by Jan Karon
“Let’s see . . . Ruth Wallace at eleven for acrylic nails, J. C. Hogan at noon, that’s a cut, Beth Lawrence for a perm at twelve-thirty, that’ll take two hours, you should see her hair, she calls it fine, I say she’s goin’ bald. Do you know her, she always wears a hat—if you ask me, wearin’ a hat will make you bald, and oh, Lord, look here, at three o’clock I’ve got Helen Nelson, she will gnaw your ear off talkin’, you can’t get a word in edgewise, on and on and on, about every old thing from her husband growin’ a mustache and how it scratches when he kisses, to th’ pig they bought to keep as a house pet. Have you ever heard of keepin’ a pig as a house pet? They say they trained it to a litter box!
“I’d rather have a dog any day, which reminds me, did you know one of my poodles ran away and Rodney Underwood found her under the bridge and brought her home in the front seat of his patrol car? Mule took a picture, you should ask to see it.
“How’s your wife, how come she don’t let me highlight her hair sometime? Does she do it herself? It looks like she does it herself. I bet she uses a cap—honey, foil works better, but don’t tell her I said so.
“Let’s see, four o’clock, oh, Lord, look here. I’ve got Marge Beatty’s three kids, all at the same time, I should get a war medal. Then at five, I’m doin’ a mask—which reminds me, have I told you about my new product line called Fancy’s Face Food? What it is, your face desperately needs nourishment just like your body, did you know that? Most people don’t know that.
“First, I do th’ Vitamin E Deluxe Re-Charge and Hydration Mask, which is the entrée, followed by a Cucumber Apricot Sesame Soother, which is the dessert, and honey, I’m tellin’ you, you will walk out of here lookin’ ten years younger, some say fifteen, but I try not to stretch the truth.
“The mask I’m doin’ at five takes an hour, so the answer is, no, I couldn’t take you today if my life depended on it, how about next Wednesday at ten o’clock?”
Harley removed two twenty-dollar bills from under the guest room mattress and was on his way to the Shoe Barn for new work shoes.
“Harley, be careful. Rodney Underwood has it in for that truck.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Harley. “I’d never let them horses loose in town.”
“I don’t want to have to haul you out of jail.”
“Nossir, Rev’rend, you won’t.”
So why did he watch that truck like a hawk, all the way to the end of Wisteria, ’til it turned north on Main?
“Miami,” said Emma, looking curious.
He lifted the receiver from the phone on his desk.
“Hello?”
“Father, this is Ingrid Swenson with Miami Development Group. I’d like to talk with you about the old Fernbank property, which we understand is owned by your church.”
“That’s right.”
“We’re very interested, Father, in viewing this property next week, if that would be convenient.”
“Well . . .”
“It is our intention, if everything looks as good as we hope it might, to develop this property as a world-class spa.”
“A spa.”
“Yes. We’ve developed similar properties around the country that have gained international clientele.”
“Aha.”
“How does next Wednesday look to you? Say, around eleven?”
“Ah, well, fine, I think. Yes. I’ll have to gather up some of the vestry, and our realtor.”
“Good. There’ll be two of us.”
“We’re at the corner of Old Church Lane and Main Street, just as you come into town. Very easy to find.”
“You may like to know that Mr. Mack Stroupe has highly recommended this property to us.”
“I see.”
“We’re very grateful for such valued assistance in locating a property as special as Fernbank promises to be. We’re told it has seventeen rooms.”
“Twenty-one.”
“Marvelous!”
“Yes. Well. We’ll be looking for you, Miss Swenson.”
“Ingrid, Father. And thank you for your time.”
He put the phone on the hook.
“You don’t look so good,” said Emma.
Strange. He didn’t feel so good, either. That phone call should have him dancing in the streets, shouting from the rooftops.
If Fernbank was such an albatross, why did he suddenly know he didn’t want to lose it?
His heart hadn’t pounded like this, even on the day of his ordination. It had pounded, yes, when he preached his first sermon to his first parish in his first small church. But he couldn’t remember anything like this. He was glad he was sitting down, and glad he’d been able to persuade Cynthia to trim his hair.
He looked for his lifeline, which was the third pew, gospel side, where his wife sat scratching her nose. That was her signal for “Smile!”
Sitting next to her was Pauline Barlowe, then Poobaw, who was gazing at the ceiling, and Dooley. Russell Jacks anchored the pew at the opposite end.
“I have some good news and some bad news,” Stuart told the congregation at the eight o’clock.
Did he have to put it that way? The rector shifted in the carved chair. This was the dress rehearsal for the more formal, well-attended eleven o’clock; whatever happened now would also happen then—except worse. Much worse.
“The good news,” said Stuart, smiling the smile that had undoubtedly helped him rise in his calling, “is that Timothy Kavanagh, your beloved priest, generous counselor, and trusted friend . . .”
Get it over with, he thought, gripping the chair arms and closing his eyes. This was like flying with Omer Cunningham in his ragwing taildragger . . . .
“ . . . is getting ready to . . . go out to Canaan!”
How odd that Stuart would have had the same thought, found the same analogy! He noted that most of his congregation didn’t seem to know anything about Canaan. Where was Canaan? He saw Esther Bolick glance at Gene and shrug her shoulders. Maybe it was overseas. Or maybe somewhere in Wilkes County, where they had that cheese factory.
“We’re told in Genesis that Abram took Sarai his wife, and Lot his brother’s son, and all their substance that they had gathered, and they went forth into the land of Canaan . . . a strange land, an alien land.
“God was sending Abram, whom He would later call Abraham, on the greatest journey, the grandest mission, of his life. But what would Canaan be like? Some said giants inhabited the land, and I recall what Billy Sunday once said, ‘He said if you want milk and honey on your bread, you must be willing to go into the land of giants!’ ”
Father Tim felt his hair standing up on his head.
“What,” asked Stuart, looking resplendent in embroidered brocade, “did Abraham feel when he was called by God to go out into this unfamiliar land, hundreds of miles from home?”
The rector believed he clearly heard the thoughts of half the crowd: Beats me!
In fact, Abraham hadn’t even made an appearance in this morning’s Old Testament reading. Oh, well. Bishops could do whatever they darn well pleased.
Stuart leaned over the pulpit and peered at the assembly, most of whom were admiring his satin mitre.
“Did he, like your faithful friend and priest, feel fearful of this journey into the unknown? Of course! Did he feel sorrow for leaving the familiar behind? Almost certainly! But”—and here Stuart drew himself up to his full height of six feet plus—“given what God had in store for him, didn’t he also feel hope and excitement and expectation and joy?”
None of the above, thought the rector. What he felt was sheer, holy terror.
With no small amount of admiration, he observed Stuart Cullen getting exactly what he wanted from the congregation, rather like a conductor extracting a great symphony from an orchestra.
Where Stuart wanted tears, he got unashamed tears.
Where he wanted riotous laughter, there it came, pouring forth like a mighty ocean.
By the end of the service, nearly everyone fe
lt as if they’d been called out to a Canaan of their own; that life itself was a type of Canaan.
The rector left the eleven o’clock on legs that felt like cooked macaroni, clinging to the arm of his wife, who was beaming.
“There, now, dearest, this is not a lynching, after all! Cheer up!”
He couldn’t believe that his congregation had kissed him, hugged him, pounded him on the back, congratulated him, and wished him well.
Where he had expected faces streaming with tears, he saw only lively concern for his future. Where he had feared stern looks of indignation, he received smiles and laughter and the assurance they’d always love him.
Didn’t they care?
“Don’t kid yourself,” said Stuart, as he and Martha dove into the car after the parish hall brunch. “The backlash is yet to come.”
As Stuart gunned the Toyota Camry away from the curb, the rector felt brighter. So, maybe his parishioners really would hate to see him go! Right now they were just having a good time—after all, the bishop’s visit was always a festive occasion.
CHAPTER SIX
A Small Boom
Emma was right. The billboard of Mack Stroupe’s face seemed to loom over the highway. And whoever was responsible for the photo didn’t appear to think much of retouching.
Zooming past it in his Buick, he wondered at his feelings about the new candidate, and determined, once and for all, to think the thing through and come to a conclusion he could live with. He was tired of the whole issue crawling around in the back of his mind like so many ants over a sugar bowl.
Why did he feel queasy and uncomfortable about Mack Stroupe being his mayor? J.C. was right—the mayorship wasn’t Esther’s job, it was the job of anybody who qualified to make the most of the office. But—did Mack qualify?
He couldn’t think of a single reason why he should. Was it mere gossip that Mack had carried on a long-term extramarital relationship with a woman in Wesley? People were notorious for giving clergy all manner of information, and apparently the affair wasn’t rumor at all, but fact.
While that sort of behavior may be acceptable to some, for him, it wouldn’t fly. The whole business spoke of treachery and betrayal, however admissible it might be in the world’s view.
He thought of Esther’s plank, so well known by everyone in Mitford that first graders could recite it: Mitford Takes Care of Its Own.
Esther had carried out that philosophy in every particular, never wavering.
Wasn’t it true that when you take care of what you have, healthy growth follows? Hadn’t his trilliums, planted under all the right conditions, spread until they formed a grove? And the lily of the valley, established in the rich, dark soil behind his study, had become a virtual kingdom from only three small plants.
Actually, there had been growth in Mitford; it was no bucolic backwater. The little tea shop next to Mitford Blossoms was flourishing. They were still limited to cakes, cookies, tea, and coffee, but as everyone agreed, you have to crawl before you walk.
Recently, Jena Ivey, their florist, had been forced to add a room to her shop. And take the Irish Woolen Shop. Now, there was a flexible endeavor. In late spring and summer, when temperatures soared, Minnie Lomax removed the word Woolen from the store sign, thereby assuring a brisk, year-round trade.
Avis Packard was another example. Avis was a small-town grocer who had done such a terrific job of providing world-class provender that people came from surrounding counties to fill up his rear parking lot and jam the streets, especially when the Silver Queen corn rolled in.
And Happy Endings. When he first came here, there was no such thing as a bookstore; he’d been forced to drive to Wesley and spend his money in another tax jurisdiction. Last summer, there had actually been a queue in front of Happy Endings—he had seen it with his own eyes—when the newest Grisham book arrived by UPS. The UPS man had been astounded when he pulled to the curb and everybody cheered.
Mitford was making it, and without neon signs and factory smoke. So, yes, maybe some well-planned growth would be good, but face it, they were doing something right, and he didn’t want to see that mind-set replaced by a mind-set that was only for development and change, whatever the cost.
Another thing. It boggled his mind that Mack Stroupe knew anyone outside the confines of Wesley and Holding. How had Mack engineered contact with what sounded like a large Florida development firm? And this thing about Mitford Woods, and Mack being the ringleader . . .
In the end, what about Mack’s platform?
Was Mack really for Mitford?
Or was Mack for Mack?
He found his breakfast cereal tasting exactly like oil-based latex.
Every window was up, three fans were running wide open, and Violet sprawled as if drugged on the top of the refrigerator. Even the gloxinia seemed oppressed by the noxious fumes rising from the basement.
“Let’s move!” said Cynthia, meaning it.
“Where?” he asked, liking the idea.
“The little yellow house! I don’t even know some of the people I’m meeting in my own hallway!”
“You know Tommy,” he said. “He only spent three nights.”
“Yes, but—”
“And Harley’s friend Cotton, didn’t he tell great stories?”
“Of course, but—”
“And certainly Olivia was well meaning when she came down with the women from the hospital auxiliary to bring pots and pans and scatter rugs for Harley’s kitchen. I’m sure they didn’t mind that you still had curlers in your hair.”
“I married a bachelor who led the quietest of lives, and now look!” she exclaimed, eyeing a kitchen sink that contained a roller pan, rollers, and a bevy of brushes.
“The plumbing repairs in the basement,” he said lamely, “will be finished tomorrow, and they can wash the brushes down there.”
“A likely story!”
“You’re beautiful when you’re mad,” he said.
“I read that line in a pulp novel thirty years ago!”
“So sue me.”
She came around the breakfast table and sat in his lap. “I love you, you big lug.”
“I love you more,” he said, pulling her to him and kissing her hair. “Have you started your book?”
She laughed gaily. “Of course I’ve started my book! None of this would have happened if I hadn’t started my book!”
These days, clergy seldom liked living in rectories. Because they generally preferred to own their own homes, and because the upkeep of the rectory had been considerable over the years, the vestry had long ago voted to sell the old house at the end of his tenure. What with the recent improvement below, the rector suspected they’d get a much better price for it.
Who would have dreamed he’d ever see the grim downstairs hallway come alive under a coat of Peach Soufflé, or a kitchen transformed by Piña Colada and his wife’s bright curtains fluttering at the window?
Harley Welch would be living high in this basement.
Before the Miami contingent arrived the following day, he cleaned up some matters at his desk.
Emil Kettner, head honcho of the construction company that built Hope House, regretted that Buck Leeper would be tied up for two years on a project in Virginia.
Perhaps after that, Kettner said, they could send Buck to Mitford for six months, which ought to be enough time to overhaul the church attic. His company never sent Buck on small jobs, but in this case, they’d try to make an exception. Could they wait?
Their Sunday School wasn’t yet overflowing, said the rector, but they were getting there.
The conclusion was, Lord’s Chapel was willing to wait, as they really wanted Buck for the job.
“He’s doing better, I thought you’d like to know that,” said Emil. “A few weekend benders here and there, but nothing daily like it was for years. What happened in Mitford, Father?”
“Buck got rid of something old, so something new could come in.”
“You h
ave my personal thanks.”
“No thanks to me,” said the rector. “Thanks be to God!”
Lace Turner met him at the foot of the basement steps.
“He’s done eat a whole bag of choc’late candy!” she said.
Harley, who was a ghastly color, was sitting on the floor of the hallway, clutching his stomach. “Don’t be tattlin’ on me like I was some young ’un!”
“You act like a young ’un!” said Lace. “That choc’late’ll git your ulcer goin’ again, just when you was gettin’ better!”
“Rev’rend, hit was all that baby puddin’ that made me do it. A man needs somethin’ he can get ’is teeth into, you might say. But oh, law, I repent, I do, I’m sorry I ever bought that bag of candy, I’ll never take another bite long as I live! Nossir!”
“Forty-two pieces, I counted ’em,” said Lace. “He wadded up th’ wrappers and stuck ever’ one under ’is mattress.”
“You cain’t git by with a thing around this ’un, she’s th’ worst ol’ police I ever seen.” Harley stood up suddenly, looking distraught. “Oh, law! You ’uns better leave!”
He headed for the bathroom at a trot.
What timing. The basement plumbing had been completed barely an hour ago.
He squirmed in his office chair and looked at his watch.
In thirty minutes, he and Ron Malcolm and several others on the vestry were squiring strangers around Sadie Baxter’s homeplace. He hated the thought, but he despised himself more for his wishy-washy attitude about the whole situation.
They needed desperately to sell it, get it off the shoulders of the parish; yet, here was a golden opportunity driving up the mountain in a rented car, and he wanted to run in the opposite direction.
Surely it was as simple as his dread of letting Sadie Baxter go entirely. Surely he was trying to hold on to what was vanished and gone, to another way of life that had been vibrantly preserved in Miss Sadie’s engrossing stories.