Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  “Well?” said Esther. The rector thought she would have made an excellent Mafia don.

  “Coming right up!” he exclaimed, checking his watch and looking pale.

  Cynthia eyed him again. Mood swings, she thought. That seemed to be the key! Definitely a domestic retreat, and definitely soon.

  And since the entire town seemed so demanding of her husband, definitely not in Mitford.

  Nobody paid much attention to the airplane until it started smoking.

  “Look!” somebody yelled. “That plane’s on f’ar!”

  He was sitting on the rock wall when Omer thumped down beside him. “Right on time!” said the mayor’s brother-in-law. “All my flyin’ buddies from here t’ yonder have jumped on this.” The rector thought somebody could have played “Moonlight Sonata” on Omer’s ear-to-ear grin.

  “OK, that’s y’r basic Steerman, got a four-fifty horsepower engine in there. Luke Teeter’s flyin’ ’er, he’s about as good as you can get, now watch this . . .”

  The blue and orange airplane roared straight up into the fathomless blue sky, leaving a plume of smoke in its wake. Then it turned sharply and pitched downward at an angle.

  “Wow!” somebody said, forgetting to close his mouth.

  The plane did another climb into the blue.

  Omer punched him in the ribs with an elbow. “She’s got a tank in there pumpin’ Corvis oil th’ough ’er exhaust system . . . ain’t she a sight?”

  “Looks like an N!” said a boy whose chocolate popsicle was melting down his arm.

  The plane plummeted toward the rooftops again, smoke billowing from its exhaust.

  “M!” shouted half the festivalgoers, as one.

  Esther and Ray and their daughters were joined by assorted grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and in-laws, who formed an impenetrable mass in front of the church booth.

  Gene Bolick limped over from the llamas as the perfect I appeared above them.

  “M . . . I!” shouted the crowd.

  “Lookit this!” said Omer, propping his crutch against the stone wall. “Man, oh, man!”

  The bolt of blue and orange gunned straight up, leaving a vertical trail, then shut off the exhaust, veered right, and thundered across the top of the trail, forming a straight and unwavering line of smoke.

  “M . . . I . . . T!”

  The M was fading, the I was lingering, the T was perfect against the sapphire sky.

  The crowd thickened again, racing back from Mack Stroupe’s campaign headquarters, which was largely overhung by trees, racing back to the grounds of the town museum where the view was open, unobscured, and breathtaking, where something more than barbecue was going on.

  “They won’t be goin’ back to Mack’s place anytime soon,” said Omer. “Ol’ Mack’s crowd has done eat an’ run!”

  “F!” they spelled in unison, and then, “ . . . O . . . R . . . D!”

  Even the tourists were cheering.

  J. C. Hogan sank to the ground, rolled over on his back, pointed his Nikon at the sky, and fired off a roll of Tri-X. The M and the I were fading fast.

  Uncle Billy hobbled up and spit into the bushes. “I bet them boys is glad this town ain’t called Minneapolis.”

  “Now, look,” said Omer, slapping his knee.

  Slowly, but surely, the Steerman’s exhaust trail wrote the next word.

  T . . . A . . . K . . . E . . . S . . ., the smoke said.

  Cheers. Hoots. Whistles.

  “Lord, my neck’s about give out,” said Uncle Billy.

  “Mine’s about broke,” said a bystander.

  C . . . A . . . R . . . E . . .

  “Mitford takes care of its own!” shouted the villagers. The sixth grade trooped around the statue, beating on tambourines, shaking maracas, and chanting something they’d been taught since first grade.

  Mitford takes care of its own, its own,

  Mitford takes care of its own!

  Over the village rooftops, the plane spelled out the rest of the message.

  O . . . F . . . I . . . T . . . S . . . O . . . W . . . N . . .

  TAKES soon faded into puffs of smoke that looked like stray summer clouds. CARE OF was on its way out, but ITS OWN stood proudly in the sky, seeming to linger.

  “If that don’t beat all!” exclaimed a woman from Tennessee, who had stood in one spot the entire time, holding a sleep-drugged baby on her hip.

  Dogs barked and chickens squawked as people clapped and started drifting away.

  Just then, a few festivalgoers saw them coming, the sun glinting on their wings.

  They roared in from the east, in formation, two by two.

  Red and yellow. Green and blue.

  “Four little home-built Pitts specials,” said Omer, as proudly as if he’d built them himself. “Two of ’em’s from Fayetteville, got one out of Roanoke, and the other one’s from Albany, New York. Not much power in y’r little ragwings, they’re nice and light, about a hundred and eighty horses, and handle like a dream.”

  He looked at the sky as if it contained the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, and so did the rector.

  “I was goin’ to head th’ formation, but a man can’t fly with a busted foot.”

  The crowd started lying on the grass. They lay down along the rock wall. They climbed up on the statue of Willard Porter, transfixed, and a young father set a toddler on Willard’s left knee.

  People pulled chairs out of their booths and sat down, looking up. All commerce ceased.

  The little yellow Pitts special rolled over and dived straight for the monument.

  “Ahhhhhh!” said the crowd.

  As the yellow plane straightened out and up, the blue plane nose-dived and rolled over.

  “They’re like little young ’uns a-playin’,” said Uncle Billy, enthralled.

  Miss Rose came out and stood on the back stoop in her frayed chenille robe and looked up, tears coursing down her cheeks for her long-dead brother, Captain Willard Porter, who had flown planes and been killed in the war in France and buried over there, with hardly anything sent home but his medals and a gold ring with the initials SEB and a few faded snapshots from his pockets.

  The little planes romped and rolled and soared and glided, like so many bright crayons on a palette of blue, then vanished toward the west, the sun on their wings.

  Here and there, a festivalgoer tried getting up from the grass or a chair or the wall, but couldn’t. They felt mesmerized, intoxicated. “Blowed away!” someone said.

  “OK, buddy, here you go,” Omer whispered.

  They heard a heavy-duty engine throbbing in the distance and knew at once this was serious business, this was what everyone had been waiting for without even knowing it.

  The Cunningham daughters hugged their children, kissed their mother and daddy, wept unashamedly, and hooted and hollered like banshees, but not a soul looked their way, for the crowd was intent on not missing a lick, on seeing it all, and taking the whole thing, blow by blow, home to Johnson City and Elizabethton and Wesley and Holding and Aho and Farmer and Price and Todd and Hemingway and Morristown . . . .

  “Got y’r high roller comin’ in, now,” said Omer. The rector could feel the mayor’s brother-in-law shaking like a leaf from pure excitement. “You’ve had y’r basic smoke writin’ and stunt flyin,’ now here comes y’r banner towin’!”

  A red Piper Super Cub blasted over the treetops from the direction of the highway, shaking drifts of clouds from its path, trembling the heavens in its wake, and towing a banner that streamed across the open sky:

  ESTHER . . . RIGHT FOR MITFORD, RIGHT FOR MAYOR.

  The Presbyterian brass band hammered down on their horns until the windows of the Porter mansion rattled and shook.

  As the plane passed over, a wave of adrenaline shot through the festival grounds like so much electricity and, almost to a man, the crowd scrambled to its feet and shouted and cheered and whistled and whooped and applauded.

  A few also waved and j
umped up and down, and nearly all of them remembered what Esther had done, after all, putting the roof on old man Mueller’s house, and turning the dilapidated wooden bridge over Mitford Creek into one that was safe and good to look at, and sending Ray in their RV to take old people to the grocery store, and jacking up Sophia’s house and helping her kids, and making sure they had decent school buses to haul their own kids around in bad weather, and creating that thing at the hospital where you went and held and loved a new baby if its mama from the Creek was on drugs, and never one time raising taxes, and always being there when they had a problem, and actually listening when they talked, and . . .

  . . . and taking care of them.

  Some who had planned to vote for Mack Stroupe changed their minds, and came over and shook Esther’s hand, and the brass band nearly busted a gut to be heard over the commotion.

  Right! That was the ticket. Esther was right for Mitford. Mack Stroupe might be for change, but Esther would always be for the things that really counted.

  Besides—and they’d tried to put it out of their minds time and time again—hadn’t Mack Stroupe been known to beat his wife, who was quiet as a mouse and didn’t deserve it, and hadn’t he slithered over to that woman in Wesley for years, like a common, low-down snake in the grass?

  “Law, do y’all vote in th’ summer?” wondered a visitor. “We vote sometime in th’ fall. I can’t remember when, exactly, but I nearly always have to wear a coat to the polls.”

  Omer looked at the rector. The rector looked at Omer.

  They shook hands.

  It was done.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Life in the Fast Lane

  “What I done was give you thirty more horses under y’r hood.”

  “Did I need thirty more horses?” He had to admit that stomping his gas pedal had been about as exciting as stepping on a fried pie. However . . .

  Harley gave him a philosophical look, born from experience. “Rev’rend, I’d hate f’r you t’ need ’em and not have ’em.”

  What could he say?

  On Monday morning, he roared to the office, screeching to a halt at the intersection of Old Church Lane, where he let northbound traffic pass, then made a left turn, virtually catapulting into the parking lot.

  Holy smoke! Had Harley dropped a Jag engine in his Buick?

  Filled with curiosity, he got out and looked under the hood, but realized he wouldn’t know a Jag engine from a Mazda alternator.

  “Can you believe it?” asked Emma, tight-lipped.

  He knew exactly what she was talking about. “Not really.”

  For a while, he thought they’d lost his secretary’s vote to Esther Cunningham’s competition. Last week, however, had turned the tide; she’d heard that Mack Stroupe had bought two little houses on the edge of town and jacked up the rent on a widow and a single mother.

  “Sittin’ in church like he owned th’ place, is what I hear. Why th’ roof didn’t fall in on th’ lot of you is beyond me.”

  “Umm.”

  “Church!” she snorted. “Is that some kind of new campaign trick, goin’ to church?”

  He believed that particular strategy had been used a time or two, but he didn’t comment.

  “The next thing you know, he’ll be wantin’ to join. If I were you, I’d run his hide up th’ road to th’ Presbyterians.”

  He laughed. “Emma, you’re beautiful when you’re mad.”

  She beamed. “Really?”

  “Well . . .”

  “So, what did he do, anyway? Did he kneel? Did he stand? Did he sing? Can you imagine a peckerwood like Mack Stroupe singin’ those hymns from five hundred years ago, maybe a thousand? Lord, it was all I could do to sing th’ dern things, which is one reason I went back to bein’ a Baptist.”

  She booted her computer, furious.

  “I heard Lucy was with him, wouldn’t you know it, but that’s the way they do, they trot their family out for all the world to see. Was she still blond? What was she wearin’? Esther Bolick said it was a sight the way the crowd ganged up at the museum watchin’ the air show, and that barbecue sittin’ down the street like so much chicken mash.”

  She peered intently at her screen.

  “Well,” she said, clicking her mouse, “has the cat got your tongue? Tell me somethin’, anything! Were you floored when he showed up at Lord’s Chapel, or what?”

  “I was. Of course, there’s always the possibility that he wants to turn over a new leaf . . . .”

  “Right,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “and Elvis is livin’ at th’ Wesley hotel.”

  As much as he liked mail, and the surprise it was capable of bringing, he let the pile sit on Emma’s desk until she came back from lunch.

  “No way! I can’t believe it!” She held up an envelope, grinning proudly. “Albert Wilcox!”

  She opened it. “Listen to this!

  “ ‘Dear one and all, it was a real treat to hear from you after so many years. My grandmother’s prayer book that gave us such pain—and delight—sits on my desk as I write to you, waiting to be handed over to the museum in Seattle, which is near my home in Oak Harbor . . . .’ ”

  She read the entire letter, which also contained a great deal of information about Albert’s knee replacement, and his felicitations to the rector for having married.

  “Have you ever? And all because of modern technology! OK, as soon as I open this other envelope, I’ve got a little surprise for you. Close your eyes.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Face the bookcase!” she said.

  He faced the bookcase.

  He heard fumbling and clicking. Then he heard Beethoven.

  The opening strains of the Pastorale fairly lifted him out of his chair.

  “OK! You can turn around!”

  He didn’t see anything unusual, but was swept away by the music, which seemed to come from nowhere, transforming the room.

  “CD-ROM!” announced his resident computer expert, as if she’d just hung the moon.

  He went home and jiggled Sassy and burped Sissy, as Puny collected an ocean of infant paraphernalia into something the size of a leaf bag.

  After a quick trot through the hedge to say hello to his hardworking wife, he and Dooley changed into their old clothes. They were going to tear down Betty Craig’s shed and stack the wood. He felt fit for anything.

  “Let’s see those muscles,” he challenged Dooley, who flexed his arm. “Well done!” He wished he had some to show, himself, but thinking and preaching had never been ways to develop muscles.

  What with a good job, plenty of sun, and a reasonable amount of home cooking, Dooley Barlowe was looking good. In fact, Dooley Barlowe was getting to be downright handsome, he mused, and tall into the bargain.

  Dooley stood against the doorframe as the rector made a mark, then measured. Good heavens!

  “I’ll be et for a tater if you ain’t growed a foot!” he exclaimed in Uncle Billy’s vernacular.

  Soon, he’d be looking up to the boy who had come to him in dirty overalls, searching for a place to “take a dump.”

  They were greeted in the backyard by Russell Jacks and Dooley’s young brother.

  “I’ve leaned th’ ladder ag’inst th’ shed for you,” said Russell.

  “Half done, then!” The rector was happy to see his old sexton.

  Poo Barlowe looked up at him. “Hey!”

  “Hey, yourself!” he replied, tousling the boy’s red hair. “Where were you on Saturday? We missed you at the town festival.”

  “Mama took me to buy some new clothes.” The boy glanced down at his tennis shoes, hoping the rector would notice.

  “Man alive! Look at those shoes! Made for leaping tall buildings, it appears.”

  Poo grinned.

  “Want to help us pull that shed down?”

  “It ain’t hardly worth pullin’ down,” said Poo, “bein’ ready t’ fall down.”

  “Don’t say ain’t,” commanded his older brothe
r.

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause it ain’t good English!” Realizing what he’d just said, Dooley colored furiously.

  Father Tim laughed. He’d corrected Dooley’s English for three long years. “You’re sounding a lot like me, buddy. You might want to watch that.”

  Betty Craig ran down the back steps.

  “Father! Law, this is good of you. I’ve been standin’ at my kitchen window for years, lookin’ at that old shed lean to the south. It’s aggravated me to death.”

  “A good kick might be all it takes.”

  “Pauline’s late comin’ home, she called to say she’d be right here. Can I fix you and Dooley some lemonade? It’s hot as August.”

  “We’ll wait ’til our work is done.”

  “Let’s get going,” said Dooley.

  Father Tim opened the toolbox and took out a clawhammer and put on his heavy work gloves. He’d never done this sort of thing before. He felt at once fierce and manly, and then again, completely uncertain how to begin.

  “What’re we going to do?” asked Dooley, pulling on his own pair of gloves.

  He looked at the shed. Blast if it wasn’t bigger than he’d thought. “We’re going to start at the top,” he said, as if he knew what he was talking about.

  He had removed the rolled asphalt with a clawhammer, pulled off the roofboards, dismantled the rafters, torn off the sideboards with Dooley’s help, then pulled nails from the corners of the rotten framework, and shoved what was left into the grass.

  Running with sweat, he and Dooley had taken turns driving the rusty nails back and pulling them out of every stick and board so they could be used for winter firewood.

  Dooley dropped the nails into a bucket.