Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (33 page)

‘Then somethin’ went BUMP!’ He jumped when he hollered that word, he couldn’t help hisself.

‘Good gravy!’ His mama opened her eyes. ‘What was that?’

‘He’s comin’ in now! He’s steppin’ on th’ mat, he’s comin’ in th’ house!’ He had goose bumps all up his right leg.

‘Who’s comin’ in th’ house?’

‘Th’ CAT! An’ here’s what he says.’ He ’bout near remembered this word for word. ‘Says we gon’ have lots of fun that is funny.’ Yessir, he was gettin’ the hang of this.

‘Fun that is funny. I sure like that,’ she said. ‘Keep a-goin’.’

He thought she sounded tired, real tired.

‘Now here in a little bit, th’ cat is throwin’ a fish up in th’ air. Ol’ fish hollers out, says, Put me down, I do not want to fall. An’ th’ cat, he says, I ain’t gon’ let you fall!’

Patpatpatpat . . .

‘You ain’t gon’ let me fall, are ye, son?’

He was startled by this, by the way she was breathing. ‘No, ma’am, I ain’t. Not for nothin’.’

She was needin’ a little pick-me-up, he could tell. ‘You want you a dip?’ He moved her walker and got in next to her bed and looked on her night table for the snuff jar. A little dip always perked her up.

Her hands was crossed over her chest, her eyes closed, her breathing had calmed down. ‘I’ve got all I want of ever’thing. You’re a good son.’

His heart flopped around. She’d never said nothin’ like that before. He didn’t know what to answer back.

Nossir, she was not actin’ like Beulah Mae Hendrick. She had to eat a bite, even if he had to call the neighbor woman to make her do it.

He went to the kitchen and gobbled the donut in three bites and made a bowl of hot oatmeal with sugar and the last of the milk and listened to the rain chiming in the downspout. They said over town it might turn to ice by mornin’. He cocked his head to hear it better, cupped his hand about his ear. It was as good as any music on the radio.

‘Mama!’ he said, carrying the warm bowl to her bed. ‘Looky here.’

Her mouth was open but she wadn’t snoring. He passed the oatmeal close to her pillow so she could smell it and set up.

But she didn’t set up.

•   •   •

H
E
REMEMBERED
THAT
he hadn’t said anything about Sammy’s determination to be himself. That was the very thing they all wanted him to be. He wished he had made that clear.

But he’d said enough. It was time to listen.

He got up from the chair in the study and called Henry. He had the strange sense of missing his brother.

‘I talked to somebody in the doctor’s office, she had acute myelogenous lukemia,’ said Henry. ‘A relative helped with a stem cell transplant. That was five years ago. Now she’s driving a delivery truck,
owns a florist business, and went on a trip to Alabama in September. That’s what I’m hoping for. But maybe not Alabama.’ Henry laughed.

‘Maybe North Carolina.’ His heart galloped when he said it.

•   •   •

T
HE
SNOW
HAD
CIRCLED
like a plane over Atlanta and come back to land again.

Early in the year for this much snow. It seemed only days ago that the leaves had turned, and now this. He felt the odd sense of captivity that he sometimes experienced in winter, in the mountains.

Eight-thirty. His wife was in bed, reading. He watched her squint at the page, but said nothing.

He had an appointment with the truck guy in Hendersonville on Tuesday. Harley knew something about buying trucks. All he, Timothy, knew to do was to kick the tires and walk around the vehicle, looking stern, which was his Grandfather Kavanagh’s style.

He didn’t recognize the caller ID.

‘Father, I’m the Hendricks’ neighbor, Jenny Thomas.’

‘Good evening, Jenny.’

‘Miz Hendrick passed a little while ago and Coot is asking for you. He’s devastated. I know the roads are bad, I doubt you can get here, but perhaps you could give me some pointers. I’m a caregiver for forty-two years, but consoling the bereaved is . . . I do other things much better.’

‘Let me think about this, Miss Thomas. I’ll call you back right away.’

No way was he taking his wife’s car out in this. Route 4 was three-plus miles outside the town limits. The county would be plowing that area, but not the side roads.

He rang Esther Cunningham.

‘I’ll get right on it and call you back.’ He could hear her adrenaline pumping.

Completely confident that Esther would come through, he dressed in roughly three layers, including a hooded, oiled jacket from his first Ireland trip. But it would be the boots that mattered.

•   •   •

J
IMMY
P
RESTWOOD
BRAKED
A
PLOW
at the corner of Wisteria and Main. He clambered in. ‘Special order just for you, Reverend. From th’ gov’nor, they said.’

At the highway, they connected with a county truck.

‘Supervisor said pick you up. Where you goin’?’

‘Route 4, Brush Mountain Road, third house off the highway.’

‘I can’t take my plow down in there.’

‘I’ll walk in.’

‘This is some kind of weather for October. They already got three inches in Banner Elk and more comin’. You got a light to see by?’

He patted his jacket pocket. ‘New battery. You’re picking me up, I hope.’

‘By th’ time I head back this way, it’ll be one, two o’clock. This is gettin’ pretty bad. But I could try to make it back by one. Yeah, you bein’ clergy. I’ll get you at one.’

‘I’ll be at the highway at one. For God’s sake, don’t forget me.’

Was he nuts? That had certainly been said on more than one occasion. His wife had given him that worried look, something that usually kick-started a worry or two of his own.

He switched on the flashlight, jumped down from the plow, and headed into the night.

‘Jesus,’ he said.

•   •   •

S
EMINARY
DIDN
’
T
TEACH
SPECIFICALLY
about consoling the bereaved; that was something that came with on-the-job training.

Coot Hendrick was indeed devastated.

‘She said I was a good son.’ Coot repeated this again and again, sobbing.

‘Yes, that’s what a lot of people say you’ve been.’

‘Maybe she ain’t gone. Seem like I seen her breathe. Did you see ’er breathe?’

They went into Coot’s bedroom while the Hendricks’ neighbor removed the garments of the deceased and did what had to be done with the body. Something was awry with the phones, the usual in bad weather, and they couldn’t contact the funeral home. In any case, his walk from the highway assured him that their vehicle wouldn’t fare well down here.

No, she didn’t know anyone who could watch with Coot tonight, but she would stay until he fell asleep and come back first thing in the morning.

‘Do you do this for all your patients?’

‘Miz Hendrick wasn’t really a patient. I just looked in on her, organized her medicine box, took a hot meal now and then. Coot did all he could, and the county sent someone, too. We managed.’

‘I believe you must be an angel,’ he said.

She shook her head no, smiled. ‘I owe God big time.’

He told Coot he was sorry, which he was, and that Beulah Mae had lived a long life, which she had. Mostly, he was simply there, a warm body in a sweater with a reindeer on the front.

He found a tea bag and made tea and added sugar and gave it to Coot. Then he sat next to him on the side of the bed and held on to his old friend and didn’t let go for a long while.

•   •   •

H
E
WAS
THANKING
G
OD
for the clear, frozen night and the brilliance of the stars so thickly set in the great bowl, and for the
headlights of the plow coming his way, pretty much on time. He had to climb over the berm of snow kicked up by the plow at the edge of the highway.

Safely home, he emailed the news to Emma, which was as good as announcing it at a town meeting.

Two-fifteen. He was spent. Beyond spent. After a hot shower, he sat in the wing chair in their bedroom, too exhausted to get in bed.

‘I will never do that again,’ said his wife, meaning it.

‘What?’

‘Let you go off into the night in a snowplow, for Pete’s sake. I have never been and never will be the clergy-spouse poster child, but heaven knows, I have tried to let you do what you feel led to do, without interfering.’

‘I was
fine
,’ he said.

‘Quoth the raven,’ she said, turning off the lamp on her side.

•   •   •

T
HE
PLANNING
WENT
SWIFTLY
.

To give the temperature time to warm up, the funeral service would be conducted on Tuesday afternoon.

As the Hendricks had no church affiliation nor funds for funeral-home amenities, the service would be graveside.

Somehow, word got around that the yellow house on Wisteria Lane was the drop-off point for food.

Early Tuesday morning, which was cold and blustery, Esther Bolick delivered an OMC. Beneath her heavy coat, she was still in flannel robe and nightgown.

‘I look like Miss Rose on a bad day,’ she said. ‘But here you go, an’ bless ’is heart. I heard his mother sing that song about killin’ Yankees, she could’ve been in the Carter family.’

Fortunately, Puny had switched her Wednesday for Tuesday and arrived with a bowl of her famous potato salad.

‘I used red potatoes ’cause that’s what I had,’ she said, ‘but russet works better. Have a bite an’ see what you think.’

Winnie Ivey made a delivery around ten, as he was putting the ham in the oven. Another OMC.

Winnie spied the first delivery on their kitchen counter.

‘Esther?’

‘Afraid so.’

Winnie laughed. ‘She is out of control, Father! She can’t help herself. But it’s okay, she never sells one, she just does it as a love offering. What’s that wonderful smell?’

‘Esther can’t help herself, and neither can I. I’m baking a ham. Previously, I did it just for weddings, my own included, but I’ve decided to do funerals as well.’

‘Ham to die for!’ she said. ‘Baptisms?’

‘No baptisms. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Shirley Owen told me she’s bringin’ fried chicken.’

‘Shirley’s Baptist,’ he said, ‘it’ll be good fried chicken.’

‘We’ll have to heat it to crisp it up.’ Puny rattled flatware from the dishwasher into a drawer. ‘That’s an old Church of God trick when my gran’daddy was preachin’. Church of God women are all about crispy.’

‘Poor Coot,’ said Winnie, ‘his overalls will have to be let out three sizes. What time is th’ graveside?’

‘Two o’clock.’

‘I’ll see you there,’ said Winnie.

‘You’re coming? In this cold?’

‘Of course I’m coming.’

Minnie Lomax entered by the side door. ‘I couldn’t get anybody to the front.’

‘Come in!’ said Cynthia. ‘It’s a circus in here.’

‘Green bean casserole!’ Minnie set it on the counter, proud as anything. ‘And I don’t need th’ dish back.’

‘I love green bean casserole,’ said Cynthia. ‘I’ll try not to eat the
whole thing.’ She went to his desk for paper and a pen. ‘Okay, I’m writing all this down so we know who did what. Where did these OMCs come from?’

‘Guess,’ he said.

‘This one is from Esther, right?’

‘And that one’s from Winnie.’

Cynthia recorded this data.

‘I would never make an OMC,’ said Minnie.

‘I’m with you,’ said his wife. ‘Puny once had to take a day off after making an OMC.’

Emma Newland came in through the garage bearing a platter covered with a tea towel. ‘Ham biscuits!’ she announced.

‘Oh, glory!’ said his wife. ‘I’m starved. I love ham biscuits.’

‘You cannot have a funeral without ham biscuits,’ said Puny. ‘I can tell y’ that.’

If he hadn’t already had diabetes for more than a decade, he would certainly have it by morning.

And there was Ray Cunningham, God love him, coming in by the side door.

‘Your specialty?’ he said, interested in the familiar container with the red lid.

‘You got it,’ said Ray. ‘Pulled pork! An’ keep your cotton-pickin’ hands offa this pot.’

He took his cell phone from the charger.

‘Who was that laughing?’ said Emma.

‘Hello, Miss Pringle!’

‘Father, this is so . . . I don’t know how to say . . . I cannot find . . . we are completely out of
papier hygiénique
.’

‘Ah, toilet paper. So sorry. I’ll drop some off on the way to the funeral.’

‘
Merci!
’ she said. ‘
Beaucoup!
’

Stirred by numerous crazy-making aromas, his dog came into the kitchen, followed by Truman.

He stuck the phone in his shirt pocket and looked at Violet at her roost atop the refrigerator. ‘Good idea,’ he said.

•   •   •

W
HAT
WOULD
BE
SADDER
than driving alone to your mother’s funeral? He fetched Coot.

‘I hope they got ’er teeth in,’ said Coot.

‘I’m sure they did.’

‘Since we never looked in there to check.’

‘Right. They do a good job.’

‘I told ye she was a hundred but I don’t know that for a fact.’

‘I believe that’s close.’

‘She told me I was a good son.’

‘You’ve been a very good son.’

They rounded the curve where Sammy . . .

‘Hope would like you to come to work at Happy Endings as a regular.’

‘Are you tryin’ to git me t’ laugh? Is that a joke?’

‘It’s th’ gospel truth. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, four hours a day. If you’d like to do it, you may start anytime.’

There was a small light in Coot’s eyes, but his passenger didn’t say anything right away.

‘I was thinkin’ I had to talk to Mama about it.’

For a long time after his own mother’s death, he remembered thinking the same thing.

‘But I guess I can start right off.’

‘Ten to two,’ he said.

‘I’ll start next day you an’ y’r dog are there.’

‘Thursday.’