by Jan Karon
“Take no thought for the morrow . . .” he muttered, quoting Matthew.
“Don’t worry about anything . . .” he said aloud, quoting his all-time standby verse in the fourth chapter of Philippians, “but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, make your requests known unto God, and the peace that passes all understanding will fill your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
He’d been doing it all wrong. As usual, he was trying to focus on the big picture.
He glanced at the stepping-stones he and Cynthia had laid together last year, making a path through the hedge. There! Right under his nose.
Step by step. That was the answer.
CHAPTER THREE
Eden
“You know how some people think all we have to do in Mitford is watch paint peel?”
“I do.”
Emma snorted with disgust. “Mack Stroupe’s house could’ve held us spellbound for th’ last fifteen years.”
“I haven’t driven by there in a while.”
“Looked like a shack on th’ Creek ’til guess what?”
“I can’t guess.”
“Four pickups hauled in there this mornin’ with men and stepladders. Th’ first coat was on by noon, I saw it myself when I went to Hessie’s for lunch.”
“Aha.”
“They painted it blue. I hate blue on a house. Somebody said blue is the color of authority—which is why police officers are th’ men in blue. They say it’s a color that makes you look like you are somebody!”
“Well, well . . .”
“An’ take pink. What do you think happened when a sheriff in Texas painted his jail cells pink? The men calmed down, no more violence, can you beat that?”
“Hard to beat,” he said, gluing the wooden base back onto the bookend. “And Texas, of all places.”
“Where do you think Mack Stroupe gets his money?”
“What money?”
“To buy a new truck, to paint his house. I even heard he had a manicure at Fancy Skinner’s place.”
“A manicure? Mack?”
“A manicure,” she said icily.
“Good heavens.” This was serious. “He didn’t get a mask, too, did he?”
“A mask? Why would he need a mask when he can lie, cheat, and steal without one?”
“Now, Emma, I don’t know about the stealing.”
“Maybe you don’t, but I do.” She looked imperious.
Run from gossip! the Scriptures said. It would be hard to put it more plainly than that.
“I’m going up the street a few minutes. It looks like rain, better close the windows before you leave. Give Harold my congratulations on being moved off the route and into sorting.”
“Sorting and working the window,” she said proudly.
“Winnie!” he called, as the bell jingled on the bakeshop door.
Blast if he didn’t love the smell of this place. What would happen if the bakery was sold? Anybody could move in here, hawking any manner of goods and wares. Could cards and stationery smell this wonderful, or piece goods, or kitchen wares?
Five years before he arrived on the scene, Winnie had scraped together the money for this storefront, painted it inside and out, installed ovens and secondhand display cases, stenciled Sweet Stuff Bakery on the window, and settled into twenty years of unflagging hard work.
Her winning smile and generous spirit had been a hallmark of this street. Hadn’t she faithfully fed Miss Rose and Uncle Billy when the old couple tottered by for their daily handout? Yes, and sent something home for the birds, into the bargain.
He found her in the kitchen, sitting on a stool and scribbling on a piece of paper. “Winnie, there you are!”
She beamed at the sight of her visitor. “Have an oatmeal cookie,” she said, passing him a tray. “Low-fat.”
He was suddenly as happy as a child. “Well, in that case . . .”
He sat on the other stool and munched his cookie. “You know, Winnie, I’ve been thinking . . .”
Winnie’s broad face sobered. She had never known what preachers thought.
“Sweet Stuff isn’t a bakery.”
“It’s not?”
“It’s an institution! Do you have to go to Tennessee? Can’t we keep you?”
“I might be here ’til kingdom come, the way things are lookin’. Not one soul has asked about buyin’ it.”
“They will, mark my words. God’s timing is perfect, even in real estate.”
“If I didn’t believe that, I’d jump out th’ window.”
“Wouldn’t have far to jump,” he said, eyeing the sidewalk through the curtains.
Winnie laughed. He loved it when Winnie laughed. The sound of it had rung in this place far more often than the cash register, but she had done all right, she had come through.
“I’m goin’ home in a little bit,” she sighed. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Who is? I’ll be pushing off soon myself, I just came to say hello. How do you like living on Lilac Road?”
“I miss my little cottage by the creek, but that young preacher from Hope House takes good care of it.”
“Scott Murphy . . .”
“He washed the windows! Those windows have never been washed! My house sittin’ right on th’ street and all keeps ’em dirty.”
“Well, never much traffic by there to notice.”
They sat in silence as he finished his cookie.
“Have another one,” she said, wanting him to.
He did. It was soft and chewy, just as he liked cookies to be, and low-fat into the bargain. This was definitely his day. “What do you hear from Joe?”
“Homesick.”
“But Tennessee is home.”
“Yes, but Mitford’s more like home; he’s been away from Tennessee fifty years. To tell th’ truth, Father, I don’t much want to go up there, but here I am with no family left in Mitford, and it seems right for me to go.”
Sometimes, what seemed right wasn’t so right, after all, but who was he to say?
“Look here,” she said, picking up the sheet of paper she’d been scribbling on. “I’m enterin’ this contest that’s twenty-five words or less. You’re educated, would you mind seein’ if th’ spelling is right?”
He took the paper.
I use Golden Band flour because it’s light and easy to work. Also because my mother and grandmother used it. Golden Band! Generation after generation it’s the best.
“They sure don’t give you much room to rave,” he said. “And it looks like you’ve got twenty-eight words here.”
“Oh, law! I counted wrong. What do you think should come out?”
“Let’s see. You could take out ‘my’ and say, ‘because Mother and Grandmother used it.’ ”
“Good! Two to go,” she said, sitting on the edge of her stool.
“You could take out ‘flour’ in the first sentence, since they know it’s flour.”
“Good! One more to go!”
“This is hard,” he said.
“I know it. I been writin’ on that thing for four days. But look, they give you a cruise if you win! To the Caribbean! Have you ever been there?”
“Never have.”
“Only thing is, it’s for two. Who would I go with?”
“Cross that bridge when you get to it,” he said. “OK, how about this? ‘Generation after generation, Golden Band is best.’ ”
“How many words?” she asked, holding her breath.
“Twenty-five, right on the money!” He cleared his throat and read aloud. “I use Golden Band because it’s light and easy to work. Also because Mother and Grandmother used it. Generation after generation, Golden Band is best.”
“Ooh, that sounds good when you read it!” Winnie beamed. “Read it again!”
He read it again, using his pulpit voice. He thought the town’s prize baker would fall off the stool with excitement. Why couldn’t his congregation be more like Winnie Ivey, for Pete�
��s sake?
As he left the bakery, he saw Mitford’s Baptist preacher, Bill Sprouse, coming toward him at a trot.
“Workin’ the street, are you?” asked the jovial clergyman, shaking hands.
“And a good day for it!”
“Amen! Wish I could work the south end and we’d meet in the middle for a cup of coffee, but I’ve got a funeral to preach.”
“I, on the other hand, had a baptism this morning.”
Bill adjusted the white rose in his lapel. “Coming and going! That’s what it’s all about in our business!”
“See you at the monument!” said the rector. Since spring arrived, they’d often ended up at the monument at the same time, with their dogs in tow for the evening walk.
He ducked into Happy Endings to see if his order had arrived.
“How do you like your new butterfly book?” asked Hope Winchester, looking fetching, he thought, with her long, chestnut hair pulled back.
“Just the ticket!” he said. “You ought to review it for the Muse and first thing you know, half of Mitford would be attracting butterflies.”
“That,” she said, “is a very preponderant idea!”
“Thank you.”
“The Butterfly Town! It would bring people from all over.”
“I don’t think the mayor would much take to that. Unless, of course, they all went home at night.”
“Well, Father, progress is going to happen in Mitford, whether our mayor likes it or not. We can’t sit here idly, not growing and adapting to the times! And just think. People who like butterflies would be people who like books!”
“Aha. Well, you certainly have a point there.”
“Sometimes our mayor can be a bit overweening.”
He grinned. “Can’t we all? Did my book come in?”
“Let’s see,” she said, “that was the etymological smorgasbord, I believe.”
“ ‘Amo, Amas, Amat,’ ” he said, nodding.
“I declare!” sniffed Helen Huffman, who owned the place. “Why don’t y’all learn to speak English?”
“Father, is this a good time?”
He heard the urgency in Olivia Harper’s voice when she rang him at the office.
“It’s always a good time for you,” he said, meaning it.
“Lace went to the Creek to see her friend Harley. I implored her not to go, Father, I know how dangerous it could be. But she went, and now she’s home saying that Harley’s sick and she’s going back to nurse him. Hoppy’s in surgery, and I don’t . . . Please. She’s packing her things. You’re so good at this.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
Barnabas leapt into the passenger seat of his Buick and they raced up Old Church Lane.
No, he was not good at this. He was not good at this at all. His years with Dooley Barlowe had been some of the hardest of his life; it had all been done with desperate prayer, flying by the seat of his pants. Who was good at knowing the right parameters for wounded kids? Yet, blast it, it was his job to know about parameters. Being a clergyman, being a Christian, had a great deal to do with parameters, which is why the world often mocked and despised both.
He felt the anxiety of this thing. Lace Turner was a passionately determined girl who had suffered unutterable agony in her thirteen years at the Creek—a bedridden mother whom she had faithfully nursed since early childhood, and a brutalizing father suffering the cumulative effects of drugs, alcohol, and regular unemployment.
Through it all, the toothless, kindhearted Harley Welch had looked after Lace Turner’s welfare, shielding her whenever he could from harm. It was Harley’s truck that Lace had used to transport Dooley’s mother, then another Creek resident, to the hospital last summer.
He shuddered at the memory of Pauline Barlowe, who, burned horribly by a man known as LM, had not only endured the agony of skin grafting and the loss of an ear, but had to live with the bitter truth that she’d given away four of her five children.
Though Lace’s father and older brother disappeared last year, no one knew when Cate Turner might return to the Creek, nor what he might do if he found his daughter there.
He made a right turn into the nearly hidden driveway of the Harper’s rambling mountain lodge. With its weathered shingles, twin stone chimneys, and broad front porch, it was a welcome sight.
Barnabas leapt out, barking with abandon at the sudden alarm of countless squirrels in the overhead network of trees.
Thanks be to God, Lace was now in the care of the Harpers and doing surprisingly well at Mitford School. Naturally, she continued to use her native dialect, but she had dazzled them all with her reading skills and quick intelligence. He was even more taken, however, by the extraordinary depth of her character.
Another Dooley Barlowe, in a sense—with all of Dooley’s hard and thorny spirit, and then some.
He put the leash on his dog and left him secured to the porch railing, then opened the screen door and called. Olivia rushed down the hall and gave him a hug.
“Father, you’re always there for us.”
“And you for us,” he said, hugging back.
“She’s in her room, packing. I’m sorry to be so . . . so inept . . . .”
“You’re not inept. You’re trying to raise a teenager and deal with a broken spirit. Let’s pray,” he said. He looked into her violet eyes, which he always found remarkable, and saw her frantic concern.
He took Olivia’s hands. “Father, this is serious business. Give us your wisdom, we pray, to do what is just, what is healing, what is needed. Give us discernment, also, by the power of your Holy Spirit, and soften our hearts toward one another and toward you. In Jesus’ name.”
“Amen!” she said.
“Shall we talk to her together?”
“I’ve said it all, she’s heard enough from me, I think. Would you . . . ?”
He found Lace in her room, wearing the filthy hat from her days at the Creek, and zipping up a duffel bag.
She turned and glared at him. “I knowed you’d come. You cain’t stop me. Harley’s sick and I’m goin’.”
“What’s the matter with Harley?”
“Pukin’ blood. Blood in ’is dump. Cain’t eat, got bad cramps, and so weak he cain’t git up. But they’s somethin’ worser.”
“What?”
“Somebody stoled ’is dogs.”
“Why is that worse?” He’d try to stall her until he collected his wits.
“His dogs bein’ gone means anybody could go in there and take th’ money he’s saved back in ’is bed pillers. I’ve got t’ drive ’is truck out, too, or they’ll be stealin’ that.”
“What do you think the sickness might be?”
“I ain’t no doctor!” she said, angry.
“It could be something contagious.”
“So? Harley done it f’r me time an’ again. I was sick nearly t’ dyin’ an’ he waited on me, even went an’ fed my mam when my pap was gone workin’.”
She picked up the bag and shoved the hat farther down on her head, and walked to the door.
“I’ll go with you,” he said. Was he crazy? It was broad daylight. He had gone into the drug-infested Creek with her once before, to bring out Poobaw Barlowe—but that had been under cover of darkness and he’d never felt so terrified in his life.
“You ain’t goin’ in there with me in th’ daylight, a preacher wouldn’t be nothin’ but trouble. Besides, you couldn’t hardly git up th’ bank that time, you like t’ killed y’rself.”
She was right about that. He’d taken one step up and two back, all the way to the top. “What kind of medicine have you got?”
She stopped and looked at him.
“Why go in empty-handed? What can you do, not knowing? Come with me to the hospital, we’ll talk to a nurse.”
“I ain’t goin’ t’ no hospital.
“Lace. Get smart. You can’t do this without help. Drive to the hospital with me, I’ll get Nurse Kennedy to come out to the car, if necessa
ry. Tell her what you know, see what she thinks.”
Lace looked at the floor, then at him. “Don’t try t’ trick me,” she said.
“I don’t think you’d be easy to trick.”
God in heaven, he didn’t have a clue where this was leading.
Nurse Kennedy leaned down and talked to Lace through the open car window. Lace sat stoically, clutching the duffel bag in her lap.
“It could be a bleeding ulcer,” said Kennedy. “Does Harley drink?”
“Harley was bad to drink f’r a long time, but he’s sober now.”
“Any diarrhea?”
“An awful lot, an’ passin’ blood in it.”
“How’s his color?”
“Real white. White as a sheet.”
The nurse looked thoughtful. “Vomiting blood, passing blood, pale, weak, cramps, diarrhea. All symptoms of a bleeding ulcer.”
At least whatever it was wasn’t contagious, thought the rector, feeling relieved. And it was curable.
“What’s the prognosis?” he asked.
“I could be wrong of course, but I don’t think so. If it’s a bleeding ulcer, it can be treated with antibiotics. Diet plays a part, too. The main thing is, he’ll need treatment. His hemoglobin will be low, and that’s serious.”
“We can’t thank you enough.”
As they drove down the hill, he still didn’t know where he was headed or how this would unfold.
He pulled the car to the curb in front of Andrew Gregory’s Oxford Antique Shop. “Let’s stop and think this through. If you go to the Creek, there’s nothing you can do. You heard the nurse, he’s got to have treatment. Let me get Chief Underwood to drive us in there, we’ll bring Harley out, money, truck, and all.”
“Where would you take ’im to? He ain’t goin’ t’ no hospital.”
“I don’t know. Let me think.” Not Betty Craig’s, that was for certain. Betty’s little house was stuffed to the gills with Russell Jacks, Dooley’s disabled grandfather; Dooley’s mother, Pauline Barlowe, who was looking for work; and her son, Poobaw. There wasn’t a bed available at Hope House, even if Harley could qualify, and the red tape for the county home would be a yard long.