A Light in the Window (13 page)

“ ... seeking whom he may devour.”

“You know my Wednesday night soup deal has got so it draws upwards of thirty or more at a time. The Local is still givin’ me good provender for my pot, an’ that bank account from th’ reward money I got f‘r findin’ Barnabas, it squeezes out a pair of shoes here, a pair of britches there. Last week, we got a little kid outfitted with glasses. You ought to seen ’er. She was a doll in them glasses, eyes big as saucers. But you know what we really need in here?”

“What’s that?”

“We’re gettin’ so we need a preacher. You’ll not get this bunch to church, no sir, but they need to hear somethin’ solid. To my mind, preachin’ is like soup. They want a little chunk of meat in it, an’ they like it seasoned good. Don’t hold back on th’ pepper, don’t be scant with th’ salt, and make sure it ain’t watery. They’ll turn it down if it’s watery, even on an empty stomach.”

Father Tim looked into his cocoa. Could this call be for him?

“To tell th’ truth, I think you’re a mite too educated f’r this bunch. No offense, but that wouldn’t be soup, that’d be consommé, if you know what I mean.”

The rector nodded.

“We need some gloriously saved sinner that’s got the fire of God in ‘im, somebody who’d stand on that stump out yonder and say what’s what and no bones about it. ’Course, in th’ winter, it’s goin’ to be mighty tight filin’ a horde of people through this little shoebox, much less a preacher. Maybe ought to just have summer preachin’.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to have some music.”

“No sir, it wouldn’t.”

“Let me think about it. Let’s pray about it.”

“I’ll go along with that,” said Homeless, taking the lid off a black iron skillet. “Now, how about a dipper of mush?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Yeah, but ain’t you got some ol’ meetin’ or somethin’? I seen, saw it on your calendar.”

“I won’t go to the meeting. There are more important things in life than meetings.”

“Really?”

“Really. Are you fellows going to do any good against Wesley?”

Dooley grinned. “We’re gonna whip ’em s’ bad they’ll bawl like sissies.”

He looked handsome in his uniform, thought the rector. Very handsome, very healthy, very whole. He put his arm around the boy’s padded shoulders. An offensive tackle. A miracle!

“You know what?”

“What’s ’at?”

“You’re one heck of a guy. I’m proud of you.”

Dooley colored slightly and dropped his head.

What he really wanted to say was, “I love you, pal.” Why couldn’t he say it? He was, after all, in the business of love.

On the way to Absalom Greer’s country store, Barnabas sat in the front seat with his eyes fixed on the road, as if he wanted to do a good job of riding in the car.

“I say, old man, you’re taking this too seriously. Why don’t you loosen up and smudge the windows I’ve just washed or lean over here and fog my glasses? No, no. Erase that! Too simple. Why not give the collar of my clean shirt a good licking or drool on my jacket?”

Barnabas continued to stare ahead, but one ear flickered.

The rector reached over and put his hand on the dog’s neck. Right here was as solid a friend as he’d ever had, with the possible exceptions of Tommy Noles and Stuart Cullen, with Walter thrown in for good measure.

Why didn’t he do this more often? Go driving in the country and talk to his dog? It was the simplest of refreshments and didn’t cost a dime.

Indian summer was a glad fifth season that didn’t come every year. It stepped in without warning, as an inexpressibly welcome bonus, a gift that made limbs lighter, minds clearer, steps quicker.

Absalom Greer bounded from behind the counter of his country store as if all the bonuses of the season resided in him.

They shook hands warmly and embraced. “Preacher Greer has sent his son to greet me,” said the rector.

The old man laughed. “You’re a fine one to talk, seein’ as Ireland knocked a decade or two off your own years.”

“What’s that wondrous smell? Wait! Don’t tell me. Fried chicken!”

“Sure as you’re born. Crisp and brown, with a mess of green beans and a bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy. We won’t even talk about the biscuits stacked up on our best china platter, already buttered.”

“Hallelujah and four amens,” said the rector, who refused to consider the lethal consequences of that particular menu on his diabetes.

“Lottie has cooked all morning, and don’t be sayin’ you wish she hadn’t gone to any trouble. It’s my sister’s joy to go to trouble when the town priest is comin’. Did you bring your dog?”

“I did. In the car.”

“Our cat’s off on a toot, so bring him in. We’ll give him a home-cooked dinner.”

Absalom put the handwritten
Closed
sign on the knob of the front door, and all three of them walked the length of the creaking floor to the back rooms. Though the rector had been here but once before, he felt instantly at home.

After the meal the Greers called dinner and the rector called lunch, Lottie went to the garden to clean out the vegetable beds, and Barnabas lay with his head on Absalom’s foot.

The rector sipped the strong, black coffee that had been brewed on the stove. “Have they let you retire yet?”

“Law, it’s like weanin’ babies. They don’t want to let me go, but it’s got to be done. Next Sunday, I’ll be preaching to my last little handful at Sandy Creek, and then it’s over—I’ll be just a twig broom standin’ in the corner.”

“I may have a pulpit for you, if the Lord so moves.”

Absalom Greer threw back his head and laughed. “You’re always looking to put me in the traces! A poor ol’ gray-headed country preacher can’t get a mite of rest and peace.”

“This is a special congregation.”

“They’re all special.”

“This one meets on Wednesday evening, leaving Sunday free to supply one of your little handfuls, if the need arises.”

The old man took an apple out of the basket on the table and began to peel it.

“It would be a summer pulpit,” the rector said. “You’d be preaching from a hickory stump. Winter along the creek is too hard. You wouldn’t be able to get around in there.”

“Eighty-nine years old this November, and they won’t let me be ...”

“Of course, the little band at Mitford Creek is very different from the one at Sandy Creek.”

“How’s that?” He cut a slice of the apple and passed it to the rector on the point of his knife.

“They’re not seasoned in the Word of God. They’re unchurched. Once a week, they come together to eat a pot of soup made with scraps, but you could give them a banquet, my brother.”

“I thought you drove down here in a Buick,” said Absalom Greer, “but it looks like you’ve come drivin’ a hard bargain.”

“Tasty apple,” said the rector.

“I’ll talk to th’ Lord about it,” said the country preacher.

His mail was stacked on the desk in his study.

He would never forget the look on the faces of his congregation when, just as he was beginning his sermon last spring, the pull-down stairs behind the pulpit lowered. His heart had thundered like a jack hammer when the jewel thief who had hidden for months behind the bells in the church attic came down and confessed his crime.

George Gaynor had been little more than a skeleton even then, living as he had on pilfered coffee-hour provender, Sunday school juice, canned vegetables from the basement, and an occasional carton of half and half. Not to mention, of course, Esther Bolick’s marmalade cake, which he had snatched out of its container during a lay readers’ meeting.

He looked up from the letter and realized he was smiling. No, beaming would be a better word for it. While he had prayed that day in the nave with Pete Jamison, George Gaynor had, quite unknown to them, joined them in prayer in his hiding place in the attic.

Two for one, George had called the simple prayer of salvation that had set the lives of both men on vastly different courses.

He laughed. Esther Bolick’s legendary cake had become a warm memory for a convicted criminal, had been devoured at a baptism ceremony in a police station, and had sent him into a diabetic coma that almost took him out. “To die for!” Emma had once said, and hadn’t he nearly proved it?

A postcard from Pete Jamison:

He didn’t recognize the handwriting on the mauve envelope. There was no return address, but the stamps and postmark were Irish. Before opening it, he grudgingly used the microwave to heat a cup of cocoa, then sat at the kitchen counter.