A New Song (20 page)

“I don’t know how to get little boys to spend the night in a strange house,” she said.

Jonathan’s eyes were filling with tears.

Hand shadows! He suddenly recalled a family friend in Holly Springs who had kept him engrossed for hours with a kerosene lamp, a bare wall, and two dexterous hands.

“Turn off the lights in the study,” he said, feeling desperate.

“Whatever for?”

“Trust me.”

“I want to go
home
!” said Jonathan, meaning it.

“Light the big candle in the hurricane globe,” he said. Scalpel, sutures . . . “Put it on the table between our chairs.”

Cynthia looked at him as if he’d lost his mind and hurried off to the study.

“Movies!” he said to Jonathan. “Picture show!” He thought he could make a dog. At least a pig. He was certain he could make an eagle; he’d made one on his study wall in Mitford only months ago.

“Popcorn?” asked the boy.

“Now you’re talking! Cynthia!” he shouted. “Popcorn, and plenty of butter!”

Cynthia appeared from the study.

“Turn off the lights, light the candle, popcorn with plenty of butter . . . where’s the division of labor so popular in modern marriage?”

“My dear, I am the
entertainment
, I can’t do it all, this takes teamwork!”

“My mommy, my mommy makes popcorn!” said Jonathan, running behind Cynthia to the kitchen.

 

Lying awake after midnight, he felt the humidity weighing upon them like a blanket. He also felt what he’d dismissed for weeks:

He was homesick.

He was homesick for Mitford and his boy and Harley, for all the countless components that made his mountain village home.

Whitecap had its charms, of course. There was a great deal to be said for the smaller parish, not to mention the general ease induced by sunshine, salt air, and surf. In times past, hadn’t doctors prescribed the seashore as a cure-all for nearly anything that ailed?

But he wasn’t ailing, and he didn’t need curing.

He believed he was making progress in putting the parish into less quarrelsome order. Several rifts had been healed, and he had ignored the petty issues that, he wasn’t surprised, were fading away for want of being nursed.

Better still, he saw his wife finding some repose and freedom of spirit after years of toiling like a Trojan. Yes, she’d begun the new book, but overall, he saw her rested, tanned, and vibrant, and flourishing like a kid at summer camp.

Last and certainly not least, St. John’s had fallen in love with Cynthia Kavanagh and freely said as much. She stood with him in the churchyard every Sunday after services, giving and receiving hand-shakes and hugs, and serving in several parish trenches, including the nursery, like paid help.

“But I love doing it!” she’d said only last week, when he thanked her again.

“What don’t you love?” he asked.

“Fading eyesight, creeping forgetfulness, and . . . and calendars with no room to enter all the day’s events!”

His wife could derail a train of thought in a heartbeat, jump to another track, and run on it with all engines smoking.

He drew the sheet off, eased out of bed, and walked down the hall, floorboards creaking.

In the living room, Barnabas left his blanket in the corner and stretched, then came and stood with him at the screen door, looking into the moon-silvered night.

He unlatched the screen and stepped onto the porch. The full moon cast its image on the distant patch of water.

The sight of two moons, voluptuous and shimmering between two sleeping cottages, caused him to shiver in the heat.

What a different world, this immense expanse of sand and shelf that had heaved itself up from the deeps. . . .

He sat on the top step and gazed at the vast dome above, at what James Joyce had called “the heaventree of stars, hung with humid nightblue fruit.”

Great beauty was something he had to work up to, he had to take it in slowly, not gulping, but sipping. He put his hands over his eyes and saw the stars dancing behind his hands, another double image in this deep and silent night.

In Mitford, he’d felt tethered; tethered to Lord’s Chapel, tethered to the rectory, tethered to the little yellow house. Here, he felt as if he were falling into space, tethered only to God.

He got up and walked down the steps to the garden, restless and excited, like a child who wakes in the night, filled with fervent dreams.

Barnabas lifted his leg against a favorite spot at the picket fence.

If he could, he’d call home and talk with Dooley again. He’d talk even longer than he’d done today, then ask Dooley to pass the phone to Harley. Next, he’d call Esther and check on Gene, even though they’d spoken on Wednesday, and after that, he might ring Louella and they would sing a hymn, right on the phone. . . .

Truth be known, he’d like nothing better than to call Miss Sadie and hear the bright voice that had always made him listen up and step more smartly.

“Miss Sadie,” he said aloud to his still-favorite parishioner, “this is a toll-free call. I hope you like it up there and aren’t getting in trouble for bossing the angels around. . . .”

He saw the shooting star plummet toward the silhouette of an oceanfront cottage and vanish.

Then he heard the music.

He turned, thinking that somehow a radio had come on in the house.

But the music wasn’t coming from the house.

It was Karg-Elert’s “Now Thank We All Our God,” and it was coming from . . . across the street.

He stood, frozen and alert.

Someone was playing their stereo full blast. It was an extraordinary rendition of one of his sworn favorites for the organ—mighty, dramatic, charged with power.

He walked to the picket fence and looked across the street at the high-grown, moonlit hedge.

Though distant, he could hear each note clearly and, perhaps because the piece was familiar, he was free to hear beneath the notes the terrible urgency of the music behind the wall, under the full and looming moon.

 

He crept back to bed, thinking of Hélène Pringle and the faint piano music that had floated out on Mitford’s night air.

He shivered in the breeze that came suddenly from the water and blew through their open windows.

 

Sometime before dawn, he felt the bed move near his feet and thought it was Barnabas.

It was Jonathan Tolson. The boy crept toward the head of the bed, silent, and found a place between them. Father Tim heard him sigh and then, in a moment, heard the boy’s rhythmic breathing and smelled his damp, tousled hair.

He prayed for Janette and for today’s mission before he drifted again to sleep.

 

On the way to St. John’s, he stopped by Mona’s for a coffee to go, and ducked into the bait and tackle shop.

“Here’s th’ latest,” said Ernie. “Th’
Democrat
hit th’ street last night, Junior’s already had an answer to his ad.”

“And?”
This was pretty exciting stuff, looking for a wife.

“And it was a guy.”

“Aha.”

“Wanted to know if Junior’d be interested in sellin’ his Bronco.”

“That’s
it
?”

Ernie shook his head, looking gloomy. “I think we need to doctor that ad.”

“Maybe so. By the way, you were going to tell me who lives behind the wall.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Well, that’s Morris Love that lives back there.”

“Morris Love.” He searched Ernie’s face. “Tell me more.”

“Well, Morris is, you know . . .” Ernie pointed to his head and made a circle with his forefinger.

“Like the rest of us,” said Father Tim, looking on the positive side.

“Nothin’ to worry about. Morris keeps to hisself, never leaves th’ place, except he’s bad to holler at people sometimes. Kind of hides behind th’ wall and hollers crazy stuff. But tell your missus not to worry, he’s harmless.”

“Why doesn’t he leave the place?”

“Don’t want anybody to look at ’im.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, see, he’s got this . . . handicap. There’s a woman takes care of him, comes every day or so, does his cookin’ an’ all, an’ th’ organ tuner, he comes in his panel truck from Virginia. Not enough traffic in and out of there to keep th’ grass off th’ driveway.”

“Well, well.”

“See, there was a big organ put in there by his grandaddy, they say it was world-class in its time, and ol’ Morris, he can play th’ hair off that thing, but I ain’t heard much about him playin’ lately. We all take Morris for granted. Most people don’t hardly remember he’s in there.”

“I’ll be darned.”

“But don’t you worry about a thing. He’s harmless, just a little mean streak like ’is grandaddy, is all.”

“Aha. So, here’s the book I promised you.”

“Holy smoke! I gave you a used paperback, and this sucker is
leather.
”

“Take that and keep it, and I hope you like it.”

“You got th’ wrong end of th’ stick, if you ask me, but I appreciate it.” Ernie opened the book, squinted at a random page, and read aloud, slowly:

 

Ernie looked up, grinning. “Got a good bit of action to it.”

As he left the tackle shop, he glanced in the front window, pleased to see the proprietor giving rapt attention to the little book of pastoral ruminations.

 

Janette Tolson wept all the way across the bridge to the hospital fourteen miles away. He sat with her through the admission to the psychiatric floor, explaining to the clerk there was no insurance, and giving his word the bill would be taken care of. How, he didn’t know; that would be God’s job. He waited until her doctor arrived and she was settled in a shared room.

Reluctantly, she let go of his hand as he left. “Jonathan . . .”

“Don’t worry,” he said.

 

He clung to Cynthia before leaving for the vestry meeting at St. John’s.

Oh, the blessed softness of a wife in a hard world . . .

He kissed her, his hands at her waist. Even with all the bike riding, there was a pleasant little roll there.

He winked. “See you later, Tubs.”

She jerked away from him, glaring.

No doubt about it, he thought as he raced for the door, he had stepped over his wife’s yellow line.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The rain began in the night, drumming steadily on the red roof of Dove Cottage.

At six a.m., he tried to think of one good reason to spend a full day at the church office, but couldn’t. Didn’t clergy usually take two days every single week, and hadn’t he taken only one since arriving? He would go in after lunch, that was the ticket.

“Wonderful, darling, you can help me feed Jonathan!” His wife had a positively wicked gleam in her eye.

“No! I don’t like it!” Jonathan shook his head vigorously when a bowl of cereal was set before him.

Cynthia proffered buttered toast.

“No!” said Jonathan. “No toast!”

“What if we put jelly on it?” asked Father Tim.

“I’ve tried that,” she said. “It doesn’t work. We go through this every morning while you trot happily down the street, whistling.” She sighed. “I don’t know how to make children eat things they don’t like.”

“Hasn’t he given you any clues?”

“I’ve tried oatmeal, Froot Loops, buttered grits, bacon, not to mention eggs scrambled and boiled. Nothing will do. He always ends up in tears with crackers and cheese.”

“We could call someone,” he said brightly, “and
ask
what he likes for breakfast.”

“Who could we call?”

“Let’s see. Jean Ballenger! She knows the family!” What a great solution. He was a regular Sherlock.

“I got to pee-pee,” said Jonathan.

“You just pee-pee’d,” said Cynthia, looking frazzled.

Jonathan tumbled from the chair and headed toward the bathroom at a trot.

“Your turn to go with him,” said his wife. “And please put the seat down afterward.”

 

“I have no idea!” exclaimed Jean when he rang her small cottage next to the library. “I never saw anyone eat anything while I was at the Tolsons’.”

After the useless phone inquiry, Cynthia pulled him into the study. “I don’t suppose Jean would like to keep Jonathan for a little while?”