In This Mountain (29 page)

She would try one more time, and if that didn’t get results, she was out of here. She had the back porch to clean off, the chairs to dump in the basement ’til the next RoundUp, groceries to buy, a tire to be retreaded. Unlike some people she could think of,
she
had a life that couldn’t be lived on her rear end.

She closed her eyes and listened to the rasping call of a bird in the maple tree. A squirrel clucked near the creek.

Father Tim. Now, there was somebody she needed to forgive. When she delivered that garden basket to the hospital, the poor man had been in a
coma
, for heaven’s sake. Or just
out
of one, or in any case,
sick. Very
sick. He couldn’t have written a thank-you note if his life depended on it. But Cynthia could have. Yes, indeed, what kind of preacher’s wife couldn’t write a simple thank-you note or make a phone call?

But maybe Cynthia had been so distraught over her husband that she couldn’t think of writing thank-you notes. Hessie understood that. Of course! It had been an oversight.

Then Hessie remembered the basket itself and how much it had cost, even wholesale. She thought of the miniature roses and all the other wonderful items she’d tucked into it, not to mention
acres
of moss from her own special, private place in her own backyard.

“Lord,” she said aloud, “You’re goin’ to have to help me do this!”

She set her coffee mug on the rail and gripped the arms of the lawn chair.

“I forgive Cynthia!”

There.

She took a deep breath. “And Father Tim, in case he had anything to do with it!”

She felt better at once.

“You’ll never guess who’s in the slammer,” said J.C.

Father Tim stirred his tea. “Old Man Mueller ran the red light one time too many?”

“Ed Coffey found Coot Hendrick stumblin’ around in th’ yard up at Edith Mallory’s, lookin’ for that Yankee grave.”

“Oh, boy.”

“And Coot with an honorary appointment to th’ town council,” said Mule. “I hate it when politicians break th’ law.”

Percy refilled the coffee cups. “Beats me why anybody’d want to go lookin’ for a grave full of Yankees in th’ first place.”

“Idn’t that th’ truth!” Velma stood at the counter, wrapping fork and knife combos with paper napkins. “Nobody’ll pay cash money to look at th’ bloomin’ thing if he finds it.”

“He wants to find th’ grave because ’is great-granddaddy shot th’ Yankees, and it’s town history,” said Mule.

Percy snorted. “Let sleepin’ dogs lie is what I say.”

“Look,” said Father Tim, “if his ancestor shot and killed the enemy, he wouldn’t have given them the honor of a marked grave. Marking a grave is a type of tribute, so this grave wouldn’t be marked. Therefore, how could Coot hope to find it?”

“Right!” J.C. forked an entire sausage link into his mouth.

“He told me he’ll just
know
,” said Mule. “But how come he didn’t go lookin’ before th’ Witch set up housekeepin’ on th’ ridge?”

“Because,” said Percy, “when she bought that parcel twenty years ago, Coot didn’t give a katy about town history.” Percy counted himself among the few who knew what was what in the early days of Mitford; the turkeys in this booth had all come from someplace else. “He was more into chasin’ women.”

“I don’t even want to
think
about what women Coot
Hen
drick was chasin’.” J.C. pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“As I recall,” said Percy, “he was chasin’ Emeline Poovey from over at Blackberry.”

“I thought all Pooveys live in Poovey’s Grove,” said Mule.

“Th’ crowd over at Blackberry splintered off from th’ Poovey’s Grove Pooveys.”

“So if he was chasin’ her, did he catch her?”

“Emeline married that big bootlegger that robbed Th’ Local when Avis’s daddy first had it. Sauce Harris was ’is name, he burrowed hisself into a dumpload of roastin’ ears, somebody backed th’ truck up to th’ storeroom in th’ rear an’ dumped th’ corn, then locked th’ storeroom doors and drove off. Sauce got into th’ grocery, eat a smoked ham, guzzled three quarts of chocolate milk, an’ cleaned out th’ safe behind th’ butcher case. Busted through a window and run off with two thousand smackers.”

Father Tim gave his whole wheat toast a light buttering. “That was a lot of money back then.”

“That’s a lot of money
today
, buddyroe.”

“Right. How did they catch him?”

“Emeline turned him in. Th’ county was about half dry for four years.”

“So how long do you think Coot’s in for?”

“He’ll be out on bail late today,” said J.C. “That reminds me, I’ve got an interview set up in”—J.C. checked his watch—“thirty minutes.”

“Who with?” J.C. surveyed the table with a smug dignity reserved exclusively for the press. “Edith Mallory.”

“What?”
Percy set the empty coffeepot on the table, hard. “You’re talkin’ to that low-life, money-grubbin’—”

“Hold on!” yelled Velma, who was setting up the adjoining booth. She grabbed her husband by the arm and dragged him to the grill, where she planted him like a chrysanthemum.

“Now hush up!” she snapped to J.C. “I’ve told you before, don’t talk about that woman in our place, it makes ’is heart act up. If you got to talk about that woman, step outside and do it on th’ dadblamed
street.
”

“She means business,” said Father Tim, lowering his head in case anything started flying.

“I’m a
journalist
!” J.C. yelled in the general direction of the grill. “I can’t confine my inquiry to the upstanding, kindhearted, and lovable; it’s my duty to dig down, get at the truth wherever it exists, and report it to the readers—whether some people like it or not!”

“Preach it, brother!” said Mule under his breath. He’d never much cared for Velma Mosley, who, just for meanness and only last week, had served him a side of slaw made with pickles when she knew for a fact that he despised pickles.

Father Tim was surprised to see Ed Coffey out and about in broad daylight. Though often observed chauffeuring Edith Mallory, Ed otherwise kept a low profile in Mitford—some said Ed drove his employer to Wesley, where all grocery shopping and other errands were done. Yet here was Ed Coffey in the produce aisle of The Local, only a couple of feet ahead.

When Father Tim first came to Lord’s Chapel, he’d often seen Ed at the Grill. Everyone agreed he’d been a decent enough fellow, born and raised just down the road, until Edith and Pat Mallory hired him. Soon after Pat dropped dead of a heart attack and tumbled down his hall stairs, the town saw a change in Ed. He became furtive, sullen, and short-tempered, as if Edith’s toxic nature had somehow contaminated him.

Father Tim started to turn his cart around and head in the other direction, but stopped abruptly. No, he wouldn’t go the other way. He rolled his cart alongside the man who, on a warm August morning, was wearing a black raincoat and the billed cap he sported in his role as chauffeur.

“Good morning, Ed.”

Ed Coffey turned, startled.

“I hear you’re mongering some pretty negative stuff about Harley Welch and George Gaynor.” Emma Newland might be a lot of things, but she was no liar.

Ed’s face flushed with anger. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, I don’t know anybody named Gaynor.”

“If you did know this particular Gaynor, I believe you’d find him to be upright, law-abiding, and a contribution to our community. As for Harley Welch, he, too, has paid his debt to society and proves daily to be a kind and responsible citizen. I pray you’ll find it in your heart to think twice…before misrepresenting these men again.”

“Where do you come off, tellin’ me what to do about somebody I never heard of? Preachers think they know it all—goin’ around actin’ high an’ mighty, tellin’ innocent people how to live.”

Father Tim walked away, pushing his cart toward the seafood case. Ed Coffey, it appeared, did not take kindly to reprimand.

“Fresh salmon!” he told Avis Packard. “That’s what I was hoping. But of course your seafood comes in on Thursday, and if I buy it on Thursday, I’d have to freeze it ’til Monday.”

“For ten bucks I can have a couple pounds flown in fresh on Monday, right off th’ boat. Should get here late afternoon.”

No one in the whole of Mitford would pay hard-earned money to have salmon shipped in. But his wife loved fresh salmon, and this was no time to compromise. Not for ten bucks, anyway.

“Book it!” he said, grinning.

“You understand th’ ten bucks is just for shippin’. Salmon’s extra.”

“Right.”

“OK!” Avis rubbed his hands together with undisguised enthusiasm. “I’ve got just the recipe!”

Some were born to preach, others born to shop, and not a few, it seemed, born to meddle. Avis was born to advocate the culinary arts. Father Tim took a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Shoot!”

“Salmon roulade!” announced Avis. “Tasty, low-fat, and good for diabetes.”

“Just what the doctor ordered!” said Father Tim, feeling good about life in general.

After putting the groceries away, he made a quick swing up the hill to the hospital, where he prayed with Joe Ivey. Then he visited the Sprouses, where he dropped off dog treats, delivered a pot of chives for Rachel’s kitchen window, prayed with Bill, and was able to witness, firsthand, Buddy’s Bible quiz. Afterward, he hustled to Hope House, where he sat on the footstool and provided rough harmony for Louella’s rendition of “Bread of Life,” after which he took the elevator to the dining room and found Pauline.

“How do you feel about tomorrow?”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t blame Sammy for not wantin’ to see me. I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yessir, I think I do. Just look at th’ miracles God has worked in our family. But I’m countin’ on Him for two more. Do you think that’s askin’ too much?”

He saw the scar on her cheek from the terrible burn. “Never! Saint Paul reminds us that God is able to do super-abundantly, over and above all that we ask or think. But it may take time.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

He hugged her, wordless. Pauline was the one whom God had chosen to give Dooley Barlowe to the world, to him; he was extra thankful for that gift.

It was a conundrum.

As technological advances increased to make people’s lives easier, life became increasingly difficult, i.e., faster, more frantic, more complicated and demanding, all due, in his opinion, to technological advances.

Nonetheless, he could hardly wait to get hold of his e-mail.

“
Everybody’s
online,” said Emma, giving him a look that would stop a clock.

“Good for them!” he said, more determined than ever to go against the grain.