A long silence. “Oh, poop! I do forgive you.” She sat back in the seat, as if exhausted. “Will I never get it right?”
“I think you have it far righter than most people, as a matter of fact.”
“You do?”
“Indeed, I do. And so does the bishop. He says you’re tonic. Tonic! Is that the cruel judgment of a man who was appalled by the sight of a mere hair curler?”
Though he wasn’t inclined to be careless at the wheel of a car, he reached over and took her hand.
“Well . . .” she said, brightening.
He awoke in the night and found himself drenched with sweat, his pajamas clinging wetly to his legs. Water! That’s what he wanted. He was burning with thirst.
With great effort, he sat up, then forced himself to go to the bathroom and fill his empty glass. Dear God, he felt strangely weak and bereft.
Tomorrow, he would begin the medication with a vengeance and would be up and running by six. It would be good to get on schedule again. He recalled how terrific he’d felt during those early months of running, seeing Mitford from a new perspective. Life changing!
He put on another pair of pajamas and went back to bed, speaking aloud from the Psalms, to the still room: “Withhold not they tender mercies from me, O Lord; be pleased, O Lord, to deliver me . . .”
An image of Cynthia in the dazzling yellow dress came to him just before he slept.
He stopped by the hospital in his running clothes and spent a half hour with Joe Joe, who was eager to come home. Then he ran by to see Russell and Betty Craig, who appeared to have struck a happy truce. After a light breakfast at the rectory and a brief visit with Puny, he went to the office to do what the bishop had asked him to do.
“I’m sorry, Father,” said the nurse when he called, “but Dr. Harper is out of town for a week. Dr. Wilson would be happy to see you, I could work you in . . .”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll wait for Dr. Harper. Better put me down right after he returns.”
“Let’s see. I don’t have anything the week after he gets back, but if we have a cancellation, I could call you.”
“Excellent! Do that,” he said.
There. He had a full prescription on hand, he had taken his medication, he had run, he had eaten a sensible breakfast and cut back on caffeine, and he had called the nurse. All that was easy enough. It was the other, the planning of the two-month sabbatical that he dreaded.
As odious as the prospect seemed, he was, however, grateful. Another sort of bishop might have trusted him to take care of the problem on his own. But Stuart had used his authority to issue a command, and he had been absolutely right. His bishop had done what he hadn’t the gall to do himself. That feeling of being stuck to this place like moss on a tree, like lichen on a stump, would have to be gotten over.
“Hello, Walter? Timothy. Is this a good time? Well, then, if it isn’t too late to get in on the trip with you and Katherine, I’d like to come along.” There was a stunned silence. “Walter? Walter! Hello?”
Had the Enemy tricked him all these years into believing no one could do without him?
Wasn’t Russell in the best of circumstances? Didn’t Olivia have a new heart, and wasn’t she improving daily, with no signs of rejection?
Wasn’t Lord’s Chapel enjoying an especially smooth state of affairs just now, with as little wrangling and backbiting as he’d witnessed in years?
Wasn’t the Sunday school gaining momentum and fulfilling a need? Wasn’t the new youth choir gearing up for a full program in the fall?
And wasn’t Miss Sadie in better shape than ever, with the secret off her heart and Louella under her roof?
He searched his conscience for anyone who might need him. In a day or two, he would approach Miss Rose about the life estate and whether they could move ahead at once—after resolving, of course, the statue of Willard.
There would be no final drawings of Hope House for some time, and when they came, Ron Malcolm was infinitely able to judge them fairly and make interim decisions with the vestry.
Emma would be back any day and could handle things without him. Father John would be an agreeable fellow, if a bit lazy. Cynthia would take the rabbit in, surely. Puny would continue to cook and clean on the two days the vestry paid for, very likely causing Father John to think he’d died and gone to heaven.
Perhaps, just perhaps, if he promised to bring her a Waterford goblet, Hessie Mayhew would chip in to turn the sprinkler on the roses in the memorial garden.
But what about Dooley? The last thing he wanted was for Dooley to feel uprooted and pulled apart.
“I’d like to have a boy,” said Cynthia, looking brave. “I could . . .”
“You could what?”
“Draw him!”
“Aha,” he said, unconvinced.
“I’ve had a boy in my life, my husband’s nephew. His mother died, and Elliott and I took him in while he was in college. David and I got to be the fastest of friends and comrades, he was such a blessing to me when Elliott was away for weeks and months at a time. You’ve never met him, but you shall.”
“I appreciate your offer, but God hasn’t yet shown me what to do about Dooley.”
“He will show you, of course, so just relax, why don’t you?”
Relax? Yes. Well, that was a good idea.
The door to the office swung open.
“They got ’em,” Rodney said, proudly. “Down in Holding is where they nailed th’ scumheads. Th’ law down there had up a roadblock, checkin’ licenses. This little ol’ boy on th’ force remembered hearin’ th’ statewide when it went out, and recognized ’em. They’d painted their van an’ all, but he was onto ’em. Pulled ’em over for a dead headlight, radioed in without ’em knowin’ it, and three cars of Holding’s best jumped over there like blue ticks on a coon. Dadgum!” said Rodney with considerable joy, hitching up his holster. “That was the biggest bust Holding ever did, a whole vanload of dope.”
“Barnabas. What about . . . ?”
“Nope. Sorry. That’s th’ bad news,” said Rodney, taking off his hat. “No sign of your dog. I tell you, Father, that might be just as well, if you know what I mean.”
He didn’t know, exactly, and probably didn’t want to.
“Hey,” said Dooley, coming to the phone.
“Hey, yourself. How’s it going?”
“Great.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Me’n ol’ Kenny McGuire rode th’ hair off ’em horses this mornin.’ Then we played softball with ’em boys down at th’ pond, and whipped ’em s’ bad they was about t’ bawl. You comin’ agin Sunday?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“I want you t’ see me ride Goosedown. I got ’er t’ likin’ me s’ good, she’s jist like a little ol’ baby or somethin’.”
“Speaking of which, how is Rebecca Jane?”
“Cryin’ after me s’ bad, I have t’ git out of th’ house. Dools this, Dools that. You know how ’at is.”
“Oh, I do, I do,” said the rector.
To some, he thought as he hung up, that might have sounded like an ordinary conversation. But in fact, it was music, yes music, to his ears.
During the announcements at the eleven o’clock service, he drew attention to the meeting of the Altar Guild and the meeting of the lay readers, and issued another plea for youth choir recruits.
He tried to drum up business for the Baptists, who were having a lawn sale for foreign missions, and the Presbyterians, who were having a bake sale for hymnals.
“Are there any other announcements?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” said Hal Owen, coming to the steps in front of the altar with something in his hand, “I’d like to announce, on behalf of the entire congregation, that we’re sorry to have taken so long to celebrate your birthday.”
He felt his face grow warm.
“You see, we had to wait for everybody to get their frequent-flier points together, so we could give you this envelope. It will take you nearly anywhere you care to go . . . and we’d appreciate it if you’d come back.”
As he took the envelope, the congregation applauded enthusiastically. “I don’t know what to say,” he blurted.
Hal grinned. “Oh, just anything that comes to mind will do.”
“Hallelujah!” he exclaimed, through the lump in his throat.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” said Emma, who had gotten a tan, stepped up the amount of henna in her rinse, and was wearing earrings that looked like small hands of bananas.
“Just start at the beginning,” he advised.
“I’m goin’ back to bein’ a Baptist,” she declared, flatly.
“Emma, you definitely got too much sun. Baptists quite often become Episcopalians, but Episcopalians seldom ever become Baptists. You will be going against the tide.”
“Peedaddle on th’ tide. Harold and I talked it over, and we decided it was foolish for him to head off in one direction on Sunday and me to head off in another. Because the truth is, Harold will never be an Episcopalian.”
“True, Emma, true.”
“He said for me not to mention this to you, but if he had to keep singin’ that ol’ stuff in our hymnbook, he’d jump out the window.”
“That would be a sight for sore eyes. Headfirst, I take it.”
“Now you want to hear the good news?”
“I’m always ready to hear good news.”
“I’m going’ to keep workin’ just like I’ve been doin’, keepin’ the same hours and all. That part won’t change a bit.”
Blast.
“And I’m goin’ to report to you on how the Baptists do things. It will be a big help around here. For example, do you ever see First Baptist hurt for money? No way! That’s because they don’t have any of this ‘tithe on the net or tithe on the gross’ business. Baptists do it on the gross, just like the Bible says, period.”
Perhaps he would jump out the window, head-first.
“Anyway, Esther will take the collection home on Sunday and bring it to me on Monday. In the winter, I told her to carry the money bag under her coat, and in the summer, stick it in a book bag under some library books. You never know, these days.”
“Absolutely!”
She leaned over her typewriter and peered at him. “Are you all right? You look pale. When’s the last time Joe gave you a trim? Have you been seein’ your neighbor? Oh, and how’s her cat— don’t cats make you sneeze? I drove by your house this morning and saw her yard. You should offer to mow it.”
Very likely, Emma Garrett was the penance he’d been ordained to pay for the delight of employing Puny Bradshaw.
“So Rose said t’ me, she said, ‘Bill Watson, I’m goin’ t’ give you a piece of my mind,’ and I said, ‘Just a small helpin’, please.’ ” He grinned broadly at the rector.
“Yessir, I told Rose what you said about givin’ th’ house to th’ town, an’ them givin’ her a nice, modern place all fixed up in th’ back, and she said th’ only way she’d do it was if the statue was like Sherman or Grant or one of them, don’t you know. That’s when I said he ought t’ be settin’ down, and she like to th’owed a fit.”
Uncle Billy chuckled. “Preacher, I took Rose f’r better or worse, but I declare, she’s s’ much worse than I took ’er for!
“Maybe we ought t’ let ’er have that statue standin’ up. I dread another winter, don’t you know, with th’ wind a blowin’ through th’ cracks, and th’ oil a settin’ in th’ tank.”
The rector doubted that Miss Sadie would be able to drive past such a statue without a shudder, but that was not the issue. “It might be possible to have at least one room modernized by winter, with a bath to go with it, if we can agree on this matter right away.”
“Law,” said the old man, “I’d dearly love to have me a hot bath, if arthur’ll let me set in a tub.”
“Why don’t we move forward with the standing version. If we carry on too long about whether he sits or stands, you might go out of here lying down.”
“You hit the nail on th’ head. Why don’t you do th’ talkin’ and I’ll do th’ duckin’?”
“We can move ahead on the Porter place,” he said to Esther Cunningham when he dropped by her office. “If I were you, I’d have some renderings done right away, so Miss Rose can feel involved, or she could change her mind on the whole thing. The D.A.R. crowd ought to know about statues and monuments and who does that sort of thing. Of course, we’ll need to talk with her attorney at once, and I’d hope we could have them in a snug room and bath by winter.”
“We’ll start by dumpin’ all th’ Rose Festival proceeds in the restoration fund.” The mayor’s face had started to blotch with red spots, as it usually did when she was excited. “This thing’s goin’ to cost a king’s ransom; we’ll have to depend on some big shots around here to help get it done. How about if you . . .”
“Don’t go appointing me to raise any money. I can see it in your eyes.”
The mayor laughed heartily. “You’re quick.”
“I have to be quick to dodge the bullets you’d fire if I gave you half a chance.”
“Speakin’ of—our boy’s lookin’ good, wanted mashed potatoes and gravy for supper last night. Puny carried him a bowlful.”
“What do you think about that girl?”
“She calls herself a Bradshaw, but she’s Cunningham through and through. We love ’er to death. Ray says he wouldn’t take a war pension for the way she cuts up and sasses him.”
“Well, maybe now that she’s got Ray, she’ll leave off sassing me.”
“I wouldn’t hold y’r breath,” said the mayor.
It was Olivia.
“Father, I just called to say I love you.”
“You did? Why, what a wonderful thing to hear.” He felt as if someone had poured a bucket of warm water over him. Love! Sometimes, the very sound of that word conjured the feeling itself.
“I’m missing your sermons. Hoppy gives me a report when we talk, but sometimes he forgets the point!”
He laughed happily. “Let me mail you my sermons each week, shall I? The Holy Spirit often sends more than you’ll find typed out, but at least it will be something from home.”
“Thank you! I have a proposition.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.”