It’s the oldest on the island as far as anybody knows. Maybe you can get a peep at it as you leave. It’s just a few yards from that side of the porch.”
“We’ll do the full tour another day. I look forward to it.”
“Well, then,” she said, slipping a parcel into his hand. “This is a smidgen of my plum wine, and a few morsels of sea bass for your Violet. I’d so love to have a c-a-t, but I can’t have a c-a-t, you know, as long as Louise is with me.”
“Aha. Well, I’m off, and can’t thank you enough. I’ve been happy in your home, Ella, and very much like your idea for next Sunday’s anthem.”
“Thank you for coming, Father, it was an honor. Now, left out of the driveway and two blocks on the right in the old white two-story, that’s Captain Larkin. Remember to look for the blue truck in front and beware the dog, they say he bites.”
She opened the door and was struck forcibly by a blast of cold wind and rain.
“I’ll pray for you!” she called, as he dashed into the deluge.
He’d been out in a few storms, but this one worried him. As soon as they got back from Mitford, he’d have the blasted car radio fixed so he could find a little weather news when he needed it.
Driving at ten miles an hour, he managed to spot what he presumed to be the captain’s house, and pulled up behind the blue truck. Any dog that would take the trouble to bite in weather like this was welcome to try, he thought, as he grabbed the wet umbrella and a leather box containing the home communion set.
He slogged to the concrete steps in a driving wind that threatened to invert the umbrella, and opened the screen door to the porch. A scowling face peered through the glass panels of the front door and quickly vanished.
Lord, bless this time, he prayed as he knocked, and keep us safe from any harm in this storm. . . .
He nearly leaped from his sodden loafers as a violent clap of thunder rolled overhead and the door opened. An elderly man with the countenance of an angel peered out.
“Hurry in, Father, hurry in!” said Captain Larkin.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bread and Wine
He stepped into a large parlor that smelled of fireplace ashes and stale bacon, like country houses he remembered from his Mississippi childhood.
His glance took in an afghan-covered sofa, two worn reclining chairs, a television set on a rolling stand, and a bevy of family portraits lining the white beadboard walls. To his right, a stairway with a curved banister, and closed double doors to what was probably a dining room. The house had once been rather fine, if unpretentious, and he was glad for its refuge.
“Where’s your oilskins at, Father?” The captain spoke in a loud voice over the din of rain on the tin roof.
“I’m afraid I’m a mountain man, Captain, with nary an oilskin to my name.” He shucked out of his damp jacket and hung it on a peg by the door.
“Brother!” shouted his host. “Bring Father a dishrag, if ye don’t object.”
He thought Captain Larkin was as lively and quick as any Santa Claus, though he walked with a cane and had a distinct limp. The captain also possessed a combination of the pinkest cheeks and bluest eyes he had ever seen.
The old man hobbled to the sofa and straighte
ned the afghan. “Come sit an’ make yourself to home. We’ll have ye dried off here in a little.”
The man who shuffled into the room looked exactly like the captain, yet his countenance was remarkably different; a scowl appeared permanently etched into his face as if by steel engraving. Light and darkness, observed Father Tim—fire and ice, north pole and south!
“This is Twin Brother,” said Captain Larkin. “Brother, this is th’ Father from down at St. John’s.”
“ ’Bout time you come,” said the old man, glowering at him. “We been lookin’ out for you since Brother fell four year ago, he could’ve killed hisself an’ it wouldn’ve mattered to you none.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t around then. I came to St. John’s in early July.”
“Four month ago,” said Brother, glaring at him through filmy eyes. He handed over a rag and Father Tim took it, mopping his head, face, and hands. He felt a chill go along his spine as the thunder crashed again, directly over the roof.
“Bad ’un,” said Captain Larkin, shaking his head.
“Will you join us, Brother Larkin?”
“No, sir, I’ll not!” snapped Brother, leaving the room. Opening one of the double doors, he turned and shouted, “I don’t abide with such foolishness.”
Father Tim closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and kept a moment of silence that amplified the sound of the lashing wind and rain. A single light bulb, hanging by a long cord from the ceiling, swayed slightly, causing shadows to dance across the pictures on the wall.
“Peace be to this house and to all who dwell in it. Graciously hear us, O Lord, Holy Father Almighty, everlasting God, and send thy holy angel from heaven to guard, cherish, protect, visit, and defend all who dwell here.”
Father Tim saw Brother peering at them from behind the door, as he poured wine from a small cruet into an equally small chalice.
Though he knew he might have stood, the captain chose to kneel. Grasping the arm of his recliner and going to his knees with considerable difficulty, he joined Father Tim in the Lord’s Prayer, then cupped his hands to receive the wafer.
“Lord,” the captain prayed from memory, “I’m not worthy that Thou should come under my roof, but speak th’ word only and my soul shall be healed.”
“The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for you, my brother.”
Tears flowed down the pink cheeks of Captain Larkin as he raised his hands to his mouth and took the wafer.
“The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for you, my brother.”
The captain drank and wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve.
Laying his hands on the captain’s head, Father Tim prayed, “The blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be upon you and remain with you forever, amen.”
“Amen,” said the old captain.
Father Tim helped him to his feet and they embraced warmly. The tender spirit of this good man flowed out to him with the smell of liniment and unwashed scalp, of shaving talcum and clothes hung too long in a forgotten closet.
“The Lord be with you, Captain.”
“And with thy spirit,” replied the supplicant, beaming through his tears.
The wind suddenly roared down the chimney and huffed a shower of ashes into the room. He was in too deep with this storm. It didn’t appear to be passing over and seemed to be growing worse, moment by moment. Only a lunatic would go out in . . .
“Captain, may I use your phone?”
“We’ve not had one in a good while. Too much money for too little talkin’ is what Brother calls it.”
“Ahh.” He went to the front door and stood looking out, agonized. He couldn’t see his car or the truck parked in front of the porch, only a gray film as if a heavy curtain had been lowered. He shivered in his knit shirt.
The captain reached up and pulled the chain on the light bulb. “B’lieve I’ll just switch this off.”
In the odd twilight of the storm-darkened room, the old man eased himself into his recliner and sighed.
“Blowin’ a gale,” he said.
Father Tim thumped onto the sofa.
He’d wait for a letup—every storm had a letup once in a while—then he’d run for it and drive as far as he could go. One way or another, he’d make it home. . . .
“My great-grandaddy come over from Englan’ in a little ship called Rose of Sharon. It broke up in a bad storm ’bout this time of year, and him an’ five other men was warshed up on Dor’ster. We speculate it was about where this road ends at, down past th’ church. Back in those days, th’ beaches was littered with shipwreck of ever’ stripe an’ color, an’ so they went to work and knocked together a little shack where they could look out for another ship an’ git picked up.”
What was this stubborn streak that had made him so all-fired determined to come to Dorchester today as if it were some life-or-death, do-or-die endeavor? Worse, how could he have left his wife saddled with a sick boy and a storm warning? Had he bothered to listen to a weather report and check out the particulars? No, he’d shrugged it all off as if it were nothing. . . .
“They wadn’t hardly nobody livin’ on these little islands back then ’cept Indians, there’s some as thinks it was part of Wanchese’s crowd. Story goes, my great-grandaddy wadn’t more’n twenty year old when he married a Indian woman off of Whitecap, had a head of hair down to her ankles. I been tol’ me’n Brother has th’ cheekbones and nose of a Indian, but I don’t know, I couldn’t say.”
Please, God, don’t let this storm hit Whitecap and take the bridge out, keep the bridge in good working order, the bridge, that’s the crux of the matter. . . .
“I built this house for my wife, Dora, back when I was runnin’ trawlers. Dora was nineteen year old when we moved in, an’ cheery as any angel out of heaven. Then, when we went down to Whitecap to keep th’ light, Brother moved in an’ managed things for me. When I quit keepin’ th’ light, I stayed on in Whitecap ’til Dora died, then come back to Dor’ster where I was born an’ raised at.”
Two thirty-five. An hour’s drive in a storm like this would surely double, maybe triple the driving time, so he’d be home by five-thirty, maybe six o’clock, max. . . .
“I’ve been foolin’ with Canada geese a good while, now, ever’ fall I pay a neighbor to sow wheat an’ winter rye ’round my pond out yonder. This spring, we seen nests as had four to eight eggs apiece. . . .”
He recognized a growing sense of foreboding . . . something that pressed on his chest and worried his breathing. Maybe he wouldn’t wait for a break, he’d take his chances. . . .
He bolted off the sofa. “Captain, I’ve got a wife and boy to get home to, I’m going to run on, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, I know how much they care for you at St. John’s, God bless you and keep you, I’ll be back before Christmas.”
The old man looked at him, dumbfounded. “You ain’t goin’ out in this, are ye?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” he said, running to snatch his damp jacket from the hook.
“Brother!” yelled the Captain. “Come an’ say goodbye to th’ Father, if ye don’t object.”
The dining room door opened, and Brother peered out, holding a jar of peanut butter with a spoon in it.
“The Lord bless you, Brother Larkin.”
The old man scowled at him. “Goin’ out in that, you’d do better to bless y’rself.”
As he tossed the drenched umbrella into the backseat and slammed the door, he spied the lasagna sitting on the floor behind the passenger seat. Dadgummit, he’d forgotten to give Ella her present. Cynthia had even tied a bow around the foil-covered dish.
He sat for a moment and considered running it in to the twins. Then, feeling the chill of his sodden clothes, he squelched the notion.
He passed what he thought was Ella’s house, but didn’t see a light. No, indeed, St. John’s organist was snug in her cottage with every plug pulled, as disconnected from civilization as any soul on the Arctic tundra.
/> A mile and a half to the highway . . .
With no yellow line to guide him, he kept his eyes strictly on the right side of the road, but there were long moments when the wipers were of no effect on the streaming windshield and he lost visibility entirely.
At the end of the gravel lane, he had a moment of sheer panic about pulling out to the highway. Pummeled by gusting sheets of wind and rain, he searched for headlights moving toward him from either direction, but saw nothing.
He eased onto the asphalt, praying.
Was this a hurricane? Surely not, or by now he’d be sitting upside down on the mainland in somebody’s tobacco field. Besides, he would have heard if a hurricane was predicted; this was merely a heavy storm with high winds, of which they’d seen more than a few since moving to these parts. The thought consoled him, but a subsequent thought of the sea, roiling and churning not far from the highway, gave his stomach a wrench.
In truth, he had no clue about what he should be doing. To cling on in Dorchester seemed wasteful of precious time, but to push ahead seemed potentially hazardous and plain stupid.
He would push ahead.
Twice, he was tempted to pull into what he thought was a service station, but he seemed to be developing a kind of sixth sense for driving in these conditions, a sense that he didn’t want to abandon too hastily.
He remembered what Louella said during their last visit. Something like, “You git in any trouble down there, jus’ remember Louella’s up here prayin’ for you.”
“Pray for me, Louella!” he shouted, finding comfort in the sound of his own voice.
On either side of the highway, trucks hunkered down like great beasts, waiting out the storm.
Easing south on what he estimated to be the last half of the coastal highway, the Mustang slammed into something unseen. It was a hard hit, and the motor died instantly.
