Shepherds Abiding (18 page)

“Where’s th’ Baby Jesus at?”

Father Tim took the manger and child from the box, and cradled the piece in his hands.

Mule cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “Ain’t that somethin’? So where’s th’ stable in this deal?”

“Don’t have a stable.”

“You got to have a stable.”

“I don’t have time to build a stable—maybe next year.”

“I’ve built a thing or two in my time. You could get an orange crate from Avis, break that sucker down, hammer in a few nails, an’ you’d have a stable.”

“I’ll catch you for lunch tomorrow.”

“I been thinkin.’ Somebody ought t’ do somethin’ for Percy an’Velma, you know what I’m sayin’? Seems like somethin’ ought to
happen
on their last day.”

“I thought Coot Hendrik was cooking up a celebration.”

“Never got it organized, plus he’s down with walkin’ pneumonia.”

“Ah.” He took a deep breath. “There’s not much time, but . . . why don’t we give them a party?”

Mule smoked this over. “You mean you an’ me?”

“Somebody needs to get things rolling.”

“Where at?”

“At the Grill. Christmas Eve. Right after lunch when they close.”

“Who’ll do th’ food? It don’t seem right to ask Percy—”

“If it’s after lunch, nobody needs food. Or maybe we could just have, I don’t know,
dessert.
”

“What kind of dessert?”

“Beats me, we just got this idea. Maybe a couple of cakes. And I’ll make the coffee. I know how to operate the coffee machine, he’s had it for a hundred years.”

Mule looked suspicious. “So who’ll pick up th’ tab for th’ cakes?”

“We’ll pass the hat. Maybe collect enough to get Percy and Velma a ticket to Washington, to see the cherry blossoms. What do you think?”

“Yeah!” said Mule, grinning. “Great idea!”

“So see you for lunch tomorrow!” Father Tim felt his adrenaline pump up a notch.

What was he thinking, to add a party at the Grill on the same day of the Christmas Eve mass at Lord’s Chapel, and the trimming of the tree, and the secret setup of the Nativity scene in the living room, and
getting everything in order for their big dinner on Christmas Day?

Was he out of his
mind?

The answer, of course, was yes.

He was glazing Joseph’s overgarment when J. C. Hogan barreled into the room.

“Whoa!” said Father Tim. What was this, anyway, Grand Central Station?

J.C. slung his bulging, unzipped briefcase into a chair. “I hear you’re livin’ down here now, got a cot in th’ back room.”

“Who let you in?”

“I let myself in. Fred’s unloadin’ a truck in the alley, an’ Andrew’s up th’ street.” He unfurled a pocket handkerchief and wiped his face. “What’s goin’ on? I been lookin’ for your obit.”

“Who told you I’m down here?”

“Everybody knows you’re down here. So what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“What’s that you’re paintin’? Looks like some of my kin people.” J.C. cackled.

“Look, J.C., you need to keep this to yourself. The whole thing is meant to be a surprise for Cynthia. I’d like your word.”

“I’m not much on keepin’ secrets!” J.C. eyed the figures on the shelf. “Don’t tell me you did all this!”

“I didn’t do all this.”

“Looks like a Nativity scene. . . .”

“It is. And, believe me—if you say anything to anybody, I’ll personally knock you in the head.”

“OK, all right, they’ll never hear it from me. Man, this is great. I didn’t know you could do stuff like this.”

“Neither did I.”

“Where’s your stable?”

“Don’t have a stable.”

“Everybody knows you got to have a
stable
for a
Nativity
scene. A little baby can’t just lay out in th’
weather,
you know what I’m sayin’?”

“Preacher?” Uncle Billy stuck his head in the door.

“Uncle Billy! What are you doing downtown?”

“Buyin’ lumber!” said the old man, his gold tooth gleaming. “Dora, she tol’ me you’re workin’ here.”

“Did Hoppy say you could be out and about?”

“He said I could walk aroun’ in th’ yard. I figured a man could exchange that f’r walkin’ down th’ street.”

“What kind of lumber?”

He tapped the bundle under his arm. “I’m makin’ Rose a present. Christmas is comin,’ don’t you know.”

“Look,” said the
Muse
editor, “I’m outta here. Let’s have lunch at th’ tea shop after Christmas.”

“Will do. By the way, we’re getting together a little celebration for Percy and Velma, right after lunch on Christmas Eve. Hope you’ll be there.”

“Of course I’ll be there, I’m in th’ dadgum newspaper business, it’s my job to be there.”

“Their forty-plus years at the Grill are worth a front page,” said Father Tim, meaning it.

“Don’t preach me a sermon, buddyroe!” J.C. grabbed his briefcase and shot through the door,

Father Tim grinned. “Uncle Billy, no rest for the wicked and the righteous don’t need none.”

Uncle Billy grinned back; he liked it when th’ preacher stole one of his sayin’s.

“I hope you and Miss Rose can be there. You’ve both got a long history with the Grill.”

“Nossir, I can’t make it, I’ve got a awful job of work
t’ do an’ no time t’ th’ow away. What’s this you’re a-workin’ on?”

“I’m restoring a Nativity scene as a surprise for Cynthia.”

The old man stared at the shelf, his mouth open. “I’ll be et f’r a tater.”

Father Tim realized that he liked sharing the figures; they took on added meaning when he saw them through other eyes.

“Did you
make
all them animals an’ such?”

“No, sir, I only painted them. And fixed them up a little, here and there.”

“They’re beauteous,” said Uncle Billy, deeply moved. He’d learned that word as a boy and didn’t get a chance to use it much. “Beauteous!”

“Thank you.”

“There’s y’r wise men. An’ y’r sheep. Law, they’s a whole flock of ’em, an real as life! An’ y’r angel—look at that! Jis’ one angel, is it?”

“Yes, sir. There were two, but I dropped one and broke it.” The thought pained him, still.

“An’ y’r Baby Jesus, He’s th’ main show. Where’s He at?”

Father Tim took the Babe in the manger from the
box and held it forth in his hands. He felt oddly parental.

“Husky little feller!”

“He is!”

“Where’s y’r stable at?”

“We don’t have a stable. We’ve got all we can do to get the figures done by Christmas Eve.”

“This crowd needs theirself a stable,” said Uncle Billy. “Wouldn’t take no time a’tall t’ knock one together.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Uncle Billy, but I’m not much with a hammer and nails. I don’t suppose you’d have a joke—a fellow needs a laugh or two to help his work along.”

“I had a pretty good ’un a while back, but I’ve done forgot it.”

“Aha!”

“M’ noggin’s s’ full of this an’ that, I cain’t hardly recall m’ Christian name.”

“That can happen this time of year.”

“Here’s one t’ hold you ’til I can git back t’ m’ joke job. A man fell in th’ lake, don’t you know, and was a-drownin’ when a feller come along an’ pulled ’im out. Th’ man’s preacher said, ‘You ought t’ give that feller
fifty dollars f’r savin’ y’r life!’ Man said, ‘Could I make that twenty-five? I was half dead when he pulled me out.’ ”

“Father Tim?”

“Hope! Come in, come in!” The floodgates had opened.

“Uncle Billy!” she said, extending her hand. “How are you feeling? I’m glad to see you out!”

“I’m goin’ t’ make it!”

Hope looked flushed, thought Father Tim. The winter cold had rouged everyone’s cheeks.

“Father, I wanted to tell you something . . .”

He thought his favorite bookseller looked shy as a dove, and especially pretty into the bargain.

“It’s something special, but I can come back. . . .”

Fred poked his head in the doorway and eyed the crowd. “Sorry about that, sir, I was helpin’ unload a truck.”

“Don’t worry about it, Fred.”

“There’s a call for you. You want to take it out here?”

“I’m a-goin’,” said Uncle Billy. “We’ll see y’uns in th’ funny papers.”

“Thanks for the joke.” said Father Tim. “I’m going to laugh when I get a minute!”

Fred shucked off his heavy gloves. “Uncle Billy, you need a ride home?”

“Nossir, I’m rustin’ like a gate hinge, I need t’ trot home by m’self.”

Father Tim stepped into the shop area and took the cordless from Fred.

“Tim Kavanagh here. . . .

“Yes. Yes, I do,” he said. “For many years. . . .

“Strong character, immeasurably hardworking, honest and forthright in every regard. . . .

“In truth, I can’t say enough good things. . . .

“Aha! Thanks be to God! I hope you’ll attend to it immediately, time is certainly flying. . . . ”

He paced around a Regency chest-on-chest, the phone to his ear.

“Yes, indeed, it will be good for all concerned—you have my word on it. . . .

“Well done, then. God bless you!”

He trotted to the back room, where Hope was gazing at the figures on the shelf.

She turned and smiled at him with genuine fondness. “My goodness, Father, you look like the Cheshire cat!”

“As it turns out, my dear, I have something special to tell you, too! But why don’t you go first?”
She took a deep breath.

In all the years he’d known Hope Winchester, he had never seen her look so . . .
joyful,
that was it!

“I wanted to tell you . . .”

“Yes?”

“ . . . that I’m in love.”

Tears sprang at once to his eyes.

“It’s Scott, Father.”

“Yes,” he said. “And I have no words to express my happiness for you both.”

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes and gave her an enthusiastic hug.

The Good Lord had certainly picked a fine way to fill the empty chair at their Christmas dinner table.

“Oh, and Father . . .” She opened her purse and withdrew an envelope. “Before I forget, I have something to show you. . . .”

The goldfish were swimming about in a crystal bowl, hidden from view in the laundry room; the ice skates were done up in bright paper and tucked away on the floor of his closet; the refrigerator and pantry were loaded with supplies; and he wasn’t making another
trip to Wesley ’til after the thaw—period, zip, end of discussion.

He’d made his list and checked it twice, and was, in a manner of speaking, wrapping things up. The issue of the haircut, however, remained unresolved.

Full of expectation, he trooped up Lilac Road to visit Joe Ivey.

“I only barber when I want to,” said Joe, occupied with a cross-stitch image of Santa Claus disappearing down a chimney.