Out to Canaan (11 page)

It was different having a full house.

Olivia was in and out, helping Cynthia with the responsibility of a man who wasn't yet able to help himself. Lace arrived after school and did her homework in Harley's room, where she was clearly good medicine for what ailed him.

Violet was spending more time at the rectory, since her mistress wasn't often at the little yellow house, and Barnabas lay in wait for the glorious opportunity of finding Violet on the floor instead of the top of the refrigerator, which she had claimed as permanent headquarters with a potted gloxinia.

“Perfect!” said Cynthia, who set Violet's food up there as nonchalantly as if all cats lived on refrigerators.

With the increased workload of the household, Puny was sometimes still there with the twins when he came home.

Five o'clock in the afternoon might have been ten in the morning, for all he could see. It was not unusual for the washing machine to be running, the vacuum cleaner roaring, the blender turning out nutrition for the toothless and infirm, and the twins jiggling in their canvas seats suspended in the kitchen doorway.

During all this, Barnabas sat patiently in front of the refrigerator, blocking traffic and gazing dolefully at Violet, who scorned his every move.

A madhouse! he thought, grinning. Blast if it wouldn't run most men into the piney woods. But after more than sixty years of being an only child and a bachelor into the bargain, the whole thing seemed marvelous, a veritable circus of laughing and slamming and banging and wailing. He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy, but for himself, he liked the novelty of it.

“Come in, Rev'rend!” Harley was sitting up in bed, having one of his multiple snacks.

“How're you?” Lace asked, without taking her eyes off the patient.

A civil greeting! Olivia was making headway with her indomitable thirteen-year-old charge. “I'm fine. How about you?”

“I'm OK. Harley, if you hide that banana bread an' don't eat it, I'll knock you in th' head.”

Harley grinned. “See there? A feller don't have a chance, she's like a revenue agent lookin' f'r liquor cars, got eyes in th' back of 'er head.”

“You're stronger today.”

“Yessir, I am. I ain't never laid up in such style as this in m' life, we had it hard when I was comin' up in Wilkes County. We was s' poor, all we had t' play with was a rubber ball, an' th' dog eat half of that.”

“Kind of hard to judge which way it would bounce,” said the rector.

“Shoot, we was s' poor, I went t' school one time, I was wearin' one shoe. Th' teacher said ‘Harley, have you lost a shoe?' an' I said, ‘No, ma'm, I found one.' ”

“Don't lie,” said Lace. “It ain't right.”

Harley looked doleful. “I ain't lyin'! Another thing, Rev'rend, I'm gittin' out of this bed tomorrow, sure as you're born. I looked out that back winder and seen y'r yard, you need some rakin' around that hedge.”

Lace glared at Harley from beneath her hat brim. “You ain't movin' 'til Doc Harper gives you th' green light.”

“Lord have mercy! Git that girl a job of work t' do.”

The rector laughed. “She's got a job of work to do! And you leave my hedge alone, buddyroe.”

“I hate t' be hangin' on you an' th' missus like a calf on a tit.”

“I don't want to hear about it. Eat your banana bread.”

“Law, now they's two of 'em,” said Harley, taking a bite.

“An' drop y'r crumbs on y'r napkin,” said Lace.

“Lace has real beauty.”

“But she hides it with that dreadful hat. We let her wear it in the house, of course, but never to school or church.”

“Sounds fair,” he said.

Cynthia had gone next door for a cake pan, and Olivia was finishing a cup of tea with him.

“It represents something to her,” said Olivia. “It's a defense of who she is, I think, of something she doesn't want us to change.”

“You're doing a grand job, you and Hoppy, we're seeing a difference.”

“We love her. She's quite extraordinary.” Olivia stirred her tea, thoughtful. “Perhaps what we want more than anything . . . is for Lace to be able to cry.”

“What I wanted more than anything was for Dooley to be able to laugh.”

Olivia smiled. “The two things aren't so different, perhaps. Laughter, tears . . . it's all a way of letting something out, letting something go. Forgiveness . . . somehow, I think that's the answer. Did I tell you she's making straight A's?”

“Amazing!”

“She hasn't had much schooling, really, yet she loves to learn, it comes naturally to her. She keeps her nose in a book, with the radio tuned to a country music station.”

They sipped their tea.

“She adores Hoppy, of course,” Olivia said.

“I'm sure she cares for you, too.”

“I don't know. She . . . fights me.”

“Ah, well. I know about that.”

“I take her to see her mother twice a week.”

“What's her mother like?”

Olivia shook her head slowly. “Hard and unkind. I hoped she'd be different. Lace has taken care of her mother all her life, Lila Turner
has been ill since Lace was a toddler. I think the only person who ever really cared about Lace, who loved her, is Harley.”

“Was Harley ever married? Any children of his own?”

“His wife died years ago, he loved her deeply and never quite got over her death. There weren't any children.” Olivia finished her tea. “Well, on to brighter things,” she said, smiling. “Our school is out in two weeks. When is Dooley coming home?”

“Next Friday,” he said. “He'll come in with a friend's parents. Avis wants him at The Local for the summer.”

“Lovely! How does he feel about Meadowgate not being there for him?”

“He'll tough it out. After a couple of weeks at The Local, and hanging around with Tommy, and a few days at the beach . . .” He shrugged, hopeful.

“All the best,” she said, her violet eyes bright with feeling.

“All the best to you,” he replied, meaning it.

Avis wanted Dooley ASAP, which could mean three days at the farm and four at the beach. Or no days at the beach and a week at the farm. Another thought: Maybe Dooley would like to take Poobaw to the beach and let Tommy fill in for him at The Local before Tommy went to work at Lew Boyd's.

Why did something so simple boggle his mind? Should he call Dooley and tell him he had a job that would place some constraints on the farm? Should he even mention the beach? Should he just wait 'til Dooley came home and deal with it then?

“Lord . . .” he sighed, lifting his hands.

“A billboard,” said Emma.

“A billboard?”

“Mack Stroupe.”

Mack on a billboard? Is that why Mack had gotten a manicure? He didn't know how these things worked.

“On the highway after you pass Hattie Cloer's market. Right in
your face. It's enough to make you jump out of your skin, that thing loomin' up on you. You talk about ugly, his nose takes up half th' board. And those bushy eyebrows, and that egg-suckin' grin . . .” Emma shivered.

“What does it say?”

“It says
Mack for Mitford, Mitford for Mack, Vote Stroupe for Mayor.
I told Harold to stop the car while I puked.”

“A billboard. Amazing.” Who was repackaging Mack Stroupe?

“Have you seen Lucy since she got her hair dyed? Blond! Can you believe it? Her hair's been the color of a church mouse for a hundred years. You know Mack made her do it. Lucy Stroupe would no more think of dyin' her hair blond than I'd think of runnin' a marathon. But—do you think blond hair will keep Mack Stroupe from cheatin' on his wife with that black-headed hussy in Wesley? I don't think so.”

Emma glowered at him as if he were personally responsible for the whole affair. “Are you goin' to his barbecue on Saturday?”

“Dooley's coming in Friday, and we'll be spending the day at Meadowgate on Saturday.”

“Good! I hope th' whole town stays away in droves.”

“Unfortunately, a lot of people love barbecue.”

“You can bet your boots that Harold and I won't be staying more than fifteen minutes.”

“You're
going
?”

“Of course we're going, I want to see what the lowlife has to say. How can you knock the opposition when you don't know what they stand for?”

“Aha,” he said.

Dooley was home and Barnabas was wild with excitement. The rector wondered if the joy that people seemed so expert at containing somehow transferred to their dogs, who had nothing at all to hide.

“Hey, Barn! Hey, buddy!”

Barnabas licked Dooley on every exposed area with special attention to his left ear. “Say a Scripture!” he yelled.

The rector laughed. “You say a Scripture!”

“Ah . . . the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want!” Dooley thundered.

Barnabas crashed to the floor and sighed.