These High, Green Hills (18 page)

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Authors: Jan Karon

BOOK: These High, Green Hills
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He smiled at Tommy’s soft-spoken mother. Seeing the three large presents under the tree was somehow a gift to him, as well.
A collect call from France? He couldn’t imagine who ...
Yes, of course, he would accept the charges, if only out of curiosity.
“
Bonejure, messure
!” said a strange voice through a crackling phone line.
“Ah ...
bonjour
. Who’s calling, please?”
Dooley Barlowe laughed like a hyena.
“Dooley?”
“
Oui, measure! Come on talley voo
. ”
“Unbelievable! I’m thrilled you called.”
“They made us do it. Everybody had to call home.”
Home! If Dooley Barlowe had used that word before, Father Tim hadn’t heard it. “Merry Christmas, pal! Where are you?”
“Paris, France. We been lookin‘ at statues and paintin’s and I don’t know what all, and we’re singin’ tonight in a big church, a cathedral. Man, it’s huge.”
“You know all those songs?”
“I’m learnin‘ quick as I can. Ol’ Mr. Pruitt, he’ll knock you in the head if you don’t get it right.”
Good old Mr. Pruitt. “I’ve never talked to anybody in Paris, France, before. How’s the tour going?”
“Great. We’re singin‘ in Austria or somewhere tomorrow night. I’m about wore out.”
“We miss you, buddy.”
Expensive silence.
“We put the train under the tree.”
“I bet ol‘ Cynthia likes that train.”
“How did you know?”
“She likes everything.”
“I’ll get a present off to you when you’re back at school.”
“That’s OK. You give me a lot of money an‘ all.”
He felt a mild lump in his throat. “Will you send Miss Sadie and Louella a card, like I asked? You wouldn’t be in Paris, France, if it weren’t for Miss Sadie.”
“I already done—did it. It had th‘ Eiffel Tower on it. Did you take Tommy his present?”
“Ten silver dollars!”
“Cool.”
Thank goodness he’d done that right. He wished Cynthia was here to say hello. It would do her good to hear Dooley’s unconcealed excitement.
“Tell ol‘ Cynthia I said hey. And ol’ Barnabas. Well, I got to go. ‘Bye.”
“Dooley? Dooley!”
But Dooley was gone.
With the jam-packed schedule of the holy days, he’d never been able to settle on a good plan for opening gifts.
To do it on Christmas Eve meant doing it in broad daylight before the five o‘clock and midnight masses. That didn’t seem quite the ticket.
To do it after arriving home at one-thirty in the morning never had much appeal.
To do it on Christmas morning meant stumbling around in the dark at five a.m., mindlessly racing through the gift opening, then sprinting to church for two services.
To do it on Christmas day, after the high moments of His birth, seemed paltry, somehow.
Consequently, he had done it differently every year, by the seat of his pants, with a mild semblance of tradition kicking in only when Dooley Barlowe came under his roof.
Now he had a wife who would tell him how to do it.
When his flock thronged into the midnight service, there was wonder on every face at the newly hung greens and the softly flickering candles on each windowsill. To the simple beauty of the historic church was added fresh, green hope, the lush scent of flowers in winter, and candle flame that cast its flickering shadows over the congregation like a shawl.
Holy, holy, holy ...
Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee ...
The choir packed their creaking stall, and leaving the exertion of the eternal crush behind, their voices carried from behind closed doors onto the soft December air.
Lord’s Chapel could not, on that night, contain the joy.
“Listen!” murmured the elderly widow who lived next door to the church. “It sounds like angels!” In the hushed and sleep-drugged village, voices stole upon the midnight air, blessing the Lord of Hosts and praising His holy name.
To every weary and overworked soul came some new energy that flowed through the nave like a current.
Unto us a child is born, unto us a Savior is given ...
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Come let us adore Him ...
New life to replace the old, the old one that so often disappoints us and lures us into forgetting the Birth, sending us into despair.
It was no surprise that with the joy came tears for those whose hearts felt a crust falling away....
Cynthia had gone through it with him like a trouper. Up and out to nearly every service, making his breakfast, preparing the early dinners he had no appetite for, praying for his stamina, rubbing his shoulders....
“I can’t let you do this,” he said, loving the feel of her hands on his tense muscles.
“But why not?”
He had no answer. Why not, indeed? “I’ll do something for you.”
“You’re always doing something for me.”
“I am?” Why did she think that? His wife had a certain innocence.
“Timothy, dearest, you have an innocence that amazes me.”
He allowed the resistance to go out of his body.
“That’s better. Sometimes you make it hard to do anything for you, because you’ve been so ... self-sufficient.”
“Ummm,” he said, his face smashed into the pillow.
She had suggested they open their gifts on Christmas evening in front of the fire, dressed in their favorite robes. Thank heaven her gift had arrived—and already wrapped, into the bargain. He’d had it delivered to Dora Pugh at the hardware, in case he couldn’t be found at his office to sign for it.
It was all too easy, he thought. Just call toll-free and talk to someone solicitous and give them a credit card number. It seemed a man should suffer a bit over what to give his beloved. Next year, he would do better.
“Are you crying?” he asked, as she stared into the small box.
“Definitely!” she said, the tears coursing down her cheeks.
“It’s to go with your wedding band. I hope ... I do hope ... you don’t think it ...” Gaudy, he wanted to say, or tacky. The emeralds glimmered in the firelight.
She threw her arms around his neck, weeping. Nothing discreet about Cynthia Kavanagh’s tears—they were honest and forthright. He patted her fondly on the back. He wished she wouldn’t do this ... yet, there was something touching about so much carrying on.
“I love emeralds!” she pronounced, pulling away from him to wipe her tears on the hem of her robe. “I’m so glad you didn’t give me sapphires to
go with my eyes
....”
Like her former husband, who had been cruelly unfaithful, he thought.
“It’s beautiful, and I’m so proud of it. Thank you, my darling. Is all this a lovely dream?”
He kissed her.
“Well, is it?”
“I think we’ll get used to it, somehow.”
“You mean we’ll become old shoes, and all that?”
“Very likely. They say it happens.”
“I can’t imagine it happening. I think you’re the most delicious, attractive, fascinating man in the world.”
“Cynthia, Cynthia ...” he said, touching her face. “I’m only a country parson, foolishly in love with his wife. Nothing more.”
“Shall I go fetch what I have for you?”
“Wait,” he said, holding her close to him. “Wait.”
She had turned the Christmas music on and gone off to the garage. He heard it creaking across the kitchen linoleum, then over the hardwood floor and onto the rug of the study.
“Don’t open your eyes yet,” she insisted.
Whatever it was, she had rolled it next to the crackling fire, then he heard something that sounded like a cord being plugged into the socket at his desk.
“Now,” she said, almost shyly.
He saw it, but could hardly believe what he was seeing. It was a magnificent world globe, lit from within and bathed in the glow of the firelight.
He got up slowly and went to it and gazed at it, and was speechless.

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