Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (31 page)

Harley cleared his throat. ‘Sammy wants to come t’ work later, when it warms up. Or work tomorrow when the temperature’s more like fifty-two.’

‘He told you to say this?’

‘Yessir, he did, I cain’t git ’im up.’

‘Tell him to get himself out of bed and I’ll see you at seven-thirty sharp. Did you pick up the trellises?’

‘Yessir. Nice. Real nice.’ Harley did the throat-clearing again. ‘I cain’t git ’im up for nothin’.’ Harley Welch had rather taken a whipping than make this call.

‘We won’t be working outdoors. We’ll paint trellises in the Sunday school. Bring your sawhorses.’

Another tense silence.

‘You might mention to Sammy that I have the capability to change my mind about pressing charges.’

An intake of breath. ‘Yessir. An’ I’ll bring m’ other oil heater. You want to ride down with us? Not havin’ a vehicle . . .’

‘I’ll walk, thanks, and see you there.’

‘Yessir, Rev’rend, seven-thirty.’

‘Sharp.’

‘We’ll be there sharp.’

His tolerance for a stolen cue?

Generous.

His tolerance for a wrecked automobile?

Beyond generous.

His tolerance for not showing up for work on time?

Zero.

•   •   •

‘W
HAT
Y
’
UNS
WANT
FOR
LUNCH
?’ said Harley.

‘The usual,’ he said.

‘Reu-reuben,’ said Sammy. ‘An’ f-f-f-fries.’

Not only had the stuttering not stopped, it was worse.

He’d given the matter into God’s hands; he had other fish to fry.

With a table contrived of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood, the occasional sound of rain on the tin roof, and their heaters going at full gallop, the old Sunday school was a pretty tolerable winter headquarters. Today the trellises, tomorrow the benches—which they had decided to build themselves.

After lunch, he walked up from the church and met Hélène for a run-through. He dreaded the possible street theater with the lock business. He gave her fair warning and handed over the key.

In went the key, click went the lock.

‘C’est merveilleux!’
she said.

From: Emma Newland
To: Fr Tim Kavanagh
Tuesday, 7:15 p.m.

‘Not nearly soon enough!’

‘What did you say?’ Cynthia asked from the kitchen.

‘Just talking to myself.’

‘It’s come to that,’ she said, popping chicken in the oven.

‘What’s Olivia’s report on Hoppy?’

‘He’s been sick, but improving. It’s not malaria, as feared. Home in November, then off again to South Sudan and home for Christmas.’

He called Hélène.

‘How did it go?’

‘
Trés bien
, Father,
trés bien
! I was nervous as a cat, but can’t recall when I’ve known such enjoyment.
Pur plaisir!
I feel I have stood at the crossroads of the world!’

That would be one way of looking at it.

‘Two people from Canada, three from Missouri, and someone from Franklin, Tennessee. The last of the leaf peepers, says Winnie.’

‘And all went well at the bank?’

‘Oh, yes, one hundred and ninety-six dollars, I put in four of my own to make an even number.’

‘Well done, Hélène! Well done! I’ll let Hope know.’

‘Sometimes we go too long, do we not, Father, for want of refreshment of our souls? I love music, but I had forgotten how I love words. And people can be rather enjoyable, as well,
vous ne pensez pas?
’

•   •   •

L
IGHTS
. C
OFFEE
. And the roar of the Hoover.

Coot was a regular German hausfrau. In the corners, tight to the baseboards, under chairs and tables. All this preceded by the beating of chair cushions and the dusting of a grim rubber plant from a customer relieved to be shed of it.

‘’At’s done,’ said Coot, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Now, let me show y’ somethin’.’ Coot held up a book, grinning to beat the band. ‘Looky here!’ he said, pointing to the second word in the title. ‘C-A-T.
Cat!
’

‘Yes! Wonderful!’

‘Now, looky here.’ Coot pointed to the fifth word in the title. ‘H-A-T.
Hat!
’

He whistled, gleeful.

‘But I ain’t got them in-between words yet.’

‘You’ll get ’em,’ he said. ‘You’ll get ’em.’

•   •   •

T
HE
M
USE
TRUCK
WAS
RUNNING
LATE
this morning. He stood at the window, looking for the truck with the avidity of a
Christian Science Monitor
subscriber. Had his brain ossified? Was he carrying around a rock up there?

When he saw the truck coming, he stepped outside and caught the delivery in midair.

Two for One: Today’s Helpful Hints

We are big into clean, happy air, how about you??

One: To make your rooms smell fa-bu-lous, try a few drops of lavender oil in a glass of really hot water and yayyy, you have destroyed unwanted cooking odors and doggie smells if you have a dog&^.

Two: to clean your bottles Cut up a raw potato and put the pieces in the bottle with a tablespoon of salt and two tablespoons of water and shake. Every stain gone in a flash! You will not believe it!

Susan, Joe, Avice and Wilma Faye Are Taking Care of Our Own. Are You?

Dear Vanita, here is a pic of a bag of trash I picked up on the road to Farmer. I power walk out there which is crazy because I could get killed in a heartbeat. If people are not driving on the shoulder they are driving in the middle of the road and saying it’s because they pay taxes on both sides!

Anyway, by the time I get home I have usually picked up about seven pounds of garbage thrown out by cretans (I looked this up, it fits exactly), otherwise known as rednecks. Yours sincerely and go, Panthers! Susan Glover, age 56, Rural Route 4

Hi I am Joe Zwieback like the toast. Here is a picture of me from last year’s two-foot powder blowing snow off the walk of somebody who did not have a shovel, a blower or even a job.
You cant see me for the snow flying but that is my dog Howdy a real trooper—me and him moved down here from Minnesota for the climate ha ha. Thank you.

Vanita honey

I am setting here on my loveseat with little Lisa May who is two. I am taking care of Mitford by taking care of Lisa May whose mother my next door neighbor on route four has to work two jobs. My great grandson Buddy who is twelve took this picture on his phone and printed it out at school. I am also taking care of Buddy for my DIL who is PG and works for NCDOT. So that is my 2 cents worth. Thank you and God bless you. Avice Porter

I am nine yers old and taking care of Mitford by being nice to people who don’t even deserve it. My Sunday School teacher says don’t worry about being nice to people who deserve it—that is easy. So here is a picture of me being nice to somebody (he is the blur on the right) who threw his stupid YUKKY lunch bag in our yard. I very nicely asked him to pick it up but when he didn’t I chased him down and gave him a whipping he will NOT forget. Yours truly, Wilma Faye Barkley, Dogwood Lane

Hessie Mayhew opened the door and stuck her head in.

‘Just wanted to say that is not
my
Helpful Hint in today’s paper, I hope you know that.’

‘I figured,’ he said.

‘While my Hints come from personal experience, she gets hers from a book. Who washes their bottles anymore? Do you wash your bottles?’

‘I don’t really have any to wash.’

‘You see? Useless, outdated information!’

The door jangled shut, and opened again to admit Esther Cunningham, who had broken out in a smattering of her old blotches.

‘When you were down at th’ church,’ she said, ‘we mostly saw you in th’ pulpit and out runnin’. Now you’re right here in one spot where we can get at you—in a manner of speakin’.’

He grinned. ‘I feel pretty gotten at, all right. How are you, Esther?’

‘I’m thinkin’ of pitchin’ my hat in again. What do you think?’

‘Do you really want all that commotion?’

‘I like commotion. I miss commotion. I operate on commotion.’

‘What does Ray think?’

‘He thinks I’m a nut case—what else is new? You reckon there’d be any opposition? Andrew Gregory says he wouldn’t run against me, provin’ what a brilliant thinker he is, after all.’

‘You were certainly one of the best . . .’

‘
One
of th’ best?’

He laughed. ‘You’re tough.’

‘I am not tough. I’m soft as th’ inside of a cathead biscuit, that’s why I was a good mayor. I don’t want you to talk about this, you hear? I want to keep it off th’ street ’til I’m good ’n ready.’

‘Got it. What would be your platform?’

‘Lord only knows. You think th’ old one still works?’

‘In my opinion, it’s working as we speak.’

‘We might need somethin’ fresh. Ray’s messin’ with it, he’s good at that. You know I’d have to hammer th’ merchants. They’re goin’ to sleep at th’ wheel.’

‘Hammering the merchants is your long suit.’

‘Can I count on you?’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said. In truth, he was perfectly happy with Andrew Gregory’s administration.

‘What improvements do you think we need? I’m doin’ a limited survey. Very limited.’

‘The trail behind the hospital,’ he said. ‘A waste of good real estate. Overgrown, littered with debris. Isn’t that town property?’

‘It was deeded to th’ town in 1927. Twelve acres. The American Legion laid out th’ trail in ’52.’

‘Needs attention. That done, people will use it for the right reasons.’

‘I think it’s time to raise taxes. I promised I’d never raise taxes, but that was then, this is now. That dog won’t hunt anymore.’

‘What will we do with the tax dollars?’

‘Parkin’, for one thing. We’ve got to have it.’

‘Where would we put it?’

‘I say tear down Evie’s old house, put it on Main.’

‘I don’t know, Esther, you’ll have a fight on your hands.’

‘No pain, no gain.’

‘People are getting interested in the plan for an inn on that spot.’

‘Do we need parkin’ worse than we need six rooms with smelly potpourri and four-poster beds? I ask you! Main is th’ only place that makes sense. Otherwise parkin’ has to go to th’ old shoe barn—too far away, then we have to provide shuttles.’

‘There could be some traffic congestion if you put it on Main.’

‘We’d run ’em in on Main and out on Maple.’

‘Maple is a mighty narrow street. And what about charging for parking? You know locals don’t want to pay for parking.’

Esther gave him a look for which she was noted. ‘You let me handle it, Father.’

‘Glad to!’ he said.

•   •   •

‘D
ARLING
! Any business up there?’

‘Spotty,’ he said.

‘You have a hundred and seventy-four votes.’

‘Never-ending.’

‘I need peppermint tea. Can you stop by the Local?’

‘Absolutely. What else?’

‘Two lemons. Lace will join us for lunch on Saturday. Peppermint is her favorite. Now. I have two great surprises.’

He had never enjoyed surprises, but people continued to foist them on him.

‘Guess who has a kitten?’

‘Not Violet.’

‘We do. Sammy brought it over. Wait ’til you see it.’

‘Sammy? A kitten?’

‘He said it needed a good home. Sammy seemed different, somehow. More . . . thoughtful, maybe. Something . . . I think it was the kitten, he was very tender with it.’

‘What kind of kitten?’

‘White as chalk with one black ear. Adorable. I was making the pimiento cheese for Lace’s visit and Sammy brought it over in a box. So I gave him a grilled cheese and we closed the door to the hall and put the kitten on the floor and he was perfectly at home.’

‘It’s a he? How does Violet feel about this?’

‘We don’t know yet. She’s on top of the refrigerator, where she goes to think things through.’

‘Do I need to drop by the hardware for a litter box?’

‘Sammy brought one.’

Sammy Barlowe had put two and two together? In this lifetime? Unbelievable!

‘I named him Truman.’

‘For Harry?’

‘For Truman Capote, who threw a famous Black and White Ball.’

‘Aha.’

Their big life was getting bigger by the minute.

‘So here’s the other surprise. Someone I think you will like very much is walking up to see you right now.’

‘Who?’

She laughed. ‘It’s a surprise.’

•   •   •

‘F
ATHER
T
IM
?’

The priest held forth his hand. Blue eyes. A dazzling smile. Ruddy cheeks. Muscles, even.

No introduction needed. He threw his arms around Father Brad and slapped him on the back, jubilant.

‘Are we ever glad to see you!’ he said.

S
now.

He stood at the window and watched it fall, listening to Vivaldi’s ‘Winter.’

Unpredicted precipitation had begun around ten this morning—a thin offering which he thought would soon be over. But it had increased in volume and beauty and at eleven-thirty the town was vested in white.

Abe sailed by the window, threw up his hand, headed across to the post office. Mitford School had closed an hour ago; he saw buses ferrying home those they had recently delivered. He wondered whether the inveterate reader runs for a book when it snows, or if snow itself is entertainment enough.

A car nosed into a parking space across the street. Someone with mighty long legs was getting out, then waiting for traffic to pass. Beautiful, he could see that.

Good Lord! It was Lace.

Flashbacks of Lace teaching Harley about buffalo, and bark canoes. Lace bleeding from the lacerations to her back. Lace kneeling in the street beside his badly injured dog . . .

He hurried to the curb, glanced both ways, and met her halfway.

‘Thanks, Father! What a welcome committee!’

Snow in her hair, on the shoulders of her coat.

‘I left at six this morning,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy to be home. It’s lovely—like a Christmas card.’

Inside, he helped her out of her winter wrappings—coat, scarf, gloves—as proud as any father. Lace Harper wasn’t a girl anymore; she was a young woman at ease in her skin.

‘I decided to stop and see you first, Olivia’s in a meeting ’til one.’

‘Great to have you home. How about a cup of tea?’

‘Tea! You have tea!’

He had bought two boxes of peppermint—one for Happy Endings, just in case. He plugged in the kettle.

‘Do you like running the bookstore?’

‘Absolutely. And all for a good cause.’

‘Dooley says you and Sammy and Harley are redoing the rose garden at church.’

‘Can’t wait for you to see it next spring. We’re pretty excited.’ He put a tea bag in a cup.

Barnabas got up and made his way to the one who, with Dooley, had saved him from certain death after the hit-and-run incident.

‘Barn! You look so handsome in your bandanna. I’ve missed you.’

Barnabas received her affections, sniffed her boots, sprawled at her feet.

‘How did you know what you wanted to do with your life, Father? I’m constantly trying to figure that out.’

‘I’m not sure I figured it out. I was chiefly motivated by the notion of changing my father’s heart if I became a priest.’

‘Did you change his heart?’

‘I don’t think my priesthood ever mattered to him in the way I hoped it would. God knows. What do you want to do with your life?’

‘If . . . Dooley and I get married, I would like to work in the practice with him. But would that be . . . I don’t know, enough?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I wonder about making a commitment to the practice and then discovering it isn’t enough. I love art, I feel I chose the right major, but I don’t feel I have the luxury of becoming an artist. I should probably just learn to make a mean roast chicken with fingerling potatoes.’

‘You can make roast chicken and pursue your art, one doesn’t exclude the other.’

She smiled. ‘But if I pursue my art, would there be money for roast chicken?’

‘You have a point.’

‘I don’t know. I hope I’m not wasting my time in this major.’

‘God will use it for good, is my guess. He doesn’t like to waste anything; he’s thrifty as a New Englander.’

‘If . . .’ she said again, but didn’t finish the thought. ‘We’d like to have children. Four, actually.’ Her cheeks colored. ‘There would be geese and goats and chickens—and Dooley is talking about cattle and the children could have horses. Think of all the fertilizer for the fields and garden! And there’s that wonderful pond and the big creek and the woods . . . we want the whole hundred acres to be chemical-free. We know we can’t save the world, but we can be kind to our hundred acres.’

Here was a veritable cornucopia of information. Clearly, Lace was the go-to on such matters of the heart, not Dooley.

He was grinning like a kid. ‘If anything were ever enough,’ he said, ‘that should be it right there.’

‘In the end, it all seems too much to contemplate. And it’s such a long time to . . . finalize things. Dooley has to finish college, then four years of vet school, and I have two more years . . .’

She put her hand to her forehead. ‘I just don’t know . . . the world
is so big and the opportunities so totally endless. You and Cynthia have always helped me figure things out . . .’

‘Maybe it’s too soon for you to try and figure things out. Know that God has a plan for your future. Watch and wait for his timing, and when it comes, hitch a ride. You’ll know.’

She sighed, gave him one of her ravishing smiles. ‘You’re right. I’m always fretting over something.’

‘Let’s have another look at your ring. Oh, yes. Beautiful!’

‘It’s a friendship ring.’

‘Right.’

‘Which leaves everything between us wide open. I really wanted a ring that, you know, said this is one thing, at least, that’s for sure, we can face all the unknown stuff together.’

He had no salve for this.

‘At the same time,’ she said, looking brighter, ‘I’m glad for it to be a friendship ring.’

‘Good!’

‘Because he is my best friend—most of the time. And I really work on that being enough. People tell us to wait, not to get married while he’s in vet school, there’s a lot of divorce in vet school. But six years . . .’

‘When we were in Ireland, you and Dooley had a conflict.’

‘I punched him. That was bad, I know it was bad. That’s what was done to me, so it’s what I learned to do, but I know it’s wrong and I don’t want to do it anymore. It’s no excuse, but he was making me crazy with being late, sometimes for hours.’

‘He and I had that issue.’ He handed her the cup of steaming tea. ‘Drove me nuts. Maybe it’s because he never had any control over what was happening to him as a boy. Being late was somehow a way of taking charge. Is he doing better?’

‘Yes. He knows that making people wait is wrong, just like I know that punching him is wrong. We struggle, Father. Instead of acting out the old stuff we were brought up with, we’re trying to create our
own relationship. Something . . . brand-new.’ Her amber eyes were flecked with green.

‘You love him, I can see it.’

‘More than anything.’

That alone should be enough, he thought, but of course it never is. Courage has to come in there somewhere, and perseverance and forbearance and patience and all the rest. A job of work, as Uncle Billy would say, but worth it and then some.

•   •   •

I
T
WAS
CHILLY
in the store. He left the wool scarf wound about his neck.

He had just unwrapped his sandwich when an older couple came in, holding hands. He didn’t often see people holding hands these days.

‘Ralph Henshaw!’ said the man. ‘Retired from vacuum cleaner sales in Ohio to the comparative ease of the mountains of North Carolina!’

‘Ralph, Tim Kavanagh.’ They shook hands.

‘My wife, Delores.’

‘Call me Dot,’ she said.

‘Happy to see you. How may I help this morning?’

‘Well, for several months, Dot and I have considered a move from First Baptist in Wesley to one of your fellowships in Mitford, Lord’s Chapel being a strong consideration. From what I’ve heard from my golf buddy, a lot of Baptists become Episcopalian, though Episcopalians strongly resist becoming Baptist.’

‘I would agree with that,’ he said.

‘We thought a bookstore would be a neutral place to ask a few questions about your local churches.’

‘Glad to help,’ he said.

‘One thing I’m wonderin’ is if real wine at communion has anything to do with th’ drinkin’ those people are famous for.’

‘There’s a thought.’

‘I certainly don’t believe grape juice does the job,’ said Ralph.

‘Me neither,’ said Dot.

‘But I do wonder if a taste of the real thing at the altar is what gets them started in the first place. Anyways, Dot and I figure we’re old enough to take a little vino and not let it affect our entire lives.’

‘Right,’ said Dot.

‘I’ve heard those jokes about Baptists,’ said Ralph, ‘how they won’t speak to you in the liquor store, and some of that is true . . .’

‘Definitely,’ said Dot.

‘Truth is, us Baptists like a little shooter now and then, just not right out in your face with every Tom, Dick, and Harry lookin’ on.

‘Now, here’s the big consideration. We’ve heard that Episcopalians can be more than a little on the stiff side. I have to tell you, we tried that crowd over in Sandusky, but only one time. It was the solemnest-looking bunch we ever came across. Right, Dot?’

‘Really,’ said Dot.

‘Here’s what else I heard. The other Sunday your pastor down at Lord’s Chapel cried. Right out in front of everybody. Not talkin’, not preachin, just bawlin’. That might be a little liberal for us. So we thought if things don’t work out down there, how about the Presbyterians?’

‘Talk about solemn,’ he said.

•   •   •

H
E
COULDN
’
T
STOP
LAUGHING
.

‘What’s going on?’ said Abe.

‘I just realized I had my scarf . . . around my neck . . . and they couldn’t see my collar . . .’

‘That’s funny? No. You want funny, have you heard the one about Rabbi Goldman and the Brooklyn Bridge?’

He was starved for laughter; it was a feast he didn’t want to end.

•   •   •

E
ACH
TIME
H
ÉLÈNE
’
S
MANDATE
came to mind, he rejected it. He had no idea what to do; it was out of his hands entirely. As for their work this week at the church, it had gone well enough. Sammy hadn’t balked, nor had he talked. He was silent, did his work, took the occasional direction, gave the occasional curt suggestion. There was no indication that the scene at the hospital had happened.

Hélène Pringle’s intentions may have gotten through to Harley, who watched Sammy like a hawk and demanded that any spitting be done outside the Sunday school, period, no matter if it was in ‘serious bad shape.’ An alpha Harley was a marvel to witness.

•   •   •

M
ARCIE
G
UTHRIE
DID
THE
BOOKKEEPING
, handled their online business, and ordered the inventory, which gave him time to actually read a book. He had heard of booksellers who never read, and didn’t care to be one.

He had to find a book for himself, one to look up from when someone came in. ‘Always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it,’ P. J. O’Rourke had said. He must stick that on the corkboard.

He was turning from the window when he saw the limo heading south on Main. He threw up his hand, waved, heard the horn as the car passed from view. K.D. would be going down the mountain with her monogrammed glasses case, retrieved yesterday from Lew Boyd.

After a separation of sixty-two years, Kim Dorsay had just spent four days with her twin sister. He and Cynthia had seen them last night at dinner, which Kim had cooked in the rented lodge in the hills. It had been a pretty phenomenal meal, strictly Italian, with a goodly quantity of Prosecco. He’d told Uncle Billy’s basic repertoire, begging their pardon for its hopeless rusticity, and they had all done
a good bit of laughing. Kim clued them in on people he’d never heard of, except possibly Dustin Hoffman.

In the end, he and Cynthia shared the odd feeling that they’d gained a sister or two, themselves.

•   •   •

M
ISS
M
OONEY
OPENED
THE
DOOR
and blew in with the snow.

‘Just letting you know you won’t be troubled with us today, Father. We are
dispersed
!’ She shook out her wool cap, unleashing a tangle of curls.

‘Hooray for snow days. How is Hastings coming along?’

‘He loved the new book he bought and is saving for another, so we must put our thinking caps on. He’s been out for a few days. Low-grade fever, I’m told, not eating or drinking.’

‘An interesting boy, to say the least. I see our new reader is making progress.’

‘Coot is very quick. His reading skills simply pop out and astonish me. An odd thing—he’s frightened by the capital letter!’

‘A candidate for e. e. cummings, perhaps?’

They had a laugh.

By teaching Coot to read, Miss Mooney had reminded him of something rather wonderful—there really was balm in Gilead.

•   •   •

‘T
HE
P
OWDER
P
IG
HAS
ARRIVED
, but no chunder and no chicken necks, please.’

‘Chunder and chicken necks?’

‘Ski talk! Snow does that to me. I was in such a hurry the other day, thought I’d come in and be civil.’

Father Brad indicated his gear—wool scarf, jeans, hiking boots, hat, fleece-lined jacket. ‘Vestments for Rite Three. What’s going on today, Father?’

‘You’re the most we’ve had going on in some time. What do you think of our village now that you’ve been around the block, so to speak?’

‘Looks to be all apple and no worm.’

‘How about a good bit of apple, and definitely some worm?’

‘We’ll all be human together, then.’

‘I just made a fresh pot of coffee . . .’

‘Half a cup, thanks, I’m meeting a realtor here in twenty minutes. Leaving for Colorado first thing in the morning, wanted to touch base again. Where’s Barnabas?’

‘Not in the display window, too cold. Probably on the heat vent at American History. We’ll rattle his treat bag.’

Barnabas appeared, yawning. He thought his dog looked especially freewheeling in the red bandanna. Father Brad squatted, took something from his jacket pocket. ‘You’re a wise and handsome fellow. See what you think of this—organic oatmeal with spelt flour.’