by Jan Karon
“Does he need to go back to the hospital?”
“I think he does.”
“Pulse?”
“Weak.”
“Where’s Miss Rose?”
“In th’ bathroom, grinnin’ at ‘erself in th’ mirror last time I looked. She’s jis’ wicked!”
“Not wicked. Sick. It’s a terrible disease, and hardly any money’s ever spent to learn more about it.”
“What ought we t’ do?”
“I’ll call Hoppy. Should I go in?”
“I think you should. You’re always good medicine for people.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, meaning it. J. C. Hogan had been ready to knock him upside the head.
He stood by the bed, silent, gazing upon the man who had caused so many to laugh for so long ...
Without opening his eyes, Uncle Billy held up his hand and Father Tim took it. “Is that... th’ preacher?”
“It is, Uncle Billy.” He had a knot in his throat the size of a golf ball, honored to be recognized merely by his touch.
How many sickbeds had he visited in his lifetime? His own mother’s had been the most wrenching, and this one, this bedside, seemed oddly similar. He realized it was because Bill Watson was more than a cherished friend, more than a long-time parishioner—he was family.
“Let me pray for you,” he said.
“That’d be good.”
But when he knelt to do it, he found he couldn’t speak for the tears.
He pulled into the Meadowgate driveway with seven potted lilies crowded onto the passenger seat and floorboard, and saw the green pickup truck parked in the pull-over.
The odor of ashes and creosote greeted him as soon as he hit the back steps.
“Darling, look who’s come to see us. Pansy Flower, this is my husband, Father Tim Kavanagh.”
“Pleased,” said Pansy, who did a miniature bob. The curtsy hadn’t gone the way of the milk wagon, after all. Indeed, it was cropping up all over the place—a regular come-back!
“Pansy of the famed Flower Girls! I’m happy to meet you, Pansy.”
“Pansy’s telling me about her large and very talented family,” said Cynthia.
“Ten young ’uns! Eight girls, two boys. None dead. I myself personally am th’ baby.”
“Aha!”
“Iris, Lily, Rose, Arbutus, Delphinium, we call ’er Del,” Pansy totted them up on her fingers. “Vi‘let. Daisy. Jack in the Pulpit, we call ’im Jack. An’ Sweet William, we call ’im Billy.”
Father Tim observed that she positively beamed during this pronouncement.
“Let’s see, now. Iris is the one who sews?” Cynthia had her notebook and pen at the ready.
“No’m. Iris irons. ’Cept she can’t do much right now, she’s got corp’ral tunnel.”
“So. Iris irons. Lily sews.”
“No’m, it’s Rose that sews. Lily cooks for parties.”
“And Arbutus?”
“She don’t do nothin’. She married Junior Bentley an’ lives in a brick house.”
Tuckered, he sought the solace of his wing chair and avoided looking at the plywood.
“A brick house?”
“Yes, ma’am. On th’ new bypass across from Red Pig Barbecue. With two screen porches.”
“So let me make sure I understand. I call Rose if I need sewing, Iris if I need ironing, and Lily when I give the Christmas party.”
“Yes, ma’am. Oh, an’ we forgot to talk about Daisy, she’s twenty-two, an’ works with Jack an’ Billy killin’ hogs.”
“Killing hogs!”
“Yes, ma’am, from October to March, they kill hogs ever’ Saturday an’ make sausage. It’s available in links, patties, or bulk.”
He thought his wife looked a tad on the pale side. “Please, just write it all down,” she said, transferring the notepad to Pansy.
“Don’t you want to know ’bout Vi’let?”
Cynthia thumped into a chair at the pine table. “Of course! Have a seat, Pansy, and tell me everything.”
“Vi‘let works of a week, an’ sings country music for parties on Saturday night.”
“The parties that Lily caters?”
“Yes, ma’am, they hire out as a team. Barbecue an’ fried catfish is Lily’s specials; she serves that with cole slaw, hush puppies, an’ homemade tater tots. Or if it’s fried chicken you want, she does coleslaw, mashed taters, an’ biscuits. Vi‘let, she sings jis’ like Loretta Lynn, an’ plays th’ guitar.”
He caught himself nodding off.
“Her an’ Lily charges by th’ head. Twenty dollars a head for cookin’ an’ singin’.”
“What if someone wants cooking and no singing?”
“They don’t work that way; you have to take th’ whole package. An’ no Sundays ’less it’s a church party. For a church party, Vi’let sings gospel an’ they give a ten-percent discount. But they don’t get much church b’iness.”
“I suppose not; church people like to do their own singing.”
“Yes, ma’am, an’ their own cookin’ in many cases.
“Well, Pansy, what I really need is someone to clean. As you can see, this dreadful mess can’t wait ’til the cows come home. I need someone tomorrow morning, bright and early. Doesn’t anyone in the family clean?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am! ’Cept for Arbutus who married Junior Bentley an’ lives in a brick house, we all clean.”
“Thank the Lord!”
“But for cleanin’, we rotate.”
“Rotate?”
“Yes, ma’am, you don’t git the’ same one twice runnin’. It goes like this—Lily comes Monday, Rose comes Tuesday, I come Wednesday, Del comes Thursday, Iris ... no, wait, I think it’s Rose as comes Monday an’ Lily as comes Tuesday. Oh, shoot, I can’t remember all that mess; it’s too confusin’. You let us work that out.”
“Happy to,” said his wife, who appeared ready for a nap.
The cross stood in the center of the bare pine table, draped in purple.
Cold air, and with it a noxious sift of creosote, flowed down the broken chimney and seeped around the plywood into the kitchen. Though Cynthia had done what she could to freshen things up, the malodorous smell permeated the room.
It was a time in the church year that always moved and jolted him. He’d sat in many a church on this night, with only candles lighting the nave, sorrowing over His suffering and death, keeping watch for His resurrection. Indeed, he’d never known any way to receive the authentic joy of Easter without entering into this dark hour.
His feelings were stirred by the clear and shining voice of his wife as she read from the first Epistle to the believers at Corinth.
“ ‘I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered unto you, That the Lord Jesus the same night in which he was betrayed took bread; and when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me. After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me. For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do shew the Lord’s death till he come.’”
He pulled the candlestick closer and read aloud from the Gospels of Luke and John in the old prayer book.
“‘... Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots....
“ ‘Now before the feast of the passover, when Jesus knew that his hour was come that he should depart out of this world unto the Father, having loved his own which were in the world, he loved them unto the end. And supper being ended ...’”
He thought he heard a knock somewhere but couldn’t be certain. “Did you hear something?”
It came again, louder this time, at the backdoor. “Willie!” he said, leaving the table. “It must be important.”
He switched on the light and opened the door, but saw no one. “Willie? Is that you?”
“It’s m-me. S-S-Sammy”
CHAPTER NINE
Keeping the Feast
On the morning of Good Friday, a mild, nearly balmy breeze blew into the valley.
Relishing the liberty of a short-sleeve shirt, Father Tim stood outside the laundry room with a brick mason who nursed a plug of tobacco in his jaw and surveyed the damage.
“Back then, they laid their chimney stacks one brick thick.”
“That’s not good, I take it.”
“Was then; ain’t now. It’s a wonder it ain’t fell in before. Out here, see, y’r storms come mostly from th’ west, th’ side y’r chimney’s on. All that wet blowin’ in collects in y’r mortar, then when y’r freezes come, th’ mortar contracts; y’ know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“Swells up, freezes, swells up, freezes. Pretty soon, comes loose, falls out, big gale blows, down she goes.”
“Got it.”
Throughout the house, the ancient window sashes had been forced open to let in drafts of spring air, and sweeten the bitter smell of wood ash. Father Tim heard the drone of several vacuum cleaners operating simultaneously on bare wood floors, in concert with the rumble of a supersize clothes dryer and the agitation of a washing machine.
The mason shot a stream of tobacco juice into a camellia bush. “Busy place,” he said to the vicar.
A serious contingent of Flower Girls had reported for duty, and according to the look on his wife’s face only moments earlier, Father Tim determined that all was right with the world.
He sat with Sammy on the back steps, taking a break.
“Thanks, buddy.”
Sammy nodded with a short, self-conscious jerk of his head.
They’d piled the debris collected behind the plywood into a couple of wheelbarrows. As transferring the detritus from the barrow to the truck bed would be too labor intensive, they’d huffed the heavy barrows to the farm dump beyond the root cellar.
“We’re glad you’re here,” said Father Tim. “You’re safe with us.”
Another jerk of the head.
Déjà vu, thought the vicar. These porch steps were exactly where he’d sat with Dooley on their first visit to the farm all those years ago.
“How did you get here?”
Sammy raised the thumb of his right hand.
“How did you know where we are?”
“Asked at th’ gas station in Mitford, they all knowed.”
“Dooley and I looked for you in Holding. He was pretty worried when we couldn’t find you.”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I w-w-wanted t’ git out on m’ own; I w-wanted to make it on m’ own, like D-Dooley”
“Dooley didn’t make it on his own.”
A guinea streaked by, with another in hot pursuit. It was mating season at Meadowgate.
“For that matter,” said Father Tim, “I didn’t make it on my own, either. We can’t make it on our own; we need each other. Why didn’t you tell Lon?”
“I wanted t’ sh-show ’im I could do it without no help. I didn’t have n-nobody t’ talk to.”
“You have somebody now. Dooley. Poo. Jessie. Buck.” Mentioning Sammy’s mother wouldn’t be a good thing; Sammy bitterly resented the wrong she had done all her children. “Cynthia. Barnabas. Me.” He put his hand on Sammy’s shoulder, and felt him flinch. He also felt the bone beneath the skin.
“I got me a job at a n-nursery Lasted th-ththree weeks.”
“Didn’t work out, then.”
“They said I s-stole money. I didn’t do it; it was a f-fat boy done it.”
“We may have a paying job for you right here, if you’re interested. After all, if we’re going to have tomato sandwiches, we’ve got to have tomatoes. I’m pretty good with roses, but don’t know much about tomatoes.”
A light flickered in the boy’s eyes. “I can grow t’maters, big time.”
“I’ll bet you can.”
“C-cukes, squash, melon, pole beans, all ’at.”
“Okra?” He was a fool for okra.
“I ain’t never g-growed okra but I could do it.”
“Any plans to go back to your father?”
“I ain’t n-never goin’ back. He pulled a gun on me, made me set still without hardly b-breathin’, said if I moved he’d blow m’ brains out. He was b-bad drunk. After while, he passed out an’ I run. I slep’ that night in’ the neighbor’s garage an’ kep’ goin’ ’til I c-come t’ M-Morganton. I found a nurs’ry an’ got a job.”
“Where did you stay?”
“I slep’ in th’ sh-shed where they kep’ th’ clay pots an’ all. I hope him an’ C-Cate Turner is burnin’ in hell right now.”
There was a long silence; only the squawking of the guineas, the call of a bird.
“What became of your beautiful garden?” Father Tim remembered the garden Sammy had created in “a waste place,” as the Bible sometimes put it; its loveliness had brought tears to his eyes.
Sammy shrugged. “It’ll g-grow over an’ nobody’ ll know it was there.”
“Any idea where you want to go from here?”
“Don’t know where I’d s-stay at.”
“Cynthia and I talked about it; we’d like you to stay with us for a while. But we have a few house rules.”
Better lay it out upfront.
“No smoking. No cussing. Keep your room in order. If you leave, let us know where you’re going. Curfew—eleven o’clock.”
Sammy watched the guineas disappear around the smokehouse. The old scar on his face reddened.
“Did you hear me, son?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Interested?”
Sammy nodded. “Yeah.”
“How long since you were in school?”
“I ain’t been t’ school since eighth grade, an’ I ain’t goin’ back, neither.”
“How old are you?”
“S-s-sixteen.”
“When did you turn sixteen?”
Sammy shot him an aggrieved look.
“If you’re going to stay with us, and I hope you will, I need to know the score.”
“Last month.”
“March, then.”
“Yeah. Th’ fourteenth.”
In North Carolina, it was legally permissible to drop out of school at the age of sixteen.While that may not be the best of rulings, Father Tim was relieved; if they had to force Sammy to go to school, Sammy might be lost to them forever.
Father Tim sniffed the air; a wondrous aroma was wending its way through the kitchen door and out to the porch ...
It had a been a long time since Sammy had wolfed down his supper last night and crashed on Annie’s bed without removing his clothes.
“That muffin we had a while ago is history. Let’s go in and have some breakfast.”
Sammy shot to his feet; a grin tried to spread across his face. The vicar noted that Sammy caught it before it got very far. In any case, it was sunlight breaking through leaden clouds.
Good Friday was a fast day, and though Cynthia later vowed she’d asked for something “very simple,” Lily-who-cooks-for-parties had done herself proud.
Cheese grits, bacon, fried apples, scrambled eggs, drop biscuits, and cream gravy sat in bowls and platters on the pine table. She had also fried up half the sausage she’d toted as a gift from the sausage-making operation, and set out two jars of jam from the farm coffers.
His wife trotted in from the laundry room and gasped. “Is this a dream?”
“Hallelujah and three amens!” said the vicar. He’d better call the Mitford Hospital and reserve a room. “What do you say, Sammy?”
Sammy appeared dumbfounded, unable to reply.
Lily was already elbow-deep in a sinkful of hot, soapy water, giving the pots and pans a thorough what for. She giggled. “Better not carry on like ’at ’til you see if it’s any good.”
The vicar pulled
out a chair for his marveling wife. “We hear by the grapevine that you sing like Loretta Lynn!”
“Oh, no, sir, that’s Vi’let as sings like Loretta. If I was t’ sing a’tall, which I don’t, I’d sing more like Dolly.”
“Aha. And thank you for the sausage, Lily. A very thoughtful gift!”
“It’s th’ mild, not th’ hot; we didn’t think you‘uns looked th’ hot ’n’ spicy type.”
“Very thoughtful!” he said. How could he eat such a feast when his commitment was to fast?
“Anyhow, it ain’t from me; it’s from Daisy. Daisy does sausage. I don’t have nothin’ to do with sausage makin’! No, sir, it’s way too messy. I’ll never make no sausage ...”
“I believe Lily is the one who also sews, dear.”
“Oh, no ma’am, that’s Rose as sews. I’m not facilitated to do nothin’ but cook an’ clean.”
“Let’s pray,” he said.
Worn, they sat in the library by a waning fire. Sammy was watching a billiards competition on the TV in his room; Violet was curled on the lap of her mistress; the farm dogs snored in their accustomed places in the kitchen. Peace like a river ...
“Let me read to us,” he said. He believed his homily was nailed; the rest was up to the Holy Spirit.
He thumbed through the little volume of Longfellow’s poems that he’d found among Marge’s many books, and read from “Endymion.”
“... O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Responds, as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,
‘Where hast thou stayed so long?’ ... ”
“Do you believe with Mr. Longfellow,” she asked, “that no one is so accursed by fate but some heart responds to his own?”
“I do believe it. It’s true for Dooley, and for Lace. It was true for Buck and Pauline ...” He could go on and on. “It was true for us.”
