In This Mountain (8 page)

He shelled out thirteen dollars and change.

“Don’t, ah, mention this,” he said, confident that Hope would get his meaning.

“Of
course
not!” said Hope, offended. “I’m asked to keep all
sorts
of things confidential!”

“Really? Like what?”

She peered at him through her tortoiseshell-rim glasses and smiled. “If I told you, Father, then it wouldn’t be—”

“Confidential!” he said. “Of course.”

She dropped the book into a bag and handed it to him. “I suppose you know that some people are making exceedingly captious remarks about the Man in the Attic.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“They say his flagitious behavior will almost certainly assert itself again.”

There was nothing he could say to that, nor could he help noticing that Hope looked oddly worried, a little pale. “I pray that all will be well and very well,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll pray about it, also.”

“I don’t pray.”

“Aha.” He tucked the bag under his arm.

“But I believe in God,” she said.

“Good! God believes in you.”

“So, I hope you have a really great trip, I admire you for going up there and living in the wilderness, I hope you’re taking a snake kit.”

“Umm, I don’t think so. Well! Probably won’t see you again ’til September, I hope everything—”

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.”

She lowered her eyes. “I think I…need to tell you something.”

In all the years he’d known Hope Winchester, she had never confided in him.

“I wrote the Man in the Attic a letter,” she whispered. “I told him Happy Endings would have a job for him when he comes.”

“Why, that’s wonderful!”

“You see, I thought everyone liked Mr. Gaynor for how he handled what he’d done, making his confession before your congregation and then asking you to call the police to take him away. I remember how the schoolchildren made drawings for him while he was in jail, and all those pairs of shoes that were brought to the police station. Someone said you preached a sermon about him and called him a type of St. Paul. Now I’m not sure anymore, some people say he’d be tempted to steal again. I feel very distressed about making such a precipitate gesture. What if people refuse to come in, what if it hurts sales?”

“Have you told Helen you did this?” Though absent nine months of the year, the owner was known to be seriously interested in the details of her business.

“A few weeks ago, she told me to hire part-time help to take care of our mail order for the rare books. I know she trusts me completely, I’ve never let her down.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

“Now I don’t know what to do.”

“Speaking of St. Paul, he asked us to be instant in prayer. Don’t be alarmed, but I’m going to pray about this right now.”

“Right
now
?” asked Hope.

He bowed his head. “Father,” he said, “we’re in a pickle here. Thank You for giving Hope wisdom about what to do and putting Your answer plainly on her heart. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Hope looked at him quizzically. “Is that all?”

“That’s it!” he said. “Just check your heart, you’ll know what to do.”

“Oh,” she said, oddly relieved.

“And by the way, I think everyone will love George Gaynor all over again.”

“Thank you, Father, thank you!”

“I’ll drop you a postcard with our new address,” he said. “Let me know how it goes.”

He stopped by the drugstore, made a beeline for the candy section, and set about examining the see-through packages of jelly beans.

“Lookin’ for jelly beans for your doc?” asked Tate Smith.

“Yep.”

“I think he made a pretty heavy sweep through here th’ other day.”

Father Tim inspected one package twice. “This looks like it has quite a few green. I’ll take it.”

Hoppy Harper was known to be inordinately fond of green jelly beans; he carefully picked through mixed flavors and, after robbing the bag in his favor, turned the remains over to his nurses.

“Seems like a doctor that scarfs down jelly beans idn’t a very good example to his patients,” said Tate. “My doc’s got me plumb offa sugar, but he don’t let me see what
he
eats. Doc Harper, he don’t care who knows he’s got a sugar jones.”

Tate rang up the dollar-and-seventy-nine-cent sale. “Prob’ly eats bacon an’ who knows what all.”

“Link sausage!” said Father Tim.

“You playin’ for th’ Reds this year?” asked Tate.

Father Tim tucked the jelly beans into the bag with his book.

“Can’t do it this year. We’re headed up to Tennessee for a while. Maybe next year.”

He realized he was greatly relieved not to be playing on Mitford’s star softball team. The thought of running around the bases, hitting the ball, just picking up the bat…

He was tired, somewhere deep in himself, in a place where he hadn’t really looked before. But that didn’t make sense. He was no longer a full-time priest; he wasn’t sweating vestry meetings, building campaigns, or quirky parishioners; he had only occasional weddings, baptisms, or funerals to perform, and no confirmation classes to teach. He didn’t even have to dash to the rest room, as he’d done at Whitecap, and jiggle the ball when someone left the toilet running.

Running! That was the solution right there. He needed to get back to his running schedule. As soon as he left Joe Ivey’s barber chair, he’d head home, put Barnabas on the leash, and take a go at his old route—up Main Street, right on Lilac Road, down Church Hill, and right on Old Church Lane to Baxter Park and then home.

On the way to Joe’s, he ducked into The Local and rounded up Avis, who was cutting a leg of lamb.

“Looks like a superb cut,” said Father Tim.

“How do you roast your lamb?”

“Varies.”

“Here’s how you do it, no fail. Heat your oven to four-fifty, OK?”

“OK.”

“Rub your meat with garlic and lemon, push some fresh rosemary under the skin, slap it on a rack uncovered, OK?”

“OK.”

“Reduce your heat to three twenty-five, and let ’er rip ’til the internal temperature’s around one seventy-five. Superb! Outstanding! Delicious! OK?”

“Got it.”

“While you’re at it, quarter and roast a few potatoes, and make a salad with my balsamic vinegar in th’ green bottle, third row, second shelf. You want my mint jelly recipe?”

“I have one, thanks.” He stood on one foot and then the other.

“Avis! Any more thoughts about hiring a new driver?”

“Already hired! Starts Wednesday.”

“Aha.”

Avis wiped his hands on his apron. “I’d top that off with a nice merlot, is what I’d do.”

In other words, thought Father Tim, the job opening was definitely closed.

Joe Ivey whipped open a folded cape, draped it over Father Tim’s front section, and tied it at the back of his neck.

“I hear you got a convict comin’.”

“He won’t be a convict when he gets here; he’ll be a free man, repentant and eager to join society.”

“That don’t always work.”

“What don’t, ah, doesn’t?”

“That repentance business.”

“It worked for you. How long have you been dry?”

“Four years goin’ on five.”

“See there?”

Father Tim was dead sure he heard Fancy Skinner’s high-heel shoes pecking on the floor above their heads, but he wouldn’t introduce that sore subject for all the tea in China.

Joe picked up his scissors and comb.

“Just take a little off the sides,” said Father Tim.

“It’s fannin’ out over your collar, I’m gettin’ rid of this mess on your neck first.”

“Cynthia said don’t scalp me.”

“If I had a’ Indian-head nickel for every time a woman sent me that message, I’d be rich as cream an’ livin’ in Los Angelees.”

“Why on earth would you want to live there?”

“I wouldn’t, it’s just th’ first big town that popped to mind.”

“Aha.” Father Tim saw a veritable bale of hair falling to the floor.

“Where’s he goin’ to work at?”

“I don’t know. We have a couple of possibilities.”

“You wouldn’t want him to be out of work.”

“Of course not.”

“That’d be too big a temptation.”

“You’re going to like this man. Remember, he made a public confession and turned himself in; he was willing to admit his mistake and spend eight years paying for it. Give him a chance.”

“I don’t know…”

“Ours is the God of the second chance, Joe.”

Joe stood back and squinted at his handiwork, then handed Father Tim a mirror. “Well, there they are.”

“There what are?”

“Your ears. How long has it been since you seen ’em?”

He left the barbershop and walked toward the corner of Main Street, head down. He wouldn’t confide it to anyone, not even to Cynthia, but something Hope expressed had already been nagging him. Indeed, what if things didn’t work out with George? Yours truly would be the one to blame. Worse, he wouldn’t even be here, he’d be in Tennessee, with no way to sense the flow of things at home. Somehow, he couldn’t grasp the reality of their move to Tennessee; it wouldn’t stick. The boxes were packed, their clothes were ready to zip into hanging bags, but…

He admitted his relief that they’d failed to locate Clyde Barlowe. Indeed, it was possible that Dooley’s worst fears could come true; if they found the man, the family could be at risk, it was playing with fire. Why was he messing in other people’s lives, anyway, giving George Gaynor easy entry to Mitford, and actively searching for someone who’d never been anything but trouble?

When he reached the hospital four blocks away, he figured he may as well check into a room and get it over with. His feet and legs had the weight of cinder blocks; he’d literally dragged himself up the hill. He recalled that Uncle Billy had asked him to stop by this afternoon, but maybe tomorrow….

“So how do you like boot camp?”

“Boot camp?”

“Your hair. What’s left of it.” His ever-harried doc grinned, running his fingers through his own wiry, disheveled hair, which grew in plenty. “Your glucometer reading is through the roof. Two-fifty.”

His heart sank.

“You know it should be well under two hundred, around one-forty is where I’d like to see it hang.”

He said nothing; he loathed this disease, he was sick of it….

“I’ll have Kennedy draw blood for the lab. What happened to your exercise program?”

“Let’s see…” His mind felt positively fogged.

“Gone with the wind, is my guess.” Hoppy popped a green jelly bean.

The very nerve, thought Father Tim.

“I’m ready to scuttle your trip.”

“What?”

“Either that or I let you go on good faith, with your absolute commitment to take care of yourself.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning you’ve got to get back to a strict exercise regime and watch your diet. Plus, I’m going to double your insulin.”

Father Tim stared at his shoes.

“You know the higher we make your insulin the hungrier you’ll get, and if you don’t exercise you’ll gain weight, you’ll feel rotten…it’s a vicious cycle. So it’s imperative you stick with it, Father. I’m prescribing ten more units…every day. Every morning, every evening, no cutbacks, no slipups, and no excuses.”

He nodded, numb.

“I’m worried about you, pal. There’s no quick fix to diabetes.”

“Right.”

“Who’s going to be your medical counsel in Tennessee?”

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

“Fortunately, you don’t have to. I have an old school chum in Nashville. Call him. It’s a must.”

Hoppy scribbled a name on a notepad, tore off the page, and handed it to him. “I don’t think you’ve ever realized how serious this can be, even with the dive you took a few years back.”

“Maybe not. I’ve tried to stay with the exercise, but lately I haven’t felt up to it.”

“That’s when you need to push yourself to do it, of course.”

“Of course.” Maybe he was tired because he was old. Age ought to count for something in this deal.

“Wretched thing, exercise,” said his doctor. “Thank God diabetes is missing in my gene pool. Our crowd has other problems.”

“Like what?”

“Prostate cancer. My father, two uncles, a cousin.”

Father Tim shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, meaning it. Who didn’t have a cross to bear? “Tell me about Lace. Is she home from school?”

“Came in yesterday, went straight to visit Harley, said she’d try to see you and Cynthia before you go. You won’t believe how gorgeous she is, Timothy. Dumbfounding.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Dean’s list, to boot. Olivia and I can never thank you enough for bringing us together as a family. It hasn’t been easy, but she’s the light of our lives.”

Father Tim grinned. “I’m not the one, of course, who brought you together, but I’ll pass your sentiments along in my prayers tonight. What’s she up to next year?”

“University of Virginia.”

“Good. Terrific.”

“How’s Dooley?”

“Handsome. Smart as a whip. The light of our lives.”

They laughed together comfortably, the two who had prayed for Olivia Davenport to find a heart transplant. In the process of finding a heart, his good doctor had a found a wife.

In the evening, he pulled on his sweat suit, put his good dog on the leash, and ran.

It wasn’t working. At the top of Church Hill, he wanted nothing more than to sit and stare down at the village. Just sit; not run, not travel to Tennessee, not even go home for dinner.

In the evening, he took his glucometer out of the box to check the number of strips he had left. He fumbled the thing, somehow, and dropped it on the floor. While searching for it in the unlit bathroom, he heard it crunch under his heel.

“Good riddance!” he said, switching on the light to do the cleanup.