At Home in Mitford (53 page)

“That’s it! That was on the license plate of the car that took Barnabas. I forgot all about it ’til this very moment. VAT!”

“Well, all I can do is keep an eye on th’ place. I’ll send Joe Joe back in th’ evenin’ and again tomorrow. We’ll turn up somethin’. Since you had ’im more’n three days, state law says you own ’im, so they’ve kidnapped ’im, pure an’ simple, and looks like abuse into the bargain. They don’t have a snowball’s chance.”

He felt torn between elation and disappointment. “Thank you, my friend. Keep me posted.”

He went into the study and sat on the sofa, feeling a desperate fatigue. He also felt an aching thirst again, which he knew was a warning, but he was too tired to get off the sofa and get a glass of water. “In a minute,” he murmured aloud, leaning his head back. “I’ll do it in a minute.”

On Saturday evening, the phone rang. “Father Tim, it’s me. Joe Joe.”

"Joe Joe!”

“I went over there and looked around, but I didn’t find anything. I tried knockin’ on a few doors along the road, but all I could scare up was an old woman and two little kids, they didn’t know much. It’s spooky back in there, that’s where all the liquor used to be made. But don’t you worry, I’m goin’ again tomorrow, right after church.”

Church! He had completely forgotten the crux of his sermon.

“Thank you, Joe Joe, God bless you,” he said, going at once to his desk.

There! It was “Tough Times, Tender Hearts,” typed rather more neatly than usual, and appearing to be in good order. He turned out the lights and went upstairs. A good night’s sleep and the press of Sunday off his shoulders, and he’d be as good as new. Next week, maybe he’d ask Cynthia to go to a movie.

“Nothin’,” said Rodney, when he called after church. “Joe Joe went up there and come back empty-handed. Th’ cars hadn’t moved, and there was no sign of a dog except a few piles of poop under a tree, I guess where they’d tied ’im up. I tell you what, my instincts got to workin’ on this, an’ Tuesday, I’m goin’ to stake a man out in th’ woods around there.

“Maybe us prowlin’ around in a police car has run ’em off, but, anyway, I smell a rat.”

“Smelling rats is your job, and you’re mighty good at it. Remember how you jumped on that candy wrapper?”

“You got to look for th’ little things,” Rodney said, with dignified authority.

He had no sooner put the phone on the hook than it rang again.

“You comin’ out here t’day?”

“Dooley! Well, no, no, I’m not. Not today.”

“I thought you might be comin’ out.”

“I want to get out next Sunday, but not today, we’ve had a lot of excitement. We think we may have found Barnabas.”

“You ain’t!”

“Oh, I think we have. We’ll see. Rodney’s going to stake a man out in the woods to observe the place, it’s up on the hill above the creek. Homeless carried food to somebody up there and saw him. Barnabas barked at him, he said.”

" ’at’s super,” said Dooley. “’at’s great!”

“I’ll keep you posted. Doing all right, are you?”

“Yep, but Rebecca Jane sleeps all th’ time, looks like. I done played ’ith them ol’ dogs and rode ’at ol’ horse and all.”

“Well, let’s keep in touch. Are you doing what we talked about?”

“I forgot t’ change m’ underwear last night.”

“Well, then, tonight you get another chance.”

“Tell Granpaw hey.”

“I will.”

“Tell Cynthia hey, and ol’ Vi’let and Jack an’ all.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Well, bye,” said Dooley, hanging up.

With a warm rush of feeling, he realized that Dooley Barlowe was homesick.

He was getting ready to take a hot shower when the phone rang by his bed.

“Father?” His doctor’s voice told him the whole story.

“She’s through it! Everything looks good, she’s resting. Leo Baldwin is a master. Thank God for Leo. They washed up at eight o’clock last night. I would have called you earlier, but I couldn’t, I dropped down on a bed in Leo’s office, and I was outta here. Today has been hectic, this . . .” His voice broke slightly. “This is a great answer to prayer, Father, thank you, thank you.”

He had never heard his friend sound this way, and he was swept up in the joy of it. “Tell me everything, if you have the strength.”

“We took the copter to Charlotte, put her on a Lear, and flew to Boston. An ambulance was waiting, we were at Mass General in a little under three hours. The donor was a boy, eighteen years old, motorcycle, no helmet, closed head injury. Rotten business. They had hooked him to a respirator at the scene, brought him in, did brain scans, there was no blood flow to the brain.

“The emergency room doctor called Leo, Leo talked to the parents, they consented, and Leo called me. What an uncanny, unbelievable miracle! Thousands to one, you know.” Hoppy was silent for a moment and cleared his throat.

“She’ll be at Mass till we find out whether she’s rejecting, probably a couple of weeks, then Leo wants her here in Boston for four to six months.”

“That’s the bad news.”

“I’ll fly up whenever I can. Thank God for Wilson, I got him in the nick of time.”

“God’s timing is always perfect.”

“I’m beginning to see that, even about . . . Carol.”

“Get the names of the parents who gave their consent; I’d like to pray for them.”

“I’ll do that.”

“When are you coming home?”

“In the morning, the ol’ red-eye special. Wilson has probably croaked by now, but he’s young, he can handle it. Keep those prayers coming, pal.”

“Consider it done,” he said, knowing that was one prescription he wouldn’t forget to refill.

On Monday, he refilled his medication after a visit to the hospital and breakfast at the Grill, and hurried to the office. Perhaps he should start taking Monday off, like a lot of clergy. But the thought of losing a full day seemed disorienting.

He began his list of calls. “Miss Sadie?”

“Good morning, Father!”

“Remember you asked me to think about a name for the nursing home? I believe the Scripture you want engraved over the front door is Psalm thirty-three, verse twenty-two, ‘Let thy mercy, O Lord, be upon us, according as we hope in thee.’ ”

“You have the best memory! But, of course, you’re young.”

“Well, then. What do you think of the name Hope House?”

“Hope House? Perfect! Absolutely perfect, Father, I knew I could count on you. Instead of somebody saying their poor mother has gone to a nursing home, they can say she’s living at Hope House!”

“The other matter, the matter of the beam in the attic, well, I haven’t gotten to it, yet, but I shall. Now, to the good news. We think we’ve found Barnabas.”

After calling a disgruntled J.C. Hogan to say he’d deliver George Gaynor’s letter at lunchtime, he called Cynthia.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“No good!” she said brightly. “Trying to make the crossover from a Violet book to another kind of book is hair-raising. I mean, what if I can’t do it? What if I’m meant to do cats for the rest of my life? So, I’m forcing myself along, and I’m drawing a . . . ah, well, to tell the truth, a mouse!”

“From memory, I devoutly hope.”

“From life. It’s in a cage on my drawing board. I plan to reward it with Gouda and let it go in the hedge.”

“Cynthia, Cynthia.”

“Here’s the scoop. The story is about a mouse who lived in the stables where Jesus was born. It’s about looking at life from down under, as it were, a mere mouse observing the high drama of a lowly birth.”

“I like it.”

“It’s for children four to eight, so I’ve even lowered the age of my reading audience. Timothy, I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. Philippians four-thirteen, for Pete’s sake.”

She laughed. “I needed that.”

“How are the rabbits?”

“Wonderful! They help me so much, I’ve sketched pages and pages. I really wanted to do a rabbit book, I think, but I feel strongly led to do this.”

“Follow your heart,” he said. “And speaking of hearts, Olivia came through the surgery splendidly. She’s resting.”

“Wonderful!”

“Thank you for your prayers. I also called to say I think we’ve found Barnabas.”

“Timothy!”

“We’ll see. So far, a bit of a holdup, but I’ll keep you posted. And I think Dooley’s homesick.”

“Will wonders never cease?”

"Let’s hope not. How about a movie this week?”

“You’re really asking me to a movie?” she said, with amazement. “That’s instant proof that wonders never cease!”

On Wednesday, a postcard: “I’ve got a suntan you won’t believe. Harold’s legs are fried. See you in the funny papers, ha ha. Love, Emma.”

From Stuart:

“Thanks for your note. As always, it was good to have word from you. Of course, you may come for a visit and bring Cynthia Coppersmith. Next Tuesday is a conflict, as I shall be away then. Can you come the following Tuesday, perhaps? Martha insists on having you here for lunch, though I have gallantly offered a pricey restaurant. I count my blessings!

“Just give Norma a ring, so it can go on my calendar at the office. Ever yours in His peace.”

Rodney called at eleven.

“They’re as good as nailed. They’re runnin’ drugs in and out of there by th’ shipload. They keep Barnabas for a watchdog, and when they don’t want ’im barkin’, they muzzle ’im. Might be a pretty sophisticated operation. Anyway, it’s worse than just a bunch of good ol’ boys bein’ bad.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We’re goin’ in after ’em, that’s what. Th’ trick is, we got to go in when there’s a load of dope settin’ in there. Last night, they drove out with th’ van, Joe Joe run down to ’is car and called us on th’ radio, and by th’ time we got th’ call in to th’ state, they’d disappeared. They may be drivin’ it to a truck somewhere right around here, and loadin’ it on. I’m goin’ to keep Joe Joe out there.”

“Be careful, Rodney. I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Me either. That’s why I’m countin’ on you to do one of th’ main things th’ Lord hired you to do—pray.”

What was going on wouldn’t bear thinking about, there was no use in it. Instead, he would keep busy, he would call Dooley. He felt rotten that he’d packed him off somewhere, just as he’d begun to set down roots.

How could I have been so thoughtless? he wondered, staring out the window. Very likely, he’s staring out his own window right now, marking time until he comes home to Mitford.

“Hello, Marge? Tim here. How’s our girl?”

“Beautiful. Precious. Too wonderful for words.”

“And how’s our boy?”

“Why don’t you ask him that, and then we’ll talk before you hang up.”

“Dooley!” he heard Marge call. “It’s for you!”

He heard someone stomping to the phone. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. What are you up to?”

“I cain’t talk, I’m goin’ out with Doc Owen. Bye!”

“Well,” Marge said, “I guess I’ll have to fill you in. He’s busy from morning ’til night, riding Goosedown, shooting baskets with the boy from McGuire Farm, playing with Rebecca Jane, taking off with Hal. I think they’re going to deliver a calf this very moment.”

“Then he’s not . . . homesick?”

“Homesick? Dooley? Maybe for the first five minutes, but he got over it.”

A note from Father Roland:

“I must tell you that the pressure here is unrelenting. You say I’m young and it’s good for me, but this will surely make me old before my time. How I’d like to come and visit you in that sleepy little village, where I can just see you strolling along Main Street, going your rounds, taking your time. That’s surely how God would have us live! My friend, count your blessings, and remember me in your prayers, that I might learn how to better appropriate His peace for labor in the stressful turmoil of a city vineyard.”

Hah! And double hah! thought the rector. Going my rounds, taking my time . . . and what sleepy little village? The last time he’d had a decent night’s sleep in this village was too long ago to remember.

What if this movie was one of those steamy marathons that would cause them both to be paralyzed with embarrassment? And should he wear his clerical collar or a sport shirt? He had not gone to a movie in well over ten years, and why should he? The last time he had gone, with friends from the parish, he was so astounded at the vile language, casual sex, and equally casual bloodshed that he had left with a pounding headache, declaring, “Never again.”

“Cynthia,” he said when she answered the phone, “do you think I should wear my clerical collar or a sport shirt?”

“I think you should wear your clerical collar. After all, your job isn’t nine to five, it’s twenty-four hours a day, isn’t it?”

He felt oddly relieved and happy.

“Ah . . . what movie are we seeing?” he asked.

“A Walt Disney,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind.”