Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  “I’ll just take Sissy and go looking,” he said.

  “If she cries, jiggle ’er!”

  Wanting to be proactive, he started jiggling at once.

  He walked through the backyard, ignoring the dandelions that lighted his lawn like so many small, yellow fires. No, indeed, he would not get obsessive over the dandelions this spring, he would not dig them out one by one, as he had done in former years. Dandelions come and dandelions go, and there you have it, he thought, jiggling. Wasn’t he a man heading into retirement? Wasn’t he a man learning to loosen up and live a little?

  Sissy gurgled and squirmed in his arms.

  “Timothy!”

  It was his wife, trotting through the hedge and looking like a girl.

  “You’ll never guess what!”

  “I can’t guess,” he said, leaning over to kiss her. He tucked the branch of lilac in her shirt pocket as Sissy socked him on the chin.

  “Thank you, dearest! Mule just called to say someone’s interested in Fernbank! He tried to ring you at the office, but you’d left. Can you imagine? It’s someone from out of town, he said, a corporation or something. Run and call him, and I’ll take Sissy!”

  Why didn’t he feel joyful as he went to the phone in his study? He didn’t feel joyful at all. Instead, he felt a strange sense of foreboding.

  He lay on his side, propped up on his elbow. “I thought about you today,” he said, shy about telling her this simple thing.

  She traced his nose and chin with her forefinger. “How very odd! I thought about you today.”

  “It was the five o’clock coffee that did it,” he said, kissing her.

  “Is that what it was?” she murmured, kissing him in return.

  Perhaps almost anyone could love, he thought; it was the loving back that seemed to count for everything.

  He tossed the thing onto a growing pile.

  A man who had time to dig dandelions was a man with time to waste, he thought.

  While he had no time at all to do something so trivial, he found he couldn’t help himself. He’d been lured into the yard like a miner lured to veins of gold.

  There were, needless to say, a hundred other things that needed doing more:

  The visit to Fernbank’s attic, and get cracking now that a possible buyer was on the scene.

  Fertilize the roses.

  Mulch the beds.

  Get up to Hope House and talk to Scott Murphy . . . .

  Scott was the young, on-fire chaplain that he and Miss Sadie had hired last year. Ever since he’d come last September, they’d tried to find time to run together, but so far, it hadn’t worked. Scott was like the tigers in a favorite childhood story—he was racing around the tree so fast, he was turning into butter.

  The new chaplain not only held services every morning, but was making personal rounds to every one of the forty residents, every day.

  “It’s what I was hired to do,” he said, grinning.

  In addition, he’d gotten the once-controversial kennel program up and running. In this deal, a Hope House resident could “rent” a cat or a dog for up to two hours a day, simply by placing an advance order for Hector, Barney, Muffin, Lucky, etc. As the rector had seen on his visits to Hope House, this program doled out its own kind of medicine.

  Evie Adams’s mother, Miss Pattie, who had been literally out of her mind for a decade, had taken a shine to Baxter, a cheerful dachshund, and was, on certain days, nearly lucid.

  Every afternoon, the pet wagon rolled along the halls at Hope House, and residents who weren’t bedridden got to amuse, and be amused by, their four-legged visitors. There were goldfish for those who couldn’t handle the responsibility of a cat or dog, and, for everyone in general, Mitford School kept the walls supplied with bright posters.

  “I’ll be dadgum if I wouldn’t like to move in there,” said several villagers who were perfectly able-bodied.

  He sat back on his heels and dropped the weed-puller. What about the Creek community? Hadn’t he and Scott talked last year about doing something, anything, to bring some healing to that place? It was overwhelming even to think about it, and yet, he constantly thought about it.

  And Sammy and Kenny and Jessie . . . there was that other overwhelming, and even more urgent issue, and he had no idea where to begin.

  He dug out a burdock and tossed it on the pile.

  And now this. A corporation? That didn’t sound good. Mule hadn’t known any details, he had merely talked on the phone with a real estate company who was making general inquiries about Fernbank.

  “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 dru
gs, 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.”