by Jan Karon
“You’re working a garden?” He wanted to lie down on the floor and expire. How many people had Cynthia invited? He was already exhausted.
“Mostly I’m breakin’ new ground, I ain’t started plantin’ yet.”
He racked his brain for small talk, but found nothing. He heard his wife in the kitchen, and the sound of the doorbell. Another shift coming on.
Uncle Billy cleared his throat. “I’ve come t’ tell a joke f’r y’r birthday.”
“Is that right?”
“Yessir, I’ve studied out two f’r you.” To keep his legs from trembling with the excitement of what he was about to do, Uncle Billy clasped his knees.
“I appreciate it,” said Father Tim. He would have given anything to have squirmed out of this social event. In cahoots with Wilson, Cynthia had arranged to have a few people drop by to deliver birthday greetings; they were to be shown into the study one at a time so he wouldn’t be overstimulated. He felt like a clinical experiment, they might have dolled him up in a white jacket; and all the while, Hoppy Harper was tooling along the Oregon Trail in ostrich-hide boots and couldn’t care less about his patients in Mitford.
Uncle Billy straightened his tie and coughed, then got down to business.
“Wellsir! They was two fellers a-workin’ on th’ sawmill, don’t you know, an’ th’ first ’un got too close to th’ saw an’ cut ’is ear off. Well, it fell in th’ sawdust pit an’ he was down there a-tryin’ t’ find it, don’t you know. Th’ other feller said, ‘What’re you a-doin’ down there?’ First ’un said, ‘I cut m’ ear off an’ I’m a-lookin’ f’r it!’
“Th’ other feller jumped in th’ pit, said, ‘I’ll he’p you!’ Got down on ’is hands an’ knees, went to lookin’ aroun’, hollered, ‘Here it is, I done found it!’
“First feller, he took it an’ give it th’ once-over, don’t you know, said, ‘Keep a-lookin’, mine had a pencil behind it!’”
Father Tim tried to laugh. A sound like the creaking of a gate on a rusty hinge escaped before he could choke it back. He saw the pained look on the old man’s face.
“Didn’ go over too good, did it?”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Billy, it’s a good joke, really it is.”
“No, it ain’t,” said Uncle Billy, obviously stricken.
Father Tim burned with shame. He knew what a desperate task Uncle Billy faced in coming up with jokes that guaranteed a laugh so as to uplift the hearer and not humiliate the teller. But what could he do? There was no laughter in him to be summoned.
“Wellsir, let me tell th’ other ’un, seein’ as it’s studied out.”
Father Tim nodded. If he could just lie down…
“Three preachers was settin’ around talkin’, don’t you know. First ’un said, ‘You’uns ought t’ see th’ bats I’ve got a-flyin’ around in m’ church attic. I’ve tried about ever’thing, but nothin’ scares ’em off.’
“Next ’un said, ‘Law, we’ve got hundreds of ’em livin’ in our belfry. I’ve done had th’ whole place fumigated, but cain’t git rid of ’em a’tall.’
“Last ’un said, ‘Shoot, I baptized ever’ one of mine, made ’em members of th’ church, an’ ain’t seen nary one since.’”
Father Tim shook his head. It was hopeless. He wanted to crawl in a hole, go out in the garden and eat worms, whatever; it was useless, he was useless. Tears sprang to his eyes.
The old man appeared mortified. “Lord help, I’ve done went an’ made you bawl….”
“No, no, that’s fine, Uncle Billy, I don’t know…. I’ll make it up to you somehow…. I’m just not…”
“I ain’t goin’ t’ take it personal, Preacher. Nossir! We’re goin’ t’ try ag’in is what we’re goin’ t’ do.” Here was a challenge and he was determined to meet it. “You’uns jis’ set right there a day or two an’ I’ll be back, don’t you know.”
Uncle Billy rose stiffly and shuffled toward the door. “I’m through with my turn, Miz Kavanagh!”
Cynthia came into the room, clearly pleased with the way things were going so far. “Uncle Billy, there’s cake and ice cream in the kitchen. We’d like you to celebrate with us.”
“I’ll jis’ carry mine home f’r Rose, an’ much obliged.”
“I don’t know,” she said, “it’s awfully warm to be carrying ice cream home.”
Uncle Billy pondered the import of toting ice cream from here to the town museum in ninety-degree heat. Here was another challenge and he was determined to meet it. “I’ll have t’ trot t’ do it,” he said, “but fix it up f’r me, if you don’t object, Rose’ll be expectin’ it.”
“Timothy, Emma’s here to see you. Would you like another glass of water?”
Water. There was cake and ice cream in the kitchen and he was offered water. Water and Emma Newland. No wonder he’d never been much on birthdays.
“Happy Birthday!”
Emma, it seemed, had grown larger, much larger, than she’d been only a few weeks ago. Or perhaps he had grown smaller. He had a terrible urge to rise and somehow defend himself, but he sat like a rock. His dog went to Emma and sniffed her bare legs.
“He smells Snickers,” she said, thumping into the leather chair and rustling a sheaf of papers. “I’ve been on th’ Internet….”
“And?” He felt interested in something for the first time today. If he couldn’t have cake and ice cream, he would have e-mail.
She held up one of the papers and squinted at it. “Listen to this, this is a good one. ‘Read the Bible, it’ll scare the hell out of you.’”
There was a dull silence.
“You’re not laughing,” she said, accusing.
“It’s not funny.”
“I laughed,” she said archly.
“Yes, well, what you just read is a very serious statement. And true, I might add. Wish I’d said it.”
She shrugged. “Listen to this one. ‘War Dims Hope for Peace.’”
He stared at her.
“That’s funny,” she said, huffed.
“What is this stuff, anyway?”
“Blooper headlines. The kind J. C. Hogan writes, only better.”
He sighed.
“I’ll just read the whole list, maybe you’ll find one you like,” she said, pursing her lips. He felt oddly threatened. Why didn’t his wife come in here and help him out?
“‘Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers.’”
He leaned over and scratched his dog behind the ears.
“‘Drunks Get Nine Months in Violin Case.’”
“Umm.”
“‘Stolen Painting Found by Tree.’”
“I don’t get it.”
“You wouldn’t,” she said, clearly miffed. “‘Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead.’
“‘Miners Refuse to Work After Death.’
“‘If Strike Isn’t Settled Quickly, It May Last Awhile.’”
She stuffed the papers in her pocketbook and glared at him as if he were a beetle on a pin.
“So how’s Harold?” he asked.
Scott Murphy came in quietly, squatted before his chair, took Father Tim’s hands in his, and said, “Let me pray for you, Father.”
Someone to pray for the priest!
His head was pounding, but he wouldn’t say a word about it. He would ride this mule….
“Who else?” he asked Cynthia.
“Just George and Harley, I’m letting them both in at once, they’ll be good medicine.”
“Yes,” he said, brightening.
“Everyone wants to see you, they’re clamoring for a visit.”
“I miss the girls,” he said, referring to Puny and the twins.
“So do I. They’ll come on Sunday, how’s that?”
He thought she looked worn, pale around the gills. It was all this messing with him, of course, day after day.
“Do you feel like seeing J. C. Hogan?”
“No.” Absolutely not!
“I told him I’d call i
f you felt up to it, but he’ll understand. Percy and Mule wanted to come, too, but I thought it best to wait ’til another time.”
“Another time?” he snapped. “How many of these little galas are you and Wilson drumming up? I expect to be on the street any day now, I’ll go see Percy myself.”
“Timothy, don’t be peevish.” Cynthia bounded from the sofa and trotted to the kitchen, his dog behind her.
And another thing—why was everybody trying to make him laugh?
And why couldn’t he just give them a good, rollicking chortle and get this ridiculous business behind him? It would put an end to their torment, for heaven’s sake! He thought of the pressure they must be under, trudging in with the awful responsibility of trying to make the preacher laugh. He could see them huddled in the yard, inquiring of the poor souls leaving the house, Did you make him laugh? No, but we’ll be back with more ammunition! He can’t hold out forever!
He was ashamed that he couldn’t attain to the high summit of their hopes and affections.
George and Harley didn’t appear to want anything from him. They weren’t trying to make him do something he didn’t want to do, or couldn’t.
“Thank you,” he said, as they looked through the study window to an unobstructed view of Baxter Park. “I don’t know when I’ve ever received such a marvelous gift.”
“If I’d knowed you wanted it done,” said Harley, “hit’d been done a long time ago.”
“I never knew I wanted it done ’til the other day. How’s the Mustang coming?”
“Lookin’ brand-new. Showroom!” Father Tim thought Harley’s grin might wrap clear around his head. “George is helpin’ with th’ front fender, I done th’ grille m’self.”
“George, it seems like we’re working you pretty hard right out of the box.”
“Good, Father. I need it.”
“How’re your quarters? Is Harley’s snoring too loud?”
George Gaynor smiled. “No, sir, I’m afraid I’m the one rattling the windows.”
“We’ve got a lot to talk about. Let’s have a visit soon.”
“Yes, sir, I’d like that.”
“What about your new job at the bookstore?”
“I’m getting the hang of it. Prison offered a lot of opportunities—one was a chance to learn the computer. I think we’ll be able to move quite a few rare books via the Internet.”
“If you run across a first edition of Wilberforce, keep me in mind. Let’s sit, why don’t we?” Was he shuffling like Uncle Billy? His legs were dead weight.
His guests took the sofa and he the chair, as his wife came in with a tray and set it on the coffee table. After serving George and Harley, she turned to him with a certain happiness. “For you, dearest.”
She handed him a plate of ice cream and cake.
“But…,” he said, dumbfounded.
“Sugar-free! Low-fat! No sodium! The whole nine yards. I wanted it to be a surprise. Happy birthday!”
He took the plate from her, deeply moved.
Barnabas leaped into his slipcovered chair. A junco called outside the open windows. George and Harley eagerly tucked into their refreshments, as did he. Peace at last, he thought, feeling suddenly uplifted.
He and Cynthia had filled the dishwasher and turned it on when the doorbell rang.
“Ugh,” she said, trooping down the hall.
“Bishop!”
“How are you, dear girl?”
Blast! He’d completely forgotten the e-mail, forgotten to tell Cynthia…. It hadn’t crossed his mind since he left the hospital. The subsiding headache cranked up again, pounding in his left temple.
He looked at the clock above the refrigerator. Four-thirty. A fine time to go knocking on people’s doors…
“Chuck Albright is with me,” said Stuart, “I dropped him at The Local, where he’s buying livermush to ship home in dry ice. Where we come from, livermush is hard to find.”
“With good reason,” said Father Tim, who never touched the stuff.
They sat in the study, which was flooded with afternoon light. Father Tim thought Stuart looked surprisingly older, frayed somehow.
“Do you feel like telling me everything?” asked the bishop.
He didn’t want to talk about it. Surely someone had given Stuart the details; everybody knew what had happened. He plunged ahead, however, dutiful.
“I blacked out at the wheel of my car and hit Bill Sprouse, who pastors First Baptist. He was walking his dog. His dog was killed instantly. Bill had several fractures and a mild concussion.” He took a deep breath. “He’s going to be all right.”
That was the first time he’d given anyone a synopsis, and he had made it through. His headache was blinding.
“Yes, I heard all that, and God knows, I’m sorry. What I’d really like to hear is how you are—in your soul.”
“Ah. My soul.” He put his hand to his forehead, speechless.
“The Eucharist, then,” said Stuart. He bolted from the chair, took his home communion kit from the kitchen island, and brought it to the coffee table.
Father Tim watched his bishop open the mahogany box to reveal the small water and wine cruets, a silver chalice and paten, a Host box, and a crisply starched fair linen.
“I was reminded the other day,” said Stuart, “that when Saint John baptized Christ, he was touching God. An awesome and extraordinary thing to consider. When we receive the bread and blood, we, also, are touching God.” Stuart poured the wine and drizzled a small amount of water into each glass. “I know you recognize that wondrous fact, dear brother, but sometimes it’s good to be reminded.”
“…Heavenly Father, Giver of life and health, comfort and hope; please visit us with such a strong sense of Your Presence that we may trust faithfully in Your mighty strength and power, in Your wisdom vastly beyond our understanding, and in Your love which surrounds us for all eternity. At this time, we ask Your grace especially upon Timothy, that he may know Your gift of a heart made joyous and strong by faith. Bless Cynthia, too, we pray, whose eager hands and heart care for him….”
As Father Tim knelt by the coffee table next to his wife, the tears began and he didn’t try to check them.
“The cathedral?” He stood at the front door with Stuart, drawing upon the very dregs of his strength to inquire about the bishop’s grand passion.
“That’s why I’m racing out of here to Charlotte. Someone’s making a gift of half a million.”
“You’re looking weary, my friend.”
“Yes. I am that.”
“You’re still afraid to take a break, to rest awhile….”
“I can’t. The cathedral.”
“Of course.”
There was irony in Stuart’s smile. “Besides, I’ll be seventy-two soon enough, and forced to rest awhile.”
The bishop kissed him on either cheek and opened the door. “You and Cynthia are ever in my prayers, Timothy. He will put things right, and don’t forget it. That’s what He’s about, after all, putting things right.”
“The Lord be with you, Stuart.”
“And also with you!”
“Give Martha our love!”
“Will do!”
He watched as Stuart walked briskly to his car and climbed in.
“Father!”
Hélène Pringle darted from the side of the house and hastened up the steps to his front stoop—apparently she’d popped through the hedge—wearing blue striped oven mitts and bearing a dish covered by a tea towel.
“For you!” She thrust her offering at him with seeming joy, but how could he take it from her if oven mitts were required to handle it?
He stepped back.
Miss Pringle stepped in.
“Roast poulet!” she exclaimed. “With olive oil and garlic, and stuffed with currants. I so hope you—you and Cynthia—like it.”
“Hélène!” His wife sailed down the hall. “What have you done? What smells so heavenly?”
“Roast poulet!�
� Miss Pringle exclaimed again, as if announcing royalty.
“Oh, my!” said Cynthia. “Let me just get a towel.” She trotted to the bathroom at the end of the hall and was back in a flash. “Thank you very much, Hélène, I’ll take it. Lovely! Won’t you come in?”
“Oh, no, no indeed, I don’t wish to interfere. I hope…that is, I heard about…” She paused, turning quite red. “Merci, Father, Cynthia, bon appétit, au revoir!”
She was gone down the walk, quick as a hare.
“I like her mitts,” said Cynthia.
“Delicious!” He spooned the thick currant sauce over a slice of tender breast meat and nudged aside the carrots Cynthia had cooked.
“Outstanding!” He ate heartily, as if starved.
He glanced up to see his wife looking at him.
“What?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen you eat like this in…quite a while.”
“Excellent flavor! I suppose it’s the currants.”
“I suppose,” she said.
The morning of his nativity might have begun last week or last month; indeed, it seemed an eternity since he waked to the kisses of his wife.
He rolled over in bed and tried again to position his head on the pillow so he could gain a bit of comfort and sleep. He looked at the clock face, glowing green in the dark room. Two o’clock.
His wife had given the party to cheer and encourage him, and surely underneath his exhaustion was a gladness of heart that he would feel tomorrow after he’d rested.
In all the uproar, he realized he’d forgotten something terribly important—not only had it been his birthday, it was also the anniversary of his proposal to Cynthia. They had a tradition of celebrating that momentous occasion with his birthday, and heretofore he had always remembered. This time he’d forgotten entirely, and now it was too late.
He wondered if he really would get his strength back in the six weeks Hoppy had mentioned, or whether he was being sucked into the same quagmire that had destroyed his father.
No matter what he did these last few weeks or how hard he tried, he failed himself and everyone else. He failed to be cheerful and quick, to rise to the occasion, to look at life with thanksgiving and approval. There was a growing coldness in him, in some deep place he’d never gone before. In truth, he often felt himself sinking, out of control.
