At Home in Mitford (44 page)

The rector looked wonderingly at his host.

“Ain’t that somethin’, two growed women carryin’ on like that? Don’t that beat all!”

“Oh, Timothy, there’s a tea set in here! Haviland, just like your grandmother’s china! You must come in!”

In the space of a week, he had been on a rooftop and down a coal chute for Cynthia Coppersmith, and that was quite enough for him. He pulled up a battered Morris chair, and sat outside the little door like a cat awaiting a mouse. “You’ll have to bring it out here, Cynthia,” he called, leaning back and winking at Uncle Billy.

“That’s right, Preacher!”

“We can’t come out for hours, I’m afraid.”

“And Bill Watson,” shouted Miss Rose, “don’t you dare come in!”

Her husband laughed. “She don’t have t’ worry about that.”

“Uncle Billy, I don’t know how you’ve lasted with Miss Rose all these years.”

“Well, I give ’er my word, don’t you know.”

There. That was the bottom line. The line that hardly mattered to anyone, anymore.

Uncle Billy shook his head. "Y’ know, Preacher, th’ more things you own, th’ more you’re owned by things. Rose was always owned by this ol’ house and no way out of it, couldn’t sell it because of th’ way ’er brother fixed it with th’ lawyer, and it so big an’ drafty, livin’ in two rooms, don’t you know, lettin’ th’ oil set in th’ tank half th’ time, as she don’t want t’ take charity by burnin’ it, but not thinkin’ a thing of beggin’ food on th’ street. . . .”

They heard Miss Rose let out a squawk of delight.

“Th’ times I’ve seen ’er crawl in there, her arthritis jist disappears, she gits like a girl agin.”

“We may have your problem taken care of. It’s possible that Miss Rose could go ahead and deed the house to the town, with a life estate in a room or two, and one day or another, they’ll turn the rest of it into a museum and maybe a concert hall. Your portion would be well-heated, with a good roof, and a nice, modern kitchen and bath. How do you think we can approach her on that?”

“Law, I don’t know. She holds on to it like a life raft, and hit’s fallin’ down on our heads. Th’ last time I could git up on a ladder was s’ long ago, th’ ladder’s done half-rotted where I left it.”

“Well, my friend, it’s something we need to get on with.”

"Y’ know, Rose has talked about puttin’ a statue of Willard in the front yard. If you could git th’ town t’ do that, it might jist ring ’er bell.”

“Aha!”

“But I’d hate t’ see a statue of Willard standin’ up, it seems too proud. If you was to have ’im settin’ down, now, that might work.”

“Uncle Billy, you’re a thinker!”

“Timothy!”

He peered down at the little door, as his bedraggled neighbor crawled out with something under her arm.

“Look, Timothy! Uncle Billy! It’s your ink drawings! A whole stack of them! Miss Rose meant to burn them and forgot!”

“What an adventure,” said Cynthia, as they walked home along a deserted Main Street. He was carrying the dust-laden bundle of drawings under his arm, as Miss Rose had insisted that they must reside with Cynthia for the time being. “Hit’s f’r th’ best,” Uncle Billy had said, barely able to contain his joy.

“I’m quite exhausted from having so much fun,” sighed his neighbor.

The rector laughed. “We hardly ever hear such a statement in Mitford.” He, too, felt a distinct refreshment of spirit.

At the door of her cottage, he handed her the drawings. “I must get to my boy,” he said. “Thank you for your company. Tonight has reminded me of yet another thing I like about you.”

“What’s that?” she asked, smiling at him.

“You’re simple.”

“I’m perhaps the only woman alive who would be flattered by that remark.”

He laughed. “I knew you’d understand,” he said, taking her hand.

“Timothy?”

“Yes?”

“Would you be interested in going steady?”

He felt as if the entire front stoop had given away under him, but discovered it was merely his knees. He dared not speak, knowing instinctively that he was in a croaking mode.

“Oh, don’t answer now,” she said, gazing at him with amusement. “Just think about it.”

She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with hers. Wisteria!

Then she turned and went inside. “Good night,” she said, closing the door.

He didn’t know how long he sat on her steps, quite unable to walk the few yards to his back porch.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When Betty Craig opened the door, she looked worried.

“Father,” she said, receiving his weekly delivery of a pound of livermush, “I’m glad you’re here. His livermush always cheers him up for a day or two.”

“How is he?”

“Ornery.”

“Aha.”

They walked into Betty’s tidy kitchen, wall-papered with geese in blue bonnets. The windowsill was brimming with African violets, and outside the window he saw dozens of bird feeders made from plastic milk containers.

“What has Russell been doing?”

“Sit down, Father, and let me tell you.”

Betty, who was one of the most positive people he knew, looked desolate. They sat at her round table, in captain’s chairs with blue cushions.

“He gets up in the morning fussing, and he goes to bed fussing. Ida would have done this, Ida would have done that. He hates my cooking and won’t take his medicine and shaves his toenails on the hooked rug. He chased my cat down the hall with an umbrella and . . .”

She looked down at her hands, which she was obviously wringing.

“And what?”

“And peed in the bed twice, for pure meanness!”

“No!”

“Yes, sir,” said Betty, whose lower lip had begun to tremble.

“Betty Craig, you are the finest nurse in these mountains. You are caring, sensitive, brave, and persevering. And you are also something else.”

“What’s that?” she asked, meekly.

“Tough! Why, you’ve nursed men as big as Buicks and cleaned enough bedpans to sink a ship. How on earth did an old goat like Russell Jacks put you in a shape like this?”

She looked at him fiercely. “I don’t know.”

“Well, think about it. You nursed Parrish Guthrie in his last days, did you not?”

“I did!”

“Then you can handle a dozen like Russell Jacks, and then some.”

She sighed deeply. “I did go off my vitamins about a month ago.”

“There! That’s it! Take those vitamins, Betty. Tote that barge! Lift that bale!”

“What on earth has got into you, Father?”

“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll talk to Russell. I’ll tell him exactly what’s what, that you’ll set him out on the stoop with his suitcase if he doesn’t straighten up at once.”

Betty looked relieved. “You do that!” she said, blinking back a tear. “And I hope it helps. Because if Mr. Jacks leaves,” she said with alarm, “they want me to take in Miss Pattie!”

Russell lay sleeping in a room filled with sunlight and ruffled curtains, with
All My Children
blaring on the TV. The rector quietly turned it off. His last two visits had been hurried. Today, he would spend a full hour.

He sat in a wing chair by the bed and prayed for the old man. With the right opportunities, he could have been another Capability Brown.

“I ain’t asleep,” said Russell, without opening his eyes.

“Is that right?”

“Nope. I cain’t sleep around here.”

An old Dooley Barlowe, if he ever saw one!

“Why is that?”

“Noise. Constant goin’ an’ comin, cat slitherin’ around my ankles, phone ringin’, neighbors bangin’ on th’ door.”

If he had learned anything in the diocesan counseling workshops, it was that sympathy can be deadly. He changed the subject.

“Russell, I’ve been meaning to ask . . . do you know if the boy was ever baptized?”

“Nossir. That’s th’ kind of thing Ida would’ve knowed. She kept a Bible with such things in it, our married date, when th’ kids was born, like that. Ida was a churchwoman, and I hate t’ think th’ times she begged me t’ go with ’er.”

The old man was silent for a long time and turned his head away. When he looked at the rector, he was weeping. “I’d give anything on this green earth t’ go t’ church with Ida now. But I waited ’til it’s too late.”

How many times had he heard those words from sorrowing parishioners? Too late! Too late to love. Too late to help. Too late to listen. Too late to discipline. Too late to say I’m sorry.

“Russell, it’s too late to do what Ida wanted, but it’s not too late to do what Betty wants.” He heard himself speak with unusual severity.

Russell heaved a sigh. “You’re right, Father, you’re dead right, an’ I know it. I’m th’ roughest ol’ cob you ever seen when it comes t’ mindin.’ That’s why I’ve fought th’ Lord s’ long, it meant mindin’ ’im if I was t’ foller ’im. It’s about wore me out, fightin’ ’im. Not t’ say I don’t respect ’im, I do. But I don’t want t’ mind ’im.”

The uneducated Russell Jacks, thought the rector, had just put the taproot cause of the world’s ills into a few precise words.

“Well, Russell, when we replace you . . .”

The old man sat up with great force. “You’re hirin’ somebody else t’ do m’ work?”

“We’ll have to, you know. The way things are going with Betty means you’ll probably have to pack up and live at your place. Being without a nurse could set you back a few months, could even send you back to the hospital. All in all, I don’t believe the gardens can be let go that long.”

Russell threw off the covers and sat up on the side of the bed, which launched a racking cough.

“A mess is what it’ll be,” he said, breathlessly, “all them bulbs bloomed out and them stems an’ leaves dyin’ off, and th’ weeds comin’ in, an’ y’r fish pond settin’ there all scummed up . . .”

“And you over here wasting energy chasing Betty’s cat, when you could be gaining strength.” Father Tim looked at him steadily.

There was a long silence, during which Russell Jacks studied his feet.

“Will you hold m’ job, Father?”

“Will you hold your temper?”

Russell considered the question. “I’ll do it,” he said.

“I’ll expect it,” replied the rector.

Another silence.

“You ought t’ git th’ boy t’ help out in th’ churchyard when he can. He’s gifted at it.”

“You know what I’d really like, Russell? I’d like to see that boy laugh.”

“He don’t laugh. Always was th’ soberest little thing you ever seen. ’Course, he was th’ oldest, you know, and he’s had th’ weight of th’ world on ’im, lookin’ after th’ little young ’uns s’ much.”

See Dooley laugh! On his mental list of things to do, that particular ambition had just gone straight to the top.

Betty Craig knocked lightly on the open door and came in with a tray. “Time for your medicine!” she said, looking to the rector for a sign of hope.

“
You’re
the best medicine this ol’ feller could ever have,” replied an affable Russell Jacks.

Think about it, she’d told him. Think about it! As if he could forget it for a moment. He urgently wished to call Walter but could not make himself pick up the phone. Would Walter be shocked? Probably not. Amused? Not especially. What Walter would be was skeptical.

“You’re like a’ ol’ cat,” Dooley complained.

“You’re laughin’ one minute and bitin’ my head off the next,” snapped Emma.

“Are you takin’ your medicine?” Puny demanded to know. Well, no, he wasn’t. He’d been meaning to, and he definitely would. He’d do it that very night.

“Grievin’ about that dog, are you?” said Joe Ivey, as he trimmed the rector’s neck.

It seemed everybody had some comment to make on his behavior these days.

Go steady? At his age? Except for the eleven months he had courted Peggy Cramer, he had never gone steady in his life. What did it mean to go steady, anyway? How in God’s name could he know it was something he might like to do, if he hadn’t the foggiest notion of what it meant?

And how had all this happened, anyway? He hadn’t really meant for anything to “happen.” Just dinner occasionally, with the sound of her laughter, and the way she expressed herself so openly, without guile.

The truth of the matter was that he liked her. There! That was it. Nothing more than that. Nothing more than that was needed. Wasn’t that extraordinary enough in itself?

He felt oddly excited. So—he liked Cynthia. What was unusual about that? Hadn’t he known that? Perhaps. But he had never clearly stated it to himself. The statement of that simple fact felt liberating. He was suddenly relieved.

The relief, however, didn’t endure. His everlasting practicality caused him to wonder what he should
do
about liking Cynthia. On the other hand, he reasoned, why couldn’t he simply like her, without feeling compelled to do something about it?

When he found that he was pacing the floor of his study like a windup toy, he went to his room and changed into a jogging suit.