A Light in the Window (59 page)

“Thirty-four, thirty-five years. It’s a long time.”

“Longer’n that. I was ten years old when I stepped behind th’ counter. My daddy had a bad toothache and put me in charge of the grill while he went to the dentist.”

“How did you do?”

“I stood on a bread crate and fried bacon like a man. I’d never fried bacon in my life, nor anything else. My mama had to drive my daddy. He was in awful pain. She looked back at me as she was goin’ out th’ door, and said, ‘Percy, you can do it.’ I’ll never forget that.”

“She’s right. You can do it.”

“You mean ... this?”

“Right. This.”

“How come I have to—that’s the question. Where’s th’ Lord when you need ’im is what I’d like to know.”

The hot coffee cup warmed his cold hands. “Right here with us, believe it or not.”

“You’re a preacher. That’s easy for you to say.”

“Not really. I have times of doubt. I stumble around ...”

“All that schoolin’ you had makes a difference.”

“Schooling doesn’t count for much in the end. What counts is our personal relationship with God. Period. Bottom line.”

“I prayed about this.”

“You’ll get an answer.”

“This ain’t any kind of answer.”

“I have to tell you that He always answers. And He always shoots straight.”

“Well, He’s done shot and missed, if you ask me.”

The rector looked around at the dark, dismal basement. “Somebody said the brightest diamonds grow in the darkest cavities of the earth ...”

“Meanin’?”

“In Isaiah, God said, ‘I will give you the treasures of darkness, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord ...’ Times of darkness can be some of the best times.”

“My daddy told me for a fact th’ Lord helped him start this business. Why would th’ Lord be throwin’ me out?”

“He may have something different for you now. Something terrific, actually. Maybe it’s time, Percy, to ’look at other options ...”

“Bein’ out of a job at age sixty, with your wife doin’ piecework at the glove factory—buddyroe, that ain’t an option. Cuttin’ and haulin’ wood and sellin’ it door to door ain’t an option either, not with my back. And I can tell you right now that pumpin’ gas at Lew Boyd’s ain’t an option, not now or in the dadgum future. So ... I ain’t got any options.”

“Right. Maybe you don’t.”

Faint rays of daylight shone through the small window that faced the sidewalk on Main Street.

“But maybe God does,” the rector said. “Look here. When God takes away the good, He replaces it with something better. Didn’t Jesus tell the disciples, ‘It’s for your good that I’m going away’? And do you think they went for it? No, it plunged them into despair—they felt orphaned and desolate, probably angry into the bargain.”

Percy stared at the furnace.

“But when the Holy Spirit came, the disciples had more than Christ in their
midst
—now He was in their hearts.” Yes! He felt encouraged just talking about it. He clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“So, Percy—screw up your faith and get ready for something better.”

Percy stood and glared at him. “We better screw something up, all right, and get these boxes packed. Start with th’ sauerkraut on that top shelf and work down to the pork an’ beans. We won’t mess with th’ jukebox ’til th’ college boys get here.”

At noon, Mack Stroupe dropped in with a sack of hot dogs all the way, and Winnie Ivey brought a dozen cream horns and napoleons. The Collar Button donated a case of Classic Coke, Coot Hendrick brought a pie his mother had baked, the police chief dropped in with a sack of apples, and Joe Ivey stuck a bottle of brandy under his belt, buttoned his jacket, and walked to the Grill where he passed the bottle around to whoever wanted a taste.

Joe eyed the rector. “If I was you, I wouldn’t let your boy cut your hair.”

“Dooley?”

“He’s made a mess of th’ sides,” said Joe. “You want a little nip?”

“Thank you, but I pass. I’m a sherry man.”

“You can get stumblin’ drunk on sherry,” Joe told him.

“Man!” said Mule. “This is killer kraut. This is the third box I’ve heaved up th’ steps. Who eats this stuff, anyway?”

“Nobody,” said the rector. “That’s why he’s got a surplus.”

Mule looked up as J.C. came down the stairs, wearing his Nikon on a strap around his neck. “I thought you were puttin’ out the paper.”

“I’ve said all I’ve got to say.”

“We haven’t packed all we’ve got to pack, so hop to it. Here’s a box. There’s the stewed okra.” Mule kicked an empty box into the light of a sixty-watt bulb.

“I hate stewed okra.”

“You don’t have to like it to pack it.”

“No way, Jose. I did my time. I’ll just sit and watch you boys.” J.C. scratched himself and sat down on a step.

Fancy appeared at the hatch door, wearing a form-fitting cashmere sweater, pink tights, and white boots with spike heels. “Yoo hoo, Mule honey, Coot’s back with the truck. Do y’all have another load ready? If not, we need him to help us clean these floors.”

“It’ll be awhile, yet.”

“Super. Oh, Father, I didn’t say one word to Joe Ivey about how you’ve switched over to me.”

He’d switched over?

“I’m about wore out,” said Percy. “I wish I dipped or chewed or smoked—somethin’.”

“Joe offered you a taste of brandy,” said Mule. “You ought to have had a little shooter.”

“No sir,” said Percy, looking mournful, “I’ve gone sixty years without it, and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Liquor gets your kidneys,” J.C. announced. “Not to mention dries out your skin, ruins the veins in your nose, gives you palsy, and wrecks your coordination. I’ve heard that people on gin start walkin’ sideways, like crabs.”

Mule scratched his head. “They drink an awful lot of gin at the country club, but I never saw anybody walk sideways.”

Fancy’s spike heels clicked above them like castanets.

“How you ‘uns comin’?” Uncle Billy stuck his head in the hatch door and peered into the gloom.

“We need a joke!” said the rector. They had packed seventy-two boxes, all told, not a few of which were breakables that had already been broken.

“How about if I stand right here t’ tell it,” said Uncle Billy. “Arthur won’t let me come down steps, don’t you know.” Activity subsided as the old man reared back to deliver his contribution to moving day.

“Did you ’uns hear about th’ feller lookin’ for a good church?”

“No!” chorused his audience.

“Well sir, he searched around and found a little fellowship where th’ preacher and th’ congregation were readin’ out loud. They were sayin‘, ’We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done.’

“Th’ feller dropped into th’ pew with a big sigh of relief. ‘Hallelujah,’ he said to hisself, ‘I’ve found my crowd at last.’ ”

The rector laughed heartily. “It’s about time you worked our bunch into your repertoire.”

“Hit us again, Uncle Billy,” said Mule.

“This feller, he went t’ th’ doctor and told ‘im what all was wrong, so th’ doctor give ’im a big load of advice about how to git well. Th’ feller started to leave, don’t you know, when th’ doctor said, ‘Hold up. You ain’t paid me for my advice.’ ‘That’s right,’ th’ feller said, ‘because I ain’t goin’ t’ take it.’ ”

“I’ll print that one,” said J.C., scribbling in his pocket notebook.

“Well, I’ll be pushin’ off. It’s a shame what’s happenin’ here t’ two good friends. Me and Rose, we think th’ world of you ’uns. Try not t’ take it too hard.”

Uncle Billy vanished from the hatch door, and they returned wearily to their work.

Fancy appeared on the top step, where she leaned over and whispered, “Percy, Velma’s cryin’ again.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Percy snapped. His arms were wrapped around a tub of Crisco.

“Let her cry,” said the rector. “It helps.”

J.C. cocked his head and listened. “Run for th’ hills. It’s Lucrezia Borgia.”

Mule furrowed his brow. “Who?”

“I’ll just duck behind the furnace,” said the rector.

Edith Mallory appeared at the hatch door. “Who’s down there?” she demanded.

“Mule Skinner, Percy Mosely, and J.C. Hogan,” said Mule, peering up the stairs.

“When will you be finished?”

“Before tomorrow.”

“What time before tomorrow?”

“We don’t have a clue.”

“I suggest it be no later than midnight, as agreed. Is Father Tim down there?”

“I don’t see him.”

“Where do you think he might be?”

“Heaven knows.”

“Remember, Mr. Mosely, that the booths come out also. I see they’re still attached to the wall. And you’ll recall that the stools must be out, as well.”

Percy clenched his fists.

“Mr. Coffey will meet their truck in Wesley tomorrow morning. He’ll lead the way and they’ll proceed. They’ll occupy the premises at eight o’clock sharp.” Edith stomped away from the hatch door.

“You can come out now,” Mule said in the direction of the furnace.