At Home in Mitford (59 page)

Esther Bolick was standing at the front door of the rectory, with a cake carrier. Instantly, he knew that he must not, at all costs, let her give him whatever it contained.

“Father?”

“Esther, come in!”

“Oh, I can’t,” she said. “I’ve left the car running, and Gene’s home waiting for his supper, but I was baking today, and I know how you like my orange marmalade cake, and so I baked one for Gene’s birthday tomorrow, and one for you, and, oh, I do hope you like it, because I think it’s the best I’ve ever made!”

There. That did it. Looking into those bright and expectant eyes, he knew that he could no more refuse that cake than he could run along Church Hill Drive stark naked.

He paced in front of the refrigerator for a full ten minutes after Esther had gone, finally deciding he must get it out of the house at once.

There was no answer at Cynthia’s. Russell? Russell and Betty! No, no. He was going to Meadowgate day after tomorrow, and he’d take it out there. Knowing that cake as he did, he recalled that it would only get better with time.

“Well, then,” he said, weakly, staring at the refrigerator.

Barnabas had not gotten through that hateful experience without scars, he concluded. When he dropped a book on the hardwood floor of the study, the dog shot from beneath his wing chair, trembling with fear, and bounded up the stairs to hide under the bed.

He called Meadowgate. “He’ll get over it,” said Hal. “Give him six months or so for his nervous system to heal, and just keep doing what you’re doing. Is he taking the vitamins?”

“Like candy.”

“He’s been through a tough time, very likely made his way from Holding all the way to Mitford, which was no picnic. Got any plans for your frequent-flier points?”

“That’s something I need to talk with you and Marge about on Wednesday.”

“If you want to leave the boy with us while you take a break, you know you can. He’s starting to be pretty responsible around here. He fed the dogs this morning, helped me clean out the kennels, and ran an errand for Marge. He’s a neat kid.”

“I was going to wait until I got there to tell you, but I’m planning a trip to Ireland.”

“Will wonders never cease? You’ve been talking about that for years.”

“Time to put up or shut up. But I want you to know that other arrangements could be made for Dooley. This may be for a couple of months . . .”

“Umm, well . . . he’s got some roots going down here. I don’t believe I’d disturb them, Tim.”

“I don’t want to say anything to the boy, yet.”

“Come on out, then. I’ve got a sick horse on the next farm, and it doesn’t look too good— colic. I may have Dools with me, but we’ll catch you around suppertime.”

“Thank you, my friend. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Hal Owen.

He was suffering from his usual evening exhaustion, which he had recently begun to identify as “old age.” Perhaps he needed to join Barnabas in a vitamin program.

At a little after nine, the phone rang. It was Stuart.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“Absolutely nothing of consequence, I’m sorry to say.” He was, in fact, very sorry to say it. He would prefer to announce that he’d been reading Archbishop Carey’s book or doing sit-ups, something profitable.

“I’ve just spoken with Father John. His mother died late last night. Quite sudden, the family is devastated. He’s going home in the morning to spend some time with his father, who isn’t well. I’m sorry about this for many reasons, not the least of which is the jumble it may make of your trip. You
are
planning a trip?”

“Oh, indeed! The congregation has given me a vast store of frequent-flier points, and I’m planning to go to Ireland with Walter and Katherine.”

“Bravo! Well done! It will just take a jot of time to work out plan B.”

“Father Douglas? Would he be available?”

“Father Douglas is writing a book and won’t budge from his PC.”

“Aha.”

“Let me think through this, and I’ll get back to you. How’s Cynthia?”

“I must call and find out. I’ve been meaning to do that.”

“Yes, please do that, Timothy,” said the bishop.

“He who hesitates is lost, especially where women are concerned. By the way, I’m thankful to have your news about Barnabas.”

When he hung up, he noticed that the receiver seemed heavy, like a barbell.

He turned out the lights in the study, then went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

There was that blasted cake carrier. Thank God, it wasn’t a see-through carrier. One glimpse of that cake, and he’d be dead meat. This way, it might contain a lump of coal, for all he knew.

Barnabas was already sleeping at the foot of the bed when he came upstairs.

As he took his socks off, he noticed his feet and ankles were oddly swollen, something he’d never noticed before. Had he been on his feet a lot today? No more than any other day. He remembered going with a parish group on an intensive three-day bus tour of gardens in Vermont. His ankles had swelled exactly like this. “It’s the walking,” said his curate. “It’s the sitting,” said the choir director.

“I don’t like it,” Hoppy told him on Tuesday afternoon, and proceeded to run a series of uncomfortable tests. The rector decided he’d wait to hear the results on Wednesday morning, then head to Meadowgate. The bulletins would be done, the Evensong posters had just been reprinted, and he, as well as Barnabas, could do with the country air.

He returned to the office after seeing Hoppy and sat staring at the door. He made an effort to pay attention to his calendar and saw the dreaded words “Rose Festival,” which he’d marked in for this coming Friday and Saturday. Had he prepared anything to say? If his life had depended on it, he couldn’t be certain whether he had or not.

He looked at the book-lined walls, which seemed to be closing in on him, and then at Barnabas, snoring in the corner.

No, it wasn’t Barnabas he heard snoring, it was the sound of his own breath coming in short, hollow gasps. He sat there, praying. Then, with the only ounce of energy he could summon, he left the office, forgetting to lock the door, and walked home.

He saw Cynthia in her yard as he came around the corner of the rectory.

“Hello!” she said, cheerfully, popping through the hedge in a denim smock and jeans. “I’m looking forward to this evening. Around six-thirty, they said, I hope that’s OK. You’ll like the Sturgeons, I promise.”

Those fish people. Six-thirty? What was she saying?

“You look a bit fagged out, Timothy. Would you like a cup of tea or a sherry?”

“No,” he said, curtly.

“Well, then,” she murmured, backing away with a bewildered look, “I’ll just see you at my house around six-fifteen?”

“I’ll be there” he said vaguely, going up his back steps. Be there for what? He would find out later. Right now, he wanted a glass of tea, water, anything, something cold.

He let the leash drop and heard Barnabas dash into the hall and bound up the steps with it clattering behind him.

He saw the tea container in the refrigerator door, but the sight of the cake carrier was suddenly so compelling that he couldn’t take his eyes off it. Something cold! The cake would be cold. And sweet. Dear God, he was wrenched with a craving for something sweet, if only one bite. Surely one small bite couldn’t hurt.

He took the carrier out gingerly, as if trying to prevent an alarm from going off and announcing his indiscretion to the neighborhood.

His hand shook as he snapped off the top and stood staring at what Esther Bolick had done in an act of innocent generosity. Then, without thinking about it any further, he cut a large slice, ate it standing over the sink, and went back for another piece.

At four o’clock, feeling somehow revived, he sat in his wing chair in the bedroom. He was trying to get dressed for the evening, but something was wrong, he told himself, looking at his feet. Possibly, it was his shoes. He seemed to be wearing one black loafer and one brown loafer. Was that it? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was something worse, something more grave than shoes.

He studied the situation, keeping his eye on the clock, and was finally interested to see that he had not put his trousers on. He was sitting there in his shorts. He knew this was true because he could see his legs quite plainly.

“Pants,” he said aloud. He looked in his closet and found something that felt like pants. It was not a jacket, it was definitely pants, folded over a hanger.

Water. He had meant to drink water but had somehow forgotten. First, he must get his pants on, though he couldn’t understand how it might be done. They seemed to be upside down. He saw that he couldn’t stuff his feet in through the cuffs, that wasn’t right, he knew that wasn’t right. He would sit down and think about it, he decided, dragging the pants behind him and going to the chest of drawers.

He would need . . . what would he need? Cuff links? The Spurgeons just might dress up for this affair. Charles Spurgeon had said, “Christianity rests upon the fact that Christ is risen from the dead, His sovereignty depends upon His resurrection.”

He was thrilled that they’d be visiting the Spurgeons. In fact, Spurgeon was among the saints he had wanted most to meet in heaven.

The room seemed still as a tomb, suspended in time. He knew at last that he could not keep running, he was getting out of breath, he was hurrying too fast, it was all too much, he could not go on.

He felt for the foot of the bed and worked his way around to the side. Then he pulled the covers back and got in, still wearing his shoes and clutching his pants, and breathing the Invitation, “The gifts of God for the people of God, take them in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on Him in your hearts by faith, with thanksgiving.”

He was not surprised to see that the Spurgeons were having fish for dinner. But he was surprised to see the Lord sitting at the table when they walked into the high-ceilinged room. He felt his heart hammer in his breast.

“Timothy, I have a purpose for this time in your life.”

“Yes, Lord,” he replied, and at once the hammering ceased and a sweet peace invaded him, and he was floating.

He lifted up through the roof of the rectory and over the village and saw the monument that anchored the little town and Lew Boyd’s Esso, where Coot and Lew were looking up and waving to him as he passed.

He saw that he had great wings, the wings of a butterfly, that they were an iridescent yellow and purple, and as smooth as velvet. The air rushed under him like a caress, he was buoyed along without effort, and found that the movement of his wings wasn’t for the sake of keeping him aloft, but was for joy’s sake alone.

He passed over the town, over the green and rolling countryside, and in the distance saw a ribbon gleaming in the light. It was a river, a broad, winding river, and on the other side there was a small church.

He flew down, attracted to a single flower in the churchyard, and lighted there.

Then the procession came, with everyone dressed in white, led by a man who was bearing a wooden cross.

He placed the cross in a newly dug hole near the church door, and dirt was cast into the hole, and the children brought flowers and pressed their roots into the damp earth around it.

Then the man lifted his hands and prayed, thanking God for new life and for hope. The butterfly flew to the cross and lighted there.

“As He left the shroud of death,” said the man, “and rose to new life, so this butterfly, which was once trapped in a cocoon, has become free. Go in new life with Christ. Go, and be as the butterfly.”

The butterfly lifted its wings and flew. It soared above the church, in the sunshine. It saw the river again, and a cool, sudden breeze, the kind found in the brewing of a storm, moved in from the west.

The butterfly passed over the town anchored by the monument and over Fernbank sitting on the hill in the orchards. Then there was the red roof of the little house next door and the slate roof of the rectory.

His head felt thick, as if he had been drugged, or struck a blow. Uneasily, he rolled over and saw someone sitting in the glow of his bedside lamp, looking at him.

Cynthia put her hand on his forehead. He could not speak, nor could he understand her when she spoke. “Timothy,” she said, “I’m here.”

“Profound dehydration,” said Hoppy. He had pried the rector’s jaws open and was looking at his tongue and mouth. “He’s not responding. He may have had a stroke.”

“No,” Cynthia said softly. She heard a siren somewhere.

“Or his sugar may have dropped off the cliff. I’m going to give him a little dextrose now. I told the ambulance to follow me, just in case. Go down and make sure they find us; it’s a new driver.”

When she came back up the stairs with the ambulance attendants, she was shocked again to see the eyes that could not see her.