Out to Canaan (80 page)

“Wonderful!” he said

“Harley's so happy, he can't stop grinning, and Lace—she doesn't say so, but she's thrilled by all this.”

“It was her idea, and she was bold enough to step forward and ask for it.”

“Let us come
boldly
to the throne of grace . . .” said his wife, quoting one of their favorite verses from Hebrews.

“ . . . that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need!” he replied.

“Amen!” they cried in unison, laughing.

He frankly relished it when they burst into a chorus of Scripture together. As a boy in his mother's Baptist church, he'd been thumpingly drilled to memorize Scripture verses, which sprang more quickly to memory than something he'd studied yesterday.

“One of the finest exhortations ever delivered, in my opinion,” he said. “Well, now, what may I do to help out with the party?”

“Help me move that old sofa from the garage to Harley's parlor, I
don't think he's strong enough, then we'll shift that maple wardrobe from the furnace room to his bedroom.”

Was there no balm in Gilead?

“Oh, and another thing,” she said, smiling innocently. “We need to haul that huge box of books from his parlor to the furnace room.”

For his wife's birthday in July, she was getting a back brace whether she wanted it or not. In fact, he'd get one for himself while he was at it.

On his way to Hope House, he stopped at the Sweet Stuff Bakery to buy a treat for Louella.

Winnie Ivey looked at him and burst into tears.

“Winnie! What is it?”

“I heard you're leaving,” she said, wiping her eyes with her apron.

“Yes, but not for a year and a half.”

“We'll miss you somethin' awful.”

“But you'll probably be gone before I will.”

“Oh,” she said. “I keep forgetting I'm going.”

“Besides, we'll still be living in Mitford, in the house next door to the rectory.”

“Good!” she said, sniffing. “That's better. Here, have a napoleon, I know you're not supposed to, but . . .”

What the heck, he thought, taking it. At least one person was sorry to hear he was retiring . . . .

When he left the bakery, he looked up the street and saw Uncle Billy sitting in a dinette chair on the grounds of the town museum, watching traffic flow around the monument.

He walked up and joined him. “Uncle Billy! I'm half starved for a joke.”

“I cain't git a new joke t' save m' life,” said the old man, looking forlorn.

“If you can't get a joke, nobody can.”

“My jokes ain't workin' too good. I cain't git Rose t' laugh f'r nothin'.”

“Aha.”

“See, I test m' jokes on Rose, that's how I know what t' tell an' what t' leave off.”

“Try one on me and see what happens.”

“Well, sir, two ladies was talkin' about what they'd wear to th' Legion Hall dance, don't you know, an' one said, ‘We're supposed t' wear somethin' t' match our husband's hair, so I'll wear black, what'll you wear?' an' th' other one sorta turned pale, don't you know, an' said, ‘I don't reckon I'll go.' ”

“Aha,” said Father Tim.

“See, th' feller married t' that woman that won't goin' was
bald,
don't you know.”

The rector grinned.

“It don't work too good, does it?” said Uncle Billy. “How about this 'un? Little Sonny's mama hollered at 'im, said, ‘Sonny, did you fall down with y'r new pants on?' An' Sonny said, ‘Yes 'um, they won't time t' take 'em off.' ”

The rector laughed heartily. “Not bad. Not half bad!”

“See, if I can hear a laugh or two, it gits me goin'.”

“About like preaching, if you ask me.”

“Speakin' of preachin', me 'n Rose ain't a bit glad about th' news on Sunday. We come home feelin' s' low, we could've crawled under a snake's belly with a hat on. It don't seem right f'r you t' go off like that.”

“I'll be living right down the street, same as always. We'll be settling in the yellow house next door to the rectory.”

“Me 'n Rose'll try t' git over it, but . . .” Uncle Billy sighed.

Father Tim couldn't remember seeing Bill Watson without a big smile on his face and his gold tooth gleaming.

“See, what Rose 'n me don't like is, when you leave they'll send us somebody we don't know.”

“That's the way it usually works.”

“I figure by th' time we git t' know th' new man, we'll be dead as doornails, so it ain't no use to take th' trouble, we'll just go back to th' Presbyterians.”

“Now, Uncle Billy . . .”

“I hate t' say it, Preacher, but me 'n Rose think you could've waited on this.”

The rector made his way down Main Street, staring at the sidewalk. It was the only time in his life he hadn't come away from Bill Watson feeling better than when he went.

At the corner of Main and Wisteria, he saw Gene Bolick coming toward him, and threw up his hand in greeting. It appeared that Gene saw him, but looked away and jaywalked to the other side.

June.

Something about June . . .

What else was happening this month? His birthday!

Dadgum it, he'd just had one.

In fact, the memory of his last birthday rushed back to him with dark force. His wife had brought him coffee in bed and wished him happy birthday, then the phone had rung and he'd raced to the hospital and discovered that a woman who would be irrevocably fixed in his life had been horribly burned by a madman.

He sat back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. Wrenching, that whole saga of pain and desperation. And days afterward, only doors down the hall from Pauline, Miss Sadie had died.

No wonder he'd come close to forgetting his birthday. When was it, anyway? He looked at the calendar. Blast. Straight ahead.

How old would he be this year? He could never remember.

He called Cynthia at home. “How old will I be this year?”

“Let's see. You're six years older than I am, and I'm fifty-seven. No, fifty-six. So you're sixty-two.”

“I can't be sixty-two. I've already been sixty-two, I remember it distinctly.”

“Darn!” she said. “Then you're sixty-three?”

“Well, surely I'm not sixty-five, because I'm retiring at sixty-five.”

“So you must be sixty-three. Which makes me fifty-seven. Rats.”

He realized as he hung up that they could have used their birth
years to calculate the answer. What a pair they made! He hoped nobody had tapped his phone line and overheard such nonsense.

“I've been thinking,” said Emma.

Please, no.

“I might as well retire when you retire.”

“Well!” He was relieved. “Sounds good!”

She looked at him over her half-glasses. “But I wasn't expecting you to give up so soon.”

“Give up?”

“I guess you can't take it anymore, the pressure and all—two services every Sunday, the sick and dying . . .”

“It has nothing to do with pressure, and certainly not with the sick and dying. As you know, I've committed to supply pulpits from here to the Azores.”

“Yes, well, that's vacation stuff, anybody can go supply somewhere and not get involved.”

He felt suddenly furious. Thank God he couldn't speak; he couldn't open his mouth. His face burning, he got up from his desk and left the office, closing the door behind him with some force.

There! he thought. Right there is reason enough to retire.

He deserved a medal for putting up with Emma Newland all these years—which, he realized only this morning, would be a full sixteen in September.

Sixteen years in an office the size of a cigar box, with a woman who made Attila the Hun look sensitive and nurturing?

“A medal!” he exclaimed aloud, going at full trot past the Irish Shop.

“There he goes again, talking to himself,” said Hessie Mayhew, who had dropped in to share a bag of caramels with Minnie Lomax.