by Jan Karon
“You want to come for a cup of coffee? Emma’s home today. I’d love to hear more.”
“I don’t have time to come for a cup of coffee, I don’t have time to pee, excuse me, and Gene hadn’t had a hot meal in I don’t know when!”
Esther Bolick sounded close to tears. “So even if I can’t come for a cup of coffee, I wish you’d do your good deed for the day and pray for me . . . .”
“I will. I pray for you, anyway.”
You do?”
“Of course. The Bane is a cornerstone event for Lord’s Chapel, and you’ve taken on a big job. But you’ve got a big spirit, Esther, and you can do it. I know it’s easy for me to say, but maybe you could stop looking at the big picture, which is always overwhelming, and just take it day by day.”
“Day by day is th’ problem! Nearly every day, somebody dumps something else in our garage, and mainly it’s the worst old clothes and mildewed shoes you ever saw! Mitch Lewis backed his truck up to th’ garage, raked out whatever it was in th’ bed, and drove off. Gene said to me, he said, ‘Esther, what’s that mound of stuff layin’ in th’ garage?’ We couldn’t even identify it.
“We need toaster ovens, we need framed prints and floor lamps and plant stands and such! This sale’s got a reputation to maintain, but so far, I never saw so much polyester in my life, it looks like we’ll never get rid of polyester, they won’t even take it at th’ landfill!”
He wished he could offer some of the contents of Fernbank, but Miss Sadie hadn’t wanted her possessions picked over. One thing was for certain, he wouldn’t donate those mildewed loafers from the back of his closet . . . .
“You know the good stuff always comes in,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “It never fails.”
“There’s always a first time!” she said darkly.
“Let me ask you—are you praying about this, about the goods rolling in and your strength holding out?”
“I hope you don’t think th’ Lord would mess with the Bane?”
“I hope you don’t think He wouldn’t! Tell me again where the funds from the Bane will go.”
“Mission fields, as you well know, including a few in our own backyard.”
“Exactly! Some of the money will fly medical supplies to a village where people are dying of cholera. Do you think the Lord would mess with that?”
“Well . . .”
“Then there’s the four-wheel drive ambulance they need in Landon,” he said. “Remember the blizzard we had three years ago?”
“That’s when I had to call an ambulance for Gene, who nearly killed himself shoveling snow! I shouted for joy when I saw it turn the corner. If it hadn’t been for that ambulance . . .”
“That winter, two children died of burns because nobody could get a vehicle into the coves around Landon.”
“I think I know where you’re headed with this,” she said.
“I don’t believe He’ll let Esther Bolick—or the Bane—fail.”
“Maybe I could ask Hessie Mayhew to help me out, even if she is Presbyterian!” Esther was sounding more like herself.
“I believe it’s going to be the best Bane yet. Now, about your volunteers—my guess is, they’re moaning and groaning because they need strong leadership, which is why they elected you in the first place! Look,” he said, “I have an idea. Why don’t I pray for you? Right now.”
“On the phone?”
“It’s as good a place as any. Try taking a deep breath.”
“Lately, it’s all I can do to get a deep breath.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
“I didn’t know men ever had trouble gettin’ their breath.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Standin’ up at the kitchen phone, which is where I’ve been ever since I let myself get roped into this.”
“Could you get a chair?”
He heard her drag a kitchen chair from the table, and sit down.
“OK,” she said, feeling brighter. “But don’t go on and on ’til th’ cows come home.”
“Fernbank or bust!” cried Cynthia, huffing up Old Church Lane.
“It’s only taken us a full year to do this.”
“And it’s all sitting right there, just as you left it.”
He realized why he had put this off, over and over again. He had ducked into Fernbank a few times to check the roof leaks, and ducked out again as if pursued. To see those empty, silent rooms meant she was gone, utterly and eternally, and even now he could hardly bear the fact of it.
“This must be a hard time for Louella, the anniversary of—”
“I’ll see her tomorrow,” he said, doing some huffing of his own. “Let’s have her down to dinner.”
“I love that idea. Maybe sometime next week? Oh, for a taste of her fried chicken!”
“We’ll have to settle for a taste of my meat loaf . . . .”
They were up to the brow of the hill and turning into the driveway, which was overhung by a thicket of grapevines gone wild. Though Fernbank hadn’t been well groomed since the forties, it had still looked imposing and proud during Miss Sadie’s lifetime. Now . . .
He saw the house, surrounded by a neglected lawn, and felt the dull beating of his heart.
“Let’s buy it!” he croaked. Good Lord! What had he said?
She looked astounded. “Timothy, you don’t need a domestic retreat, you need 911. How could you even think such a thing?”
And why couldn’t he think such a thing? Didn’t a man have a right to his own mind?
He felt suddenly peevish and disgruntled and wanted to turn around and run home, but he remembered Andrew Gregory was meeting them on the porch in ten minutes.
Andrew stood in the middle of the parlor and looked up.
That’s what everyone did, thought the rector—they stared at the water stains like they were some kind of ominous cloud above their heads. Why couldn’t people see the dentil molding, the millwork . . .
“Beautiful millwork!” said Andrew. “I’ve been here only once before, the day of the wedding reception. I was enchanted by the attention to detail. It’s a privilege to see Fernbank again.”
“Would you like to see it, stem to stern?”
“Stem to stern!” said Andrew, looking enthused.
Two hours later, they were close to a deal.
“The development firm has unfortunately asked for several of the finest pieces,” said Andrew. He referred to notes that he had hastily jotted as they toured the house.
“Nonetheless, I’d be interested in the Federal loveseat in Miss Sadie’s bedroom, the Georgian chest of drawers in her dressing room, the three leather trunks in the attic, the chaise in the storage room, which I believe is Louis XIV, the English china dresser, and all the beds in the house, which are exceedingly fine walnut . . . now, let’s see . . . the six framed oils we discussed, which appear to be French . . . and the pine farm table in that wonderful kitchen! It must have been made by a local craftsman around the turn of the century.”
“Anything else?” asked the rector, feeling like a traitor, a grave robber.
“In truth, I’d like the dining room suite, but it’s Victorian, and I never fare well with Victorian. There are two chairs on the landing, however—I’m not certain of their origins, but they’re charming. I’ll have those chairs, into the bargain . . . and oh, yes, the contents of the linen drawers. I have a customer in Richmond who fancies brocade napery.”
“Hardly used!” said Father Tim, knowing that Miss Sadie had certainly never trotted it out for him.
Cynthia roamed around, sounding like a squirrel in the attic, as he went through the miserable ordeal of dismantling someone’s life, someone’s history.
Miss Sadie’s long letter, which was delivered to him after her death, gave very clear instructions: “Do not offer anything for view at a yard sale, or let people pick over the remains. I know you will understand.”
Was Andrew
picking over the remains? He didn’t think so, he was being a four-square gentleman about the whole thing. Besides, something had to be done with the contents of twenty-one rooms and the detritus of nearly a century.
“How about the silver hollowware?” asked the rector. He felt like Avis Packard who, after selling and bagging a dozen ears of corn, was trying to get rid of last week’s broccoli. “The, ah, flatware, perhaps?”
“Well, and why not?” agreed Andrew, looking jaunty. “Who cares if it’s all monogrammed with B, I think I’ll have it for my own!”
The rector drew a deep breath. This wasn’t so hard.
“The rugs! How about the rugs?” After all, every cent he raised would go into the Hope House till . . . .
Andrew smiled gently. “I don’t think Miss Sadie’s father did his homework on the rugs.” He jotted some more and offered a price that nearly floored the rector.
“Done!” he exclaimed.
Feeling vastly relieved, he shook Andrew’s hand with undeniable vigor.
“While you and Andrew toured around like big shots, eyeing major pieces, I was burrowing into minor pieces. Look what I found!”
His wife’s face was positively beaming.
“An easel! Hand-carved! Isn’t it wonderful? And look at this—an ancient wooden box of watercolors, two whole compartments full! The cakes are dried and cracked, of course, but they’ll spring back to life in no time at all, with—guess what?—water!”
He hadn’t seen Christmas make her so jubilant.
“And look! A boxful of needlepoint chair covers, worked with roses and hydrangeas and pansies, in all my favorite colors! Perfect for our dining room! Oh, Timothy, how could we have neglected this treasure trove for a full year? It’s as if we stayed away from a gold mine, content with digging ore!”
She held up a chair cover for him to admire.
“Now it’s your turn to find something for yourself, like Miss Sadie asked you to do. She said ‘Take anything you like,’ those were her very words.”
He stood frozen to the spot, suddenly feeling as if he’d burst into tears.
Cynthia quietly put the chair cover down, and came to him and held him.
He found it in the dimly lit attic.
Though the box appeared to be of no special consequence, he felt drawn to it, somehow, and knelt to remove the lid and unwrap the heavy object within.
The figure had the weight of a stone, but a certain lightness about its form, which rested on a sizeable chunk of marble.
Back at the rectory, he set the bronze angel on the living room mantel and stood looking at it.
It was enough. He wanted nothing more.
“Mule! What have you got in a little rental house, maybe two bedrooms, something bright and sunny, something spacious and open—and oh, yes, low-maintenance, in a nice part of Mitford, maybe with a fireplace and a washing machine, not too much money, and—”
“Hold it!” exclaimed Mule. “Are you kidding me? You’re talkin’ like a crazy person. Think about it. If I had anything like that, would it be available?”
He thought about it. “Guess not,” he said.
Cynthia’s interest was growing. “Let’s invite Pauline and Poo!”
They sat in the kitchen, planning the dinner party while their own supper roasted in the oven.
“Terrific idea. Louella, Pauline, Dooley, Poo, Harley, you, and me. Meat loaf for seven!”
“Better make it for ten. Dooley has the appetite of a baseball team.”
“Right! Ten, then.”
“I’ll make lemonade and tea and bake a cobbler,” she said.
“Deal.”
“In the meantime, dearest, I’ve planned our retreat.”
“Really?”
“Really. Next week, I’m taking you away for two days.”
“But Cynthia, I can’t go away for two days. I have things to do.”
“Darling, that’s exactly why I’m taking you away!”
“But there’s an important vestry meeting, and—”
“Poop on the vestry meeting. Since when does the rector have to attend every vestry meeting as if it were the Nicene Council?”
“Cynthia, Cynthia . . .”
“Timothy, Timothy. Let me remind you of all you’ve recently done—you’ve had three baptisms, a death at the hospital, you’re working on that project with the bishop which keeps you talking on the phone like schoolgirls, you do two services every Sunday, Holy Eucharist every Wednesday, not to mention your weekly Bible class. Plus—”
“There’s no way—”
“Plus your hospital visits every morning, and pulling together that huge thing for the mayor, and working on the benefit for the Children’s Hospital, and tearing down Betty’s shed—not to mention that on your birthday you made a wonderful evening for me!”
She took a deep breath. “Plus—”
Not that again. “But you see—”
“Plus you still think you haven’t done enough.”
What was enough? He’d never been able to figure it out.
“Well, dearest, I can see you have no intention of listening to reason, so . . . I shall be forced do what women have been forced to do for millennia.”
She marched around the kitchen table and thumped down in his lap. Then she mussed what was left of his hair and kissed him on the top of his head. Next she gave him a lingering kiss on the mouth, and unsnapped his collar, and whispered in his ear.
He blushed. “OK,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
While Cynthia scraped and stacked the dishes, he sat in the kitchen, awaiting his cue to wash, and read the Muse.
Violet was perched by the gloxinia, purring; Barnabas lay under the table, snoring.
Four Convicted in Wesley Drug Burst
He roared with laughter. This was one for his cousin Walter, all right! He got up and pulled the scissors from the kitchen drawer and clipped the story. Walter liked nothing better than a few choice headlines from the type fonts of J. C. Hogan.
“Who discovered America?” He heard Lace Turner’s voice drifting up the stairs through the open basement door.
“Christopher Columbus!” said Harley.
“Who was America named for?”
“Amerigo Vespucci! Looks like it ought’ve been named f’r Mr. Columbus, don’t it? But see, that’s th’ way of th’ world, you discover somethin’ and they don’t even notice you f’r doin’ it.”
Cynthia whispered, “She’s been coming over and teaching him for several nights, you’ve been too busy to notice.”
“Who was th’ king of England when North Carolina became a royal colony?” Lace Turner sounded emphatic.
“George th’ Second!”
“When was th’ French and Indian War?”
“Lord, Lace, as long as I’ve lived, ain’t never a soul come up t’ me and said, ‘Harley, when was th’ French and Injun war?’ ”
“Harley . . .”
“They ain’t a bit of use f’r me t’ know that, I done told you who discovered America.”
“Who defeated George Washington at Great Meadows?”
“Th’ dern French.”
“Who was th’ first state to urge independence from Great Britian?”
“North Carolina!” Harley’s voice had a proud ring.
“See, you learn stuff real good, you just act like you don’t.”
“But you don’t teach me nothin’ worth knowin’. If we got t’ do this aggravation, why don’t you read me one of them riddles out of y’r number book?”
“OK, but listen good, Harley, this stuff is hard. You borrow five hundred dollars for one year. Th’ rate is twenty percent per year. How much do you pay back by th’ end of th’ year?”
There was a long silence in the basement.
The rector put his arm around his wife, who had come to sit with him on the top basement step. They looked at each other, wordless.
“Six hundred dollars!” exclaimed Harley.
“Real go
od!”
“I done that in m’ noggin.”
“OK, here’s another’n—”
“I ain’t goin’ t’ do no more. You git on back home and worry y’r own head.”
She pressed forward. “A recipe suggests two an’ a half to three pounds of chicken t’ serve four people. Karen bought nine-point-five pounds of chicken. Is this enough t’ serve twelve people?”
“I told you I ain’t goin’ t’ do it,” said Harley. “Let Karen fig’r it out!”
The rector looked at Cynthia, who got up and fled the room, shaking with laughter.
He went to his study and took pen and paper from the desk drawer. Let’s see, he thought, if the recipe calls for two and a half to three pounds of chicken to serve four people . . .
CHAPTER TEN
Those Who Are Able
He was changing shirts for a seven p.m. meeting when he heard Harley’s truck pull into the driveway. Almost immediately he heard Harley’s truck pull out of the driveway.
Harley must have forgotten something, he mused, buttoning a cuff.
When he heard the truck roll into the driveway again, he looked out his bathroom window and saw it backing toward the street. From this vantage point, he could also see through the windshield.
Clearly, it wasn’t Harley who was driving Harley’s truck.
It was Dooley.
He stood at the bathroom window, buttoning the other cuff, watching. In, out, in, out.
He didn’t have five spare minutes to deal with it; he was already cutting the time close since he was the speaker. He’d have to talk to Dooley and Harley about this.
Dadgum it, he thought. He had a car-crazed boy living down the hall and a race-car mechanic in the basement. Was this a good combination? He didn’t think so . . . .
Emma looked up from her computer, where she was keying in copy for the pew bulletin.
“I know I’m a Baptist and it’s none of my business . . .”
You can take that to the bank, he thought.