Authors: Jan Karon
She slid from the stool and walked to the center of the room to bask in the pale rectangle of light that shone through the glass-paneled door. She still felt stiff and sore from the fall, but stretched her arms and arched her back, in the manner of Margaret Ann, the bookshop cat, who was slumbering in the Gardening section. It was all she could do to restrain herself from dancing, though she knew nothing at all about dancing, had never danced, nor ever before wished to.
She remembered the story of a man who’d suffered a blow to the head and, shortly afterward, sat down and played Chopin and Beethoven, though he’d never had a lesson, much less been exposed to a piano. Then there was the ten-year-old boy who, after a fall down the stairs, suddenly became a genius at math. Even though she hadn’t injured her head, had something like that happened to her?
She should read about this phenomenon, of course, and turned toward the shelf where such a book might possibly be found. But…she stopped and considered: she didn’t want to read a book. Not at all. She didn’t even want to pore over the dictionary and learn the word, if there was one, for what seemed to have happened to her.
What, then, did she want?
A light flickered in her eyes. She wanted to feel her new feelings. One by one.
He’d come back from his trip down the mountain elated and exhausted at once.
But “old time it was a-flying,” and he had to get cracking with his sermon notes.
Unfortunately, a ringing phone was always a temptation when he was working on a sermon….It blew the weight of responsibility away, if only for a fraction of…
“Hello!”
“Father Tim, Lew Boyd.”
“Lew! I hadn’t heard back from you, did you change your mind?”
“Oh, no. Wouldn’t do that. Thing is, we, ah…”
“Yes?”
“We run off to South Carolina and done it with th’ justice of th’ peace.”
“Ah!”
“See, me an’ Earlene ain’t exactly spring chickens.”
“Right.”
“So we already knew all th’ stuff you aimed to talk to us about.”
“Aha.”
“So we didn’t see no use to waste your time…”
“No waste at all.”
“…or ours, you know—we didn’t want to waste ours, neither.”
“Don’t blame you a bit.”
“You don’t?”
“Certainly not! Congratulations!”
“Remember, you can’t tell nobody.”
“I remember.”
“Not a soul.”
“Got it.”
“You come on by th’ station, I’ll give you a free wash and sweep you out.”
“That’s mighty good of you, Lew, you don’t have to do that.”
“I
aim
t’ do that! You come on by.”
“Thank you kindly. I wanted to say I was sorry about the news regarding Harley. I knew it, of course, but…”
“I ain’t goin’ to worry about it. I took a little heat when George pitched in to help on weekends, an’ I’ll take a little over this, but they’re two of th’ hardest-workin’ fellers you ever seen. Most of th’ help I’ve had th’ last few years has been so triflin’ it’s criminal…in a manner of speakin’.”
“Well, then! When do we get to meet Earlene?”
“She’s goin’ to stick with her job another year to, you know, get her retirement benefits an’ all, then she’ll be movin’ to Mitford.”
“A long-distance marriage. I hear that’s the going thing these days.”
“I’m puttin’ a new engine in my Dodge Ram, an’ replacin’ th’ carburetor.”
“That’ll do it.”
“Remember not to tell nobody.”
“Right.”
“We’re plannin’ to stay low-key ’til, you know, we get things straightened out.”
“Aha.”
“Well, you come on over in a day or two and get your wash job.”
“I will, Lew, and thank you. We’d like to have you and Earlene over when things settle down.”
“We ’preciate it, Father.”
“May God bless your marriage to be a long and happy one!”
“We ’preciate it.”
He was grinning when he hung up. He had rather a fondness for late-blooming romances.
They had found Sammy Barlowe; Bill Sprouse was preaching at First Baptist on Sunday; and as for himself, his weight was steady, his sugar hovering around normal, and he had his own preaching to do.
He should have been shouting for joy. Instead, he felt the old darkness moving upon him.
At four o’clock, he pulled on his running clothes and laced up his shoes. Exercise doesn’t take energy, he lectured himself, it gives energy, everybody knows that.
Barnabas came and stood by his knee, looking soulfully into his eyes. His was a profound dog, always had been. He put his arm around the large head, its dark coat now shot through with silver, and whispered, “You, my friend, are the best of the best.” He held his dog’s head close to his beating heart. There had never been, nor ever would be, a more boon companion than this.
“God be with you,” he said, hoarse.
He wandered down to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and saw that Puny had left his dinner covered with foil, ready to be reheated. He peered under the foil.
Chicken-something, carrot-something, spinach-something. He was sure it would look more appetizing when hot, though he could have eaten the whole thing on the spot. He devoured a spoonful of peanut butter, instead, smiling to see that Puny had placed the
Anglican Digest
by his plate on the kitchen island, to keep him company at supper.
Instead of heading toward Farmer, he decided they’d run north on Main Street, hook a right, cross over Little Mitford Creek, hook another right, then take a left up to the hospital. Afterward, they’d run down Old Church Lane and across Baxter Park. This would give them better than a mile and a quarter, which was, after all, better than nothing. When Cynthia got home and things were back to normal, he’d make up for this week’s short time.
Cynthia…
He stood on his front steps, holding the red leash. He missed his wife. No wonder he was feeling blue. He had tried to keep himself from knowing this….
He experienced a sudden wave of emotion, something like the “sinking feeling” his mother used to talk about, and shrugged it off. His sugar was fine, he’d just checked it, and he’d drunk plenty of water—it was time to get on with it.
They trotted down the steps and along the walk and out to the street. Another beautiful August day in the mountains—but dry. Dry as tinder. The little rain they’d had was hardly enough to make a showing on the gauge. Harley had watered the roses with the soaking hose eight times, by Father Tim’s count, and the perennial beds were looking none too hale. In truth, the
Mitford Muse
had warned of a forthcoming Water Watch.
“Okay, old fellow,” he said, as they broke into a light run.
He huffed by the Woolen Shop and nearly steamrolled a woman coming out with a shopping bag.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, I should look where I’m going—”
“No harm done in the least! Are you Father Tim?”
“Yes ma’am!”
She extended her hand, smiling. “Millie Tipton from Methodist Chapel.”
By George, she was wearing a collar….
“Reverend Tipton! Glad to meet you at last. Welcome to Mitford.” He’d have to bake her a pie, and be quick about it; she’d been in town several weeks.
“I’m proud to be here. I was hoping we might have coffee sometime. Even though you’re retired, I understand you’re still quite a force in Mitford. Everyone loves you.”
His face flushed. A former bishop had warned him never to completely trust a man loved by everyone. “Not everyone!” he insisted. “Perhaps you’ll join us one morning at the Grill, if you can bear the company of an aging clergyman, a grouchy newspaper editor, anda…a realtor.” He decided his buddy Mule defied description.
“A microcosm of the world social order!” she said, laughing. “I hear the Turkey Club meets around eight o’clock most mornings?”
“Alas, there are no secrets in Mitford!” he said.
Joe Ivey seemed pale, withered.
“They’s somethin’ else wrong, they don’t know what. They’re runnin’ tests enough t’ cave in th’ whole Medicare system.”
“Sorry you’re down, buddy, but you’ll get up again.”
“I hate t’ turn th’ haircut trade in this town over to that blankety-blank woman.”
“She’ll be swamped, all right, you’ve built up a good business. But you haven’t turned it over yet.”
“When Winnie rented ’er that space, Winnie seen it as a kind of hair emporium that would serve all y’r hair needs in one place—upstairs for a perm an’ rinse an’ whatnot, downstairs t’ my chair for a cut an’ maybe a shave. But nossir, Miz Fancy Pants got so she wanted th’ whole dern shebang.” Joe looked him in the eye. “I’m tryin’ not t’ hate ’er guts.”
“That’s the ticket. Keep trying! Ask God to help you.”
Joe sighed deeply. “You know th’ trouble with th’ barberin’ trade?”
“What’s that?”
“Nobody wants to do it n’more. Too much standin’ on your feet all day.”
“I hear you.”
“Varicose veins, lower back pain, bunions, I don’t know what all. That’s why I run off t’ Graceland that time t’ do security.”
“And God used that time in your life. Just think—at Graceland, you gave up drinking.”
Joe closed his eyes; a faint smile appeared on his face.
“You did give it up?”
Joe opened his eyes and burst into laughter. He laughed ’til he coughed. “Before God, I did, but I like to see you
fret
about whether I done it or not.”
“You scoundrel,” said the priest. “Let me pray for you.”
While he was on the hill, maybe he could work in a quick visit to Hope House—give Louella a kiss, swing by to see Pauline, catch up with his old friend Scott Murphy….
But no. He didn’t have it in him.
“Home,” he said to Barnabas.
They loped down Old Church Lane and hung a right into the cool, green shade of Baxter Park. Why did he so often forget about Baxter Park and its sweet, hidden beauty? It was time to bring his wife here again for a picnic, maybe in early October when the sugar maples were turning.
“Hello, Father!”
Barnabas came to a screeching halt, his hair bristling, as Lace Turner appeared with a brown Labrador puppy on a leash. Barnabas stood, stiff and suspicious, uttering a low growl.
“This is Guber!” said Lace, struggling to keep the leaping puppy at a proper distance.
“Goober?”
What kind of name was that for a beautiful young woman’s dog?
“For
gubernatorial.
Hoppy says he looks gubernatorial, like our governor.”
“By George, he does! How are you, my dear?”
“Great! Look, Barnabas is getting friendly.”
His dog’s tail was now wagging, albeit with a dash of caution. The puppy was barking to beat the band, and eager to get at the black behemoth on the red leash.
“Think we could sit down and visit a minute?” asked Father Tim.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea,” she said, smiling. “But—we could try!”
She picked up her puppy and sat with it in her lap on one end of a park bench. He thumped down beside her.
“Ahh,” he said. “This is a treat!” Barnabas sprawled in the grass, his eyes alert to the puppy. “Are you excited about the University of Virginia?”
“Yes, sir. It’s beautiful there.”
“I visited as a young seminarian. I remember they don’t call their campus a campus.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s called ‘the grounds.’”
“You’ll do well. And if you ever need prayer—for anything, at any time, please give me a call. Will you remember that?”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
“I wore my boots the other day.”
“Are they comfortable?”
“Very! Thanks again. One of the most thoughtful gifts I ever received.”
She smiled and nodded, pleased.
“When are you off?”
“Monday.”
“That’s when Dooley leaves, as well.”
She lowered her eyes and kissed the top of Guber’s velveteen head.
“We’ve found Dooley’s brother Sammy,” he said.
He heard her quick intake of breath.
“They’ve had a visit, we’re hopeful about the future.”
She continued to nuzzle the head of her puppy, silent.
“I’m sorry for the times Dooley has treated you rudely.”
She looked up at him; there was a flicker of sorrow in her amber eyes.
“He told me you once declined to return his call. I think that…hurt him, somehow.” He was meddling, of course. Preachers couldn’t seem to help themselves when it came to meddling.
“Why should I return his call, when he would only act arrogant and cold towards me?”
“That’s a good question. I don’t think he wants to act arrogant and cold towards you.”
“If he doesn’t want to, then he should stop doing it.” The anger he saw in her eyes might have been as ancient as the pyramids.
“Yes. I agree. He should. And Lace…”
“Yes, sir?”
“I believe he will.”
He didn’t know whether she heard him—or believed him.
“Look,” said Lace. “Guber is asleep.”
“You may leave early, if you’d like.”
They were packing most of the gardening books into boxes; except for a couple of storms, the season in Mitford had been too dry for much enthusiasm in the garden. Hope hated returns—all that work to write a book, and then, in the end, if it didn’t sell, off it went to a book graveyard.
“That’s OK, I’d rather stick around.”
“You were here late yesterday, it would be fine for you to leave early.” She didn’t think people on a small salary should be required to work overtime, free.
“Most people know the shop closes at six. It wouldn’t look right for me to be taking my ease at four-thirty.”
She thought his eyes as blue as the sea. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to cause any unnecessary talk or suspicion, because it all falls back on good people like you and Father Tim. If, God forbid, anything went wrong in town, a lot of eyes would turn to me—or to Harley. It’s just the way things are.”
“Things shouldn’t be that way.”
“Yes, but it’s the way things are.”
She saw the resolve in him. “Yes,” she said. “Well.”
She’d had few friends in her life, and had never once been friends with a man. But the feeling with George was different now; ever since the fall, it had been different. It was a nice, comfortable feeling.