by Jan Karon
Cynthia had done the deed and dashed downstairs. He was putting on a clean shirt when Dooley wandered into the bedroom.
He looked at the boy, fresh from a day’s work, and now fresh from the shower. Clean T-shirt, clean jeans; hair combed, shoe laces tied. Upstanding! Getting to look more like a millionaire every day!
The rector might have been a statue in a park, the way Dooley walked around him, staring.
“Man . . .” said Dooley.
“What are you looking at?”
“Your hair.”
“What about my hair?” He was beginning to feel positively churlish at any mention of his hair.
“It’s cut in a kind of V in the back. I’ve never seen that before.”
“A V? What do you mean, a V?”
He stomped to his dresser and, with his wife’s hand mirror, looked at the back of his neck in the trifold mirror. It wasn’t a V, exactly, it was more like a U. What was the matter with people around here, anyway?
“I’ll trim it up for you,” said Dooley, “if you’ll let me drive your car Saturday.”
“Dooley . . .”
“You can drive as far as Farmer, and I can take over at the cutoff.”
“This is no time—”
“Anyway, you better let me fix your hair. I know how to do it.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not kidding you. I’ve cut Tommy’s hair bunches of times.”
“A likely story.”
“I swear on a stack of Bibles.”
“I wouldn’t do that. The Bibles you so casually stacked up ask us not to swear.”
“That V is hanging down over your collar.”
He would drive to Memphis next week, it was only nine or ten hours one way, and see Joe. While he was there, maybe Joe would give him a tour of Graceland . . . .
He sighed deeply. For the third time that day, he got his scissors out of his dresser drawer and handed them over. This time, however, he had the good sense to pray about it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Housewarming
The showy pudding cake had been reduced to crumbs, the fruit bowl ransacked, the cookies demolished. All that remained in the glass pitcher were two circles of lemon and a few seeds.
In the freshly painted sitting room, Harley opened the last of his housewarming presents.
“Oh, law!” he said, holding up the framed picture of Jesus carrying a sheep. “Hit’s th’ Lord an’ Master, ain’t it?”
“Bingo!” said Cynthia, who had given him the print to go over his bed.
“That sheep was lost,” Dooley announced. “Tell about it,” he said, looking at the rector.
“Why don’t you tell about it?”
Dooley scratched his head. “Well, see, it’s like . . . if you had a hundred sheep and one of ’em ran off and got lost, you’d go after it, you’d go to the mountains and all, looking for it. And like, when you found it, it would make you feel really good, I mean better than you even feel about the ninety-nine that didn’t run off.”
“By jing!” said Harley.
Lace sat forward in the chair. “What th’ story’s about,” she said, “is when somebody’s lost and Jesus finds ’em an’ they give their heart to ’im, it makes ’im feel happier than He feels about all them other’ns that wadn’t lost.”
Dooley looked at her coldly.
“I reckon that’s what th’ Lord done with me,” said Harley. “Searched through th’ mountains lookin’ t’ find me, an’ brought me here.” He grinned. “And I ain’t lost n’more.”
The rector was captivated by an odd confidence—a new maturity, perhaps—in Lace Turner.
“Well, now, I want t’ thank ever’ one of you’ns,” said Harley, tears coming to his eyes. “I ain’t never had a Bible with m’ name on it, I ain’t never had a ’lectric fan that moves to th’ left an’ right . . .”
He took a paper napkin from his pocket and blew his nose.
“ . . . I ain’t never had a picture t’ hang on m’ wall ’cept of m’ mama as a little young ’un . . . an’ Lord knows, I ain’t never had a . . .” Harley patted Scott’s gift, which lay beside him on the sofa. “What d’you call this what you give me?”
“That’s an afghan,” said the chaplain, grinning. “One of our residents crochets those. They’re a big hit on the hill.”
“What exactly is it f’r, did you say?”
“It’s to keep you warm in winter when you lie on the sofa and watch TV.”
“I’ll use it, yes, sir, I will, and I thank you, but I ain’t goin’ t’ be layin’ on no sofa watchin’ TV, I’m goin’ t’ be workin’.”
“Harley’s going to change my alternator!” announced Cynthia.
“I’d sure appreciate it if you’d take a look at my brakes,” said Scott. “They’re sticking.”
“Might be y’r calibers.”
“I’ll pay the going rate.”
“Th’ only rate goin’ for you ’uns is no rate,” Harley declared.
Scott Murphy glanced at his watch and stood. “I’ve got to look in on my folks before they get to sleep. Thanks for inviting me, sir . . . Mrs. Kavanagh—”
“Cynthia!” said Mrs. Kavanagh.
“Cynthia! I had a really good time. Harley, come up and see me at Hope House. And let me know when you can look at my brakes.”
Scott left by the basement door, as the rest of the party said their goodbyes to Harley, then trooped up the stairs to the rectory kitchen and along the hall to the front stoop.
“Soon as I get my stuff, I’m going to Tommy’s house!” Dooley raced up the steps to his room, Barnabas at his heels. “His dad’s waitin’ for me, we’re going to Wesley to rent a video.”
The rector stood on the front walk and talked with Cynthia and Olivia as Lace searched under the bench on the stoop. Then she came down the steps to the yard and peered into the boxwoods near the steps.
“Lace—what is it?” asked Olivia.
“Somebody’s stoled my hat,” she said. “My hat ain’t where I left it at.”
“Where did you leave it?” wondered Cynthia.
“I asked her to leave it on the bench,” Olivia confessed, looking concerned.
“I’ll have a look with you,” said the rector, going to the boxwoods. “It probably fell . . .”
“It didn’t fall nowhere!” Lace shouted. “It’s gone!”
The screen door slammed and Dooley ran down the steps.
“It was you that stoled my hat, won’t it? I ought t’ bash y’r head in!”
She lunged toward Dooley, and Olivia moved almost as quickly, catching Lace’s jumper. There was a ripping sound as the skirt tore from part of the bodice.
“Look what you done t’ my new outfit!” Lace struggled to free herself from Olivia. “Let me go, I’m goin’ t’ knock his head off—”
“Lace! Don’t.” Cynthia caught her wrist.
“I ought t’ kill you, you sorry, redheaded son of a—”
Dooley’s face was crimson. “Why would I steal your dirty, stinking, stupid, beat-up hat?”
The rector put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Easy, son.”
“Well, why would I?” he yelled.
“You better give it back and give it back now!” Lace trembled with rage, her own face ashen.
“What would anybody want with your dumb, stupid hat that makes you look so stupid everybody laughs behind your back? Who would even touch your stupid, snotty, dirty hat?”
Lace wrenched away from Cynthia and Olivia and flew at Dooley, who threw his arm in front of his face. She slammed her fist into his left rib, which sent him reeling backward toward the stoop.
Barnabas barked furiously as the rector grabbed Lace by the shoulders. “Stop it now,” he said.
Dooley regained his balance and stood without a word. He straightened his shirt. “I’ve got to go,” he said, tight-lipped. “Tommy’s dad is waiting for me.”
“Go,” the rector said quietly.
Cynthia and Olivia walked with Lace to the blue Volvo at the curb, as the rector sat wearily on the top step. Barnabas crashed beside him. He felt shaken by the intensity of Lace Turner’s sudden and virulent outburst.
If Dooley Barlowe were, indeed, the culprit, he’d do well to hide in the piney woods ’til this thing blew over.
He sat in the chair next to Dooley’s desk, reading the Thirty-seventh Psalm, the first two words of which he considered an entire sermon.
He looked up as Dooley raced into the room on the stroke of his curfew.
“Did you do it?”
Dooley stood in the doorway, panting. He hesitated for a moment, peering at his shoes, then faced the rector and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Why did you lie about it?”
“I didn’t lie. I never told her I didn’t do it.”
That was true. Dooley had responded to her questions with questions. “Where is it?”
“In my closet.”
“Take it to her in the morning and apologize. To Lace and Olivia.” He would also call Olivia in the morning.
“Do I have to?”
“What do you think?”
Dooley went to the closet and opened the door. He lifted the hat off the floor as if it were something Barnabas had deposited in the backyard. “Man, I hate this stupid hat.”
“So do I,” said the rector.
“You do?”
“I do. But that hat belongs to someone else, and you were wrong to steal it.”
“Yeah.” Dooley looked at the hat for a moment, then looked the rector in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
A genuine apology! If this is what that fancy prep school had accomplished, he should be forking over an extra twenty thousand a year, out of the mere goodness of his heart.
“You’ll also apologize to Cynthia.”
“What for?”
“Helping put a bitter end to Harley’s party.”
“Lace Turner makes me puke. I could’ve knocked her stupid head off.”
“But you didn’t, and I commend you for it.”
Dooley sat on the bed, holding his left side. “She’ll kill me,” he said.
“You might want to apologize to Lace while Olivia is in the room—then run for it.”
There was a long silence. A moth beat around the lamp bulb.
“Do something like this again,” the rector said, “and I’ll . . .” What he needed in closing was a good, hair-raising threat, something like taking the car keys away for a couple of weeks—but Dooley didn’t drive.
“And I’ll . . .” he said.
Blast. He realized he couldn’t come up with a decent threat if his life depended on it.
The mayor asked him to trot to her office—and be quick about it, according to the tone in her voice.
When Esther Cunningham pulled the string, he, like most people, jumped. He hated that about himself, but why not? Esther had kept an unflagging vigil over Mitford, sacrificing years of her time and even her health to keep things on the up and up. They hadn’t even had a tax hike in her long tenure. So yes, he came when she called, and glad to do it.
She leaned across the desk, the splotches on her face and neck looking redder than ever.
“Guess what th’ low-down jackleg has done now.”
“I can’t guess.”
“He’s throwin’ one of his free barbecues next Friday—th’ very day of the town festival.” She looked at him darkly. “See th’ strategy?”
He didn’t.
“That’ll siphon th’ crowd down to his place and leave us sittin’ under those shade trees at th’ town museum like a bunch of flour sacks.”
“Aha.” The cheese was getting binding.
“Here’s what I want you to do,” she said, looking at the door and lowering her voice.
He was in for it.
“Sittin’ in a booth draped with th’ flag won’t cut it this election. Times are changin.’ I want you to go home and pray about it and come up with somethin’.”
“But the town festival is only four days away.”
“Somethin’,” she said, “that’ll blow Mack Stroupe and his barbecue deal clear to Holding.”
“You want me to do that?”
“And be quick about it,” she said, scratching a splotch.
Hadn’t his wife arranged countless retreats to help him relax, and cooked dinner on evenings when he wasn’t up to the task?
Hadn’t she prayed for him faithfully, and overhauled the rectory, and given him a complete set of Charles Dickens, not to mention a lighted world globe?
And wasn’t she working on a book nearly eight hours a day?
He would do what the Russians do. Though it was his very own birthday, he would be the host, he would give the dinner.
It would be just the two of them, and afterward, they would dance. He’d put on the CD of the rhumba—or was it the tango she liked?—and positively whirl her around the study. His blood was getting up for it.
And champagne! That was the ticket. Something expensive, of course, that wouldn’t give you a blinding headache even as it went down your gullet. Avis would know which label, and didn’t Avis mention that a shipment of fresh lamb was expected any day?
Furthermore, weren’t his antique French roses blooming like he’d never seen, drenching the air with their intoxicating scent?
By jing!
He examined the back of his head in the mirror again. He’d been fairly butchered in the privacy of his own home.
Best to nip out and get the matter settled, once and for all.
A decent haircut, the new blue sport coat Cynthia had found on sale, dancing with his wife on his birthday—what else could a man want or imagine?
Suddenly he didn’t feel a hundred years old in the shade, he was feeling more like—why not say it?—seventeen.
As he looked up Fancy’s number, he had to admit he missed Joe Ivey. So what if Joe had never gone to hair conventions to learn the latest thing? Joe was eminently companionable, and never talked your ear off while he barbered your head.
Another thing—Joe hadn’t been shy about slapping on the Sea Breeze, an all-time favorite treat for the way it made the scalp tingle. Fancy Skinner, on the other hand, considered the use of Sea Breeze beneath her station.
Ah, well. He sighed, dialing 555-HAIR. Fancy Skinner was the only game in town, and he hoped she could work him in.
“Th’ shop’s closed today, I’m here givin’ Mama a rinse. Mama, she lives in Spruce Pine, but I’m from Newland. If you get over here quick, I’ll trim you up because it’s you. You might be th’ only one I’d do this for, I’m not sure I’d do it for my own preacher, did you see what his wife did to him, it looked like she put a soup bowl on his head and hacked around it with a steak knife. How he had th’ nerve to preach a revival lookin’ like that is beyond me.
“Oh, Lord, I just remembered, would you mind stoppin’ by Th’ Local and gettin’ me some sugarless gum, I’ll pay you th’ minute you get here or take it off your bill, either one, I like to have gum in th’ shop, I do my best work if I have somethin’ in my mouth, at least it’s not a cigarette, law, I used to suck down two packs a day, unfiltered, can you believe it?
“Well, if you’re comin’, come on, tomorrow’ll be a zoo, everybody’s gettin’ ready for the town festival, why anybody would want highlights to eat barbecue in a parkin’ lot is beyond me, and if you could pick up a sack of peppermint while you’re at it, that’d be great, I like to have it for people with onion breath, doin’ hair is close work.”
As Fancy draped him with the pink shawl, he sighed resignedly and closed his eyes.
“Prayin’, are you? You ought to know by now I won’t cut your ear off or poke a hole in your head. Law, I’ve had too much coffee this mornin’, you know I can’t drink but two cups or I’m over the moon, how
about you, can you still drink caffeine, or are you too old? Course, your wife is young, she probably can do it, I used to drink five or six cups a day . . . and smoke, oh, law, I smoked like a stack! But not anymore, did you know it makes you wrinkle faster? I hate those little lines around my mouth worse than anything, but that wadn’t coffee, that was sun, honey, I used to lay out and bake like a chicken.
“Look at this trim! Who did this? I thought Joe Ivey was workin’ at Graceland. Mama, come and look at this, this is what I have to put up with. Father, this is Mama, Mama, he’s a friend of Mule’s, he got married a while back for the first time.
“He preaches at that rock church down the street where they use incense, I declare, Mule and I passed by your church one Sunday, you could smell it comin’ out of th’ chimney! Lord, my allergies flare up somethin’ awful when I smell that stuff, I thought incense was Catholic, anyway, do y’all talk Latin? I had a girlfriend one time, I went to church with her, I couldn’t understand a word they said.
“Your hair’s growin’ like a weed. I hear if you eat a lot of grease, it’ll make your hair grow, you shouldn’t eat grease, anyway, you’ve got diabetes.
“Mama! Did you know th’ Father has diabetes? My daddy had diabetes. Is that what killed him, Mama, or was it smokin’? Maybe both.
“Look at that! Whoever trimmed your hair, you tell ’em to leave your hair alone. You can call me anytime, I’ll work you in. I’m sorry I couldn’t take you—when was it?—I think your pope was here, I guess he don’t always stay at the Vatican, have you ever been to the Vatican? Law, I haven’t even been to Israel, everybody’s been to Israel, our preacher is takin’ a whole group next year, but I’d rather go on a cruise, do you think that’s sacrilegious?
“You ought to let me give you a mask with Fancy’s Face Food while we’re at it, especially with your wife havin’ a birthday, or is it you that’s havin’ one? Either way, my mask is about as good as a facelift, not to mention four thousand dollars cheaper. No, I mean it, I’ll do it for you, it won’t take but an hour. Just name a better birthday present than lookin’ fifteen years younger, which is more in your wife’s age group, if I’m not mistaken. OK, lay back, you’re stiff as a board, I’m not goin’ to claw your eyes out, men are babies, aren’t they, Mama? She can’t hear for beans, bein’ under th’ dryer an’ all.