Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  “Wouldn’t want t’ be steppin’ on one of them,” said Russell, who was supervising.

  They paused only briefly, to sit on the porch and devour a steaming portion of chicken pie, hot from Betty’s oven, and guzzle a quart of tea that was sweet enough to send him to the emergency room.

  Betty apologized. “Hot as it is, your supper ought to be somethin’ cold, like chicken salad, but you men are workin’ hard, and chicken salad won’t stick to your ribs.”

  “Amen!”

  “I want you to come and get your kindlin’ off that pile all winter long, you hear?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  After they ate, he and Dooley and Poo carried and stacked and heaved and hauled, until it was nearly nine o’clock, and dark setting in.

  “You’ve about killed me,” grumbled Dooley.

  “I’ve done sweated a bucket,” said Poo.

  “I’m give out jis’ watchin’,” sighed Russell.

  As for himself, the rector felt oddly liberated. All that pulling up and yanking off and tearing down and pushing over had been good for him, somehow, creating an exhaustion completely different from the labors surrounding his life as a cleric.

  And what better reward than to sit and look across the twilit yard at the mound of wood neatly stacked along the fence, with two boys beside him who had helped make it happen?

  Dooley was inspecting Poo’s new, if used, bicycle, Russell had shuffled off to bed, and Betty had gone in to watch TV. He sat alone with Pauline.

  He didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush. “We need to talk about Jessie.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I can do it,” she said.

  “I need to know everything you can possibly tell me, and the name of the cousin who took her and where you think they might be, and the names of any of your cousin’s relatives—everything.”

  He heard the absolute firmness in his voice and knew this was how it would have to be.

  As she talked, he took notes on a piece of paper he had folded and put in his shirt pocket. Afterward, he sat back in the rocker.

  “If we find Jessie, can you take care of her?”

  “Yes!” she said, and now he heard the firmness in her own voice. “I think about it all the time, how I want to rent a little house and have a tree at Christmas. We never had a tree at Christmas . . . maybe once.”

  His mind went instantly to all that furniture collecting dust at Fernbank. He and Dooley would load up a truck and . . . But he was putting the cart before the horse.

  “There’s something we need to look at, Pauline.”

  “Is it about the drinking?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t crave it anymore.”

  “Alcohol is a tough call. Very tough. Do you want help?”

  “No,” she said. “I want to do this myself. With God’s help.”

  “If you ever want or need help, you’ve got to have the guts to ask for it. For your sake, for the kids’ sake. Can you do that?”

  Betty switched the porch light on, and he saw Pauline’s face as she turned and looked at him. “Yes,” she said.

  “Didn’t want y’all to be setting out there in the dark,” said Betty, going back to her room.

  They were silent again. He heard Poo laughing, and faint snatches of music and applause from Betty’s TV.

  “There’s something you need to know,” she told him.

  He waited.

  “I won’t make trouble, I won’t try to make Dooley come and live with us. He’s doing so well . . . you’ve done so much . . .

  “If he wants to, he can come and stay with us anytime he’s home, but I want you to be the one who . . . the one who watches over him.”

  She was giving her boy away again. But this time, he fervently hoped and prayed, it was for all the right reasons.

  He kissed her on the cheek as he came into the bedroom.

  “Kavanagh . . .” he said, feeling spent.

  “Hello, dearest,” she said, looking worn.

  After he showered, they crawled into bed on their respective sides and were snoring in tandem by ten o’clock.

  “Emma, that program on your computer, that thing that helped you find Albert Wilcox . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “I’d like you to search for these names. I’ve written down the states I think they could be in.”

  “Hah!” she said, looking smug. “I knew you’d get to liking computers sooner or later.”

  Some days were like this. One phone call after another, nonstop.

  “Father? Emil Kettner. We met when Buck Leeper—”

  “Of course, Emil. Great to hear your voice.” Emil Kettner owned the construction company that employed Buck Leeper as their star superintendent.

  “I have good news for you, I think, if the timing works for Lord’s Chapel.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The big job we thought we had fell through, and to tell the truth, I think it’s for the best—as far as Buck’s concerned. He needs a break, but he’d want to be working, all the same. I wondered if we could send him out to you for the attic job.”

  He was floored. This was the best news he’d had since . . .

  “The way he described it, it sounds like six months, tops. I hate to send him on a job that small, I know you understand, but it’s the kind of job he’d find . . . reviving, though he’d never admit it.”

  “We’d be thrilled to have Buck back in Mitford. We’ll look after him, I promise.”

  “You looked after him before, and it worked wonders. There’s been a real change in him, but he still works too hard, too fast, and too much. You won’t hear many bosses complaining about that.”

  They laughed.

  “The money’s in place if we can keep on budget,” said the rector.

  “That’s what Buck’s all about, if you remember.”

  “I do! Well, I can’t say enough for your timing, Emil. Our Sunday School enrollment is mushrooming, I’ve had three baptisms this month, and the month’s hardly begun. When can we expect to see Buck?”

  “A week, maybe ten days. And we can’t give him much support on this project, he’ll be rounding up locals to do the job. How does that sound?”

  “Terrific. The carved millwork in the Hope House chapel is locally done. We’ve got good people in the area.”

  “Well, then, Father, I’ll be looking in on the project like I did last time. Until then.”

  “Emil. Thanks.”

  He’d asked for Buck Leeper to do the attic job, never really believing it could happen, only hoping.

  And—bingo.

  “Father? Buck Leeper.”

  “Buck!”

  He heard Buck take a drag on his cigarette. “You talked to Emil.”

  “I did, and we’re thrilled.”

  “You reckon I could get that cottage again?”

  That dark, brooding cottage under the trees, where the finest construction superintendent on the East Coast had thrown furniture against the wall and smashed vodka bottles into the fireplace? He didn’t think so.

  “Let me look around. We’ll take care of you.”

  “Thanks,” Buck said, his voice sounding gruff.

  And yet, there was something else in his voice, something just under the surface that the rector knew and understood. It was a kind of hope.

  “Father. Ingrid Swenson.”

  Dadgum it, and just when he was having a great day.

  “Ingrid.”

  “We’re very close to getting everything in order. I’d like to personally make a proposal to you and your committee on the fifteenth. I’m sure the timing will be good for Lord’s Chapel.”

  He didn’t especially care for her almighty presumption about the timing.

  “Let me get back to you,” he said.

  “Father, it’s Esther.” Esther Bolick didn’t sound like herself. “This is th’ most awful thing I ever got myself into . . . .”

 
“What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ve never heard such bawlin’ and squallin’ and snipin’ and fussin’ in my life! I’m about sick of workin’ with women, and church women in particular!”

  “Aha.”

  “Why I said I’d do it, I don’t know. Th’ Bane! Of all things to take on, and me sixty-seven my next birthday, can you believe it?” She sighed deeply. “I ought to be sent to Broughton.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “I don’t have to, a whole gang of so-called church workers is thrilled to do it for me!”

  “You want to come for a cup of coffee? Emma’s home today. I’d love to hear more.”

  “I don’t have time to come for a cup of coffee, I don’t have time to pee, excuse me, and Gene hadn’t had a hot meal in I don’t know when!”

  Esther Bolick sounded close to tears. “So even if I can’t come for a cup of coffee, I wish you’d do your good deed for the day and pray for me . . . .”

  “I will. I pray for you, anyway.”

  You do?”

  “Of course. The Bane is a cornerstone event for Lord’s Chapel, and you’ve taken on a big job. But you’ve got a big spirit, Esther, and you can do it. I know it’s easy for me to say, but maybe you could stop looking at the big picture, which is always overwhelming, and just take it day by day.”

  “Day by day is th’ problem! Nearly every day, somebody dumps something else in our garage, and mainly it’s the worst old clothes and mildewed shoes you ever saw! Mitch Lewis backed his truck up to th’ garage, raked out whatever it was in th’ bed, and drove off. Gene said to me, he said, ‘Esther, what’s that mound of stuff layin’ in th’ garage?’ We couldn’t even identify it.

  “We need toaster ovens, we need framed prints and floor lamps and plant stands and such! This sale’s got a reputation to maintain, but so far, I never saw so much polyester in my life, it looks like we’ll never get rid of polyester, they won’t even take it at th’ landfill!”

  He wished he could offer some of the contents of Fernbank, but Miss Sadie hadn’t wanted her possessions picked over. One thing was for certain, he wouldn’t donate those mildewed loafers from the back of his closet . . . .

  “You know the good stuff always comes in,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “It never fails.”

  “There’s always a first time!” she said darkly.

  “Let me ask you—are you praying about this, about the goods rolling in and your strength holding out?”

  “I hope you don’t think th’ Lord would mess with the Bane?”

  “I hope you don’t think He wouldn’t! Tell me again where the funds from the Bane will go.”

  “Mission fields, as you well know, including a few in our own backyard.”

  “Exactly! Some of the money will fly medical supplies to a village where people are dying of cholera. Do you think the Lord would mess with that?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Then there’s the four-wheel drive ambulance they need in Landon,” he said. “Remember the blizzard we had three years ago?”

  “That’s when I had to call an ambulance for Gene, who nearly killed himself shoveling snow! I shouted for joy when I saw it turn the corner. If it hadn’t been for that ambulance . . .”

  “That winter, two children died of burns because nobody could get a vehicle into the coves around Landon.”

  “I think I know where you’re headed with this,” she said.

  “I don’t believe He’ll let Esther Bolick—or the Bane—fail.”

  “Maybe I could ask Hessie Mayhew to help me out, even if she is Presbyterian!” Esther was sounding more like herself.

  “I believe it’s going to be the best Bane yet. Now, about your volunteers—my guess is, they’re moaning and groaning because they need strong leadership, which is why they elected you in the first place! Look,” he said, “I have an idea. Why don’t I pray for you? Right now.”

  “On the phone?”

  “It’s as good a place as any. Try taking a deep breath.”

  “Lately, it’s all I can do to get a deep breath.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.”

  “I didn’t know men ever had trouble gettin’ their breath.”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Standin’ up at the kitchen phone, which is where I’ve been ever since I let myself get roped into this.”

  “Could you get a chair?”

  He heard her drag a kitchen chair from the table, and sit down.

  “OK,” she said, feeling brighter. “But don’t go on and on ’til th’ cows come home.”

  “Fernbank or bust!” cried Cynthia, huffing up Old Church Lane.

  “It’s only taken us a full year to do this.”

  “And it’s all sitting right there, just as you left it.”

  He realized why he had put this off, over and over again. He had ducked into Fernbank a few times to check the roof leaks, and ducked out again as if pursued. To see those empty, silent rooms meant she was gone, utterly and eternally, and even now he could hardly bear the fact of it.

  “This must be a hard time for Louella, the anniversary of—”

  “I’ll see her tomorrow,” he said, doing some huffing of his own. “Let’s have her down to dinner.”

  “I love that idea. Maybe sometime next week? Oh, for a taste of her fried chicken!”

  “We’ll have to settle for a taste of my meat loaf . . . .”

  They were up to the brow of the hill and turning into the driveway, which was overhung by a thicket of grapevines gone wild. Though Fernbank hadn’t been well groomed since the forties, it had still looked imposing and proud during Miss Sadie’s lifetime. Now . . .

  He saw the house, surrounded by a neglected lawn, and felt the dull beating of his heart.

  “Let’s buy it!” he croaked. Good Lord! What had he said?

  She looked astounded. “Timothy, you don’t need a domestic retreat, you need 911. How could you even think such a thing?”

  And why couldn’t he think such a thing? Didn’t a man have a right to his own mind?

  He felt suddenly peevish and disgruntled and wanted to turn around and run home, but he remembered Andrew Gregory was meeting them on the porch in ten minutes.

  Andrew stood in the middle of the parlor and looked up.

  That’s what everyone did, thought the rector—they stared at the water stains like they were some kind of ominous cloud above their heads. Why couldn’t people see the dentil molding, the millwork . . .

  “Beautiful millwork!” said Andrew. “I’ve been here only once before, the day of the wedding reception. I was enchanted by the attention to detail. It’s a privilege to see Fernbank again.”

  “Would you like to see it, stem to stern?”

  “Stem to stern!” said Andrew, looking enthused.

  Two hours later, they were close to a deal.

  “The development firm has unfortunately asked for several of the finest pieces,” said Andrew. He referred to notes that he had hastily jotted as they toured the house.

  “Nonetheless, I’d be interested in the Federal loveseat in Miss Sadie’s bedroom, the Georgian chest of drawers in her dressing room, the three leather trunks in the attic, the chaise in the storage room, which I believe is Louis XIV, the English china dresser, and all the beds in the house, which are exceedingly fine walnut . . . now, let’s see . . . the six framed oils we discussed, which appear to be French . . . and the pine farm table in that wonderful kitchen! It must have been made by a local craftsman around the turn of the century.”

  “Anything else?” asked the rector, feeling like a traitor, a grave robber.

  “In truth, I’d like the dining room suite, but it’s Victorian, and I never fare well with Victorian. There are two chairs on the landing, however—I’m not certain of their origins, but they’re charming. I’ll have those chairs, into the bargain . . . and oh, yes, the contents of the linen dra
wers. I have a customer in Richmond who fancies brocade napery.”

  “Hardly used!” said Father Tim, knowing that Miss Sadie had certainly never trotted it out for him.

  Cynthia roamed around, sounding like a squirrel in the attic, as he went through the miserable ordeal of dismantling someone’s life, someone’s history.

  Miss Sadie’s long letter, which was delivered to him after her death, gave very clear instructions: “Do not offer anything for view at a yard sale, or let people pick over the remains. I know you will understand.”

  Was Andrew picking over the remains? He didn’t think so, he was being a four-square gentleman about the whole thing. Besides, something had to be done with the contents of twenty-one rooms and the detritus of nearly a century.

  “How about the silver hollowware?” asked the rector. He felt like Avis Packard who, after selling and bagging a dozen ears of corn, was trying to get rid of last week’s broccoli. “The, ah, flatware, perhaps?”

  “Well, and why not?” agreed Andrew, looking jaunty. “Who cares if it’s all monogrammed with B, I think I’ll have it for my own!”

  The rector drew a deep breath. This wasn’t so hard.

  “The rugs! How about the rugs?” After all, every cent he raised would go into the Hope House till . . . .

  Andrew smiled gently. “I don’t think Miss Sadie’s father did his homework on the rugs.” He jotted some more and offered a price that nearly floored the rector.

  “Done!” he exclaimed.

  Feeling vastly relieved, he shook Andrew’s hand with undeniable vigor.

  “While you and Andrew toured around like big shots, eyeing major pieces, I was burrowing into minor pieces. Look what I found!”

  His wife’s face was positively beaming.

  “An easel! Hand-carved! Isn’t it wonderful? And look at this—an ancient wooden box of watercolors, two whole compartments full! The cakes are dried and cracked, of course, but they’ll spring back to life in no time at all, with—guess what?—water!”

  He hadn’t seen Christmas make her so jubilant.