A New Song (48 page)

“I hate to leave you. You can go to the Braggs’, you know. Otis invited us.”

“Not in a hundred years,” she said, setting her mouth in a profoundly straight line. “Make that a thousand!” Marlene Bragg had suggested his wife stop highlighting her own hair and see a professional; further, she proclaimed that fuchsia wasn’t becoming to Cynthia’s skin color, and recommended another shade of blusher to bring out the blue of her eyes. This had not set well.

“Marjorie and Sam begged us to come.” Sam had shown up at the motel last night at eleven, hoping to rescue them.

“But their guest room has a leak in the ceiling and there’s no water. Sam says they’re using his grandmother’s chamber pot.”

“There are worse things than chamber pots,” he said, trying to console.

“I can’t imagine what.”

He didn’t want to say it, but how about being trapped in a motel room with no power, no phone, and a three-year-old?

He buttoned his shirt, surveying the scene. The kerosene lantern glowed against the dusk of the rainy morning; the oil-fired heater hissed in the corner; Jonathan slept soundly, clutching a pillow; Barnabas snored in the vinyl armchair; Violet snoozed on a mat in the bathroom. Cozy as it all appeared, he would not want to spend the day here. No, indeed.

“How’s your hand?”

“Throbbing.”

“Do you think you need to see a doctor?”

“I don’t think so. Morris poured something on it that was absolutely scalding before he put on the cream. I think it’s fine, dearest, don’t worry. I’ll have a look under the bandage before you come home with lunch. Ugh! Did I say
home
?”

“Home is anywhere you are, Kavanagh.”

She fell against the pillows, sighing.

“What do you think of our neighbor?” he asked, putting on his shoes.

“The strangest, yet loveliest sort of man. I feel that underneath his pain is the deepest tenderness. Then again, is it pain, Timothy? I don’t know, perhaps it’s something more like anger, a terrible, corrosive anger.”

“Odd that he would be so adept at home doctoring.”

“He said he learned from Mamie.”

“Aha. Well. I’ll be back around twelve. Maybe the rain will let up and you can drop me at church and take the car.”

“Where would I go?” she asked.

“I don’t know. The library?”

“The library isn’t open today.”

“The grocery store?”

“And watch mold grow in the dairy case?”

He had a great idea. “I could bring you some pot holders to finish up for the Fall Fair.” There! Just the ticket to keep her mind occupied.

She looked at him as if he were something that had crawled through the pipes and into the kitchen sink.

 

As phone service was up in other parts of the village, he drove two blocks and stood in a queue to make calls from a pay booth at the rear of Whitecap Drugs.

When the Hope House switchboard answered, he asked for the dining room.

“Pauline ...”

“Father! We saw on the news you had a bad storm last night.”

“Yes. And Pauline . . .” He’d rather be shot than say it. “I . . . can’t come. I can’t come for the wedding on Sunday. I’m calling to ask if you can . . . cancel, that is, postpone it for two weeks until we get cleaned up here.”

There was a moment of silence. The disappointment on the other end was palpable.

“Or,” he said, and he really despised hearing these words out of his mouth, “you could get someone else to officiate, someone else to—”

“Well, no, Father, I mean that’s fine, we don’t want anybody else, you know we were goin’ to keep it really simple, anyway, so it’s . . . not much trouble to postpone it.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you how sorry . . .” He was literally nauseous over the whole thing, especially hating that Jessie’s, Poo’s, and Dooley’s glad excitement would have to be put on hold.

“Well, but don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll set another date. We didn’t even run it in th’ newspaper, but I did tell everybody in the dinin’ room, and Miss Louella, she was goin’ to come, but . . . they’ll all understand.”

“What about Buck? How will this affect his plans?”

“Oh, he’s not goin’ back to Alaska. He’s finished up his part. He’s goin’ to try an’ set up his own business in Mitford.”

“Hallelujah!”

“So, I understand,” said Dooley’s mother, “really I do.”

But he could hear the sadness in her voice. He was good at hearing sadness in people’s voices. . . .

“Two weeks,” he said. “No matter what, we’ll be there. And we’ll talk again in a few days, all right?”

“Yes, sir. How bad is it down there?”

“No lives lost, as far as we know, but power out, and phones down in places, and no water on the north end. The church has taken a hard hit, part of a big tree fell across the roof and . . .”—he felt suddenly close to tears—“and our cottage had some damage.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice husky with feeling. He knew that she, too, was good at hearing sadness in others.

 

He was able to reach Buck in Harley’s basement apartment; Buck would go with Dooley to court on Monday, and Harley would return Dooley to school, as planned. They would reschedule the wedding for mid-November.

He took a deep breath and went through yet more telephone rigmarole—access code, the number he was calling, his calling card number, his PIN number, then through the switchboard, where, it was declared, there was no answer in the room, and so up to the fourth-floor nurses’ station, and down the hall to the sitting room with the cordless. . . .

“Hello?”

“Janette ...”

“Oh, Father, I’m so glad to hear your voice, I saw about the storm on TV. Is Jonathan . . . ?”

“He’s doing great! A bit of a cold, that’s all. Our house is torn up for a few days, but everyone’s safe. We’re at Otis Bragg’s motel in the village.”

“Thank heaven! And Father, I’m so happy about coming home.”

“We’ll be over to get you on Tuesday as we discussed. Around two o’clock. Is that still good?”

“Oh, yes. Perfect! I’ll be ready.”

“If you’d like to call, we’re in Room Fourteen at Bragg’s Mid-Way Motel. Uh-oh, I forgot. Phones are out over there, but should be up and humming in a day or two.”

“I’ll be so happy to see my baby. Has he been . . . good?”

“Better than good!”

Her laughter was music to his ears.

“We’ll take you home and get you settled in with something hot for your supper. We can bring Jonathan on Thursday,” he said, following the doctor’s advice. “That will give you a chance to—”

“Oh, no, Father, please bring him Tuesday. I’ve missed my children so much. I can’t wait to have my children home.”

“Consider it done, then. And when are Babette and Jason coming?”

“They’ll be home Wednesday.”

“Good, wonderful,” he said.

“Have you . . . seen Jeffrey?”

“Not in some time.” Taken by surprise, he chose to be vague without being untruthful.

“Jean Ballenger says there’s a pile of work waiting for me.”

“Including a blazer for yours truly. I haven’t had a blazer in years. Cynthia talked me into it and picked out the buttons.”

There was a pause. “I’m . . . so very grateful, Father Timothy. For everything.”

“So am I,” he said. “So am I.”

 

“Emma,” he yelled through a lousy connection, “don’t bake a ham!”

“What?”

“Don’t bake a ham!”

“Spam? What
about
Spam?”

Rats. “I’ll call you back!”

When he called back, the line was busy.

 

He rang Pauline’s small house in the laurels, reluctant to wake Dooley, who had arrived late last night from school.

“Dooley ...”

“Hey!” Dooley said, hoarse with sleep.

“Hey, yourself, buddy. We’ve got a problem down here.”

 

He went out into the rain and stood beside his car for a moment, dazed and heartsick, finding that everything was finally sinking in—all at once.

 

On the way to St. John’s, he wheeled into Ernie’s, which was swaddled front and side with tarps.

Though Books, Bait & Tackle was down for the count, Mona’s half of the building was going full throttle, thanks to a serious stash of bottled water, and a generator that had seen the café through the after-effects of several storms and a hurricane. He stepped into the warmth of Mona’s, smelling dripping coffee and frying bacon, and loving the refuge of it.

Every booth was full. “Over here, Tim!” called Roger Templeton.

“Squeeze in,” said Roger, moving over to make room.

“Roanoke, Junior, how’s it goin’? How’s Ernie?”

“Haulin’ books to th’ Dumpster,” said Junior. “We’re just gettin’ a bite to eat before we pitch in. I took a day’s vacation to help.”

“Is there any way he can dry the books out?”

“Nope,” said Roanoke. “Dead inventory.”

“What about Elmo?”

“Seems fine,” said Roger, “but he won’t come out from under the cash register.”

“Junior, I heard you took somebody to ER yesterday. How’d that go?”

“Good mornin’, Reverend, what can I get for you this mornin’?” It was Misty Summers, smiling at him and looking prettier, he thought, than the first time he saw her.

“Why, Misty! Did you break your arm?”

“No, sir, it got burned. Hot grease flew off the stove when Ernie’s wall fell down.”

“Aha.” He glanced at Junior, who was lit up like a Christmas tree. “Well, I’m sorry to hear it and hope it heals soon.”

“Thank you. It hurts really bad, but the doctor said it’s going to be fine. Let’s see, now, that was . . . umm, what did you order, sir? I forgot.” For some unknown reason, Misty Summers was blushing like a schoolgirl.

“Coffee, no cream, and orange juice,” said Father Tim.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

“How bad is it at St. John’s?” asked Roger.

“Pretty bad. The force of the tree across the roof racked the building to one side. Otis has a crew coming in. Did a good bit of damage.”

“When we get Ernie straightened out,” said Roanoke, “we’ll be down an’ give you a hand.”

“Why, thanks,” he said, touched by the offer.

Walking across the hall to Ernie’s, he asked Roger, “By the way, what happened with Ava?”

“Darned if I know. Just out of the picture, it seems. Junior didn’t have much to say about her.”

“Well, well.”

“Looked like a pretty uneven match, anyway.”

“Right,” said Father Tim, ducking into Ernie’s and not liking what he saw.

In the book room, shelves that weren’t anchored to the walls had been knocked sprawling, literally scattering books to the wind. The shelves on the fallen wall had crashed with the bricks, piling books among the debris. The smell of wet paper pulp filled the cold, drafty room, which was only loosely protected by the tarp.

Several of Ernie’s fishing buddies were stacking ruined books in wheelbarrows.

He embraced the man who, from the beginning, had taken him in like family. “Sorry, my friend.”

Ernie tried hard to produce a characteristic smile, but couldn’t.

 

He was standing under the tent Sam had erected in the churchyard, drinking coffee with Leonard and Otis, peering at the endless rain and waiting for the contractor to arrive.

“You th’ Rev’ren’ Kavanagh?” An elderly man in a cap and slicker stepped under the tent.

“I am, sir.”

“Albert Gragg.”

Albert Gragg tipped his cap and shyly extended his hand. “I’m from up Dor’ster, Miss Ella sent me.”

“I hope there’s no trouble. . . .”

“She couldn’t get you on th’ phone. She’s fell and broke her hip.”

“No!” he said, stricken by the news. He hated to hear this. He didn’t like this at all.

“A fracture or a break?”

“Clean break. She’s in th’ hospital and can’t play y’r organ a’tall, said she’d call soon as she can get through.”

“What happened?”

“In th’ storm, said she heard somethin’ hit her porch real hard, thought it was a limb offa that tree she thinks so much of, but it was th’ neighbor’s doghouse that was out there blowin’ around. Said when she went runnin’ out to check, th’ rain had made ’er porch slippery as hog grease an’ down she went. She got to th’ phone, called me, an’ I carried ’er to th’ hospital.”

“I hate to hear this. You’re an old friend, Mr. Gragg?”

“Oh, forty years or more I been lookin’ out for Miss Ella and ’er mama, doin’ whatnot.”

“God bless you for it. Who’s her doctor?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t say.”

“Tell her I’ll be up as soon as I can, we’ve got a mess on our hands. Tell her she’s in our prayers, and she can count on it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Albert Gragg, tipping his cap.

“And how’s the captain and his brother, do you know?”

“What cap’n?”

“Captain Larkin.”

“I can’t say. I ain’t seen him, he don’t get out much. His boy carries his groceries in ever’ week or two.”

“Well, then,” he said, feeling helpless. How many times had he wished there were two of him?

 

Stanley Harmon stepped under the tent, wiping his bare, bald head with a handkerchief.

“Sorry about this, Tim. Awful sorry.”

“Thank you, Stanley. It was a hard hit, all right. Any damage at your place?”

“A few limbs down is all. Y’all are welcome to worship with us on Sunday at eleven, or you could hold your service ahead of ours, at ten o’clock. How’d that be?”

“Terrific. That would be great. Thank you!”

“They say we’ll have water by then, so th’ commodes’ll flush, but far as power goes, bring some candles.”

“We’ll do it.”

“Looks like we won’t have power ’til Wednesday. Mildred and I are cookin’ on a Coleman stove. Y’all doin’ all right over at Mid-Way?”