Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  He paced the brick path by the bench, he’d heard this before.

  In a while she said, ‘You sure could kiss me.’ She was staring at the garden wall, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘Why?’

  She turned to him, incensed. ‘I can’t believe you said that! I know boys who would never ask such a stupid question, why!’

  He asked why all the time, he couldn’t help himself, but he’d spoken too soon. He was nuts to pass up kissing Peggy Cramer, who was beautiful, who was actually wonderful to kiss.

  But she was like nettles, and he drew back…

  “I remember the time in assembly that you recited Hiawatha—the whole thing. It was so amazing, I wondered how in the world anyone could do that.”

  “Today, I’d wonder, too. But it wasn’t the whole poem, it was only Part Five.”

  “I remember the rhythm of your voice—it was like the beating of an Indian drum.”

  “It was written in that meter. Quite thrilling to a boy, of course, once I got the hang of it.”

  “So when we ran into each other our senior year, I knew who you were. I thought you would be happy to meet me for a cigarette.” She colored a little. “I never told you that I was happy you didn’t, because I didn’t think I’d know how to talk to you.”

  No news there. She had never known how to talk to him.

  “I spent all my time back then feeling stupid and inferior,” she said, “but it came out as haughty and mean, as if I were better than other people. It didn’t help that Daddy had me driven to school in that big car.” She looked at him, imploring, as if he might forgive her that.

  “I understand.”

  “With all my heart, I wanted to walk to school like everybody else.”

  She was obviously trying to find a way into what she needed to tell him.

  “I hated the thought of going to college, I never liked school, really. School was awfully hard for me, and the girls always despised me. I hoped Jack would ask me to marry him and I wouldn’t have to go away to Ole Miss. But of course…”

  “Of course?”

  “He didn’t marry me, he went off to med school at Duke.”

  He and Peggy had finished college and come home to Holly Springs the summer before he returned to Sewanee and entered seminary. Jack Sutton had come home that summer, too…

  He had no idea why, but Peggy Cramer suddenly decided that he, Timothy Kavanagh, was interesting. That’s what she said, anyway. ‘You’re so interesting.’

  He knew better. He wasn’t interesting at all, though he ardently wished to believe her.

  She was going to work for her father in the fall, and had the whole golden summer, as she called it, at her disposal, not to mention a custom-painted turquoise Thunderbird convertible with wire wheels.

  She drove out to Whitefield one afternoon; he was dumbfounded to see the grille of the car that was turning heads all over Holly Springs coming up his driveway. Cumulus clouds of dust billowed in her wake, she was flying.

  He was wearing dirty shorts and a torn T-shirt and sneakers, and had stepped around to the front porch to fetch the bucket of his mother’s gardening tools. His heart thundered; he wanted nothing more than to run, but she had already seen him and was waving.

  ‘God help me,’ he said under his breath. He had no idea why he had uttered such a petition…

  “I remember driving out to your house that day.” She pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her jacket. Something told him she’d finally gotten a grip on how this thing should go.

  “If only we could erase that day,” she said.

  But he had willfully gone with her; there was no one to blame but himself. He felt his face suffuse with color; if he had a fan, he’d use it like a dowager at a church picnic.

  That day had been the first of many days. Indeed, he had experienced his own “golden summer,” and at the end of it, he was not only convinced that he was interesting, but he was going steady with Peggy Cramer and Jack Sutton was hating his guts…

  ‘We don’t have to get married for ages and ages,’ she said. ‘I just want the feelin’ of your ring on my finger.’

  They had gone steady only a few months when Peggy insisted on getting engaged. He gave her his high school ring, but she gave it back with a look he hadn’t seen before. ‘Not that ring.’

  ‘It’s not the time for an engagement,’ his mother said. He knew she was right; it was the middle of his first year in seminary.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said his father. ‘You’ll be a laughingstock. I hope you don’t expect a priest to earn the sort of income that could satisfy Ed Cramer’s daughter.’

  Louis pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. It ain’t none my b’iness a’tall.’

  ‘Jack Sutton gon’ kick yo’ ass,’ said Tommy, who thought the whole thing a terrific idea. All that money, a Thunderbird convertible with a stick, and Peggy Cramer, too.

  ‘I don’t know who said it, Cousin, but, “It is characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.”’ His Oxford cousin, Walter Kavanagh, had certainly done a few desperate things in his time, but far be it from him to go over the list.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ said Stuart Cullen. Stuart had been on the track team with him in college and was his best friend at seminary. He knew Stuart to be a profound believer, far more earnest in his faith than he. Stuart, who had met Peggy during a spring break, ended his counsel by saying, ‘I beg you.’

  He struggled to put those three words out of his mind. But Peggy was determined, and in the end, so was he. All that was left to do was convince his rector, Father Polk, who would call the dean at Sewanee, who would call the Kavanaghs’ diocesan bishop, who would call his postulant, Timothy Kavanagh. They would all suggest he wait until he was out of seminary, and he would have his argument ready, which ran thus: The formal declaration of their engagement was just that, a formality. They had every intention of waiting to marry until he was out of seminary. It would please his fiancée very much, and he would be grateful for their blessing.

  He had been frankly astonished when Nanny Howard offered him the ring, and alarmed by the tumult that followed its presentation at the Peabody. His remembered his parents’ cold dislike of mingling with the Cramers, who were known for their generous, albeit grudging, hospitality; but even worse was the social blitz that followed. He wanted to bolt like a rabbit into a hole.

  At the engagement party at the Fant place, Heloise Griffin had dosed him liberally with her poisonous tongue. ‘Nobody thinks you two will make it, but any excuse for a party.’

  Seminary was different from college, but he was glad to be there. Courses were tough, breaks were few and far between, and summers promised to be internships in far-flung parishes. It was months before he went home to Holly Springs at Easter, and found that Peggy was in Philadelphia with her parents. He was surprised, then miffed, and finally, relieved.

  They wrote each other, he writing more often than she, who professed to hate writing.

  Dear Timmy,

  Heloise gave me the most adorable apron, I think you will just love it on me but I don’t have any idea what to cook. Daddy says Pauline can come live with us as I have never even boiled water, ha ha! I just want to sit on your lap and look into your eyes, phooey on dusting and running the Hoover! Don’t you agree?

  Must run. I am wild about the picture you sent in your track uniform. Number 72! I just love anything 7.

  Loads of love and kisses from your Peg-Peg.

  Dear Timmy,

  I am so bored with Holly Springs, it is just party, party, party, as if there’s nothing else to do in this whole wide world. All I want to do is get married and settle down. Everybody says you will make the cutest husband. Well, I’d better go now. Loads of love and kisses from your Peg-Peg.

  Married. Everybody says. What had happened on those summer days in Peggy’s convertible was eclipsed by what he could honestly define as panic…

  “There are so
many things to ask your forgiveness for,” she said. “First, I want to apologize for losing the ring. I know it hurt you very much and made your grandmother sad. That carelessness haunts me to this day. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven. Long ago.”

  “And I deeply regret using you to make Jack Sutton jealous.” She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “You’re forgiven. Again, long ago.” For nearly a half century, he’d wanted to ask her a particular question. Life is short, his wife had said, and the road to Holly Springs is long. “I’d like to ask you something.”

  The prospect seemed to cheer her.

  “Why did you pick me to make Jack Sutton jealous?” Male vanity was a terrible thing.

  “Because I felt safe with you.”

  He was touched by this confession, though in his opinion it didn’t really answer the question.

  “Most of all, please forgive me for telling everyone that the child was yours, and trying to make you believe it, too.”

  “I was always pretty good at math,” he said.

  “I know how everyone made fun of you when they learned the truth, and what that must have felt like. I know how it humiliated your family.” She closed her eyes for a moment.

  He remembered the horrific conflict between his father and Ed Cramer. Ed Cramer wanted to buy Matthew Kavanagh’s son, it was that simple. Fifteen thousand—a huge sum—together with a house, a car, and a vice presidency in the Cramer empire was how the attempted deal fell out. The idea of buying off a Kavanagh to cover the treachery of a Sutton was infuriating to his father, who not only refused the offer but forbade for all time the speaking of the Cramer name in his household.

  Immediately afterward, Ed Cramer went straight to the source. Timothy Kavanagh was scrawled across the face of the envelope in what his mother called ‘a racing hand,’ and delivered to Whitefield by a driver who appeared embarrassed by his mission. Peggy’s father wanted to meet with him in his office at three o’clock the following day, stating cryptically, You will not regret it.

  He was totally intimidated by Ed Cramer, but he showed up and stood his ground. There was no way he could do what her father demanded. Mr. Cramer gave him five days to think it over, though he didn’t want five days or five hours or even five minutes.

  Yet there were moments when he felt compelled to go through with it; it would be an honorable thing to do. Indeed, it would save her face and possibly even his, but no, he could not. At times he felt very tenderly toward her—he was always aroused by her—but it wasn’t right, of course; it had never been right. He wouldn’t forget the day she fell to her knees and begged him to marry her, which may have been the profoundest embarrassment of the whole nightmarish business.

  For moral support, he called Stuart, who was never one to mince words You don’t love her, the child isn’t yours, her father is a tyrant, you would hate the cotton business. Come on, Timothy, don’t try to be a hero.’

  Though his father wanted the refusal delivered to Ed Cramer via the Kavanagh family attorney, he, Timothy, did the deed himself. He wanted to suffer, he deserved to suffer.

  Wearing his school jacket and feeling as stiff as an undertaker, he shook hands with Ed Cramer, who stood firmly planted behind his desk, a terrible look of triumph on his face.

  ‘Mr. Cramer,’ he said, ‘I must decline your offer.’ While he had legs to do it, he fled the office. On the way home, he was forced to pull the car off the road and heave what little nourishment he’d managed to swallow down.

  He confessed the whole excruciating business to Father Polk, who believed him at once and claimed himself ‘ill-disposed to esteem Jack Sutton’s character.’ Polk then called Sewanee’s dean, who called the Kavanaghs’ diocesan bishop, who would call his postulant, Timothy Kavanagh.

  When he knew the call was coming, he raced to the toilet with the heaves that were now part of the package. The breaking of the engagement, the rumors that would go with it—he would likely be required to meet with the bishop and, depending on the outcome, be sent to another seminary or asked to take a year off from Sewanee. Worst case, he wouldn’t be allowed to return at all. It was nothing less than a cataclysm.

  When the call came, the bishop said merely that he would be allowed to remain in seminary, but wanted to see a letter of apology written in his postulant’s own hand and make it snappy.

  The bishop followed this astonishing news with a warning: Abstain completely from further romantic involvements while at Sewanee. Given the foolish and impetuous thinking of one Timothy Kavanagh, the bishop stated further, it may be wise to abstain from the aforesaid for all eternity.

  The Kavanaghs and Howards had escaped with their dignity.

  He heard that Jack Sutton didn’t receive the same offer, or any offer at all, as far as he knew. Rumor had it that Ed Cramer vowed to put a bullet in any Sutton who stepped foot on Cramer property.

  “It was so long ago,” Peggy said, “and yet seeing you again makes it seem…almost like yesterday.”

  “The child,” he said.

  “You know that Mother took me to New York. And you may have heard it was a little girl—she was adopted by a couple in the city. She still lives there—her name is Amanda.”

  Again, she pressed the handkerchief to her eyes, which was something he’d recently had to do a few times himself. He set his cup and saucer on the table and waited.

  “Everyone in Holly Springs knows, of course. I gave a tea for Amanda when she visited with the children a few years ago, and everyone came. It was terribly uncomfortable and hard for me, but I had given my heart to Jesus, and so it was easier than I had any right to hope. We all felt better for having it out in the open where things always belong in the end.”

  “That was a very courageous thing to do.”

  “I see my daughter as often as I can, she’s given me three wonderful grandchildren. With my four grans in Jackson, that makes seven.”

  “God’s number,” he said, smiling. The tea had accomplished its appointed labor—the tension was gone from him. “And Wayne?”

  “Wayne was the dearest man in the world to me, and a lovely father—not only to our two sons, but also to Amanda. I never deserved Wayne.” She looked at him steadily for a moment. “I never deserved you, Timothy.”

  He had no idea what to say.

  “I hear you’re married. I’m so glad.”

  He was Pavlov’s dog; he pulled out his wallet and leaned across the table to show her his family. With some feeling, she said all the things he never tired of hearing.

  He slipped the wallet into his pocket and folded his napkin and placed it on the table. “Well, then,” he said. He tried to avoid looking at the cake, which, from the beginning, had lured him as shamelessly as the Three Sirens. “My compliments to Betsy.”

  They stood in the foyer for several minutes and talked—of the success of the most recent annual spring Pilgrimage, of the entrance hall’s elaborate French wallpaper mural, of the heat.

  “Thank you for apologizing, Peggy; it means a great deal.” He took her hand. “It occurs to me to apologize to you, as well. When you drove out to the house that day, I acted of my own accord. My actions were heedless, and entirely without regard for you. I’m sorry.”

  “We were young,” she said.

  “I hope you know that God has forgiven us both.”

  Her smile was ironic. “I do know that God has forgiven me, but I can’t seem to forgive myself.”

  “That,” he said, “is the hard part. May I pray for you?”

  She gripped his hand. “Please.”

  He took a deep breath. “Father, thank you for arranging this time together, and for the presence of your Holy Spirit within us. Thank you in advance for blessing your child, Peggy, with the courage to forgive herself as you have so freely and utterly forgiven her. Thank you for Amanda and the three grandchildren, for Peggy’s two sons and the Jackson grandchildren,
and for your mighty protection of their hearts, minds, souls, and bodies. Thank you, Father, for faithfully using the hard things in our lives for great good, and for your tender and loving redemption of Peggy’s soul for all eternity, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  They stood together for a moment, silent. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

  He was backing out of Three Oaks’ driveway when it came to him as if a spigot had been opened.

  “‘You shall hear how Hiawatha prayed and fasted in the forest, not for greater skill in hunting, not for greater craft in fishing, not for triumphs in the battle, and renown among the warriors, but for profit of the people, for advantage of the nations…’”

  He soldiered on, mangling most of it.

  “‘Till at length a small green feather from the earth shot slowly upward, then another and another, and before the Summer ended, stood the maize in all its beauty, with its shining robes about it…’”

  Today, it might be said, a feather had shot upward.

  NINE

  He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

  At four-thirty, he blew into Tyson’s, asked for the phone book, and opened it to Residential.

  Pintner.

  Poindexter.

  Ponder.

  Ponder, Roosevelt.

  “Catch you later,” he said to Amy.

  “They changed her medication!” she called after him.

  It was a small white house with shutters and cement steps painted green, a fenced garden shimmering with pie tins, house numbers on a post, an older-model truck in the driveway, a birdbath.

  For someone who didn’t like surprises, he was pretty deft at handing them out.

  He heard barking inside, from what was definitely a small dog. A tall black man with a gray beard opened the door and peered at him. He was holding a newspaper and looking like Louis. But it was Rosie.

  Rosie took off his glasses, stared at him, and rubbed his eyes. “Tim? That ain’t you, is it?”