At Home in Mitford

by Jan Karon

  “I’ve never understood exactly how you keep something like that under cover,” he said. He took one end and helped her spread it over the other panels.

  “Oh, come on, now,” she said, winking hugely at him, “you do know, too. I mean, look at you!”

  “What do you mean, look at me?”

  “I mean your neighbor is what I mean, ha, ha.”

  “Ha, ha, yourself,” he said, feeling the color steal into his face.

  “Somebody said y’all were out walkin’ th’ other night, right on Main Street.”

  “Walking on Main Street is hardly keeping anything under cover. Can’t two people go for a stroll without causing tongues to wag?”

  Puny laughed. “Tongue waggin’s ’bout th’ only action y’all git over here in Mitford!”

  “Now, now. Don’t be pulling any of your Wesley high-hat on me, young lady.”

  “Anyway, I think she’s real cute. I like ’er. She’s different.”

  “I agree.”

  “With what? That she’s real cute or that she’s different?” Puny’s eyes gleamed with mischief.

  “I sincerely hope you don’t persecute Joe Joe this way,” he said, finding two quarters and a dime in a pants pocket. “And speaking of parades, do you find Joe Joe to be a drum and bugle corp, a marching band, or the fire engines?”

  “Joe Joe,” she said rapturously, “is the Santy Claus at the end, with a big sack of presents, throwin’ candy to th’ kids.”

  He was on his hands and knees, searching under the dresser for the dime that rolled across the floor. “That’s as lavish a compliment as I’ve ever heard, I believe.”

  “He’s nice, he’s got manners, an’ he’s got a job. Not to mention good-lookin’.”

  He stood up, smiling at her. “I agree with all that, and then some. You have my blessing without even asking for it.”

  “And you,” she said, grinning, “have mine.”

  “Father,” said the caller, “Pete Jamison.”

  “Pete! I’m glad to hear your voice.”

  “Just wanted to call and check in. I’m in St. Paul. How are you?”

  “Good! Can’t complain. And you?”

  “Not bad. They just gave me an award for the most sales in the first quarter. Considering that this time last year I had the fewest sales . . .”

  “Pete, congratulations. You can’t know how I like hearing that.”

  “Well, Father, you probably won’t like hearing this. You know the four things you told me to do when I left that day?”

  “Pray. Read your Bible. Be baptized. Go to church.”

  “Well, I’m going to church. But I’ve got to tell you that it’s full of hypocrites.”

  Father Tim laughed. If there was ever a popular refrain in modern Christendom, that might be it.

  “My friend, if you keep your eyes on Christians, you will be disappointed every day of your life. Your hope is to keep your eyes on Christ.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “I will disappoint you, Pete, they will disappoint you, but He will never disappoint you.”

  “I was about to say to heck with it.”

  “Don’t quit! Are you reading your Bible?”

  “Ah, well . . . I was.”

  “And then you quit.”

  “You got it.”

  “Then you can expect to be weak on one of your flanks, and that’s precisely where the Enemy will come after you with a vengeance.”

  “I hear you.”

  “When are you coming back this way?”

  “Soon, I hope. My territory’s so big, it’s stretching me like a rubber band.”

  “Keep your faith and you won’t snap,” said the rector, as Harold Newland walked in with the morning mail and handed him the day’s packet. “Excuse me, Pete. Thank you, Harold, see you Saturday.” Harold blushed deeply. Right on top, a letter from the man in the attic, with the return address of a federal prison.

  “Pete,” said Father Tim, “do you have a brother?”

  “No, sir. Always wanted one, though.”

  “You’ve got one, now. Let me tell you a story.”

  “Well,” Dooley said, slamming his book bag on the kitchen counter, " ’at’s ’at.”

  “That’s what?”

  “Dern school’s out.”

  “Of course! I’d clean forgotten.”

  “I tol’ Tommy he could spen’ th’ night t’night.”

  “We were going to talk about that first. Why did you invite him without talking about it first?”

  “I forgot.”

  Forgot! Well, and so had he. After all these weeks of lamely trying to figure what to do about Dooley when school was out, he’d completely forgotten that, this very day, it was out, period. And here he sat, reading the Anglican Digest.

  It was enough to make him squirm with guilt, if he’d been so minded. Didn’t everybody else have something clearly mapped out for their charges for the summer? Positive things like jobs, and earning money, and opening savings accounts, and sticking to a reading program, and maybe going to camp. Camp! He was astounded that the most obvious thing of all had only at this moment occurred to him. Would he never get this right?

  “Put your things away, and we’ll have a snack. Then we’ll walk up and see your grandfather, take him his livermush.”

  He heard Dooley bound up the stairs. His face had not shown it, but surely he must be nearly ecstatic with his new freedom. He remembered some of his own ecstasy at the letting out of school, and, yes, it had to do with friends. Certainly, Tommy could come.

  Friends, however, could not solve the entire problem of what to do with a summer. For him, those years ago in Holly Springs, there had always been something to look forward to, a project, perhaps, something definite.

  He picked up the phone. “Dora,” he said to his friend at the hardware, “got any rabbits on hand?”

  He had brought home the cage containing one sleek, curious black and white Flemish Giant, and put it on the back porch stoop, when the phone rang.

  “Father?” said Miss Sadie. “I’ve been thinking. School was out yesterday, and I was wondering if Dooley would like a job for the summer? You know there’s lots to do at this old place.”

  “Miss Sadie,” he said, “let me talk to him about that. I may put him to work in the church gardens.”

  When he saw Cynthia at The Local, they stopped to visit by the produce bins. She’d been asked to read from her books at the library, as part of a summer cultural program, and was radiant at the prospect.

  Before they went along their separate aisles, she said, “I’ve been thinking. My basement could use a good cleanup. Do you think Dooley would be interested? And we could dig some flower beds in the back, Uncle left it a jungle out there. Oh, and maybe the two of us could build a rabbit hutch. I’d pay him, of course, and teach him to watercolor!”

  “Watercolor? Dooley?”

  “Well, and why not?”

  Why not, indeed?

  Later, Hal Owen dropped by the rectory.

  “Came to town to pick up a package of serum, hadn’t seen you in a while, since we’ve been skipping the coffee hour. How are you, Tim?”

  “Not bad, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering that I have a boy who needs proper guidance, wisdom, direction, instruction, discipline, and, last but not least, something to do for the summer.”

  “That’s why I came,” said Hal, grinning, and taking out his pipe. “We thought you might let Uncle Dools spend a few weeks at Meadowgate.”

  When the rector walked back to the hardware to pick up the rabbit food he’d left sitting on the counter, he ran into Dooley’s teacher.

  “Miss Powell, how did we do this year?”

  “I’ve seen some positive changes in Dooley,” she said, smiling. “But he has a way to go.”

  “And, ah, which way do you think he might be going?”

  “Oh, I clearly see an outstanding abilit
y in math, if you’ll help him stick with it. He also proved to be a pretty tough slugger on the ball field. And then, there’s his singing.”

  “Singing?”

  “Why, yes. We coaxed him into mixed chorus a few weeks ago, I’ve been meaning to tell you that. He has a marvelous voice and great timing. It may be a gift.”

  Dooley singing! How extraordinary.

  “Jena,” he said, calling his Sunday school supervisor at home, “have we ever thought of forming a young people’s choir?”

  “Well, we’ve thought of it, but somehow, it just hasn’t happened.”

  “Would you be kind enough to make it happen?” he asked.

  He saw Barnabas at the opposite end of the field, running toward him. “Come on, boy,” he yelled. “Come on, fella!” But though Barnabas ran and ran, he remained at the opposite end of the field. He tried to run himself to the great, black, barking dog, but felt as if he were trapped, waist-high, in Mississippi mud. In an agony of frustrated longing, he exerted a shuddering effort that seemed to force his very heart to burst.

  When he awoke, bathed in sweat, Dooley was standing over his bed, looking stricken. “Why’d you go t’ hollerin’ f’r ’at ol’ dog? ’at ol’ dog’s gone!” he said severely.

  “That old dog is not gone!” he exclaimed, with sudden anger.

  “You like t’ scared th’ poop outta me.”

  “The poop is precisely what you need to have scared out of you,” he declared, unbuttoning his pajama top. He hated those dreams in which he found himself bound like a mummy, unable to move, his heart pounding like a hammer. “Go back to bed,” he told the boy, who was still trying to peer into his face.

  “I ain’t, ’til you quit hollerin’.”

  “I’ve quit, for heaven’s sake. Haven’t you ever had a nightmare?”

  “I’ve had plenty of them ol’ things,” said the boy, climbing into bed with him.

  “Well, then, you understand.” He lay back against the pillows, and glanced at the clock. Four a.m.

  “I had one of them dreams th’ other night at th’ farm. I was dreamin’ m’ little brother Kenny had fell in th’ creek and turned into a fish an’ I was runnin’ after ’im along th’ bank, hollerin’, ‘Kenny, Kenny, come back, don’t be a fish, don’t leave me!’ an’ Miz Owen said I woke up Rebecca Jane, but that was all right, she come in and talked t’ me.”

  “Do you miss your brother?”

  “Yeah. He was my best friend.”

  Dear God! Five children wrenched apart like a litter of cats or dogs.

  “Tell me about your brothers and sisters.”

  “There’s Jessie, she’s th’ baby, still poopin’ in ’er britches, and Sammy, he’s five, he stutters. Then, there’s ol’ Poobaw . . .”

  “What does Poobaw mean?”

  “Means he took after a pool ball my mama brought home, had a eight on it, she said it was a keepsake. Poobaw hauled ’at ol’ thing around, went t’ sleepin’ with it, an’ that’s where ’is name come from, it used t’ be Henry.”

  “What’s Henry like?”

  “Wets ’is bed, ’e’s seven.”

  He dreaded this. “Do you know where they are?”

  “Mama said she’d never tell nobody, or th’ state would come git ’em. I was th’ last’n t’ go.” There was a long silence.

  If it wrenched his own heart to hear this, how must Dooley’s heart be faring? “Have you ever prayed for your brothers and your baby sister?”

  “Nope.”

  “Prayer is a way to stay close to them. You can’t see them, but you can pray for them, and God will hear that prayer. It’s the best thing you can do for them right now.”

  “How d’you do it?”

  “You just jump in and do it. Something like this. You can say it with me. Our Father . . .”

  “Our Father . . .”

  “Be with my brother Kenny and help him . . .”

  “Be ’ith m’ brother, Kenny, an’ he’p him . . .”

  “To be strong, to be brave, to love you and love me . . .”

  “T’ be strong, t’ be brave, t’ love you an’ love me . . .”

  “No matter what the circumstances . . .”

  “No matter what th’ circumstances.”

  “And please, God . . .”

  "An’ please, God . . .”

  “Be with those whose names Dooley will bring you right now . . .”

  He heard something hard and determined in the boy’s voice. “Mama. Granpaw. Jessie an’ Sammy an’ Poobaw. Miz Ivey at church, an’ Tommy . . . ’at ol’ dog . . . m’ rabbit . . . Miz Coppersmith an’ ol’ Vi’let an’ all.” He buried his face in the pillow and pulled it around his ears.

  The clock ticked. Somewhere, through the open alcove window, he heard the rooster crow, the rooster whose whereabouts he couldn’t identify, but whose call often gave him a certain poignant joy. Dooley moved closer to him, and in minutes he heard a light, whiffling snore. He sat up and pulled the blanket over the boy’s sleeping form.

  He didn’t know why he felt this would be a splendid summer for Dooley Barlowe.

  When his neighbor came over to see the new rabbit, they sat on the top step of the back stoop. The air was warm and balmy, and a light breeze stirred in the trees.

  “Thanks for coming to the library to hear me,” she said.

  “What makes you think I came to hear you? Didn’t you see that I was there to read the Journal?”

  “Ha!” she said, “you never turned a single page!”

  He laughed. “Is that a fact?”

  “It is, and you know it.”

  “Then, while we’re into this thanking business, let me say that I appreciate it when you come to hear me, and give the Presbyterians the nod.”

  “My pleasure,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, and smiling. “I suppose I need to be making a decision, soon, about where to join.”

  “It would be a blessing to look out and see your face.”

  Dooley came through the back door, slamming the screen behind him. “Hey,” he said to Cynthia.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  "They ain’t no lettuce n’r any carrots n’r nothin’ in there!”

  The rector pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Go see Avis and load up.”

  Cynthia looked after the red bicycle as it disappeared around the corner of the rectory. “Can’t we do something about his English?”

  “Or his negative attitude? Or his table manners? Or his murderous temper? Or his pain? There are so many things to do something about.”

  “Overwhelming, is it?”

  “Very.”

  “Let me encourage you, Timothy. I think you’ve done wonders with him.”

  “Combed his cowlick, bought him some tennis shoes. It’s hard to believe I’ve done any more than that, really. Trust is the foundational problem, he trusts no one. Jena’s doing a good job with him in Sunday school, he’s getting some of the basics. I’m just waiting to see where to go from here.”

  “What about the summer?”

  “Overnight, he has a full dance card. I feel the best thing is to send him to Meadowgate for three or four weeks, there’s a lot of love for him out there, and farm life will do him good. Then, I’ll bring him home to work with me in the church gardens, and try to get your basement cleaned up. As for your flower beds, I can dig those. I’ve been digging beds for twenty years, so my credentials are solid.”

  “Excuse me.” It was the girl who had come looking for Dooley once before. “Is Dooley home?”

  “You’ve just missed him,” said the rector. “But he’ll be back in a flash, why don’t you stay and wait for him?”

  “Thank you,” she said, softly.

  Cynthia patted the step next to her. “Come. Sit on the steps with us. I’ve just popped over to see the new rabbit.”

  “I like rabbits,” the girl said, sitting down. She was wearing a sleeveless dress that bared her brown arms, and her blonde hair was in
French braids. A pretty girl who looked straight out of a Nordic fairy tale, observed the rector.

  “What’s your name?” Cynthia wanted to know.

  “Jenny. See that red roof over there? That’s my house.”

  Another neighbor! And another pair of luminous eyes.

  “I’m Cynthia, and this is Father Tim.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said. “What’s the bunny’s name?”

  Cynthia laughed. “I wanted them to name him Clarence, but they won’t listen to me. Can’t you just see him with a little pair of horn-rimmed glasses and tweed knickers? Anyway, he doesn’t have a name, yet. As soon as Dooley gets back, we’re going to give him one. I have two bunnies.”

  "Do they have names?”

  “Flopsy and Mopsy. It was a busy day, and I didn’t have the wits to be original.”

  “This one could be Cottontail.”

  “It could,” said Cynthia, “but I don’t think they’ll go for it.”

  When the red bicycle tore around the side of the rectory, Dooley, who was carrying a grocery bag in one arm and steering with the other, looked with amazement at the visitor, and, without slowing down, crashed headlong into the sycamore tree.

  The bells continued to sit under a tarp on the lawn at Lord’s Chapel, though he tried almost daily to get the crew to install them. They were all working, it seemed, on the golf resort in Wesley. “Putting golf before God!” he said to Ron Malcolm. “Now there’s a sermon title, and I ought to be man enough to preach it!”

  The earliest they could get to it, they said, was Friday, June 28. They’d get right on it at 8 a.m., and by noon the bells should be chiming.

  He noted the date on his calendar. June 28? Why did that have a familiar ring, no pun intended?

  He wouldn’t put more roses in his own garden this year, but he would certainly put a new bed in the church gardens. He had ordered the memorial plaque from a catalog and was pleased with the bold, Gothic lettering.

  The Souvenir de la Malmaison, with its five-inch pink blooms, had been named in honor of the Empress Josephine’s famous gardens, and he’d been intimidated for years by its reputation for being difficult and hard to establish. Well, then, no use to hold back any longer, he told himself, it’s now or never.

  He also ordered several Madame Isaac Pereire, reputed to be far less temperamental, to climb up the east wall. Even more aromatic than Malmaison, they were said to smell like crushed raspberries. What an extraordinary thing, a rose! He was beginning to feel some inspiration for his talk at the festival.