Out to Canaan (8 page)

Barnabas leapt into the passenger seat of his Buick and they raced up Old Church Lane.

No, he was not good at this. He was not good at this at all. His years with Dooley Barlowe had been some of the hardest of his life; it had all been done with desperate prayer, flying by the seat of his pants. Who was good at knowing the right parameters for wounded kids? Yet, blast it, it was his job to know about parameters. Being a clergyman, being a Christian, had a great deal to do with parameters, which is why the world often mocked and despised both.

He felt the anxiety of this thing. Lace Turner was a passionately determined girl who had suffered unutterable agony in her thirteen years at the Creek—a bedridden mother whom she had faithfully
nursed since early childhood, and a brutalizing father suffering the cumulative effects of drugs, alcohol, and regular unemployment.

Through it all, the toothless, kindhearted Harley Welch had looked after Lace Turner's welfare, shielding her whenever he could from harm. It was Harley's truck that Lace had used to transport Dooley's mother, then another Creek resident, to the hospital last summer.

He shuddered at the memory of Pauline Barlowe, who, burned horribly by a man known as LM, had not only endured the agony of skin grafting and the loss of an ear, but had to live with the bitter truth that she'd given away four of her five children.

Though Lace's father and older brother disappeared last year, no one knew when Cate Turner might return to the Creek, nor what he might do if he found his daughter there.

He made a right turn into the nearly hidden driveway of the Harper's rambling mountain lodge. With its weathered shingles, twin stone chimneys, and broad front porch, it was a welcome sight.

Barnabas leapt out, barking with abandon at the sudden alarm of countless squirrels in the overhead network of trees.

Thanks be to God, Lace was now in the care of the Harpers and doing surprisingly well at Mitford School. Naturally, she continued to use her native dialect, but she had dazzled them all with her reading skills and quick intelligence. He was even more taken, however, by the extraordinary depth of her character.

Another Dooley Barlowe, in a sense—with all of Dooley's hard and thorny spirit, and then some.

He put the leash on his dog and left him secured to the porch railing, then opened the screen door and called. Olivia rushed down the hall and gave him a hug.

“Father, you're always there for us.”

“And you for us,” he said, hugging back.

“She's in her room, packing. I'm sorry to be so . . . so inept . . . .”

“You're not inept. You're trying to raise a teenager and deal with a broken spirit. Let's pray,” he said. He looked into her violet eyes, which he always found remarkable, and saw her frantic concern.

He took Olivia's hands. “Father, this is serious business. Give us
your wisdom, we pray, to do what is just, what is healing, what is needed. Give us discernment, also, by the power of your Holy Spirit, and soften our hearts toward one another and toward you. In Jesus' name.”

“Amen!” she said.

“Shall we talk to her together?”

“I've said it all, she's heard enough from me, I think. Would you . . . ?”

He found Lace in her room, wearing the filthy hat from her days at the Creek, and zipping up a duffel bag.

She turned and glared at him. “I knowed you'd come. You cain't stop me. Harley's sick and I'm goin'.”

“What's the matter with Harley?”

“Pukin' blood. Blood in 'is dump. Cain't eat, got bad cramps, and so weak he cain't git up. But they's somethin' worser.”

“What?”

“Somebody stoled 'is dogs.”

“Why is that worse?” He'd try to stall her until he collected his wits.

“His dogs bein' gone means anybody could go in there and take th' money he's saved back in 'is bed pillers. I've got t' drive 'is truck out, too, or they'll be stealin' that.”

“What do you think the sickness might be?”

“I ain't no doctor!” she said, angry.

“It could be something contagious.”

“So? Harley done it f'r me time an' again. I was sick nearly t' dyin' an' he waited on me, even went an' fed my mam when my pap was gone workin'.”

She picked up the bag and shoved the hat farther down on her head, and walked to the door.

“I'll go with you,” he said. Was he crazy? It was broad daylight. He had gone into the drug-infested Creek with her once before, to bring out Poobaw Barlowe—but that had been under cover of darkness and he'd never felt so terrified in his life.

“You ain't goin' in there with me in th' daylight, a preacher wouldn't be nothin' but trouble. Besides, you couldn't hardly git up th' bank that time, you like t' killed y'rself.”

She was right about that. He'd taken one step up and two back, all the way to the top. “What kind of medicine have you got?”

She stopped and looked at him.

“Why go in empty-handed? What can you do, not knowing? Come with me to the hospital, we'll talk to a nurse.”

“I ain't goin' t' no hospital.

“Lace. Get smart. You can't do this without help. Drive to the hospital with me, I'll get Nurse Kennedy to come out to the car, if necessary. Tell her what you know, see what she thinks.”

Lace looked at the floor, then at him. “Don't try t' trick me,” she said.

“I don't think you'd be easy to trick.”

God in heaven, he didn't have a clue where this was leading.

Nurse Kennedy leaned down and talked to Lace through the open car window. Lace sat stoically, clutching the duffel bag in her lap.

“It could be a bleeding ulcer,” said Kennedy. “Does Harley drink?”

“Harley was bad to drink f'r a long time, but he's sober now.”

“Any diarrhea?”

“An awful lot, an' passin' blood in it.”

“How's his color?”

“Real white. White as a sheet.”

The nurse looked thoughtful. “Vomiting blood, passing blood, pale, weak, cramps, diarrhea. All symptoms of a bleeding ulcer.”

At least whatever it was wasn't contagious, thought the rector, feeling relieved. And it was curable.

“What's the prognosis?” he asked.

“I could be wrong of course, but I don't think so. If it's a bleeding ulcer, it can be treated with antibiotics. Diet plays a part, too. The main thing is, he'll need treatment. His hemoglobin will be low, and that's serious.”

“We can't thank you enough.”

As they drove down the hill, he still didn't know where he was headed or how this would unfold.

He pulled the car to the curb in front of Andrew Gregory's
Oxford Antique Shop. “Let's stop and think this through. If you go to the Creek, there's nothing you can do. You heard the nurse, he's got to have treatment. Let me get Chief Underwood to drive us in there, we'll bring Harley out, money, truck, and all.”

“Where would you take 'im to? He ain't goin' t' no hospital.”

“I don't know. Let me think.” Not Betty Craig's, that was for certain. Betty's little house was stuffed to the gills with Russell Jacks, Dooley's disabled grandfather; Dooley's mother, Pauline Barlowe, who was looking for work; and her son, Poobaw. There wasn't a bed available at Hope House, even if Harley could qualify, and the red tape for the county home would be a yard long.

“Blast!” he said.

“Is that some kind of cussin'?” asked Lace.

“In a manner of speaking,” he replied.

He was running late for dinner, and he had no idea how he would explain it all to his wife.

Of course, she was vastly understanding about most things, he had to hand her that. So far, she hadn't run him out of the house with a broom or made him sleep in the study.

This, however, could definitely turn the tide in that direction.

She was standing at the back door, looking for him, when he walked up to the stoop with Lace Turner and a weak and failing Harley Welch.

She said only “Good Lord!” and came out to help him.

Hoppy Harper was on his way, possibly the last of that sterling breed of doctors who made house calls.

Heaving Harley up the stairs to the guest room was worse than hauling any armoire along the same route. Though shockingly frail, Harley's limp body seemed to have the weight of a small elephant. It took three of them to get Harley on the bed, where the rector undressed him and bathed him with a cloth, which he dipped in a pan of soapy water.

Harley looked comic in the rector's pajamas, which had to be
changed immediately, given Harley's inability to make it to the adjoining bathroom on time. “I didn't go t' do that,” said Harley, whose flush of embarrassment returned a bit of color to his face.

What had he gotten into? Father Tim wondered. He didn't know. But when Harley Welch looked at him and smiled weakly, the rector felt the absolute wisdom of this impulsive decision, and smiled back.

He went to bed, exhausted. Lace had gained permission to stay over, sleeping in Dooley's room next to Harley's, and keeping watch.