by Jan Karon
She visited twice a month and took peanut butter cookies that were soft and easy to chew that she made herself. Sometimes she and Miss Louella watched cartoons, but her favorite was when Miss Louella told stories of being pulled around Mitford in a red wagon—by a little white girl who grew up and built Hope House.
‘It would make a good book!’ she said to Miss Louella.
Miss Louella gave her a pat on the head and looked straight in her eyes. ‘Maybe you write it down when you grow up. Yes, you be th’ one to write my story down.’
• • •
As she drove by the Local, Vanita Bentley was reminded that her husband, Donny, didn’t like foreign food but was crazy about Father Tim’s Italian sausage. And tomorrow it would be four-ninety-nine a pound! While it was still four dollars, she needed to buy two more pounds and stick ’em in the freezer.
She glanced at the display window to see what else was goin’ on.
PRAY FOR AVIS
She wondered if people should come out so openly about prayer. On a poster in the window, for Pete’s sake. Wasn’t prayer a personal thing? And wasn’t there somethin’ about the separation of church and state or whatever?
She would pick up the sausage on her way home and order her Thanksgivin’ turkey while she was at it. Had she prayed for Avis? Well, no, she hadn’t even thought about it, and their preacher hadn’t mentioned it either, but maybe—if it was okay to pray in the car—she would do it.
• • •
Mule and J.C. were dropping by for a quick bite in the break room.
He bought a loaf of seven-grain bread, sliced turkey, sliced provolone, sliced ham, a jar of mayo, a jar of mustard, a jar of pickles, and two Snickers bars. He was making sandwiches when Mule and J.C. blew in.
‘Freezin’ out there,’ said J.C. ‘Adele’s in Wisconsin for a couple of days, so I’m batchin’—not to mention starvin’.’
Mule pointed to a large pile in the corner. ‘What’s that?’
‘Warty gourds,’ said Father Tim. ‘On special tomorrow.’
‘Good luck,’ said Mule, peeling off a faux sheepskin hoodie from a yard sale.
‘Mustard or mayo?’
‘Both,’ said J.C.
‘Mustard!’ said Mule. ‘No, wait. I don’t like mustard. Just mayo. Any lettuce?’
‘No lettuce.’
‘How ’bout tomato?’
‘No tomato.’
‘Chips?’
‘Outside on the rack. Barbecue, sour cream, vinegar and salt. A buck twenty-nine.’
Mule sat down.
‘There is such a thing as the free lunch, but this is not completely it.’ He put a sandwich and pickle on paper plates and handed them off.
J.C. glanced at the unplugged coffeemaker. ‘Any coffee?’
‘No coffee. This is not a fully catered event.’
‘Dr Pepper?’ said Mule. ‘Cheerwine?’
‘In the box. Ninety-nine cents.’
‘Okay, water,’ said Mule.
A good bit of chewing sounds. None of the communal rabble and roar of the Feel Good.
‘You’re mighty quiet, J.C. What’s going on?’
J.C. threw up his hands, wagged his head, sighed deeply.
‘What did he say?’ said Mule.
‘Something maybe like all hope is lost.’
‘That’s it,’ said J.C. ‘All hope is lost, I give up.’
Mule leaned in. ‘We’re here to help.’
‘I’ve got a problem. Like, at home. This is private, okay? Very personal stuff.’
‘Okay,’ said Mule. ‘Count on us.’
J.C. wiped his forehead with the lunch napkin. ‘It’s like . . . party’s over, you know what I mean?’
‘Can’t help you there,’ said Mule. ‘I have th’ same problem.’
‘No, I mean she comes home, fixes supper, watches the Wheel, maybe Jeopardy, then boom, out like a light. I’m chopped liver.’
As for himself, he had not done marriage counseling in a very long time. He’d forgotten everything but the basics. Or maybe the basics weren’t basic anymore, he didn’t know.
He cleared his throat. ‘Some hide the occasional note.’ This came straight out of the seminars. ‘Women love a note, and heck, men, too, love a . . . ah, love note.’ He was babbling; this was awkward.
Silence.
‘You know, in a drawer she uses often, the pocket of a favorite jacket. That sort of thing.’ He regretted that this sounded autobiographical. He looked at his tablemates. Was this not headed in the right direction?
He soldiered on. ‘Actually, under her pillow can be a very good place. In the hidden note department, that’s your ace right there.’
‘Are we talkin’ about th’ same thing?’ said Mule.
J.C. gave his forehead a swipe with the napkin. ‘She says I don’t pay her any attention, I’m not romantic, I don’t know she’s alive, yada yada.’
‘Is that true?’
‘I’m no Casanova, but I do my part. If she cooks, I clean up th’ kitchen, I take out the trash, I keep her feet warm at night.’
‘How do you do that?’ said Mule.
J.C. gave Mule a look. ‘I fill up a hot water bottle and put it in th’ bed.’
‘Where’s this conversation goin’?’ said Mule. ‘Nowhere. What are you tryin’ to tell us? Let’s get down to it. Life in th’ raw. We’re here to help.’
‘Maybe she’s just exhausted,’ said J.C. ‘All that gear hangin’ off her all day—th’ badge, th’ revolver, th’ two-way radio, th’ nightstick, th’ holster, th’ Taser, th’ flashlight, th’ medic kit, th’ ammo—fifteen, sixteen pounds of stuff—in a town where nothin’ happens.’
He couldn’t remember the last criminal activity in Mitford. A few years ago, Tim Kavanagh and his wife had broken into Irene McGraw’s house, but it wasn’t really a break-in—her door had been left standin’ open while Irene drove to Georgia and the Kavanaghs were just tryin’ to be helpful.
And a while back, they had some goon walk out of Shoe Barn in a pair of work boots without paying. ‘These Boots Were Made for Walkin” was the genius headline in the Muse.
‘She never even caught season six of Downton Abbey,’ said J.C., ‘because she was pullin’ the Sunday-night shift.’
‘Bless her heart,’ said Mule.
‘What about evening activity?’ said Father Tim, presenting the Snickers bars, which were a hit. ‘Is it all TV all the time?’
‘As for evenin’ activity,’ said J.C., ‘there’s no TV in th’ bedroom; it’s in our livin’ room, where we otherwise never live. We lie head to toe on a sofa which is really a loveseat.’ He was embarrassed to talk about this. He was reminded again that a TV in the bedroom would be a luxury. Big screen. High def . . .
Mule yawned. ‘If I was a shrink, I could write off this lunch.’
Father Tim looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got root vegetables coming in before long. All I can tell you for sure, buddyroe, is that you need to do something positive.’
‘Right,’ said Mule. ‘Like, immediately would be good.’ What he was going to do to liven up his own marital circumstance was still a mystery. No way was he writing Fancy Skinner a love note. He peeled back the Snickers wrapper. Fancy had him off sugar, but say la vee.
‘Bottom line,’ said Father Tim, ‘remind her that you love her. Tell her why. We all need that. I vote for the note.’
J.C. grunted. It would be a pain in the rear for him to write a note, much less a love note.
‘But you got to remember this,’ said Mule.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know much but I do know this, and this is key.’ Mule leaned in, gave J.C. a look. ‘Make it mushy.’
• • •
Mushy.
He had a couple of days to do this before Adel
e came home, but better to do it now and get it over with.
He sat at his kitchen table and considered the free advice.
He’d written only one mushy note in his life and where did it get him? To the principal’s office, where he was chewed out to the max for passing a friendly note to Sylvia Wooten, who wasn’t even that good-looking.
There was an idea right there. He picked up the pen and wrote.
Hey Good Looking,
What you got cooking? How’s about cooking something up with me?
Tonight, pork chops and season 6 on the big screen. What a combo! Be there or be square.
Okay. He was great with salutations, but not so cool with valedictions. Yours truly, sincerely yours, ever thine, whatever, it was a minefield. He could possibly do love always, which felt binding, but as they were married and that was pretty much in the vows, he’d already said that. He closed his eyes and wrote, Your Teddy Bear.
He drove to Walmart in Wesley.
Bought a 43-inch flat-screen HD TV, a 12-pack of Orville Redenbacher’s popcorn, DVDs of season six, fifty percent off, and a 24-pack of socks, one size fits all. His wife liked socks. Then he swung by the Local and bought two pork chops the size of his head.
Came home and prepped their bedroom wall facing the bed—took down a picture of his home place in West Virginia, their wedding picture at the altar in Lord’s Chapel, and a photo of him with his Schwinn when he was ten years old and delivering newspapers. He would recycle these to the hall.
Removed the nails. Used a dab of toothpaste to disguise the holes. Not the best idea—he would tell Vanita that her recent Hint did not totally work. He stood back and considered what comes next.
He had installed a couple of TVs in this lifetime, he could do this. And just think. When she had the night shift and was resting in the afternoon, she could watch Dr. Phil nail some creep to the floor for stealing his current wife’s car to go on a date with his ex.
Walmart had been a workout. He mopped his face with a kitchen towel. If this didn’t do it for his marriage, it couldn’t be done. He would install the TV tomorrow.
He put the popcorn in the pantry, shucked the wrapper off the socks, and opened her sock drawer.
He wouldn’t be able to get the new socks in without taking out the old socks and reorganizing the whole drawer.
A pink slip. A warning.
From the MPD.
Name and occupation: Captain Adele Leanne Hogan, Mitford Police Department
Describe offense: Running traffic light. Speeding within Mitford town limits.
But why was it made out to her? And in her own handwriting?
He stood at the open drawer, scratching his head.
Well, well, well. He knew his wife was as honest as the day is long. She had written herself a warning! In a day when police were getting some really bad press, this would make a great little human interest story. But if he printed it, his wife would be in jail for first-degree manslaughter and it just wasn’t worth it.
He tore the pink slip in half, went back to the kitchen table, and wrote another note.
Dear Hardened Criminal,
As punishment for your crime, I am making a citizen’s arrest.
You will be confined to your room tonight with a new TV, DA’s season 6, new socks, and a supper of pork chops cooked by your parole officer.
He tossed the old note and placed the destroyed pink slip beside the new note.
He had no idea how to cook pork chops; Adele was the one who cooked their favorite thing in this life every first Tuesday of the month. He would ask Father Tim, who was a cook. Tim would do a step-by-step phone walkthrough and J. C. Hogan would be a hero.
He was pretty excited. He liked planning ahead. He found his smartphone in the pantry next to the popcorn.
Tim was not in the store, Lisa said he was on the loading platform with a delivery of spaghetti squash and could not talk.
Otis didn’t have a clue about cooking pork in any form. ‘My family smokes it,’ he said, ‘But we don’t cook it. We’re beef people.’
Maybe they should be marinated for a couple of days, for starters. Adele had recently marinated chicken thighs in buttermilk. He opened the door of the fridge and shook the carton. About a half-pint left in the container.
He put the chops in a bowl and poured in the buttermilk. Took the tongs out of the drawer and made sure the chops were coated. Covered the bowl with Saran Wrap and stuck it in the fridge.
Adele would be home around five-fifteen Sunday evening. Supper at six. Season six at seven. A little romance at eight.
He could do this.
On October 29 at 3:17 PM, Emma Newland wrote:
From: [email protected]
To: Tim Kavanagh
>H and I not home tonite from bingo till late.
>See u in the morning at ten.
On October 29 at 7:04 AM, Tim Kavanagh wrote:
From: [email protected]
To: Emma Newland
>Can you meet me at ten in the morning? The Local.
>Or call me this evening. Hoping for good news.
On October 29 at 7:00 AM, Emma Newland wrote:
From: [email protected]
To: Tim Kavanagh
>Dear Father Tim.
>I snooped around and found out everything I could.
>Your place or mine? ha ha.
>Sherlock
He shut down the computer and turned off all lights save those on the stair. Light from the full moon flooded in.
Not that he had killed himself today, but a full-time job takes a particular toll.
‘So, Truman,’ he said. ‘Are you coming up?’
He hoped the word would never get out that he was sleeping with a cat at the foot of his bed.
• • •
Cynthia was in the bathroom putting cream on her face.
She held up the jar. ‘You should use this. Men use night cream, too, you know.’
He did not know that.
‘I need a donor gift,’ he said.
‘Now what?’
‘House paint. Maybe six gallons? I’m not good at estimating these things. Avis’s house needs a facelift.’
Had he no shame to beg from his wife? Oh, he’d had shame the first time or two. But he was used to it now.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 30
He liked the simple act of walking to work.
He’d spoken to Wilson this morning—Avis would be released to rehab tomorrow. Could be a week or more before they sent him home.
At seven, he had driven up to Ray Cunningham’s, then returned the car to Cynthia and headed to the Local. The visit with Ray reminded him of something that a fellow named Ross once said.
Everybody needs something to do—he certainly had that. Someone to love—big check mark. And something to look forward to. Now he had all three.
He quickened his step in the stinging October wind.
‘Oh, yes,’ Ray had said, ‘she’s a honey. Just you wait an’ see.’
• • •
YOU’LL LOVE OUR
GOURDS.
WARTS AND ALL.
4 FOR $10.00
Because of an early rush of customers, getting the poster up had been delayed. He was taping it to the window when Emma came in.
‘No trail,’ said Emma. ‘Poof! Into thin air.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Moved to Bryson City. That’s all they know.’
Blast. Bryson City. Roughly a two-and-a-half-hour drive.
‘Bryson City should have a golf club, a country club, something. Call around.’
‘I don’t know her name.’
‘You didn’t get her name?’
‘You didn’t ask me
to get a name. I just called the golf club in Wesley and told them I was looking for a blond gal in her forties who works in accounting and they said she moved to Bryson City.’
‘Emma, Emma, we need a name. What did they say about Chucky?’
‘They didn’t know she had a dog.’
‘Who would have a dog that nobody knows about?’ he said, peeved. ‘People have a dog, they love their dog, everybody knows they have a dog, end of discussion.’
‘Right!’ she said. He was ticked off; she liked it when he got mad, just not at her.
‘Get her name from the Wesley people, please.’
‘Will do.’
‘I’ll pay you for your time so far,’ he said, taking out his wallet.
‘No charge. If it’s about dogs, I work free. In memory of Snickers.’
‘Snickers is dead? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘No, not dead! Just, you know, in memory of ’im while he’s still livin’.’
• • •
At lunch break, he walked over to Avis’s place and checked the driveway. Hank’s van was backed in next to the house, ladders off the rack. Good. Great. Terrific.
• • •
Esther Cunningham pressed what Ray called the Dump Button on her recliner remote, and was deposited on her feet at her walker.
She used the walker to navigate her way to the corner where her cane was propped. She would use her cane for this mission. The walker made her look vulnerable and bent over. She was not vulnerable, and she was not bent over.
She whipped the cane into use and went looking for Ray. This house was a whole lot bigger than it used to be. But no way were they puttin’ it on the market and movin’ to an old folks home. Not in this lifetime.
She had been thinking hard all morning. This would do it. At a time of year when people’s hearts craved tradition, this would deliver it in spades, and remind one and all of th’ real American values.
She wouldn’t invite th’ Father up for lunch, she would see him on his own turf, which, she had been shocked to learn, was the Local. A grocery clerk! She had no idea he needed the money. And there was his wife, rich as Croesus on all those little books . . .