A New Song (54 page)

“Good morning, Mamie!”

“Good mornin,’ Father. How do you like this weather?”

“Oh, I like it. Crisp!”

“My husband built us a good fire again this mornin’. They’re calling for frost tomorrow.”

As she stepped into the lane with him, he couldn’t contain his question another moment. “May I ask where you were educated?”

“Virginia,” she said softly. “Mr. Redmon sent me off to a school for young ladies of color. I was sixteen when I left Whitecap, and came home again when I was twenty.”

“Ah,” he said. Her gentle elegance was balm to his soul.

“Mr. Redmon had his enemies, but he wasn’t a bad man, Father, not at all. He gave my mother this house.”

“I like your house!” he said, meaning it.

“I remember when Mr. Morris was born, the year before I went to Virginia. I hated to leave him. He couldn’t hold his head up ’til he was several months old and couldn’t walk ’til he was two and a half. He was . . . special, something told me that.”

“His mother . . . ?”

“His mother ran away from her baby. She could never bear to be with him. He had middle-ear infections for the first few years, and used to cry and cry with the pain. Mr. Redmon had all kind of doctors come here, and then Mr. Morris got the base of his skull operated on. There was no end to the suffering, it seemed. No, his mother ran away and stayed most of her life in Europe. Her and Mr. Redmon’s other son died in a bad house fire. It was my own mother who took care of Mr. Morris ’til I came home and helped out.”

“I see.”

“I don’t have any idea why I’m standing here talking to you like this, Father, except I believe you to be a kind man. I wouldn’t want Mr. Morris to know we talked about such things.”

“No, it’s between us.”

“I’ve spent many a year trying to help heal the hurt, but there’s only One who can heal.”

“Yes.” He gazed directly into her eyes, finding a kind of refuge he couldn’t name. “Morris is blessed to have you.”

“I’m blessed to have him. I never dreamed I’d stay on in Whitecap after I saw a little of the world, but I came home and married a good man, and then, when the Lord took Mother . . .”

“Yes?”

“. . . I began treading the path through the hedge, just as she’d done for so long.”

“Are there any regrets, Mamie?”

“No regrets. Noah and I raised a fine son. He’s a doctor in Philadelphia. He looks in on Mr. Morris every time he comes home.”

He was happy to hear everything this unusual woman had to tell him, feeling honored, somehow, that she would talk with him at all.

“I see in your face that you understand Mr. Morris, how he’s suffered.”

He didn’t reply. How could he understand?

“He’s known a lot of cruelty in this life. Mr. Redmon demanded an awful lot of him. Yet, look at the gift he’s been given. Mother was proud of that, and so am I.”

“I hope to meet your husband one day. We said hello this summer. And if you ever take a notion to visit St. John’s, we’d love to have you.”

“Noah and I go across to church. There were never many people of color on Whitecap. Big Daddy Johnson used to take us across in a little fishing boat, then the ferry came, and then the bridge.”

“Were you born here?”

“My people washed up on shore like timbers from the old ships. We think our wreck happened sometime around 1860.”

“I’ve kept you far too long, Mamie, forgive me. You’re an interesting and gracious lady, and it’s a privilege to have this time together.”

“I hated that Mr. Morris had nothing to offer when you and your family visited. The next day was grocery day, and what we had on hand, he couldn’t heat in the oven.”

“By His grace, we had a feast, and food for the soul, as well!”

“I hope we’ll meet again,” she said, stepping onto the path with her laundry basket.

“The Lord be with you!” he called after her.

She turned and looked back. “ ‘And with thy spirit!’ ” she said, quoting the prayer book. “That school I went to in Virginia was an Episcopal school.” She smiled, then turned again and vanished along the path.

 

“You don’t know when she’s leaving?”

“No.”

“Issue a search warrant for her arrest,” said his cousin.

“Immediately.”

“But . . .” Hélène Pringle in
jail
? That meek little woman whose feet didn’t touch the floor when she sat down?

“Call your local police chief, that guy you’re such buddies with, and describe the angel. Tell him to search her car trunk. If it’s not in the car, they’ll search the house. You told me the angel has some value?”

“I’m guessing three, maybe even four thousand dollars.”

“You can have her arrested for felonious larceny, not to mention felonious breaking and entering. That’s a Class H on both counts. If she’s convicted, we’re talking up to ten years each count. Chances are, she’d get off with three years for each Class H, but for a piano teacher, that’s a very long time.”

He hung up, stricken over this sordid turn of events.

He and Cynthia would talk and pray about it tonight, and make the decision regarding a search warrant in the morning. He’d never had anyone arrested, and certainly not a woman, but was that the issue here? Wasn’t the issue about money being wrongfully gouged out of the Hope House coffers? If it hadn’t been for Miss Sadie’s meticulous thrift and careful investing, there may not have been any money there at all. Didn’t that count for something?

He realized he was once again sitting with his head in his hands.

Whatever the morning’s outcome, he could not, would not, miss his fifth walk around the wall.

 

He called Rodney Underwood at home at eight a.m.

“Rodney, I have a disagreeable piece of business for you.”

“I don’t guess it’s anything as big as th’ man in th’ attic; prob’ly won’t ever get another deal like that.” Rodney was talking about the jewel thief who lived in the attic at Lord’s Chapel until he turned himself in to local authorities during a Sunday morning worship service.

“I’d like you to take a search warrant to the rectory. I have reason to believe my tenant stole the angel.”

The spoken words chilled his blood. He was saying things that couldn’t be taken back.

“Unknown to her, Harley Welch found the angel in the trunk of her car while it was at Lew Boyd’s.”

“You sure it’s th’ same one? Did he give you a good description?”

“Yes. About twenty inches high, bronze, green marble base.”

“You lookin’ to search just th’ car or you think we ought to have a warrant for the house, too?”

“Both, to be safe.”

“It takes a little while to process a search warrant, but I’ll personally get right on it.”

“What happens if you find the statue?”

“We’ll take ’er into custody, take ’er over to th’ magistrate in Wesley. He’ll prob’ly put an investigative hold on ’er for about twelve hours ’til we get th’ statute fingerprinted, get photographs an’ all.”

“The statue . . .”

“Right, th’ statute.”

He called Walter. “I didn’t like doing it, but it’s done.”

“Good. When they have the angel in hand, let me know and I’ll call her attorney.”

In truth, he was only doing what was within the law, but he was literally nauseous over it. So was Cynthia. Oddly, taking legal steps against an unlawful act had made them both feel like criminals.

 

He didn’t want to see Mamie or anyone else this morning. He put his head down and walked quickly, focusing his mind and spirit entirely upon Morris Love and the look on Morris’s face as he was ordered from Nouvelle Chanson for what may have been the final time.

He would not exhort God this morning to heal, to bind up, or to transform. He would exhort Him only to bless.

He prayed silently.

The laughter of Morris Love—that would be a miracle, he thought, and remembered how he had prayed to hear Dooley Barlowe laugh. That prayer had been answered; he smiled to think of Dooley’s riotous cackle.

The tears were cold on his face.

He walked on.

 

“It’s a done deal,” said Rodney, not sounding quite like himself.

“How . . . did it go?”

“We found y’r angel in th’ car, like you said, but your tenant broke down pretty bad. . . .” Rodney cleared his throat.

“Broke down?”

“Bawled like I never seen, wrung ’er hands. Me an’ th’ boys hated to do what we did.”

“What did you do?”

“Took her over to th’ magistrate an’ they’re holdin’ her ’til everything’s nailed down, fingerprints, reports, an’ all.”

“Then what?” he asked.

“Looks like th’ charge’ll be felonious breakin’ an’ enterin’, felonious larceny, and felonious possession of stolen property.”

He shook his head, hoping to clear it.

“Based on th’ evidence, th’ magistrate’ll issue a warrant for her arrest, an’ she’ll have to post bond. In two, three weeks, she’ll have to show up before a district judge, an’ dependin’ on how that goes, a grand jury will hear state’s evidence which could land ’er in Superior Court.”

“What if she leaves and goes to Boston?”

“She can go anywhere she wants to, long as she comes back to court.”

“What if she doesn’t?” He might as well know the worst-case scenario.

“They’ll issue an order for ’er arrest, plus an order of forfeiture on th’ bond.”

“In other words, she wouldn’t want to do that.”
Hélène Pringle hunted and pursued . . .

“Nobody with a lick of sense would want to do that.”

Enough.
He couldn’t go on with this, he was a basket case, let Walter deal with it.

Before services at ten o’clock, he would walk around the wall for the sixth time, and on Monday, seven times consecutively. Then he would have accomplished the thing God had asked him to do.

“I’m a fool for Christ!” he said with St. Paul. Thank heaven nobody had a clue what he was doing; to the world, he was walking his dog, he was getting his exercise, he was increasing his heart rate.

 

Sunday night on the Sound.

Not a bad life, he thought, sitting on the sofa and holding his wife’s hand. He had at last figured out how to work the TV and which of the several remotes it required, and they were watching the Discovery Channel.

“Ugh,” said his wife, as a lion bored its head into a carcass, “they’re always eating each other.”

“That’s life,” he said as the phone rang.

He muted the sounds of the African plain. “Hello!”

“Father Kavanagh?”

Hélène Pringle.
“I am desperate to talk with you.”

He thought his hand shook, holding the receiver. “I’d be eager to talk with you, as well, Miss Pringle.”

“I cannot go on this way, with so much to confess, so much to make known, it is . . .” She paused. “It is agony.”

He heard the great strain in her voice.

“I would give anything to speak with you face-to-face,” she said, “but—”

“Just a moment, Miss Pringle.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece, as his mind raced over the schedule here—a vestry meeting with Sewell Joiner, Sam would handle it, they could run to Mitford and get back home the morning of the Fall Fair. . . .

“Want to go to Mitford?” he asked his wife.

“Consider us packed!” she said, beaming.

He would walk seven times around the wall tomorrow, first thing—they could be in the car by ten o’clock, and in Mitford by eight on Monday evening. “Miss Pringle, we’ll see you at the rectory Tuesday morning at eleven. Will that be convenient?”

Miss Pringle was weeping quietly and, he assumed, unable to speak.

“Take your time,” he said. “My time is yours.”

He was on his fourth lap when Mamie appeared suddenly on the path from Nouvelle Chanson, startling him.

“Ah, Mamie!”

She laughed easily, her breath making vapor on the air. “I’m just going over home to get mayonnaise. Mr. Morris hardly ever touches it, but this mornin’ he has a taste for a little mayonnaise on his grilled cheese.”

This seemed to please her very much.

“Mamie, I wonder if I might get my wife’s bicycle one day soon. I don’t think Morris wants me to come fetch it personally.”

Her eyes told him she understood. “I’ll roll it down here for you anytime.”

“I’ll be back around this way in, say . . .”—three and a half laps to go—“twenty, thirty minutes? Would that be good?”

“Fine,” she said. “Just fine.”

“You could leave it there on the path, where no one can see it. I’d be grateful.”

“I used to ride a bicycle—it was a pretty green color with a little bell. I loved my old bicycle.”