by Jan Karon
‘Ray!’ she called.
He was probably in th’ johnny, readin’ National Geo. He could be in there for hours.
‘Ray!’
‘What?’ He came out of the laundry room with a stack of folded towels.
‘I have an idea.’
Just the other day, Marcie said, ‘Daddy, I don’t know if you can survive another one of Mama’s ideas. So if she gets one, have her call me, okay?’ Lord knows, he hated to bother his girls, but . . .
‘Call Marcie,’ he said, stomping down the hall to the linen closet.
‘Call her for what?’
‘To tell her your idea!’ he shouted.
• • •
It was the Queen Mary, sailing into their humble port.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Where’s a private place?’
The break room wasn’t up to a royal visit, but so be it. “Right this way,’ he said. He knew better than to offer his arm; Esther did not enjoy the offer of an arm.
‘Ray,’ she said, ‘remember to squeeze th’ avocados, we want a ripe one for supper.’
He made a quick adjustment of his clerical collar and escorted her to the cubby behind the meat locker.
She eyed the room with suspicion, then lowered herself into a chair at the break table.
‘Anybody,’ she said, ‘can ride in a parade in a Cadillac.’
He did not want to go wherever this was headed.
“What we need is somethin’ completely unique. A cut above! T-model Fords with ooga horns an’ Cadillacs with flags on th’ hood—such folderol will not cut it for a mayoral bid.’
She moved the salt and pepper shakers and leaned across the table.
‘What do people really want, Father? You should know, bein’ clergy.’
‘Umm,’ he said, frozen as a herring.
‘What we all want,’ she said, ‘is somethin’ no politician can ever give us.’
‘Amen to that!’
‘What we all want is a sense of community,’ she said. ‘We want a sense of belongin’.’
Now came the Big Lean-in. Esther Cunningham was pretty much literally in his face. ‘Long story short, what we want . . . is family!’
‘That,’ he conceded, ‘is true.’
‘So, you know that big favor you asked Ray to do for you?’
‘No, no, Esther. I didn’t ask Ray to do anything. He volunteered.’
‘Same thing,’ she said. ‘So we do that for you, you do this for me, an’ look who gets th’ good end of th’ stick!’
Ha. The only good end of any stick was Esther’s end. ‘What’s on your mind?’ he said, snappish.
She sat back, looked him in the eye. ‘Here’s how I see this thing rollin’.’
• • •
She had him by the scruff of the neck. Why couldn’t he stand up to Esther Cunningham?
For years, he’d stopped by her office once or twice a week. They had a cup of coffee, she had a sausage biscuit, they prayed for the business of the mayor’s office and petitioned God to show them who, among its own, Mitford should take care of—whose oil tank to fill, whose light bill to pay, whose prescription to fill anonymously.
She had been a great mayor, but there was nothing that suggested she could do it again. So this whole thing was a travesty. Nonetheless, in light of Ray’s generosity, he was bound to play along. Let the woman have her fun, she was gaining on ninety. When he gained on ninety, he hoped somebody somewhere would let him have his own bit of harmless self-deception.
He called the Cadillac dealership and reeled out his tale, embarrassed.
Jake Tulley clearing his throat. ‘This is, ah, a game-changer, Father. I can’t let you have Tammy’s vehicle for this particular purpose. Sorry. But here’s the deal—we appreciate it when you supply down at our place and just for you, I’ll let you have our best lightly used model. Nice, very nice. A very sharp ride. Tammy will sit this one out. But I’ll drive it up and be at th’ wheel for you. How about it?’
‘Fine, fine. Of course, Jake. Absolutely.’ All his life he’d allowed himself to be rooked into capers like this.
• • •
Mama,’ said Grace Murphy, ‘I don’t want to finish writing my book.’
She could tell her mother was truly shocked.
‘But I thought it was going so well.’
‘I didn’t like it when Miz Ogleby knocked everything over in the china shop. I could not draw that scene, it was so messy with all the broken dishes. But here is the real reason—Miz Ogleby’s story doesn’t mean anything real.’
It was hard to say that her story didn’t mean anything real. She had seven whole pages, both sides, and it had been hard to write that much and erase and draw and color pictures, too.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I mean that telling a story about a tiny town and a lady buying a cow doesn’t end up important.’ She could feel a lots of tears coming to her eyes.
Hope Murphy was always surprised by the earnestness of her amazing daughter. She sat down on the footstool in the poetry section. ‘But a copy of your book was to be your Christmas present to everyone.’
‘I have another story I want to write. And I will have to hurry really fast to do it for Christmas. Will you help me?’ Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She was sad to give up her old book about Miz Ogleby and scared to write a new one, but it had to be done.
Hope took Grace on her lap. It broke her heart to see her almost-seven-year-old child so distressed. Seven-year-old children should not be distressed. ‘I will help you always. No matter what. You can believe in that. Have you prayed about what you must do?’
Grace wiped her eyes on her mother’s cardigan. ‘A lots.’
‘Then you must do it, of course. If it’s in your heart to write another story, then that is the story you must write. Perhaps you don’t need to illustrate your new story. Perhaps it can stand on its own and people can use their imaginations which is always a good thing.’
‘It’s a really important story.’
‘Then you can do this, Grace Murphy! And I’ll help you and Dad will help you and Aunt Louise and Coot. We will be your cheering section, a whole army of helpers.’
‘Okay!’ Grace slid off her mama’s lap.
Something warm was working in her; she couldn’t wait to begin. She would sharpen her pencils right away.
‘What will your new book be about?’
‘I’m going to tell Miss Louella’s story!’
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 2
‘Are we making any money?’ he asked Marcie.
‘Holding our own,’ she said.
He considered this good news.
At ten-thirty, Mule ducked in to say he tried to call J.C. about lunch. Getting no answer, he stopped by J.C.’s house, which was currently his office while the old one was being painted. No answer to his knock at the front door and no answer at the back, though Adele’s patrol car was in the drive and so was J.C.’s jalopy.
‘I think Friday’s her day off,’ said Mule. ‘But it didn’t look like anybody was home.’
‘Mule.’
‘What?’
‘Note. Under. Pillow. Trust me.’
• • •
Turkey orders flying in. Gourds flying out. Italian sausage back-ordered. He looked forward to whipping up another batch, say fifteen pounds, in the test kitchen cum break room.
At two-thirty, J.C. blew in, looking . . . what? Upbeat! Smiling! Joking with Lisa! This side of J. C. Hogan was as rarely seen as Halley’s comet.
The Muse editor handed him an envelope. ‘Th’ recipe, my friend, for a long and lively marriage is not necessarily created by mushy notes. Here’s th’ real deal, in black and white. I say print it, circulate it to your customers.’
Saluting, J.C. was out
the door.
He looked at the inscription on the envelope, penned in block letters:
J. C. HOGAN’S
MAGICAL MARITAL
MARINATED PORK CHOPS
16
MEADOWGATE
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18
He was latching the cattle gate and thinking it would be great to get away.
Maybe even go on a honeymoon.
He’d never thought much about honeymoons. Why not just get on with life instead of going off somewhere? That’s what he and Lace had done and it seemed pretty sexy to him, all things considered.
Still, it would be good to kick back and catch their breath. But where would they go? He’d been camping more than a few times and this wasn’t a time for camping. As for spring, he had five calves on the way and he couldn’t miss that. Willie was a natural with cattle, but Harley was no help in that department. Harley was strictly repair and improvement, being one of the best carpenters on the planet. There you have it—he and Lace weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Maybe a long weekend with Jack. In June.
He was tired. People get tired. But this would pass.
Thank God for Beth, who was helping Lace keep her head above water, and for Lily and Willie and Harley and the tractor not breaking down and the barn shed as good as new for less than a thousand bucks.
‘And thanks,’ he said, ‘for this land and th’ practice and our little herd and th’ mountains and two deep springs and our creek.’
• • •
She stood at the studio window, looking away to the winter woods where they would soon find their Christmas tree.
She would not have missed this ride, even if it was a roller coaster and not the merry-go-round. Even if she had gotten up at midnight last night and worked until two in the worst imaginable light.
Painting their trees and pastures, mountains and sky, had driven her deeper. There had been a few scary mistakes, like what happened with the girls grazing around the cottonwood trees—the repainting, the overpainting, and the long wait for them to come forth as muscle and bone. As for the clouds—clouds were a language that, until the mural, she thought she had learned. But she’d had to wring the truth from them, force them to reveal their mystery, as she had no time to beg for it.
It was not to be like a poster that gives fleeting pleasure, or a painting on the side of a barn that fades with time, it was not to be ephemeral. It was to be an actual place to the onlooker, impervious to time, with chickens scratching in a dust that never settles.
In less than four weeks, they would be taking it down, rolling it up, sending it off.
There were a few days when the image had been as real to her, more real, even, than Meadowgate itself, and she could keep moving forward, trusting her instincts. She had called Cynthia then to come out and speak the truth, and Cynthia had uplifted and encouraged her.
There was also the time she sat on the floor and cried, bawled, really. Jack had come in and, not saying a word, had climbed into her lap and they had cried together and she told him how things couldn’t always be perfect, some things in life would be hard, and somehow he understood, maybe because he’d known hard things.
She washed her brushes and walked across the hall to the junk room with its neat piles ready to be recycled in Wesley, given to Lily’s church, or moved to the living room sale. She noticed the window for the first time, really saw it, and stepped between the piles and took the beat-up window shade down and tossed it in the trash pile. Let there be light!
She went poking around in the yard-sale goods.
Their former lives. All in one room.
Textbooks. Novels. A torrent of jeans. Sweatshirts. Throw pillows. Curtains from the years she had roomed with four other girls. Flip-flops, sandals, work boots, running shoes, tennis shoes. His beanbag chair from UGA. The backpacks they took on the first leg of the Appalachian Trail. A point-and-shoot. A thermos. A nylon windbreaker with a broken zipper.
She opened the box tied with red string. Her white shirts! Bleached, starched, ironed, and folded. She had treated her white shirts as fondly as fair linen and had worn them nearly to tatters. As often as she could, she wore what she had.
It had taught her something to be thrifty. Not cheap, no, she was not cheap. She had learned how to look smart and self-confident in less instead of more—even when she didn’t feel smart or self-confident at all.
And there was Dooley’s jacket with the missing top button. The one he wore home the weekend she knew for the first time and without any doubt that she loved him more than life and they could make it.
And Jack’s first boots, the ones in the box he opened the day he came home to Meadowgate. She would never forget that moment, just the two of them in Dooley’s old room off the glider porch. And then he grew so fast he needed new ones in just four months.
How could people let go of their old things, when each told a part of their story? Old things were a literature, a narrative.
In a few days, there would be two cots in the room, made up with quilts, and a night table with a lamp, and a chair from the library. A rug, they would need a rug.
She put the lid on the box of shirts and retied the string. ‘Let them go,’ she said.
But no. Not yet.
She put the blouses and the jacket and the boots in a pile, then gathered them in her arms and took them to her closet and in they went.
• • •
I could’ve stayed home an’ helped Harley,’ said Jack.
He was riding to town with Beth and did not like looking out the window at people’s cows.
‘But you wanted to come with me.’
‘I changed my mind.’
‘You’re going to have Granny C’s famous pimiento cheese sandwich for lunch,’ said Beth. ‘You love her pimiento cheese. And Granny O is coming over with your favorite cookies.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I could stay with you an’ do grocery shoppin’.’
‘You know you don’t like to grocery shop.’
‘I could ride in th’ cart. I don’t have to like it.’
‘You are grumpy today. Do you know what grumpy means?’
‘No.’
‘Grumpy is a big old pouty face. Grumpy is not liking something wonderful, like a grilled cheese and cookies from your grannies. Grumpy is being no fun to go to town with, not even one bit!’
He crossed his arms and gave her a look. ‘That is too much information.’
• • •
Cynthia waved from the front door as Jack climbed into Beth’s car. Beth waved back.
He handed over a brown paper bag.
‘From Granny O,’ he said. ‘I could have another one if you have one left over, which you might.’
‘You get first dibs,’ she said. ‘I promise. Did you have a good time?’
‘Yeah. I mean, yes! We played hide-and-seek.’
‘You an’ the grannies?’
‘I hid under Granpa Tim’s desk and they couldn’t find me.’
‘Oh, fun. Could you find them?’
‘I found Granny C, she was layin’ under th’ table . . . ’
‘Lying under the table.’
‘. . . an’ I saw her feet stickin’ out!’ Gales of laughter.
‘How about Granny O?’
‘She was in th’ kitchen an’ said here I am, you don’t have to find me, I am right here eatin’ cookies!’ More unbridled laughter.
‘I will play hide-and-seek with you.’
‘Would you do it tonight?’
‘I can’t do it tonight. I have a date.’
‘What is a date?’
‘Mostly, it’s when two people spend special time together. They sit and talk or have dinner or maybe go out dancing or see a movie or go for a w
alk in the woods. In the fall is the best time for walking in the woods. Or they could go horseback riding together. Or take a hike and maybe hold hands or even tell jokes! And in the summer, they could go swimming in the lake and have a picnic after . . .’
‘Aunt Beth.’ He gave her a frowny look and said his new favorite thing: ‘That is too much information.’
• • •
Lace was at the stove; her boys loved stir-fry.
‘Jack has a loose tooth,’ she told Dooley. ‘Bottom front. I think it’s going be a tooth-fairy tooth.’
‘Isn’t it early for that?’
‘I Googled it. A little early but not abnormal.’
She didn’t want to cry, but . . .
‘Come on,’ he said, laughing.
‘You don’t understand. He just got here. And he’s growing up so fast.’
Jack was running his dump trucks around the room and parking them on the hearth.
‘Hey, buddy. Do you think you could stop growin’ up for a few minutes? I mean, just stay a kid for a while, okay?’
‘No. I’m goin’ to grow up really fast an’ be a big huge dinosaur that eats shoes!’
‘Really?’
‘And poops in th’ yard!’
Dooley gave Lace a look.
‘Creative,’ he said.
• • •
Dooley in a deep, hard sleep; her own sleep reluctant.
Lights flashed across their bedroom ceiling. A vehicle turning in the drive. She lay still, waiting, the vet’s wife taking into herself the reality of a knock on their door at three in the morning.
She put on her old robe and went down before the knock came and turned on the porch light and opened the door. Old Man Teague was stepping onto the porch with his redbone hound in his arms, and he was weeping.
‘She’s dyin’. Redeemer’s dyin’.’
The forcible shock of grief at her door.
‘You take ’er. You take ’er.’ He handed over his dog and she took the weight of the hound, speechless.