Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  Today, for the first time, Dooley Barlowe had called him “Dad.”

  Driving to Virginia, part of Miss Sadie’s letter ran through his mind.

  . . . the money is his when he reaches the age of twenty-one. (I am old-fashioned and believe that eighteen is far too young to receive an inheritance.)

  I have put one and a quarter million dollars where it will grow, and have made provisions to complete his preparatory education. When he is eighteen, the income from the trust will help send him through college.

  I am depending on you never to mention this to him until he is old enough to bear it with dignity. I am also depending on you to stick with him, Father, through thick and thin, just as you’ve done all along.

  The question of sticking with Dooley had been answered nearly four years ago; he was in for the long haul. The question of when the boy might bear such information with dignity was another matter.

  In truth, if he’d ever seen dignity, he’d seen it yesterday in the street. Dooley had acted with the utmost precision, wisdom, and grace.

  Even so, something cautioned him about speaking of the inheritance. Soon before they reached the school, he knew the answer, and the answer was, “Wait.”

  “Buddy?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When you come home at Christmas, I’ll loan you the keys to the Buick.”

  Ah, the bright hope that leapt into the boy’s face . . . .

  “There’s only one problem.”

  The bright hope dimmed.

  “You’ll have to do your driving on back roads, and I’ll have to ride in the backseat.”

  Dooley munched one of the cookies Lace had sent along. “OK,” he said, grinning, “but try and hunker down so nobody can see you.”

  He rang Buddy Benfield to ask when the contract would be signed. “Whenever Ron gets back,” said the junior warden, clearly uncomfortable to be talking to a man who would soon be evicted.

  “Timothy.”

  His wife was sitting on the back stoop, having her morning coffee and looking determined about something.

  “I want you to call Father Douglas to lead the service for you on Sunday.”

  “Whatever for?” he asked.

  “Because you’re exhausted.”

  She didn’t argue, she didn’t nag. She just stated the fact, and looked at him with her cornflower-blue eyes, meaning business.

  “All right,” he said.

  She was clearly surprised. “I suppose I should quit while I’m ahead . . .”

  “Probably.”

  “ . . . but I’d also like you to plan to sleep late on Sunday morning. None of that padding around in your slippers at five a.m., like a Christmas elf.”

  “Keep talking,” he said.

  “You mean you’ll actually do it?”

  “Whatever you say,” he assured her. “Just don’t ask me to go to any beaches wearing a bikini.”

  What had Velma done to herself? She was sporting some gaudy garland of colored paper around her neck, and earrings that appeared to be small bananas. He wouldn’t say so, but it looked like she’d dressed herself out of Emma Newland’s closet.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A lei. Didn’t you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “She’s goin’ on that cruise with Winnie!” said Percy, looking relieved. “Sailin’ over th’ deep blue sea to five ports, an’ eatin’ eight meals a day, includin’ a midnight buffet!”

  “No kidding! That’s perfect! Fantastic!”

  Velma put her hands over her head and wiggled her hips, which wasn’t a pretty sight.

  “Course, I don’t know if they do the hula in St. Thomas.”

  “I don’t think they do,” said the rector. “I believe that’s more of a limbo kind of place.”

  “Stand still,” said J.C. “I’ll take your picture.” He raised the Nikon and banged off four shots of Velma standing at the cash register. “Won’t be front page, but I think I can work it in next to ‘Home Gardenin’ Tips.’ ”

  Coot Hendrick put in his two cents’ worth from the counter. “You ought to have waited and took a snap of Winnie standin’ next to Velma.”

  “You got to jump on news where you find it,” said J.C. “I’m headin’ to th’ booth, I’m starved!”

  “You’re starved?” said Coot. “I’ve done had to eat a table leg to keep my strength.” He despaired that Velma would ever get back to work and bring his regular order of Breakfast Number One with a fountain Pepsi.

  Mule looked worried. “How’s Barnabas?”

  “If pneumonia doesn’t set in, he’ll be fine, thanks for asking. It was bad. Dooley saved his life.”

  “Fancy says to tell you she’s sorry about what happened.”

  “Adele says the same.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go out and see him tomorrow.”

  “Fancy said to ask why you haven’t been around, said to call her anytime, she’ll work you in.” Mule eyed the rector’s head as if searching for chicken mites. “Lookin’ a little scraggly around the collar.”

  So be it. He didn’t care if he looked like John the Baptist on a bad day, he was never setting foot—

  “Th’ Randall place is empty, they moved to California to be with their kids,” said Mule, dispensing a round of late-breaking real estate news. “Winnie’s buyer is breathin’ on her pretty heavy, and Shoe Barn sold this week.”

  “Who to?” asked J.C., spooning yogurt onto half a cling peach.

  “Who else? H. Tide.”

  The editor looked disgusted. “What are they tryin’ to do, anyway, make Mitford a colony of Orlando?”

  “I’ve been wondering,” said the rector, “what H. Tide stands for.”

  “Beats me,” said Mule. “Maybe High Tide. Or Henry Tide, somethin’ like that. Did I hear your deacons got an offer on your house?”

  “They’re not deacons, they’re vestry. And it’s not my house.”

  “They’ll sell it out from under you, I reckon, if they get the right price.”

  “Who knows?” he asked, appearing casual.

  “Lookit,” said J.C., pulling the Muse out of his briefcase. “Hot off th’ press, get your own copy on th’ street.” He turned a couple of pages, folded the paper face out, and laid it on the table.

  An entire page of small-space ads . . .

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Love, Esther and Gene Bolick

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Hope you do the same.

  Tucker, Ginny, and Sue

  We’re stickin with Esther. She’s the best. Sophia and Liza Burton

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Vote your conscience! The Simpson family

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. She does what it talks about in Psalm 72:12. A supporter

  The rector slapped the table. “This is terrific! Terrific! How much do the ads cost?”

  “Forty bucks,” said J.C., pleased with himself.

  “Where did Sophia get forty bucks?”

  J.C. looked uncomfortable. “Don’t ask.”

  “She doesn’t have forty bucks.”

  “So? She wanted to stick up for Esther but didn’t have the money. Big deal, I gave ’er the ad free, but if you tell anybody I said that . . .”

  Mule gave J.C. a thumbs-up. “I don’t care what people say about you, buddyroe, you’re all right.”

  “Look here.” J.C. pointed to a couple of the ads.

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Minnie Lomax, The Irish Woolen Shop

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Dora Pugh, Mitford Hardware

  “Two businesses that aren’t afraid to show their politics in front of God an’ everybody!” said the editor, approving.

  The rector drew a deep breath. Maybe this cloud had a silver lining, after all. He’d certainly drop by and congratulate Minnie and Dora. “You get around town,” he said to J.C. “From where you stand, how’s the election looking?”

  “From where I stand?” J.C. scowled and pushed
the yogurt away. “I’d say that once this edition gets out to th’ readers, it’ll be runnin’ about fifty-fifty.”

  Something or somebody would have to tip the numbers in Esther’s favor, or Edith Mallory would have her claws all over Mitford. This was September fifth, and the election would be hitting the fan less than two months hence. Surely on Sunday he could offer a special prayer, or dedicate the communion service to those who unflaggingly devote themselves to the nobler welfare of the community. And speaking of Psalms, didn’t the reading for Sunday say that “the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped”?

  Ah, well. He remembered that he wouldn’t be in the pulpit on Sunday, he’d be sleeping ’til noon, according to his wife’s plan, and waking up strong, renewed, and altogether carefree.

  “Here,” he said, giving J.C. two tens and a twenty. “Run one for me next week and sign it, ‘A Friend.’ ”

  They stopped at The Local on their way to Meadowgate, to pick up a brisket for Marge Owen. While Cynthia paid their monthly bill, he inspected the contents of the butcher’s case.

  “Father!” It was Winnie Ivey, carrying a ten-pound bag of flour.

  “I’m glad I ran into you, I’ve made a decision! I decided to go on th’ cruise with Velma and not do anything about sellin’ ’til I get back. I told the real estate people to wait, just like you said, and I feel like a different person!”

  She flushed. “Can you believe I did that?”

  “I can! Well done!”

  “They didn’t like it, they tried to push me, they said I might not get another chance. But then, guess what?”

  “What?”

  “They offered me another three thousand, but I said no, I’m goin’ to wait, and that’s that. Besides, thank th’ Lord, I’m up seven percent over this time last year!”

  “You don’t mean it!”

  “I do!” He thought Winnie Ivey looked ten years younger, all of which made him feel immeasurably better into the bargain.

  “You know what?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m gettin’ to where I don’t hardly want to go to Tennessee n’more. Joe said he thought he could get me a job at Graceland, but to tell th’ truth, Father, I never cared much for rock an’ roll.”

  He didn’t have to be George Burns to know that timing was everything.

  According to Buddy Benfield, the Malcolms would be getting back to Mitford around eleven o’clock.

  He was waiting in front of their house when they pulled into the driveway.

  Saturday night, and he was looking at a clean slate. No services tomorrow, no arriving early to unlock the church . . . .

  Thank God he could rest in the morning. Why did he never know he needed refreshment ’til somebody hit him over the head with a two-by-four?

  He ached all over with a weariness he felt even in his teeth.

  Yet, how could he lie here like a hog in slop, when there was so much to be thankful for? He ought to be up and shouting and clicking his heels.

  “How does it feel?” asked his beaming wife, sitting in bed against a stack of pillows.

  “Wonderful. Amazing. Powerful!”

  “Exactly how I felt!”

  “I should have done something like this years ago,” he said.

  “Maybe. But God’s timing is perfect.”

  “Do you really think we should go ahead with . . . ?”

  She nodded. “I think so. It’s a nuisance now, but it will pay off down the road.”

  “Maybe a breezeway someday.”

  “Maybe. But I’d miss popping back and forth through the hedge, wouldn’t you?”

  “Ah, the hedge. Where I first laid eyes on my attractive new neighbor.”

  She laughed happily. “Your doom was sealed.”

  He sat up and took her in his arms and brushed her cheek with his. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  “For what?”

  “For being the woman you are, for putting up with me, for looking after me.”

  “You mean you don’t think I’m a bossy dame?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You know what tomorrow is,” she said.

  “I do. Two years.”

  “Two long years?”

  “Not so long,” he said, kissing her ear. “But alas, I haven’t had a chance to buy—”

  “Don’t buy me anything,” she said, leaning against him. “Don’t give me anything you have to wrap.”

  “You can count on it,” he said, feeling the softness of her shoulders, the blue satin gown . . . .

  She pulled away, laughing. “Maybe we should try to get some sleep, darling. It’s been a long day, a whole string of long days, and besides, now that you’re a home owner, you need to save your strength for all those little chores that crop up—like fixing the foundation where it’s crumbling, and mending the leak over Dooley’s room.”

  “Aha. The vestry won’t be having that done anymore, will they?”

  “That’s right,” she said, kissing him goodnight. “It’s just you and me.”

  “And Harley,” he said, brightening.

  She turned out the light and rolled on her side, and for a time, he listened for her light, whiffling snore.

  He missed his dog and prayed for him, thankful he was mending. He wondered about Dooley, and thought they should call him at school tomorrow, though it might be a trifle soon.

  What’s more, he was concerned that Father Douglas would leave out The Peace—which he was known, on occasion and for no good reason, to do.

  And how would he fix the foundation, anyway? He supposed Harley would know, but what if he didn’t? Probably a little mortar; and some new stones where the old had crumbled and fallen out . . . .

  He rolled on his back and looked at the ceiling—his ceiling, their ceiling, the first ceiling he had ever owned, as soon as the papers were signed. Now she had a house and he had a house. Bookends. After the work on hers was finished, they would live there and rent this.

  “To someone with children!” Cynthia hoped.

  He had liked handing Ron the check for a hundred and five thousand dollars, though it had taken his breath away to write it . . . .

  “Timothy?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re thinking.”

  “Right.”

  “Stop it at once, dearest.”

  He chuckled. “OK,” he said.

  He knew the truth, now, of what Stuart Cullen had written to him several years ago:

  Martha has come in to tell me it is bedtime. I cannot express how wonderful it is to be sometimes told, rather than always doing the telling . . . . There she is again, my friend, and believe me, my wife does not enjoy reminding me twice. That she monitors my energy is a good thing. Otherwise, I would spill it all for Him and have nothing left with which to get out of bed in the mornings. . . .

  He reached for her, and she turned to him, eagerly, smiling in the darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Cup of Kindness

  An early October hurricane gathered its forces in the Caribbean, roared north along the eastern seaboard, and veered inland off Cape Hatteras. In a few short hours, it reached the mountains at the western end of the state, where it pounded Mitford with alarming force.

  Rain lashed Lord’s Chapel in gusting sheets, rattled the latched shutters of the bell tower, blew the tarps off lumber stacked on the construction site, and crashed a wheelbarrow into a rose bed.

  The tin roof of Omer Cunningham’s shed, formerly a hangar for his antique ragwing, was hurled toward Luther Green’s pasture, where the sight of it, gleaming and rattling and banging through the air, made the cows bawl with trepidation.

  Coot Hendrick’s flock of three Rhode Island Reds took cover on the back porch after nearly drowning in a pothole in the yard, and Lew Boyd, who was pumping a tank of premium unleaded into an out-of-town Mustang, reported that his hat was whipped off his head and flung into a boxwood at the town monument, nearly a block away.


  Phone lines went out; a mudslide slalomed down a deforested ridge near Farmer, burying a Dodge van; and a metal Coca-Cola sign from Hattie Cloer’s market on the highway landed in Hessie Mayhew’s porch swing.

  At the edge of the village, Old Man Mueller sat in his kitchen, trying to repair the mantel clock his wife asked him to fix several years before her death. He happened to glance out the window in time to see his ancient barn collapse to the ground. He noted that it swayed slightly before it fell, and when it fell, it went fast.

  “Hot ding!” he muttered aloud, glad to be spared the aggravation of taking it down himself. “Now,” he said to the furious roar outside, “if you’d stack th’ boards, I’d be much obliged.”

  The villagers emerged into the sunshine that followed, dazzled by the spectacular beauty of the storm’s aftermath, which seemed in direct proportion to its violence.

  The mountain ridges appeared etched in glass, set against clear, perfectly blue skies from horizon to horizon.

  At Fernbank, a bumper crop of crisp, tart cooking apples lay on the orchard floor, ready to be gathered into local sacks. The storm had done the picking, and not a single ladder would be needed for the job.

  “You see,” said Jena Ivey, “there’s always two sides to everything!” Jena had closed Mitford Blossoms to run up to Fernbank and gather apples, having promised to bake pies for the Bane just three days hence.

  “But,” said another apple gatherer, “the autumn color won’t be worth two cents. The storm took all the leaves!”

  “Whatever,” sighed Jena, who thought some people were mighty hard to please.

  Balmy. Like spring. It was that glad fifth season called Indian summer, which came only on the rarest occasions.

  He was doing his duties, he was going his rounds, he was poking his nose into everybody’s business. How else could a priest know what was happening?

  He rang the Bolicks. “Esther? How’s it going?”