by Jan Karon
“What if, upon the event of a death, the town were to be given a large home for civic use, and in that home was left a family member with no place to go? The surviving family member is a good sort, presently of sound mind and body, and no trouble to anyone. Do you think the tone of the council would be agreeable, if this came to pass today, to letting the surviving member stay on? It would be legally sound.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willin’ to mention any names in this scenario.”
“ ‘Drawing on my fine command of the English language,’ ” he said, quoting Benchley, " ’I’ll say nothing.’ ”
“So, since none of this has actually happened and I don’t know doodley-squat about who you’re talkin’ about—I guess you’re lookin’ for a gut reaction?”
“That’s right.”
“I’d say if what you tell me is right, and it always has been, we could work it out. We look after our own here in Mitford, that’s been one of my big things all along. You know, for example, that we always make sure Miss Rose and Uncle Billy have oil in their tank.”
“Good example.”
“So,” said the mayor, giving him a broad wink.
“So, what’s your vote for the town flower?”
“Johnny Jump-Up!” she said, laughing.
“Tell you what. If you can get anybody to drive all the way from Charlotte or Raleigh for Johnny Jump-Up Day, I’ll take you out for a big steak dinner in Wesley.”
“I’ll hold you to it!” said the mayor, vigorously shaking his hand.
When he got to the office after a visit with the seriously ill Pearly McGee, he found Uncle Billy waiting on the step, holding a package wrapped loosely in yellowed copies of the Mitford Muse.
“Mornin’, Preacher.”
“Good morning, Uncle Billy,” he said, helping the old man to his feet.
“That ol’ arth’r’ is gittin’ s’ bad, I cain’t hardly git down, much less up. Pretty soon, you’uns ’ll jis’ have to stand me aginst th’ wall.”
“Maybe use you for a hat rack.”
“Maybe put a little birdhouse on top and set me in th’ yard.” Uncle Billy laughed, showing all three of his teeth. Inside, he eased himself onto the visitor’s bench, and carefully laid the package across his knees.
Father Tim plugged in the coffeepot and opened the windows. “To get right to it, Uncle Billy, I’ve done some checking. My attorney is familiar with cases like yours. Legally, a dispensation could be made that would enable you to live on in the Porter house. And while I never mentioned a name, the mayor thinks the council would cooperate wholeheartedly.
“We both know we can’t second-guess what tomorrow will bring, or how the town leadership will change, but it seems to me that you have nothing to worry about.”
Uncle Billy lowered his head for a moment. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “Thank you, Preacher.”
“No, Uncle Billy, thank you. I believe the Holy Spirit has shown me a sermon in your predicament.” The disciples had been repeatedly instructed with one simple word: Ask. Uncle Billy, like much of the rest of humanity, had spent precious years worrying instead of asking.
“I hope that’s your drawings you’ve got there.”
“I was about not to bring ’em, don’t you know. I got to lookin’ at ’em an’ sa’id, ‘Rose, I cain’t drag this ol’ stuff over to th’ preacher.’ Well, she got to fussin’ an’ sayin’ how I never did have much belief in m’self. But that ain’t right. I know I can cane chairs and make signs as good as th’ next feller, and I ain’t too bad with a birdhouse, don’t you know. But this here is flat stuff.”
“And I’ve been looking forward to seeing it ever since you mentioned it last week.”
The old man stood up slowly and put his package down on the desk. Then he began to peel back the brittle newspapers.
Father Tim saw that the date on the Mitford Muse was 1952. And then he saw the first drawing.
In stunned silence, he looked at the finely detailed pencil rendering of a bird dog in a cornfield, a sky alive with quail, and, in the distance, a hunter with upraised shotgun against a background of late autumn trees.
“Good heavens,” he said quietly.
On Friday, he did something he’d seldom ever done. He took the day off.
After all, the cleaning truck was coming from Wesley, and he needed to go through the pockets of all his suits, and attach notes about simple alterations. He had to go to the barbershop and get his neck “cleaned up” as Joe Ivey always said, take his shoes to be resoled, and buy something to remove the beer label from his motor scooter helmet.
Because he made his usual trip to the hospital and the Grill before launching these chores, he wasn’t at home when Puny arrived at eight o’clock.
She hoped he would have done something with the bushel of Baxter apples still sitting in the garage, and save her the trouble. But there they sat, drawing flies, as she discovered when she opened the door.
As Barnabas came bounding toward her in a frenzy of delight, Puny recited in a loud voice one of the few Scriptures she’d ever committed to memory:
“ ‘And this is his commandment, that we should believe on the name of his Son, Jesus Christ, and love one another’!”
Barnabas sprawled at her feet and sighed.
“I’ve never seen anything to beat you in my whole life,” she said with admiration. “They should put you on TV.”
Puny picked up the bushel of apples and took it to the kitchen, where she washed the fruit in the sink. Three canning jars were all they had left after she had finished the tomatoes. Which meant just one thing: she’d have to bake pies and dry the rest.
“Lord knows,” she muttered to Barnabas, “I’m half give out just gettin’ started around here!”
She opened the back door for fresh air, and was startled to see a red-haired boy in ragged overalls standing on the step. From what she’d heard, this would be Russell Jacks’s grandson. Barnabas barked joyfully and dashed to the door, yelping to get out. “Hush up and lay down! Philippians four-thirteen, f’r gosh sake!”
The boy looked intently at her through the screen.
Puny didn’t know which was more noticeable, his blue eyes or his dirty feet.
“I was jis’ goin’ to knock,” he announced. “Are we kin?”
“Not that I know of. What makes you ask?”
“Freckles same as mine.”
“We couldn’t be kin. You come from down the mountain!”
“Blood travels,” he said soberly.
“What can I do for you?”
“Granpaw told me to come an’ git th’ preacher.”
“Father Tim’s not here, he’s at the hospital.”
“What’s the matter with ’im?”
“Nothin’s the matter with ’im. He goes and calls on sick people and makes ’em feel better.”
He looked down at his feet and spoke in a low voice. “My mama’s sick,” he said.
“Why don’t you come in and wait for him? He’ll be here in a little bit.” As she pushed open the screen door, Barnabas growled.
“Will ’at ol’ dog bite?”
“Not unless he has to,” Puny said, catching Barnabas by the collar. “Go set down on that stool.”
He ran to the stool and tucked his feet on the top rung. “A dog like t’ eat me up, one time.”
“Based on your overalls alone, this dog won’t mess with you,” she said with conviction.
“What’s your name?”
“Puny.”
“Why’d you git a name like ’at?”
“’Cause when I was born I was all sickly and puny-like.”
“How did you get over bein’ puny?”
“Hard work, honey, that’s how.” She started paring the great mound of apples in the sink. “What’s your name?”
“Dooley.”
“Dooley? Don’t you have a real name like Howard or Buddy or Jack or somethin’?”
“Dooley is a re
al name!” he said with feeling.
There was a long silence as Puny bent to her task.
“Did you ever try stump water?” Dooley asked.
“Stump water! Shoot, I tried everything, but nothin’ ever worked.”
“I hear if you lay facedown in fresh cow dump, ’at works.”
She turned around, still peeling the apple. “Did you try that?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither, ’cause I heard you had to lay there awhile for it to take.”
“Can I have one of them apples?”
“If you’ll say ‘May I,’ you can have one.”
“May I,” said Dooley.
He quickly put it in his overalls pocket. “My uncle said if you wash y’r face with the same rag you wash y’r feet with, that’ll do it.”
“I wouldn’t try that, if I was you. Besides, I think we ought to be content with what the good Lord gave us. I don’t mess with my freckles no more, and I think you ought to stop wastin’ your time, too.”
He studied his feet, which he was swinging freely now, since Barnabas had fallen asleep. The kitchen was quiet. Birdsong drifted through the open window and a breeze puffed out the curtains.
Dooley decided to eat his apple. “What else you want t’ talk about?”
“How old are you?”
" ’Leven.”
Puny peeled furiously. “I’m glad I ain’t eleven.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t like bein’ a kid. Somebody was always beatin’ on you, pullin’ your hair, chasin’ you around th’ house, throwin’ mud on you. I wouldn’t be your age for all th’ tea in China, much less Japan.”
“When I’m twelve, I’m goin’ t’ whip th’ horse hockey out of somebody.”
“You better not be usin’ that kind of language in this house. Nossir, that won’t go around here.”
He ate his apple. “When’s ’at preacher comin’? My granpaw said make it snappy.”
“He’ll get here when he gets here. What’s the matter with your mama?” Puny started slicing the peeled apples. The room was silent except for the slices dropping into the pot. “Well, cat got your tongue?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’ about that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it ain’t none of your stupid business.” She turned and looked at him. His face had hardened, and he looked older, like a little old man perched on the stool.
“Let me tell you somethin’, then, buster. Don’t come in here in my kitchen with them dirty feet, and think you can go sassin’ me. I’ll pitch your little butt out on th’ porch.”
He slid off the stool and headed toward the door. “You ol’ fat witch!”
She caught him on the back stoop. “Witch, is it? You know what witches do t’ back-talkin’ young ’uns?” She held him by his galluses and put her face close to his. “They boil ’em in that big ol’ pot in yonder.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah!” She bared her teeth at him ominously. “And then . . .”
“And then what?” asked Father Tim, walking into the yard.
“I was jist about t’ cook this young ’un alive,” she said, “and you come and spoiled everything.”
When Father Tim, Dooley, and Barnabas arrived at the side door of Lord’s Chapel, Russell Jacks didn’t waste time exchanging pleasantries.
He removed his hat, respectfully. “Lock’s been broke.”
He felt a sudden chill. In the years he had pastored this parish, there had never once been any vandalism, hardly a beer can thrown onto the front lawn.
“Ain’t anything else broke, as I can see.”
“Dooley,” said Father Tim, “I’d like you to do something for me and keep Barnabas company. Just sit here on the grass and I’ll put his leash on the bench leg. That way, you two can get to know each other.”
Dooley looked suspiciously at the enormous black dog who had tried to lick his face all the way to the church.
“You do what th’ Father tells you,” said Russell Jacks, holding the door open for the rector.
He walked home, oddly troubled. In the hour they’d spent searching for any sign of harm, they’d found nothing. The priceless tapestry was unharmed, nothing was taken off the altar, nothing was moved or misplaced that he could see. If someone had broken in looking for money, where would they have looked? Emma always carried the collection home and brought it to the office on Monday.
He had checked the drawers in the sacristy and found $18.34 in an envelope, about the usual amount that was kept around to pay for brass polish or votive candles.
Why would anyone go to the trouble to force an entry, yet disturb nothing inside? He was making too much of the whole thing. It was only a broken lock, after all, nothing more.
Though he didn’t consider himself one to rely greatly upon his feelings, he felt uneasy. Perhaps he should call Rodney Underwood, the young police chief, and see what he thought about it.
Some good, however, had clearly come from the bad.
Out there in the grass by the garden bench, Dooley Barlowe had found himself a friend.
When he got home, he went to the kitchen looking for Puny and saw instead an unusual sight in his backyard.
She had discovered an old screen door in the garage, hosed it down, laid it across two ladderback chairs, and covered the screen with apple slices.
“This is our dryin’ rack,” she said with authority. “Before I leave today, we’ll carry it into the guest room. On sunny days, we’ll bring it back out again. I know it’s extra trouble, but that’s th’ price you pay for hot cobblers in winter. Meantime, I’ve got six pies in the oven and six more to go, and I wish to goodness you’d get that boy to wash his feet.”
Father Tim was utterly astonished at what he heard himself say: “Puny, do you have any work on Mondays?”
“No, I don’t, and I need some.”
“Well, then,” he said, “you’ve got it!”
On Saturday morning, he visited the Oxford Antique Shop, carrying an apple pie in a basket.
“Little Red Riding Hood!” said Andrew Gregory, coming from the back of the store to greet him.
The rector held out the basket. “Homemade apple pie,” he said, with some pride.
“ ‘The best of all physicians is apple pie and cheese’!” exclaimed Andrew, quoting a nineteenth-century poet. “What an excellent treat, my friend. Thank you and come in.” He took the basket, delighted as a child. “Why don’t we just polish off the whole thing right now and you can carry your basket back?”
The two men laughed.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take my basket back in any case, as there’s five more to be delivered in it.”
“I don’t know how you find time to feed your sheep physically as well as spiritually.”
“Andrew, Providence has blessed me with the finest house help a man could ever have. Puny Bradshaw is her name, and she not only baked a dozen pies yesterday, she canned fourteen quarts of tomatoes last week.”
“Extraordinary!”
They sat down on the matched love seats at the shop door.
“Here’s something even more extraordinary. I’ve discovered that Uncle Billy Watson is a splendid artist. Uneducated, grew up in the valley, never had training of any kind. ‘Rough as a cob,’ as he says. Yet, he draws like a Georgian gentleman.”
“You always seem to have a Vermeer of one kind or another on your hands.”
“The drawings are in my office, and I’d like your opinion. Perhaps you’ll stop over on Monday morning. After all, I’ve been drinking your coffee for years, now come and have a go at mine.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Andrew. “And please don’t leave yet. I have something to show you.”
Andrew went to the back room and returned with two books.
“Just look at this!” he said. “A first edition of the first volume of Churchill’s History of the English-Speaking Peoples. Something I’ve wanted for a
very long time.” He turned to the opening page and read aloud: “ ‘Our story centres in an island, not widely sundered from the Continent, and so tilted that its mountains lie all to the west and north, while south and east is a gently undulating landscape of wooded valley, open downs, and slow rivers. It is very accessible to the invader, whether he comes in peace or war, as pirate or merchant, conqueror or missionary.’
“Ah,” said Andrew, unashamedly beaming. “A prize! I shall read all the volumes over again. Now, for you,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “a prize of your own.” He handed the rector an early leather-bound volume of Wordsworth.
The rector was touched by the feeling of the softly worn covers against his palm. It was as if the book had belonged to him all along and had at last come home.
Smiling, he turned the linen-weave pages until he found a favorite passage. “Andrew, if you’ll permit me, I also would covet a moment to read aloud.”
It was Saturday morning in Mitford. The village was up and stirring, yet a slow, sweet peace reigned, a certain harmony of mood and feeling. In the open door of the shop the two men sat, one reading, one listening, and both, for the passing moment, were content.
He was right. While Miss Sadie had lavishly bestowed bushels of apples upon the village populace, no one had thought to carry her a pie this year.
After lunch, he and Barnabas walked up the steep hill to Fernbank. Though the grand old house was showing its age, it was beautiful still, situated proudly at the crest of a hill massed with wild fern.
Miss Sadie met him at the door. “They’ve brought me two quarts of apple sauce,” she reported, “a quart of apple butter, and a dozen jars of jelly. But, oh my, I’m glad to see this pie!”
She talked him into having a piece with her on the porch, and a glass of cold milk.
“This old place is running down so, I can hardly keep it up. Luther has kept busy in the orchard this year, but he’s too old to mow and pick apples, to boot. It’s just catch as catch can around here.” Miss Sadie sighed, something he’d seldom heard her do. “What I need is somebody young and stout!”
The walk up the hill had carried fresh oxygen to his brain. “Dooley Barlowe!” he blurted.
“How’s that?”
“Miss Sadie, I know a boy who just might fit the bill. Eleven or twelve, I’d say, old enough to push a mower and prune a bush or two if you’d show him how. Shall I look into it?”