by Jan Karon
‘You can teach an ol’ dog new tricks, Father. So you come up an’ see ’er, you hear? She’s a honey, she’s a real honey. Guaranteed to deliver pure happiness. Where you gon’ get a guarantee like that? But come early, before th’ queen starts linin’ up her household staff!’
‘Seven too early?’
‘Slip in th’ side door.’
In Ray’s wake came Vanita Bentley, looking for a Helpful Hint for the Muse. He was rearranging avocados that had been squeezed unnecessarily.
Do not squeeze the avocados was the sign he was hand-lettering in his imagination. That would fix the overzealous shopper! But come to think of it, he was himself a squeezer.
‘I know you’re a Hint fan,’ she said. ‘If you could just give me somethin’ on par with usin’ a banana peel to polish your shoes. That was big.’
‘No time for Hints,’ he said. ‘You give me a hint.’
‘About what?’ she said.
‘How to help run a small-town grocery without any knowledge of the food business.’
‘Keep smilin’,’ she said.
‘That’s good for starters. Thank you.’
He moved on to the broccoli, which was looking despondent.
‘I know your wife is a fan of th’ classifieds,’ said Vanita. ‘You should see what we have in the can for next week! Mars Bar Looking for Tootsie Roll.’ Her eyes were enormous behind her tortoise-rim glasses. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘Makes me nervous,’ he said.
‘Okay, so listen. Let me write up a piece on you doin’ this wonderful civic act for Avis. I know you’re shy about publicity, but . . . ’
‘Vanita. Do not start with me.’
‘Just one teeny tiny story.’
Out from her purse the size of a small car came the point-and-shoot.
‘Or maybe just a smiley-face shot with a caption? Like, Father Tim Kavanagh Bags New Job?’
‘Stop right there,’ he said.
‘So I can’t do a story?’
‘Vanita Bentley. Listen to me.’ He leaned closer for emphasis. ‘No story.’
‘Okay,’ she said, and away she went in her spike-heel shoes, tik, tik, tik.
‘Vanita!’
She turned around and smiled, then waved, as if to say she was not giving up. Oh, she was an intrepid slip of a thing and he was fond of her for it. ‘Thanks for asking!
‘Now,’ he said to Lisa. ‘About the broccoli. Can we crisp it?’ Avis was known to crisp certain produce in a sink of cold water, then transfer it to the refrigerator where it regained its soigné.
‘Goes out this evenin’ to th’ Food Bank. Did you know broccoli is versatile? You can use it for a truly elegant centerpiece. My niece did that for her weddin’ dinner. Just tie a bunch together with raffia an’ set on th’ table with candles. You’d be surprised how . . .’
Not up to the banana-peel polisher, but still . . .
‘Vanita!’ He did a fast trot to the front, but Vanita was out of there.
• • •
He heard a good deal of merriment as a flock of ninth graders blew in from Mitford School.
Right behind them, Fancy Skinner—in pink capri pants and spike heels. He’d rather go out to the garden and eat worms. ‘Pushing seventy-three and still no sensible shoes,’ his wife once said.
‘Oh, Lord, there you are,’ she said. ‘You’re everywhere. Up at th’ bookstore, down at th’ church, workin’ in th’ food business. Busy, busy.’
He recognized her cool stare as a review of his haircut.
‘Fancy! What timing! We’ve got Italian sausage, store-made fresh today, just four dollars a pound.’
‘Too much grease in sausage. I have Mule offa grease, offa cheese, offa sugar. An’ offa anything with white flour.’
Ha. His wife did not have him offa anything. He was a free agent!
‘Is Avis comin’ back?’
‘Eventually, yes. We don’t have a date.’
‘I tried to tell ’im. Smokin’, forgettin’ to eat, runnin’ himself ragged. Go across th’ street, I said, an’ jump in th’ tannin’ booth; get rid of that pasty look. Oh, that pasty look, Father, it’s a mark, plain and simple, of bein’ indoors and sickly. You have that look yourself, sorry to say. Preachers mostly seem to have that indoor look. Maybe it’s because you have to be inside to read books an’ study th’ Bible, all by artificial light. You take Father Brad, he’s naturally tan from bein’ outside.’ She gave him a smirk. ‘That Father Brad—there’s a total hunk for you.’
A collective whoop of insane laughter up front.
‘It used to be peaceful in here,’ said Fancy.
‘Quoth the raven,’ he said, dry as a crust.
• • •
We were just talking about you,’ he told Father Brad.
The priest pushed a can of chewing tobacco across the counter. ‘Positive, I hope.’
‘You decide. You were spoken of as a total hunk.’
Father Brad burst into his famous unhindered laugher, the kind that can fill up a small store. ‘Oh, boy. Okay, on to higher thinking. Jessie is in. Pray for snow.’
‘This is great news. Count on me for prayer.’
‘I always count on you for prayer. If I couldn’t count on you, who could I count on?’
‘Mary Ellen?’ Grinning like a monkey; he couldn’t help it.
Father Brad laughed. ‘Father, Father. You’re not giving up, are you?’
‘Not if I can help it. What’s with the chewing tobacco?’
‘Our youth group is going to look at it through a microscope. Discuss the ingredients—nuclear waste, embalming fluid, cyanide, arsenic, lead, to name a few—and find out for ourselves how rotten this stuff is. Parents invited.’
He dropped the can into a small paper bag and handed it to his colleague. ‘You’re the best.’
Father Brad’s face colored. ‘No. No, I’m not, Father. Not at all. Please. Don’t think that. No.’
Father Brad, who seldom seemed in a hurry, left in a hurry.
He had the sense that, for whatever reason, his friend was being harder on himself than God might choose to be.
• • •
Avis had said that Lisa and Otis couldn’t place orders. Though quite a few pallets had been off-loaded on Friday, stock looked low in several places.
‘I noticed we’re low on bacon,’ he said. He was a great noticer of bacon, a comestible long denied the diabetic.
‘Yessir, we’re low on my daddy’s applewood smoked an’ Timmy Proffit’s uncured. Our livermush is way down, too. Avis don’t like to let th’ livermush get down. But that’s all on our list.’
‘What list is that?’
‘We keep th’ Valley list separate,’ said Lisa. ‘We don’t need a minimum down there. Me an’ Otis pick up what we need from everybody an’ bring it to work in our van.’
‘So when are we going to order what we need?’
‘Avis liked to do th’ orderin’,’ said Otis. ‘We’ve never done th’ orderin’.’
‘Avis liked to do it all,’ said Lisa. ‘That’s th’ main reason he’s sick. But that’s just my two cents.’
‘So, Father . . .’ Otis had never called a preacher Father; this was his first time to say it. ‘We were waitin’ for you to do th’ orderin’.’
‘Otis, Otis, I am not Avis. What I am, I cannot say, but it is no grocery maven. I am Little League, not the Orioles. Do you know how to place orders?’
‘Oh, yessir, I’ve watched Avis do it for fifteen years. I know all th’ distributors he does business with. I know what Avis likes.’
‘Yessir,’ said Lisa. ‘He knows all that.’
He took a deep breath. ‘So let’s place some orders. And God be with us!’
• • •
Avis had asked hi
m to go to his house for the letter from the Association. Key under the top log of the woodpile on the back porch. Please call the person who wrote the letter and say that he couldn’t make the talk.
He walked over before dark, leaving Otis and Lisa to close up at seven.
He’d never been to Avis’s house, which was set out back from the street on a lot of considerable depth and heavy tree cover.
Gloomy. The perimeter of the yard was badly grown up and the house didn’t look so good, either. He was surprised. Avis was straight as a shot about the details of his business dealings, which, as far as he knew, were fastidious.
The hollow chill of an empty house had always made him uneasy. He had felt it after his mother’s death, when he spent days going through her things, earmarking boxes, and for whom? Peggy had vanished years ago, his father was long deceased, his aunts and uncles were installed in Hill Crest Cemetery or otherwise dispersed, and all but one cousin was flung to the four winds. He had hauled the boxes to Christ Church, destined for their own version of the Bane and Blessing.
He found a bedroom that, although spare, possessed some spirit of warmth and humanity. A squeaky toy on the night table. Chucky. The whole sad scenario of the little guy on the leash . . .
Shame on him for walking through these rooms uninvited, making his cool observations. But he did it anyway.
In the dark kitchen, he peered through the window over the sink. Trees were overhanging the house. He was admittedly fond of the clean gutter, and God only knows what shape these gutters may be in. And the privet hedge—amok! For more than a decade he had tried to make something out of the privet at Children’s Hospital . . .
He was leaving when he noticed the wall calendar by the door.
Avis would definitely not be coming home in October.
Though rushing time, which he could ill afford to do, he lifted October onto the nail and there was November.
If you’re afraid of butter, use cream.
—JULIA CHILD
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 27
The call came around nine-fifteen. Avis not doing well. They were moving him to Charlotte by ambulance, immediately. Further information to follow.
Avis had been nearly incoherent this morning. The nurse had not allowed the full five minutes.
He rounded up Otis and Lisa.
‘He’s on his way to Charlotte.’
They looked at each other.
‘It’s just us.’
They were out to sea in a small boat.
• • •
He called Marcie Guthrie, mother of their police chief and one of Esther Cunningham’s four daughters.
‘How soon can you get over here?’
‘I’ve got to do th’ books at Woolen Shop, then get up to Mama’s and fix her lunch because Daddy’s at th’ doctor—think I’ll do pimiento cheese, but I probably shouldn’t do cheese, maybe just a salad—then run by th’ drugstore and do payroll, then pick up th’ grans from school. I could be there at four.’
‘Great! Four it is.’
He supposed Avis had chosen him because of his experience at Happy Endings. During that stint, Hope had run the inventory, planned the monthly sales, and ordered what was out of stock, all from the confinement of her bed and with help from Marcie Guthrie. He had been strictly sales, with a dash of window dressing thrown in. Nevertheless, selling a book was one thing, selling Brussels sprouts another.
He had avoided discussing the elephant in the room. Namely, the Laying In of Turkeys. He knew they kept a few turkeys on hand year-round, but that would soon change. Avis once said they’d be getting in a hundred free-range birds this year. A hundred! Scary.
‘If I was a free-range turkey,’ Cynthia said, ‘I’d be going AWOL right now.’
‘Th’ whole hundred won’t come in at one time,’ said Lisa, trying to keep the grin off her face. ‘They come in separate shipments. Mainly in our van.’
He figured the upcoming phone ad should promote the preordering of turkeys.
He took refuge in the break room. Scribbled a few lines. Looked up and saw his reflection in the drink box.
Good grief. Speaking of turkeys . . .
• • •
He walked toward home, carrying a pumpkin.
Maybe he would carve the thing, or maybe not. He wasn’t a fan of Halloween. All Hallow’s Eve, yes; Halloween, no. But c’est la vie, it was on sale, and they had to start making room for winter squash and a vast pile of warty gourds.
The Local was a kind of town treasure, really.
How good was it to live a block or two from a pint of Ben & Jerry’s?
How good was it to have had fresh pasta and not really appreciate it till it wasn’t available anymore and its maker was in a hospital bed in a distant city, with lights flashing and machines beeping and his chest filled with something damning and detestable and possibly life-threatening?
He thought about the maple top of the checkout counter. He liked how the hard wood was worn in the center, sloping into a shallow bowl where countless hands had rested, groceries were bagged, cash was laid out, cards were swiped, tales told, jokes enjoyed.
Avis was in Charlotte now, but not to preach his small-town grocer’s sermon. His sermon had been preached 24/7 on the floor of the Local, for more than three and a half decades.
Who could know where this scenario was headed, or for how long? He said to Cynthia on the phone a while ago that he’d gotten himself into this scrape and he would stick with it. He would not be afraid; he would do his level best.
• • •
He was tossing a bag of garbage in the trash can when Harley drove in next door.
He popped through the hedge. ‘Yo, Harley!’
Harley rolled down the truck window. ‘Rev’rend!’
‘Good to see you, buddy.’
‘I’m just droppin’ somethin’ off to Miss Pringle. She’s got a piano lesson across town. How you doin’?’
‘Good, thanks.’ The lethal fragrance of Harley’s cologne wafted from the truck cab.
‘You want t’ git in an’ visit where it’s warm?’
‘Sure. I’ll sit with you a minute, then get back to the house.’ Cynthia didn’t like him to ‘vaporize,’ as she called it.
He climbed in. ‘You heard about Avis?’
‘Yessir. I hated t’ hear it.’
He nearly sat on something covered with foil.
‘Let me move that. It’s banana puddin’. Gon’ leave it at her back door f’r a early trick or treat an’ git on home—we’re startin’ work on th’ barn shed in th’ mornin’.’
Banana pudding, collard greens, brownies—always something for Miss Pringle! Years had gone by and not once had he asked a burning question of Harley Welch, much less Helene. Better still, he had never kept tabs on Harley’s coming and going practically at his doorstep. He had restrained himself, respecting the privacy of others.
But he couldn’t take it anymore. Unlike Father Brad, whose affinity for meddling was middling, he was accustomed to sticking his nose into other people’s affairs. As his bishop once said, Meddling comes with the territory. It was time to make hay while the sun shines.
‘I’m sure Miss Pringle appreciates your cooking.’
‘She says she does, yessir.’
‘You and Miss Pringle must have some interesting conversations.’ It was a fishing line with a hook. He cast it out there.
‘Yessir, we do.’
The hook dipped, noiseless, into the creek of the truck cab. Sank. Long silence.
No bait! That was the problem.
‘I know Miss Pringle lapses into a good bit of French when she speaks. Learned anything yet?’
‘Parley voo frahnsay?’
‘Oui, s’il vous plaît.’
They had a laugh.
He could see by the
dash light that Harley was not wearing his dentures. And on a visit to Miss Pringle!
‘I guess you talk about what’s going on in the world. We’re in a mess, for sure.’
‘Nossir, we don’t talk about what’s goin’ on in th’ world. Because we can’t do nothin’ about it.’
This was wringing blood from the proverbial turnip. What do you talk about? he wanted to say. That was the burning question! His wife would give him a gold star if he could find out. But the way things were progressing, he may as well pack it in and go home.
‘Miss Pringle, she does most of the talkin’.’
‘Is that right?’ He would hardly call Miss Pringle a chatterbox.
‘An’ a good bit of it in French. I like it when she talks French.’
‘You do?’
‘Ain’t able to make heads n’r tails of it, but I like t’ hear it.’
‘I’m sure she’s interested in what you have to say.’
‘She likes to hear about my liquor-runnin’ days, how I growed up poor in Kentucky, about th’ time I wore one shoe to school. Th’ teacher said, Harley, you’ve lost a shoe! I said, no ma’am, I found one.’
Two guys in a truck, laughing.
‘Such as that. She calls it th’ old ways of America.’
‘So she likes American history?’
‘She showed me ’er citizenship papers. She’s proud to be American.’
In the gleam of the porch light, he saw the professor’s Audi parked in the backyard. ‘I hear her new tenant is French. Or maybe Italian?’
‘I don’t know nothin’ about her new tenant an’ don’t aim to ask.’
And here came car lights bouncing into the driveway—Miss Pringle in the ancient vehicle in which he once rode with her, sans brake pads, down the mountain.
‘Lord help, now I’m blocked in!’ said Harley. ‘She’ll want me t’ come in an’ set awhile.’
Harley dug into his shirt pocket, whipped out his dentures, popped them in; ran his fingers through his hair and, serious as stone, inquired of his seatmate: ‘How’m I lookin’?’