by Jan Karon
He didn’t know where else to go with this. It seemed there was nothing he could do for Bill Sprouse. He wanted desperately to minister to him in some way, yet Bill never seemed to need it. In truth, Bill’s faith seemed stronger, his confidence surer, his hope brighter than his own.
He sat in the place he’d worn for himself on the sofa, wishing, if only for a moment, that Bill had been driving the car, and he’d been the one standing by the stop sign.
Uncle Billy Watson dragged a chrome dinette chair from the kitchen to the dining room, where stacks of newspaper stood higher than the heads of most men.
It took a while to climb onto the chair seat and stand up so he could reach the top of the stack. Because he didn’t do this often, he forgot now and again what he’d hidden up there. Today he was looking for a special copy of the Farmer’s Almanac, but hoped he might find a little cash money while he was at it. He used to hide his money under the mattress, but Rose had found out and that was the last he ever saw of two fifties and a ten he’d made from building birdhouses.
What a man had to do was feel around real gentle, because if you poked your hand in a stack too forceful, it might come down all over creation. When newspapers was stacked up, they had a way of slithering like snakes, you couldn’t trust what they might do.
The town inspector had threatened to haul off the whole shebang, but he’d never gone through with it. Uncle Billy figured it must be a low-down kind of job to have, to go into people’s houses and tell them what they could hang on to and what had to be hauled off.
He’d be willing to give the newspapers to a paper drive if they ever had such a thing anymore, but he hadn’t heard of a paper drive in a coon’s age. Nossir, now they wanted you to bundle the dadjing things up and set them on the street in a red rubber bucket. On top of that, the town give a man a blue rubber bucket for glass and a white rubber bucket for periodicals.
Red, blue, white—it was all too much to keep up with; him and Rose put everything in a grocery bag when they could think of it and set it in a garbage can he’d found in a dumpster. That ought to be enough for a man to lawfully do with his garbage, this side of digging a hole and burying it hisself.
He pawed around on top of the stack, trying desperately to locate the almanac he clearly remembered putting up here. It had been full of good jokes, about as good as any he’d seen in a while. But if he’d left it out on a table where it ought to be, Rose would have done Lord knows what with it—peeled potatoes on it, or set a cook pot on it, or cut recipes out of it. He never knew why his wife cut out recipes when she’d never made anything from a recipe in her life. Heaven knows he’d made plenty of things from recipes he remembered from his boyhood.
He had stood by his mama’s table in that little cabin in the woods and watched her roll out dough for biscuits and pies and he didn’t know what all. He’d learned to cook creasies with fatback, and make rabbit stew, and even use a woodstove oven to bake deer meat with vinegar, springwater, lard, and wild onions. You had to cover your skillet good and tight, though, or your meat would dry out and be tough as whitleather….
He stopped trying to find the almanac and wondered, as he usually did, how in the dickens he’d get down from the chair. He nearly always forgot how hard it was to climb down once he climbed up. Seem like lately his arthritis was making his limbs so stiff that when the Lord called him Home, he’d be coffin-ready.
It was a real aggravation to find a decent joke these days. Sometimes he thought he’d quit joke-telling, just put it all behind him—retire, you might say. Only thing was, he liked to hear people laugh, yes, sir, that was about as good a feeling as a man could get without it costing an arm and a leg.
Maybe he’d hid the almanac in that little pantry off of the kitchen…
He held on to the back of the chair and looked down.
“Go easy!” he cautioned himself aloud. The chair wobbled as he lifted his right foot off the seat and set it on the floor. Boys howdy, that done it, that sent a pain up his leg that would lay out a mule…
He lifted the other foot off the chair seat, set it down, and felt the solid floor beneath. That was two feet set down, and all they was to set down, thank God A’mighty!
Famed Local Arthur
To Receive Award
Mitford’s biggest celebrity, Ms. Cynthia Coppersmith Kavanagh, will travel to New York City on Thursday to receive one of publishing’s highest honors.
In a ceremony at the Waldurf Astoria, she will be given her second Davant Metal in recognition of her series of % books about a white cat, Violet, who is an actual cat that lives right here in Mitford with Ms Kavanagh and her husband.
A publicity release from Ms. Kavanagh’s publiser states that no other arthur has ever won the metal twice. Insiders say the Davant metal is right up there with an Oscar.
Avette Harris, head librarian at the Mitford volunteer library says, “Violet personifies today’s liberated woman—she thinks for herself, isn’t afraid to learn new things, and manages to get out of many interesting scrapes.”
Ms. Kavanagh has been drawing and writing little stories since she was ten years old. Her first book was about a doodle bug, though it was never published. Her numerous Violet books include Violet Goes to the Country, Violet Visits the Queen and Violet Goes to School. Ms. Kavanagh also goes to school, as she reads to local students several times a year. Other book jaunts take her %^ Wesley, Holding and many surrounding comminities.
“She is our favrite arthur,” says Dorene Little, who received last year’s Teacher of the Year award at Mitford School. “Boys and girls alike can identify with Violet, who is more of a real person than a cat, if you ask me.”
The arthur has also been invited to tour America with a literacy program called READ, along with other famous childrens book arthurs, which departs on August 5.
Ms. Kavanagh will be accompanied to New York by Dooley Russell Barlowe of Mitford, who is a rising soph-more at the Univiersity of Georgia.
“Ugh,” said his wife. “Who writes this stuff?”
“Mostly J.C. But sometimes he hires help.”
“I mean, really—today’s liberated woman? And who are these insiders? And this spelling! The lowliest school computer has spellcheck!”
His wife was hot, and no two ways about it.
“Not to mention this picture of me. Where on earth did he dig it up? It’s older than dirt, I’m wearing a beehive!”
“Here,” he said, taking the newspaper from her, “why rile yourself?”
“Does he ever talk to the subject of his little butcher jobs? Or is all his reportage done by hearsay and rumor? I never wrote a book about a doodle bug!”
“What was it about?”
“A ladybug!” she said, thoroughly disgusted.
He patted her hand. “Now, now, Kavanagh.”
She looked at him a moment, then fell back against the sofa cushions, hooting with laughter.
They walked to the garden bench and sat watching the moon rise over Baxter Park.
“My dear John…,” she said, fingering his silver tresses.
“Who’s John?”
“You know, sweetheart, John the Baptist!”
He sighed. “Maybe I’ll cut it myself.”
“I’ll do it as soon as I come home! How’s that?”
“No way. I’ve witnessed your tonsorial skills.”
“I don’t want to leave you, Timothy.”
“But of course you must. It’s the only thing to do.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“I’ll be fine. I am fine. There’s nothing at all to worry about.”
“Puny will be here every day, and the girls will come straight from day care in the afternoons. Dooley and I will call you in the morning, and of course we’ll call you after the awards dinner. Then we’ll call you the next morning and after lunch and after the play and before we leave for the airport—you’ll be sick of hearing from us.”
“Never!”
“
Thank you for buying the theater tickets, dearest, for taking care of everything. Dooley is so excited, you’d think we’re going to the moon.”
“It’s time we did something special for that boy. Besides, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather send you off with.” His heart was heavy, but he made certain his voice was light. Nearly forty years in the pulpit taught a man how to hide his personal feelings.
“Please don’t be sad,” she said, putting her head on his shoulder.
“Sad? How could I be sad?” He kissed her forehead. “You’re the first author ever to win the Davant Medal twice!”
He wanted his wife to have a life apart from nursing him like some hothouse orchid. He really did.
“Give her your arm when you cross the street. Like this.” He demonstrated.
“Why?” asked Dooley.
“Because there’s a lot of traffic in New York and it’s dangerous up there. Because she’s a woman. And because, as a man, it’s your job.”
“I never heard of that job.”
“You heard it here first.”
Dooley grinned. “I’ll take care of her, I promise.”
“You’ve got my card. Pick a good restaurant, ask someone at the awards dinner to recommend a good place, she likes French or Italian. Call ahead and make a reservation, they’re big on reservations in New York.”
“OK. Cool.”
“Take taxis, do whatever you need to do. Here’s a hundred bucks. And be sure and tip the bellman who carries your luggage to your rooms.”
“I can carry our luggage.”
“They won’t let you.”
“But it’s our luggage!”
“Yes, well, don’t ask me to explain. And when the tab comes at the restaurant, tip twenty percent.”
“Man!”
“Just put it on the card. And while we’re on the subject, hold on to your wallet. And help Cynthia watch her pocketbook, she’s been known to set it on a counter while she shops. Do you need to write any of this down?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. On second thought…” He dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here’s another hundred, just in case. And twenty for you.”
“Wow,” said Dooley, taking the bills. “I always wanted to carry this stuff around.”
“One more thing. Buy flowers somewhere, they usually have flowers on the street. Give them to Cynthia.”
“When?”
“Whenever you pass a flower stall. Pink roses only, no red. Or white tulips if they don’t have roses.”
“OK.”
“A dozen. Tell her they’re from me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Well done!”
He’d never felt so proud in his life. He could send this young man on a mission and trust him to complete it. He felt his chest literally expand as he embraced the boy who’d come into his life and changed it forever.
He stood at the garage door and watched Dooley back the Mazda onto Wisteria Lane.
“We love you!” Cynthia called.
“Love you back!”
He waved until the car disappeared from view beyond the hedge, then hurried to the edge of the yard, where he could watch them turn left on Main Street.
He had hoped to feel better about being alone—this way, he could be as grumpy as he liked and no one would notice or care. But he felt bereft.
He opened the refrigerator door and stared inside, then shut the door without remembering what he’d seen. He walked into the study and turned on the lamp by his chair and gazed out the window to Baxter Park, noting the lowering sky. A book! Of course. That was the ticket….
He took a volume from the shelf and sat in his armchair and was thankful for his good dog snoring at his feet. Then he opened the book to a random page and gazed at it for some time.
There was nothing in the book but words.
The storm reached Mitford shortly after dark. He’d taken Barnabas to the backyard as the rain began—fat, pelting drops that smarted when they hit his shirt. At ten o’clock, a full-bore electrical storm was up and running, dousing power in the village and waking him from a deep sleep.
A dazzling flash of platinum lit the room. He turned on his side and listened to the pounding of rain on the roof, and the great flume of water flushing through the downspouts.
He hadn’t taken his medication for depression; he would leave it off for a few days and see what happened. It was humiliating to be taking such a thing. The only consolation was that millions of others were in the same boat; depression was common, run-of-the-mill stuff. But he’d never aspired to being run-of-the-mill; he was certain that in a few days, his energy would increase—his spirits would be stronger, his outlook brighter, and this whole miserable experience would be over.
He was clinging to the Rock, trusting it to cleft for him.
The vacuum cleaner was going full throttle, as were the washing machine, dryer, and pressure cooker. He liked to stay as far away as possible from pressure cookers; a neighbor in Holly Springs had scrubbed green beans off every surface, including the ceiling, for two weeks. But today’s rumbling, hissing, churning, and roaring created a welcome cacophony in the yellow house, and he was grateful.
“…to reach the port of heaven…” he inscribed in his quote journal, “we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it—but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.” Oliver Wendell Holmes had hit the nail on the head. He closed the book from which he’d gleaned the quote and gazed into the park.
He could kid himself into believing he was drifting. The truth was, he was lying at anchor.
He’d tried more than once to get back to his essays, yet had drawn a blank over and over again. He was spending time looking at the maple tree rather than pursuing the progress of what he’d titled The Future Hour.
As open and bright as their house might be, it was feeling like a prison. He wanted out of here….
He rose suddenly and went to the back door and opened it wide. He would take the girls to Sweet Stuff as soon as they arrived. He not only needed the fresh mountain air, he needed to see people face-to-face, so that he might look into their eyes and read their judgments, if any. He had dreaded his excursion onto the street; now he was ready to get it behind him.
“Don’t overdo it,” Wilson had said. “Whatever energy is there will burn off quickly.”
Yes, but he couldn’t go on living to himself, in himself; it was sickening.
He snatched the cordless from the hook before the answering machine kicked in.
He’d hardly picked up the phone in weeks; his wife was on orders from the doctor to keep such stimulants at a minimum. However, if he was well enough to push along on his own, he was certainly entitled to answer the blasted phone….
“I can’t believe it!” huffed Emma.
“What can’t you believe?”
“That I’m talkin’ to you. I was beginnin’ to wonder if you were dead or alive…”
“All of the above,” he said.
“…and your e-mail stackin’ up over here like…like…”
Emma had never been good at analogy. “Like planes over Atlanta.”
“Right! You’ll never guess what’s goin’ on in Whitecap!”
“How fast can you get over here?” he said.
As he hung up, he was distinctly aware that he was grinning. E-mail!
Dear Father, it has been ages since your friends at Whitecap have heard a peep out of you, your good secretary e-mailed us to say you haven’t been up to par.
How distressing to hear this, and please take care of yourself. Hardly a day passes that we don’t speak of you at the library, where I am serving my last season as head. How quickly time passes, it has been more years than I care to remember, I think they are plotting to give me a first edition of Agatha Christie’s autobiography, still in its dust jacket!
Be warned that I have not gotten the
knack of writing those short e-mail messages that seem so popular with one and all. I hope you are still interested in news from our little island, as there seems to be quite a lot of it these days!
We hear a wall has been erected on the yellow line between the bait & tackle shop and Mona’s. We don’t know what this portends, we are hoping it is not a forecast of any more drastic action such as divorce! Do pray, as I know how much Ernie means to you.
Morris is still playing the organ each Sunday, but we haven’t been able to get him to stay for the Coffee Minute afterward, Jean Ballenger has taken it upon herself to work on this. I’m not sure she’s the one for the job, she may scare him off completely. I do believe that playing each Sunday has given him a kind of happiness, you should hear the praise heaped upon his head before he manages to get away in the truck with Junior and Misty, who always fetch him back and forth. Have you heard that Jr and Misty are going to have a baby? Jr is very proud, you should see how tenderly he cares for his young bride!
Jeffrey Tolson struggles with himself, I think, but is being faithful to his dear family. Janette looks wonderful. She has become a truly beautiful girl with the flowering of her marriage. Certainly she isn’t forced to work so hard now that J has a steady income. Your Jonathan is full of mischief, and has stolen every heart in the parish.
Otis and Marlene have two new grandchildren and have closed up the pool at their house. Marlene says it is just
until the grandchildren get older, Otis says it is for forever and a day, as a pool is nothing but nuisance and expense. He intends to have his construction people fill it with topsoil and plant palm trees therein, though I can’t imagine that palms will flourish this far north—I think palmettos might be a better choice.
The Duncans have got a new rooster, which makes the neighbors complain. I think the world has gone wrong when one cannot enjoy the sound of a rooster crowing!
