by Jan Karon
How could I have been so thoughtless? he wondered, staring out the window. Very likely, he’s staring out his own window right now, marking time until he comes home to Mitford.
“Hello, Marge? Tim here. How’s our girl?”
“Beautiful. Precious. Too wonderful for words.”
“And how’s our boy?”
“Why don’t you ask him that, and then we’ll talk before you hang up.”
“Dooley!” he heard Marge call. “It’s for you!”
He heard someone stomping to the phone. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. What are you up to?”
“I cain’t talk, I’m goin’ out with Doc Owen. Bye!”
“Well,” Marge said, “I guess I’ll have to fill you in. He’s busy from morning ’til night, riding Goosedown, shooting baskets with the boy from McGuire Farm, playing with Rebecca Jane, taking off with Hal. I think they’re going to deliver a calf this very moment.”
“Then he’s not . . . homesick?”
“Homesick? Dooley? Maybe for the first five minutes, but he got over it.”
A note from Father Roland:
“I must tell you that the pressure here is unrelenting. You say I’m young and it’s good for me, but this will surely make me old before my time. How I’d like to come and visit you in that sleepy little village, where I can just see you strolling along Main Street, going your rounds, taking your time. That’s surely how God would have us live! My friend, count your blessings, and remember me in your prayers, that I might learn how to better appropriate His peace for labor in the stressful turmoil of a city vineyard.”
Hah! And double hah! thought the rector. Going my rounds, taking my time . . . and what sleepy little village? The last time he’d had a decent night’s sleep in this village was too long ago to remember.
What if this movie was one of those steamy marathons that would cause them both to be paralyzed with embarrassment? And should he wear his clerical collar or a sport shirt? He had not gone to a movie in well over ten years, and why should he? The last time he had gone, with friends from the parish, he was so astounded at the vile language, casual sex, and equally casual bloodshed that he had left with a pounding headache, declaring, “Never again.”
“Cynthia,” he said when she answered the phone, “do you think I should wear my clerical collar or a sport shirt?”
“I think you should wear your clerical collar. After all, your job isn’t nine to five, it’s twenty-four hours a day, isn’t it?”
He felt oddly relieved and happy.
“Ah . . . what movie are we seeing?” he asked.
“A Walt Disney,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind.”
Mind? He was thrilled.
The moment he entered the dark theater, he felt the years dropping away. He was certainly twelve, this was the old Delta Theater, FlyingTigers would be coming on the screen at any moment, and the girl with him was Elizabeth Mooney, whose parents were waiting at the diner across the street, drinking coffee. He remembered how badly he’d felt that anyone had to drink coffee for an hour and a half in order to accommodate him in some way.
“Where do you want to sit?” he whispered to Cynthia.
“I like the gospel side,” she whispered back. “Toward the front.”
If he sat too close to the front, it made him, quite literally, throw up—and how would he explain that?
He steered her just slightly forward of the middle, and they went into the empty row with a box of popcorn, a Diet Sprite, a Coke, and a box of Milk Duds. He had completely forgotten about Milk Duds, his childhood favorite, and though he wouldn’t eat a single one, of course, he thought it might be nice to have them, just for nostalgia’s sake. He put them in his jacket pocket.
Cynthia settled happily into the plush seat, which, to his surprise, rocked. “Where are the Milk Duds?” she whispered. “Didn’t I see you get Milk Duds?”
There was the scent of wisteria, as if it were blown in on a garden breeze, and her warm laughter at the very places he found amusing, so it was no surprise that he considered reaching over and holding her hand. He discovered, however, that he was incapable of actually doing it.
Lord, he prayed, I’m not used to this “going out” business. Some might tell me to follow my instincts, but I’ve spent so many years trying to follow yours that I’ve nearly lost the hang of following mine. So, thank you for being in on this and handling it to please yourself.
There! That put the burden squarely on the Lord, he thought.
At some point during the movie, they looked at each other while laughing at a funny scene, and when he looked back at the screen, he was amazed to find that he was holding her hand.
He couldn’t help but notice how perfectly happy she seemed while eating the last of his Milk Duds.
He was saying good night on her front porch when a police car pulled up in front of the rectory and someone got out.
Father Tim walked quickly down the steps to the sidewalk. “Hello! Are you looking for me?”
It was Rodney’s new man. “Yessir, you’re Father Tim?”
“I am.”
“I just got it on my radio from Chief Underwood. He thought you’d want to know that Joe Joe’s been shot.”
The new officer looked as if he were barely out of junior high. “I don’t know what happened, sir,” he said as they drove to the hospital, “all I got was the report he’d been shot. The chief’s up there bustin’ that drug house. He took the whole force, just locked up the jail and left.”
He heard a certain wistfulness in the young officer, that he was out here chauffeuring a preacher while his peers were risking their lives.
“How is he?” he asked young Nurse Kennedy, who was Joe Joe’s first cousin.
“It could have been worse, Father. It only nicked his left kidney, but it lodged in his abdomen. Dr. Wilson is operating now.”
“And where, may I ask, is Dr. Harper?”
“In his office.”
In his office? Why in God’s name wasn’t he in the operating room? Obviously, Hoppy was giving far too much responsibility to someone lacking in practical experience. He felt a sudden anger.
“How is he?” Marcie Guthrie burst through the swinging doors that led to an emergency waiting room, wearing a seersucker housecoat and clutching a pink leather Bible.
“He’s with Dr. Wilson, Aunt Marcie, but I think he’s fine, I really do.” Nurse Kennedy gave her stricken aunt a consoling hug.
“I’ve been afraid of this for years. And Boyd on the road, somewhere in South Carolina! How did it happen?” Marcie wiped her red eyes with a handkerchief.
“I don’t know,” said Nurse Kennedy, “they just brought him in and left, nobody told me anything about how it happened. They did say something about drugs and a dog.”
The rector’s heart pounded. “What did they say about the dog?”
“Just that Joe Joe heard it barking.”
J.C. Hogan came through the swinging doors, looking grim. “What happened?” he snapped, directing his question to the rector.
“This probably isn’t the best time to get the story. Maybe you should talk to Rodney when he gets through at the creek.”
“What’s he doin’ at the creek?”
“I’m told he’s over there with his men, doing a drug bust.”
J.C. glared at him. “If I’d wanted a story about a drug bust, I would’ve asked for it. I’m here to get a story on a shooting.”
If there was ever anyone whose lights I’d like to punch out, he thought, this is the guy. He could just see the headline in Monday’s Muse, but it was, of course, misspelled.
“The only one who knows that story is currently in surgery and isn’t able to tell it right now.”
Red-faced, J.C. looked at Marcie and the rector, then stormed through the swinging doors.
“That hateful devil,” said Marcie. “I ought to sic Mama on him.”
Long after midnight, Joe Joe’s preacher, Esther and
Ray Cunningham, three cousins, two aunts, and an uncle were waiting with the rector in the hallway outside the emergency room. Thinking he heard a familiar voice, Father Tim got up and looked through the glass in the swinging doors and was nearly knocked against the wall as Puny Bradshaw swept in, followed by an outraged Nurse Herman. “Young lady, to wait in this section, you must be family or clergy. Are you his wife?”
“No, I’m not,” snapped Puny, “but I’ve got a good chance of bein’, and that ought t’ be enough for anybody who’s askin’.”
Stopping suddenly, she peered into the faces of a significant portion of the Cunningham clan. “Oh, law,” she said, blushing furiously.
Mayor Cunningham rose from the folding chair with all the dignity of her imposing size. “Puny Bradshaw?”
Puny looked so frightened that the rector had to restrain himself from rushing to her side.
“Yes, ma’am?”
The concern of the hour had given the mayor an unusually serious countenance. In addition, she was wearing half-glasses, which caused her to look down on the rector’s house help with some asperity. “We’ve heard a lot about you,” said the mayor.
“You have?” asked Puny, with a quaking voice.
“And I think it’s high time we all met.” The mayor’s face broke into a big smile as she gave Puny a vigorous hug. Marcie Guthrie followed suit, as did the remainder of the group, including Joe Joe’s preacher, who was still in his Little League coach’s uniform.
“I can see you’re already celebrating,” Hoppy said, coming down the hall. “You’ll be glad to know the surgery was successful and he’s in recovery.”
“Praise God!” shouted Marcie.
“The bullet entered the lower left back, went through his ribs, nicked his kidney, and lodged in the abdomen. There were a number of perforations in the small intestine, of course, so it was a tough one, but he had a tough doctor.” He stepped aside as Dr. Wilson appeared. The entire group applauded spontaneously.
I’m getting more like Dooley Barlowe every day, thought the rector, seeing the smile that shone on the exhausted young doctor’s face. I’ve been making up my mind ahead of the facts.
Rodney burst through the swinging doors with Cleo. “How bad is it?” The chief’s face was scratched and bleeding, and he was walking with a limp. There was a hushed silence.
“Bullet’s out, .25 caliber automatic. He’s fine,” said Dr. Wilson. “You look like you could use some attention yourself.”
Everyone stared intently as the chief hitched up his holster and cleared his throat. “They got away,” he said, trying manfully to control his feelings. “We surrounded th’ house and called ’em t’ come out . . .”
“But they won’t nothin’ in there but warm beer and cold pizza,” said Cleo, shaking his head.
“The way it was,” said Joe Joe, when the rector visited his hospital room the following day, “was th’ chief sent me over to your place to pick up that Almond Joy wrapper and th’ truth is, sir, I found somethin’ sweeter than candy.” He grinned at Puny, who was standing by the bed, and took her hand.
Father Tim laughed. “I’ve been trying to gouge that out of her for a long time.”
“It’s hard to talk with this dern thing up my nose,” said Joe Joe, “but I want you to know I’m sorry about your dog, Father. Bustin’ those low-down snakes was real important to me, but more than anything, I was hopin’ you’d get your dog back.”
He knew he wouldn’t be able to speak, so he said nothing.
“I heard ’im barkin’ in there before I went up to th’ house. I shouldn’t have gone so close to th’ house with no backup, but they were bringin’ in stuff out of th’ van, and I knew if I could get a good look at what it was, I could radio in to th’ chief and we could nail ’em. Well, it was cocaine, all right, just like I thought. They were cuttin’ it down and puttin’ it in little bags for th’ street. But somebody turned a light on at th’ side of th’ house, an’ when they saw me, I started runnin’, and they started pumpin’ that automatic in behind me.”
Joe Joe shook his head and sighed. “I managed to get back to my car and call th’ station. Cleo came after me, but by th’ time th’ chief an’ th’ boys got up there, they’d escaped. I feel real bad about it, Father. You don’t know how bad.”
The rector nodded. “You made the decision you thought was best, and what you learned will come in handy at another time and place.”
“He always has somethin’ upliftin’ to say,” Puny informed Joe Joe, with evident pride.
“No, not always. But I hope I can find something uplifting to say to our police chief.”
Puny nodded, soberly. “Anybody who shot a tree stump thinkin’ it was a man and then fell in a hole up to his neck will need some upliftin’.”
When he awoke at five, the air had been balmy and soft. Now, at barely ten o’clock, it was so cold, he thought of putting on the heater in the bathroom. Not only that, but a dense fog was rolling in that practically shielded the Oxford Antique shop from his view.
He had made a “catch-up” list but lacked any enthusiasm for the project at the top of it. Frankly, he had no earthly ambition to see what was on that beam in the Porter place attic. He did not care to go swimming through towers of ancient newspapers, mounds of broken glass, decades of dust, and a jumble of derelict furniture, especially on a cold, foggy day. However, the bells were to be installed on Monday, and that would not only tie him up, but put him behind, so he supposed that now was as good a time as any.
As he glanced through his desk drawer for a stamp, he saw the extra reward posters he’d stored there, and hastily looked away.
No, he thought, pulling on his windbreaker, I’ve done my grieving. I’ll give the memory of Barnabas to the One who sent him in the first place and be glad of the pleasure of having known that good fellow. Just last night, he’d come across a splendid thing by Shaw. “I like a bit of a mongrel myself, whether man or beast. They’re the best for every day.”
When it came to comfortable, everyday companionship, Barnabas had indeed been the best. He’d possessed the noblest characteristics of all the breeds he appeared to descend from: the loyalty and intelligence of the Irish wolfhound, the gentle spirit of the Bouvier, and the happy persistence of the sheepdog. If that was what mongrels were all about, then thanks be to God.
There, he thought, putting on his cap. I’ve made my peace with this cruel thing.
He had his hand on the doorknob when he stopped suddenly and leaned his head against the doorframe, trying to swallow the terrible knot in his throat. He stood there a long time, only to be sorely disappointed with himself that he was, at last, “cryin’ over ’at ol’ dog.”
He followed Uncle Billy to a room that was divided in half by curtains on a clothesline. “That’s my side,” he said, “an’ that’s her’n. She went in there a little bit ago and won’t come out ’til supper, most likely. Rose, th’ preacher’s here.”
“I’m indisposed,” she said, haughtily.
“He wants to’ know can he go up in th’ attic and look around?”
“In the attic?” squawked Miss Rose. “Why does he want to go in th’ attic?”
Uncle Billy looked at him. “What was it you was goin’ up there for? I plumb forgot.”
“Well, I’ve heard so much about how this place was built, I’d like to take a look at how Willard girded those exceptional gables.” Underneath the cap, which he’d forgotten to remove, a mild perspiration stood out on his head. He had escaped without telling a total lie.
“Tell ’im to go on, then, but don’t stir up the dust.”
Uncle Billy grinned, revealing his gold tooth. “Don’t stir up th’ dust, Rose says.”
Looking up into the vast, black hole made his skin crawl. Where was Cynthia when he needed her? Undoubtedly, she would have bounded up these stairs, two at a time, fully expecting to make some thrilling discovery.
“Dear God!” he exclaimed, involuntarily.
&
nbsp; “Prayin’ about it, are you?” said Uncle Billy.
“Where’s the light?”
“Oh, th’ light. It’s around here somewhere. Yessir, right there it is.” A lone bulb switched on and shone dimly against a vast sprawl of gloomy ceiling. “When you come down,” said the old man, “I wouldn’t mind if you’d cut my corns off for me; Rose has a shaky hand with th’ razor. I’ll soak ’em good first.”
At the top of the stairs, he unashamedly looked back to see if Uncle Billy was still standing at the door. He was not.
The attic was so filled with an odd jumble of debris that he could barely make passage. Why had he not brought a flashlight or asked for one downstairs? There was the beam, exactly where it should be, precisely at the center of the pitch. Surely it was divine intervention, for the bulb cast its light into the vault of the ceiling and shone directly onto the engraved letters.
"W!” he shouted, and heard something scurry across the floor. The W, rendered in what appeared to be old English lettering, was followed by an i, then an n. “Win,” he said aloud, squinting into the dimly illumined space. If only he had a stepladder, anything to draw him nearer.
He managed to climb onto the seat of a broken chair set precariously on two steamer trunks that were seated together.
“Winter!” he exclaimed, able to see the lettering more clearly. As the chair wobbled under him, he fervently hoped J.C. Hogan would not allow Hessie Mayhew to write his obituary.
“Winterpast,” he whispered, slowly.
Below this word was inscribed “Song of Solomon.”
He cautiously descended his makeshift ladder and hurried down the stairs with a sense of excitement. “Uncle Billy!” he called, “bring me your Bible!”
Finding no one to greet him, he wandered along the musty hallway until he came to the kitchen. Uncle Billy was sitting beside the table, soaking his feet in a dishpan.
“Well, Preacher, I’m ready for m’ corn operation when you are.”
The old man looked at him with such an expectant grin that the rector rolled up his sleeves and surrendered to the task ahead. Quite suddenly, he remembered hearing about a place where milk truck drivers could still find employment. Unfortunately, it was in Nova Scotia.