Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (18 page)

‘You don’t need big to run to Wesley.’

‘What about emissions? Maybe a Prius . . .’ He wouldn’t mention the meeting with the bishop, not now.

‘Mini Cooper, Dad. I’ll go online and shoot you some info.’

‘I don’t know.’ His head was spinning, he was freezing.

‘Trust me,’ said Dooley.

Someone had stopped by Happy Endings since he’d passed earlier. Strips of paper were taped to the window. Where no tape secured the paper, the wind passed beneath; hand-printed words shuddered and danced.

We read to know we are not alone. CS Lewis

Children are made readers on the laps of their parents. Emilie Buchwald

Everywhere I have sought peace and not found it, except in a corner with a book. Thos à Kempis

Pray for Hope!

•   •   •

H
E
WANTED
TO
BE
A
SHEPHERD
; he wanted to serve others. He was hardwired for that—that would never change—and here was his opportunity. Why was he wrestling with it?

Timmy had laughed and handed over the pacifier—a sacrifice, the gift of himself to the stressed-out bald guy with the worried look on his face.

He needed to do that—hand it all over. Right away. Now.

How long had it been since he’d sat on the stone wall above the valley and prayed through a sunset? It seemed years.

•   •   •

‘A
N
AMAZING
THING
HAPPENED
,’ said his wife, putting eggs in the fridge.

‘Tell me.’

‘Irene McGraw wants to give us those wonderful portraits, all five, for the hospital auction in June. She says they make her sad, she needs to let them go.’

‘This is hardly an art-buying community,’ he said.

‘We’ll have to depend on the Florida crowd, bless their hearts.’

The Florida crowd had bailed them out more than once—a new furnace for Lord’s Chapel being one example. As for donating the Mustang, he didn’t know how that would fly in view of the diagnostic. ‘Are those self-portraits of her as a child?’

‘She says the self-portraits are in the eyes of the subject.’

‘Who’s the subject?’

‘She didn’t say, she didn’t seem eager to talk about it. If I were a dealer, I’d put quite a price on them, but of course she doesn’t have a name in the art world.’

She poured two glasses of juice, passed one to him. ‘She really shouldn’t donate them, they seem so personal to her.’

‘A great start for the auction,’ he said. ‘Well done. What’s the plan for the campaign?’

‘A new wing.’

‘Wow.’

‘We’re going for a new wing with twenty more beds, which will make forty-five.’

His wife was beaming. ‘I’m believing we can auction Irene’s paintings for big money, plus raise enough to meet the goal.’

Should he pitch in and give a hand? He’d been a donor for twenty
years, had even been asked to serve as the director at one time. It was his favorite charity, hands down, but his mother’s money was running out and his gifts in the future would be comparatively modest. After years of giving, he was, in effect, spent. He couldn’t think about it now.

She was talking hospital business while searching his face for some clue to his thinking about yesterday. But he had no thinking to speak of.

‘I’ll certainly bid on one,’ she said.

•   •   •

D
RIVING
HOME
from the hair salon in Wesley, Esther Cunningham could see that the sunset would be a whopper. She didn’t usually notice such things—that was the kind of stuff Ray got a kick out of. Excited as a kid, he’d say, Look at that sunset, Honey Bun! Or, Hey, Doll Face, get a load of that apple tree in bloom! Or, How about that rock over yonder, see th’ nose an’ all, it looks just like Muhammad Ali.

If she stared herself blind, she could not see Muhammad Ali, but maybe Teddy Roosevelt if she strained herself. And clouds—Ray loved to study clouds. He could see such as Ben Hur driving the chariot behind a gazillion horses, and pigs, and angels, and somebody on a unicycle, and a woman looking at herself in a mirror.

Speaking of which, she pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. She had requested a style like the Queen always wore—a curl on either side of her forehead, with no part. Twice she had said,
No part
. But plain as day, in a straight shot down the middle, there was a part.

She made a left at Lilac and was putting on the turn signal for Church Hill when she spotted Father Tim walking up Lilac, quick as a field hare. What was he doing out this time of day at his age, and
in this raw cold, plus walking uphill so fast? She didn’t believe in walking uphill if it could be avoided.

She remembered how he once swore off driving a car. He had hoofed it for seven or eight years, just gave up driving altogether, for Lent or Advent or some such. Baptists weren’t required to keep up with the church calendar, which was dandy with her. Easter was Easter and Christmas was Christmas, why confuse people with all those other holidays deeply unknown to the ordinary person, like sitting around in a dark sanctuary with no flowers on the altar, not even any candles burning, the way the crowd at Lord’s Chapel did at Advent, or was it Lent?

At least she’d gotten her hair done before the meeting with Andrew Gregory tomorrow. If the matter of age came up, she had a bulletproof vest, namely a list from the Internet that said, in part, ‘At one hundred, Grandma Moses was still painting. At eighty-five, Coco Chanel headed up a design firm in Paris, France. At eighty-nine, Albert Schweitzer was running a hospital in Africa.’ She was going into that meeting like Sherman took Atlanta, while Ray sat in the car and prayed.

•   •   •

A
S
HE
CRESTED
THE
HILL
, there were the blue-dark mountains and the hanging orb above. Jupiter was out, or maybe Saturn, he wasn’t so good with planets.

He was infernally pestered by the image of the empty slot in the rack. How had Sammy come in? They locked their doors now, it was a fact of life since three robberies in a neighborhood behind the hospital.

Sammy needed a lot of help, probably beyond anything he and Cynthia could give. Not least, he needed hard and satisfying work that wore deeply on the muscles and released the sleep-inducing
cytokines currently making news. Hard work and hard rest may not solve everything, but maybe they could help. Harley’s lawn jobs around town were already drying up, leaving Sammy way too much time and energy.

He would immediately put Sammy on the Lord’s Chapel rose garden, which he heard was sorely neglected—out of sight, out of mind was the problem, it was too hidden. Maybe the nearly three dozen bushes should be moved to the lawn facing Main Street where more people could enjoy them. Right there was a task for a small army, with maybe a little something for Coot Hendrick to get at with rake and hoe.

He sat on the stone wall, barely cognizant of the panorama of the evening sky.

The hedge would be another project—the cleanup, pruning, and mulching would take a minimum of two days for Sammy, probably three—and the birdbaths would need scrubbing out. Sammy would take pride in all that. If they could make it happen before late October when Dooley came home . . .

As for the old Sunday school, circa 1916 or thereabouts, it was crammed to the rafters with decrepit pews, battered hymnals, moth-eaten banners—the detritus that comes from being an ecclesial storage unit. The youth group—that was the ticket—they could spend a few days cleaning it out and top things off with a yard sale. Of course, he’d heard the youth group was dwindling, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Then there was the issue of someone to assist him in the church office. Who, he had no clue; five-plus years is a long time to be off any turf, but Bill Swanson would know. Emma would be after him like a beagle after a fox, but he couldn’t do that again. Absolutely not. Someone young, upbeat,
cheerful
 . . .

He felt the cold of the stone seeping into his very marrow—his
body had been present on the wall for twenty minutes according to the illuminated face of his watch, but his mind had been down there—ripping out briars, fertilizing roses, working with the youth group as he’d done so happily in years past. And yet, when he tried to see himself in the pulpit at Lord’s Chapel, he could not.

The many petitions of his heart and Cynthia’s would serve, but in the end, one supplication alone was equipped with all that pleases God.

He prayed the prayer that never fails, then made his way home at a trot, eager to see the light in their window and feel the consolation of a fire.

•   •   •

‘I
NEED
TO
TALK
,
SON
. Is this a good time?’

‘Sure. What’s up?’

He walked around the room in robe and pajamas, the cell phone pressed to his ear. ‘This is confidential.’

‘Got it.’

‘I’ve been asked to come back to Lord’s Chapel. For an indefinite period. Until they find a new priest.’

‘Are you thinking about it?’

‘Constantly. I just don’t know what to think.’

‘I hear something in your voice. What’s th’ deal?’

‘Strictly for your ears and none other. Father Talbot is leaving the priesthood and divorcing his wife. There’ll be a good bit of outrage and instability in his wake.’ Dooley knew about rage and instability.

He was pleased that Dooley took his time with this.

‘That would be a really hard thing to take on,’ said Dooley. ‘Why would you want to do it?’

‘I need to make a decision, fast. Will you pray?’

‘I will. For sure.’

When he hung up, he realized he hadn’t answered Dooley’s question—a question he hadn’t honestly asked himself.

He slipped the cell phone into his robe pocket. Why would he want to do it?

The thought that followed literally took his breath away.

He didn’t want to do it.

Not at all.

That is a good book which is opened with expectation and closed with profit.—Amos Bronson Alcott

A good book has no ending.—RD Cumming

He read the quotes that had gone up, and with some satisfaction taped his own contribution to the glass:

wear the old coat and buy the new book {Austin Phelps

There. A community billboard of sorts.

‘Lord,’ he prayed, ‘make me a blessing to someone today.’ That had been his mantra in years past when unlocking the door to the church office. He jiggled the key the way Hope had instructed. Not working. ‘It’s a very old lock,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve grown to like it.’ Hope was a romantic, bless her heart.

More jiggling.

‘Father, up to your old tricks?’ The owner of Village Shoes was unlocking his shop next door.

‘Abe! Which old tricks would that be?’

‘Breaking and entering!’

‘Ha. Right. I’m working here today, giving Hope a hand. Drop over for a cup of coffee if you get a chance.’

‘Will do. We’ll be proud to have you on the street. That lock is a coronary.’

The key found the sweet spot, the lock gave forth a soft click, the door opened.

Books! He could smell them. After being cooped up all night, they were crazy to give out their pulpy aromas.

As his dog sniffed about for the cat, he hurried to the finicky thermostat and cranked the heat up according to instructions.

Out of Dooley’s old yellow backpack he unloaded water bowl, food bowl, kibbles, coffee beans, a wrapped sandwich, an apple, an orange, a roll of toilet paper which Hope confessed was currently in short supply at Happy Endings, and a coffee mug printed with,
I don’t have a short attention span, I just . . . oh, look! A squirrel!

He stooped to the coffee maker and studied it, frowning. With some misgiving, he dumped the specified quantity of beans into the grinder bin and hit On. Nothing happened. He flipped the switch to Off, then again to On. Zero.

Nothing worked these days. You could not gain entry into packaging of any kind, nor could you depend on
On
or even
Off
to mean what they promised. It was a black mark against society in general.

He was considering a dash to the Feel Good when he spied a note pinned to the corkboard.

Fr T, coffee machine unplugged. Plenty of change in drawer. Yesterday’s sales great. U R very sweet to do this.
Call if U need me. # on door at wall phone. Thnx for making deposit by five.

Marcie

He watched the beans grinding with industrial vigor as he filled the water bowl for Barnabas. The antique furnace was heaving around down there; a giant throbbing could be felt in the floorboards. He flipped a couple of wall switches—Beethoven’s Ninth, third movement, was succeeded by a constellation of reading lamps lighting the room.

And there went the
Muse
truck up the street and the sound of this week’s edition smacking the front door. No way would he fetch it in and trouble his head—he would depend on the greater diversion of the
Times
, albeit last Sunday’s edition.

He’d spent Wednesday doing almost nothing, trying not to feel guilty about his decision. He’d taken it as a day to reflect and pray, to know whether the peace he felt about declining was real. And yes, thus far it was real.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t put a shine on the consequences. When the bishop’s offer came to be public knowledge, as it assuredly would, some might see his refusal as a shirking of duty. A few would be scornful, some would feel betrayed, a handful would understand, and the rest wouldn’t care.

He was frankly surprised by his decision—but profoundly relieved. Relieved, for one thing, because it hadn’t actually been his decision. El Shaddai had spoken in that way which is not speaking, to a confused cleric vested in robe and pajamas by his home fire.

In truth, he should ring Asheville now, before the shop opened and while his head was still relatively unfrayed. He crossed himself, a schoolboy sent up the hall to the headmaster.

The pleasant but brief conversation was over before he quite realized it. He stood in the middle of the room, dazed.

Bishop Martin had been disappointed though not completely surprised, and would ring up at once the Colorado mountain-climbing priest known to be ‘fond of the guitar in the early service.’ They confirmed their meeting in the vestry at Lord’s Chapel a half hour before the eleven o’clock on the seventh.

‘And Timothy,’ the bishop said at the end, ‘I have every confidence in your decision.’

It was as if he were coming back from a kind of death, and hearing the familiar Ninth for the first time.

Under the watchful gaze of his dog, he picked up a coffee spoon and with something like astonished joy, conducted the remainder of the sublime third movement.

•   •   •

T
HE
BELL
JANGLING
ON
THE
DOOR
. Ten after ten. He was ready.

‘
Esther?
’ Good Lord!

‘It’s me,’ said Esther Bolick, thumping a Sweet Stuff bag onto the sales counter. ‘The
new
me.’

‘I liked the old you.’

‘Old? I’m runnin’ from that word doin’ eighty miles an hour.’

‘But a tan? I’ve never seen you with a tan.’

‘I have never been tan, and will never be tan again. I thought, what the heck, you and Cynthia paid to get my hair dyed, why not give that poor child a break and get sprayed?’

‘How was it?’

‘Hosed down like a squash plant, arms an’ legs everywhichaway. What do you think about my hair?’

She twirled around, a bit unsteady.

‘I like it. That’s the ticket. You look younger by ten years.’

‘I thought I’d never get out of there, Fancy Skinner drives me crazy. I brought you something to say thanks for your nice gift. It was wonderful of y’all to do that.’

She patted his hand, pushed the bag to him. For some reason he couldn’t understand, Esther Bolick didn’t get it that sweets were verboten where he was concerned. When news of his diabetes swept through the parish like a brush fire, she delivered him a full-blown two-layer OMC as a consolation. He’d put it in the fridge and slammed the door and leaned against it as if the thing might break out of there and have its way with him. Which of course it did. He had been in the hospital a mere nine days.

‘You wouldn’t believe what they charge for a single slice,’ she said. ‘Go ahead, I brought you a fork.’

She thrust her hand into her coat pocket and handed over a sterling dessert fork loosely wrapped in a paper napkin.

‘Do you think I should?’

‘Why shouldn’t you?

‘Well, I mean, you know—
diabetes
.’

‘Oh, pshaw,’ she said, bored by this confession. ‘Just take one bite, and I’ll finish it.’

‘Deal,’ he said, digging in.

‘So?’ she said, giving him a fierce look.

‘It’s good. It’s really good.’

‘But?’ She arched an eyebrow.

‘But not as good as yours, Esther, and you can take that to the bank.’

‘Ha!’ she said. ‘You have not lost your silver tongue, Father. And look at this.’

She whipped a piece of paper from her handbag, showed it to him up close. ‘My first check.’

‘Wow.’

‘Wow is right, they did a big wedding last Saturday at Linville. Th’ OMC was forty-two inches high and seven layers, I took a picture.’

‘Forty-two inches.’ He marveled. ‘Seven layers!’

‘How ’bout them apples?’

‘Gene would be thrilled. So you think you’re going to like being retired from the OMC?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ she snapped. She grabbed the fork, wiped it with the napkin, dug in. ‘Uh-huh. I was afraid of somethin’ like this. A little too sweet. She deviated from th’ recipe.’

‘Are you sure?’ He felt the need to protect Winnie.

‘She’s not supposed to deviate from th’ recipe, Father. It’s in th’ letter of agreement.’ She waggled the fork at him. ‘A letter of agreement is just that—two people
agreeing
. I don’t suppose you have a cup of coffee—a cup of coffee would certainly improve th’ taste.’

‘Right this way,’ he said.

First Things First!!!! A Belated Tribute to Miss Sadie Baxter

by
VANITA BENTLEY

My husband says I have never before publicly (much less privately) admitted to being wrong, but I am doing it here and proud to say What was I thinking?

I jumped the gun on trying to find a living leading citizen when we ha=ve a dead deceased leading citizen who needs to be recognized FIRST!!!! Miss Sadie Baxter bless her heart, who left us eight years ago in June (Mr. Hogan pls check me on this) was as generous a benefactor as any lttle town could ever hope to have.

From her house on the ridge above Main Street Miss Baxter is said to have rocked in her rocker and prayed for this town and the little cars and people she could see from up there moving around on the streets below. Have you ever heard anything so sweet as that? I personally have not.

So what I am proposing is that we name Miss Sadie Baxter
who never married but gave her ALL to friends and neighbors, is that we name her Mitford’s LEADING CITIZEN even though she is crossed over and put a plaque in the town museum so we can always remember where these great gifts came from:

1. Hope House, our state of the art nursing facility for people of all races, colors, religions, walks of life and you name it

2. Baxter Park between Main and Churchill—Little Mitford Creek runs through it!! Have you ever been to Baxter Park? You should GO!! It is so pretty and shady. Remember to pick up your trash and do not park in there at night as the MPD often checks it out.

3. The orchards of Baxter apples that you and I pick from every fall and make apple butter or have somebody make for us is now owned by Mayor Gregory who is carrying on the tradition of letting townspeople pick there for free. But once again: PICK UP YOUR TRASH!!!! And thank you Mayor Gregory!!

4. Thirteen rooms at Childrens Hospital in Wesley were given by Miss Sadie who said it was one for each apostle plus One room in honor of her dear lifelong friend Louella Baxter Marshall a resident at our own beautiful Hope House. Have you ever been to Hope House? You should go and take the children and sing hymns and kiss the elderly (though not in flu season)—they would LOVE it and so would YOU!!!!

5. The slate roof on the historic Lord’s Chapel (her father gave the whole church in nineteen hundred and something—Mr. Hogan w eigh in on the exact date pls)

The plaque will be written by Fr Timothy Kavanagh her dear friend and priest who will say all the wonderful things on the plaque that you and I don’t know how to say.

So I hope you will get behind this and go see the plaque at our Town Museum any time after November 1, admission to students and senior citizens $2. $4 to everybody else opposite the monument. Be sure and play the jukebox, all proceeds go to the new Guttering Project.

P. S. We did receive 14 votes for Father Tim as Leading Citizen 7 for Winnie Ivey who gives bakery goods to the needy –4 for Wanda Basinger who has given us such a great place to have a nice lunch (a big YUM on the fries)—2 for Coot Hendrik who is a town fixture and 1 for me, I am so HONORED to be included—thank you!!

•   •   •

A
T
ELEVEN
-
THIRTY
, he had $32.67 in the till.

J.C. swung in with his briefcase, deposited it on the sales counter. ‘So what do you think of today’s lead?’

‘Very good, excellent. It’s about time we recognized all she did for us. I agree one hundred percent. Why didn’t somebody tell me I’m writing the plaque?’

‘You didn’t ask,’ said J.C.

‘Buy a book.’

‘I don’t have time to read.’

‘Buy a book anyway. We need the money.’

‘What should I buy?’

‘Something by Churchill. Or David McCullough. Or a book of poetry—that would give you a good worming.’

Or, he wanted to say, how about a book on whacking the exclamation mark, getting to know the comma, giving the quote mark a try?

‘I’ll pop your briefcase under the counter and you can have at it. Free coffee to your left.’

‘I’m in,’ said J.C.

•   •   •

‘D
ON
’
T
TRY
TO
SELL
ME
A
BOOK
, Father, I’m not here to buy a book, I’m here to read my needlepoint magazine in peace and drink somebody else’s coffee and try to get my nerves settled. Think “freeload” when you see me comin’.’

Winnie Kendall had a frazzled look.

‘We have never had such a run on fig newtons, I don’t understand it, hardly anybody eats fig newtons anymore, but sixteen dozen down th’ hatch since Monday, we think it’s somethin’ goin’ on at th’ college in Wesley. An’ th’ OMC, oh, my Lord, it is sailin’ out of there by th’ slice
an’
whole, ’cause everybody wants to see if I got it right, an’ some don’t mind tellin’ me I didn’t even though I go exactly by the recipe. So Thomas said, “For th’ Lord’s sake, Winnie, go up to th’ bookstore for a while and I’ll handle things down here.”

‘God love ’er, Hope has let me do this little trick for three years—it is a lifesaver.’

‘Make yourself at home,’ he said. ‘Take a chair, any chair.’

‘I like th’ one in th’ Poetry section. Hardly anybody ever wanders back there.’

‘Ah, but there’s a poetry renaissance coming, I hear. A
slender volume recently hit the
Times
’ bestseller list. A first!’

‘Oh, boy,’ said Winnie, giving him a wink. ‘That’ll run me over to Ancient Greek History for sure.’

•   •   •

H
E
WAS
READING
the
Muse
when the best-looking woman in town stopped by.

‘Listen to this,’ he said. ‘“Make your magnolia leaves shine! Just rub on any cooking oil and voila! Dry, dusty leaves in indoor arrangements look brand-new.” Did you know this?’

His wife handed over a box of raisins. ‘We don’t have any magnolia leaves in indoor arrangements.’