by Jan Karon
‘You’ve already said enough to cause any suffering he may deserve.’
‘Stand aside.’
‘Don’t hurt him, Matthew.’
‘Don’t hurt him? What’s the good of discipline if there’s no hurt in it? Read your Baptist Bible, Madelaine.’
His father’s brutal punishment on the Sunday after he climbed the tank had taught him a fact he would remember the whole of his life: No matter where his father might be, and without regard for the time of day or night, Matthew Kavanagh had eyes and ears everywhere.
He’d later asked his grandmother how his father had known.
Nanny Howard patted his arm. ‘There’s no tellin’ about your daddy. You’ll learn the answer when you get to heaven. And then it won’t matter’…
“There’s Father’s office,” he said to Barnabas. “It looks…”—he couldn’t speak for a moment—“the same. Amazing. And the bank…”
He pulled to the curb and saw behind the iron fence the small brick storage building where he’d hidden the things he couldn’t take home. He marveled at the sight. Still there.
No, he thought, still here.
He had done what the note commanded. He was here now. He had come home to Holly Springs.
TWO
Stafford’s was closed, of course.
He had hoped it wouldn’t be, but that was the way of things. Stafford’s was where everyone had gone for lunch; walking into the clamor of Stafford’s had nearly always given him a kind of thrill. Here were the lawyers and bankers and cotton brokers and merchants, the people who built and shaped and drove their town.
He’d been proud to look around the crowded room and see among these important men his father’s finely chiseled face and mane of prematurely silver hair, and to test, always to test, whether his father would look up and see him and acknowledge his presence in the room, though he wouldn’t have been welcome at his father’s table in the corner.
Stafford’s was where he’d tasted his first grilled cheese sandwich, mashed flat and crisp beneath the heavy lid of the grill; and where he’d slurped down his first fountain Coke, surely among the most exhilarating experiences of his early life. The fizz had entered his nasal passages and gone straight to his cerebrum, where it shivered and danced and burst like a Roman candle in his brain.
The brick and limestone courthouse, with its double portico and central cupola, looked much the same. Certainly a dash more decked out, possibly by new paint on the trim and the maturity of the trees on the square. He’d always heard that the buildings of one’s childhood looked smaller and less important when viewed through the lens of years. But the rather finely wrought courthouse still looked important to him—it had been the epicenter of his, and everyone else’s, life. He remembered the rhythm of his father’s footsteps, the way his heel taps sounded as they walked along the hall to the courtroom. The taps on the shoe of his good leg rang sharply on the pine boards, the taps on the shoe of his bad leg gave off a hollow, dragging sound.
He checked his watch. The courthouse clock was right on the money, which gave him an unexpected sense of security.
First Presbyterian…the Utley Building…
He was cruising the square, gawking like a tourist. A car horn sounded behind him; he made a left off Memphis onto Van Dorn.
He looked farther up Van Dorn, where the spire of Christ Episcopal soared above the solid, earthbound brick of First Baptist. The Battle of the Churches, Nanny Howard had called it—his father hauling him to the rail of the Episcopalians, his mother’s family warming him at the hearth of the Baptists.
‘So, which side won?’ he’d been asked as a young curate.
‘Both,’ he felt obliged to say. Years later, he realized he’d answered well.
Tyson Drug was still Tyson Drug. An amazement if ever there was one.
By the time the Main Street Grill had closed in Mitford, Percy Mosely had chalked up forty-odd years of doing business in the same spot, which was no mean accomplishment. But Tyson’s had been here when he was a little kid, for Pete’s sake, and who knew how long before that? He felt a swell of something like civic pride as he rolled into a parking space.
“Okay, buddyroe.” He snapped the red leash on his dog’s collar. “Time to meet and greet.”
He didn’t know about the squirrel population in Holly Springs; he would hate to be dragged across the square in front of God and everybody. Of course, at the ripe age of twelve years, his mixed-breed Bouvier didn’t do a lot of squirrel-chasing these days.
He’d been uncertain about bringing a dog on such a trip, especially a dog the size of an early Buick town car. But he was glad he’d done it; he’d talked to Barnabas from Mitford to Memphis, and, as always, his good dog actually listened.
Tyson’s was the same. Albeit totally different, of course—the soda fountain had gone the way of straw boaters.
“How do you do?” he asked the young woman behind the counter.
She eyed Barnabas. “Is that…a dog?”
He laughed. “Barks, wags his tail, likes a good pig’s ear now and then.”
“I never,” she said in disbelief. She leaned over the counter and let Barnabas sniff the back of her hand. “How can I help y’all?”
“We’re mostly just visiting around. I used to live here.”
“Right here in Holly Springs?”
“Yes. I haven’t been back in a long time.”
“Well,” she said, looking him over and smiling. “I’m Amy McPherson. We’re glad to have you back.”
He thought it wonderful that she appeared to mean it. “Tim Kavanagh, Amy. I’m looking for some old friends.” The only problem was, he had socks older than Amy McPherson. Young people wouldn’t know anything about the folks he hoped to find. He peered around.
“Anybody here who’s, you know, older?”
“The boss is really old, but he stepped down to the bank. He’s forty-somethin’.”
“So how’s business?”
“Real good. Court’s in session today. It’s always good when court’s in session.”
“Nice to know that some things never change. Any postcards of the courthouse?”
“We’ve got th’ 1900 photo—it’s with th’ cotton wagons, people like th’ cotton wagons—or th’ 2004, it’s got th’ gazebos.”
“Two of each,” he said, digging out his wallet.
He’d spent good times in this place. “Any newspapers around?”
“We carry th’ South Reporter, that’s th’ Holly Springs paper, an’ th’ Commercial Appeal, that’s th’ Memphis paper, plus USA Today. Th’ rack’s at th’ door.”
“Good. Great. I’ll take a South Reporter, and see you again tomorrow.”
“Bring your dog,” she said.
He stopped at the painted stone column outside Tyson’s double doors, where he and Tommy had once hoped to immortalize their existence on the planet…
The day was blazing hot, their sweat-drenched shirts stuck to them like another skin. Only a few people moved about the square; it would be a perfect time to do what others had done before them. They pulled out their pocketknives and wiped the blades on the seats of their jeans, and claimed their spot on the column.
W I L, he scratched into the paint.
‘Who’s Wil?’ asked Tommy.
‘You’ll see.’ He liked the way the green paint gave way to white plaster beneath, making the letters stand out. LIAM.
‘That ain’t yo’ name, cootie head.’
‘Is now, pig brain.’
‘Who’s William?’
‘You wouldn’t know.’
‘Not if you don’ tell me.’
‘A poet,’ he said.
‘A poet?’
‘“Come forth, and bring with you a heart that watches and receives.”’
‘Huh?’
‘Miz Babcock made us learn poetry,’ he said, etching the surname.
‘I’m glad I didn’t git Miz Babcock, I don’ want t’ be no sissy.’
If men wrote poetry, why was it sissy for boys to read it? He could not understand this.
Learning scripture had given him a particular fondness for memorization, and maybe for his newfound interest in poetry—the two seemed linked as one. In a drawing in his English book, Mr. Wordsworth sported a white beard as big as a cloud, which made him look a lot like God. His eyes seemed knowing and kind, as if you could actually talk to him, if he wasn’t dead.
‘I’m puttin’ m’ own name on,’ said Tommy. ‘Someday, I’ll come back t’ Holly Springs and it’ll still be right here.’ Tommy’s tongue poked out the corner of his mouth as he engraved his last name.
‘Are you leavin’?’ He felt suddenly anxious; people never talked about leaving Holly Springs.
‘Ain’t that what you do after you git out of school?’
‘I guess.’
‘Are you ever leavin’?’ asked Tommy.
‘I don’ know,” he said. “Maybe.’
‘Where would you go?’
He knew Treasure Island wasn’t real. Maybe Mount Everest; he knew that was real. Or Spain. Or India. He shrugged. ‘Most anywhere would prob’ly be okay. ’Cept Africa.’ He had never liked the notion of being mauled and eaten alive by lions.
‘Africa’s where Louis an’ Sally an’ all their young ’uns come from,’ said Tommy. ‘Yo’ Peggy come from there, our Sam come from there, lots of niggers come from there.’
He’d never thought about it before, that Peggy had come from anywhere other than the little house down the lane from his big house.
‘You can go anywhere you want to,’ said Tommy, ‘but I sho cain’t.’
‘How come you cain’t?’
‘’Cause I’m poor—but you’re rich.’
He didn’t like the accusation of being rich. Of course, he knew he wasn’t poor—his father was counsel to the bank, they had a car with tires on the fenders, they had a two-story house, and over six hundred acres with fifty-six in cotton—but he didn’t think they were rich. Boss Tate was rich.
‘You always sayin’ you’re poor. You ain’t poor.’ He said ain’t as often as possible when he wasn’t at home or in school or in church. “You got a house an’ a barn an’ a car. An’ a cow. You got a cow, we don’t have a cow.’
Tommy shrugged.
‘An’ yo’ daddy’s a history teacher. Teachers make lots of money.” Sometimes people told his father that he’d been seen with Tommy Noles; he’d taken more than a few lickings for it, each time worse than the last, and all because his father said Jack Noles was not only an unequipped teacher of history, but a jackleg drunk whose farm machinery was allowed to rust in the fields.
If Tommy’s daddy would just mow his yard and paint his house and put his farm machinery under a shed, they could probably play together, but he couldn’t say that. He shut up the blade and put his knife in his pocket.
‘Yo’ daddy won’ be likin’ this, Timothy.’
Wearing a straw hat and yellow bow tie, the Colonel came up behind them, blowing from his trek along Van Dorn.
‘Won’ be likin’ what, sir?’ If the Colonel ratted on him for hanging out with Tommy, he was sunk.
‘Writin’ yo’ name on private property! That ain’t legal.’ The Colonel drew out a handkerchief and mopped his red face.
‘I didn’t write my name,’ he said.
The Colonel leaned down and squinted at the painted column, adjusting his glasses to peer at the repository of local signatures.
‘From down th’ street, look like I seen yo’ knife out.’
‘My knife’s in m’ pocket, sir.’ He patted his pocket to give witness to the fact.
‘Y’all boys don’ need t’ be gittin’ in any trouble.’
‘Nossir, we don’t.’
The Colonel stuck his face closer to the column. ‘William Wordsworth,’ he read aloud. ‘Who in th’ nation’s that?’
The Colonel straightened up and gave them the once-over. ‘Y’all boys behave y’rself,’ he said, opening the door to Tyson’s and slamming it behind him.
He asked her the next day.
‘Peggy, where were you born at?’
Peggy was sweeping the porch, wearing the red head rag. She always wore the red rag. One day he would ask if something was wrong with her head, maybe warts.
Peggy swept harder. ‘Say where you born. Period. You can’t end nothin’ you say wit’ at.’
He sat with his back against a porch column. ‘Where were you born, then?’
‘Th’ piney woods.’ Peggy was definitely aggravated; she swept the pollen off the side of the porch with unusual vigor and moved down to sweep the steps.
‘Tommy says you come from Africa.’
‘Africa, my foot! I never laid eyes on no Africa.’
‘Where, then?’
‘You th’ aggravatin’est little weasel I ever seen.’
This was going nowhere. ‘If you ever left, where would you live at?’
Peggy glared at him from the porch step. ‘What I jus’ tell you ’bout at? Say it ag’in.’
He was fed up with this. ‘If you was ever to leave,’ he hollered, ‘where would you go-o-o-o?’
‘Not back to where I started from, thass fo’ sho.’
This was his chance and he was taking it. ‘So where did you start from?’
Peggy shook the broom at him, looking fierce. ‘This broom be tellin’ you where I started from if you aks me ag’in.’
He decided he wouldn’t ask her again. Not soon, anyway…
Hog heaven. According to the sign up ahead, Booker Hardware was still Booker Hardware.
He’d never grown tired of hanging around Booker’s; and for several summers, they’d let him work there—helping customers, ringing a sale, sitting on the stool behind the counter. Even sitting down, he’d felt ten feet tall on that stool.
Booker’s was where he smoked his first Lucky Strike, heard his first official dirty joke—he’d been so dumbfounded, he could still remember the darned thing—and where he’d learned a few words he’d never heard before, even in the cotton field. Booker’s was one of the best memories he’d carried away from Holly Springs.
They crossed Van Dorn at a trot and entered the cavernous, wood-floored hardware store. The bell on the door jingled.
“Whoa,” said the man behind the counter. “That a dog, or a coal car jumped offa th’ track?”
“A mere dog. Won’t bite or beg for food, and enjoys the romantic poets. Tim Kavanagh.” They shook hands.
“Red Lowery.” Red eyed his tab collar. “You th’ new man down at th’ Frozen Chosen?”
“Nope, just an old dog myself, come back to Holly Springs after nearly forty years.”
“Born here?”
“I was. I have to tell you, Booker’s was one of my favorite boyhood haunts, I worked here for three summers. It’s a miracle it’s still in business.”
“Dern right it’s a miracle. What with th’ gov’ment gougin’ th’ small b’inessman every time he turns around, it don’t hardly pay t’ open your door of a mornin’.”
“I hear you, Red, I do.” He looked to his right and there they were. He hurried along the aisle and smoked over the metal nail bins, soldered to a center pole that swung around like a lazy Susan. He felt like hugging the blasted things. If he had any place to put it, he’d offer to buy this setup. Hey, Kavanagh, he’d say, I’m bringing home a nice set of nail bins, back your car out of the garage and park it on the street.
He slowly turned the bins and inspected the impressive variety of their contents, mesmerized. How often had he done this as a boy, listening to the squawk as the bins circled on their pole? He chose a nail and hiked up the aisle.
“I’ll take it,” he told Red.
“Jus’ one?”
“Just one. For a souvenir.” He drew out his wallet.
“On th’ house.”
“Come on. A nickel? A dime? What do nails go for these days?”
“That one’s free.
You ever go t’ build a house, I’ll be lookin’ for your nail b’iness.”
“Deal. Thanks.”
The bell jingled; three men in camouflage scattered through the store.
“That’s m’ groundhog hunters,” said Red.
“Folks wear camouflage to hunt groundhogs?”
“These boys do. You got family here?”
“Only at Hill Crest.”
“You plannin’ t’ move back?”
“Can’t move back. I’m dug in like a turnip in North Carolina.”
“Lot of red dirt up there, I been there.”
“Do you know the name Tommy Noles, by any chance?”
“Tommy Noles, Tommy Noles.” Red looked blank.
“How about a black man a few years older than myself, named Willie? Or maybe he’d be called Will or William now.”
“Right yonder’s y’r black man named Will.” Red jerked his thumb toward the front window. “Will! Here’s th’ IRS lookin’ for you.”
His heart rate kicked up; this could be the moment he’d prayed for, however randomly, since he was a kid.
“Will don’t like dogs.”
“Can I leave him here? He’s harmless.”
“Hitch ’im t’ this stool right here.”
As he walked toward the front window, Will came to meet him, grinning. He was a big man, wearing overalls.
“Will—Tim Kavanagh.” He felt a knot rise in his throat.
They shook hands.
“Will Pruitt. I sho hope Mr. Red ’s jokin’ wit’ me.”
He noted that Will’s right hand was as big as a smoked ham; his left hand was stuck down the throat of a man’s street shoe.
“He was definitely joking; I’m a preacher who never got the knack of wringing money out of folks. I’m looking for someone they called Willie when he was a boy, someone I knew many years ago.” He stood there, as barefaced as he knew how, hoping Will would recognize him.
“They used t’ call me Willie—now Will’s m’ name, an’ half-solin’s m’ game.”
“Half-soling?”
“Boots, shoes. I keep th’ soles goin’ ’til th’ tops give out.”
“A high calling, if you ask me. Would you be the Willie who worked at Tate Place when you were a boy?” Please.
