by Jan Karon
But why should she get involved with sick children, she sniffed, which would only make her feel depressed? Besides, where would she find the time? She recited a stunning list of real estate that Pat Mallory had left in her care, including the Shoe Barn and the surrounding property on the highway, not to mention the building that housed the Main Street Grill.
He stood at last in front of the fire, so drowsy and exhausted from the long day, the heavy dinner, Edith's tearful monologue, and the warmth of the room, that he had to steel himself against dropping down prostrate.
At eleven o'clock, Ed Coffey appeared, hat in hand, reporting the car was stalled and it would be awhile before he could get it going. It seems rain had got under the hood, somehow.
A likely story, he thought miserably. Now it was too late to call Dooley and say he'd been detained. Of course, the boy had the Mallorys' number in case he was worried. But chances were, Dooley was sleeping soundly, emitting that light, whiffling snore that he hoped was not a case of adenoids gone haywire.
The rain was still rattling the skylights as if a (ull batallion were marching over them. He would be lost out there in the storm, his umbrella ripped out of his hand and tossed into a tree, and no light to see by for miles. If, by grace, he made it to town, he might as well go straight to the hospital and check into the emergency room, as he would shortly be dying of pneumonia.
He sat on the sofa, defeated, only to have Edith grasp his knee. Would this never end?
"Edith," he said firmly, in the voice he knew Emma hated, "it's been a long day, and we both need rest. I think I'll just move to the armchair and have a nap while Ed works on the car."
"Don't you want to see my trump lloyd?" she asked piteously.
In reply, he stalked to the armchair and sat down, folding his arms across his chest as tight as armor plating. Just in case, he also crossed his legs and squeezed his eyes shut.
He deserved this. He had asked for it. He might as well have gotten down on his hands and knees and begged for it. Why hadn't he asked Lew to charge the battery the day after he got home, so he could have driven here under his own steam?
If she laid a hand on him, what could he do besides run for it? Perhaps a coma, if worse came to worst. If he remembered correctly, one simply blanked out and fell down. That, however, could be the most compromising position he could put himself into.
If he ever got out of this one, he would...what? He would tell Cynthia he would like to go steady.
There it was. The thought that had been waiting to be revealed, waiting to take him by surprise. And yet, he wasn't surprised.
Instead, he was struck by the irrevocable understanding that Cynthia Coppersmith was a rare find, indeed. Her sweetness, her candor, her joie de vivre and fresh beauty—why had he been so long in appreciating it? And why not enjoy the unexpected gift of happiness that her companionship would surely bring?
He felt a relieved smile spreading over his face and something like freedom in his heart.
Edith sat down on the arm of his chair. "Ummmm," she crooned, "you look cozy."
Enveloped at once by the smell of perfume and stale tobacco, he refused to open his eyes. "I am not cozy," he said through clenched teeth. "I am wanting my bed and a decent night's sleep."
"And you shall soon have it!" she snapped. "When will you ever loosen up?"
He drove toward home with a haggard Ed Coffey at daylight, neither of them speaking. The rain had subsided to a wan drizzle.
What if someone saw him bowling along in Edith Mallory's car at five o'clock in the morning? He slid so far down into the leather that he was sitting on his spine.
What if they passed Percy Mosely, who often arrived at the Grill at five o'clock to do his bookkeeping and load the coffeepots?
Or what if Winnie Ivey spied him on her way to the bakery?
When they pulled to the curb at the rectory, all that could be seen of him was the top of his head, covered by a tweed cap. The five-minute drive had felt like the better part of a day.
Ed turned around as the rector opened the door. The message in the eyes of the exhausted chaffeur was clear: I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen.
He took Ed's hand. "God bless you," he said with feeling.
As he started around the side of the house to the back door, he saw something pink in the hedge. It was Cynthia, in a robe and gown with her hair full of curlers. She stared at him as Ed Coffey pulled quietly away from the curb.
He stared back for one agonizing moment, seeing a certain message in her eyes, as well. She was holding a dripping Violet, who had very likely stayed out all night.
He raised one hand, as if to salute his neighbor, but she turned and dashed through the hedge, the robe flying behind like a coronation mantle. Standing there in the drizzling rain, he heard her back door slam.
His lunch with Miss Sadie and Louella made him feel as if he'd really come home.
He realized he had taken a positive shine to their white bread, and even the processed cheese seemed to possess a certain delicacy.
"I never got Olivia Davenport's hats to her," Miss Sadie confessed.
"Two whole months of good intentions and nothing more! But Louella and I are going up to the attic this very week and bring them down, aren't we, Louella?"
Over the pineapple sherbet, his hostess said she wanted to have a meeting with him before too long. Not today, she said, but soon. He remembered other meetings with Miss Sadie and how something major always resulted. In this faded house among the ferns, a bright idea was inevitably taking form.
He told her about the garden statuary, about the mosscovered St. Francis with the missing arm, the seated Virgin with the child, the figure of Jesus carrying a lamb, and the host of wingless cherubs. "Beautiful pieces! A round dozen in all. We'll see to having them restored and put in the church gardens."
"I can't seem to remember them," she said. "We never returned to the churchyard after the fire. It was as if there had been a terrible death, and we never spoke of it. We never even glanced that way when we went down the road.
"But for years, when I looked out my window to the hill where the steeple used to stand against the sky, there was an awful emptiness there, as if something had been stolen from the heavens."
Louella looked at him and shook her head. "Honey, it was mournful."
"Louella, do you think you ought to call the father honey?"
"I think she should," said the rector.
"Well, then," said Miss Sadie. "Papa did everything he could to get the new church going, and we were having services before the roof was even on. Remember, Louella, we used to sit in canvas chairs like you take to a horse event, with just the framing around us. That was a beautiful time, a healing time—the fresh lumber, the new beginning. I remember the way our hymns sounded, out in the open like that, with nothing but grass and trees to catch the music. It was sweet and simple, like the early settlers must have worshiped.
"I remember Absalom came around one Sunday morning. He stood in the back holding his hat and his Bible, and afterward, he walked out front and said to us, 'I'm so sorry' He was meaning the fire, of course, and everything else.
"You know, Father, I would give anything if I could have fallen in love with Absalom Greer."
Something had to be done, but he couldn't figure out what.
He had called over and over, only to get some odd scrap of message from her answering machine. He had pounded on her door in a thunderstorm but couldn't find her. He had promised to make good on that silly wish but had done absolutely nothing about it. And now, this.
Flowers. He would send flowers.
He couldn't remember sending flowers to anyone before, save his own cut roses. On the other hand, how would it look to tumble out of some woman's car at daylight, only to send flowers to the woman who caught you redhanded? It didn't seem smart.
He would write a note, then. He was fairly decent at penning his thoughts, after all. Dear Cynthia.
He sto
od and stared out the office window.
Dearest Cynthia.
My dear Cynthia.
Cynthia.
He could go on like this for hours. Perhaps even days. Blast!
"You need a haircut," said Emma. He had forgotten she was in the room.
"What else?" he asked sarcastically.
"You need to be seein' more of your neighbor."
He was walking home in a thick fog, wondering when the crisp, blue skies of autumn might appear. He would go to the country, then, perhaps to the very same place he had sat with Cynthia on the quilt, and let Barnabas run until he fell over with joy.
Dearest Cynthia, I remember the day on the quilt...
He could feel his face grow warm. That opening seemed too direct. Yet, faint heart never won fair lady.
...I remember the day on the quilt, and it's a memory I will always cherish.
How could he not always remember the way she had lain on her back like a girl, looking up at the clouds and seeing Andrew Jackson, and the way she laughed at him when the bull turned and skulked away? And certainly he could never forget the way she had leaned against him, so soft and supple, as he stroked her cheek. They had talked about not letting the path through the hedge grow over; he had said they mustn't let it happen. But how many times had he used that path since he came home a full ten days ago? Just once, as he fled homeward in a downpour.
But he was getting off the point. The point was that he had been remiss and that he was sorry and wanted to make it right. He especially wanted to say that what she'd seen was misleading—he could explain everything.
Dearest Cynthia...
He realized he had walked past his corner and was standing helplessly in front of the Main Street Grill. This very thing was only one of the reasons why he had never wanted to lose his heart to anyone.
If Homeless Hobbes had lived in town, the rector was certain he couldn't have confided a word of what he had on his mind. That his friend lived in the woods on Little Mitford Creek, however, was different.
He didn't have the wits to refuse the cup of coffee Homeless brewed at five o'clock in the afternoon. He watched him fill the cup as if he were seeing it happen to someone else.
Homeless was barefoot and wearing a new pair of burgundy pants with galluses. He snapped one brace against his undershirt. "Good as new! Fresh out of th' dumpster."
"That's where Miss Rose does most of her shopping."
"See these pants? I never wanted two pairs. Now I got two pairs. They was layin' right there with th' galluses. I couldn't turn 'em down."
"A new look for fall."
"I hope m' britches don't go to my head."
"I never heard of that particular thing happening to anyone, so I wouldn't worry about it."
"They's somethin' worryin' you, I vow."
The rector raised his cup in a salute. "You've got a good eye."
"I don't know if it's th' eye as much as th' gut. Right here." Homeless thumped himself below the ribs.
"There is something worrying me. I hate to admit it."
"You can admit what you need to back here on the creek."
How in heaven's name was he supposed to talk about it? In all his years as a priest, there had been only one friend to whom he could pour out his innermost conflicts. That friend was now his bishop, and he didn't want to trouble Stuart Cullen with what could seem a triviality.
He sat looking at the steaming black coffee, wondering how long it could keep him awake. Well past Thanksgiving, he decided, taking a reckless swallow.
He was grateful that Homeless didn't urge him on to confession but sat quietly himself. The stove door stood open to reveal a low fire, made with a few sticks of wood to cheer the place against the eternal drumming of rain on the roof.
It wouldn't stay light forever, and walking home along the dark creek in the rain was nothing to look forward to.
He felt as if he were stepping off a cliff when he spoke. "It's a woman," he said.
Homeless looked at him without blinking. "Lord, have mercy."
•CHAPTER TWO•
"BUT WHO WOULD HAVE SENT ME A MICROWAVE?" he wanted to know.
Puny threw up her hands. "Don't ask me."
"And who am I to ask, for heaven's sake? Weren't you here when it was delivered?"
She shrugged.
"Come on, Puny. Who did this low thing?"
"They was goin' to give you a VCR," she said, "so I told 'em t' send a microwave."
"I won't have it in my kitchen. I knew this would happen someday. It's insidious the way these things take over people's lives."
"How can it take over your dern life if you don't even use it? Who does most of th' cookin' around here, anyway? If I want to heat up some soup for your lunch, I can do it while you're comin' through th' door. If Dooley wants a hamburger, whap, in it goes, out it comes, instead of me slavin' over a hot stove to feed that bottomless pit.
"You don't have to touch it. You don't have to lay a finger on it. I'll cover it with a sheet when I leave of an evenin' if that'll suit you any better."
"Who?" he asked darkly.
"Those vestry people."
"Them again," he said.
"They were jis' tryin' to be helpful."
Helpful! Since when did a vestry have the right to violate a man's kitchen? Was nothing sacred?
"I hope you don't mind my sayin' this..."
He knew he would mind.
"You prob'ly ought to take you a laxative."
In all the years of his priesthood, he had pastored the needs of others. Now, he found himself pastoring others to meet his own needs.
He didn't go to encourage Miss Rose in her civic duties because he thought it would be decent of him. He went because he needed what she had to offer, which, although strange, was comforting and familiar.
He walked up the street at noon and stood on the sidewalk while she waved cars around the monument. Well done!
He was astounded by her appearance. No cocktail hat, no military decorations, no trench coat actually worn in the trenches. Just Esther Cunningham's old Waves uniform with a spiffy hat over a new haircut. That she was still sporting her unlaced saddle oxfords hardly mattered. One thing at a time, and be glad for it.
When there was a lull, he called to her and threw up his hand.
She looked at him menacingly.
"I like your uniform!" he said.
"Regulation!" she snapped and turned her back on him.
"Uncle Billy," he said at the Grill, "Miss Rose acted like she didn't know me. I haven't been gone that long, have I?"
"Oh, she knowed you, all right. It's just she don't mix business with pleasure. Keeps 'er mind on 'er work, don't you know. Wants to do 'er best."
The old man was wearing one of his dead brother-in-law's suits, and a tie Father Tim recognized as having been one of his own.
"It's a blessin' if I ever seen it. She's wore out after doin' her job, comes in meek as any lamb, eats her somethin', and sleeps 'til dinner.
We have us a nice bite, then we. watch the news an' all, an' go to bed. It's th' most peace I can recollect."
"I'm goin' to buy you a hamburger to celebrate."
"If you was to tip in some fries, I'd be much obliged."
Velma wiped off the table. "You ought to get th' special," she advised the rector. "It's a one-day-only deal."
"What is it?" he asked cautiously.
"Beef kidneys."
"Beef kidneys? What got into Percy to cook beef kidneys?"
"Avis had a big run of kidneys and let 'em go cheap. You ought to give 'em a go," she said, poised with her order book.
"Did you give 'em a go?"
"Well..."
"Did Percy give 'em a go?"
"He don't eat organ meat."
Uncle Billy looked pale. "You keep talkin' like that, you won't have t' bring me nothin'. I won't be able t' keep it down."
"Bring my friend a hamburger all the way and a large order of fries," said
the rector. "I'll have the chicken-salad plate."
"I hope you don't regret it," she said sulkily, walking away. "We'll probably never have these again."
"We dodged a bullet, Uncle Billy."
"Have you seen the drawin's of Willard's statue?"
"No, I haven't. I've got to get by the mayor's office. What do you think?"
"The one asettin' down is deadon, if you ask me. Even Rose likes it, but she's stickin' with th' one aStandin', says it makes 'im more dignified."
"You're liking your new apartment? It's good and warm?"
"Oh, it's th' most comfort you'd ever want."
"Nice, dry roof?"
"Not a leak in th' place."
"Well, then, sitting or standing, who cares?"
Uncle Billy laughed, his gold tooth flashing. "Could be astandin' on 'is head for all I care, when th' hot air comes out of th' vents!"
He was wanting to see Russell Jacks, too, and Betty, and Olivia, and Hoppy. And, of course, Marge and Hal and Rebecca Jane. But most of all, he wanted to see...
Dear...Dearest Cynthia.
Why could he get no further than this?
When he walked home at fourthirty, he was planning to go to his study, sit down, and force himself to write the letter explaining everything.
Instead, he marched through the hedge and up her back steps and hammered on the door. He knew she was in there; her Mazda was parked in the garage.
Not a sound. He might have been pounding on the door of a tomb.
He felt certain someone was watching him. She was probably looking out the bathroom window, chuckling to herself. Or worse, she'd gone to the club with Andrew Gregory and was doing the tango with the new social director who reputedly looked like Tyrone Power.
Blast!
He stomped through the hedge. Maybe he'd go for a ride on his motor scooter. Maybe he'd open it up on that flat road to Farmer and see, for once, just what it could do. He must remember not to hit the brake too hard; it would lock the rear wheel and lay the bike down. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to get back by six o'clock to feed Dooley who was at football practice.