To Be Where You Are

by Jan Karon

  ‘I’m just a little guy,’ said Avis. ‘I can’t compete with th’ honchos.’

  ‘There was something else we wanted to say,’ said Miz Kavanagh. ‘Um, what was it?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ said Father Tim. ‘About your very small wine selection.’

  Here it comes, he thought. ‘I can’t go up against th’ chains with a hundred labels . . . ’

  ‘Right, and that’s a good thing. Your wine selection is small and very thoughtfully curated. You keep it simple. We like that.’

  ‘Ten red, ten white,’ said Avis. ‘Good values, all dependable.’ He wanted to sit down, lie down, sleep . . .

  Father Tim shook his hand. ‘You bring a very personal touch to your business. It’s a blessing.’

  Miz Kavanagh was smiling. ‘We’ve been wanting to say that.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said Avis, struggling to fight down a cough. ‘I sure thank you.’ He blushed, but asked anyway. ‘Would you like to see my dog?’

  Chucky stopped shaking as two people squatted by his bed.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Father Tim. He let the dog sniff the back of his hand, which conceivably smelled of Truman. The dog wagged its tail. ‘Nice dog.’

  ‘What kind, do you think?’ said Avis.

  ‘Definitely a good bit of terrier, with maybe a dose of spaniel. I’m not good at evaluating these things; we’ll ask Dooley to stop by when he’s in town.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it. Much obliged.’

  ‘How about if I look in your mouth, buddy? Any objection?’ He pried open the jaws, gentle, peered in. ‘Gums and teeth in fine shape.’ He palpated the torso, a technique learned from Dooley. No lumps, yelps, or pained resistance. ‘Around twenty to twenty-five pounds, I’d say. Muscular little guy.’ A quiver ran through Chucky, but subsided. ‘Looks like a fine dog. Congratulations.’

  ‘How old do you think?’ said Avis.

  ‘Eighteen months, two years.’

  ‘He shakes, don’t you know. But not all th’ time.’

  ‘New people, new place. A little anxiety, I’d say.’

  ‘He’s not barked once.’

  ‘I’ve seen that in a dog. Fearful, most likely. Time should take care of that, too.’

  ‘He’s very sweet!’ said Cynthia. ‘Beautiful coloration around the face and ears. Caramel, I’d call it. Where did you find him?’

  ‘Pretty much what happened is, he found me.’

  ‘I had a dog like that,’ said Father Tim. ‘You remember Barnabas.’

  ‘Yessir, you wouldn’t forget Barnabas.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ said Miz Kavanagh.

  Avis breathed out, felt the grin on his face. ‘Chucky. Chucky’s his name.’

  • • •

  He and Cynthia were on the sidewalk when he thought of something they neglected to mention.

  He stuck his head in the door. ‘Oh, and, Avis. Your home delivery. That’s a marvel in this day and age. We don’t use it often, but when we need it, it’s champion. We don’t know how you do it all.’

  Honest to God, thought Avis, he didn’t know either. As he sank onto the stool at the register, an odd notion entered his mind and rolled out into an actual idea.

  It was crazy. Completely. And he probably wouldn’t have the guts to go through with it. But if he did, and if it worked, he wondered it he’d still have to shell out five percent to charity.

  • • •

  Grace Murphy was learning that writing a book didn’t just happen. It wasn’t like it was left under your pillow by a fairy, already written. No. It was hard. You had to erase.

  Beatrix Potter, who wrote Jeremy Fisher and Peter Rabbit and practically a hundred other books or maybe twenty, said she liked to have a hard word in each one. It would make children go ask their parents. So today she would pick a hard word out of the dictionary and use it. She was not afraid of hard words, because once you knew what they meant, they were easy. Ever since she was five, her mom would write down a hard word in cursive and tell her to look it up and make a sentence with it. Sometimes she gave her mom a hard word, but mostly she forgot to do this.

  She took down the heavy dictionary. At school, she could look things up on the Internet, but at home, she used books to look things up.

  It took a long time to find the right hard word, which ended up being in the R’s.

  The news today said Samantha is that very soon a lot of people will be coming to our tiny town and the not so good news is they will be ravenous! So I have a recipe for you in case you want to make something.

  What people said Mrs. Ogleby? And why are they coming?

  It is because the leafs are turning and looking at them turning makes people hungry.

  What are they turning into?

  Into mostly red and yellow said Samantha.

  I will take your recipe said Mrs Ogleby. But I do not have a pen and paper to write it down.

  I will tell you said Samantha. Get some bread and cut off the crust. Butter the bread then spred sugar over all the butter. Now spred cinnamone over all the sugar. Roll up the bread and cut it into a lots of little circles. Bake at 35o til you can smel the cinnamone cooking. They are called cinnamone stickies and you could get a dime apiece.

  Oh said Mrs Ogleby that is a grate idea. I will make money to buy a cow which I have always wanted. Then we can all have ice cream!!!

  Because she decided yesterday to illustrate her book, she stopped writing and drew a cow. She was disappointed that she could not make it look like a cow, so she erased it.

  • • •

  For the first time since retiring, he wasn’t keen on the idea of another job. Which was fortunate, as job opportunities for old priests were virtually nil.

  Indeed, he felt he had finally stumbled upon the elusive upside of retirement—known to many as home improvement.

  Since the wedding in June, he had painted the interior of the hall closet, which had never been painted at all. He had lugged all the parkas and jackets and hats and gloves and boots to the living room and dumped them on the sofa, where nobody ever sat. Two coats of latex, brushed on. This closet would not see another paint job in his lifetime.

  Then there was the garage floor, stained from years of leaking oil pans. Arizona red, according to the hardware guy, was the most popular color going for garage floors. Two gallons and a couple of new rollers. He had taken everything out of the garage and piled it in the driveway and scrubbed the floor with a wire brush and put in new shelves and organized and labeled everything that wasn’t nailed down and recycled the rest.

  While the stuff was sitting in the driveway, two cars stopped and people asked if there was a yard sale. ‘Maybe later,’ he said.

  He had even restained the Adirondack lawn chairs, though they had never, not even once, been sat in. But just in case . . .

  Life was full, life was good.

  That said, he felt he was hanging around the house too much.

  When Cynthia wasn’t painting at Irene’s place, she was working in her new home studio, aka former dining room cum billiard parlor. On such days, she was frequently up and down the hall, and so was he. In the odd moment, they bumped into each other in the kitchen, searching for a vagrant snack.

  He found that he liked these accidental encounters. He liked it very much. When she wasn’t in the house, he missed her. Nothing of abject longing, no, he just missed the sense of her in the rooms, the working of her blithe spirit. As for how she felt about the current arrangement, he had no clue.

  They were sitting in the study, she with her knitting book and new yarn supplies and he with a library book on building a deck. They had a deck, but it was ancient and in the wrong place. A new deck would involve cutting a door next to the fireplace.

  He had never cut a door in a wall and didn’t know if he could. But why would he build a deck anyway?
To be able, of course, to enjoy the spring and summer breezes and watch the maples turn color in the park. It would also add value to the house if they ever sold it. But why would they ever sell it? They could grow old and croak right here, completely skipping the retirement home.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she said.

  ‘Oh. This and that.’

  ‘It’s making your face pucker.’

  ‘My face has been puckered for some years, in case you haven’t noticed.’

  ‘Seriously,’ she said.

  ‘Do you mind me being around the house quite so often?’

  ‘Of course not! When Irene goes to Florida, I hope you won’t mind me being around the house quite so often.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘I have something to confess.’

  She put her book down, ever eager for the provocative morsel.

  Would he appear juvenile? Clinging? Even pathetic? Come now, this was his wife. If he couldn’t confess to her, to whom might he confess?

  ‘I like being around the house with you,’ he said. ‘I like to be where you are.’

  ‘Timothy! Nobody ever said that to me.’ She was beaming. ‘How wonderful, sweetheart. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, relieved.

  10

  MEADOWGATE

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 11

  She was walking single file with Dooley and Jack and the dogs, on the path to Marge and Hal’s house.

  In many of the books she read from the bookmobile—Little House, Anne of Green Gables, and later, the Jane Austen novels—people walked to visit neighbors. These fictional walks had been cinematic for her—lanes, paths, fences, cattle. Woodlands, orchards, birds’ nests, meadows.

  Worn in by the back-and-forth of Hal’s trek to and from the clinic and of visits between their two houses, the path was their own pioneer mark on the land.

  Rebecca Jane met them at the white oak.

  ‘Did y’all hear about Danny Hershell gettin’ out of home jail tomorrow?’

  ‘What was he in for this time?’ said Dooley.

  ‘He made Mr. Teague’s truck horn get stuck and nobody could make it stop till Dad went over and fixed it. It was blowin’ half th’ night and all morning.

  ‘So his mom and dad gave him two weeks of time-out, which included his birthday. No devices, no TV, no radio! He learned to play th’ mouth harp and went lookin’ for Indian stuff with a metal detector. He found two arrowheads and sold ’em on eBay.’

  ‘That would be Danny,’ said Lace.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Jack.

  ‘He gets out of bein’ grounded tomorrow and I’m fixin’ to play a totally big trick on him because I never got him back for stealin’ th’ rungs off my tree-house ladder. I’m goin’ to get him back really, really good.’

  ‘I’m starvin’.’ said Jack.

  ‘So what’s your plan?’ said Dooley.

  ‘I can’t tell. I’m just goin’ to make up for all th’ years I’ve done nothin’ to him but be patient, kind, and long-sufferin’.’

  ‘Man,’ said Dooley. ‘I can smell your mom’s chicken pie all the way out here.’

  They were crossing the footbridge to the house and its sweeping view of blue mountains.

  Jack made a run for the back door. ‘Race you, Dad!’

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14

  This was the easy part.

  She and Harley were gessoing the canvas like a couple of buzzed house painters.

  Stapled tight to the walls, the huge swath of linen commanded the room. Why bother to figure a more descriptive word for her journal when ‘awesome’ worked perfectly well? Dooley had seen it installed and was blown away. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is a lot of real estate.’

  The whisking sound of their rollers; back and forth, up and down. They had tried brushes, but rollers were faster. This was the final coat of gesso before the acrylic wash. The wash would dry quickly, then she could start sketching. She would sketch the mountains first. They would be her anchor, just as they’d always been in real life.

  Lily was already cooking and freezing for Beth’s arrival next Tuesday, and gorgeous aromas were collecting up here. Skillet lasagna made with squash from their garden, a sauce of their sweet Sun Gold tomatoes for spaghetti with meatballs, and pumpkin pie.

  Harley was quiet. She knew he had something on his mind—like maybe he wasn’t keen on bunking with Willie?

  ‘So how’s the move coming?’

  ‘I’m movin’ over Saturday. Cleaned ever’thing out of th’ dresser an’ put it in a box. Cleaned up th’ hot plate, defrosted th’ freezer, wiped th’ fan blades, an’ I’ll run th’ vac th’ mornin’ I go over.’

  ‘What do Lily and I need to do?’ She would arrange asters and witch hazel in a Mason jar and put their best towels in the bathroom . . .

  ‘You’uns don’t need to step foot down there, I’ll bring up th’ bedclothes an’ put ’em in y’r laundry room. You’ll want th’ mattress cover, too.’

  ‘Great! Perfect.’

  ‘Warshed th’ winders, took th’ screen panel off th’ door, put th’ storm panel in. I’ll clean th’ toilet an’ Swiffer y’r floors th’ mornin’ I go over.’

  ‘You’re the best, Harley.’

  ‘It’s trim,’ he said.

  He was definitely distracted; he had said all that like rote. Another long silence except for the whisking back and forth, up and down.

  ‘Miss Pringle rented out her apartment,’ he said.

  ‘Good news! Who is it?’

  ‘Professor from Wesley.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Avis says white-headed, Yankee, romance languages, an’ gluten-free.’ When Avis explained th’ meanin’ of gluten-free, he couldn’t believe th’ answer. Bread made with garbanzo beans? That right there told ’im all he needed to know about Miss Pringle’s renter.

  ‘Any family?’ she said.

  ‘Just hisself.’

  Up, down, back and forth. At this point, there was no such thing as a mistake, gesso was merely humble prep work.

  Sometimes she was elated, sometimes nauseated with anxiety. This wasn’t just any mural; it was for someone who believed in her beyond reason. That added an edge, for sure. She did not want to disappoint Kim Dorsay and she did not want to compromise the work because of a pressurized deadline. They had told her the parameters; she had signed off on all of it. Philippians 4:13, I can do . . .

  ‘They say forty-two boxes of books come in a U-Haul.’ A long pause. ‘Educated. Her kind of people.’

  She looked at the man who had saved her life on at least two occasions. The friend she would never forsake, as he had not forsaken her during those terrible years on the Creek.

  As for his feelings for Helene Pringle, he’d never told her anything. But just now, the look on his face told her everything.

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14

  CROSSROADS CO-OP DANCE

  FLATFOOT, SWING, ALL STYLES WELCOME

  6:30 TO 9:00

  MUSIC BY THE FAMOUS HAM BISCUITS

  NO TOBACCO, NO ALCOHOL, NO CUSSING, NO KIDDING

  TICKETS $6

  KIDS UNDER 12 FREE

  PROCEEDS OF TICKET SALES TO:

  FARMVILLE ANIMAL SHELTER

  He would have forgotten if he hadn’t seen the sign just now at the co-op.

  October 14. Do the math. He and Lace got married four months ago today. This was like—an anniversary.

  Jake ran a dual operation: a farm co-op that opened into an eating area with four tables and a booth. And while it was a stretch to call the adjoining room a café, it did have a grill, wrangled by Jake’s girlfriend, Sugar, plus a coffeemaker, a drink box, and a seven-item menu that included pizza, grilled to order by the slice.

  ‘Gon’ be a mix tonight,’ said Jake. ‘
Flatfoot, swing; I might call a dance if we get enough people to fool with it.’

  ‘How’d you sign up the Biscuits? They’re pretty famous these days.’

  ‘Saw Tommy in town, told him what was goin’ on. Said he’d send three of his band to help out th’ shelter. Great guy.’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘Gon’ do a special tonight. Grilled cheese, pickle, an’ chips—in a basket.’

  ‘You need to get some fries in here,’ said Dooley.

  ‘No fries. At Jake’s, if you can’t do it on th’ grill, it don’t get done.’

  • • •

  You and Willie wear your dancing shoes,’ said Lace.

  ‘I don’ have no dancin’ shoes,’ said Harley.

  ‘The same shoes you wore to the wedding. Those are perfect for flatdancing.’

  He hauled the shoes out of the closet and hightailed it to Willie’s with a can of polish and a rag.

  They sat on the porch and did what had to be done.

  ‘A man ought to have a day or two to get ready for a dance,’ said Harley. ‘This is a mighty quick turnaround.’

  ‘I ain’t never danced an’ ain’t goin’ to,’ said Willie. ‘I’ll set on th’ sidelines with th’ women.’

  ‘Th’ women will be dancin’,’ said Harley. ‘Women like to flatfoot.’

  ‘What kind of dance is flatfoot? I been flat-footed all my life.’

  ‘I learned flatfoot when I was haulin’ liquor back in th’ day. Wadn’t nothin’ but a young’un, runnin’ shine in a ’34 Chevy Ute. Boy howdy, she’d go like a scalded dog.’

  ‘What kind of dance is flatfoot?’

  ‘With flatfoot, a man can dance by hisself or with somebody, either way. I mostly don’t dance with nobody. Two left feet.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Willie. This was like wringin’ blood from a turnip. ‘But what kind of dance is it?’

  Harley was in buffing mode. ‘It helps to have taps on your shoes for flatdancin’. You got any taps around here?’

  ‘Not a one.’

  ‘So, flatfoot is pretty much . . . I can’t explain what it is. Somebody said th’ fiddle music goes in y’r ear down through y’r soul and comes out y’r feet. I’ll be rusty as a nail, but I’ll do y’ a demo.’