by Jan Karon
"He can bring Barnabas," said Hal, sensing the hesitation.
"A boy shouldn't be hanging around the house with a doddering old parson," said the rector.
"Hanging around the house with a parson has saved the day, if you ask me. I'll pick him up after school and you'll get him back after church on Sunday. How's that? I expect you'd like some time to yourself..."
No, he thought, he would not like some time to himself. He'd had time to himself for more than sixty years, which was enough for any man. He felt shocked at this odd revelation.
"Timothy? Are you all right?"
"Absolutely. Just a bit jealous of the chicken pie I hear Marge is baking this weekend."
"You know you're invited. It's a standing invitation, has been for twelve years."
"Thirteen, my friend. And thank you. But another time. The boy's backsliding, you know, in the 'ain't' department. I was after him with a stick for a while but slacked off. Marge will send him home talking like a Rhodes scholar."
"I don't suppose there's anything from his mother?"
"Nothing. And Russell is just recovering from the relapse after his fall in the snow."
"What are you going to do about all that?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to come up with a plan that works for anybody, much less everybody. If Russell goes home, Dooley would have to go with him."
"Have to?"
"Hoppy says Russell would need someone to monitor him. If Betty hadn't been around, he could have lain in the snow 'til the buzzards started circling."
"Could you hire somebody to do the monitoring?"
"Who would live in that unheated shack in the middle of a junkyard?"
"True."
"Another thing. If Russell goes out, Miss Pattie goes in. Betty Craig would be done for. She's begged me to protect her from Miss Pattie."
"What about the gardens? Anybody to pitch in there?"
"Not a soul that I can think of. Fortunately, Russell's done such a grand job over the years they won't be that difficult to maintain. But they must be maintained." He heard himself sigh.
"I expect it's costing somebody to keep him at Betty's."
"About four hundred a month, in addition to his social security." In his opinion, the four hundred covered a lot more than health care for Russell Jacks. Indeed, it was a small price to pay for Betty Craig's sanity, his own peace of mind, and, last but not least, the boy's freedom to keep his mind on his education.
"Considering the circumstances," said the senior warden, who usually got the gist of things, "it sounds like a bargain to me."
The thought came to him as he stopped by the rectory to change jackets for the flagraising program.
Fun—that thing he was always thinking of having, or feebly attempting to have, or trying awkwardly to figure out how to have— well, that's what he would have this weekend. He would lighten up and have some fun—he would do something different, something new.
He ran over the list of possibilities. He would, of course, call Cynthia, and he would call whenever the notion struck, whether the rates were down or not. He would go see Homeless who, for all he knew, still hadn't thawed out from the blizzard. He would...
He gazed unseeing into the mirror over his chest of drawers, straightening his tie.
"Call Cynthia and visit Homeless" was absolutely as far as he could get with this list. Wasn't there something else he could do, something more innovative, like other people? Didn't people always look forward to the weekend, to eating out or watching a ball game? Well, and there was no place to eat out other than the Grill, except for Mack Stroupe's hotdog stand next to the Esso station. He was sure it was his imagination, but Mack's hot dogs always tasted like motor oil.
As for watching a ball game, he had never, not even once, been able to follow a game to the end. His mind would wander, he would fall asleep, or he would get up and leave the room, forgetting to come back until after the game was over.
The truth was, he didn't know a blasted thing about having fun. Cynthia, on the other hand, not only seemed to have it, she was very good at making it. In actual fact, they hadn't done much that one could describe as fun, yet they always seemed to have it. With Cynthia, it just naturally happened.
He pulled on his jacket, smiling. Friday afternoon and all day Saturday. That would be his allotment for fun. He would see if he could pull it off. He would call Cynthia tonight and ask her to suggest something.
Not a word had Dooley let slip, not even a hint. And though he'd seen Miss Pearson in front of the bakery the other afternoon, she, too, had kept the secret that Dooley Barlowe was going to sing a solo with the full force of the Mitford School Mixed Chorus behind him.
No wonder the boy had been jumpy as a cat, he realized later. When he wasn't wandering in a daze, he was cussing Barnabas under his breath.
"I heard that," the rector said at breakfast the morning of the flagraising.
"Heard 'at ol' dog fart is all I heard."
"Dooley..."
"All I said was..."
"Dooley..."
The boy looked at him defiantly. "What are you goin' t' do about it?"
"Same as last time."
Washing someone's mouth out with soap was not a remedy he liked, but it had worked for him when he was a kid. He was sure there were newer techniques, all much smarter and written up in books with deep psychological insights. As for him, he had not asked for this job and was not interested in learning what today's cuttingedge punishment for cussing, if any, might be.
He would, however, make one modern concession.
He let Dooley wash his mouth out himself, as he stood at the bath room door, recalling the penalty his mother extracted for his own abominable language.
"That ain't so bad," Dooley said, wiping his mouth and looking him squarely in the eye. "It's a whole lot better'n 'at ol' soap in th' kitchen."
Good fellow, he wanted to say, but didn't.
It was what came out of the boy's mouth as the flag was being raised that caused him to catch his breath with unbidden joy. Dooley was doing this? His own Dooley? Why hadn't he thought to invite Puny and Miss Sadie, Percy and Velma, Hal and Marge and Rebecca Jane, Emma—the whole lot? But, of course, he hadn't known about the solo.
He was dashed if he could swallow without choking.
Miss Pearson would need someone to hold her feet on the ground, he could see, or she would float up and over the schoolhouse in a kind of rapture.
They met on the sidewalk after the program, as he and Dooley were leaving for home.
"Good heavens, Miss Pearson!" was all he could find to say.
"Father!" she exclaimed, which was all she could find to say.
There were tears in their eyes as he shook her hand again and again, unable, somehow, to let go.
Jenny passed, carrying her book bag. "You were really great," she murmured softly.
"Mush," said Dooley, bouncing his basketball.
"I can't tell you how terrific that was. It was a glorious thing, hearing God's gift pour out of you like that. And the way your chorus backed you up—strong stuff! I'm proud of you."
"It ain't nothin'."
"No, my friend, it's quite something. I wish Cynthia could have heard you. And your grandfather. And Miss Sadie. Everybody!"
Dooley shrugged. "Jis' ol' school stuff."
"Blast it, Dooley, how did it make you feel to stand up in front of all those people and belt out 'God Bless America'?"
He saw that Dooley couldn't stop the grin that suddenly began spreading across his face. It happened without warning and clearly could not be controlled. "Neat," he said.
"It was, I suppose, the soap that helped do this marvelous thing..." Dooley glared at him. "Yeah, I cain't sing Pr poop usin' 'at ol' stuff in th' kitchen."
Before he turned the corner at Mule's house, he looked up and down the street. If he saw anybody coming, he would stop and examine his fingernails or look more closely at the bark on the tree that had grown throu
gh the sidewalk.
He had never been into a beauty shop in his life, nor had a woman other than his mother ever cut his hair. There was absolutely nothing wrong with beauty shops, nor with a woman cutting a man's hair. It's just that it was too strong a dose for him at one sitting after thirteen years with Joe Ivey who, in spite of the brandy he kept sitting in plain view with the hairspray, gel, and setting mousse, knew what the rector liked and how to deliver it.
Another thing—how much would it cost, even with a 20 percent discount? Twice as much as Joe, most likely, to pay for the new sinks she had put in and the carpet, not to mention those color prints of poodles that Mule said cost two hundred dollars to have framed, even without mats.
Double. That's what he should be ready to cough up. If Joe was six bucks, Fancy Skinner would be twelve. He had heard that a tip of ten percent was an insult these days. It was a full twenty or don't bother. That pushed it up to fourteen dollars and forty cents, which he might as well make fifteen, to round it off.
Misery! He would never do this again if his hair grew as long as John the Baptist's. Puny had absolutely refused to do this thing. She claimed it would look butchered, and she wanted no part in giving him an appearance that was beneath his station. He threatened to do it himself, which had not softened her heart.
Thanks be to God, he didn't see a soul when he pushed open the door. But the sight of pink carper and pink walls gave him a distinct sinking feeling. He would turn around and go home and drive to Wesley as hard as he could go. Losing a hubcap or two was no big deal.
He was starting up the driveway when Fancy yelled from an upstairs window, "Are you my three o'clock? Oh, hey, Father, I thought you were my perm. I'll be right down, don't go away, make yourself at home. You want a glass of tea? It's unsweetened, or I can give you sugar, whichever—you tell me. Maybe you'd like a Coke. I have Classic or Diet, what do you think—you tell me."
If Cynthia Coppersmith had not suggested he go through with this, he would have run and not looked back.
"I like to color-coordinate with my shop," said Fancy, who was wearing pink tights, a pink cashmere tunic, and pink high-heel shoes with ankle straps.
"I'm glad you're here. Cuttin' your hair will put me over th' top this week." She swiveled the chair around, so that he stared at himself in a mirror. At Joe Ivey's, he was able to look out the window at the tops of trees.
"I set a goal every week. Last week I came a bitty bit under. Th' week before that, a bitty bit over. You never know which way it'll go. Now that you walked in, I'll top last week by a hundred dollars!"
His heart sank. Fifteen dollars was clearly a low estimate. Well, let this be a lesson. Let this be a lesson! He felt a wrench in his stomach as she slipped some kind of scarf over his head and around his shoulders. It was such an intense shade of pink it reflected on his face.
"I'll bet you don't put this thing on Buck Leeper."
"Honey, if Buck Leeper ever shows his butt in here again, excuse me, I will personally chase him out with a butcher knife."
"That bad, huh?"
"Have some gum. It's right there on th' magazine. Mule said, 'Fancy, you don't have to cut his hair and take his insults. I'll give you double whatever he spends.' Was that sweet of Mule or what? So, next time Mister High an' Mighty walks through that door, I'm runnin' his tail out of here. I/he walks through th' door, that is. I iced him so bad when he bossed me, he might never be back. He might cross th' street when he sees me comin'.
"Man, have you got a tight scalp. That's tension. You prob'ly use your brain all th' time. That's what does it. Some people, their scalp just rolls around on their head like baggy pantyhose. You want a little massage? See, that feels better already, right? Oops, these nails. Lord, I nearly poked a hole in you. They're acrylic. Mine won't grow for shoot. I wouldn't drink milk when I was a baby. That's what did it."
"Who's your three o'clock?" he asked darkly. Who in God's name was going to come in here and see him helplessly decked out in this shawl thing?
"Nobody you know, honey. Somebody new from Baltimore. Oh, look at this neck. What a mess. Who does you? Joe Ivey, of course. Joe Ivey has never been to New York City to learn the latest things."
"You go to New York, then?"
"No, but I read the magazines. Th' way he cuts you makes your face look too wide. I'm goin' to just trim it right through here. It's like some kind of bush."
He felt panicked. Why hadn't he brought a hat? He could have brought that old twill garden hat that folded up flat. He could have slipped out of here and been wearing it when he rounded the corner.
"Please," he said, sensing that he was about to croak, "don't do anything different. Like I said, I just want the same thing. Please. Just a trim. Notiiing serious." It was as near to pleading as he'd come in years.
"Oh, phoo, that's what they all say. You should've seen J.C. hunker down in this chair like I was goin' to snatch his eyeballs out. You trust me on this, OK?"
She scissored something from above his left ear that fell with a positive thump on his shoulder. He was afraid to speak, and why bother? It was too late.
Not bad, he thought, looking at himself in the mirror at home. He had been too shy to examine himself at the beauty shop. Not bad at all. Yes, his face looked thinner; his jaws looked perfectly hollow. And he could hardly believe she charged only six dollars. He was so grateful he had given her ten. Amazing, he thought, peering intently at his head— he even seemed to have more hair on top. Probably the massage.
He heard the bells toll at Lord's Chapel as he stuffed a canvas bag with a few items from the refrigerator and took a can of water chestnuts from the cabinet.
He missed his dog and his boy. But he was not going to dwell on it. He was going to have supper with Homeless Hobbes. Finally, he was going to have some fun.
•CHAPTER NINE•
WINTER HAD BEEN HARD; its ravages were revealed in everything from loose roof tiles to crumbling stone walls. With the lateFebruary sunshine predicted to last three days, the town was busy piling up limbs brought down by ice storms, and stomping around on roofs, looking for snow damage.
The sound of hammering drifted down from Fernbank.
According to rumor, this wasn't the muchneeded new roof the village had hoped for; this was patching.
When one of the Fernbank roofers named what it would cost to replace "the whole shebang," a hushed reverence moved upon the crowd at the Grill.
They wondered why anyone of Miss Sadie's age and financial security would live in a place that was falling down around her head. It was a comfort to discuss this familiar topic, which had been a town favorite for years. To a man, they were dumbfounded and amazed that she had gone on so long.
"She ain't goin' t' quit, neither," said the roofer, as if he had some confidential information from Miss Sadie herself.
The sound of hammers on the hill and the sight of limbs piled along the curbs seemed to awaken new hope in Mitford. Several people reported hearing a robin sing, and Jena Ivey declared that three purple crocuses had bloomed in her backyard.
"Git over it," said Coot Hendrick. "Winter ain't done yet, and you can take that t' th' bank."
Dearest Timothy,
Miss Addison had a cocktail party, as she calls it, for four cats in the building. Thank goodness, Violet was not able to go, as she has just had a shot and was not feeling sociable. According to the superintendent, who came to fix my faucet, Miss Addison's butler or footman or whatever he is put little heaps of catnip on a silver tray and set the tray on the drawing room floor.
All the cats, it's reported, went absolutely berserk.
They climbed Miss Addison's silk shantung draperies and gave her Louis XIV sofa a good drubbing with their claws. Then they leapt onto the kitchen counter and gobbled up the smoked salmon intended for the horrified people who owned the cats.
It's enough to make one wish for a dog.
Miss Addison said she was told that catnip is a spring tonic and ordered this stuf
f all the way from a farm in upstate New York. I had entertained the thought of buying some for Violet but have squelched this notion permanently.
Our streets are full of a general sloshiness that lingers and won't go away, as if a glacier is deicing to the north. I forgot to ask on Sunday if anything has poked its head up in my perennial bed. Would you look? I am so homesick I can hardly bear it. I've worked on this stupid book until my eyes are crossing. You won't recognize me. At the airport, you will peer at me and say, "Cynthia?" Then you'll mutter, "No, no, can't be," and walk on.
But oh, this book will be good, I think. I really do believe so. Everyone here seems excited about it, and I pray fervently it will be loved by its readers. Do you know that one of my favorite things is seeing a child reading one of my books? They don't even have to like it. It is merely the sight of a small head bowed over the pages that gives me indescribable joy.
Do you feel the same when your sermons pierce our hearts and convict us oj something that must be carried forth or changed in ourselves?
Thank you for sending your typed sermon. I needed to hear all of it. Yes! Intimacy is always about openness, about transparency. Until the Holy Spirit led me into intimacy with Christ, I was as transparent as your iron skillet. It is terribly scary to go around with your very spleen on display, yet, how can He shine through anything that is not made transparent? Well, of course, He could—but well, you understand.
I loved your note confessing that your feelings for me have made you more transparent. Sometimes—well, only once, actually—I've felt a little guilty for falling in love with you. Guilty that I have taken something from you, something very private. I try not to dwell on this.
With much love from
Your bookend