At Home in Mitford (32 page)

“That includes y’r Peaches an’ Cream deod’rant spray.”

“A bargain!” he declared, and shook Lew’s hand with enthusiasm.

They followed him to the car. “Boys,” said Lew, as the rector started the ignition, “since he ain’t drove in a good while, I’d step back if I was you.”

They stood watching as the car cruised around the monument and disappeared down Main Street, where several people turned and stared in complete disbelief at the sight of the local priest driving a car, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts, but actually listening intently to the country-and-western station on his radio, which was playing a number called “I Bought the Shoes That Just Walked Out on Me.”

During the service the following Sunday, he asked the congregation if anyone had seen his Bible, which he described in minute detail.

Black. Embossed with his name in gold. Leather. Worn. Small. Red-letter edition. Marked in the margins.

Not a soul raised a hand, stood up, confessed, or otherwise gave any indication of its whereabouts.

He didn’t know why such a thought occurred to him, but he felt he should search the church. The basement, the attic, that sort of thing. Too many things were missing; something felt oddly out of place, like a picture hanging crooked on the wall.

It was after dark when he walked to Lord’s Chapel, noticing the sign on the front door of the Oxford as he passed. “Away,” it read, which was Andrew’s unique language for “Closed.” He’d heard that Andrew had left last week on his biannual trip to England to buy antiques and meet with a society that collected Churchill memorabilia. The gray Mercedes would not be parked at the curb for a while, which gave him a puzzling sense of relief.

Arriving at the church, he turned on all the lights and went first to the basement. He searched the sprawling, unfinished room thoroughly, even looking into the surplus food cabinets where they stored canned goods for church suppers. On the few occasions he’d looked in this cabinet, he’d seen it full, as Esther Bolick was the majordomo of all kitchen activities and a real crackerjack at keeping supplies on hand.

This time, it was nearly empty; they were even low on toilet paper. “Have you ever tried to go to the johnny over at the Baptists’?” Esther once said. “They never have any toilet paper. You have to use the Kleenex in your pocketbook, if you’re lucky enough to have any!” It had been a particular ambition of Esther’s never to run out of this commodity at Lord’s Chapel.

On entering the parish hall, he was surprised to smell the unmistakable odor of chicken noodle soup. He would know that smell anywhere, having lived off that particular soup during his early years in the priesthood.

There was no indication that anyone had been in the church. No meetings were scheduled. Altar Guild never worked on Sunday, having a tradition of cleaning up on Monday. And Russell lay sick in the hospital.

He felt a sudden foreboding. Something was wrong, very wrong. He could sense it, and he didn’t like it.

At the left of the altar, he reached up and pulled the chain that brought down the attic stairs.

Why in heaven’s name anyone would have put attic stairs near the altar was beyond him. However, the chain did make a fine place to attach a flower basket during spring and summer services.

Chicken noodle soup! As he turned on the attic lights and climbed the creaking steps, he smelled it more distinctly than before.

In his twelve years at Lord’s Chapel, he had been in the attic only once, and found it as large as the loft of a New England barn. According to Miss Sadie, they had built the church with room for growth of the Sunday school. As his eyes came level with the floor of the loft, he saw nothing but a vast, empty space filled with shadows.

It was strangely restful to stand in this place, without the fret and clutter of “things.”

He noticed something lying near the window in the corner. But when he walked over to it, he saw that it was only a candy wrapper. Almond Joy. One of his favorites.

He picked it up. He could smell the tiniest scent of chocolate on the wrapper.

He put the wrapper in his pants pocket and walked to the door that opened into the nearly empty belfry. Three of the enormous bells were gone from their oak mountings. The fourth, the great and solemn “death bell,” as it was called, stood silent in the corner of the Norman tower.

What was he looking for, anyway? he asked himself. Perhaps he hoped the jewels would turn up again somewhere on the premises, and Rodney Underwood would take them away, and the whole incident would be off his mind and out of his hands. After all, wasn’t it possible that whoever put them in the urn might have moved them to another hiding place in the church?

If nothing else, he was able to see the pristine condition of the old building, even in the poor light from naked bulbs.

He closed the door to the belfry and walked to the stairs.

Very likely, he thought, the theft of Esther Bolick’s marmalade cake had been an inside job, a practical joke by one of the many fervent admirers of that famous cake. And his Bible would turn up in some unexpected place that, after all, would make perfect sense.

The jewels, however, were another matter. He had hoped to come up from the basement or down from the attic feeling some sort of peace. But the matter of the jewels would give him no peace at all.

When he went home from the office on Monday, Puny was standing at the door, waiting. He could see the fire in her eyes before he opened the screen.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, seeing that it wasn’t going to be pleasant at all. “You’re usually gone when I get home.”

“Are you still prayin’ that parade prayer?” she demanded, as he came in with a quart of milk and a loaf of bread.

“Parade prayer?”

“You know, th’ one that asks th’ Lord to let th’ parade begin?”

“Aha! Well, yes. Yes, I am.”

She glowered at him. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell th’ Lord to stop th’ parade!”

“Well, now,” he said, putting the grocery bag down and sitting on his counter stool. “What’s going on?”

“Th’ very day we talked, I went to Th’ Local to get those nectarines Avis was ravin’ about, and I’m standin’ there by the produce, and this ol’ coot walks up t’ me an’ goes, ‘Well, little lady, where you bin at all my life?’

“He had his jaw stuck s’ full of tobacco, it would’ve gagged a billy goat. He follered me around till I had to nearly smack ’im to get ’im to leave me alone.

“Th’ very next day,” Puny continued, quite red in the face, “I was mindin’ my own business at th’ mall, tryin’ to buy you some washrags, and this big galoot slithers up t’ me like a snake and says, ‘Want t’ go git some chicken fingers at th’ arcade?’

“Chicken fingers! I showed ’im chicken fingers!”

“Puny,” he said, “when you go to a parade, do you like every float that passes?”

“I like some better’n others,” she said grudgingly.

“Well, then.”

“I don’t know. I think you should pray some other prayer. This’n scares me t’ death.”

“You wait,” he said, mildly. “This is only the start-up. We haven’t got to the drum and bugle corps yet, much less to the marching bands!”

“Whatever that’s supposed to mean,” she said, thoroughly disgusted.

That evening before dinner, he built a fire. Dooley made popcorn, and Barnabas did his business at the hedge with great expediency. He was as glad as a child for the comfort of home, and rest, and peace.

For what he estimated to be the fourth or fifth time, he picked up the
Mitford Muse
, which by now was four days old, and tried to read Esther Cunningham’s editorial on the July Festival of Roses. J.C. had done it again. “Festival of Ropes Will Transform Main Street,” said the headline.

Dooley answered the ringing phone in the kitchen. “Rec’try. Yep, he’s here, but he don’t want t’ talk t’ nobody.”

Dooley put his hand over the receiver and yelled, “It’s y’r doctor!”

“Hang up,” he said, and lifted the cordless by the sofa. “Got anything for exhaustion, sleeplessness, and general aggravation?” he asked.

“I was calling to ask you the same thing.”

“The blind leading the blind. How are you, my friend?”

“This place is eating me alive. I’ve got to get out of here for a while, and the kitchen said they’d make me a plate. I wondered if I could bring it to your place. Dining out, it’s called.”

“Of course!” he said, trying to conceal the weariness in his voice.

“I’ll bring you a plate, too.”

“I don’t know,” said the rector, with some caution. “What do you . . . ah, think it might be?”

“God only knows.”

“I’ve had that a few times. Bring it on, then. I need more surprises in my life.”

“Yuck,” said Dooley, “don’t give me any of that stuff. I eat somethin’ off granpaw’s plate th’ other day at th’ hospital, an’ it like t’ gagged me.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“I’ll jis’ have me some popcorn, peanut butter an’ jelly, an’ fried baloney.”

“Yuck,” said the rector.

“When in heaven’s name are you going to get some help?” he asked his doctor. They were sitting by the fire with trays on their laps.

“Soon.”

“That’s what you always say. And soon never comes. Here you are, a Harvard medical school graduate who could practice anywhere in the country, and you’ve chosen our obscure little village and the work of three men.”

“A man from Wesley will be spending a couple of afternoons with me, starting soon. Good doctor. Wilson. You’ll like him. Young.”

“A lamb to the slaughter.”

Hoppy grinned. “So, what do you think of the cuisine?”

“Well, now . . . words fail me.”

“Come on. We’re talking Chicken Cordon Bleu here.”

He laughed. “If that’s what you’re talking, my friend, we are clearly speaking two different languages.”

Hoppy gulped down his food, a habit encouraged by overwork and understaffing, and leaned back in the wing chair. “I need you to check me on something,” he said, looking into the fire.

“Proceed.”

“I don’t know where I’m going with this. Maybe nowhere.” He was silent for some time, as the fire crackled. Barnabas got up from his master’s feet and went and lay next to Hoppy’s. This act of simple consolation was only one of the reasons Father Tim admired his dog’s character.

“When Carol was dying, there was nothing I could do. All I could do was control the pain. It was . . . hopeless.”

“Yes. It was. It was hopeless.”

Hoppy turned from the fire. “Severe myocarditis isn’t hopeless!” he said, with feeling.

“Keep going.”

“Which means I’m not helpless!”

“I hear you.”

Hoppy stood up and paced the floor. “I’m scared out of my mind. I hardly know this woman. We spent some time at the art show, I see her at church, we’ve had coffee in the staff room. And of course, I see what she’s doing for my patients. She’s the best medicine we’ve got up there.”

Father Tim heard Dooley running his bath water upstairs.

“Track me here, and see if I’m making sense.”

“I’m with you.”

“Severe myocarditis is not hopeless for one reason only—transplants. But this option is complicated by her blood type. Who knows whether we could find a compatible donor in a hundred years? And when we found one, would she be in stable enough condition to receive the heart? Another thing, it can’t be just anybody with her blood type, it will take someone who’s about her same weight. It’s scary business, but what I’m saying is this . . .”

He stood in front of the fire, his tall, lanky frame cast into shadow. “I hardly know this woman, but . . . I feel something for her that’s so strong, so . . . compelling . . . that I want to help her. I want to stick my neck out and help her. I want her to have a heart that works. I want . . .”

“What do you want?”

“I want her to live,” Hoppy said softly.

“I want that with you.”

“Get behind me in prayer, will you?”

“I will.”

“You’ll think I’m crazy, but I’ve been running down all the scenarios. I’ve got a friend in Wesley who’s a pilot. He’s not always easy to find, but we’re twenty minutes to his plane. And if I can’t find Millard, there’s a little charter service at the same strip, with a couple of Cessnas.

“Wherever they harvest the heart, it could be put on ice until we arrive. Or, it could be packed in ice and flown to Boston. I’m going to talk to Leo Baldwin at Mass General.”

Father Tim felt strangely shaken and joyful.

“We can get her on a national waiting list, and if her blood type comes up, we’d have to move immediately. She’ll have to wear a beeper, and . . . I’d like you to have one, too. When that thing goes off, pal, we’re talking on your knees.”

He felt the sobering impact of such a plan. It would mean they would all have to be accessible, every hour of every day.

“The call could come anytime, from anywhere,” said Hoppy. “We may even be able to keep the donor alive, keep the heart pumping until we get her wherever we have to go.”

“Would that be desirable?”

“The longer it’s in the physiological state, the better.”

“I see.”

Hoppy rubbed his eyes and sat down again, wearily.

“What do I tell her?” he asked his concerned host. “That I’m willing to go out of my way, complicate my life, turn my practice upside down for God knows how long, just because I’m a nice guy? How do I keep . . . what would she think my reasons are for getting involved like this?”

Father Tim sat forward on the sofa. “I suggest you don’t concern yourself with what she thinks. You’re a doctor. Your business is saving lives.”

“But according to you, she’s turned off the transplant idea completely. Leo Baldwin has probably walked her through all these scenarios; she’s considered them seriously and dumped the option. Period. So, who’s going to sell her?”