by Jan Karon
“Right,” he said. “Clean jokes.”
“That’s hard,” she said. “Trust me.”
“If anybody can do it, you can.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. I’m going to teach you how to get online, once and for all.”
“Now, Emma…”
“It’ll take thirty minutes, max. I’ll even run over to Wesley with you to buy a computer. We’ll go Tuesday morning. You can’t keep doin’ this.”
She was right. “You’re right!”
“I’m right? Has my hearin’ gone bad? Do I need to get fitted for a Magic Ear while we’re at th’ mall ?”
“No, dadgummit, you heard me—you’re right. I can’t keep calling you to do these things for me, I’m a grown man.”
She was speechless.
“So get me some jokes,” he said. “By seven o’clock.”
“Seven o’clock this morning?”
“That’s right.”
“Consider it done!” she said, quoting her erstwhile employer.
Uncle Billy opened his eyes. “I’ll be et f’r a tater if it ain’t th’ preacher,” he whispered.
Father Tim swallowed hard. “Uncle Billy…”
The old man lifted his hand and Father Tim took it. Dry as a corn husk, cool as marble. Father Tim sought to warm it with his own. “How are you feeling?”
“Rough as a cob.”
“Didn’t take your medication.”
“Nossir, hit was makin’ me feeble.”
“They say mean people live longer. You’ve got to mind Dr. Harper and get mean about it.”
“Rose, she’s mean enough f’r th’ both of us.” Uncle Billy’s eyes twinkled, but only a little.
“I brought you a doughnut. Nurse Herman says you can have it.”
“Put it over yonder,” said Uncle Billy.
Father Tim had never seen Uncle Billy so sick he couldn’t eat a doughnut. He felt the lump in his throat. Though he didn’t relish the thought of rooting the old woman out of her childhood home, he would now make every effort to get them moved to Hope House.
“Are you strong enough to hear a joke, Uncle Billy?” He had studied this one out, along with a backup. He hoped with all his heart that he could make Uncle Billy laugh.
“Yessir. I’m about t’ give up joke-tellin’, maybe I can turn th’ job over t’ you.”
“That’s a mantle I can’t wear, my friend. Too much responsibility.”
“For a fact.”
“Okay, here goes. Are you sure you feel like hearing a joke?”
“If hit’s any good, I do, if hit ain’t any good, I don’t.”
The pressure was on.
He wet his lips. He cleared his throat.
“Two men were sitting on a bench arguing about their devotion to their faith. First one says, ‘I bet five dollars you don’t even know the Lord’s Prayer.’ The other one says, ‘I do, too—now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.’ First one says, ‘Dadgummit, here’s your five dollars, I didn’t think you knew it!’”
Uncle Billy gazed at him at a long time, then shook his head. “Law, law.”
“You don’t like it.” He felt mildly stricken.
“They won’t nothin’ to it.”
“I’ve got another one!”
“Let’s hear it,” said Uncle Billy, not sounding very enthusiastic.
“OK. Here goes. A man was digging a hole in his backyard when his neighbor came up and said, ‘What are you doing?’ He said, ‘I’m digging a hole to bury my dog—’”
“Wait a minute!” said Uncle Billy. “Is this th’ one where th’ neighbor says, ‘What’s that other hole f’r over yonder,’ an’ th’ feller said, ‘That was m’ first hole, hit was too small’?”
“Yessir, that’s it.”
“I heard that dadjing thing when I was fourteen year old.”
“Ah,” said Father Tim.
“If you’re goin’ to go t’ joke-tellin’, you got t’ do better’n that by a long shot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You cain’t tell jist any ol’ thing that comes along.”
“No, sir.”
“You got to wait f’r th’ right one; sometimes you got t’ wait a long time, hit’s like shootin’ ducks.”
“I never shot a duck.”
“See what I’m sayin’?”
He left the hospital determined to make Bill Watson laugh. Uncle Billy was being stubborn as a mule simply because he was Mitford’s certified Joke King. But he’d find a good one somehow, somewhere, just wait.
In the meantime, he had to race to the airport and pick up his wife…
“Good morning, Father!” said Nurse Herman.
…then return to Mitford to collect his fresh salmon, and rush home to have lunch with his boy. A shower of blessings!
“Herman, this is the day the Lord has made…”
“Yes, sir!”
“…let us rejoice and be glad in it!”
“Proverbs?”
“Psalm One hundred and eighteen!”
Nurse Herman was pleased to see that Father Tim had definitely recovered his health and good spirits.
Dear Editor:
The term Yankee has an underlying hostile meaning in the south. It doesn’t just designate where the person is from as much as it calls that person a jerk. I myself personally am from the north and don’t appreciate being called a Yankee. I suggest that when you write about the unfortunate multipile murder now lost to history, you use the term Union soldiers out of respect. Another thing, why do people say so and so is from up north? Of course north is up, just like south is down.
As for me, I prefer to be known as someone from the great city of Boston. Go, Socks.
Sincerely yours,
Richard Crandon, POLITICALLY CORRECT AND PROUD OF IT!!
Hendrick Attorney Says Client
Will Enjoy Victory in the End
Once again, Mrs. Edith Mallory, a longtime Mitford resident of more than twenty years, has refused to speak with the Mitford Muse/ Her attorney could not be reached for coment.
Johnson Cutliff,e the attorney for Coot Hendrick, local resident and great great grandson of Mitford’s founder, said that Mr. Hendrick would appear in court in mid to late October. Mr. Cutliffe reports that Mr. Hendrick, who was recently released on $500 bond for trespassing on the Mallory property, will plead guilty.
“Mr. Hendrick ought not to have broken the law and gone looking for the gravesights on private property,” he said. “But there are larger issues involved here and I believe my client will enjoy victory in the end.”
Mr. Hendrick’s elderly mother, Mrs. Marshall Hendrick, has offered to sing the song composed by her greatgrea-tgrandfather at the court trial.
The song indicates that her ancestor Hezekiah Hendrick, killed five Yankee soldiers and buried them on the property which was once the sight of our founder’s humble cabin and which now is known as Clear Day and belongs to Mrs. Mallor.
Mrs. Hendrick told the Mitford Muse that she will also sing the song for any local organization or group who cares to hear it.
For more information on getting Mrs. Hendrick to sing for your club or group, call 555-6240 at the town office and ask for Mildred. Sign up and bring your tape recorder! Please note that Mrs. Hendrick needs wheelchair access.
He was as nervous as a schoolboy. It had been two weeks by the calendar, but two years by other calculations.
He dressed himself with special care, agonizing over his hair, which he thought wouldn’t please her—once again, it looked like a chrysanthemum, and no help for it. He slicked it down, then decided this made him appear too formal. He fluffed it up. No way; he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Puny,” he said, as she busied herself making macaroni and cheese, not to mention chocolate cake, “I’ve got an hour to get down the mountain to the airport. Look at my hair. What can you do with it?”
She studied him carefully. “Turn aroun
d,” she said.
He turned around.
“Nothin’.”
“Nothing what?”
“There’s nothin’ I can do with it.”
“Oh,” he said.
Of all things, he thought, of all things! When he saw his wife step off the small commuter plane from Charlotte, tears sprang to his eyes.
Though he was profoundly embarrassed, she thought his tears wonderful and shed a few of her own for good measure.
They sat for a moment in the parking lot, holding hands.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, yourself.”
During the first leg of their drive up the mountain, she told him everything—the great enthusiasm of the school audiences, how she climbed on a horse in Montana, but only to have her picture taken, the funny thing that happened on the way to San Francisco, her renewed inspiration for the Violet books, her complete and utter exhaustion….
During the second leg of their drive, he told her everything—the visit to Lon Burtie’s, the chance meeting with Millie Tipton, Bill Sprouse’s welcome phone call, the sermon on Sunday, the trip to Kinloch.
Though the latter made her furious, to say the least, he would never again keep anything from her.
If he’d learned nothing else, he’d learned that.
“Really good,” Dooley said.
Puny grinned. “Thanks, sport!” Getting a compliment out of Dooley Barlowe was something to write home about.
Father Tim pushed his chair back from the kitchen table. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”
“You and Dooley?” asked Cynthia.
“All of us, the whole caboodle.”
Why didn’t people use their porches anymore? Occasionally he heard of a porch revival in which a few pioneering souls were seen sitting on theirs, but the trend quickly passed.
Father Tim and Cynthia thumped onto a bench; Dooley sat on the bench facing them.
“I’ve got to get out of here in…”—Dooley looked at his watch—
“ten minutes.”
“Got your shaving kit?” asked Father Tim. Heaven knows, he’d left it behind on two occasions and they had to hustle it to Georgia, twoday air.
“Yes, sir.”
“What Cynthia gave you?”
“Right here.” Dooley patted his jeans pocket. A hundred-dollar bill.
“What I gave you?”
“Same place.” Another hundred. “Thanks again.”
“You stopped by Lew’s.”
“Yes, sir. Gas, oil, air in the tires.”
“And macaroni and cheese into the bargain,” said Father Tim, happy for this boy, this moment. “Not a bad day’s work.”
“Don’t forget the chocolate cake,” said Dooley, indicating the paper bag beside him on the bench. “It’ll be history before I hit Spartanburg.”
Father Tim thought Dooley Barlowe looked a prince in his University of Georgia T-shirt and pressed khakis. He missed the freckles, however. “I’ve been meaning to ask—what’s become of your freckles? I see only three or four, max.”
Dooley shrugged. “I don’t know. They just started disappearing.”
“Shaved them off!” declared Cynthia, who appeared to know. “Please don’t worry about anything; we’ll try and see Sammy next week, and keep you posted about Thanksgiving.”
“We believe it’s all going to work out,” said Father Tim.
“Oh, look!”
Cynthia stood and waved to Lace Turner, who was coming along the sidewalk at a trot, with Guber pulling hard on the leash.
“Let’s go say hello!” Father Tim hurried down the steps.
Dooley was stone-faced as Cynthia grabbed his arm. “Come on, you big lug.”
They trooped to the sidewalk, where Cynthia gave Lace a fond embrace. Father Tim followed suit as a taciturn Dooley stood by.
“Hi, everybody!” said Lace, “This is Guber. For gubernatorial.”
Father Tim found Lace Turner a sight for sore eyes—her smile was lighting up the street.
“Olivia and I are driving to Virginia in a couple of hours, I had to give Guber a long walk first.” She stooped and stroked her puppy’s head. “I hate to leave him.”
Guber wriggled from under her hand and executed a couple of high leaps aimed at Dooley’s chest.
“No, Guber! Down!” Lace tried controlling the puppy with the leash. “Down!”
“Hey,” Dooley said to Guber.
“No, Guber!”
As Lace scooped the puppy into her arms, Father Tim glanced at Dooley, who was gazing at Guber’s mistress.
“I’m glad you found your brother,” said Lace.
“Thanks.”
In Dooley’s blue eyes, Father Tim recognized desire, tenderness, dejection…hope. He turned quickly away, oddly ashamed to have seen the soul of his boy so utterly exposed.
He knew he would never have to worry about Reba Sanders. No, indeed. Not at all.
“Timothy, she’s done this before, surely you remember the time you came home looking like you’d been in a cat fight, trapped all night in that woman’s house, miles from any living soul…”
“Roughly a mile and a half. Yes.”
“…and now she’s done it again. Locking you in a room like that! What will she do next? I won’t have it, I won’t have it !
“And that horrid henchman of hers, slinking around Mitford like some cat with a mouthful of feathers. Laundry! Laundry! Dry cleaning!”
She was flinging the contents of her suitcase into piles on the carpet.
“I never liked that woman, not for one second, why doesn’t she leave Mitford alone? She was never one of us, anyway, always so high and mighty and arrogant and prideful, as if we’re vermin to be trodden underfoot, and chasing my husband like a snake with her fangs dripping venom—”
“Calm down, Kavanagh. Come and sit a minute.” He pulled her onto his lap in the wing chair. “It’s OK. She’s selling Clear Day, she says she despises Mitford. I believe we’ve seen the last of her.” He searched his heart to know whether he truly believed this.
“But how can you say that? This was a low and malevolent trick. There’s bound to be some other malicious deceit up her sleeve, something far more dangerous than being locked with her in a room for an hour, though I can hardly think of anything worse than being imprisoned with that lawless and unrepentant witch on a broom!”
What could he say?
“Can’t we sue? Can’t we do something? Must we be two hapless victims waiting for the next strike?”
“The thing in Kinloch worked out in the end. It’s nothing to sue over—what a turmoil that would cause.”
“Timothy, I can’t sit on your lap all day like a child, I have things to do!”
She tumbled off his lap and went back to her suitcase. “Laundry! Laundry! Dry cleaning! Medicine cabinet!”
Pajamas, panty hose, a skirt, a pillbox—the air was alive with the contents of her suitcase.
He slipped down to the kitchen.
“What’s goin’ on upstairs?” asked Puny. “It sounds like Mr. Sherman advancin’ through Atlanta.”
“You’re close,” he said.
“Timothy! Your bishop here!”
“Stuart! What does your doctor say? What’s the problem?”
“Stress! The scourge of the postmodern horde. All the tests were great, actually, but my doctor insists on a new regime—diet, exercise, and rest. In any case, I have less than one short year to raise the rest of the capital, and I’m still determined to go into this project debt-free.”
“Can’t someone else move and shake the cathedral project?”
“Absolutely not! Would you turn your fondest dream over to someone else? Besides, if people are going to give money, they want to be asked by the guy in the pointed hat.”
“Stuart, Stuart…”
“Martha’s using a new cookbook, I’m walking every day and seeing the grandchildren on Tuesdays. I’m going to be fine. Now. You know this is the poorest di
ocese in the state. I need serious capital, Timothy.”
Father Roland, Bishop Cullen…was there no end to it?
“You have to know some bigwigs I don’t know,” said Stuart, “or maybe someone lost to the records of the diocesan filing cabinet. Lord’s Chapel always had its share of Florida money. Help me out here, brother—tell me again the name of that woman who was such a pest.”
“Edith Mallory. I have no idea how to phone her—she has a home in Florida and a new place in Kinloch.”
“Pat Mallory’s widow, right?”
“Right.”
“We can find her. Anybody else?”
“I can’t think of anyone else. Shouldn’t you be taking it easy for a while?”
“I am taking it easy. I’m supposed to lie down, every day at three o’clock.”
Father Tim consulted his watch. “It’s ten after three, go lie down, for Pete’s sake.”
“I am lying down.”
“You call this lying down? This is fund-raising, this is nudging and nagging, this is work!”
“The first three million came easy enough, but the last three is a stretch, it’s like squeezing blood from a turnip.”
“You’re talking to a turnip right now, which shows how your prospects have dwindled. I’ll speak with Cynthia and we’ll send a check.”
“Any idea how much?”
“Not until I’ve talked with Cynthia. Remember the sermon you preached us before we married? The one on marital finances?”
Stuart chuckled. “You’re a hard man.”
“Worse has been said.”
“When are you coming my way?” asked Stuart. “I’d like to see your face.”
“Soon, brother, soon. I’ll come and let you drag me over that wind-whipped cow pasture again.”
“I’d like nothing better. I want you to see the plans; it will be wonderful, my friend, wonderful! There’ll be nothing else like it in the whole of America. God will be honored in our log cathedral; I have every confidence He’ll be pleased.”
“Are people warming to the idea?”
“Oh, yes! Most are beginning to understand that a cathedral is a center for liturgical life, a space for music and worship and prayer and coming together. I believe the popish image is slowly, I repeat slowly, wearing away, and there’s growing excitement about the choir school.”
