At Home in Mitford (61 page)

They stood up, and Father Tim clasped the pastor’s hand with both of his. “We’ll go through the order of service until you get the hang of it, and the bishop will provide someone to celebrate.”

“This is pretty unorthodox, you know,” Absalom said.

“I trust the orthodoxy of it enough to trust the unorthodoxy,” replied the rector, returning his gaze and smiling.

The trip to the airport had become a dilemma. Joe Ivey, Mule Skinner, Ron Malcolm, and Hal Owen had all volunteered to drive.

Emma, however, had insisted, which settled that consequential matter.

“Well, of course, you must leave Barnabas with us,” said Marge, when they talked on the phone.

“But you’ve done—you’re doing—so much already,” he protested, sincerely.

“Just think of all you do for us, Timothy!”

Frankly, he couldn’t think of anything at all.

In his last sermon, he made every effort to prepare the congregation.

“Pastor Greer warns me that some of my flock will have leaped over the wall by the time I return. But I challenge you to remain in the fold, and to hear what he has to say, and to ponder it in your hearts. I haven’t made this decision lightly, nor has the bishop been casual in giving his blessing. There will be some awkward moments, very likely, for Pastor Greer doesn’t know our order of service, but I want you to pray for him, and give him the right hand of fellowship, and keep a strong hedge around yourselves until I return.”

Some of his flock looked at him quizzically as he greeted them on the church lawn. No one liked change, and why in heaven’s name couldn’t he have brought in Father Douglas, whom they at least knew? What did it matter if his sermons were largely tepid? He was comfortable, they were comfortable, and surely any bishop worth his salt could have talked him into leaving his book, which probably wasn’t going to be very exciting, anyway. Or Father Randall, now there was someone who’d pep the place up and make a contribution, though there was always the question of his unfortunate preference for guitar music at the eleven o’clock. And what about this preacher being a Baptist, for heaven’s sake? They only hoped he would not raise his voice and shout, or, worse yet, issue an altar call.

In the cool of the evening, he walked to Fernbank with Barnabas, taking his time on the hill, and found Miss Sadie and Louella sitting on the porch, fanning.

“Ladies, what’s up?”

“What’s up is that we’re looking for company,” Miss Sadie told him. “Louella and I were just talking about how nobody visits on Sundays like they used to. What on earth do you think people
do
if they don’t visit?”

“They go to the mall,” said the rector, out of breath. He sat on the steps with Barnabas, who was glad for the cool steps on the east side of the house.

“Surely not!”

“However, the old customs haven’t vanished entirely. After all, here I am.”

“Let Barnabas come up with us,” said Miss Sadie, who was still in her church clothes.

Louella drew away from Barnabas. “Thass th’ biggest dog I ever seen. I lived in houses ain’t as big as that dog.”

Barnabas collapsed at Miss Sadie’s feet and yawned contentedly. “There now! What a treat! Louella, do you suppose we ought to get a dog?”

“Oh, law!” Louella was speechless.

“Well, Father, you should know that we’re all in a dither about Absalom Greer coming to supply us while you’re gone. I think that was a very odd thing to do, but I’m excited about it.”

“You’re right. It was a very odd thing to do. But I think the oddity of it will have its effects. Will you give me a report on how things are going now and then? I’ll leave you an itinerary, with addresses and phone numbers. And I wanted to say I’ll write you ladies every week. That’s a promise.”

“You’ve spoiled us, Father. You really have. Nearly thirteen years and barely missing a Sunday except for special meetings of the diocese and that awful winter when the flu kept you down.”

“You know to call Hal or Ron if you need anything, and Esther Bolick and Emma will look out for you. Why, after a day or so, you’ll be saying, ‘Father who?’ ”

“A likely story!”

“You know Olivia will be coming home soon,” he said. “Perhaps you’d care to call her.”

“Oh, we bin talkin’ ’bout that!” said Louella. “Miss Sadie goan have her up to try on all those fine hats, and I’m goin’ t’ fry her some chicken that will melt in her pretty mouth, yessir.”

“And we’ll sit at the dining table, won’t we, and use Mama’s china?”

“Aw, let’s just set in th’ kitchen where it’s comfortable and not put on airs for Miss Olivia. Let’s just treat her like family!”

“Why, Louella, that’s a perfect idea. What will we have with the chicken?”

Father Tim got up and went to Miss Sadie’s rocking chair. He leaned down and kissed his eldest parishioner on the forehead, then turned and gave Louella a kiss on her warm cheek. “Keep up the good work,” he said. “Remember I’ll write you every week.”

He hurried down the steps with Barnabas, and out into the drive, where he stopped and looked back, grinning. “Stay out of trouble!” he said.

“Let’s have a romantic dinner by candlelight,” suggested Cynthia, who had dropped by his office on her way to The Local.

“That sounds good. But I had another suggestion, if you’re interested.”

“Try me!” she said, tilting her head and looking pleased with life.

“Why don’t we take a drive in the country?”

“I love to drive in the country!”

“On my motor scooter.”

“On your motor scooter? That little red thing?”

“The very same. We can take a picnic.”

“Where would we put it?”

“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t thought it through.”

“Obviously not.”

“But I will, I will think it through. I’ll devise a plan, and you’ll be stunned by the brilliance, the wit, the . . . foolishness of it!”

She laughed with delight. “I love it when you talk like that! The minute you devise your plan, let me know more. Anything I can pick up for you at The Local?”

“Nothing, thanks,” he said, seeing her to the door.

She was on the sidewalk when he called to her. “Cynthia?”

“Yes?” She turned around and smiled.

“I’ll miss you,” he said.

He was dreading it, dreading it all. He had not been on an airplane in nine years, and to fly across the ocean was suddenly unthinkable. Travel always sounded wonderful when one considered the end, but to consider the means was quite another story. Walter and Katherine had gleefully reported that the farmhouse had feather beds, but as he recalled from boyhood days at his grandfather’s, feather beds contained more than feathers. He recalled hearing faint chewing sounds that lasted the livelong night.

Then there was the issue of where the bathrooms were. They believed both rooms had baths
en suite,
but then again, one of the baths—and guess whose it would be?—just might be a step or two down the hall.

He sat in his chair in the bedroom and looked at the results of his feeble packing effort. He wouldn’t leave for four days yet, but he thought it best to start working on that aggravating project now.

“Timothy,” he said aloud, causing Barnabas to look around curiously, “you have a rotten attitude about this trip. Back up and start over! Thank you, Lord, for the opportunity to go to this wonderful part of your world, thank you for making provision through the sacrifices of so many people, and for bringing it all together in a way that is clear evidence of your grace.

“Thank you for a good home for Dooley and Barnabas, may you bless the Owens exceedingly for their care for us. Forgive me for being dark-spirited about what is certainly a privilege, and enable me to take care of every need before I go. And, Lord, show me what to pack.”

“Leave this packin’ alone!” said Puny. “You are makin’ a mess. You have two pairs of underwear in here and nine handkerchiefs. You have three pairs of cuff links and no French cuff shirts.” He was alarmed to see how she was undoing what he had so carefully done.

“You jis’ go on and let me handle this. I packed for my grandpaw all th’ time when he was travelin’ with a revival tent. He was neat as a pin. He said he got compliments all th’ time about the way he turned hisself out. What’s this?”

“That,” he said, irritably, “is my diabetes case.”

“Ugh,” she said, looking inside. “Needles! What’s this?”

“Those are the strips to dip in my urine, to test blood sugar levels.”

“Do you have something to pee in?”

“Puny . . .”

“Well, think about it. You might need a little jar. You could git over there in that foreign country, and you don’t know what you might have to pee in.”

“Put in a jar, then,” he said.

“I’m so glad you got Mr. Greer, an’ another preacher ain’t movin’ in here. I hope you don’t mind that I prayed about it.”

They had parked the car on the dirt road, climbed through a barbed wire fence, crossed a meadow brimming with daisies, and climbed a green knoll dotted with buttercups. They spread the quilt where pines and blue spruce cast a cool shade.

He lay down, put his hands behind his head, and looked up at a sky filled with vast cumulus clouds. He felt as if he might have been journeying to this very place for the duration of his sixty-one years. Surely, this was destination enough. Could Ireland be any greener? Its hills any nobler?

“Is this heaven?” inquired Cynthia, who was also lying on her back, looking up at the clouds. “Well, of course it is! Just look over there to the right, you see that chariot with an angel driving it? Look, Timothy, do you see?”

One thing he liked about his neighbor. It didn’t take much to entertain her.

“I was looking at the face of Beethoven myself.”

“Where?” she asked eagerly.

“Straight up. See that wild mane of hair?”

“Why, that’s not Beethoven at all,” she said with urgent sincerity. “That’s Andrew Jackson!”

He surprised himself by laughing so hard he couldn’t stop. Nor did he want to. Being joined by his neighbor in this foolish collapse made it even better.

When the spasm had passed, Cynthia fetched a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and blew her nose with some abandon. “Doesn’t it feel grand to laugh over nothing?” she wondered. “Why don’t we laugh more?”

“I think we forget,” he said, wiping his eyes.

“How can we possibly forget to laugh, when it feels so good and cures so much? How can we possibly?”

He had no answers. Ever since he was a child, he had been prone to forget about laughing.

“When I was a girl, I used to get tickled in chapel. I must tell you that it was the most delicious laughter I ever enjoyed in my life, because it was so forbidden. But, oh, it was terribly painful, too. I would laugh ’til I hurt, and the tears would be streaming down my cheeks, but I had to keep all the rest of it inside, because if one single little bit of laughing slipped out, well, you know.”

“Sudden death!”

“Dear Cynthia, they said, she sits in chapel and cries, what a tender heart! Oh, dear.”

He smiled. How good to lie on his back and talk of nearly nothing, and feel the breeze now and then, and hear the bawling of a calf, and the song of the juncos in the hedges. He could not remember when he had been so supremely contented.

He reached over and took her hand, and turned his head to look at her. He thought that if he dared kiss her, he would devour her. He would kiss her lovely cheek and the tip of her nose, her forehead and her hair, he would not be responsible, he would come undone. It seemed dangerous merely to breathe.

“Timothy, look at that funny cow staring at us.”

He raised his head slightly and froze. “Do not move,” he said. “That is a bull.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she whispered, “this happens in comic books, not real life. Will we be gored?”

He did not feel confident about sitting up, but he felt less confident about lying down. So he continued to hold his head up, gazing at the bull somewhere over its left flank, feeling that the eye contact was not advisable.

“I think that what I should do is stand up slowly, and then you should run for the woods.”

“I’ll take the basket,” she volunteered in a low voice. “I will not share my raspberry tart with that oaf.”

He forced himself into a sitting position. How would J.C. handle this story? In the obituaries or on the front page?

The bull looked at him with consuming interest, as he managed to stand, albeit unsteadily. His knees had nearly gone out. “OK, run,” he said evenly to his neighbor. He heard her do that very thing.

Were frequent-flier points refundable? he wondered.

The bull gazed at him steadily. Then, it lowered its head and turned to lumber down the hill to a shade tree at the edge of the meadow, without looking back.

The rector picked up the quilt and trudged to the edge of the woods to meet Cynthia, who was standing by a pine tree, shaking with laughter.

“It’s stressful in the country,” he said, grinning.

“I vote that the best picnic lunch of my life!” she declared. “The best cold chicken, the best French bread, the best cheese, the best raspberry tart!”

“I agree with all of that!” he said, trying to ignore his increasing appetite for holding her in her arms.

She took a small sketchbook out of her skirt pocket, and a box of pencils. “I don’t suppose you’d care to put one corner of the quilt over your head?”

“Not particularly. Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“I’m starting on the wise men, and this is my very last chance at you, you know. All you have to do is sit over there and pull the quilt up around your head, like this.”

“That’s all? How long will it take?”

“Five minutes! I’ll hurry. Then, when I get to my drawing board, I’ll use the sketch as a model for the watercolor.” She peered at him. “Actually, if you get on your knees, it will be easier.”