Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (27 page)

‘Is Sammy home?’

‘Let me step in there an’ see if he’s back.’ Static, rustling. ‘Nossir, he ain’t. He went out a while ago, said he was goin’ down th’ street to Lew’s.’

It could have been anybody, the garage door had been left open for days because the remote needed a battery and he hadn’t gotten around to it. But he knew the truth and it made him sick. Literally.

‘Does he have a license?’

‘Yessir, he has.’

‘The Mustang isn’t in the garage. I’ll keep you posted.’

He walked out to the garage again and stared at the empty space beside the Mazda, as if his car might reappear, as if he’d only imagined it missing.

Should they go looking? Kenny was working tonight; he could drive around with Harley. But why? If the car was anything like the cue, the Mustang would be back in place at some point, and what would he, Tim, do then? His stomach did the churning thing it had done when, as a boy, he was faced with crisis.

Sammy had kicked it up a notch. It was the way of rage and woundedness to keep making things worse. The third-born of the Barlowe boys was clearly begging for punishment, and the whole scenario was skidding off the cliff.

He wanted to call Dooley, but wouldn’t, of course. His wife, so fond of the early bedtime, sat up with him. Kenny and Harley arrived at the side door at eleven-fifteen, in a downpour.

Alerting police about a teenager in a stolen car didn’t seem a good idea, but they were changing their minds when the doorbell buzzed at half-past eleven.

They bolted along the hall as a group.

Joe Joe.

‘He’s all right.’

‘Thanks be to God.’

‘But your Mustang’s totaled.’

Rain drummed on the porch roof.

‘Where and how?’

‘He ran it down a bank on the bypass, comin’ around th’ curve there at th’ lawn-mower repair. I’m a man short tonight and had to be on call, I happened to come around th’ curve right behind him.’

‘Where’s he at?’ said Harley.

‘In my car yonder with Officer Greene. A little banged up, a cut on his forehead. I offered to get medical assistance but he didn’t want any. He looks okay, but I have to tell you it’s a miracle. Did you let him take th’ car, Father?’

‘It was in bad shape. Transmission. Clutch. You name it. That could have been the cause . . .’

It was a blowing rain, slanting onto the porch.

‘Will you step in?’

‘No, sir, I’ll track up your floor, I’ve got to keep movin’. Did you know he was takin’ your car?’

‘He was not authorized to take it. No.’

‘Things could have been worse. We’ve lost two down that bank a little farther up. He said he didn’t care one way or th’ other if he killed himself.’

‘Lord A’mighty,’ Harley said, stricken.

‘Seat belt?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Was he speeding, what was he doing?’

‘Went around th’ curve left of center, looked like he lost control, maybe hit a slick spot. No alcohol or drugs found in th’ car. He’s clean as far as I can tell. Do you want to press charges?’

‘I don’t want to press charges. No.’

‘He’s free to go, then. But I’m givin’ him a citation.’

‘That’s th’ ticket!’ said Harley.

‘You’ll need to keep an eye on ’im, Father. That goes for you, too, Harley. I believe he lives with you.’

‘He does. Yessir.’

‘Y’all can walk out with me,’ said Joe Joe. ‘As for th’ wrecker service, we work on rotation or you can give me a name to call.’

‘Lew,’ he said, taking an umbrella from the stand. ‘Call Lew. Will you file a report?’

‘We will, but we’ll try to keep it quiet.’

They processed to the curb, soaked. Joe Joe opened the car door. Sammy climbed out, eyes down, a smeared gash on his forehead.

‘I don’t want to see you out here again doin’ anything you shouldn’t be doin’,’ said the chief. ‘Not even once. You got that?’

Sammy gave a curt nod without looking at Joe Joe.

An old liquor-runner eager to please authorities, Harley shook Joe Joe’s hand. ‘An’ congratulations on bein’ chief!’

Rain hammered the umbrella; he watched Sammy and Kenny and Harley make a run for it as the patrol car pulled away.

Curious that a boy who didn’t care if he lived or died had buckled up.

H
e turned the sign around to
OPEN
and posted a quote.

No two persons ever read the same book.—Edmund Wilson

‘Nor does any one person ever reread the same book!’ he said to his dog.

He was grinding coffee beans when his backpack whooped with laughter. Would he ever remember to ask somebody to change the blasted ringtone?

‘Hey, buddy.’

‘Hey, Dad. Just talked to Kenny. What are you going to do about last night?’

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘Nothing? How can you do nothing?’

‘He’s expecting something, but I’m going to do nothing.’

‘No disrespect, Dad, but that doesn’t make sense.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Man. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Me, either. I’ll appreciate your prayers.’

‘Okay, so I don’t know where you’re going with this, but you know. Right?’

Dooley sounded hopeful, even confident that his dad, the priest, was on top of things.

‘Actually, I don’t know.’

‘I hate that he did this, this is nuts, he knows better. I’m sorry.’

They each had their own kind of astonishment to deal with. ‘I’ll ask Sammy to come with me to Lew’s tomorrow morning. It’ll be good for him to see the car. Besides, I need to get my hog-ring kit out of the glove compartment.’

‘Your what?’

‘Don’t trouble your mind,’ he said. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’ He was grabbing at straws, he was trusting in God, he was hanging on. ‘How was rehearsal Monday night?’

•   •   •

H
ESSIE
M
AYHEW
JANGLED
IN
, white as a sheet. It was refreshing to see somebody without a tan.

‘Father, I need to talk.’ Hessie peered around the store, which was empty of customers, leaned over the counter, and spoke in a voice so low he had to lean toward her.

‘I think I’m losin’ it.’

‘In what way?’

‘You know my Lady Spring pieces for th’
Muse
.’

‘Of course. You’re always good to remind us not to plant ’til May fifteenth.’

‘That’s exactly what I need to talk about. I couldn’t say this to Reverend Browning—he’s the nicest man in th’ world, but he’s my preacher.’

She looked around again. ‘I need to talk to somebody else’s preacher. Because I wouldn’t exactly want Reverend Browning to think I’m losin’ it.’

Hessie was clearly distraught. ‘I was writing a story on Mitford School and how they’re givin’ an art show at Hope House.’

‘Wonderful!’

‘But I ended th’ story by typing, Don’t plant ’til May fifteenth.’ She looked aghast.

‘Always good advice,’ he said.

‘But not in mid-October, Father,
not
in mid-October.’

‘Ah.’

‘And
not
in a story about children’s art.’

‘Yes, well . . .’

‘What I’m wondering is, what do people
do
when they’re losin’ it? I thought you might know if there’s a test people can take.’

‘If I knew of such a test,’ he said, ‘I would take it immediately.’

‘I read that if you can recognize the smell of cinnamon, you do
not
have Alzheimer’s.’

‘I read that, too,’ he said. ‘I headed straight to the spice cabinet.’

‘And what happened?’

‘I recognized the smell of cinnamon.’ He had been very happy with that outcome.

‘Same with me, but maybe that’s not the best way to tell.’

‘Actually, I’m not so sure you’re losing it. I misplaced my glasses the other day and for some reason opened the toaster oven and there they were.’

‘No! Was it on?’

‘It was not. Why they ended up in there is a complete mystery.’

‘You were thinking,’ she said.

‘That’s right. I was.’

‘Our minds stay so cluttered.’

‘They do.’

‘It’s modern times,’ she said.

‘True.’

‘I always feel better when I talk to you, Father. Reverend Browning
is th’ nicest man in the world, but . . .’ Hessie sighed. ‘Actually, that isn’t the only confession I need to make.’

He didn’t know Presbyterians made confession, except as outlined in James 5:16.

‘Are you sure there’s nobody else in here?’

‘Just Barnabas.’

‘It’s Vanita Bentley,’ she said. ‘I could wring her neck. There!’ Hessie’s breathing was rapid; her face colored. ‘I said it and I’m glad.’

‘Why don’t we sit down?’

He led her to the Poetry hideout, where a single wing chair resided. For himself, he pulled in a chair from the Children’s section.

‘One thing you can say about Hessie Mayhew, Father—I am as honest as the day is long. A very desirable characteristic, if you ask me, considering th’ people in today’s media.

‘Vanita’s young and I’m old, so maybe our ages play some part in this, but look at Mike Wallace, he was a hundred if he was a day, and he kept his audience, people just loved him to death in a manner of speakin’. So you don’t have to be young to be great, Father, right? You must surely find that true for yourself in your golden years.

‘But here’s th’ thing. She can’t spell for shoot, I mean for
shoot
. Plus she can’t write for love nor money and all those exclamation marks drive me up the wall. Don’t they just drive
you
up th’
wall
? If I had a nickel for every one, I’d be rich as cream and on a cruise to the North Pole to look climate change in the eye.

‘As for news material, she jumps all over the big stories before you can have your coffee in th’ mornin’. Up an’ down th’ street with that bloomin’ microphone stuck in every face an’ if there’s not a big story, what does she do? She makes one up! Like th’ Leading Citizen angle, it just came out of her tiny little head! Lord knows, I’m goin’ to hell in a handbasket for thinkin’ that, much less sayin’ it out loud.

‘But Father, I have read Cowper and Wordsworth and all those people you’re so fond of, and tried to educate my mind and
venerate beauty and lead people to think higher thoughts as in my Lady Spring columns. But Vanita? Th’ highest thought she ever had was how to dye her old go-go boots black so she could wear ’em to a funeral.’

Hessie’s blood pressure must be through the roof. He sprinted to the coffee station for a cup of water. ‘Drink this,’ he said, using his wife’s directive. How fast could the ambulance get here if needed? Ten minutes?

‘So you see,’ said Hessie, looking tearful, ‘after fifteen years of faithfully reporting th’
facts
, th’
truth
, th’
verities
of this mortal life, Vanita gets all the good stories . . .’

And there they came—the floodwaters.

‘. . . without even knowin’ where to put a comma!’ she bawled.

He trudged to the counter and returned with the box of Kleenex.

He was not retired from his old job, not by a long shot. He had merely moved his business up the street. Actually, there were only a couple of differences between priesting and his new occupation—he didn’t have to vest for this, or fool with the weekly pew bulletin.

•   •   •

‘O
UR
SEXTON
WAS
COMING
HOME
from Wesley late last night.’ Bill Swanson was calling on the bookstore line. ‘Said he saw a wrecker towin’ your Mustang. Are you all right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Just fine.’

‘Must have been somebody else’s, this one was totaled,’ he said. ‘Speaking of totaled, Bob Duncan’s boy, you know Bob, just had a bad accident on his bike, they took him to Children’s, but they’re out of beds and sent him to the hospital over here. The parish is going to get behind the new wing with you; I know you’ve been a big part of Children’s for a number of years.’

‘Not so big, Bill, but thanks. Thanks for anything you can do. This will be good medicine for the parish.’

‘Called to say you’re making a world of difference in the gardens. Can’t thank you enough.’

‘We’re just getting started.’

‘We could have the Youth Group give you a hand, but they’re pretty scattered.’

‘It’s my contribution to the plate.’ He wanted to work one-on-one with Sammy for a time, then maybe they would rouse a group.

‘Just so you know, Father—the parish is grateful.’

People on benches, talking, resting, looking up at the lacework of branches . . .

He tried to resurrect his earlier pleasure in that prospect, but could not.

•   •   •

‘I
HAVE
A
WHOLE
HOUR
TODAY
. I’m actually goin’ to read a poem.’

‘Congratulations!’

‘It’s sort of a payback,’ said Winnie, ‘for usin’ that space all these years.’

He was wiping off the sales counter, dumping extra change into the cash box, going through the motions.

‘Somethin’ I’ve never understood,’ she said, ‘is why bookstores let you read their books and magazines and put ’em back on the shelf like nothin’ ever happened. What if I let people sample my stuff? Like take a big chomp out of a jelly donut an’ put it back an’ keep movin’?’

‘You have a point,’ he said, smiling at Winnie—he could never resist smiling at Winnie. ‘You’re in early.’

‘They went through four trays of Danish this mornin’ an’ I don’t know how many cinnamon buns and turnovers, not to mention crème horns. Now they’re all out there clutterin’ up th’ parkway—it’s th’ leaves, you know. Leaves are really, really good for business.’

A kind of haze hovered about his spirit, like particulate matter over a valley.

‘I have a great idea,’ said Winnie, ‘but don’t tell Thomas. Our anniversary is comin’ up soon. Not our weddin’ anniversary—this is th’ anniversary of when we met on th’ cruise.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Winnie had taken off on a cruise with Velma Mosely and returned to Mitford with Thomas, a crackerjack baker now her husband.

‘Remember that great tan I came back with?’

‘Maybe. Sort of.’

‘An’ Thomas, he was totally bronze when I met him. So, I’m gettin’ us a spray tan package in honor of that wonderful time of our lives. It’s a two-for-one, this week only.’

It was viral, no stopping it. ‘And how many years?’

‘Five great years. Or eight thousand two hundred and fifty lemon squares. Give or take.’

‘
Tempus fugit!
Does Thomas ever get a break? I don’t see him hanging out up here.’

‘I cover for him every single Tuesday,’ she said. ‘Golf! He’s a golf maniac!’ And off she hasted to the poets.

He’d lain awake until two this morning and hadn’t run since Saturday, he was a wreck. There was the momentary image of turning the sign around, going home, sleeping. He stared out the window, checking the street, as the limousine glided into the parking space in front of the store.

He instinctively made the sign of the cross.

‘Father Kavanagh?’ The driver stepped inside, removed his cap.

‘Tim Kavanagh. Yes. Good morning.’

‘Wade Truitt.’ The driver walked to the sales counter, extended his hand.

‘A pleasure, Mr. Truitt.’

‘There’s someone in the car who would like to speak with you, sir.’

‘Who might that be, may I ask?’

‘Would you have time to step outside?’

There was the sense of being poised to dive without knowing if there was water in the pool. He had history with a black car with tinted windows, the kind of history that had soured him on the notion of fancy automobiles in general.

‘Winnie,’ he called. ‘I’m stepping out a minute.’

‘Take your time,’ she said, ‘you’re covered.’

It was as if he hadn’t quite seen the street before, or had seen it a very long time ago. Everything was clarified, as after a washing rain.

The driver opened the car door and he stooped and looked inside.

Irene McGraw.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Come in. And thank you.’

He climbed in, feeling foolish, as if this might be a joke and he the butt of it. He sat at the extreme end of the leather seat; the driver closed the door with a subtle click.

‘Who am I, Father?’

‘Why . . . you’re Irene.’

‘Irene who?’

‘Irene
McGraw
. I don’t understand.’ The voice, the clothes, the jewelry . . . not Irene, and yet . . .

She looked at him with an odd gravity. She was somehow more Irene than Irene; he was profoundly struck by her beauty. ‘This is life-changing for me. You have just acknowledged . . .’ She drew in her breath. ‘. . . something I’ve tried to confirm for several months—all my life, really. It is a great shock.’

He became aware of an insinuating fragrance—jasmine, perhaps—the interior of the car was infused with it.

‘Such a deluge of feeling,’ she said. ‘One wants something so fiercely, and when it comes . . . I’ve spent most of my life giving expression to the emotions of imaginary characters, now I must feel all this, own all this, for myself. It’s overwhelming.’ She bowed her head and put her hands to her face, weeping, yet silent as stone.

He was stunned by having moved from the airy vault of the
bookstore into a confined space shared with someone he knew and yet didn’t know at all, only to be jarred awake by this hushed and visceral suffering.

What appeared to be an open script of some sort lay on the facing seat with a copy of this week’s
Muse
, a few magazines, a box of chocolates, a blow dryer . . .

‘I’m sorry, Father.’ She rummaged through a large bag. ‘My tissues . . . I don’t know. I’ve surely called you out of something you need to be doing.’

‘Not at all. May I ask . . . who you are?’

‘I’m Kim Dorsay.’ She extended her hand, and he took it. ‘From Los Angeles. Thank you for your kindness. I’ve been reading about you in your newspaper.’

‘Not that!’ he said.

She smiled a little. ‘I’ve been a subscriber for several months, since we found information that led to Mitford. I’ve even thought how I’d love to live here, how peaceful it must be. I’ve been seeking peace for a very long time.’

She searched again in the bag. ‘Do you know Irene well?’

‘Not well, but for some years.’

‘Is her husband Raymond or Chester?’

‘Chester. He died last February.’