Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  He and Cynthia had already prayed the prayer that never fails regarding the rectory, but he felt the need to pray it again.

  Barnabas laid his head on his master’s foot.

  “Ah, fella,” he sighed, nudging his good dog’s neck with the toe of his loafer.

  The sound came through the open bedroom windows—a terrible screeching noise, a loud thud, the high-pitched yelping of a dog. Dooley was shouting.

  He bolted to the front window and looked down on Wisteria Lane.

  Good God! Barnabas lay in the street with Dooley bending over him.

  He didn’t remember racing down the stairs, but seemed to be instantly in the street with Dooley, crouching over Barnabas, hearing the horrific sound that welled up from his own gut like a long moan.

  Blood ran from his dog’s chest, staining the asphalt, and he reached out . . . .

  “Don’t touch ’im!” shouted Dooley. “He’ll bite. We got t’ muzzle ’im! Git Lace! Git Lace!”

  The rector was on his feet and running for the house, calling, shouting. “And git me some towels!” yelled Dooley. “He’s got a flail chest, I got t’ have towels!”

  His heart was pounding into his throat. Dear God, don’t take my dog, don’t take this good creature, have mercy!

  Lace flew through the door. “Help Dooley!” he said, running toward the guest bathroom, where he picked up an armload of towels, then turned and sprinted up the hall and down the steps and into the street in a nightmarish eternity of slow motion.

  “Give me that thing on your head,” Dooley told Lace, “and help me hold ’im! We got to muzzle ’im or he’ll bite, look, do it this way, hold ’im right here.”

  Father Tim could hardly bear the look of his dog, suffering, whimpering, thrashing on the asphalt, as fresh blood poured from the wound in his chest.

  Dooley tied the bandanna around the dog’s nose and mouth, and knotted it. “Okay,” he said, taking off his T-shirt. “Don’t look, you can see ’is lungs workin’ in there.” He pressed the balled-up shirt partially into the gaping wound; immediately, the dark stain of blood seeped into the white cotton.

  “Give me a towel,” Dooley said, clenching his jaw. He took the towel and wrapped the heaving chest, making a bandage. “Another one,” said Dooley, working quickly. “And git me a blanket, we got t’ git ’im to Doc Owen. He could die.”

  The rector ran into the house, praying, sweat streaming from him, and opened the storage closet in the hall. No blankets. The armoire! He could die.

  Christ, have mercy. He dashed up the stairs and flung open the door of the armoire and grabbed two blankets and ran down again, breathless, swept out of himself with fear.

  Cynthia, come home . . . he could die.

  “Spread ’em down right there,” Dooley told the rector. “Help ’im,” he said to Lace.

  They spread the blankets, one on top of the other, next to Barnabas, as a car slowed down and stopped. “Can we help?” someone called.

  “You can pray!” shouted Lace, waving the car around them.

  Together, they managed to move Barnabas onto the blankets. “Careful,” said Dooley, “careful. He’s in awful pain, and his leg’s broke, too, but they ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now, we got to hurry. Where’s Harley?”

  “He walked t’ town,” said Lace, her face white.

  “Git his keys, they’re hangin’ on th’ nail. Back ’is truck out here, we’ll put Barnabas in th’ back, an’ you’n me’ll ride with ’im.”

  She raced to the house as Dooley, naked to the waist, crouched over Barnabas and put his hand on the dog’s head. “It’s OK, boy, it’s OK, you’re goin’ t’ be fine.”

  “Thank You, Jesus, for Your presence in this,” the rector prayed. “Give us your healing hands . . . .”

  They heard Lace gun the truck motor and back out of the driveway. She hauled up beside them and screeched to a stop, the motor running.

  “Let down th’ tailgate,” said Dooley. Lace jumped out of the truck and let it down.

  “Grab this corner of th’ blanket with me,” he said to Lace. “Dad, you haul up that end. Take it easy. Easy!”

  The dog’s weight seemed enormous as they lifted him into the truck bed. “OK, boy, we’re layin’ you down, now.”

  Lace and Dooley climbed up with Barnabas and gently positioned the whimpering dog in the center of the bed. Then Dooley slammed the tailgate and looked at the rector.

  “Hurry,” he said.

  They blew past Harley, who was walking home on Main Street. He turned to look after them, bewildered.

  In twenty-five minutes, Barnabas was on the table at Meadowgate, and Hal Owen and Blake Eddistoe were at work. “You’d better not come in,” said Dooley, closing the door to the surgery.

  The rector sat with Lace in the small waiting room. A fan droned overhead. The front door stood open to a yard where four chickens scratched in the grass.

  His legs had turned to rubber when he got out of the truck a few minutes ago. He had driven like the wind, praying without ceasing, making the half-hour run in twenty minutes. Twice, he glanced behind him, through the window of the cab, to see Dooley give him the high sign.

  Lace looked firm. “I believe he’s goin’ to make it.”

  “I believe that with you,” he said, taking her hand. “You were wonderful.”

  “I like your dog,” she said.

  Barnabas would stay at Meadowgate for a couple of weeks, recovering. The leg would mend; it was a clean break. But the chest wound, apparently caused by the violent assault of the chassis when the vehicle ran over him, would take longer, and could even open the door to pneumonia.

  Bottom line, it would be a while before Barnabas would go jogging with his master.

  The rector went into the surgery, where Hal had made a comfortable bed on the floor, and looked at Barnabas sleeping, his chest swaddled in bandages, his left leg stiff in the splint. He watched for his breathing, then knelt and put his hand on his forepaws, which were curled together peacefully.

  He wept, tasting the salt in his mouth.

  Afterward, they sat in Hal’s office, drinking Marge Owen’s iced tea, trying to reconstruct the chain of events.

  He supposed he had fallen asleep in the chair in the bedroom, with Barnabas lying at his feet. When Barnabas heard Dooley go downstairs, he followed, and at the moment Dooley opened the front door to look for Tommy, Barnabas saw a squirrel on the lawn.

  “I didn’t even know he was standin’ there,” said Dooley, “and then he was through the door so fast I couldn’t have stopped him.” Dooley, sitting bare-chested in his jeans and tennis shoes, dropped his head.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” said Father Tim. “A dog is a dog. He saw the squirrel and did what dogs do. It could have happened with me just as easily.”

  “Right,” said Hal. “The issue isn’t that you opened the door, it’s that you saved his life.”

  “I agree,” said Lace, her amber eyes intense.

  “I don’t want to go back to school,” said Dooley. “I want to stay here and look after Barn.”

  Hal leaned against the wall, lighting his pipe. “You can trust me to do that, pal. I’ll even give you a report once a week. How’s that?”

  “No kidding? You will?”

  “You bet. Leave me your new phone number at school. Just write it on the wall over there, everybody else does.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Lace, “is why the person who hit ’im didn’t stop.”

  Dooley shrugged. “It happened so fast . . . . I saw Barnabas run after the squirrel, and then the car . . . I don’t know what kind of car it was. Maybe brown, I think it was brown.”

  Father Tim phoned Cynthia, who was frantic. A neighbor across the street told her Barnabas had been hurt and the preacher had taken him to the hospital. Harley reported he’d seen his truck roaring up Main Street, but didn’t have any idea what was going on.

  “He’s going to be fine, Timothy,” said Hal.
“I’ll watch him carefully for any signs of pneumonia. You know we love Barnabas like family. We won’t let him suffer.”

  Marge nodded. “It’s true, Tim. And Blake and Rebecca and I will also look after him.”

  Still, he felt like a heel for leaving his dog.

  Blake Eddistoe walked into the yard with them and shook hands with Dooley. “Well done,” he said.

  At the truck, Dooley suddenly turned and said, “You ought to let me drive.”

  When it came to persistence, the kid was a regular Churchill. He tossed him the keys.

  Dooley’s eyes grew bigger. “You mean it?”

  “All the way to the highway.”

  Dooley, now wearing one of Hal’s shirts, opened the driver’s door. “Get in,” he said to Lace. “You can ride in th’ middle.”

  He was glad the Meadowgate road to the highway seemed a little longer than he remembered, glad for the boy’s sake. He wished the road could go all the way to Canada before it reached the highway.

  He was home and in the shower before it hit him.

  Today, for the first time, Dooley Barlowe had called him “Dad.”

  Driving to Virginia, part of Miss Sadie’s letter ran through his mind.

  . . . the money is his when he reaches the age of twenty-one. (I am old-fashioned and believe that eighteen is far too young to receive an inheritance.)

  I have put one and a quarter million dollars where it will grow, and have made provisions to complete his preparatory education. When he is eighteen, the income from the trust will help send him through college.

  I am depending on you never to mention this to him until he is old enough to bear it with dignity. I am also depending on you to stick with him, Father, through thick and thin, just as you’ve done all along.

  The question of sticking with Dooley had been answered nearly four years ago; he was in for the long haul. The question of when the boy might bear such information with dignity was another matter.

  In truth, if he’d ever seen dignity, he’d seen it yesterday in the street. Dooley had acted with the utmost precision, wisdom, and grace.

  Even so, something cautioned him about speaking of the inheritance. Soon before they reached the school, he knew the answer, and the answer was, “Wait.”

  “Buddy?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When you come home at Christmas, I’ll loan you the keys to the Buick.”

  Ah, the bright hope that leapt into the boy’s face . . . .

  “There’s only one problem.”

  The bright hope dimmed.

  “You’ll have to do your driving on back roads, and I’ll have to ride in the backseat.”

  Dooley munched one of the cookies Lace had sent along. “OK,” he said, grinning, “but try and hunker down so nobody can see you.”

  He rang Buddy Benfield to ask when the contract would be signed. “Whenever Ron gets back,” said the junior warden, clearly uncomfortable to be talking to a man who would soon be evicted.

  “Timothy.”

  His wife was sitting on the back stoop, having her morning coffee and looking determined about something.

  “I want you to call Father Douglas to lead the service for you on Sunday.”

  “Whatever for?” he asked.

  “Because you’re exhausted.”

  She didn’t argue, she didn’t nag. She just stated the fact, and looked at him with her cornflower-blue eyes, meaning business.

  “All right,” he said.

  She was clearly surprised. “I suppose I should quit while I’m ahead . . .”

  “Probably.”

  “ . . . but I’d also like you to plan to sleep late on Sunday morning. None of that padding around in your slippers at five a.m., like a Christmas elf.”

  “Keep talking,” he said.

  “You mean you’ll actually do it?”

  “Whatever you say,” he assured her. “Just don’t ask me to go to any beaches wearing a bikini.”

  What had Velma done to herself? She was sporting some gaudy garland of colored paper around her neck, and earrings that appeared to be small bananas. He wouldn’t say so, but it looked like she’d dressed herself out of Emma Newland’s closet.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A lei. Didn’t you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “She’s goin’ on that cruise with Winnie!” said Percy, looking relieved. “Sailin’ over th’ deep blue sea to five ports, an’ eatin’ eight meals a day, includin’ a midnight buffet!”

  “No kidding! That’s perfect! Fantastic!”

  Velma put her hands over her head and wiggled her hips, which wasn’t a pretty sight.

  “Course, I don’t know if they do the hula in St. Thomas.”

  “I don’t think they do,” said the rector. “I believe that’s more of a limbo kind of place.”

  “Stand still,” said J.C. “I’ll take your picture.” He raised the Nikon and banged off four shots of Velma standing at the cash register. “Won’t be front page, but I think I can work it in next to ‘Home Gardenin’ Tips.’ ”

  Coot Hendrick put in his two cents’ worth from the counter. “You ought to have waited and took a snap of Winnie standin’ next to Velma.”

  “You got to jump on news where you find it,” said J.C. “I’m headin’ to th’ booth, I’m starved!”

  “You’re starved?” said Coot. “I’ve done had to eat a table leg to keep my strength.” He despaired that Velma would ever get back to work and bring his regular order of Breakfast Number One with a fountain Pepsi.

  Mule looked worried. “How’s Barnabas?”

  “If pneumonia doesn’t set in, he’ll be fine, thanks for asking. It was bad. Dooley saved his life.”

  “Fancy says to tell you she’s sorry about what happened.”

  “Adele says the same.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go out and see him tomorrow.”

  “Fancy said to ask why you haven’t been around, said to call her anytime, she’ll work you in.” Mule eyed the rector’s head as if searching for chicken mites. “Lookin’ a little scraggly around the collar.”

  So be it. He didn’t care if he looked like John the Baptist on a bad day, he was never setting foot—

  “Th’ Randall place is empty, they moved to California to be with their kids,” said Mule, dispensing a round of late-breaking real estate news. “Winnie’s buyer is breathin’ on her pretty heavy, and Shoe Barn sold this week.”

  “Who to?” asked J.C., spooning yogurt onto half a cling peach.

  “Who else? H. Tide.”

  The editor looked disgusted. “What are they tryin’ to do, anyway, make Mitford a colony of Orlando?”

  “I’ve been wondering,” said the rector, “what H. Tide stands for.”

  “Beats me,” said Mule. “Maybe High Tide. Or Henry Tide, somethin’ like that. Did I hear your deacons got an offer on your house?”

  “They’re not deacons, they’re vestry. And it’s not my house.”

  “They’ll sell it out from under you, I reckon, if they get the right price.”

  “Who knows?” he asked, appearing casual.

  “Lookit,” said J.C., pulling the Muse out of his briefcase. “Hot off th’ press, get your own copy on th’ street.” He turned a couple of pages, folded the paper face out, and laid it on the table.

  An entire page of small-space ads . . .

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Love, Esther and Gene Bolick

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Hope you do the same.

  Tucker, Ginny, and Sue

  We’re stickin with Esther. She’s the best. Sophia and Liza Burton

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Vote your conscience! The Simpson family

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. She does what it talks about in Psalm 72:12. A supporter

  The rector slapped the table. “This is terrific! Terrific! How much do the ads cost?”

  “Forty bucks,” said J.C., pleased with himself
.

  “Where did Sophia get forty bucks?”

  J.C. looked uncomfortable. “Don’t ask.”

  “She doesn’t have forty bucks.”

  “So? She wanted to stick up for Esther but didn’t have the money. Big deal, I gave ’er the ad free, but if you tell anybody I said that . . .”

  Mule gave J.C. a thumbs-up. “I don’t care what people say about you, buddyroe, you’re all right.”

  “Look here.” J.C. pointed to a couple of the ads.

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Minnie Lomax, The Irish Woolen Shop

  We’re stickin’ with Esther. Dora Pugh, Mitford Hardware

  “Two businesses that aren’t afraid to show their politics in front of God an’ everybody!” said the editor, approving.

  The rector drew a deep breath. Maybe this cloud had a silver lining, after all. He’d certainly drop by and congratulate Minnie and Dora. “You get around town,” he said to J.C. “From where you stand, how’s the election looking?”

  “From where I stand?” J.C. scowled and pushed the yogurt away. “I’d say that once this edition gets out to th’ readers, it’ll be runnin’ about fifty-fifty.”

  Something or somebody would have to tip the numbers in Esther’s favor, or Edith Mallory would have her claws all over Mitford. This was September fifth, and the election would be hitting the fan less than two months hence. Surely on Sunday he could offer a special prayer, or dedicate the communion service to those who unflaggingly devote themselves to the nobler welfare of the community. And speaking of Psalms, didn’t the reading for Sunday say that “the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped”?

  Ah, well. He remembered that he wouldn’t be in the pulpit on Sunday, he’d be sleeping ’til noon, according to his wife’s plan, and waking up strong, renewed, and altogether carefree.