Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (7 page)

He would like to say,
You must come and have a look for yourself.

But he couldn’t say it; it would commit him to something he couldn’t fully undertake.

Thank God for your steady improvement. This six- to twelve-month stretch of your immunodeficiency is a tough pull—but I should think everything depends on it. On the upside, your hundred days of staying out of the fray will soon be over—maybe a matinee (usually only a few people in the theater) and a box of popcorn?—I’ll Google your low-bacteria diet to see what is approved. No Milk Duds would be my guess.

Thanks for your letter received on the seventh. We still have tomatoes in plenty, and will indeed save our seeds for your patch. You are a better man than I if you get anything useful from them.

If Henry should ever come to Mitford, he wondered whether he could introduce him as his brother. The thought had presented itself in Ireland, but hadn’t concerned him. Now he was home, and the anxiety had come back. It wouldn’t be so easy with others as it had been with Louella.

He had stopped to adjust the bandanna around his head when he looked up and saw the limo headed north toward Farmer.

Identifying the plate was a lost cause; the car was in the opposite lane and moving fast. He didn’t care for tinted windows, though they had their virtues; he wasn’t even the man for sunglasses. He regretted that he’d gaped like a moron.

The point was, Henry’s bloodline made itself clear even to the casual observer. What would his former parish have to say? And why in God’s name would it matter what was said?

It mattered because the fact of Henry’s existence revealed their father’s duplicity, which was a slap in the face of his mother. Or worse, in his view, was that some may think his mother had been the one for duplicity. Either way, his mother’s memory would bear the brunt, and the fault would rest on his shoulders. He had not let sleeping dogs lie, he had roused them up and they had gone baying.

The Methodist chapel was coming up on his left—he imagined himself resting on the bench in the memorial garden, shaded by a hedge of privet; he saw himself making excuses to Wilson, but no, he couldn’t worm out of this, not with Wilson doing twenty to his three.

The vastly more important thing was that his half-brother now freighted a population of Tim Kavanagh’s stem cells. That his cells would have been a match for Henry’s was given less than a five percent chance, but they matched—an indisputable miracle, according to members of the Memphis medical team. The miracle had kindly extended itself to a successful transfer of his cell soup, which vanquished—for how long, no one knew—the acute myelogenous leukemia.

Clearly, God had given him this particular brother, and his cowardice to fully accept that was shaming.

•   •   •

E
STHER
C
UNNINGHAM
was driving home from the Local with a sack of fingerling potatoes when she saw Father Tim running east on Lilac Road. Now, there was a sight for sore eyes. She threw up her hand, but he didn’t see her. While everything else was changing, there was their retired priest running his legs off, just like he’d done for years. It was a consolation to see somebody doing the same thing over and over again.

Take this bag of potatoes—used to be, as far as she knew, there had been Idahos, Irish, and russet—period. Now there were four thousand types of potatoes, including fingerlings that looked like a bag of noses with warts. You couldn’t just have a
potato
potato anymore. Avis Packard was over the moon for fingerlings, and here she was, falling for it and paying double. Why hadn’t she resisted such extravagance? She hadn’t resisted because she was too exhausted to resist.

She didn’t know when she’d been stripped so bare, all the way to the bone and down to the marrow. Ruined, as her mother used to say.

Had she seen the doctor about it? Of course not. Why go to a doctor for being exhausted? For having cancer, yes, for ulcerated stomach, yes, go to the bloomin’ doctor, but for worn-out, it was simple—rest, lose forty pounds, walk to the mailbox every day, think positive, breathe deep, eat right, and be regular—just the thought made her want to lie down.

She had confessed this to Ray a few weeks ago. And what wisdom of the ages had he rattled off? ‘It’s the economy, Sugar Babe.’

Yesterday, he rolled out another brilliant observation. ‘It’s our age, Doll Face.’

And now he was going to fix everything, which was what he always did—she knew better than to complain to Ray Cunningham. He would be taking them out West for three months in their Coachman Freelander. ‘This’ll put pep in your step,’ he said. To Ray, a few weeks in that old RV could cure every ailment from ingrown toenails to congestive heart failure.

They would experience the Oregon Trail from Independence, Missouri, all the way to the Willamette Valley. They would ride in a Conestoga wagon, meet Indians, and sit around smoking a peace pipe, though she would not inhale, no way. How anybody had the gall to smoke a peace pipe with people they had decimated was beyond her. It was a Wild West bonanza Ray had signed up for, and while he was out of his mind with excitement, she was dreading it like a double root canal. How she would endure being cooped up in an RV with his unending torrent of ‘Cupcake’ and ‘Sweet Lips,’ she had no clue. She’d been cooped up with it many times in the past, but that was then and this was now.

Mayoring Mitford for going on two decades had nearly put her under, and even though she served her last term three years ago, she still hadn’t completely recovered. She had been diced, sliced, barbecued, and fried trying to run this town. She’d rather have mayored Chicago, Illinois.

Everybody thought Mitford was just this quaint little village with people runnin’ around prayin’ for each other. So let
them
try to placate the boobs on the town council, the nitwits in Raleigh, and the sleazy developers from parts unknown. Let them try to keep taxes from escalating, and the merchants from doing exactly as they pleased and thinking they owned the place. Let them keep the Independence Day parade from wandering down side streets everywhichaway, leaving llama poop scattered from one end of town to the other.

And that was just the small stuff. As for the big stuff, how about the moment that deserved to be recorded forever in the history of Mitford, USA?

Just as she’d known it would, the nasty business of the box stores had landed on the council table in ’95.

Whop! The council and the whole bloomin’ town split down the middle like a ripe melon dropped on concrete. Right there was where the cheese got binding, and stayed that way for a full year before it finally came to a vote.

Ray had driven her to the council meeting. She was a basket case. If this thing went through, Mitford was chopped liver; it was every other desperate small town in America, with their acres of asphalt and windowless buildings looming over the struggling enterprises of Main Street.

The votes came in. It was a tie. Ray’s grin lit up the entire back row.

When they called for her vote, she stood and gave it the Big Jack Benny. She looked to her right and she looked to her left. One side of the council was grinning; the Other side was shaking in their boots. They all knew where she stood, they all knew how much she loved this town, and they all knew that a tie and only a tie gave the mayor a vote.

Horace Greene, a Catholic on the Other side, crossed himself in plain view of God and everybody. And she had reared back, squared her shoulders, and lowered the boom on box stores. Nada. No way. Not in this town.

People always said Esther Cunningham was a tough cookie, but no, on too many issues she had been as soft as the inside of a cathead biscuit. If she had it to do over, she would take no prisoners.

And then Vanita Bentley askin’ her, Is Mitford still takin’ care of its own, Miz Cunningham?

No!
she wanted to shout. Absolutely
not
! Why ask such a foolish question? You have two eyes in your head, figure it out. See the trash blowin’ around on Main Street, and th’ plastic bag that’s been snagged on th’ awning of the Woolen Shop since the storm in August? August! And what about th’ candy wrappers an’ chewin’ gum an’ cigarette butts litterin’ the sidewalk an’ the dirty display windows in half the shops? What was the matter with retailers who couldn’t get out there with a broom once in a while, and keep their windows washed so shoppers could see the bloomin’ merchandise? Not to mention Avis Packard and his pile of cigarette butts along the curb at the Local, shame on him. You had to go in and talk to merchants like this was their last day on earth if they didn’t get their act together.

And last year’s Christmas parade—if that wasn’t pathetic, nothing was. There was Santy Claus ridin’ in on his float, the star of the show, the big kahuna, and the spectacle of him throwing out that little dab of candy was mortifying. A handful! A pittance! She was shocked and the children were crushed. ‘Not a budget item,’ was what a council member said. If she was mayor again, she would show them
budget item
. What kind of town had a Santy that didn’t give out enough candy to stick in the toe of a stockin’?

And
what did Andrew Gregory know about filling the oil drum of an old woman and her halfwit son in a hard winter, or pulling a few strings to see that a fatherless family got fed or had clothes on their backs? Oh, no, he was busy tryin’ to make an inn out of Evie Adams’s old house and run a rubber-tire trolley up Main Street, everything but stand on the sidewalk in a clown suit to bring in the tourist trade.
She hoped her successor was having a happy life, thank God he didn’t marry Cynthia before the Father got to her.

As for th’ mess at Lord’s Chapel, which nobody seemed able to figure out, she’d been around the block a few times and could absolutely guarantee that whatever was going on down there would sooner or later blow up—in more faces than one.

As she pulled into the driveway, she noticed the blotches on her right arm. Ha. On her left arm, too.

She looked in the mirror on the back of the sun visor, to see if her face had broken out. Was the Pope Cath’lic? Just like the old days when she was mayor, her entire mug was one big splotch. Stress, Hoppy Harper had said. Sausage biscuits, said her grandson, Joe Joe, who would soon be the best police chief the MPD ever had.

She killed the engine and stared at the garage door. Ray was playing golf today with his crazy pilot brother, Omer. She would have an early lunch, fix herself a salad, and no way would she dig out the leftover rum cake hidden behind the organic peas Avis Packard had conned her into buying.

She sighed, close to bawling. She didn’t want any of that lonesome grub.

What
did
she want?

She turned the key in the ignition, cranked into reverse, and backed out to Church Hill Road. She was going to Wesley, where she would swing in the drive-through at the Highlander, park in the shade, eat her chili dog and fries in the car, and listen to Rush Limbaugh.

•   •   •

‘L
OOK
THERE
,’ said Hessie Mayhew, who sat by the window of the Woolen Shop, having coffee with Lois Burton. ‘It’s Father Tim, I thought he was still in Ireland.’

‘I can’t believe you didn’t know he came home days ago.’

‘I can’t know everything,’ snapped Hessie.

‘But you’re
paid
to know,’ said Lois, ‘bein’ a reporter on th’
Muse
an’ all.’

‘Fifteen dollars an hour,’ said Hessie, ‘does not buy universal knowledge.’

Only yesterday, she had pictured Father Tim salmon fishing in waders and a tweed cap. And there he went, blowing up Main Street in shorts and a T-shirt, letting it all hang out. She didn’t think clergy should run or even jog. It was too up-close-and-personal a thing to do in front of people trying to mind their own business and get a little shopping done. Besides, without his collar, he looked positively naked. She took out her notebook, jotted something in green ink.

‘What did you just write?’ Lois craned her neck to see for herself.

‘A Helpful Household Hint,’ said Hessie, slamming the notebook shut.

‘I didn’t know you wrote th’ Household Hints, I love th’ Household Hints. I used a banana peel on my pumps just yesterday. It was a mess to get off, but it worked.’

She had no intention of saying that Vanita Bentley, whose official job was Classifieds, was now writing fifty percent of the Hints, including that ridiculous banana peel business. This was a job Miss Heloise Bentley had taken on without asking a by-your-leave of yours truly, who had done all the important writing at the
Muse
for twelve long years, including the Lady Spring pieces which everybody was crazy about, and Mayhew’s Mitford which had made her famous in two counties, if not three.

Out of the blue, Vanita had scribbled a snowstorm of Hints, and, unable to fit another scrap onto the hog pen J. C. Hogan called a desk, piled a shovelful in his swivel chair.

So did Mr. High and Mighty say, I’m sorry, but Hints is Hessie’s job? No way. Traitor to the end, he grinned over that jumble like every jot was a Shakespearean sonnet. You’d think he’d won the
lottery when he came to “Restoring Color to Your Carpet,” a Hint he said his wife, Adele, would put to immediate use in their den.

Don’t think that little episode didn’t bring forth the bitter memory of Mitford’s first celebrity wedding, when, following graduation from Appalachian State, the daughter of a former governor’s ex-girlfriend’s first husband’s niece who’d had a bit part in
As the World Turns
got married at the Methodist chapel.

Had Vanita ever written anything but Sofa-for-sale and Used-baby-carriage-dirt-cheap? Could she write, punctuate, or even
spell
? Nada. Yet she took it in her head to cover the wedding in case it had somebody famous in it. Quick as a fox, Vanita Schmita slapped a story on J.C.’s desk before the bride could stuff herself into a going-away pantsuit that was the wrong shade of green for sallow coloring.

She, Hessie, had slapped a few impromptu stories on the so-called editorial desk herself, and many had never been seen again. But let Vanita toss her scribbles in that Dumpster with drawers, and he would sniff them out like a hound. In a heartbeat, there was the wedding story splattered over the front page, and a color photo mostly showing the backs of people’s heads.