by Jan Karon
Finding the minuscule glyphs and directions hard to read on the black case, he got out a magnifying glass and finally figured how to turn it off. When he booted it up again to make sure he hadn’t broken it, he was confronted with a terrible warning on the screen, a dire prognostication that alarmed him greatly.
He shut it off and clamped down the lid and, in the absence of his wife, who was at a Bible study, went to the Grill for lunch, shaking his head.
“Dry,” said Mule. “Th’ grass at my place is hist’ry.”
Percy set two glasses of water on the table of the rear booth. “My garden’s been s’ punk, I plowed it up. Got four little t’matoes, a handful of limas, an’ three ears of corn I fed to th’ squirrels.”
“I didn’t garden this year,” said Father Tim.
“If you were goin’ t’ skip a year, this was th’ year t’ skip.”
“Profoundly true.”
“What’re y’all havin’?”
“We’re waitin’ for J.C.,” said Mule. “You can bring me a Diet Coke. No, let’s see…make that a Pepsi.”
“Diet Pepsi,” Percy said, writing.
Mule shook his head. “I don’t like diet Pepsi.”
“So you’re orderin’ a regular Pepsi? Is that what I’m hearin’?”
“That’s it.”
“How ’bout you?”
“Water,” said Father Tim. “I’ve got it right here.”
“What’s th’ special?” Mule wanted to know.
“Gizzards,” said Percy.
Mule smacked his forehead. “I forgot this is Tuesday. Seem like you ought t’ have two specials on Tuesday, to give a man a choice.”
“This ain’t a four-star restaurant where th’ specials outnumber th’ reg’lar menu items. It’s aggravation enough th’ way it is.”
“Gentlemen?”
“Reverend Tipton!” Father Tim scooted from the booth and shook hands with Mitford’s new Methodist.
“You didn’t have to get up for me, Father.”
“It’s time clergy got a little respect around here.”
Mule stood and shook hands with enthusiasm.
“Could you squeeze in one more, or would another day suit better?”
“Always room for one more!”
“Yes ma’am!” said Mule. “Always!”
“We’re just waiting for our newspaper editor, J. C. Hogan, he’ll be along any minute.”
Mule sat down fast and slid to the corner. “Here you go!” he said to Millie Tipton, slapping the seat beside him.
Father Tim was disappointed to note that this forced him to sit on J.C.’s side, usually occupied only by J.C. and, of course, the editor’s briefcase, which was loosely the size of a panel truck.
No doubt about it, the new pastor was an attractive woman—tall, dark-haired, eyeglasses on a pearl chain, and looking far better in a black shirt and collar than he ever would.
Millie Tipton, they discovered, was a fount of information. She hailed from Daphne, Alabama, where her parents still resided. She was happy to be in Mitford. She liked Italian cooking, quilting, and reading. And she was living on the road to Farmer in a little stone house with two dogs, a cat, and a bed of dahlias that appeared to be thriving in the drought.
“Looks like we’ve got a two-collar town goin’ here.” Mule seemed downright pleased.
“Three-collar,” said Father Tim. “Don’t forget Father Talbot at Lord’s Chapel.”
“One stoplight and three collars. That’s an unusual ratio.” Mule turned and peered at his seat mate. “Never married?”
“Not yet,” she said, looking amiable about it.
Percy stepped over to meet Millie Tipton, declaring he’d been raised Methodist, but had fallen away to the Baptists twenty years ago.
“Then you probably know,” said Millie, “how many Baptists it takes to change a light bulb.”
“No, ma’am, can’t say I do.”
“At least fifteen. One to change the bulb, and three committees to approve the change and decide who brings the fried chicken.”
Percy cracked up.
“I’m a Baptist now, too, but I was raised Lutheran,” said Mule, trying to be informative.
“Ah, the Lutherans! Everybody knows how many Lutherans it takes to change a light bulb.”
She looked around the table, obviously enjoying herself.
“How many?” asked Mule.
“None. Lutherans don’t like change.”
Guffaws, general hooting. In the front booth, two town councilmen thought the rear booth was helping itself to a mighty loud hullabaloo….
“All right,” said Percy. “Y’all got t’ git down t’ business, I’m shorthanded. Let J.C. fend for hisself when he gets here. What’re you havin’, Rev’ren’?”
“Please call me Millie!”
Percy had no intention of calling a preacher by a first name, especially a good-looking woman preacher.
Millie put her glasses on. “Let’s see…I’m new at this menu, it’ll take a minute. Y’all please go ahead and order.”
“I’ll have the tuna sandwich on whole wheat,” said Father Tim.
“Toasted, no mayo, and a side of cole slaw.”
“He always knows what he wants,” Mule informed Millie.
“Hop to it,” said Percy.
“I’m ready for you, buddyroe. Shoot me a hotdog all th’ way!”
“Hotdog all th’ way.”
“Right. No onions, no mustard, an’ leave off th’ relish.”
Percy shook his head; he wasn’t going there.
Millie Tipton gave Percy a big smile. “And I’ll have the gizzards.”
He spent a full afternoon at the Children’s Hospital, laughing, crying, telling stories, counseling with a parent, holding small hands, praying. It never failed to be a workout of the emotions; afterward, he was either filled with elation or numb with suffering, and no in between.
It occurred to him to ask Millie Tipton if she’d consider making a weekly visit, as well—she seemed to have enough energy to go around.
In truth, the ratio of three collars to one stoplight was a ratio sorely needed, and then some.
“Father? It’s Gene Bolick.”
“Gene! God bless you, my friend. How are you?”
“Not too bad, under th’ circumstances. Whoa, wait a minute, I forgot I’m tryin’ to live over th’ circumstances, not under ’em.”
“Well said!”
“I wanted to tell you somethin’.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Just wanted to say how much I appreciated your sermon on Sunday.”
“Thank you.”
“Seem like you were talkin’ directly to me.”
“I know the feeling.”
“How can a man thank God for a brain tumor? That’s what I’ve been askin’ myself. But I can thank Him it’s brought our daughter closer to us, th’ one livin’ over in Asheville, and it sure makes me look at every day a whole lot different.
“In other words, it seems to me that God is usin’ th’ tumor to…I guess what I’m sayin’ is, a tumor’s a bad thing, but I see how it’s caused good things to happen.” Gene choked up.
“I hear you.”
“So, that’s about it.”
“Thank you, Gene. God loves a grateful heart, He’ll bless you for it.”
“You doin’ all right?”
“I am!”
“Well, you come up and see us anytime. Esther’s bakin’ apple pies today, she said tell you she’ll leave th’ sugar out of one if you’ll come up an’ get it.”
“That,” he said, “is the best offer I’ve had all day.”
Eager to give another tutorial, Emma stopped by on her way to The Local, showed him again how to retrieve his e-mail, and delivered one of her own.
Dear Mrs. Newland,
We are thrilled and delighted at the prospect of becoming a
Sister Village with Mitford. We are writing to enquire your thinking re
: how we should exchange delegates to make this happy alliance an official reality.
We expect to send Andrew and Margaret Hart, a charming couple whose unanimous election has been a matter of some rejoicing, as Andrew has relatives living in the eastern part of your state whom he has never met. We feel the months of May or June of next year would be a grand time for the individual ceremonies, if that would be convenient to your own schedule, of course.
The weather in our Mitford is usually very lovely at that season, though last year we had the most dreadful heat wave, and the year prior to that, a perilous flooding that washed our newly-planted rhododendron into the neighbor’s ha-ha.
Do let us know.
With greetings to all, we remain…
The Mitford (UK) Sister Village Coordinating Committee
“Who do you think should go?” he asked Emma.
“Why, th’ mayor, of course, that’s th’ sort of thing mayors do.”
“If he can’t go, who do you think? Hessie Mayhew?”
“Hessie Mayhew?”
Emma’s indignation nearly blew him against the wall. “Why not?”
“Why not? She’s Presbyterian, that’s why not.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I’ve been workin’ with th’ Anglicans over there, th’ whole thing’s bein’ done thro’ th’ Anglicans!”
“I see. But don’t you think the delegate should be somebody who simply represents the spirit—the heart, if you will—of our Mitford, regardless of denomination?”
“What I really think is, you should be th’ one goin’.”
“How quickly you forget. I’m not flying across that pond or any other.”
“You bought a computer,” she reminded him.
“Give you an inch, you want a mile.”
“Maybe Esther Cunningham. She was mayor for how many years, eighteen?”
“Esther won’t do it, she’d rather be traveling with Ray in the RV. I’d talk to Andrew if I were you, get his thoughts.”
“Right,” she said.
“You know who I’d send?”
“Who?”
“You,” he said.
“Me?”
“It was your idea. It’s your hard work that got us to this point. I think you should do it. In fact, I’ll mention it to the mayor.”
“Fly all that way over water?”
“Don’t look down,” he said. “Get a seat on the aisle.”
She frowned. “I’m too fat to go to England. Plus I don’t have anything to wear. Nothin’. And even though I used to be Episcopalian, now I’m a Baptist.”
“Umm,” he said.
“An’ Snickers…I’ve never left Snickers. I don’t know if he could live without me.”
“Scared of flying, too fat, nothing to wear, dog will keel over, and a Baptist! You’ve convinced me. If I were you, I wouldn’t go, either.”
She peered at him over her half-glasses. He knew that look. She was waiting to be begged, cajoled, wheedled, and coaxed. But no way. Let that job fall to somebody else.
She picked up the e-mail and studied it. “What in th’ dickens does this mean…‘washed into the neighbor’s ha-ha’?”
“A ha-ha is a ditch, a sort of ravine that cows won’t cross. Saves on fencing.”
“The way they say things over there, you’d think they live in a foreign country.”
“They do live in a foreign country.”
He went back to paging through the essays she had typed and printed out before the era of his own p.c.
“OK,” she said.
“OK what?”
“If th’ mayor asks me, I’ll go. I’ll give up potatoes, gravy, bread, an’ ice cream startin’ in January. That way, I’ll lose ten pounds by May, which means I can get in that blue suit you’ve seen me wear, th’ one with th’ gold buttons, and that orange knit dress with a jacket. You remember that orange knit dress with a jacket.”
“Can’t say that I do.”
She took a deep breath. “I should probably give up bacon while I’m at it, an’ I’ll get a pill from Hoppy, to knock me out over th’ Atlantic.”
“There you go,” he said. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
“But I’m not gettin’ my hopes up,” she said. “Andrew will probably go, or he’s already got somebody in mind.”
“Could be.”
“And lookit, they’re sendin’ a couple. I wonder if that means we should send a couple, to keep things even. I can’t imagine who it would be, can you? Not th’ Bolicks, he has that tumor. Not th’ Harpers, they’ve just been on vacation….”
He studied the top of the computer screen, pondering the mysteries to be unlocked within File, Edit, View, Insert, Format, Tools…
“Besides, who would fix Harold’s breakfast?”
“Percy Mosely?” he asked, hoping to be helpful.
“Late February is what th’ doctor said. But I hope it’s March! If it can wait ’til March th’ third, it’ll be born on my mama’s birthday.”
He sat at the kitchen table, counting his pocket change. “Do you know whether it’s a boy or a girl?” A dollar forty, a dollar fifty…
“No, sir, I don’t know an’ don’t want t’ know. What did people do before you could look in somebody’s stomach with a camera? They waited ’til it was born, that’s what!”
“Will you, ah, be bringing the baby to work?”
“I’m sure not goin’ to farm it out! Besides, how do you think it would get to know its granpaw if I didn’t bring it to work?”
He thought Puny looked positively radiant.
“A dollar seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven. You’ve got a point there,” he said.
Emma Newland’s possible mission to England, and his new grandchild on the way….
Just let somebody try to tell him that miracles didn’t happen every day.
Dear Father,
I have seen little Timothy and he’s cute as a button. He looks just like Junior, though he has his mother’s eyes. We hope you and Cynthia can come and visit soon, and see your namesake for yourself.
I feel like a regular gossip column, but must tell you that Ernie and Mona are going on a cruise and will renew their vows in Honolulu! The wall they built on the yellow line is being used as a community bulletin board, tho’ you have to stoop down to read the postings. It’s where I found a wonderful old Hoover vac as good as new. I always liked an upright.
Don’t forget us!
Best love from Marion and Sam
Timothy! Hail to thee from Tennessee!
Just wait til our package arrives on your doorstep, in thanks for the outstanding gift you made to Backyard. Abner has worked on this marvelous creation for several months and as he is not gifted at drawing or painting, decided to send the forthcoming, instead. Am busting to tell you what it is, but can only say you are a fortunate man! God be with you, let us hear soonest. Send mammon, as ever. In His service, Fr Roland
Teds! Its us, [email protected]! We were blown away (to use the vernacular) to receive your e-mail. We can’t figure whether your entry into cyberspace is the beginning of an era or the end of one!
The year at Meadowgate sounds like loads of fun, and yes, we’d love to come for a week, will probably drive down and stop along the way. Let’s talk soon.
C’s trip sounds exhausting but fun, I’m reading her Violet books to my dearlings at the retirement home, as I passionately believe great children’s literature is for all ages. So glad yr health improved. Lots of love and kisses to you and your talented C, and hugs to Dooley
“It’s me…Betty.”
“Betty!”
“I’ll do it.”
“Great! Wonderful!”
“But no cleaning.” He heard the tremor in her voice. It wasn’t easy for Betty Craig to lay down the law.
“Absolutely none!”
“And just two meals a day.”
“Not a scrap more,” he said.
“When do I
start?”
“He’ll be home tomorrow. Your timing is perfect.”
“So I start tomorrow evenin’?”
“Yes, ma’am. Around four-thirty, if you could.”
“Will you be there to get me started?”
“I will.”
“And Father?”
“Yes?”
“Every time Miss Rose is mean to me, I’m goin’ to put a dime in a little bank I made from a Sprite can.”
He laughed. “You could quickly become a very rich woman.”
“Yes, sir, an’ when this job is over, I’ll use th’ money for a vacation—’cause I’ll sure be needin’ one.”
Father Talbot rang up in the evening. Would the Kavanaghs come to a spur-of-the-moment community-wide covered dish supper on Friday? Bill Sprouse would be there, and Millie Tipton; there would be special music, and they’d do a bit of ecumenical praying-for-rain into the bargain.
Cynthia was up for it.
“Ray Cunningham’s cole slaw, Margaret Larkin’s fried chicken, and Hessie Mayhew’s yeast rolls. Fabulous!” said his wife.
“How do you know they’ll even be there?”
“It’s worth the gamble,” she said. He thought Cynthia Kavanagh had come home as starved as a barn cat.
Father Tim called George and Harley to see if they could reschedule the barbecue for the Saturday before George was to leave. Not a problem. George said he would pass on going to Lord’s Chapel, however, and get together with Scott Murphy.
Harley was keen for the church supper.
“What sort of getup?” asked Harley.
“Khakis, I’d say, and a sport shirt.”
“You reckon I ought t’ bring a pan of brownies?”
“Definitely!”
“Nuts or plain?”
“Nuts,” said Father Tim. “And when you take the Saran Wrap off, stand back.”
Harley cackled. One of his proudest moments had been when two church ladies begged for his recipe. He’d written it down on the back of a pew bulletin, and now, every time they came by the station, they talked about the brownies that were making them famous all the way to Minnesota, or was it Montana?
Didn’t he have to earn his wings sooner or later?
