At Home in Mitford (19 page)

“Right over yonder,” she said, pointing into the inky darkness. “Go around that balin’ wire, on past that tractor, take a left by the chicken coop, and you’ll step right on ’is grave.”

A fine way to put it, he thought, checking the flashlight. It beamed weakly.

“Hit’s a little family plot, about a dozen in there. Mister Cooley’s is the fresh ’un, you cain’t miss it,” she said, overcome with another fit of coughing.

He managed to find his way to the baling wire and set the bucket by the tractor to pick up when his mission was accomplished. The dogs grew bored with his company and ran ahead.

He beamed the flashlight ahead and picked his way around the huge bale of rusted wire. Surely, this would only take a moment. Best to get it out of the way, then go on to the barn and assist Hal.

“Aha!” he said, expecting to see what he was looking for, as the moon broke through leaden clouds.

In the eerie platinum light, he found that he was, indeed, looking at a graveyard, but not the family kind. As far as he could tell, there were three rusted Chevrolets, a 1956 Pontiac with no hood, a Dodge pickup on blocks, and a couple of Studebakers filled with hay.

“Lord,” he said, earnestly, “I don’t know where this fellow’s grave is, and it’s too dark to be stumbling around out here looking for it. Surely, I don’t have to be standing on it to pray over it. So here goes.”

He bent his head and prayed on behalf of the departed.

Then he departed, himself, with great haste, only to fall over the bucket he’d left sitting by the tractor, emptying its contents in the grass.

“Left foot’s bent backward,” Hal said. “Where the dickens have you been?”

“To a funeral,” he said, setting the refilled bucket down.

“I washed up under a spigot I found out front. We’ve got a little job to do here.”

It was after two o’clock when they started home in the truck, with the heater going full blast. The moon raced in and out of the clouds, suddenly revealing open meadows and high ridges and cows sleeping under trees in the pastures.

Hal was exhausted but happy. “Did you see how I turned her to face the calf? Once she licks it, she’ll never leave it.”

“Tonight ought to be good for at least a couple of sermons.”

“Wasn’t too much for you, was it? I mean, when I asked you to clean the placental tissue off the calf, you were white as a sheet.”

“I beg to differ. When I was doing that, I was merely pale. Turning white as a sheet came when you asked me to help use the cow puller.”

“Good, honest work!”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to swap jobs.”

“Me, either, pal. I’d rather reach in a cow’s rear end any day than have to deal with a horse’s behind.”

“Harry Nelson is being transferred to Birmingham,” Father Tim said mildly, having saved this
pièce de résistance
for the right moment.

Hal was quiet for a couple of miles.

“Okay,” he said, at last. “I’m going to pray about sitting on the building committee, and I want to talk to Marge. I’ll let you know next week. Now, lay off, will you?”

Just as he felt a certain warmth in his spirit, he felt the creeping cold in his feet. But it wasn’t until later, under the glare of the porch light, that he saw what would have horrified Puny Bradshaw.

Cow manure not only covered his loafers, but the better part of his socks and pants cuffs, as well.

“Lord have mercy!” he said, presumably speaking in the local vernacular, but meaning it quite literally, as well.

He was sitting on the back steps of the farmhouse, a coffee cup beside him, cleaning his shoes. It was a glorious morning, as most mornings had been during this spectacular autumn.

He sang heedlessly. If there was anywhere on earth he could sing a favorite hymn at the top of his voice, it was here in the sunshine on this very back step.

The screen door slammed. “I want t’ ride ’at horse,” said Dooley, sitting down beside him.

“You might begin by saying good morning.”

“Good mornin’, I want t’ ride ’at horse.”

“Did you know there are cows on this farm? And chickens? And horseshoes and croquet and a grape arbor and apple trees? As I recall, there’s even a log cabin down by the creek, built for someone who was once just your age. Would you like to see all that when I finish cleaning these shoes?”

“I would, soon as I ride ’at horse.”

“Dooley, you are a man of single purpose, a characteristic which, with proper control, can take you far in this world.”

“We’re havin’ pancakes.”

“Wonderful. Who combed your hair?”

“Nobody.”

“That’s what I thought. What did you do with those clothes covered with slop?”

“I stuffed ’em in a paper sack and put ’em in th’ truck. I thought Puny’d wash ’em.”

“Ha!” he said, putting the final polish on his loafers.

The two sat in silence for a while, looking toward the barn and away to the steep hill covered with a blaze of autumn maples.

“Do you go t’ hollerin’ when you preach?”

“Hollering? Oh, not much. Why?”

“Miss Sadie wants me t’ go to church with ’er in th’ mornin’, and if you go t’ hollerin’, I’ll prob’ly go t’ runnin’.”

“Is that right?”

“I cain’t stand a hollerin’ preacher.”

“Me either.”

“Well, I’ll come then.”

“Comb your hair first,” said the rector.

The morning had continued so fair and golden that, after the service, he greeted his congregation on the lawn. “Did I go to hollerin’?” he asked Dooley.

“A time or two, you had me worried,” the boy said.

Miss Sadie gave him the usual bright peck on the cheek. “Louella is coming home to live at Fernbank!” she said, joyfully. “Her grandson’s bank has transferred him to Los Angles, and Louella said if she had to live in Los Angeles, she’d kill herself! I’m so happy about this, Father. Could I see you first thing in the morning about some insurance papers? I need your advice.”

Harold Newland shook his hand. “If it’s all right,” he said, blushing, “I’d like to see you sometime in the morning.”

The new woman who was sitting on the gospel side these days took his hand and smiled. “Olivia Davenport, Father. I enjoyed the service very much.”

“We’re glad to have you with us, Olivia. Your hat adds a lovely touch.”

“‘I’m afraid I’m a bit old-fashioned about wearing hats to church.”

“No more old-fashioned than I in liking to see them!” Yes, indeed. A perfect wife for Hoppy Harper.

“Would it be possible to have a visit with you in the morning?”

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said. “Around ten?”

So far, his Monday morning appointments were stacking up like planes over Atlanta.

“Father, I’ve come to ask for Emma’s hand in marriage.”

Having said that, Harold Newland blushed deeply and squirmed like a schoolboy on the visitor’s bench. “You see, there’s nobody else to ask, and I believe in askin’.”

“I believe in it myself, Harold. And I’m happy you’ve come. I’d like to say that I think the world of Emma Garrett. She’s as dependable as the day is long and has a spirit of generosity that’s practically unequaled in my experience. She’s been mighty good for me, and I expect her to be twice as good for you.”

“’Course, I’m not takin’ her away from you. She’ll want to keep workin’, and I thought I might get her a four-wheel drive since we’ll be livin’ out a ways.”

“I can see Emma in a four-wheel drive.”

“We’ll move into my house and sell her place as soon as we can.”

“When do you think the wedding might be?”

“Emma thought we ought to wait ’til spring, but I say the sooner the better. And I was hopin’ . . .” Harold hesitated, with obvious discomfort.

“What were you hoping?”

“Hopin’ that you might be willin’ to join with my preacher for the ceremony.”

“Well, I don’t see why not. The more the merrier!”

Two down and one to go, he thought, as he flushed the toilet in the office bathroom and got ready for his next caller.

The beautiful, dark-haired Olivia Davenport did an odd thing. Rather than use the visitor’s bench like everybody else, she walked to Emma’s chair, sat down across from him, crossed her shapely legs, and said:

“Father Tim, I’m dying.”

He could only trust that his face didn’t convey the shock he felt.

“I’m asking you to help me find something to make the rest of my life worth living.

“Mother left me her winter and summer homes, and I have considerable property of my own. That means I could spend these last months being quite idle and carefree, and, believe me, that’s tempting. But I did not come to Mitford to join the club and sit by the pool. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s absolutely wrong for me.

“I came to Mitford to do something that will make a difference. And while I’m not smart enough to know what that something is, I believe with all my heart that you can tell me.”

The first time he set eyes on Olivia Davenport, he felt as if the Holy Spirit had spoken to his heart. This time was no different. He sensed at once that Olivia Davenport was the answer to a prayer he’d initiated two years ago.

“Olivia, I’d like to ask you to read something, if you’d be so kind.”

He handed her his open Bible, pointed to the Twenty-seventh Psalm of David, and in clear, lucid tones, she read:

“ ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? For in the time of trouble He shall hide me in His pavilion; in the secret of His tabernacle shall He hide me; He shall set me upon a rock. Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen thine heart. Wait, I say, on the Lord.’ ”

She let the book rest in her lap.

“If you were ill,” he said quietly, “with no one to sit by your bed, to hold your hand when you’re lonely, or rejoice with you when you’re glad, would there be anything, after all, to live for?”

Olivia looked at him steadily. It was a rhetorical question.

“It would give courage to a lot of people to hear the faith and victory in these words.”

She smiled and, without looking at the book in her lap, repeated something she clearly knew well. “ ‘For in the time of trouble He shall hide me in His pavilion; in the secret of His tabernacle shall He hide me; He shall set me upon a rock.’ ”

“He has hidden you in His pavilion?”

She smiled, tears shining in her eyes. “And He has set me upon a rock.”

“Would you do something to make life worth living for the patients at Mitford Hospital? Would you be willing to read to them each and every morning? It’s a big job.”

“He’s a big God,” she said, with something that seemed like excitement.

In the space of precisely seven minutes, which he reckoned to be the full length of her visit, he had been told a terrible truth, discovered an answer to prayer, helped someone find a ministry, and been unutterably refreshed in his own spirit. Perhaps, he thought, we should all live as if we’re dying.

The letter arrived, bearing postage stamps with the queen’s likeness. The bells would be delayed again. Perhaps by Christmas . . .

He was disappointed. He had hoped the bells would ring at the time of the Owen baby’s birth. Ah, well, perhaps for the baptism, he thought as he walked home.

Tonight he would miss seeing Puny, which he was sure she would think he’d planned. After all, there was that bag of Dooley’s laundry that he’d set on the washing machine. As far he was personally concerned, his own shoes were shining, he had washed out his manure-soaked socks, and cleaned his own pants cuffs. Enough was enough.

He thought, too, of Olivia Davenport. Olivia didn’t want to waste time, for she had none to waste. On Wednesday, they would meet at the hospital at seven, and the first patient they’d visit would be the terminally ill Pearly McGee. Finally, there would be more than a pat and a prayer to be distributed along the halls.

He turned the corner toward home and heard the familiar, booming bark from the garage. He felt spare and light, like the weather, and looked forward to an early supper of Puny’s barbecued ribs.

Recently, he’d dared to let Barnabas off the leash, though only in his own backyard. Barnabas would dash to the hedge that separated the rectory from Baxter Park, do his business, and come bounding back, ready for a supersize Milk Bone.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he thought, this could become their bedtime ritual. It would take him out of the house for a breath of air and a look at the stars, provide Barnabas a moment of diversion, and answer any calls of nature, as well. It could even, in a pinch, get him off the hook for the nightly walk to the monument.