Light From Heaven (50 page)

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Authors: Jan Karon

BOOK: Light From Heaven

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“About t’ fall in, looks like.”

“Know anything about who lived there?”

“Don’ know Miz Owen said their boy, John, used to write music over there b’fore he passed.”

The Owens’ son had died in his late teens of severe encephalitis; Marge and Hal had never been able to resolve that loss, and seldom talked about it.

“Ever notice anybody hanging around, using the path?”

“Nossir. I never went over but once, I don’ hardly think about it bein’ there.”

Father Tim had long ago learned his lesson about keeping the truth from his wife. In this case, however, he didn’t see how the truth could possibly help matters. Evidence gave pretty good indication that the poacher would return—news that would make the whole household edgy.

He’d keep his eyes and ears open, keep the phone number of the sheriff’s office handy and, of course, keep counting their chickens.

“Granny will hold your hand and Father Tim will pray for you,” said Hoppy. “You can’t get a better deal than that.”

Dovey was stiff with fear. “OK,” she whispered.

“The needle will go in with a question, and I believe it will come out with the answer.”

Dovey flinched as the needle found its mark.

“I’m about t’ pass plumb out,” said Granny.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Hoppy.

When the vial filled with Dovey’s dark blood, he removed the needle and flipped up the safety cap. “You’re going to live,” he said, applying a gauze pad to the insertion point.

“Is it over?”

“Not yet. I’ll listen to your breathing and your heart with this.” He put the stethoscope around his neck. “And I’ll check your pulse, check your blood pressure, and probe your liver.”

“How d’ you probe m’ liver?”

“Use my fingers to feel around ... right here. Nothing serious.”

“Do I need to hold ’er hand f’r that?” asked Granny.

“You’re off duty, Nurse Meaders.”

Dovey raised her head. “Can I have me a drink of water?”

“I’ll git it,” said Granny.

Hoppy helped his patient sit up on the side of the bed. “What are you going to do when you’re up and around and feeling like a young woman again?”

“I don’ know, I’ve near about f’rgot how it feels. Sing, I reckon.”

“Breathe in and hold it. Do you sing? Let it out.”

“Yessir.”

“Breathe. Hold it. Let it out. Good.”

He placed the diaphragm of the stethoscope over her heart, then moved it to her back.

“What’re you‘uns hearin’ in there?” asked Granny, delivering the water.

Hoppy grinned.
“Ker-thump, ker-thump.”

After the examination, Hoppy sat in the chair by the bed, thoughtful, and watched Dovey drink with obvious thirst from her transferware cup.

“OK, Dovey, how about this one?”

Mitford’s Harvard-educated doctor began singing in what Father Tim remembered from his Lord’s Chapel days as a darned good tenor.

“I went to see my Shady Grove
Standing in the door
Shoes and stockings in her hands,
Little bare feet on the floor.”

As Hoppy headed into the chorus, Dovey joined him, harmonizing.

“Shady Grove, my little love,
Shady Grove I say
Shady Grove, my little love,
I’m a-goin’ away...”

“Well done!” crowed Hoppy.

“Lord have mercy!” Granny was wide-eyed. “You best not tell Donny you done that!”

Hoppy stuck the stethoscope and blood sample in his bag. “What shouldn’t she tell Donny?”

“Donny’s been a-beggin’ ’er t’ sing, an’ she ain’t sang a note in I don’ know when.”

Hoppy packed the blood pressure cuff and zipped the bag. “It’s our secret, Dovey. Father Tim will be in touch; we’ll let you know what’s what. God bless you, stay strong. And God bless you, Granny.”

“Hit was good of y’ t’ come, Doc.” Granny grinned, revealing pink gums. “Hit was good medicine f’r Dovey.”

“Where in the world did you learn that song?” asked Father Tim, as they walked to their vehicles.

“I was a hippie for about fifteen minutes; everybody sang ‘Shady Grove.’ ”

“You should get out more often,” said the vicar.

Dear Paster Kavanagah,

Thank you for the nice letter you wrote to me. It was a comfort to hear about Dovey and Donny and little Sissie and to know the dog-woods was blooming good this year.

I done a terribul thing to my loved ones the way they have sufferd. I will never get over the shame of it but God has let me know I am forgiven even for this terribul crime. Jesus feels near to me every day. There are times when he helps me with my Bible study lesson in knowing how to catch the meaning. Yes sir thank you we could use more Bibles. Ten or eleven would be about right
.

Thank you for caring about me and my family. I hope to see you one day. Pray for my children and little gran.

Ruby Luster

#10765L

He showed the letter to Cynthia. “Paul and Moses were murderers, Rahab was a prostitute, David was an adulterer. The list goes on.”

“Which only proves, darling, what you’re so fond of saying.”

“Every saint has a past ...” he said.

“And every sinner has a future.”

He was taking a bag of greens to the chickens when he heard Sammy and his visiting brother and sister talking behind the smokehouse.

“You better not say ‘ain’t’ aroun’ Dooley,” Poo warned.

“Why not?” asked Sammy.

“’Cause ’e don’t like it, ’at’s why. He says it makes people sound country.”

“He says it makes people sound
stupid,”
corrected Jessie.

“Whatever,” said Poo. “I don’ never say it around ’im n’more.

“Yeah,” said Jessie, “but when he leaves, you jump up an’ down an’ holler, ain’t, ain’t, ain’t,
ain’t
!”

“I like t’ say ’ain’t,’” Poo confessed.

“If you don’ say ’ain’t,’ what d’you say?” asked Sammy.

“‘Is not,’ ’are not.’ Right, Jess?”

“Right,” said Jessie.

Father Tim tossed the greens through the top wire. By the grace of God, he’d kept his mouth shut on this particular subject. Out of the mouths of babes ...

“Dooley, he says ‘yes, sir,’ ‘thank y’,’ ‘please,’ an’
all
’at ol’ stuff.” Poo sounded affronted. “He learned it at school.”

“Mama an’ Buck makes me an’ Poo say ’yes, sir’ and ’yes, ma’am’; when you come t’ live with us, you’ll have t’ say it, too.”

“I ain’t comin’ t’ live with you.”

“Why ain’t you?” asked Poo.

“’Cause I ain’t.”

“Don’t then!” Jessie’s voice was shrill. “We don’t care if you do or not!”

Father Tim saw her round the corner of the smokehouse, head down. He tossed in the last of the greens and caught up as she stomped toward the porch.

“BLTs, lemonade, and apple pie with ice cream ... coming up!” he said. “What do you think?”

“I think Sammy’s a big, dumb creep.”