A Light in the Window (7 page)

Something had to be done, but he couldn’t figure out what.

He had called over and over, only to get some odd scrap of message from her answering machine. He had pounded on her door in a thunderstorm but couldn’t find her. He had promised to make good on that silly wish but had done absolutely nothing about it. And now, this.

Flowers. He would send flowers.

He couldn’t remember sending flowers to anyone before, save his own cut roses. On the other hand, how would it look to tumble out of some woman’s car at daylight, only to send flowers to the woman who caught you red-handed? It didn’t seem smart.

He would write a note, then. He was fairly decent at penning his thoughts, after all.
Dear Cynthia.

He stood and stared out the office window.

He could go on like this for hours. Perhaps even days. Blast!

“You need a haircut,” said Emma. He had forgotten she was in the room.

“What else?” he asked sarcastically.

“You need to be seein’ more of your neighbor.”

He was walking home in a thick fog, wondering when the crisp, blue skies of autumn might appear. He would go to the country, then, perhaps to the very same place he had sat with Cynthia on the quilt, and let Barnabas run until he fell over with joy.

He could feel his face grow warm. That opening seemed too direct. Yet, faint heart never won fair lady.

How could he not always remember the way she had lain on her back like a girl, looking up at the clouds and seeing Andrew Jackson, and the way she laughed at him when the bull turned and skulked away? And certainly he could never forget the way she had leaned against him, so soft and supple, as he stroked her cheek. They had talked about not letting the path through the hedge grow over; he had said they mustn’t let it happen. But how many times had he used that path since he came home a full ten days ago? Just once, as he fled homeward in a downpour.

But he was getting off the point. The point was that he had been remiss and that he was sorry and wanted to make it right. He especially wanted to say that what she’d seen was misleading—he could explain everything.

Dearest Cynthia
...

He realized he had walked past his corner and was standing helplessly in front of the Main Street Grill. This very thing was only one of the reasons why he had never wanted to lose his heart to anyone.

If Homeless Hobbes had lived in town, the rector was certain he couldn’t have confided a word of what he had on his mind. That his friend lived in the woods on Little Mitford Creek, however, was different.

He didn’t have the wits to refuse the cup of coffee Homeless brewed at five o’clock in the afternoon. He watched him fill the cup as if he were seeing it happen to someone else.

Homeless was barefoot and wearing a new pair of burgundy pants with galluses. He snapped one brace against his undershirt. “Good as new! Fresh out of th’ dumpster.”

“That’s where Miss Rose does most of her shopping.”

“See these pants? I never wanted two pairs, Now I got two pairs.

They was layin’ right there with th’ galluses. I couldn’t turn ’em down.”

“A new look for fall.”

“I hope m’ britches don’t go to my head.”

“I never heard of that particular thing happening to anyone, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“They’s somethin’ worryin’ you, I vow.”

The rector raised his cup in a salute. “You’ve got a good eye.”

“I don’t know if it’s th’ eye as much as th’ gut. Right here.” Homeless thumped himself below the ribs.

“There is something worrying me. I hate to admit it.”

“You can admit what you need to back here on the creek.”

How in heaven’s name was he supposed to talk about it? In all his years as a priest, there had been only one friend to whom he could pour out his innermost conflicts. That friend was now his bishop, and he didn’t want to trouble Stuart Cullen with what could seem a triviality.

He sat looking at the steaming black coffee, wondering how long it could keep him awake. Well past Thanksgiving, he decided, taking a reckless swallow.

He was grateful that Homeless didn’t urge him on to confession but sat quietly himself. The stove door stood open to reveal a low fire, made with a few sticks of wood to cheer the place against the eternal drumming of rain on the roof.

It wouldn’t stay light forever, and walking home along the dark creek in the rain was nothing to look forward to.

He felt as if he were stepping off a cliff when he spoke. “It’s a woman,” he said.

Homeless looked at him without blinking. “Lord, have mercy.”

“But who would have sent me a microwave?” he wanted to know.

Puny threw up her hands. “Don’t ask me.”

“And who am I to ask, for heaven’s sake? Weren’t you here when it was delivered?”

She shrugged.

“Come on, Puny. Who did this low thing?”

“They was goin’ to give you a VCR,” she said, “so I told ’em t’ send a microwave.”

“I won’t have it in my kitchen. I knew this would happen someday.

It’s insidious the way these things take over people’s lives.”

“How can it take over your dern life if you don’t even use it? Who does most of th’ cookin’ around here, anyway? If I want to heat up some soup for your lunch, I can do it while you’re comin’ through th’ door. If Dooley wants a hamburger, whap, in it goes, out it comes, instead of me slavin’ over a hot stove to feed that bottomless pit.

“You don’t have to touch it. You don’t have to lay a finger on it. I’ll cover it with a sheet when I leave of an evenin’ if that’ll suit you any better.”

“Who?” he asked darkly.

“Those vestry people.”

“Them again,” he said.

“They were jis’ tryin’ to be helpful.”

Helpful! Since when did a vestry have the right to violate a man’s kitchen? Was nothing sacred?

“I hope you don’t mind my sayin’ this ...”

He knew he would mind.

“You prob’ly ought to take you a laxative.”

In all the years of his priesthood, he had pastored the needs of others. Now, he found himself pastoring others to meet his own needs.

He didn’t go to encourage Miss Rose in her civic duties because he thought it would be decent of him. He went because he needed what she had to offer, which, although strange, was comforting and familiar.

He walked up the street at noon and stood on the sidewalk while she waved cars around the monument. Well done!

He was astounded by her appearance. No cocktail hat, no military decorations, no trench coat actually worn in the trenches. Just Esther Cunningham’s old Waves uniform with a spiffy hat over a new haircut. That she was still sporting her unlaced saddle oxfords hardly mattered. One thing at a time, and be glad for it.

When there was a lull, he called to her and threw up his hand.

She looked at him menacingly.

“I like your uniform!” he said.

“Regulation!” she snapped and turned her back on him.

“Uncle Billy,” he said at the Grill, “Miss Rose acted like she didn’t know me. I haven’t been gone that long, have I?”

“Oh, she knowed you, all right. It’s just she don’t mix business with pleasure. Keeps ‘er mind on ’er work, don’t you know. Wants to do ’er best.”

The old man was wearing one of his dead brother-in-law’s suits, and a tie Father Tim recognized as having been one of his own.

“It’s a blessin’ if I ever seen it. She’s wore out after doin’ her job, comes in meek as any lamb, eats her somethin‘, and sleeps ’til dinner. We have us a nice bite, then we watch the news an’ all, an’ go to bed. It’s th’ most peace I can recollect.”

“I’m goin’ to buy you a hamburger to celebrate.”

“If you was to tip in some fries, I’d be much obliged.”

Velma wiped off the table. “You ought to get th’ special,” she advised the rector. “It’s a one-day-only deal.”

“What is it?” he asked cautiously.

“Beef kidneys.”

“Beef kidneys? What got into Percy to cook beef kidneys?”

“Avis had a big run of kidneys and let ‘em go cheap. You ought to give ’em a go,” she said, poised with her order book.

“Did you give ’em a go?”

“Well ...”

“Did Percy give ’em a go?”

“He don’t eat organ meat.”

Uncle Billy looked pale. “You keep talkin’ like that, you won’t have t’ bring me nothin’. I won’t be able t’ keep it down.”

“Bring my friend a hamburger all the way and a large order of fries,” said the rector. “I’ll have the chicken-salad plate.”

“I hope you don’t regret it,” she said sulkily, walking away. “We’ll probably never have these again.”

“We dodged a bullet, Uncle Billy.”

“Have you seen the drawin’s of Willard’s statue?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve got to get by the mayor’s office. What do you think?”

“The one a-settin’ down is dead-on, if you ask me. Even Rose likes it, but she’s stickin’ with th’ one a-standin‘, says it makes ’im more dignified.”

“You’re liking your new apartment? It’s good and warm?”

“Oh, it’s th’ most comfort you’d ever want.”

“Nice, dry roof?”

“Not a leak in th’ place.”

“Well, then, sitting or standing, who cares?”

Uncle Billy laughed, his gold tooth flashing. “Could be a-standin’ on ’is head for all I care, when th’ hot air comes out of th’ vents!”

He was wanting to see Russell Jacks, too, and Betty, and Olivia, and Hoppy. And, of course, Marge and Hal and Rebecca Jane. But most of all, he wanted to see ...