Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  His throat tickled. He coughed. A car passed, and he tried again to tell his dog the good news.

  But he couldn’t say it.

  He couldn’t say the m word, no matter how hard he tried.

  As he opened the office door, he realized with complete clarity where he should begin.

  His bishop. Of course. How could he have forgotten he had a bishop, and that such a thing as this thing he was going to do would be of utmost importance to Stuart Cullen?

  But, of course, he couldn’t call Stuart this morning, because Emma Newland would be sitting at her desk cheek-by-jowl with his own.

  He greeted his longtime, part-time secretary as Barnabas collapsed with a sigh onto his rug in the corner.

  Desperate to avoid eye contact, he sat down at once and began to scribble something, he knew not what, into his sermon notebook.

  Emma stared at him over her half-glasses.

  He put his left elbow on the desk and held his head in his hand, as if deeply thoughtful, feeling her hot stare covering him like a cloak.

  Blast, he couldn’t bear that look. She might have been examining his tonsils or readying him for colon surgery.

  “For heaven’s sake,” he said, swiveling around in his squeaking chair to face the bookcases.

  “I’d leave heaven out of this if I were you,” she said, sniffing.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, I can’t imagine heaven wantin’ anything to do with you this morning.”

  Church secretaries had been fired for less, much less, he thought, grinding his teeth. The office was suddenly doing that bizarre thing it sometimes did—it was growing rapidly and infinitely smaller; it was, in fact, becoming the size of a shoe box.

  He bolted to his feet and half stood behind his desk, trying to get a deep breath.

  “Your collar’s too tight,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Your face is red as a beet.”

  “It’s possible that I’m having a heart attack,” he snapped.

  “I’m telling you it’s your collar. Are you wearin’ one of those Velcro deals?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let it out a little.”

  Dadgummit, she was right. He realized he was nearly choking to death. He adjusted the Velcro, disgusted with himself and everybody else.

  What had happened to the soft, circumcised heart God had given him only last night? Where had the lighter-than-air spirit of this morning fled? Why was he grumping and grouching when he ought to be leaping and shouting?

  Barnabas yawned and rolled on his side.

  “I’m getting married!” he blurted uncontrollably. Then he sat down, hard, in his chair.

  He would never be able to explain the mysteries surrounding love, only one of which surfaced when he confessed his news to Emma.

  By the involuntary utterance of those three amazing words, his frozen Arctic tundra had been transformed into a warm tropical lake. Something in him had actually melted.

  In the space of a few moments, he had become jelly. Or possibly custard. Then a foolish smile spread across his face, which seemed destined to remain there for the rest of his life.

  When Emma left for the post office, vowing not to say a word to anyone, he prayed at his desk, went to the toilet and did a glucometer check, then positively swaggered to the phone to call his bishop.

  Stuart’s secretary said he was either in the loo or in a meeting, she wasn’t sure which, but she would find out and have him call back.

  He slumped in the chair, disappointed.

  But wait. Walter! Of course, he must call Walter and Katherine at once.

  The names of those with special interest in his good fortune were being revealed to him, one by one, in the way some are given inspiration for their Christmas card list.

  Since Cynthia had never met Walter, his first cousin and only known living relative, he supposed he was on his own for spilling the beans to New Jersey.

  “Walter!”

  “Cousin! We haven’t heard from you in the proverbial coon’s age.”

  “Which phone are you on?” asked the rector.

  “The kitchen. Why?”

  “Is Katherine there?”

  “Just blew in from the nursing home, she’s teaching them to finger paint. What’s up, old fellow?”

  “Tell her to get on the phone in the study.”

  “Katherine!” bellowed Walter. “Pick up in the study! It’s clergy!”

  “ ’Lo, Teds, darling, is that really you?” He could see the tall, thin-as-a-stick Katherine draped over the plaid chaise, with the cordless in one hand and her eternal glass of ginger ale in the other.

  “Katherine, Walter,” he said. “Are you sitting down?”

  “Good heavens, what is it?” asked Walter, clearly alarmed.

  “Teds . . . those tests you were going to have weeks ago . . . is it . . . ?”

  “Dooley, is it Dooley?” asked Walter. “Or Barnabas? We know how you feel about—”

  “I’m getting married,” he said.

  There! Twice in a row, and already it was getting easier.

  The other end of the line erupted into a deafening whoop that could have filled Yankee Stadium. He held the receiver away from his ear, laughing for the first time this morning, as Barnabas leapt from the rug and stood barking furiously at the clamor pouring forth from New Jersey.

  When Stuart hadn’t called back in twenty minutes, he phoned again and was put through to the bishop’s office.

  “Stuart? Tim Kavanagh here. Are you sitting down?” He was truly concerned that no one go crashing to the floor in a faint.

  “For the first time today, actually! What’s up?”

  “Remember the woman I once brought to visit you and Martha?” That wasn’t what he wanted to say. “When we, ah, gave you the bushel of corn? Cynthia! You remember. . . .”

  “I remember very well, indeed!”

  “Well, you see, it’s like this. . . .” He swallowed.

  He heard his bishop chuckling. “Like what, Timothy?”

  “Like . . .”

  He was momentarily frozen again, then the custard triumphed.

  “. . . we’re getting married!”

  “Alleluia!” shouted his bishop. “Alleluia!”

  Tears sprang suddenly to his eyes. He had been friends with his bishop since seminary, had confided his heart to him for years. And now came this greatest confidence, this best and most extraordinary of tidings.

  “Martha will be thrilled!” said Stuart, sounding as youthful as a curate. “We’ll have you for dinner, we’ll have you for tea . . . we’ll do it up right! This is the best news I’ve heard in an eon. Good heavens, man, I thought you’d never screw up your courage. How on earth did it happen?”

  “It just came to me that . . . well . . .”

  “What came to you?”

  “That I didn’t want to go on without her, that I couldn’t.”

  “Bingo!” said his bishop.

  “I, ah, went down on one knee, couldn’t help myself.”

  “You should have done the full kneel, Timothy, she’s a prize, a gem, a pearl above price! You dog, you don’t deserve such a one!”

  “Amen!” He said it the old Baptist way, with a long a, the way he was raised to say it.

  “Well, now, thanks be to God, what about a date?” asked Stuart.

  “We’re thinking September, I know that’s a busy month for you, but . . .”

  “Let’s see, I have my calendar right here.” Deep sigh, pondering. “Alas, alack.” Stuart’s fingers drumming on his desktop. “Good heavens, I’d forgotten about that. Hmmm. Ahh.” Tuneless, unconscious humming. “No, certainly not then.”

  If Stuart couldn’t do it, they’d get it done somehow, they were definitely not waiting ’til October....

  “Oh, yes, look here! I’ve got September seventh, how’s that? Otherwise, I can squeeze you in on—”

  “I’m not much on be
ing squeezed in,” said the rector.

  “Of course not! Will the seventh work for you, then?”

  “We’re willing to take whatever you have open.”

  “Then it’s done!”

  “Perfect!” said the rector.

  “Now,” said Stuart, “hang up so I can call Martha.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Grill

  You goin’ to have babies?” asked Dooley. “Not if I can help it,” said Cynthia.

  Searching the boy’s face, Father Tim felt sure their news was a go, but wanted to hear Dooley declare it. He put his arm around Dooley’s shoulders. “So, buddyroe, what do you think about all this?”

  “Cool!” said Dooley.

  Hallelujah! Dooley Barlowe had been buffeted by every violent wind imaginable before he came to live at the rectory over two years ago. Abandoned by his father and given by his alcoholic mother to his disabled grandfather, the boy had known only upheaval and change.

  “Nothing will change,” the rector promised. “You’ll keep your same room, everything will flow on as usual. The only difference is, Cynthia will live here . . . instead of there.” He gestured toward the little yellow house next door.

  “I like her hamburgers better’n yours, anyway.”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t have a clue how to fry baloney the way you like it. That’s my little secret.” He loved the look of this red-haired, earnest boy he’d come to cherish as a son, loved the rare surprise and delight shining in his eyes. Dooley and Cynthia had gotten on famously from the beginning, and Dooley’s stamp of approval was more important than that of any bishop.

  Not wishing to waste time gaining ground, Dooley gave Cynthia his most soulful look. “Since I’m goin’ off t’ ’at ol’ school pretty soon, I bet you’ll let me stay up ’til midnight.”

  Ah, politics! thought the rector, happily observing the two. They’re everywhere.

  Both Dooley and Emma had promised to keep mum, but truth be told, they were only human.

  Before there was a leak, however unintentional, the news must go in Sunday’s pew bulletin, thereby giving his parish the dignity of hearing it in church instead of on the street. As this was Friday, he supposed he should tell the guys at the Grill before they heard it from a parishioner. But would they keep it quiet until Lord’s Chapel got the news on Sunday?

  Then there was Miss Sadie. She definitely wouldn’t like reading it in a pew bulletin.

  He went home at eleven, changed hurriedly into his running clothes, and jogged up Old Church Lane with Barnabas.

  He had just run down this hill to do the thing that resulted in why he was now running up it. Life was a mystery.

  Huffing, he zigged to the left on Church Hill Road. Then he zagged to the right and ran up the driveway instead of cutting through the orchard like a common poacher.

  Miss Sadie and Louella were sitting on the porch, fanning and rocking.

  Each time he came to Fernbank’s front porch, the years automatically rolled away. With these two old friends, he felt twelve, or possibly ten. Fernbank was his fountain of youth.

  His heart pounding, he sat on the top step and panted. Barnabas lay beside him, doing the same.

  “Father,” said Miss Sadie, “aren’t you too old for this running business?”

  “Not by a long shot. I do it to keep young, as a matter of fact.”

  “Pshaw! Too much is made of running up hill and down dale. I’ve never done such a thing in my life, and I’m coming up on ninety and healthy as a horse.”

  Louella rocked. “That’s right.”

  “Is that lemonade?” asked Father Tim, eyeing the pitcher on the wicker table.

  “Louella, what’s happened to our manners?” asked Miss Sadie.

  “I don’t know, Miss Sadie. I ’spec’ we don’ get enough comp’ny t’ hardly need manners.”

  Louella put ice in a glass and handed it to Fernbank’s mistress, who, ever conserving, poured the glass half full.

  He got up and fetched the lemonade from her, wondering what on earth they would think about his announcement. He’d envisioned them as happy about it, but now he wasn’t so sure. He drank the lemonade in two gulps and stood on one foot, then the other.

  “You itchy,” said Louella.

  They could read him like a book.

  “Miss Sadie, Louella, are you sitting down?”

  The two women looked at each other, puzzled.

  Of course they were sitting down, how stupid of him to ask such a thing, it had flown out of his mouth. “Joke!” he said feebly.

  “Father, why don’t you sit down? Get in this chair next to me and start rocking!”

  He did as he was told. “Yes, ma’am.” Eight years old.

  “Louella and I like to rock in harmony, you pay a penny if you get off track.”

  “Who’s leading?”

  Miss Sadie looked at him as if he were dumb as a gourd.

  “Honey, Miss Sadie always lead.”

  “Here we go,” said Miss Sadie, looking bright and expectant. Since her feet barely touched the floor, this would be no small accomplishment.

  After a ragged start, they nailed their synchronization, then worked on building momentum. Miss Sadie was flying in that rocker....

  Lord knows he couldn’t sit around on porches all day like some jackleg priest, he had things to do, people to see, and besides, he was getting married....

  “Miss Sadie, Louella, I have great news.”

  The two women looked at him eagerly, never missing a beat.

  “I’m getting married!” he shouted over the roar of six wooden rockers whipping along on aged white pine.

  Miss Sadie’s feet hit the floor, Louella’s feet hit the floor. Their rockers came to a dead stop. His was still going.

  “To Miss Cynthia?” asked Louella, who was generally suspicious of good news.

  “The very one!” he said, feeling a stab of happiness and pride.

  Louella whooped and clapped her hands. “Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, thank you, Jesus!”

  Miss Sadie dug a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and pressed it to her eyes. “This is a happy day, Father. I can’t tell you how happy we are for you. Cynthia is the loveliest imaginable lady, so bright and positive, just what you need. I hope you’ve been on your knees thanking the Lord!”

  He had, actually.

  Louella was beaming. “Miss Sadie, I’m goin’ t’ cut us all some pie.” As she opened the screen door to go inside, she turned and said, “An’ remember you owe me five dollars!”

  They heard Miss Sadie’s longtime companion shuffling down the hall in her slippers. “Why, may I ask, do you owe Louella five dollars?”

  She looked at him, barely able to conceal her mirth. “Because, Father, I bet five dollars you didn’t have it in you to marry that lovely woman!”

  Knowing how dear five dollars was to Sadie Baxter, he smiled at his favorite parishioner and said, “I suppose I could say I’m sorry you lost.”

  She patted his arm fondly. “Actually, Father, your good news declares that we’ve all won.”

  He typed it on his aged and finicky Royal manual and passed it to Emma, who would do whatever she did to work it into the bulletin:ii publish the banns of marriiage between Cynthiia clary Coppersmiith of the pariish of the Chapel of our Lord and Saviior and father Tiimothy andrew Kavanagh, rector of thiis pariish. iif any of you know just cause why they may not be joiined together iin Holy Matriimony, you are biidden to declare iit.

  Mitford Muse editor J. C. Hogan slammed his overstuffed briefcase onto the seat in the rear booth and thumped down, huffing.

  Mule Skinner, local realtor and longtime Grill regular, slid in beside Father Tim.

  “So, what are you roughnecks havin’ today?” asked Velma, appearing with her order pad.

  Mule jerked his thumb toward the rector. “I’m havin’ what he’s havin’.”

  “And what might that be?” This was not her favorite booth; at least two of the
se turkeys could never make up their minds.

  “Chicken salad sandwich,” said the rector, always prepared, “hold the mayo, and a side of slaw.”

  “I don’t like slaw,” said Mule.

  “So sue me,” said the rector.

  “Make it snappy. You want what he’s havin’ or not?”

  “I don’t like slaw,” Mule repeated. “I’ll have what he’s havin’, except hold the slaw and give me mayo.”

  Velma pursed her lips. It was definitely time to retire. Some days, she’d rather work a canning line at the kraut factory than come in here and put up with this mess.

  “I’ll have th’ special,” said J.C., wiping his perspiring face with a square of paper towel.

  “What special?” asked Mule. “I didn’t know there was a special.”

  “Th’ sign’s plastered all over th’ front door,” said Velma, thoroughly disgusted. How Mule Skinner ever sold anybody a house was beyond her.

  “So what is it?” asked Mule.

  “Raw frog’s liver on a bed of mashed turnips.”

  The rector and the editor roared; the realtor did not.

  “I don’t like turnips,” said Mule.

  J.C. rolled his eyes. “Just bring ’im th’ frog’s liver.”

  “Dadgummit, give me a BLT and get it over with.”

  “You might try sayin’ please,” snapped Velma, who had to talk to some people as if they were children.

  “Please,” said Mule through clenched teeth.

  “White or wheat?” Velma inquired.

  “Wheat!” said Mule. “No, make it white.”

  “Toasted or plain?”

  “Ahhh . . .”

  “Bring ’im toasted,” said J.C.

  Velma stomped off and came back with the coffeepot and filled their cups, muttering under her breath.

  “What’d she say?” asked Mule.

  “You don’t want to know,” said Father Tim.

  He stirred his coffee, though there was nothing in it to stir. Maybe he shouldn’t say anything until everyone had eaten lunch and felt . . . happier about life in general. After all, Mule was scowling, and J.C. had his nose stuck in the Wesley newspaper, checking to see if any Muse advertisers had defected to the Telegram.