Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  “How long?” he asked Lloyd, feeling desperate.

  “Well, see, we’re tearin’ out y’r fireplace surround so we can get at th’ old lintel and pull it out of there.”

  “That’s so we can install y’r damper,” said Buster.

  “Aha.”

  “We’ll be layin’ y’r brick two wide up through th’ throat,” said Lloyd, “then pargin’ up th’ throat, which ain’t easy.”

  “Rough,” said Buster, shaking his head.

  Lloyd removed his ball cap, hoping to clarify things. “See, pargin’ th’ throat from outside down is fine, but pargin’ from inside up is harder, if you know what I mean...”

  “How long?” His eyes were glazing over; he couldn’t help it.

  “I’m sorry about y’r two bushes,” said Lloyd. “We’ll sure be more careful.”

  “Yeah,” said Buster.

  This would be the third time of asking. “How long?”

  Lloyd looked at Buster; Buster looked at Lloyd.They both looked at the vicar, and spoke in unison. “Three weeks?”

  He couldn’t help but notice the question mark at the end of what he’d hoped would be a declarative statement.

  “Have you caught him in the act?”

  He’d called the district attorney, whom he’d gotten to know during Dooley’s encounter with the police a few years ago.

  “Haven’t even seen him. But my dog ripped a piece from his shirt, and he left some things in another house on the property.”

  “Is the property posted?”

  “It is.”

  “How many chickens are you missing?”

  “Seven. And I found the feathers and a fire pit.”

  “Did he cut down any trees for firewood?”

  “Don’t think so; didn’t look for that. He probably picked up a few dead limbs around the place.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “He left his lower dentures behind.”

  The DA laughed. “He’ll be back.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. What kind of offenses do we have here?”

  “Larceny Second-degree trespassing. Cruelty to animals, which carries a class one misdemeanor. And if he cut down any trees or bushes for firewood, add a class two misdemeanor. Bottom line, if he has five or more convictions on his record, the judge could give him up to two hundred and forty days.”

  “Thanks,” said Father Tim. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Your guy’s prob‘ly over at Value Mart checkin’ out the baby food aisle; you’re OK for a while.”

  Very funny, thought the vicar.

  Before his dash up to Wilson’s Ridge, he found Willie mixing sweet feed for the cows. “Tell me about the house in the woods.”

  “About t’ fall in, looks like.”

  “Know anything about who lived there?”

  “Don’ know Miz Owen said their boy, John, used to write music over there b’fore he passed.”

  The Owens’ son had died in his late teens of severe encephalitis; Marge and Hal had never been able to resolve that loss, and seldom talked about it.

  “Ever notice anybody hanging around, using the path?”

  “Nossir. I never went over but once, I don’ hardly think about it bein’ there.”

  Father Tim had long ago learned his lesson about keeping the truth from his wife. In this case, however, he didn’t see how the truth could possibly help matters. Evidence gave pretty good indication that the poacher would return—news that would make the whole household edgy.

  He’d keep his eyes and ears open, keep the phone number of the sheriff’s office handy and, of course, keep counting their chickens.

  “Granny will hold your hand and Father Tim will pray for you,” said Hoppy. “You can’t get a better deal than that.”

  Dovey was stiff with fear. “OK,” she whispered.

  “The needle will go in with a question, and I believe it will come out with the answer.”

  Dovey flinched as the needle found its mark.

  “I’m about t’ pass plumb out,” said Granny.

  “Don’t even think about it,” said Hoppy.

  When the vial filled with Dovey’s dark blood, he removed the needle and flipped up the safety cap. “You’re going to live,” he said, applying a gauze pad to the insertion point.

  “Is it over?”

  “Not yet. I’ll listen to your breathing and your heart with this.” He put the stethoscope around his neck. “And I’ll check your pulse, check your blood pressure, and probe your liver.”

  “How d’ you probe m’ liver?”

  “Use my fingers to feel around ... right here. Nothing serious.”

  “Do I need to hold ’er hand f’r that?” asked Granny.

  “You’re off duty, Nurse Meaders.”

  Dovey raised her head. “Can I have me a drink of water?”

  “I’ll git it,” said Granny.

  Hoppy helped his patient sit up on the side of the bed. “What are you going to do when you’re up and around and feeling like a young woman again?”

  “I don’ know, I’ve near about f’rgot how it feels. Sing, I reckon.”

  “Breathe in and hold it. Do you sing? Let it out.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Breathe. Hold it. Let it out. Good.”

  He placed the diaphragm of the stethoscope over her heart, then moved it to her back.

  “What’re you‘uns hearin’ in there?” asked Granny, delivering the water.

  Hoppy grinned. “Ker-thump, ker-thump.”

  After the examination, Hoppy sat in the chair by the bed, thoughtful, and watched Dovey drink with obvious thirst from her transferware cup.

  “OK, Dovey, how about this one?”

  Mitford’s Harvard-educated doctor began singing in what Father Tim remembered from his Lord’s Chapel days as a darned good tenor.

  “I went to see my Shady Grove

  Standing in the door

  Shoes and stockings in her hands,

  Little bare feet on the floor.”

  As Hoppy headed into the chorus, Dovey joined him, harmonizing.

  “Shady Grove, my little love,

  Shady Grove I say

  Shady Grove, my little love,

  I’m a-goin’ away...”

  “Well done!” crowed Hoppy.

  “Lord have mercy!” Granny was wide-eyed. “You best not tell Donny you done that!”

  Hoppy stuck the stethoscope and blood sample in his bag. “What shouldn’t she tell Donny?”

  “Donny’s been a-beggin’ ’er t’ sing, an’ she ain’t sang a note in I don’ know when.”

  Hoppy packed the blood pressure cuff and zipped the bag. “It’s our secret, Dovey. Father Tim will be in touch; we’ll let you know what’s what. God bless you, stay strong. And God bless you, Granny.”

  “Hit was good of y’ t’ come, Doc.” Granny grinned, revealing pink gums. “Hit was good medicine f’r Dovey.”

  “Where in the world did you learn that song?” asked Father Tim, as they walked to their vehicles.

  “I was a hippie for about fifteen minutes; everybody sang ‘Shady Grove.’ ”

  “You should get out more often,” said the vicar.

  Dear Paster Kavanagah,

  Thank you for the nice letter you wrote to me. It was a comfort to hear about Dovey and Donny and little Sissie and to know the dog-woods was blooming good this year.

  I done a terribul thing to my loved ones the way they have sufferd. I will never get over the shame of it but God has let me know I am forgiven even for this terribul crime. Jesus feels near to me every day. There are times when he helps me with my Bible study lesson in knowing how to catch the meaning. Yes sir thank you we could use more Bibles. Ten or eleven would be about right.

  Thank you for caring about me and my family. I hope to see you one day. Pray for my children and little gran.

  Ruby Luster

  #10765L

  He showed the letter to Cynthia. “Paul a
nd Moses were murderers, Rahab was a prostitute, David was an adulterer. The list goes on.”

  “Which only proves, darling, what you’re so fond of saying.”

  “Every saint has a past ...” he said.

  “And every sinner has a future.”

  He was taking a bag of greens to the chickens when he heard Sammy and his visiting brother and sister talking behind the smokehouse.

  “You better not say ‘ain’t’ aroun’ Dooley,” Poo warned.

  “Why not?” asked Sammy.

  “’Cause ’e don’t like it, ’at’s why. He says it makes people sound country.”

  “He says it makes people sound stupid,” corrected Jessie.

  “Whatever,” said Poo. “I don’ never say it around ’im n’more.

  “Yeah,” said Jessie, “but when he leaves, you jump up an’ down an’ holler, ain’t, ain’t, ain’t, ain’t!”

  “I like t’ say ’ain’t,’” Poo confessed.

  “If you don’ say ’ain’t,’ what d’you say?” asked Sammy.

  “‘Is not,’ ’are not.’ Right, Jess?”

  “Right,” said Jessie.

  Father Tim tossed the greens through the top wire. By the grace of God, he’d kept his mouth shut on this particular subject. Out of the mouths of babes ...

  “Dooley, he says ‘yes, sir,’ ‘thank y’,’ ‘please,’ an’ all ’at ol’ stuff.” Poo sounded affronted. “He learned it at school.”

  “Mama an’ Buck makes me an’ Poo say ’yes, sir’ and ’yes, ma’am’; when you come t’ live with us, you’ll have t’ say it, too.”

  “I ain’t comin’ t’ live with you.”

  “Why ain’t you?” asked Poo.

  “’Cause I ain’t.”

  “Don’t then!” Jessie’s voice was shrill. “We don’t care if you do or not!”

  Father Tim saw her round the corner of the smokehouse, head down. He tossed in the last of the greens and caught up as she stomped toward the porch.

  “BLTs, lemonade, and apple pie with ice cream ... coming up!” he said. “What do you think?”

  “I think Sammy’s a big, dumb creep.”

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  < And—because of the hyphen, tax-deductible is charged as one word, it’s your lucky day!!!

 
 
  “But who’ll play it?” asked his wife.

  “Cynthia, Cynthia! If we provide it, somebody will come along who plays it. Mark my word.”

  “Consider it marked,” she said.

  “Sammy!” He knocked on the bedroom door. “What’s going on?”

  “Watchin’ TV.”

  “I can’t find anything to watch. What did you find?”

  “Pool.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They have pool on TV?”

  “Yeah.”

  He stood and gazed at the screen. Pool on TV!

  “She’s got to make a 1-long sh-shot,” said Sammy.

  Women shooting pool! Amazing.

  “May I watch with you?”

  “Yeah.” Sammy got up and removed a pile of unfolded laundry from the other chair.

  “Thanks,” said Father Tim, making himself comfortable.

  Sammy’s eyes were glued to the screen. “No problem.”

  Cynthia was beaming as she undressed for bed. “Sammy and I talked today.”

  “And?”

  “And the Holy Spirit gave us a wonderful Sunday School lesson. I’m thrilled! We’ll go over it with you later.”

  “No clues now?”

  “We’re still polishing.”

  “How did he feel about doing it?”

  “I think he likes the idea.”

  A certain hope kindled in him.

  “The kitchen was dreadful today,” she said. “Maybe we should walk out to the barn after supper tomorrow. I can’t imagine working there, really; it sounds romantic, but surely it wouldn’t be. Aren’t there mice in barns?”

  “You could take Violet with you; let that girl do an honest day’s work for a change!”

  She turned back the spread and gave their down pillows a good wallop. “In any case, we’re having my new and revised fries tomorrow night. Dooley comes home in four days, and with this one further experiment, I’m sure they’ll be fabulous.”

  “If it ain’t broke, Kavanagh ...”

  She ignored his wisdom, and crawled into bed. “Burgers with blue cheese ... and cole slaw, Puny’s recipe.”

  “Count me in,” he said, sitting on the side of the bed to remove his socks. “I’ll be home in time to grate the cabbage.”

  The time had arrived to stop “drumming up business,” as Lloyd called it, and get down to the fine particulars of ministering to their flock. Thus, today’s round of Wilson’s Ridge and environs would be the last for a while.

  “Want to come?” he asked Barnabas.

  Was the pope Catholic?

  He and Barnabas were trotting to the truck when Lloyd hailed him.

  “You asked me t’ keep a’ eye out for y’r boy.”

  “I did.”

  “He’s been smokin’ in th’ barn. Thought you ought t’ know that, bein’ that’s one way to lose a barn.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “I seen ‘im light up a couple of times when he was walkin’ over there. Then, too, I got a nose for it. Since I give it up twenty years ago, I can smell t‘bacco smoke far as th’ wind’ll carry it.”

  “Thanks, Lloyd.”

  “I know smokin’s off-limits around here; Buster sets in th’ truck to smoke. It’s awful hard to get good help, so I don’t say nothin’. I hope that’s all right.”

  What to do? Find Sammy and deal with it now? Or get up to Wilson’s Ridge and talk to Sammy this evening? George Macdonald had put a fine point on it:

  “You have a disagreeable duty to do at twelve o’clock. Do not blacken nine and ten and eleven, and all between, with the color of twelve ...”

  “Have you seen him this morning?”

  “He’s grubbin’ manure out of th’ henhouse. For y’r okra patch.”

  He was struck by this comment. How could he do what he had to do with a boy who was mucking chicken manure to satisfy a culinary whim of Timothy Kavanagh’s?

  “He’s lucky to have you to kick ’is butt,” said Lloyd. “I wish my daddy’d kicked mine; might of saved me a whole lot of grief.”

  Tough love is what they called it these days. But tough for who?

  For both parties, it seemed to him.

  He stopped on the path to the chicken house.

  If he nailed Sammy for smoking, Sammy would know he’d been spied on. Who was doing the spying—Willie? Cynthia? Lloyd? Buster? He wouldn’t be able to trust anyone at Meadowgate.

  He’d give to Sammy Barlowe what God had given time and time again to Tim Kavanagh: grace.

 
; He’d also ask God to keep the barn from burning down in the process.

  He screeched into Jubal’s yard and turned off the ignition.

  “Stay,” he said to Barnabas.

  Jubal had seen him coming; as he walked toward the porch, the door opened.

  “Jubal? It’s Father Tim.”

  Suddenly, he heard his dog lumbering up behind him.

  “No, Barnabas! Go back!” A scripture, a scripture! His mind was a blank.

  “Lord God A’mighty!” Jubal Adderholt was brandishing a pistol and yelling at the top of his lungs.

  “Don’t shoot, Jubal! Don’t shoot!”

  Barnabas hit the porch with such force as to rattle the windows. Standing on his hind legs and wagging his tail, he slammed his front paws onto Jubal’s shoulders.

  “Lord he’p me an’ save me!” shouted the old man, staggering back.

  “I am crucified with Christ!” pronounced the vicar. “Nevertheless I live! Yet not I, but Christ liveth in me ...”

  His dog sank slowly to all fours.

  “And the life which I now live in the flesh, I live by the grace of the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me!” Father Tim’s heart was pounding as he polished off the verse from Galatians 2:22.

  Barnabas lay sprawled on the porch floor.

  “I’m sorry, Jubal, please forgive us. My goodness, he hasn’t done such a thing in years. It must be the squirrel tails. Are you all right? I think he likes you.”

  “Likes me? Hit’s a good thing he didn’ git ’is head blowed off.”