Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  “Jess?” Dooley said again, sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor.

  Jessie looked at him soberly. Then, standing only a couple of feet away, she slowly lifted her hand and waved at her brother.

  “Hey, Jess.”

  “Hey,” she murmured, beginning to smile.

  It came to him during the night.

  At seven o’clock on Sunday morning he called Hope House, knowing she would be sitting by the window, dressed for church and reading her Bible.

  “Will you do it?” he asked

  “Law, mercy . . .” she said, pondering.

  “For Miss Sadie? For all of us?”

  Louella took a deep breath. “I’ll do it for Jesus!” she said.

  Harley Welch was dressed in a dark blue jacket and pants, a dress shirt that Cynthia had plucked out of Bane contributions and washed and ironed, and a tie of his own. It was, in fact, his only tie, worn to his wife’s funeral thirteen years ago, and never worn since.

  “You look terrific!” exclaimed Cynthia.

  “Yeah!” agreed Dooley.

  “Here!” said the rector.

  Harley took the box and opened what had been hastily purchased at a truck stop in South Carolina.

  “Th’ law, if it ain’t a Mickey watch! I’ve always wanted a Mickey watch! Rev’rend, if you ain’t th’ beat!”

  There went Harley’s grin . . . .

  Driving his crew to Lord’s Chapel, he thought how it was Harley who was the beat. Harley Welch all rigged up for church and wearing a Mickey Mouse watch was still another amazing grace from an endlessly flowing fountain.

  He stood in the pulpit and spoke the simple but profound words with which he always opened the sermon.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.”

  Then, he walked over and sat in the chair next to the chalice bearer, leaving the congregation wondering. This morning, someone else would preach the top part of the sermon—an English clergyman, long dead, and one of his own parishioners, very much alive.

  In the middle of the nave, on the gospel side, Louella Baxter Marshall rose from her pew and, uttering a silent prayer of supplication, raised the palms of her hands heavenward and began to sing, alone and unaccompanied.

  Amazing grace! how sweet the sound

  that saved a wretch like me!

  I once was lost but now am found

  was blind, but now I see.

  The power of her bronze voice lifted the hymn of the Reverend John Newton, a converted slave trader, to the rafters.

  ’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,

  and grace my fears relieved;

  how precious did that grace appear

  the hour I first believed!

  The Lord has promised good to me,

  his word my hope secures;

  he will my shield and portion be

  as long as life endures.

  The words filled and somehow enlarged the nave, like yeast rising in a warm place. In more than one pew, hearts swelled with a message they had long known, but had somehow forgotten.

  For those who had never known it at all, there was a yearning to know it, an urgent, beating desire to claim a shield and portion for their own lives, to be delivered out of loss into gain.

  The rector’s eyes roamed his congregation. This is for you, Dooley. And for you, Poo and Jessie, and for you, Pauline, whom the hound of heaven pursued and won. This is for you, Harley, and you, Lace Turner, and even for you, Cynthia, who was given to me so late, yet right on time . . . .

  Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

  I have already come;

  ’tis grace that brought me safe thus far,

  and grace will lead me home . . . .

  Today was the day. He was ready.

  Ron Malcolm, who had priced Fernbank at three hundred and fifty thousand, suggested they accept an offer of no less than two ninety-five. Fernbank was not only an architecturally valuable structure, even with its flaws, but the acreage was sizable, chiefly flat, and eminently suited for development. At two hundred and ninety-five thousand, give or take a few dollars, it would be a smart buy as well as a smart sell.

  The rector looked toward Fernbank as he walked to the Grill. He couldn’t see the house, but he could see the upper portion of the fern-massed bank, and the great grove of trees.

  A spa?

  As hard as he tried, he couldn’t even begin to imagine it.

  “Softball?” said Percy. “Are you kiddin’ me?”

  “I am not kidding you. August tenth, be there or be square.”

  “Me’n Velma will do hotdogs, but I ain’t runnin’ around to any bases, I got enough bases to cover in th’ food business.”

  “Fine. You’re in. Expect twenty-five from Hope House, twenty or so players . . . and who knows how many in the bleachers?”

  Percy scribbled on the back of an order pad. “That’s a hundred and fifty beef dogs, max, plus all th’ trimmin’s, includin’ Velma’s chili—”

  “Wrong!” said Velma. “I’m not standin’ over a hot stove stirrin’ chili another day of my life! I’ve decided to go with canned from here out.”

  “Canned chili?” Percy was unbelieving.

  “And how long has it been since you peeled spuds for french fries? Years, that’s how long. They come in here frozen as a rock, like they do everywhere else that people don’t want to kill theirselves workin’.”

  “Yeah, but frozen fries is one thing, canned chili is another.”

  “To you, maybe. But not to me.”

  Velma stalked away. Percy sighed deeply.

  The rector didn’t say anything, but he knew darn well their conversation wasn’t about chili.

  It was about a cruise.

  He turned into Happy Endings to see if the rare book search had yielded the John Buchan volume.

  Hope Winchester shook her head. “Totally chimerical thus far.”

  “So be it,” he said. “Oh. Know anybody who plays softball?”

  Ingrid Swenson was, if possible, more deeply tanned than before. He didn’t believe he’d ever seen so much gold jewelry on one person, as his wealthy seasonal parishioners tended to be fairly low-key while summering in Mitford.

  She read from the offer-to-purchase document as if, being children, they couldn’t read it for themselves. Every word seemed weighted with a kind of doom he couldn’t explain, though he noted how happy, even ecstatic, his vestry appeared to be.

  “Miami Development, as Buyer, hereby offers to purchase, and The Chapel of Our Lord and Savior, as Seller, upon acceptance of said offer, agrees to sell and convey—all of that plot, piece or parcel of land described below . . .”

  While some appeared to savor every word as they would a first course leading to the entrée, he wanted to skip straight to the price and the conditions.

  In the interim, they dealt with, and once again agreed upon, the pieces of personal property to be included in the contract.

  “The purchase price,” she said at last, looking around the table, “is one hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars, and shall be paid as follows—twenty thousand in earnest money—”

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  She glanced up.

  “I don’t think I heard the offer correctly.”

  “One hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars.” He noted the obvious edge of impatience in her voice.

  “Thank you,” he said, betraying an edge in his own.

  Buddy Benfield made coffee, which they all trooped into the kitchen to pour for themselves. Ron brought Ingrid Swenson a china cup, not Styrofoam.

  “You do realize,” she said, smiling, “that the electrical system violates all state and local ordinances.”

  Had they realized that?

  She withdrew a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. “Let’s look at the numbers, which is always an informative place to look.

  “The new roof, as you know, is coming in at around forty-
five thousand. The plumbing as it stands is corroded cast-iron pipe, all of which must be removed and replaced with copper.” She sipped her coffee. “Twenty thousand, minimum. Then, of course, there’s the waste-lines replacement and the hookup to city water and sewage at a hundred thousand plus.

  “As to the heating system, it is, as you’re aware, an oil-fired furnace added several decades ago. Our inspection shows that the firebox is burned through.” She sat back in her chair. “I’m sure I needn’t remind you how lethal this can be. Estimates, then, for the installation of a forced warm-air system with new returns and ductwork is in excess of ten thousand.”

  Would this never end?

  “Now, before we move to far brighter issues, let’s revisit the electrical system.”

  There was a general shifting around in chairs, accompanied by discreet coughing.

  “As you no doubt realize, Mr. Malcolm, Father—the attic has parallel wiring, which fails to pass inspection not merely because it is dangerous, but because it is . . .”—the agent for Miami Development Company gazed around the table—“illegal. Throughout the structure, there is exposed wiring not in conduit, all of which, to make a very long story conveniently shorter, is sufficient to have the structure condemned.”

  His heart pounded. Condemned.

  Ron Malcolm sat forward in his chair. “Miss Swenson, have you stated your case?”

  “Not completely, Mr. Malcolm. There are two remarks I’d like to make in closing. One is that the property improvements so far noted will cost the buyer in excess of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. With that in mind, I believe you’ll see the wisdom of selling your . . . distressed property . . . at the very fair price which we’re offering.

  “Now, to address the brighter side. What we propose to do will bring a vital new economy to Mitford. It will strengthen your tax base by, among other things, raising the value of every property in your village. Mr. Malcolm, I believe that you, for one, live on property contiguous to Fernbank. I don’t have to tell you just how great an advantage this will be to your personal assets.

  “Surely, all of you realize that nobody in Mitford could afford to take this uninhabitable property off your hands, and I know how grateful you must be to your own Mr. Stroupe for bringing our two parties together. Lacking the local means to reclaim this property, it would be tragic, would it not, to stand by helplessly while Fernbank, the very crown of your village, is torn down?”

  The agony he felt was nearly unbearable. He wanted desperately to turn the clock back and have things as they were. He fought an urge to flee the smothering confines of this nightmarish meeting and run into the street.

  “In closing, then,” she said, looking into the faces of everyone assembled, “we’re asking that you respond today, or within a maximum of seven days, to our offer—an offer that is as much designed for the good of Mitford as it is designed to accommodate the interests of Miami Development.”

  The rector stood, hearing the legs of his chair grate against the bare floor, against the overwhelmed silence of the vestry members.

  “We will consider your offer for thirty days,” he said evenly.

  She paused, but was unruffled. “Thirty days, Father? I assume you understand that, in the volatile business of real estate, seven days is generous.”

  He saw his vestry’s surprised alarm that he’d seized control of a sensitive issue. However, they silently reasoned, he’d been the liaison with Miss Sadie all these years. They probably wouldn’t have the property at all if it weren’t for the Father.

  “And you do realize,” Ingrid Swenson continued, “that our legal right to withdraw the offer in view of such a delay puts the sale of your property greatly at risk.”

  He said to her what she had said to him only weeks before.

  “Risk, Miss Swenson, has a certain adrenaline, after all.”

  She kissed his face tenderly—both cheeks, his forehead, his temples, the bridge of his nose. “There,” she said, and trotted off to fetch him a glass of sherry.

  He couldn’t recall feeling so weary. Somehow, the road miles to Florida and back were still lurking in him, and the meeting . . . he felt as if it had delivered a blow to his very gut.

  Ron Malcolm had argued that Miami Development was placing far too much emphasis on the flaws of the structure, and far too little on the valuable and outstanding piece of land that went with it. Though Ron made his case convincingly, even eloquently, Ingrid Swenson was not only unmoved, but in a big hurry to get out of there.

  The rector couldn’t dismiss some deeply intuitive sense that the whole thing was . . . he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. But every time he denied his intuitions, trouble followed. He hadn’t turned sixty-three—or was it sixty-four?—without learning a few things, and paying attention to his instincts was one of the precious few things he’d learned.

  But how could he reasonably argue for holding on to a property that may, indeed, end up under the wrecking ball? His vestry hadn’t said it in so many words, but they wanted the blasted thing behind them—their hands washed, and money in the till.

  He put one of the old needlepoint pillows under his head and lay back on the study sofa. His dog sprawled on the rug beside him and licked his hand.

  Dear God! If not for this consolation of home and all that now came with it, where or what would he be?

  Wandering the waysides, a raving maniac . . . .

  “Now that you’ve rested, dearest . . .”

  He knew that look. He knew that look as well as his own face in the mirror.

  She leaned her head to one side in the way he’d never been able to resist. “You have rested, haven’t you?”

  “Well . . .” He didn’t know which way to step.

  “So here’s my idea. You know how formal the dining room is.”

  “Formal?” The dining room she’d painted that wild, heedless pumpkin color?

  “I mean, with the carved walnut highboy from one of the Georges, and those stately chairs with the brocade cushions—”

  “Spit it out, Kavanagh.”

  “I want to move the dining table into the kitchen.”

  “Are you mad?” he blurted.

  “Only for Thursday night,” she said, cool as a cucumber. “You see, Pauline and Harley aren’t dining room people, and neither is Louella, they’d be stiff as boards in that setting. They know our kitchen, it’s like home to them, it’s . . .”

  He couldn’t believe his ears.

  “ . . . it’s what we have to do,” she said, looking him in the eye. “Pumpkin walls notwithstanding, the dining room seems filled with the presence of . . . old bishops!”

  He had definitely, absolutely heard it all.

  Dooley Barlowe was nowhere to be found, and Harley’s strengths lay in other areas of endeavor. It was fish or cut bait.

  They turned the mahogany table on its side and, by careful engineering, managed to get it through the kitchen door without slashing the inlaid medallion in the center.

  He was certain this was a dream; convinced of it, actually.

  That there was hardly room to stand at the stove and cook, once the table was in and upright, was no surprise at all. Could he open the oven door?

  “Perfect!” she said, obviously elated. “We’ll just use that plaid damask cloth of your mother’s.”

  “That old cloth is worn as thin as a moth’s wing. Hardly suitable,” he said, feeling distinctly grumpy.

  “I love old tablecloths!” she exclaimed.

  He sighed. “What don’t you love?”

  “Grits without butter. Dust balls on ceiling fans. Grumpy husbands.”

  “Aha,” he said, going down on his hands and knees to put a matchbook under a table leg.

  At breakfast the next morning, he found the much-larger table with the worn cloth looking wonderful in the light that streamed through the open windows. She had filled a basket with roses from the side garden and wrapped the basket with tendrils of ivy. Her cranberry-c
olored glasses, already set out for the evening meal, caught the light and poured ribbons of warm color across the damask.

  Lovely! he mused, careful not to say it aloud.

  Finding Jessie had been uncannily simple, he thought, walking to the office with Barnabas on his red leash. He had given thanks for this miracle over and over again. The chase, after all, might have led anywhere—or nowhere. But they’d gone straight to the door and knocked, and she had answered.

  He would thank Emma Newland from his very heart, he would do something special for her, but what? Emma loved earrings, the bigger, the better. He would buy her a pair of earrings to end all earrings! No fit compensation for what she had done, but a token, nonetheless, of their appreciation for her inspired and creative thinking.

  He pushed open the office door as Snickers rushed past him, snarled hideously into his own dog’s face, barked at an octave that could puncture eardrums, and peed on the front step—seemingly all at once.

  Barnabas dug in and barked back, grievously insulted and totally astounded. From her desk, Emma shouted over the uproar, “I wouldn’t bring him in here if I were you!”

  The rector saw that urging his dog over the threshold would result in a savage engagement with this desperately overwrought creature, an engagement in which someone, possibly even himself, could be injured.

  Furious, he turned on his heel and stomped toward the Grill, dragging his even more furious dog behind.

  He blew past the windows of the Irish Shop, as Minnie Lomax finished dressing a mannequin whose arms, years earlier, had been mistakenly carted off with the trash.

  “Can’t even get in my own office!” he snorted. “Earrings, indeed!”

  “Not again,” sighed Minnie, watching him disappear up the street.