In This Mountain (20 page)

“Are you there, Lord? Sometimes I can’t sense Your Presence, I have to go on faith alone. You want us to walk by faith, You tell us so…don’t we go on faith that the sun will set, the moon will rise, our breath will come in and go out again, our hearts will beat? Give me faith, Lord, to know Your Presence as surely as I know the beating of my own heart. I’ve felt so far from You….”

He remembered Miss Sadie’s story of falling into the abandoned well, of her terror as she cried out, unheard, in the dark summer night, unable to move—she said she’d known for the first time the deep meaning of the prayers she had learned by rote. “It was the darkness,” Miss Sadie had told him, “that was the worst.”

The tears were hot on his face. His own life seemed overwhelmed by darkness these last weeks; there had been the bright and shining possibility, then had come the crushing darkness. Something flickered in his memory. “Song birds,” he whispered. “Song birds, yes…are taught to sing in the dark.”

That was a line from Oswald Chambers, from the book he’d kept by his bedside for many years. But he couldn’t bear switching on the lamp to read it; his eyes had been feeling weak and even painful. He turned on his side and opened the drawer of the nightstand and took out the flashlight. Then he pulled Cynthia’s pillow atop his own and shone the flashlight on the open book.

He thumbed through the worn and familiar pages. There! Page forty-five, the reading for February fourteenth….

The flashlight slid onto the bed beside him as he fell asleep, but his hand resolutely gripped the book until dawn.

Uncle Billy Watson decided he was fed up with trying to learn jokes from a book. A man had to study out a little bitty part in print as fine as frog hair, then close his eyes and say it out loud ’til he got it right, then study out the next dadblame part, and so on and so on, ’til the whole works was so mixed up in his head he didn’t hardly know hisself if it was funny. He hadn’t laughed one time over that parrot joke, so why did he think he could get the preacher to laugh?

“Where are you headed?” demanded his wife.

“Out t’ m’ dadjing garden!” he said, stomping to the door.

“This soup’s cooked and ready to eat!”

“Hit’s too hot f’r soup!” he said, mad as a hornet about things in general. “A man oughtn’t t’ have t’ eat soup when th’ weather’s ninety degrees in th’ shade!”

“A man ought to eat what’s offered and be glad to get it!”

He thought Rose Watson was the meanest-looking woman he ever laid eyes on, the way she crossed her arms and glared down on him like he was two feet tall. He sometimes figured they wadn’t nothing at all wrong with his wife. She was smart as a whip and twice as tough; her sickness was just something she used to get attention and worry a man to death.

“No rest f’r th’ wicked an’ th’ righteous don’t need none,” he said under his breath. He let the screen door slam behind him, even if slamming doors wasn’t allowed in his house, and went down the back steps with his cane.

For all he cared, she could holler at him ’til she was blue in the face, he was going out to his little patch and set in a chair and watch his sprouts grow. He’d make up his own joke, by johnny—a man who’d lived eighty-some years ought to have enough dadblame sense to make up his own joke.

They lay facing each other in bed; the moon had risen, bright and full, illuminating the room.

“It was good for you to get away,” he said, tracing the outline of her ear with his fingertips.

“Yes. It was. But it’s better for me to be home.”

“Do you really mean it?”

“I really mean it.”

He kissed her, lingering.

“I think you’re glad I’m home.”

“Amen!”

She smiled. “Home is where the heart is.”

She put her palm against his cheek and kissed him back; he felt the slow, steady tide rising in him.

He wasn’t as old and feeble as he’d thought. No, indeed, he wasn’t old and feeble at all.

Hope Winchester sat on the stool behind the cash register at Happy Endings, not daring to lift her eyes from the book she was reading. She couldn’t make heads nor tails of the words; they seemed to mush together in a kind of typographical quagmire. What a snare she’d gotten herself into; she was exerting every effort to appear absorbed in
Jim the Boy
, which the
New York Times
had raved over, but her mind was riveted on the mailroom.

It was nearly unbearable that the door to the mailroom, just a few feet from the register, was partially open; occasionally she saw him walk to the stacks and take a book from the shelf. She thought his hands mesmerizing—long, tapered fingers that seemed to hold things with sensitivity and purpose.

She tried to forget that he’d used those same fingers to unscrew the oil pan from a car and steal a friend’s jewels, which, as it turned out, had been stolen from a British museum. But that was over, that was past; he had suffered his punishment, and was nice as anything and very serious and kind and loved books as much as she did.

She thought she might have borne his nearness with more equanimity if he had not loved books, or if he were not so very handsome. She had never been around handsome men, and the fact that one was working in the next room and speaking her name and occasionally bringing her coffee in the mornings was…she tried to find words for what it was. It was something like painful, even excruciating to have him so near and to feel such an avalanche of emotion and be completely unable to laugh and talk and go about one’s life normally, instead of sitting on a stool, frozen with longing and fear and pretense, trying to read words that would not penetrate her brain.

“Miss Winchester?”

George Gaynor stood at the open door, only feet away, smiling. He was wearing a denim shirt the color of his eyes; she could barely speak.

“Yes?”

“I wonder if you would show me how to enter this order—it’s different from all the others.”

She wanted to die on the spot and get it over with, and not suffer so cruelly.

“Of course,” she said, slipping off the stool. The book crashed to the floor and she stooped to pick it up. She looked at him as she laid it on the counter and saw that he was smiling.

“You know how things have gone the last couple of years,” he told Buck on the phone. “We’ve had a lot of disappointments. Maybe we shouldn’t say anything yet to Pauline and the kids…or to Dooley…but Sammy is in Holding.”

He heard the sharp intake of breath.

“What’re the circumstances?”

“He’s living with his father, I don’t know where. I had someone drive me down the mountain and we were led on a wild goose chase.”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow night on my way home, if that’s all right. I’ve got to take Poo and Jessie to a ball game tonight, I promised.”

“I have a big event planned tomorrow night. How about in the morning—maybe the Grill—could you be there at, say, eight-thirty?”

“I’ll be there,” said Buck.

For a man who had once scared the living daylights out of him, not to mention made him plenty mad, Buck Leeper now offered a kind of consolation. If there was anybody he’d want in his corner when facing down Clyde Barlowe, it was Buck Leeper.

He should tell his wife the news about Sammy. But it took too much energy to start at the beginning and explain everything. He would wait. He was feeling stronger today than in a very long time, but every activity cost him dearly in strength—bringing in the paper, talking to Harley, walking his dog to the corner, the slightest thing. He would tell her after he and Buck had talked, when they had put together a plan. After all, she was good with plans. He could run it by her and get her input, that had always proved to be a good thing.

“Tim, it’s your brother in th’ Lord!”

“Bill!”

“You’ll never guess what’s happened!”

“No, sir, I couldn’t. What is it?”

“Th’ Lord has sent me a dog.”

“You don’t mean it….”

“He was mighty quick about it, I wasn’t lookin’ for one so soon, but this is it, this is th’ one. I want you to see ’im, Tim, he’s a laugh a minute! Are you gettin’ out yet?”

“I got out for a haircut and a little…drive. I want to come up for a visit. When would be a good time?”

“Anytime is a good time. Just come on.”

“Have you named him?”

“Buddy.”

“Buddy. Good name. I’m sure he’ll live up to it.”

“He walks sideways.”

“That takes some doing. What age, do you think?”

“Five, maybe six years old. One of th’ congregation found ’im in a ditch, no tags, bones stickin’ out. I talked to Sparky about it last night, Sparky says it’s OK, said to let ’im have…”—Bill’s voice broke, but only for a moment—“to let ’im have his bed over in th’ corner of our bedroom.”

“I’m thrilled for you, Bill.”

“Are you doin’ all right?”

“God is faithful, I’m coming along,” said Father Tim. “How about you, my friend?”

“Can’t complain!”

“Well, if you can’t complain, nobody can. Why don’t I bring you and Rachel some fruit tarts?”

“Nossir, Hoppy’s got me off sugar.”

“He’s got everybody off sugar. These deals are sugar-free.”

“Bring ’em on, then, brother,” said Bill Sprouse, laughing.

Father Tim felt the weight lifting from his shoulders, moving off his chest. Bill Sprouse had a dog! Bill Sprouse was laughing! God was faithful, indeed.

When he took the tarts up the hill tomorrow, he’d throw in a box of dog treats.

He didn’t think he’d ever driven to the Grill before; he’d always walked, no matter what the weather.

Feeling like one of the modern-day common horde, he backed the Mustang out of the garage in order to drive two blocks. He was saving the energy it would take to walk, saving it for her.

“I ain’t believin’ my eyes.” Percy wiped his hands on the towel he kept tucked in his belt and trotted to the rear booth. “I thought you’d dropped offa th’ face of th’ earth.”

“Back again and better than ever. It’s great to see you, buddyroe. Where’s Velma?”

“In th’ rest room, takin’ curlers out of ’er hair.”

“Aha.”

“I ain’t poached a egg since th’ last time you was in here.”

“We’ll see if you’ve lost your touch! I’ll have two poached on whole wheat, the usual.” He slid his coffee cup to Percy, who filled it.

“You’re trouble,” said Percy, feigning aggravation, but clearly pleased. “Want you a little bacon on th’ side? A dish of grits?”

“Cantaloupe. I’ve been craving a good cantaloupe.”

“Sliced or cubed?”

“I’ve got a choice?”

“Naw, I was jis’ kiddin,’ all we got is sliced.”

“All I want is sliced,” said Father Tim, grinning.

“I got somethin’ in th’ back with your name on it. Come in yesterday, UPS.”

“Right. I’ll get it before I go. Thought I’d hang with Mule and J.C. awhile, then meet Buck Leeper here around eight-thirty.”

“Yeah, well, th’ Turkey Club ain’t been the same with you gone.”

“The Turkey Club?”

“That’s Velma’s name for th’ reg’lars in the rear booth.”

“Descriptive. So what’s the latest scandal and gossip? What have I missed?”

J.C. slid into the booth with his bulging, unzippered briefcase. “All scandal and gossip has been duly recorded in th’
Mitford Muse.
If I didn’t report it, it didn’t happen.” The editor shoved a copy of the newspaper across the table. “Hot off the press, all th’ news that’s fit to print, you heard it here first. That’ll be fifty cents.”

“Fifty cents?”
said Father Tim.

“Paper’s gone up, ink’s gone up, distribution’s gone up….”

Percy filled J.C.’s cup, frowning. “Quality’s gone down….”

“A man has to make a living,” said J.C. He dragged a rumpled handkerchief from his jacket pocket, unfurled it, and mopped his brow.

“Ten cents’ worth of news for half a dollar is what
that
deal is.’

“While you’re preaching,” snapped J.C., “let me have a quarter’s worth of sausage biscuit for a dollar, with a twenty-cent side of hash browns for a dollar seventy-five.”

“Turkey,” muttered Percy, legging it to the grill.

“So look at th’ front page,” said J.C.

There was his wife, nearly as large as life, with a shot of the Davant Medal used as an inset. The picture definitely did not do her justice, no, indeed, heads would roll at her publishing house for sending out this particular photo….

“Read th’ headline,” said J.C. “I wrote that, I always write th’ big stuff, I don’t farm out th’ big stuff.”

“‘Prestigious Davant Metal Bestowed on Local Author.’”

“I had trouble with the headline,” confessed the editor.

“No kidding.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know whether to say
local
or
world-famous.
I thought
local
was more…”

“Sells more papers,” said Father Tim, trying to be helpful.

“Then I thought
bestowed
kind of a big word for a small town newspaper….”

“Right.”

“But I figured that learnin’ a new word could be educational.”

“Good thinking.” Why should he be the one to point out the
spelling
in the much-talked-about headline?

“Lookit, I put in there about the invitation for her to tour the country on that literacy deal. It was in th’ letter her publisher sent down.”

“Very thorough story. But she won’t be going on the tour.”

“Let me slide in here and drink a little coffee b’fore th’ roof caves in!” Mule Skinner thumped down beside Father Tim.

“Why is the roof caving in?” asked J.C.

“Because th’ father’s here, blockhead.”

“Oh,” said J.C.

Though he’d been out of the picture for only a few weeks, Father Tim felt it might have been a few years; these guys looked…different, somehow. It would take a while for the new to wear off and the old to kick in again.

“So what’s it goin’ to be?” Percy called from the grill, where he was working bacon, sausage, and hash browns.

“The usual!” said Mule.

“What th’ dickens is that?” Percy wanted to know. “You ain’t ordered th’ same thing twice in twenty years!”

“Give me a break. Just last week I ordered eggs over light twice in a row.”

“So that’s your order, eggs over light?”

“I didn’t say that was my order, I said—”

Velma blew out of the rest room. “Let me get in here! I’ll yank ’is order out of ’im.”

J.C. put his head in his hands. “Just once, man, heaven knows, just once…”

“Just once what?”

“Just once,
order and get it over with.
”

“Right!” said Velma, gripping her order pad. “And make it snappy.”

“Over light or not?” demanded J.C.

“Over light, for Pete’s sake! White toast! Hold th’ butter! Grape jelly! Orange juice! Hash browns!”

There was a stunned silence.

“There, dadgummit!” Mule looked triumphant. “I hope y’all are satisfied.”

“I cain’t believe it!” said Velma. “This’ll be one for th’ hist’ry books. Now—what was it you said after orange juice?”

Mule shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you said?”

“I wadn’t listenin’.”

“Hash browns,” said J.C. “He said hash browns.”

“Yeah, but maybe I should have grits. With butter! Why not? Butter on the grits, but no butter on the toast.”

“Bring ’im hash browns,” said J.C.

Velma gazed briefly at the ceiling, ripped the order off the pad, stuck it on the spindle at the counter, and stumped to the next booth.

“Man!” said J.C., mopping his face.

Mule turned to Father Tim and grinned broadly. “So, buddyroe, welcome back.”