Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  “I’ve done got a joke t’ tell you, Preacher.”

  “Shoot!” he said. “And tell Harley, while you’re at it.”

  Miss Rose sniffed and stomped away.

  “Rose don’t like this ’un,” said Uncle Billy. “Well, sir, a feller died who had lived a mighty sinful life, don’t you know. Th’ minute he got down t’ hell, he commenced t’ bossin’ around th’ imps an’ all, a-sayin’ do this, do that, and jump to it. Well, sir, he got so dominatin’ that th’ little devils reported ’im to th’ head devil who called th’ feller in, said, ‘How come you act like you own this place?’

  “Feller said, ‘I do own it, my wife give it to me when I was livin’.’ ”

  Harley bent over and slapped his leg, cackling. Father Tim laughed happily. Oh, the delight of an Uncle Billy joke.

  “Seein’ as you like that ’un, I’ll tell you ’uns another’n after we’ve eat.”

  “I’ll keep up with you,” promised the rector.

  Aha, there was a fellow clergyman, heedlessly exposing his political views. Bill Sprouse of First Baptist bowled over with his dog, Sparky, on a leash. “Sparky and I were out walking, Esther hailed us in.”

  “You stuck with Esther at the polls, I devoutly hope.”

  “Is the Pope a Catholic?”

  “You bet,” said the rector, shaking his colleague’s hand. “Reverend Sprouse, Harley Welch.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Harley. I heard you’re mighty good with automobiles. Here lately, my car’s been actin’ funny, don’t know what th’ trouble is, makes a real peculiar sound. Kind of like ooahooojigji-gooump. Like that.”

  Harley nodded, listening intently. “Might be y’r fan belt.”

  Ray Cunningham strode up, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Got you boys some ribs laid on back there, I want you to eat up. Harley, be sure and get with me before you leave. I got a awful knock in my RV engine.”

  “What time do you think we’ll know somethin’?” wondered Bill Sprouse.

  “Oh, ’bout nine,” said Ray, who, after eight elections, considered himself heavily clued in.

  The rector backed away from Sparky, who seemed intent on raising his leg on his loafer.

  “For th’ Lord’s sake, Sparky!” the preacher hastily picked up his dog, whereupon Sparky draped himself over his master’s arm, looking doleful.

  “Esther’s got Ernestine Ivory up at th’ polls where the countin’s goin’ on,” said Ray. “She’ll run down here when it’s all over, shoutin’ th’ good news. Well, come on, boys, and don’t hold back, I been standin’ over a hot stove all day.”

  Omer rolled in, flashing a fugue in G major. “Ninth term comin’ up!” he said to his sister-in-law, giving her a good pounding on the back.

  Uncle Billy yawned hugely. “Hit’s way after m’ bedtime,” he said as the clock struck nine. Miss Rose, who even in her sleep looked fierce, was snoring in a blue armchair transported years ago from the mayor’s family room. In her hands, Miss Rose clutched several tightly sealed baggies of take-outs.

  “Won’t be long,” announced Ray. “Doll, does Ernestine have the cell phone? She ought to at least be callin’ in with a status report.”

  The phone rang as if on cue, making several people jump.

  “Speak of th’ devil,” said Bill Sprouse, who often did.

  The mayor bounded across the room to her desk. “Hello? Ernestine? Right. Right.”

  Every eye in the room was on Esther Cunningham, as the color drained slowly from her face.

  “You don’t mean that, Ernestine,” she said in a low voice.

  Everybody looked at everybody else, wondering, aghast.

  Esther slowly hung up the phone.

  “Mack Stroupe,” she said, unbelieving, “is th’ mayor of Mitford.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  New Every Morning

  In the stunned silence that followed the announcement of Mack Stroupe’s win, Ernestine Ivory delivered yet another confounding report:

  He had won by one vote.

  Esther Cunningham’s various red splotches congregated as a single flame as she dialed the Board of Elections bigwig at home and demanded a recount on the following Thursday.

  No problem, he said.

  Feeling Ray’s supper turned to stone in their alarmed digestive systems, and not knowing what else to say or do, nearly everyone fled for home.

  Looking ashen, Uncle Billy shook Miss Rose awake. “Esther’s lost,” he said.

  “Esther’s boss?” shouted Miss Rose. “She’s always been boss, and always will be, so what’s the commotion?”

  As the Lord’s Chapel bells tolled seven a.m., he left home with Barnabas and turned north on Main Street. Following Hal’s orders, they could now cover a couple of blocks of their running route, but only at normal walking speed.

  As they passed Sweet Stuff, he saw Thomas, attired in an apron and baker’s hat, putting a tray of something illegal in the window. The big, dark-haired fellow looked up and smiled, waving.

  This was only the second time he’d laid eyes on Thomas Kendall, yet it seemed as if the jovial baker had always been there. His face was utterly comfortable and familiar.

  “Father!”

  He was hoofing past the office building and closing in on the Grill when he turned around and saw Winnie. She waved furiously. “Can you come back a minute?”

  Barnabas yanked the leash from his hand and galloped toward Winnie, who always smelled like something good to eat. Before she could duck, he lunged up to give her face a proper licking.

  “Oh, no!” she whooped.

  “The Lord is good to those whose hope is in Him,” bellowed the rector, “His compassions never fail!”

  Barnabas sprawled on the sidewalk, obedient. He could not, however, resist licking the powdered sugar off Winnie’s shoes.

  “They are new every morning! Great is his faithfulness!” Barnabas sighed, desisted, and rolled over on his back.

  “Amen!” shouted Winnie. “You said my verse!”

  “What’s up with you on this glorious day?”

  “Can you come in a minute, Father? We were going to call you today, we have somethin’ special to tell you.” He thought she might begin jumping up and down.

  They trooped into the bakery, as Thomas came through the curtains with yet another tray from the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Father! Top of the day! It’s baclava!” The rector felt his knees grow weak as Thomas displayed the tray of honey-drenched morsels under his very nose; Barnabas salivated.

  “Please have one,” urged Winnie. “I never made baclava in my life, but Thomas is an expert.”

  Thomas decided they should all thump down and have a diamond-shaped piece of the flaky baclava. This moment’s indiscretion would cramp his food exchanges for a week, mused the rector. How could he be such a reckless gambler when he appeared so altogether conservative?

  “Guess what?” said Winnie, unable to wait any longer.

  “I can’t guess,” he replied, although, in truth, he thought he might be able to.

  “Thomas isn’t going back to Kansas City.”

  “Aha.”

  “Not to live, anyway.”

  “Father,” said Thomas, “I’d like to ask you for Winnie’s hand in marriage.”

  “Aha!” Was Thomas Kendall a man of character? Would he be good for Winnie? He’d simply have to trust his instincts, which, as far as he could tell, had no reservations at all.

  “He’s th’ one, Father,” Winnie said with conviction. “God sent him.”

  “Well, then!”

  The men laughed, then stood and embraced, slapping each other on the back. The rector pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Oh, for gosh sake!” said Winnie, dabbing her eyes with the hem of her apron.

  “I’ll be gladder than glad to give you her hand in marriage, Thomas, but Winnie, what about your brother? Shouldn’t he have the say in this?”

  Winnie beamed. “
Joe told us to ask you. He said whatever you say is fine with him.” She looked proudly at the gentle man beside her.

  “Would you perform the ceremony, Father? Sometime in early January? I need to run back to Kansas to see my mother and pack up a few boxes. I’ve lived on and off a cruise ship for fifteen years, so I haven’t accumulated much.” Thomas’s large hand covered Winnie’s.

  “Velma will be matron of honor,” Winnie said, barely able to contain her joy.

  The rector took Winnie’s other hand.

  “May the Lord bless you both!” he said, meaning it.

  “Hello, Father Kavanagh here—”

  “Town Hall, tomorrow at four o’clock,” said Esther Cunningham darkly. “I told th’ Lord I’d give up sausage biscuits. Pray!”

  “I am praying!” he exclaimed.

  “Timothy?” Cynthia looked thoughtful. “About your hair . . .”

  Not again.

  “You could drive to Charlotte.”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  “You could forgive Fancy Skinner, and—”

  “I have forgiven Fancy Skinner, which has nothing to do with the fact that I will never set foot in her chair again.”

  She eyed him. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “Never,” he said, eyeing her back.

  He was there at three forty-five, as was nearly everyone else, as far as he could see. Even Esther Bolick turned up, with Gene, who looked worried.

  Mack Stroupe stood near the door, shaking hands as if the event were in his honor. He frequently stepped outside to smoke, where he flipped the butts into the pansy bed.

  Esther Cunningham steamed in with Ray, their five beautiful daughters, and a mixture of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, including Sissy and Sassy, who had come in tow with Puny, straight from day care. He lifted Sissy into his arms and sat next to Puny in the block of seats occupied by the Cunningham contingent.

  “This is the most aggravation in th’ world,” announced his house help. “I had to let your toilets go to come over here and mess with this foolishness.”

  “You can let my toilets go anytime,” he said, jiggling Sissy.

  She glared at Mack Stroupe, who was laughing his loud, whinnying laugh and talking with a band of supporters. “If I wadn’t a Christian, I’d march over there an’ scratch his eyes out!” She examined her nails, as if she might really consider doing such a thing.

  Joe Joe Guthrie, Puny’s husband and the Cunninghams’ grandson, slipped in next to them. “What do you think, Father?”

  Joe Joe looked at him the way so many had looked at him over the years, as if he could prophesy exactly how things would turn out. It was not one of the ways he enjoyed being looked at.

  The recounting was labored, taking nearly three hours. People milled around, going in and out, smoking, muttering, laughing. Some of those accustomed to an early dinner drove over to the highway, wolfed down a pizza, and returned smelling of pepperoni.

  Others stayed glued to their seats, counting every vote with the three Board of Elections officials. Sassy fell asleep, while Sissy tore around the hall as if on wheels.

  At a little before seven, he moved across the aisle to sit with the Bolicks. “The end is near,” said Gene, looking worn.

  The votes were running neck and neck. Mack or Esther would pull ahead in the counting, and then the other would catch up and move ahead.

  As the stack of ballots slowly dwindled, the laughing and muttering, hooting and yelping died down.

  Something had better happen here pretty quick, he thought, as the last three ballots were held up and counted.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” exclaimed the Board of Elections official, “according to the recount, which ya’ll have witnessed here with your own eyes . . . it’s a tie.”

  A communal gasp resounded through the hall, followed by murmurs and shouts.

  “What we do . . .” the elections official said, trying to speak over the hubbub. The hubbub escalated wildly.

  He pounded the mayor’s podium with the gavel. “According to th’ by-laws, what we do in such a case is . . . we flip a coin.”

  The rector leaned forward in his chair. Flip a coin? You determine the well-being of a whole town by flipping a coin?

  “God help us,” said Esther Bolick.

  He saw that Esther Cunningham had turned deathly pale. Where were the fiery splotches, the indomitable spirit? Come on, Esther . . .

  He prayed the prayer that never fails.

  “Ladies first,” said the elections official. “Heads . . . or tails?”

  Breathless silence.

  Esther Cunningham stood and peered into the crowd as if she were about to deliver the Gettysburg Address.

  “Heads!” she said in a voice that thundered beyond the back row and bounced off the wall.

  The elections official looked toward the door. “Mr. Stroupe?”

  Mack Stroupe shrugged.

  The official put his hand into his pocket and brought it out again, looking embarrassed. “Ah, anybody got a nickel or a dime?”

  Someone rushed to give him a quarter, as the other two officials drew near, ready to verify the outcome.

  He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and bowed slightly over the coin. Then, working his mouth silently as if uttering an official oath, he flipped it.

  Around Town

  —by Vanita Bentley

  Last night, in the parish hole of Lord’s Chapel, Bane and Blessing co-chairs Esther Bolick and Hessie Mayhe, were feted at a supper in their honor.

  Along with nearly eighty voluntears, some from other Mitford churches, Bolck and Mayhew raised $22,000 and were praised for their “heroic endeavor” by Father Timothy Kavanagh.

  “Hero simply means someone who models the ideal” said Rev. Kavanagh, “and these voluntears have done this for all of us.

  “Also, a hero can be someone who saves lives in a valiant way and these voluntears have almost certainly done that, as well.”

  The reverend said Bane proceeds have been used for food and medical supplys to Zaiear, pure well water in several east African villages, and a ambulance for Landon, where two children died last yr for lack of medical ade.

  “The Bane has always been a blessing to others,” he said. “But this year, thanks to the outstanding organizational skills of two women and their willingness to serve as unto the Lord, we may all celebrate a special triumph for His kingdom.”

  Bolk and Mayew were presented with plaques and other voluntears were each given a bag of goodies by local merchants.

  Mrs. Bvolk whose jaws were wired shut due an accident reported here previously got to request a special dinner of mashed potatoes and gravey to celebrate being able to eat real food again.

  If time does, indeed, fly, it was the season when it became a Concorde jet, as far as the rector was concerned.

  Following the annual All-Church Thanksgiving Feast, which, thankfully, was held this year at First Baptist, events went into overdrive.

  Cynthia drove Dooley back to school on St. Andrew’s Day, while the rector prepared the sermon for the first Sunday of Advent and began the serious business of trying to juggle the innumerable Advent activities, not the least of which was Lessons and Carols, to be performed this year on a grand scale with the addition of a visiting choir and an organist from Cambridge, England, all of whom would stay over in parish homes for five days and participate in the Advent Walk on December 15, after which everyone would come to the rectory for a light supper in front of the fire.

  “Light supper, heavy dessert,” said Cynthia, paging frantically through their cookbooks.

  He panted just thinking about it all, and so did his wife, who was making something for everyone on her list, and running behind.

  “Whatever you do,” she told him at least three times, “don’t look in there.” Upon saying this, she would point to the armoire, which he always stayed as far away from as possible.

  Then, of course, there was the an
nual trek into the woods at the north end of the Fernbank property, to hew down a Fraser fir with the Youth Group, which would become the Jesse tree in front of the altar, followed by a visit to the Sunday School to discuss the meaning of the ornaments the children would be making for the tree, and the courtesy call on the Christmas pageant rehearsal, which this year, much to the shock of the parents and the dismay of at least two teachers, would be done in modern dress, inspired by the recent success of the movie Hamlet in which Hamlet had worn blue jeans with what appeared to be a golf shirt.

  “What will we do with all these wings?” wailed a teacher who had voted for traditional costumes, and lost.

  He made himself scarce whenever the wrangling over the pageant issue erupted, and gave himself to the more rewarding annual task of negotiating with Jena Ivey for forty-five white poinsettias and the cartload of boxwood, balsam, fir, and gypsophila to be used on Christmas Eve for the greening of the church.

  “Why can’t you do the negotiating?” he once asked a member of the Altar Guild.

  “Because she likes you better and you get a better price,” he was told. This notion of improved economics had engraved the mission in stone and caused it to belong, forever, to him.

  He had to remember to order the Belgian chocolates for the nurses at the hospital, and meet with the organist and choir director to thrash through the music for the Christmas Eve services, and put in his two cents’ worth about the furniture being ordered for the new upstairs Sunday School rooms, and call Dooley’s schoolmate’s parents to see if they’d bring him to Mitford on their way to Holding, and check to see if anybody was going to visit Homeless Hobbes and sing carols with him this year, and go through what Andrew Gregory didn’t want at Fernbank and help Harley haul it to Pauline’s tiny house behind the post office so it would look like a home in time for . . .