At Home in Mitford

by Jan Karon

  Russell heaved a sigh. “You’re right, Father, you’re dead right, an’ I know it. I’m th’ roughest ol’ cob you ever seen when it comes t’ mindin.’ That’s why I’ve fought th’ Lord s’ long, it meant mindin’ ’im if I was t’ foller ’im. It’s about wore me out, fightin’ ’im. Not t’ say I don’t respect ’im, I do. But I don’t want t’ mind ’im.”

  The uneducated Russell Jacks, thought the rector, had just put the taproot cause of the world’s ills into a few precise words.

  “Well, Russell, when we replace you . . .”

  The old man sat up with great force. “You’re hirin’ somebody else t’ do m’ work?”

  “We’ll have to, you know. The way things are going with Betty means you’ll probably have to pack up and live at your place. Being without a nurse could set you back a few months, could even send you back to the hospital. All in all, I don’t believe the gardens can be let go that long.”

  Russell threw off the covers and sat up on the side of the bed, which launched a racking cough.

  “A mess is what it’ll be,” he said, breathlessly, “all them bulbs bloomed out and them stems an’ leaves dyin’ off, and th’ weeds comin’ in, an’ y’r fish pond settin’ there all scummed up . . .”

  “And you over here wasting energy chasing Betty’s cat, when you could be gaining strength.” Father Tim looked at him steadily.

  There was a long silence, during which Russell Jacks studied his feet.

  “Will you hold m’ job, Father?”

  “Will you hold your temper?”

  Russell considered the question. “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “I’ll expect it,” replied the rector.

  Another silence.

  “You ought t’ git th’ boy t’ help out in th’ churchyard when he can. He’s gifted at it.”

  “You know what I’d really like, Russell? I’d like to see that boy laugh.”

  “He don’t laugh. Always was th’ soberest little thing you ever seen. ’Course, he was th’ oldest, you know, and he’s had th’ weight of th’ world on ’im, lookin’ after th’ little young ’uns s’ much.”

  See Dooley laugh! On his mental list of things to do, that particular ambition had just gone straight to the top.

  Betty Craig knocked lightly on the open door and came in with a tray. “Time for your medicine!” she said, looking to the rector for a sign of hope.

  “You’re the best medicine this ol’ feller could ever have,” replied an affable Russell Jacks.

  Think about it, she’d told him. Think about it! As if he could forget it for a moment. He urgently wished to call Walter but could not make himself pick up the phone. Would Walter be shocked? Probably not. Amused? Not especially. What Walter would be was skeptical.

  “You’re like a’ ol’ cat,” Dooley complained.

  “You’re laughin’ one minute and bitin’ my head off the next,” snapped Emma.

  “Are you takin’ your medicine?” Puny demanded to know. Well, no, he wasn’t. He’d been meaning to, and he definitely would. He’d do it that very night.

  “Grievin’ about that dog, are you?” said Joe Ivey, as he trimmed the rector’s neck.

  It seemed everybody had some comment to make on his behavior these days.

  Go steady? At his age? Except for the eleven months he had courted Peggy Cramer, he had never gone steady in his life. What did it mean to go steady, anyway? How in God’s name could he know it was something he might like to do, if he hadn’t the foggiest notion of what it meant?

  And how had all this happened, anyway? He hadn’t really meant for anything to “happen.” Just dinner occasionally, with the sound of her laughter, and the way she expressed herself so openly, without guile.

  The truth of the matter was that he liked her. There! That was it. Nothing more than that. Nothing more than that was needed. Wasn’t that extraordinary enough in itself?

  He felt oddly excited. So—he liked Cynthia. What was unusual about that? Hadn’t he known that? Perhaps. But he had never clearly stated it to himself. The statement of that simple fact felt liberating. He was suddenly relieved.

  The relief, however, didn’t endure. His everlasting practicality caused him to wonder what he should do about liking Cynthia. On the other hand, he reasoned, why couldn’t he simply like her, without feeling compelled to do something about it?

  When he found that he was pacing the floor of his study like a windup toy, he went to his room and changed into a jogging suit.

  As he headed toward Baxter Park, he glanced through her hedge and saw her sitting on the back stoop, holding Violet. She looked his way.

  His heart hammered, and he did something he could not remember doing to anyone in recent years.

  He turned his head as if he had not seen her at all, and set off through the park at a dead run.

  It was J.C. Hogan who was ringing his office phone at eight-thirty on Monday morning. “I got a letter to the editor I need to answer,” said J.C.

  “How can I help you, my friend?”

  “This kid read my story about the man in the attic, about the prayer you prayed with the guy in the pew, and how you got two birds with one stone, you might say. Wrote me this letter.”

  J.C. cleared his throat. " ’Dear Editor, What exactly was the prayer the preacher prayed when the man in the attic got saved? My daddy wants to know, and I do too. Thank you.’ ”

  “Do you want me to write it down and drop it by, or just tell you on the phone?”

  “Phone’s fine,” said J.C., breathing heavily into the receiver.

  “Well, then. Here it is. ‘Thank you, God, for loving me, and for sending your Son to die for my sins . . .”

  “Got it,” said J.C.

  “I repent of my sins and receive Jesus Christ as my personal savior.”

  “Got it.”

  “And now, as your child . . .”

  “As your what?”

  “As your child.”

  “Got it.”

  “I turn my entire life over to you. Amen.”

  “What’s the big deal with this prayer? It looks like some little ol’ Sunday school thing to me. It’s too simple.”

  “It’s the very soul of simplicity. Yet, it can transform a life completely when it’s prayed with the right spirit.”

  “I was lookin’ for something with a little more pizzazz.”

  “My friend, the one who prays that prayer and means it will get all the pizzazz he can handle.”

  “Heard anything from th’ man in the attic?”

  “Not yet. But I expect to.”

  “Let me know if you do. I wouldn’t mind printin’ his letters. They’d be a crowd-pleaser.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “See you at th’ Grill.”

  He had no sooner hung up than the phone rang again. It was Louella.

  “Miss Sadie ain’t feelin’ too good. Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s her las’ breath, but I thought you might ask Jesus to hang on real tight, like He hung on to Hezekiah. You ’member ’bout Hezekiah, don’t you, Father?”

  “Indeed, I do. He was sick and cried out to the Lord, who said, ‘I have heard thy prayer, I have seen thy tears; behold, I will heal thee,’ and He added fifteen years to the old king’s life.”

  “I hope to th’ good Lord He do Miss Sadie like that.”

  “Tell her she’s in my prayers and I’ll be up to see her tomorrow. You think she feels like company?”

  “Round here, comp’ny’s always good medicine. And Father . . . ?”

  “Yes?”

  “She bin talkin’ day an’ night ’bout tellin’ you her love story. I don’ like that talk, like she got to hurry up ’fore she passes.”

  “Well, then, tell her I’ll be up to hear it, and she can count on it.”

  The phone rang again, immediately. Some days were like this.

  “Father?”

  “Olivia!”

  “I just wanted to say good morning, that I
’m thinking of you and hope to be in church next Sunday.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Thank you, as well, for bringing the Eucharist and being so faithful.”

  “What does Hoppy say about your progress?”

  “I appear to be in a holding pattern. I look a fright most of the time, as you have clearly seen, but my spirits are strong. I believe the heart will come, I just feel it!”

  “And how is . . . ah, your doctor’s heart?” Olivia laughed with delight. “Very tender,” she said. “And exceedingly large.”

  “A diagnosis that even I might have made!”

  “Keep us in your prayers.”

  “You’re never out.”

  “You seem worried about something, Father,” said Ron Malcolm, who had been a prominent contractor in the area for many years. “It must be the loss of your dog. I know how much he meant to you.”

  Frankly, he hadn’t had time to think of Barnabas, which some would call a blessing. But suddenly, this fact made him feel desperately guilty. Dear Stuart, he saw himself typing, I have given it better than a year, and believe it would be best if I offered my formal resignation right away . . .

  “Well, I believe that’s all I had to report,” said Ron, standing up and looking at him with some concern.

  “Thank you, my friend,” said the rector, shaking hands. “Give my love to Wilma.”

  When he was alone, he sat down and put his head on his desk, like a schoolboy. What had Ron come to see him about? He felt as if his mind had been away on some vague errand during the entire visit.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the papers Ron had left in his in-basket. Of course! The architect and Miss Sadie had come to loggerheads about the placement of the dining room. She wanted it to overlook the valley; the architect considered it more feasible to overlook the village. “How could we go wrong?” the rector asked aloud, thinking of the breathtaking beauty of both views.

  As he attempted to study copies of the preliminary drawings, he couldn’t bring them into focus. They were a blur, and he was shocked to see that his hand trembled as he held them.

  “I ain’t eatin’ n’more of that slop,” said Dooley, who was sitting at the counter while the rector cooked dinner.

  “Exactly what slop do you mean?”

  “That ol’ slop at school. Today, they give us meat loaf an’ cherry pie.”

  His all-time school cafeteria favorite! What was wrong with people these days?

  “Ever’body packs a lunch, sissies eat slop.”

  The rector shrugged. “So, pack a lunch.”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  Dooley scratched his head.

  “Tell Puny what you need, she’ll get it at The Local, and you’re on your own. In any case, school will be out so soon, you’ll hardly have time to fry up your bologna.” School out! What on earth would he do with Dooley Barlowe for an entire summer?

  Dooley was silent for some time, sitting on the counter stool and swinging his legs. “I got me a friend,” he said at last.

  “Aha! Tell me more.”

  “Name’s Tommy.”

  “Tommy! I once had a friend named Tommy. Tommy Noles. Small world.”

  " ’e’s got five birds, eleven ducks, one pig, and three dogs.”

  “No!”

  “I told ’im he could come over here and spend th’ night.”

  “You spoke hastily, but we can discuss it,” said Father Tim, sautéing onions for the hamburgers. “What’s Tommy like?”

  Dooley thought hard. " ’e’s got black hair.”

  “I can just picture him.”

  “Yoo-hoo,” someone called through the screen door. His heart galloped. It was his neighbor, carrying a dish covered with a tea towel. “Guess what?”

  “Come in and we’ll both guess,” he said, opening the screen door.

  “Hey,” said Dooley.

  “Hey, yourself,” she replied. It had become their standard greeting. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said, turning to the rector. “You don’t need to bring me a mole if you catch one. Now, they’ve turned up in my lawn, the little beasts, and any passion I ever had for moles is over.”

  “Thanks be to God!” he said, laughing.

  “Do you know how many moles Beatrix Potter drew?”

  Nobody knew.

  “One! Just one! Diggory Diggory Delvet. It seems perfectly clear that one can’t build a career on moles.”

  “Indeed not.”

  “And while I’ve decided I can’t possibly draw a mole, I did decide to cook one.” She handed him the hot dish.

  Dooley looked at her with alarm. “’at’s a ol’ mole in ’at dish?”

  “It certainly is! I found it under a bush, with its hideous little fossorial feet sticking up. Waste not, want not, is my motto.”

  “Cynthia, you wouldn’t . . .”

  “Oh, I probably wouldn’t. But then again, I might.” She tilted her head to one side and laughed.

  “Let me see ’at ol’ mole,” said Dooley.

  “You wouldn’t know a mole if you met it in the street,” said the rector, removing the tea towel. Inside the dish was a steaming gingerbread mole, with whiskers, tiny eyes, and little teeth, all made of lemon frosting. He was, of course, wearing a tab collar.

  “ ’at’s funny,” said Dooley, laughing. “ ’at’s pretty funny. Look at ’is ol’ feet, ain’t they funny!” Dooley threw his head back and laughed uproariously.

  Dooley laughing!

  Cynthia understood without being told, and her eyes gleamed.

  Dooley laughing! His prayer had been answered so quickly, the rector felt his head fairly swim. “Have a glass of tea,” he encouraged his neighbor.

  “I’d love one,” she said. “Dooley, you’d never guess what I did today.”

  “I don’ know.”

  “Guess!”

  “I cain’t.”

  “Of course, you can. Guesses don’t have to be right, they just have to be guesses.”

  Dooley looked at the floor and scraped the toe of his pumps. “Yanked a knot in ol’ Vi’let’s tail?”

  “Nope. Although she certainly deserves it. Two more guesses. It’s something I got that I’ve never had before. And both of them are brown.”

  “I hate ’is ol’ guessin’ poop.”

  “Men usually do, of course,” she sighed. “So, I’ll tell you. I’ve got two brown rabbits!”

  "You ain’t!”

  “I have!”

  “What’d you git ’em for?”

  “To draw! I told Violet that she’d have to start looking for other employment. I cannot draw another Violet book to save my life, and I’m under contract for two more books this year!”

  “Where’re they at?”

  “Dooley, your prepositions dangle terribly. They’re at my house.”

  “Let’s go see ’em.”

  She looked inquiringly at the rector. “I’ll just put the lid on and come with you,” he said, happily. Rabbits! He felt as excited as a child.

  “I can assure you,” the principal had said, folding her arms across her chest, “that if school were not letting out, Dooley Barlowe would be expelled.” She glowered at the rector, to make certain her point had been driven home. This was a solemn matter, and he should not, for one moment, forget it.

  He hurried to the rectory from Mitford School, as if a dragon were breathing on his heels.

  Buster Austin again. This time, in the cafeteria. Not a good, solid licking on the school ground. Oh, no. Nothing that simple and uncomplicated from Dooley Barlowe. It was an out-and-out dogfight in the cafeteria, with black eyes, a bloody nose, and mashed potatoes thrown in for good measure. “And,” the principal had said, darkly, “after he threw the potatoes, he followed them with gravy.”

  What, exactly, had precipitated this brawl? The principal seemed to relish telling him that Buster Austin had called Father Tim a nerd.

  Since Dooley had been sent home earlier, and was
in his room behind a closed door, the rector decided to take his time about the matter. The day-to-day relationship with the boy was hard enough, much less the crises that arose without any warning whatsoever.

  First things first, he thought, dialing the phone in his study.

  “Cynthia,” he said, “I’m calling because I think you have some wisdom about children, which I lack entirely. My question is this: What, exactly, is a nerd?” He listened intently. “Aha. Well. That’s what I needed to know. You’ve been a great help, as ever. Yes, I’d love to see your rabbit drawings. I’ll ring you soon. Yes. Thanks.”

  So that’s what it meant! To tell the truth, he wouldn’t mind giving Buster Austin a good hiding himself.

  What was he to do about this, after all? Of course, a boy couldn’t go around busting noses and slinging mashed potatoes, yet he’d already given him his walking papers once, and now, he’d clearly be required to give them again. The original walking papers had obviously lacked persuasion, but he had no idea what else to do. Hal Owen, perhaps? He’d raised a boy!

  He was doing it again. He was pacing the floor in a circle.

  Hello, Walter, he said in his ongoing imaginary conversation, Timothy here, I’m leaving in an hour, and I’ll see you at the Shannon Airport as we discussed. I hope you’ve packed your walking stick. When am I planning to return? Walter, I am not planning to return. No, not at all. You see, there’s a boy here who’s driving me berserk, and a woman who’s learned the trick of making my heart pound, and my dog has been violently snatched from me, and the list goes on. No, indeed, I am buying a small cottage, possibly with a thatch. Of course, I’ve heard that thatch attracts mice. . . .

  Blast! He remembered Emma’s wedding on Saturday, for which he’d rashly promised to bake a ham and oversee the flowers. For all his high talk and fancy education, he’d never learned to say one simple word: No.

  There was a small knock at the door. He most assuredly did not want to see his neighbor. It came again, which made him oddly angry.

  He opened the back door and saw a girl with blonde hair and large, gray eyes peering at him through the screen.

  “Can Dooley come out?” she asked, wearing an expression of concern.

  “I’m sorry, he can’t,” the rector replied.

  “Thank you,” she said, and went down the steps and through the hedge to Baxter Park.