At Home in Mitford (26 page)

The man looked at him. “I’d like to believe that, but I can’t. I can’t feel Him at all.”

“There’s a reason . . .”

“The things I’ve done,” the man said, flatly.

“Have you asked Him to forgive the things you’ve done?”

“I assure you that God would not want to do that.”

“Believe it or not, I can promise that He would. In fact, He promises that He will.”

The man looked at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting,” he said, yet he made no move to leave. He remained on his knees.

“What business are you in?” It was one of those questions from a cocktail party or Rotary meeting, but out it came.

“Shoes. We make men’s shoes. I was on my way to a sales meeting in Wesley when I saw this place and I came in. I didn’t mean to do it, I just couldn’t help it. I had to come in. And now I don’t know what I’m doing here. I need to get on the road.”

Still, he made no move to rise from his knees.

It was an odd thought, but the rector pursued it. “Let’s say you need to move into another factory building. Trouble is, it’s crowded with useless, out-of-date equipment. Until you clear out the rubbish and get the right equipment installed, you’re paralyzed, you can’t produce.”

“How did you know we’re looking for a new factory?”

“I didn’t know. A divine coincidence.”

There was a long silence. A squirrel ran across the attic floor.

“You can keep the factory shut down and unproductive, or you can clear it out and get to work. Is your life working?”

“Not in years.”

Somewhere in the dark church, the floor creaked. “There’s no other way I can think of to put it—but when you let Him move into your life, the garbage moves out. The anger starts to go, and the resentment, and the fear. That’s when He can help get your equipment up and running, you might say.”

“Look, I don’t want to wallow around in this God stuff like a pig in slop. I just want some answers, that’s all.”

“What are the questions you want answered?”

“Bottom line, is He up there, is He real?”

“Bottom line, He’s down here, He’s with us right now.”

“Prove it.”

“I can’t. I don’t even want to try.”

“Jesus,” the man said, shaking his head.

This was like flying blind, the rector thought, with the windshield iced over. “I get the feeling you really want God to be real, perhaps you even want to be close to Him, but . . . but you’re holding on to something, holding on to one of those sins you don’t think God can forgive, and you don’t want to let it go.”

The man’s voice was cold. “I’d like to kill someone, I think of killing him all the time. I would never do it, but he deserves it, and thinking about it helps me. I like thinking about it.”

The rector felt suddenly weakened, as if the anger had seeped into his own bones, his own spirit. He wanted the windshield to defrost; where was this going?

“Do you like the fall of the year?”

The man gave an odd laugh. “Why?”

“One of the things that makes a dead leaf fall to the ground is the bud of the new leaf that pushes it off the limb. When you let God fill you with His love and forgiveness, the things you think you desperately want to hold on to start falling away . . . and we hardly notice their passing.”

The man looked at his watch and made a move to rise from his knees. His agitation was palpable.

“Let me ask you something,” said the rector. “Would you like to ask Christ into your life?”

The stranger stared into the darkened sanctuary. “I can’t do it, I’ve tried.”

“It isn’t a test you have to pass. It doesn’t require discipline and intelligence . . . not even strength and perseverance. It only requires faith.”

“I don’t think I’ve got that.” There was a long silence. “But I’d be willing to try it . . . one more time.”

“Will you pray a simple prayer with me . . . on faith?”

He looked up. “What do I have to lose?”

“Nothing, actually.” Father Tim rose stiffly from the kneeler and took the short step across the aisle, where he laid his hands on the man’s head.

“If you could repeat this,” he said. “Thank you, God, for loving me, and for sending your Son to die for my sins. I sincerely repent of my sins, and receive Christ as my personal savior. Now, as your child, I turn my entire life over to you. Amen.”

The man repeated the prayer, and they were silent.

“Is that all?” he asked finally.

“That’s all.”

“I don’t know . . . what I’m supposed to feel.”

“Whatever you feel is exactly what you’re supposed to feel.”

The man was suddenly embarrassed, awkward. “I’ve got to get out of here. I was on my way to a meeting in Wesley, and I saw this old church and I . . . things have been, I’ve been . . . I’ve got to get out of here. Look, thanks. Thank you,” he said, shaking the rector’s hand.

“Please . . . stay in touch.”

He stood at the door for a moment and watched him go. There was so much he hadn’t said, so much he’d left out. But the Holy Spirit would fill in the blanks.

As they were leaving the church, Barnabas looked up, sniffed the air, and began to bark wildly at the ceiling. His booming voice filled the small nave like the bass of an organ.

With some difficulty, he unglued his charge from the narthex floor and pulled him along on the leash.

It seemed years ago that he’d come in this door, he thought. Yet his watch told him he’d been at Lord’s Chapel only a little more than two hours.

He felt strangely at peace, following the man’s footprints along the snowy path to the street.

As Christmas drew nearer, sleep became more elusive. For hours, he’d lie awake while Barnabas snored at his feet. He had tried without success to put the jewels completely out of his mind.

Catching himself pondering the imponderable, he’d toss this way and that, until the bed was a scramble of sheets and blankets and Barnabas had gone to the kitchen for a snack, which he crunched loudly enough to wake the neighbors.

He wondered briefly how his neighbor was doing, anyway. He thought he’d seen Andrew Gregory’s gray Mercedes parked in front of her house recently, but he couldn’t be sure, as he’d never been good at identifying cars.

Was she going out with Andrew Gregory? Was he coming over for dinners of blackened roasts and burned rolls? He remembered Cynthia’s silvery laugh behind the restroom wall and his odd sense of feeling fat, short, and boring, compared to Andrew. He had not liked that feeling.

He sat up on the side of the bed.

It had just occurred to him that there were no ashes in Parrish Guthrie’s urn. No ashes had spilled onto the white tea towel, and, clearly, no ashes had marred the sparkle of the jewels, which had been only loosely contained in the porous cloth. Well, then, where were the ashes of the departed?

Ashes. Ashes. Something dimly tried to get through to him, but he couldn’t summon it. Also, he seemed to remember reading about stolen jewels.

He got up and walked to the window and looked down on Cynthia Coppersmith’s house. He wondered how she was getting on, she and Violet, and if she was happy in Mitford. There were lights on, though it must easily be midnight. And he saw the tiny white lights she’d strung for Christmas, winking on the bushes by her front steps. A comfort to have someone in that house!

He sat down in his wing chair and picked up the
Observer
, but couldn’t read it. Stolen jewels. He’d read something somewhere. . . .

The newspaper article, sticking out from under the ink blotter on Andrew Gregory’s desk! Jewels! Stolen from under the guard’s nose. Something about the queen being upset.

No, he thought, those were necklaces that royalty had worn, not loose stones. Ah, well.

Ashes, he thought, again. But almost immediately, he dozed off in his chair.

Olivia Davenport opened the office door and said brightly, “Knock, knock!”

She was wearing an emerald-colored suit with black trim, and carrying a Bible under her arm. All in all, he thought, a lovely sight.

“Sit down, Olivia, and bring me up-to-date.”

“I’m excited, Father! We’re organizing a reading at the hospital. Isaiah. Ruth. Psalms. Portions of the Gospel of John. I’m hoping you’ll join us, be a reader. Will you? You have such a beautiful voice. Oh, and then we’re taking it to Wesley, to the hospital there.”

Olivia’s cheeks were flushed, and her violet eyes sparkled. Whatever her illness may be, her new mission was obviously good medicine.

“Count me in!” he said. “Just give me the schedule and I’ll try and work it out.”

“Wonderful,” she said, getting up to go. “I was just dashing to The Local . . .”

“Olivia . . . ?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind staying a moment?”

She smiled and sat down again.

He didn’t want to do it, but it had to be done. “Olivia, what exactly . . . is going on?”

Her violet eyes were perplexed. “What . . . exactly do you mean?”

“Something tells me, and it isn’t Hoppy, I assure you, that he’s growing . . . shall I say . . . fond of you.”

She stared at him, unspeaking.

“This troubles me,” he said, simply.

“It troubles me as well.”

“Does he know?”

“He does not.”

“I’d be grateful if you would tell me everything. It goes without saying that it will be held in the strictest confidence.

“You say you’re dying. But why are you dying? Why do you appear so very healthy? What course will this . . . illness . . . take? Are you suffering?” He paused. “These are serious issues. But perhaps, for me, the issue is this: If you’re dying, I can’t bear to watch a friend who was lately grief-stricken by his wife’s death form an attachment that—”

Olivia stood up. “Please! I understand.” She looked suddenly drawn and pale. “I’m going to tell you everything. You really should know, and I apologize. It’s just that, when I moved here, I wanted to try and forget it. I wanted to . . . live without thinking of dying.”

She was silent for a moment. “Before I say more, I’d like to ask you to do something for me.”

“Consider it done,” he said impulsively.

“When I’ve explained it all to you, I’d like you to tell him everything.”

He was silent.

“I tried once,” she said, “but, after all, he has said nothing to me of his feelings. It may seem shameful, but I’m too proud to say, ‘Look, you appear to be falling in love with me, and you mustn’t.’ What if he isn’t falling in love with me, what if I’ve guessed wrong, and we’re both humiliated?”

“You haven’t guessed wrong.”

“You’ll tell him, then?”

“I will. But I’d like you to do something for me, as well.”

“Anything,” she said with sincerity.

“This will be his second Christmas alone, and I feel he still has some sorrow to work through. To tell him now would . . . complicate things unduly. You’ll probably see him at church, of course, and even at the hospital. But I’d like you to avoid him as graciously as you can. Then, after the holidays, I’ll tell him.”

“I can do that,” she said slowly. “I care for him very much. He’s a wonderful man.”

“He is, indeed.”

“Well, then,” she said, sitting down, again. “I suppose I can’t put this off any longer.”

After Olivia Davenport left, he sat in silence, staring at the door. Then, he cleaned off his desk and typed an overdue letter to Walter, in which he quoted Romans 8:28: “ ‘We know that all things (
all
things, Walter!) work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose.’ Please bear with Katherine on this.”

He was typing with more than usual dexterity when Russell Jacks pushed open the door.

“Russell! Come in and sit. Have some coffee.” He got up and poured a cup for the old man who, he thought, looked gaunt and tired. “How are you pushing along, Russell?”

The sexton launched into a racking cough. “No rest for th’ wicked,” he said, grinning.

“How’s Dooley doing? We missed our trip to Meadowgate because of the snow, and with Christmas on us, it’ll be January before we get out there.”

“Well, Father,” said Russell, rolling his hat between his palms, “mournful is the word for that boy.”

“Mournful? Dooley?”

“Yes, sir. That’s th’ word.”

“What’s the trouble?”

Russell hesitated, looking at the floor. “Well, Father, it’s ’is mama. He’s bad homesick.”

“Can’t he go home to visit? I’ve been meaning to ask that.”

“I reckon he could . . .”

Father Tim waited.

“But t’ tell th’ truth, I reckon he cain’t . . .”

Another silence.

“What is it, Russell? You need to share the truth with me, if you will. What exactly is wrong with your daughter?”

“Nerves,” Russell mumbled.

“Nerves?”

The old man looked up. His face was sad. "Liquor, t’ tell th’ truth. His mama lays drunk.”

"I’m sorry.”

“She let all ’er young ’uns go, all five. Jus’ give ’em out like candy. I’d ’ve took two, if I could, but . . .” He shrugged, then coughed again. “Th’ boy was th’ oldest, been takin’ care of them little ’uns all ’is life, nearly. They were snatched up like a bunch of kittens in a box, one give here, another give yonder, it’s an awful bad thing for th’ boy.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He felt immeasurably sad for Dooley.

Russell held his hat over his mouth as another fit of coughing overcame him. When it was over, his face was ashen.

“What are you doing for that cough, Russell?”

“A little of this an’ a little of that, you might say.”

“How’s your Christmas looking?”

“Oh, we’ll get by, me ’n th’ boy.”

“I’d like to see you do more than get by.” He pulled out his upper right-hand desk drawer and felt for the packet of bills. He had banked a thousand dollars of Pearly’s “happiness” money and kept some cash for times like these.