by Jan Karon
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 good!”
“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.
“ . . . but it seems to me that people who can’t stand shouldn’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean all those people you get in th’ summer who don’t know an Episcopal service from a hole in the ground, and think they have to do all th’ stuff th’ pew bulletin tells ’em to do. I mean, some of those people are old as the hills, and what does th’ bulletin say? Stand, kneel, sit, stand, bow, stand, kneel, whatever! It’s a workout.”
“True.”
“So why don’t we do what they do at this Presbyterian church I heard about?”
“And what’s that?” He noticed that his teeth were clenched.
“Put a little line at the bottom of the bulletin that says, ‘Those who are able, please stand.’ ”
Who needed the assistance of a curate or a deacon when they had Emma Newland to think through the gritty issues facing the church today?
As he left the office for Mitford Blossoms, Andrew Gregory hailed him from his shop across the street.
“We go three months without laying eyes on each other,” said the genteel Andrew, “and now—twice in a row!”
“I prefer this arrangement!”
“Before pushing off to Italy, I have something for your Bane and Blessing. I’ll be back in only a month, but what with making room for the Fernbank pieces, I find I’ve got to move other pieces out. Would you mind having my contribution a dash early?”
“Mind? I should say not. Thrilled would be more like it.” He could imagine Esther Bolick’s face when she heard she was getting antiques from Andrew Gregory.
Talk about an answer to prayer . . . .
He climbed the hill, slightly out of breath, carrying the purple gloxinia, and stood for a moment gazing at the impressive structure they had named Hope House.
But for Sadie Baxter’s generosity, this would be little more than the forlorn site of the original Lord’s Chapel, which had long ago burned to the ground. Now that Miss Sadie was gone, he was the only living soul who knew what had happened the night of that terrible fire.
Ah, well. He could muddle on about the fire, or he could look at what had risen from the ashes. Wasn’t that the gist of life, after all, making the everyday choice between fire and phoenix?
Louella sat by her sunny window, with its broad sill filled with gloxinias, begonias, philodendron, ivy, and a dozen other plants, including a bewildered amaryllis from Christmas.
Dressed to the nines, she opened her brown arms wide as he came in. “Law, honey! You lookin’ like somebody on TV in that blue coat.”
He leaned eagerly into her warm hug and returned it with one of his own.
“Have you got room for another gloxinia?”
“This make three gloxinias you done brought me!”
That’s what he always took people; he couldn’t help it.
“But I ain’t never had purple, an’ ain’t it beautiful! You’re good as gold an’ that’s th’ truth!”
He set it on the windowsill and thumped down on the footstool by her chair. “How are you? Are they still treating you right?”
“Treatin’ me right? They like to worry me to death treatin’ me right. Have a stick of candy, eat a little ice cream wit’ yo’ apple pie, let me turn yo’ bed down, slip on these socks to keep yo’ feet toasty . . .” She shook her head and laughed in the dark chocolate voice that always made a difference in the singing at Lord’s Chapel.
“You’re rotten, then,” he said, grinning.
&nb
sp; “Rotten, honey, and no way ’round it. That little chaplain, too, ain’t he a case with them dogs runnin’ behind ’im ever’ whichaway?”
“Are you still getting Taco every week?”
“Taco done got mange on ’is hip and they tryin’ to fix it.”
“You could have a cat or something ’til Taco gets fixed.”
“A cat? You ain’t never seen Louella messin’ wit’ a cat.”
“Are you working in the new garden?”
“You ain’t seen me messin’ wit’ a hoe, neither. Nossir, I done my duty, I sets right here, watches TV, and acts like somebody.”
“Well, I’ve got a question,” he said.
Louella, whose salt-and-pepper hair had turned snow-white in the past year, peered at him.
“Will you come to dinner at the rectory next Thursday? Say yes!”
“You talkin’ ’bout dinner or supper?”
“Dinner!” he said. “Like in the evening.” Louella, he remembered, called lunch “dinner,” and the evening meal “supper.”
“I doan hardly know ’bout goin’ out at night,” she said, looking perplexed. “What wit’ my other knee needin’ t’ be operated on . . .”
“I’ll hold on to you good and tight,” he said, eager for her to accept.
“I doan know, honey . . . .”
“Please,” he said.
“Let ‘Amazin’ Grace’ be one of th’ hymns this Sunday and I’ll do it,” she said, grinning. “We ain’t sung that in a month of Sundays, an’ a ’piscopal preacher wrote it!”
“Done!” he said, relieved and happy. He had always felt ten years old around Miss Sadie and Louella.
He took the stairs to the second floor to see Lida Willis.
He didn’t have to tell her why he’d come.
Lida tapped her desk with a ballpoint pen, still looking stern. “She’s doing well. Very well. We couldn’t ask for better.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, meaning it.
He found Pauline in the dining room, setting tables with the dishes Miss Sadie had paid to have monogrammed with HH . A lifelong miser where her own needs were concerned, she had spared no expense on Hope House.
“Pauline, you look . . . wonderful,” he said.
“It’s a new apron.”
“I believe it’s a new Pauline.”
She laughed. He didn’t think he’d heard her laugh before.
“I have a proposal.”
She smiled at him, listening.
“Will you come to dinner next Thursday night and bring Poo? Dooley will be with us, and Harley and Louella.”
He could see her pleasure in being asked and her hesitation in accepting.
“Please say yes,” he requested. “It’s just family, no airs to put on, and we’ll all be wearing something comfortable.”
“Yes, then. Yes! Thank you . . . .”
“Great!” he said. “Terrific!”
He’d heard people ask, “If you could have anyone, living or dead, come to dinner, who would it be?” Shakespeare’s name usually came up at once; he’d also heard Mother Teresa, the Pope, St. Augustine, Thomas Jefferson, Pavarotti, Bach, Charles Schultz . . .
For his money, he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather be having for dinner than the very ones who were coming.
He found Scott Murphy at the kennels.
“That’s Harry,” said Scott, pointing to a doleful beagle. “He’s new.”
“Looks like an old bishop I once had.”
“That’s Taco over there.”
“How’s his mange?”
“You know everything!”
“I wish.”
“I’ve been thinking,” said the chaplain. “I’d like to get my crowd out of here, take them to—I don’t know, a baseball game, a softball game, something out in the fresh air where they can hoot and holler and—”
“Eat hotdogs!”
“Right!”
“Great idea. I don’t know who’s playing around town these days . . . .”
“Maybe you and I could get up our own game? Sometime in August?”
“Well, sure! Before Dooley goes back to school.”
“I’ll start looking for players.”
“Me, too,” said the rector.
A softball game!
He felt like tossing his hat in the air. If he had a hat.
“Bingo!” said Emma, handing him the computer printout of names and addresses.
The vestry had said what he thought they’d say, virtually in unison: “Let’s get on with it!”
Yes, they wanted Ingrid Swenson and her crew to come on the fifteenth. It was unspoken, but the message was clear—let’s unload that white elephant before the roof caves in and we have to get a bank loan to pick up the tab.
He asked Ron Malcolm to call her immediately after the meeting.
There were quite a few R. Davises in the state of Florida, according to the printout, but Lakeland was the only town or city with a Rhody Davis. “Starts with a L,” Russell Jacks had said of Rhody’s dimly recalled whereabouts in Florida.
He was disappointed, but not surprised, that Rhody Davis had an unlisted phone number.
He called Stuart Cullen.
“Who do you know in Lakeland, Florida? Clergy, preferably.”
“Let me get back to you.”
By noon, he was talking to the rector at a church in Lakeland’s inner city. It was an odd request, granted, but the rector said he’d find someone to do it.
The next morning, he got the report.
“Our junior warden drove by at nine o’clock in the morning, and a car was parked by the house. Same at three in the afternoon, and again at eight in the evening. Lights were on in the evening, but no other signs of anyone being around. Maybe this will help—there was a tricycle in the front yard. I used what clout my collar can summon, but no way to get the phone number.”
“Ever make it up to our mountains?” asked Father Tim.
“No, but my wife and I have been wanting to. A few of my parish go every summer.”
“We’ve got a guest room. Consider it yours when you come this way.”
It was a long shot, but he knew what had to be done.
“I don’t want t’ worry you, Rev’rend, that’s th’ last thing I’d want t’ do, but th’ boy ragged me nearly t’ death, an’ I done like you’d want me to and told ’im no, then dern if I didn’t leave m’ key in th’ ignition, an’ since all he done was back it out and pull it in, I hope you won’t lick ’im f’r it, hit’s th’ way a boy does at his age, hit’s natural . . . .”
Harley looked devastated; the rector felt like a heel.
“Maybe you ought t’ let me take ’im out to th’ country an’ put ’im behind th’ wheel. In two years, he’s goin’ t’ be runnin’ up an’ down th’ road, anyhow, hit’d be good trainin’. I’d watch ’im like a hawk, Rev’rend, you couldn’t git a better trainer than this ol’ liquor hauler.”
“I don’t know, Harley. Let me think on it.”
“What’s it all about?” he asked his wife, sighing.
“Hormones!” she exclaimed.
Mitford, he noted, was becoming a veritable chatterbox of words and slogans wherever the eye landed.
The mayoral incumbent and her opponent had certainly done their part to litter the front lawns and telephone poles with signage, while the ECW had plastered hand-lettered signs in the churchyard and posters in every shop window.
Even the Library Ladies were putting in their two cents’ worth.
14th annual Library Sale
10-4, July 28
Book It!
You Don’t Want It? We Do!
34th Annual Bane and Blessing
MACK STROUPE:
Mack For Mitford,
Mack For Mayor
Esther Cunningham:
Right For Mitford
Right For Mayor
Clean Out Attics In Mitford
Help Dig Wells
In Africa!
Cunningham Cares.
Vote Esther Cunningham
For Mayor
YOUR BANE IS OUR BLESSING .
Lord’s Chapel, October 4
Mack Stroupe:
I’ll Make What’s
Good Even Better
He thought he’d seen enough of Mack Stroupe’s face to last a lifetime, since it was plastered nearly everywhere he looked. Worse than that, he was struggling with how he felt about seeing Mack’s face in his congregation every Sunday morning.
When he dropped by her office at seven o’clock, the mayor was eating her customary sausage biscuit. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Three bites, max, and that sausage biscuit was out of here. But who was he to preach or pontificate? Hadn’t he wolfed down a slab of cheesecake last night, looking over his shoulder like a chicken poacher lest his wife catch him in the act?
Oh, well, die young and make a good-looking corpse, his friend Tommy Noles always said.
“If Mack Stroupe’s getting money under the table,” he said, “isn’t there some way—”
“What do you mean if? He is gettin’ money under the table. I checked what it would cost to put up those billboards and—get this—four thousand bucks. I called th’ barbecue place in Wesley that helps him commit his little Saturday afternoon crimes—six hundred smackers to run over here and set up and cook from eleven to three. Pitch in a new truck at twenty-five thousand, considering it’s got a CD player and leather seats, and what do you think’s goin’ on?”
“Isn’t he supposed to fill out a form that tells where his contributions come from? Somebody said that even the media can take a look at that form.”
She wadded up the biscuit wrapper and lobbed it into the wastebasket. “You know what I always tell Ray? Preachers are the most innocent critters I’ve ever known! Do you think th’ triflin’ scum is goin’ to report the money he’s gettin’ under th’ table?”
“Maybe he’s actually getting enough thousand-dollar contributions legally to pull all this together. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”