by Jan Karon
"Check your spellin'," said Mule, looking distraught. "This is important. It needs to be respectful."
J.C. wiped his face with his handkerchief. "This is goin' to change my dadgum life. I don't take kindly to things that change my life."
"Get you a hot plate and start cookin'," said Mule. "You bachelors lead a sheltered existence."
"Rave on," said the rector.
J.C. leaned out of the booth and looked toward the front of the Grill. "There's Mack Stroupe with a toothpick stuck in his jaw. He's about to finish roofing that shed he built to snatch Percy's trade.
"There's your Collar Button man. He's shakin' Percy's hand like an undertaker. And there's Esther and Ray, both of 'em bawlin' like babies. Man, this is giving me an ulcerated stomach."
"In two days, they'll be nailin' boards over your stair steps," said Mule.
"I sent her a note, said she better fix th' back steps or I haul my presses out of here."
"I wouldn't get too highhat with that witch on a broom," said Mule. "You'll be printin' your paper on th' creekbank."
J.C. squinted toward the front. "Velma's breakin' down."
"Let me out," said Father Tim.
He walked with Velma Mosely to the Sweet Stuff Bakery, where Winnie set her in a chair in the back room and let Velma do something she said she'd been needing to do: cry her eyes out.
A letter from Father Roland in his "rude cabin in the wild": He'd been taken in a canoe to a parishioner's house, where a meal for fourteen church members consisted of salmon steaks roasted over live coals. He declared he had never tasted anything so fine since his preseminary days in southern France. Clearly, his honeymoon with the rugged north woods of Canada remained in full swing, albeit the pay was minuscule.
A letter from the man in the attic, George Gaynor, who had discovered several prison inmates with whom he was praying and searching the scriptures:
In this hard place, I have been greatly blessed to find hearts softened by the gospel of Jesus Christ. You're faithfully in my prayers. A note from Cynthia, faintly reminiscent of wisteria:
Thank you for taking care of me while I was sick. I really was an old poop, but you didn't seem to notice, for which I'm truly thankful.
She had drawn a picture of herself in her bathrobe, looking frazzled, while he sat opposite her in a suit of shining armor, reading aloud from Wordsworth.
Ah, but he liked mail. Always had. One never knew what might turn up in the mail. It was like a lottery in which one could hit the jackpot at any moment.
The letter from Dooley's principal was not the jackpot.
Dear Father:
Dooley has told me that you did not rebuke him in any way for his flagrant conduct, and I am both shocked and disappointed to learn of this.
To cast the full burden for correction upon the school is a gross neglect of moral responsibility, though unfortunately it is a course of behavior almost always chosen by today's new breed of woefully indifferent parents.
You have only to look at the newspaper and watch your television to discover at once where such neglect inevitably leads.
I shall expect you to devise and deliver a proper punishment in the home and report it to me at once.
Myra Hayes
Dear Mrs. Hayes, he might reply, I have kicked Dooley Barlowe's tail clean across Baxter Park for betraying my moral laxity to your office. For the crime of having smoked cigarettes on school property, I haven't yet come up with a suitable punishment, but when I do, rest assured it will be something that you'll most gleefully approve. Sincerely.
He woke at five, as usual, and called the hospital to say he wouldn't be around to visit on the wards this morning, but he'd be there tomorrow, without fail.
He read morning prayer and lections and spent time on his knees for Percy and Velma. Then, he asked the Holy Spirit to open his heart for any special prayer for others. Buck Leeper was first in line.
At six, he pulled on an old pair of corduroy workpants and a denim shirt and woke Dooley and their houseguest. He didn't think he was up to looking at his cousin over breakfast, but he knocked anyway.
"Rise and shine!" he shouted, loud enough to be heard to the Presbyterian parking lot and beyond. Two of his dearest friends were being dumped on, and he was plenty mad about it. If his cousin was thinking of ignoring his knock, she had better think again.
When she showed up in the kitchen in her robe and slippers, scowling, he acquainted her with a few rules he should have laid down in the beginning—and in no uncertain terms.
Dooley stared at him with his mouth hanging open.
"And," he informed his charge, "if you think that's something, just wait 'til I get through with you. In other words, my friend, you ain't seen nothin' yet."
Dooley Barlowe didn't say one word during breakfast, nor did his cousin, nor did he.
"Where's Percy?"
Velma's eyes were red and swollen. "Down th' hatch," she said.
The place was a tomb. He could hear his footsteps on the hardwood floor, even though he was wearing tennis shoes.
"You'll open again," he said, meaning it.
Velma didn't reply. She was dumping flatware in a box with egg turners, colanders, and a metal grater. The sound seemed to echo off the walls, which was denuded of its usual array of outdated calendars, prints of covered bridges, and a collection of Cheerwine and Dr. Pepper signs.
The autographed photo of Percy and the former governor was gone, as was the photo of Percy's daddy wrestling an alligator in Florida. The photos of their grandchildren had been peeled off the back of the cash register, and they had stripped off the battered sign that read, Good Taste, Ample Portions, Quick Service, Low Prices.
He sighed, not knowing what else to do.
"Mule's runnin' late," said Velma. "Help yourself to coffee."
He poured a cup of coffee and descended broad wooden stairs to the basement.
He'd never been underneath the Grill before, in the room lined with shelves built over earthen walls and lighted by two bare, weak bulbs.
"Percy?"
"Over here," said Percy, appearing from behind the furnace. In the gloom, the pallor of his friend's face was startling.
He'd known priests who could make people laugh in the jaws of disaster, but he wasn't part of that breed. In all his years in the clergy, he'd never been able to think of witty remarks that, even for a moment, might obscure the pain of loss.
"How's it going?" he asked quietly.
Percy looked away from him. "I cain't hardly seem to go on from here."
"Why don't we take a load off our feet before we get started?"
"I thought I'd be able t' handle it," said Percy, sitting with the rector on the bottom step. "But I ain't able, it seems like."
"Thirty-four, thirty-five years. It's a long time."
"Longer'n that. I was ten years old when I stepped behind th' counter. My daddy had a bad toothache and put me in charge of the grill while he went to the dentist."
"How did you do?"
"I stood on a bread crate and fried bacon like a man. I'd never fried bacon in my life, nor anything else. My mama had to drive my daddy. He was in awful pain. She looked back at me as she was goin' out th' door, and said, 'Percy, you can do it.' I'll never forget that."
"She's right. You can do it."
"You mean...this?"
"Right. This."
"How come I have to—that's the question. Where's th' Lord when you need 'im is what I'd like to know."
The hot coffee cup warmed his cold hands. "Right here with us, believe it or not."
"You're a preacher. That's easy for you to say."
"Not really. I have times of doubt. I stumble around..."
"All that schoolin' you had makes a difference."
"Schooling doesn't count for much in the end. What counts is our personal relationship with God. Period. Bottom line."
"I prayed about this."
"You'll get an answer."
"This
ain't any kind of answer."
"I have to tell you that he always answers. And he always shoots straight."
"Well, he's done shot and missed, if you ask me."
The rector looked around at the dark, dismal basement. "Somebody said the brightest diamonds grow in the darkest cavities of the earth..."
"Meanin?"
"In Isaiah, God said, 'I will give you the treasures of darkness, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord...' Times of darkness can be some of the best times."
"My daddy told me for a fact th' Lord helped him start this business. Why would th' Lord be throwin' me out?"
"He may have something different for you now. Something terrific, actually. Maybe it's time, Percy, to look at other options..."
"Bein' out of a job at age sixty, with your wife doin' piecework at the 3
glove factory—buddyroe, that ain't an option. Cuttin' and haulin' wood and sellin' it door to door ain't an option either, not with my back. And I can tell you right now that pumpin' gas at Lew Boyd's ain't an option, not now or in the dadgum future. So...I ain't got any options."
"Right. Maybe you don't."
Faint rays of daylight shone through the small window that faced the sidewalk on Main Street.
"But maybe God does," the rector said. "Look here. When God takes away the good, he replaces it with something better. Didn't Jesus tell the disciples, 'It's for your good that I'm going away? And do you think they went for it? No, it plunged them into despair—they felt orphaned and desolate, probably angry into the bargain."
Percy stared at the furnace.
"But when the Holy Spirit came, the disciples had more than Christ in their midst—now he was in their hearts." Yes! He felt encouraged just talking about it. He clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"So, Percy—screw up your faith and get ready for something better."
Percy stood and glared at him. "We better screw something up, all right, and get these boxes packed. Start with th' sauerkraut on that top shelf and work down to the pork an' beans. We won't mess with th' jukebox 'til th' college boys get here."
At noon, Mack Stroupe dropped in with a sack of hot dogs all the way, and Winnie Ivey brought a dozen cream horns and napoleons. The Collar Button donated a case of Coke Classic, Coot Hendrick brought a pie his mother had baked, the police chief dropped in with a sack of apples, and Joe Ivey stuck a bottle of brandy under his belt, buttoned his jacket, and walked to the Grill where he passed the bottle around to whoever wanted a taste.
Joe eyed the rector. "If I was you, I wouldn't let your boy cut your hair."
"Dooley?"
"He's made a mess of th' sides," said Joe. "You want a little nip?"
"Thank you, but I pass. I'm a sherry man."
"You can get stumblin' drunk on sherry," Joe told him.
"Man!" said Mule. "This is killer kraut. This is the third box I've heaved up th' steps. Who eats this stuff, anyway?"
"Nobody," said the rector. "That's why he's got a surplus."
Mule looked up as J.C. came down the stairs, wearing his Nikon on a strap around his neck. "I thought you were puttin' out the paper."
"I've said all I've got to say."
"We haven't packed all we've got to pack, so hop to it. Here's a box. There's the stewed okra." Mule kicked an empty box into the light of a sixtywatt bulb.
"I hate stewed okra."
"You don't have to like it to pack it."
"No way, Jose. I did my time. I'll just sit and watch you boys." J.C. scratched himself and sat down on a step.
Fancy appeared at the hatch door, wearing a formfitting cashmere sweater, pink tights, and white boots with spike heels. "Yoo hoo, Mule honey, Coot's back with the truck. Do y'all have another load ready? If not, we need him to help us clean these floors."
"It'll be awhile, yet."
"Super. Oh, Father, I didn't say one word to Joe Ivey about how you've switched over to me."
He'd switched over?
"I'm about wore out," said Percy. "I wish I dipped or chewed or smoked—somethin'."
"Joe offered you a taste of brandy," said Mule. "You ought to have had a little shooter."
"No sir," said Percy, looking mournful, "I've gone sixty years without it, and I don't intend to start now."
"Liquor gets your kidneys," J.C. announced. "Not to mention dries out your skin, ruins the veins in your nose, gives you palsy, and wrecks your coordination. I've heard that people on gin start walkin' sideways, like crabs."
Mule scratched his head. "They drink an awful lot of gin at the country club, but I never saw anybody walk sideways."
Fancy's spike heels clicked above them like castanets.
"How you 'uns comin'?" Uncle Billy stuck his head in the hatch door and peered into the gloom.
"We need a joke!" said the rector. They had packed seventytwo boxes, all told, not a few of which were breakables that had already been broken.
"How about if I stand right here t' tell it," said Uncle Billy. "Arthur won't let me come down steps, don't you know." Activity subsided as the old man reared back to deliver his contribution to moving day.
"Did you 'uns hear about th' feller lookin' for a good church?"
"No!" chorused his audience.
"Well sir, he searched around and found a little fellowship where th' preacher and th' congregation were readin' out loud. They were sayin', 'We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done.'
"Th' feller dropped into th' pew with a big sigh of relief. 'Hallelujah,' he said to hisself, 'I've found my crowd at last.'"
The rector laughed heartily. "It's about time you worked our bunch into your repertoire."
"Hit us again, Uncle Billy," said Mule.
"This feller, he went t' th' doctor and told 'im what all was wrong, so th' doctor give 'im a big load of advice about how to git well. Th' feller started to leave, don't you know, when th' doctor said, 'Hold up. You ain't paid me for my advice.' That's right,' th' feller said, 'because I ain't goin' t' take it.'"
"I'll print that one," said J.C., scribbling in his pocket notebook.
"Well, I'll be pushin' off. It's a shame what's happenin' here t' two good friends. Me and Rose, we think th' world of you 'uns. Try not t' take it too hard."
Uncle Billy vanished from the hatch door, and they returned wearily to their work.
Fancy appeared on the top step, where she leaned over and whispered, "Percy, Velma's cryin' again."
"What do you want me to do about it?" Percy snapped. His arms were wrapped around a tub of Crisco.
"Let her cry," said the rector. "It helps."
J.C. cocked his head and listened. "Run for th' hills. It's Lucrezia Borgia."
Mule furrowed his brow. "Who?"
"I'll just duck behind the furnace," said the rector.
Edith Mallory appeared at the hatch door. "Who's down there?" she demanded.
"Mule Skinner, Percy Mosely, and J.C. Hogan," said Mule, peering up the stairs.
"When will you be finished?"
"Before tomorrow."
"What time before tomorrow?"
"We don't have a clue."
"I suggest it be no later than midnight, as agreed. Is Father Tim down there?"
"I don't see him."
"Where do you think he might be?"
"Heaven knows."
"Remember, Mr. Mosely, that the booths come out also. I see they're still attached to the wall. And you'll recall that the stools must be out, as well."
Percy clenched his fists.
"Mr. Coffey will meet their truck in Wesley tomorrow morning. He'll lead the way and they'll proceed. They'll occupy the premises at eight o'clock sharp." Edith stomped away from the hatch door.
"You can come out now," Mule said in the direction of the furnace.
They heaved the last of the boxes up the steps, too weary to speak.
"Give me a flashlight," sa
id the rector. "I'll look around one last time."
He couldn't remember feeling such exhaustion and soreness of spirit. All he wanted to do was go home and go to bed. Yet, they didn't want to leave behind any valuable items that Percy might be able to turn into cash. The Collar Button man had offered five hundred dollars for the jukebox, if Percy would also let him have the records that included "SixtyMinute Man,"
"One Mint Julep," and "Chattanooga Shoeshine Boy." Percy was thinking about it.
Mule had swept the concrete floor and stood the broom in a corner. Strange that nothing but a worndown broom was left of a family's fiftytwoyear history.
He shone the light throughout the eerie space, which had grown colder and damper with nightfall. He had smelled all the sour earth he could stomach and decided that plans for cleaning his own basement could wait a few years.
He pointed the flashlight under the floor joists where raw dirt left only a few feet of interval space. Maybe some of those old advertising signs had been stored in there—the Collar Button man's excitement indicated they were valuable.
That was when he saw it.
•CHAPTER SEVENTEEN•
RON MALCOLM WHISTLED.
"The joists are rotten from front to back, but it looks like the worst is smack under the rear booth."
All he could see were Ron's feet sticking out where he'd crawled between the floor joists and the bank of earth.
"For goodness sake, tell Percy to stop jumping around up there."
"Percy!" the rector shouted up the stairs.
"What?"
"Hold it down a minute." He hadn't told Percy what he had seen. Instead, he said he thought Ron Malcolm, being a former builder, might like to see the interesting way the building was supported.
"How fast can you get here?" he said from the phone booth in front of Happy Endings, and Ron had hit the floor beside his bed running.
Ron wriggled out of the space. "After forty years in the construction business, I sure as heck don't want to be crushed under a pile of rubble."