These High, Green Hills (51 page)

Authors: Jan Karon

BOOK: These High, Green Hills

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After tolling the bell, the rector went to Lilac Road and sat with Louella and prayed the ancient prayer of commendation: “Acknowledge, we humbly beseech You, a sheep of Your own fold, a lamb of Your own flock.... Receive her into the arms of Your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints....”

Then he did what others after him would do with Sadie Baxter’s lifelong friend. He sat and wept with her, sobbing like a child.

He dialed the number and listened to the odd, buzzing ring of a rural telephone.

“Brother Greer ...” he said.

“Is it Sadie?” asked the old man.

“It is.”

“I’ll come, then,” said Absalom.

He had done this for thirty-eight years—arranging the funeral, delivering the service, consoling the family. But now he was the family, and there was no consolation anywhere. It was as if a part of his own life had been suddenly lost, and there was no getting it back again.

He signed the papers that allowed her body to be taken to Holding and cremated, and was wondering what to do about a marker and urn when the phone rang.

“Father Kavanagh? Lewis Cromwell of Cromwell, Cromwell and Lessing, in Wesley. We’ve been the Baxter family law firm since the turn of the century.”

“Of course. Miss Sadie often spoke of you and your father and grandfather.”

“I’ve just learned of her passing; Louella called this morning. I wanted you to know there’s a letter here, and it was Miss Baxter’s express wish that you have it immediately following her death.”

“How shall I get it?”

“We’ll send it over to you. I have a young assistant who must come that way to pick up produce at your local grocery store. You know how fond we Wesleyans are of your fine grocer.”

“Avis Packard is almost as famous as his advertising professes.”

“I know you were important to Miss Baxter, and we’d like to express our condolences to you, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s the end of an era,” said Lewis Cromwell.

It was delivered to the office as he was leaving for home.

He hardly knew what to do with it. Perhaps he should sit with it awhile before he opened it. She had inscribed his name on the front of the fat envelope in her spidery scrawl, and sealed it with Scotch tape that looked nearly fresh.

When he arrived home, he thumped down at the kitchen table, holding it in his hand.

“Take it to your study,” said Cynthia, “and I’ll bring you a pot of tea.”

He didn’t want tea. He didn’t want to go to his study. He felt desperately worn and addled, as if he had overused his mind for something he couldn’t even call to memory.

He wanted to lie down, that’s what he wanted. But somehow, that was no way to read a letter, especially a letter from the departed. That seemed to warrant sitting up in a straight-back chair.

“Blast,” he said to nothing and no one in particular.

“Then take it over to my house,” she said, reading his mind. “Sit on my loveseat in the studio. That’s what I do when I need consolation.”

He didn’t want to go over to her small, empty house and sit on that small loveseat in that small room.

“Why don’t I just sit here and read it?” he asked, looking forlorn.

“Wonderful! Do you mind if I make dinner while you sit there?”

Mind? He couldn’t think of anything he’d like better. He suddenly felt protected by his wife’s close presence, the familiarity of the cooking ritual, the ordinariness of it all.

Brightening, he opened the letter with a table knife.

The date was September seventh of the previous year.

Dear Father,

We have just come home from your lovely wedding ceremony, and I don’t know when our hearts have felt so refreshed. The joy of it makes my pen fairly fly over the page.

To see you taking a bride, even after so many years, seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Certainly no one can ever say that you married in haste to repent at leisure!

Long years ago when I loved Willard so dearly and hoped against hope that we might marry, I wrote down something Martin Luther said. He said, there is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion, or company than a good marriage.

May God bless you and Cynthia to enjoy a good marriage, and a long and happy life together.

As you know, I have given a lot of money to human institutions, and I would like to give something to a human individual for a change.

I have prayed about this and so has Louella and God has given us the go ahead.

I am leaving Mama’s money to Dooley.

We think he has what it takes to be somebody. You know that Papa was never educated, and look what he became with no help at all. And Willard—look what he made of himself without any help from another soul.

Father, having no help can be a good thing. But having help can be even better—if the character is strong. I believe you are helping Dooley develop the kind of character that will go far in this world, and so the money is his when he reaches the age of twenty one.

(I am old fashioned and believe that eighteen is far too young to receive an inheritance.)

I have put one and a quarter million dollars where it will grow, and have made provisions to complete his preparatory education. When he is eighteen, the income from the trust will help send him through college.

I am depending on you never to mention this to him until he is old enough to bear it with dignity. I am also depending on you to stick with him, Father, through thick and thin, just as you’ve done all along.

When you receive this letter, there are two things you will need to know at once. First, the urn for my ashes is in the attic at Fernbank. When you go up the stairs, turn to the right and go all the way to the back. I have left it there on a little table, it is from czarist Russia, which Papa once visited. Don’t scatter me among any rose bushes, Father, I know how you think. Just stick the urn in the ground as far away from Parrish Guthrie as you can, cover it with enough dirt to support a tuft of moss, and add my little marker.

The other thing you need to know at once is that my marker is with Mr. Charles Hartley of Hartley’s Monument Company in Holding. It is paid for. You might say it is on hold in Holding, ha ha. I think it is foolish nonsense to choose one’s own epitaph, it makes one either overly modest or overly boastful. I leave this task to you, and trust you not to have anything fancy or high-toned engraved thereon, for I am now and always will be just plain Sadie.

I am going to lay down my pen and rest, but will take it up again this evening. It is so good to write this letter, which has been composing in my head for years! It was your wedding today which made me understand that one must get on with one’s life, and that always includes the solemn consideration of one’s death.

He looked up to see his wife rubbing a chicken with olive oil, and humming quietly to herself. An extraordinary sight, somehow, in view of this even more extraordinary letter.

He noted the renewed strength of Miss Sadie’s handwriting as the letter resumed.

We are going to watch TV this evening and pop some corn, so I will make it snappy.

As for Fernbank, I ask you to go through the attic with Olivia and Cynthia and take whatever you like. Take anything that suits you from the house, also. I can’t imagine what it might be, but I would like you to select something for Mr. Buck Leeper, who is doing such a lovely job with Hope House. Perhaps something of Papa’s would be in order.

Whatever is left, please give it to the needy, or to your Children’s Hospital. Do not offer anything for view at a yard sale or let people pick over the remains. I know you will understand.

I leave Fernbank to supply any future requirements of Hope House. Do with my homeplace what you will, but please treat it kindly. If I should pass before Louella, she has a home for life at Hope House, and provision to cover any special needs. I know you will do all in your power to look after her, she is my sister and beloved friend.

It would be grand if I could live to be a hundred, and go Home with a smile on my face. I believe I will! But if not, I have put all the buttons on my affairs, and feel a light spirit for whatever God has in store for me.

May our Lord continue to bless you, Father, you mean the world to

yours truly,
Sadie Eleanor Baxter

He looked up and met Cynthia’s concerned gaze.

“What is it, dearest?”

“You mustn’t speak this to another soul,” he said.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Sit down,” he said. She sat.

“Dooley Barlowe,” he told her, “is a millionaire.”