by Jan Karon
Ernestine Ivory stood by the statue, holding the tarpaulin.
Esther Cunningham signaled the band, which struck up at once.
Then she signaled Ernestine, who, blushing furiously, ripped the cover from the statue.
A gasp went up.
Silence ensued.
Then everyone stood and applauded and whistled and cheered. It was the first statue ever erected in Mitford, and public opinion was unanimous—it was a sight to behold.
Willard Porter stood looking toward the blue mountains that swelled beyond the village, his eyes fixed on freedom, his hand over his heart. Nobility was expressed in every feature of his handsome face, in every detail of his officers uniform. A bed of flowers sprung up at his feet.
"Oh, my," said Miss Sadie, using her handkerchief.
Roberto nodded approvingly.
"Man!" said Dooley.
Some people were still clapping, as the band began to march around the statue.
He thought he had never seen Miss Rose look so wonderful—standing by Uncle Billy, saluting the statue of her brother, and keeping time to the music with her foot.
"Th' deal," announced the mayor from the steps, "is that anytime th' father's dog gets out of hand, all th' father has to do is quote Scripture and his dog..."
"Barnabas," said the rector.
"Barnabas...shapes up and lies down."
The crowd laughed.
"I'm askin' for fifty dollars for a demonstration," she announced, peering around.
Silence. Bird song.
"Not twentyfive, so don't even think about it. Fifty! A small price to pay to see somethin' you can't even see on TV! And think what that fifty will do—help add yet another room to this fine museum, the likes of which you'll not see across the whole length of the state..."
A hand went up in the back row. "Thirtyfive!"
"Get over it!" said Esther, "I'm lookin' for fifty or we move on to th' pig kissin'."
"Fifty!" shouted a voice from the vicinity of the llamas.
"Do I hear fiftyfive?"
Silence.
Esther signaled the band, which struck up a drumroll as the rector led Barnabas to the foot of the steps.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. How he had ever been talked into this was beyond all understanding.
"One thing you need to know," said Esther. "We do not mean to poke fun at the Word of the good Lord.
"We intend to demonstrate to each and every member present what we should all do when we hear his Word...which is to let it have its way with our hearts."
"Amen!" somebody said.
J.C. sank to his knees in the grass and looked through the lens of his camera. Something interesting was bound to happen with this deal.
At that moment, Cynthia Coppersmith rose from her frontrow seat, holding what appeared to be a large handbag. As she held it aloft for all to see, Violet's white head emerged. Violet perched there, staring coolly at the crowd.
"That cat is in books at the library," someone said.
Keeping a safe distance, Cynthia turned around and let Barnabas have a look. Violet peered down at him with stunning disdain.
Barnabas nearly toppled the rector as he lunged toward the offending handbag, which Cynthia handed off to Dooley.
His booming bark carried beyond the monument, all the way to Lew Boyd's Esso, and the force of his indignation communicated to every expectant onlooker.
The rector spoke with his full pulpit voice. "Tor brethren, ye have been called unto liberty, only use not liberty for an occasion to the flesh."
Barnabas hesitated. His ears stood straight up. He relaxed on the leash.
"...but by love serve one another."
The black dog sighed and sprawled on the grass.
"For all the law is fulfilled in one word: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
Barnabas didn't move but raised his eyes and looked dolefully at the front row. Not knowing what else to do, the rector bowed. The crowd applauded heartily.
"A fine passage from Galatians 5:13 and 14!" said the jolly new preacher from First Baptist.
"That was worth fifty," said Mule Skinner, pleased to know the dog personally.
As Dooley hurried to take Violet back to her sunny window seat at home, Esther resumed her place on the steps and looked around.
"Ponder that in your hearts," she said.
Somebody heard the pig squeal behind a column on the porch, which encouraged more applause.
Linder Hayes strolled to the foot of the steps and stretched to his full height of six feet fourandahalf inches. His courtroom demeanor brought a hush over the assembly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, on this distinguished and momentous occasion, we will now open the bidding that will permit everyone here— with their own eyes—to see a unique and historic event, to see, in other words, the mayor of this fine village...kiss...a pig."
They gasped. Esther Cunningham would kiss a pig? A great clamor ran through the booths and among the crowd. Coot Hendrick, maybe, but Esther Cunningham?
"Twentyfive dollars!" someone shouted.
Linder held up his hand for silence.
"Surely you jest," he said in the deep baritone that he had honed to reach the hearts of a jury. "This penultimate event will not go for so crass a sum as twentyfive dollars. In fact, no amount of money could fully compensate the priceless act of sacrifice and civic responsibility that..."
"Hurry up, dadgum it," hissed Esther.
"The bidding, my friends, will begin at five hundred dollars."
The stunned silence changed into an uproar.
Linder pulled at his chin and looked thoughtful. Esther broke out in a rash.
Someone standing under the elm tree shouted: "Five hundred!"
Linder held up his hand. "Do I hear five twenty-five?"
Silence.
"Going, going, gone for five hundred."
"And dern lucky t' get it, if you ask me," said Percy, who stood under the elm in a shirt printed with chartreuse palm leaves and red monkeys.
"Will someone please bring down the pig?"
A great expectancy hung over the gathering. What kind of pig would it be? A sow? A shoat? What difference did it make?
Ray came down the steps with the pig in his arms. He held it while Esther kissed it.
The crowd cheered as J.C.'s flash went off.
"One more time!" said J.C. "Th' pig moved!"
Esther did it again. More hollering and whistling.
Esther turned to the crowd, who, she knew, would deliver a strong Cunningham vote next election, and raised both arms in triumph.
"I'm about half shot," said Winnie Ivey. "Up at four in th' mornin' to cook all these donuts, and here it is way up in the day, and all I've had is half a pimiento cheese sandwich."
"Only one more event to go," he said, trying to locate Cynthia in the swirling crowd. "I'll get you some lemonade."
There was Cynthia—trying to pin the errant peony on Miss Rose's bomber jacket. He liked spotting her in the crowd, seeing the blonde of her hair and the apple green of her dress. She was wearing tennis shoes, as high heels would only have sunk in the lawn, and looking very much like a girl.
He saw Dooley and Jenny peering at the llamas. Lovely, he thought. And there by Andrew's garden bench was Roberto. Both men gestured happily—speaking Italian, no doubt.
"Father! You're positively radiant!" It was Miss Pearson, Dooley's music teacher, hand in hand with her mother.
Radiance, he was soon to learn, can be exceedingly shortlived.
"I've had about all the fun I can stand, ain't you?" said Uncle Billy. "One more event," he said, wishing he could rent a hammock and lie down in it.
"I ain't even heard th'jukebox."
"Me, either."
Uncle Billy sighed. "They hooked it up in th' front room. I sure hope it don't cut on in th' middle of th' night and go t' playin'."
He happened to look toward the alley behind the Porter place and saw
a red truck slowly driving through. Buck Leeper peered out the window at the throng on the lawn, at their laughter and air of anticipation.
He waved. "Buck!"
Buck threw up his hand and nodded and was gone.
"Dadgum if he didn't wave back," said Mule, who was passing by with lemonade for Fancy. "What's got into him?"
The rector believed it was what had gotten out of him.
Esther was back on the porch steps. If she didn't have laryngitis from the long day's events, it would be a miracle.
"How many of you have ever seen anybody push a peanut down the street with their nose?"
Heads turned. People shrugged. Clearly, no one had ever seen such a thing. Some didn't want to. A few didn't care one way or the other.
"I've seen a sack race!" yelled one of Dooley's classmates.
"That's not the same," snorted the mayor. "This is a hundred times better. That's why we're going to start the bidding high."
The crowd groaned. Some people walked away. Two senior citizens went to sleep sitting up in folding chairs near the lilac bushes.
"To see our brand-new Baptist preacher push a peanut from th' bookstore to th' bakery...the bidding will start at five hundred dollars!"
"Not again!" shouted an irate observer.
"That's a dadgum car payment!"
"Lord have mercy, what do you drive?"
A total stranger stepped forward. As everyone could plainly see, it was a tourist. He was wearing sunglasses, a navy blazer over khakis, and no socks with his loafers.
"I would not give five hundred dollars to see only one member of your local clergy fulfill this unique fundraising proposition..."
Several people looked at each other. Not only was this person a tourist, he was a Yankee.
"However, I would most gladly put five hundred into your town cof fers to see all your clergy do it—as a team."
"You better jump on that," Under whispered to the mayor.
The rector could feel Esther, who had eyes like a hawk, boring a hole in him all the way to where he stood with Uncle Billy.
The mayor took a deep breath and bellowed. "Do I hear five hundred to see Reverend Sprouse push the peanut?"
Heads wagged furiously in the negative.
"It's fish or cut bait," hissed Ray.
"Where's th' father?" said Esther, knowing perfectly well where he was. He might have dived under a chair.
"Right here!" hollered Mule.
"Where's Pastor Trollinger from th' Methodists?"
"Over here!" cried the pastor's wife, who couldn't wait to see her husband push a peanut with his nose.
Esther's eyes searched the throng. "That leaves Doctor Browning from over at th' Presbyterians."
"He's not here," said the band leader. "He's doin' a funeral today."
"Where at?" asked Ray.
"Ash Grove."
"Ernestine," said the mayor, "run over there—it's just two miles— and tell 'im to come right after he throws th' dirt in."
"Right," said Ray. "Five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks."
He dragged home at four o'clock, weary of the world.
Dooley and Cynthia trooped down Main Street behind him, laughing like hyenas all the way to the rectory.
"Now, that," declared Cynthia, "was the spirit of ecumenism in a nutshell."
He refused even to crack a smile, though Cynthia, of course, found her odious pun hysterical.
Dooley closed his English book. "I'm not goin' to that school," he said.
"Really?" He wouldn't have uttered another word if his life depended on it. He wasn't fighting battles tonight; he was sitting on his sofa reading his newspaper.
Total silence reigned for some time.
"That ol' brain in that jar—whose do you reckon it is?"
"No idea."
"Th' head guy said they go to Washington on bus trips and all."
"Aha."
"He was cool."
"Umm."
"That groom person said I could ride 'is horse all I wanted to, if I'd help take care of it."
"Sounds like work."
"I wonder what th' football uniforms look like."
"Beats me."
"I like th' school colors."
"Black and gray."
"You got it wrong. Purple and orange."
"Oh."
"We could paint my room and then put posters up. Cynthia has a purple bedspread she'll give me."
Why was he always knocking himself out to convince the boy of something? From now on, maybe he'd keep his mouth shut and let Dooley convince himself.
When the box of monogrammed stationery rolled in from Walter, he realized the worst:
Tomorrow was his birthday.
He had just had a birthday—it seemed only weeks ago. And how old was he, anyway? He could never remember. He had once added a year to his age by mistake, which appalled his friends. Take a couple off, maybe, but add?
He did some quick figuring on a piece of paper.
Sixty-two.
Rats.
But what was there to worry about, after all?
At the age of eighty-nine, Arthur Rubinstein had given one of his most enthralling recitals, in Carnegie Hall.
At eighty-two, Churchill wrote A History of the EnglishSpeaking People—in four volumes, no less.
And hadn't Eamon de Valera served as president of Ireland when he was ninetyone? Not to mention Grandma Moses, who was still painting—and getting paid for it—at the age of one hundred.
He stood up from the desk and sucked in his stomach.
"Happy birthday, Father! Ron and I have to go out of town this afternoon, and we didn't want to leave without wishing you the best year ever!"
After Wilma called, so did Evie, who had carefully rehearsed Miss Pattie to say the thing herself. He heard Evie whispering in the background, "Say it, Mama!"
"What was it I was supposed to say?"
"Happy birthday!" There was a pause, and Miss Pattie spoke into the phone, "I hope you win the lottery!"
He roared with laughter.
Evie grabbed the phone. "She wouldn't say it! I declare, I worked and worked with her..."
"Evie," he implored, "don't be disappointed. I loved what Miss Pattie said. It was very original—head and shoulders above the usual greeting."
"Well..." He heard the smile creep into her voice. He didn't think he would ever again have those yearnings to be a milk-truck driver. If he couldn't say another thing about himself, he could say he loved his work.
What Cynthia and Dooley might be plotting, he couldn't imagine.
Roberto had flown home, Andrew Gregory had houseguests, Miss Sadie and Louella were frazzled from all the gaiety and would hardly answer the phone, Esther had carried out her threat and gone fishing with Ray...
Then again, maybe Cynthia and Dooley weren't plotting anything at all. Maybe they'd forgotten. Hadn't he forgotten Dooley's birthday? And when was Cynthia's? He felt a moment of panic.
Wait, there was the date—written on the wall next to his desk, his only graffiti since grade school. July 20. He breathed a sigh of relief.
He was convinced they'd forgotten.
At lunch, he saw Cynthia in her backyard, idly pruning a bush. And when he called home at threethirty to see if Dooley was prepared for Miss Appleshaw, there was nothing in his voice that hinted at anything unusual.
He went home early, carrying the bundle of cards he'd received from the ECW, the Sunday school, Walter and Katherine, Winnie Ivey Emma, Miss Sadie and Louella, and a dozen others.
As he went in the back door, he saw Cynthia going up her steps with something bulky under her jacket, glancing furtively toward the rectory. When she saw him, she averted her gaze as if he didn't exist.
Had he hurt her feelings after that blasted peanut business, when she laughed at him and he didn't laugh with her? He'd been pretty huffy about it, but why not? He'd gone nonstop for days on end and was flatly exhausted. Run here, run there, do this, d
o that, and then...crawling down the middle of Main Street on his hands and knees into the bargain.
He pricked his finger. He checked his urine. Then he put on his jogging suit and headed across Baxter Park.
Panting, he sat on the old stone wall beyond the Hope House site, at the highest elevation in Mitford. How long had it been since he overlooked this green valley, the Land of Counterpane?
Since he came into the world, he'd seen a lot of changes, but the sight that lay before him had changed little. Over there, a river gleaming in the sunlight. There, a curving road once hewn out for wagons. And there, scattered among the trees, church steeples poking up to be counted.
He heard a distant whistle and saw the little train moving through the valley. Train whistles, crowing roosters, the sound of rain on a tin roof— such simple music had nearly vanished in his life, and he missed it.
But then, life was full of valuable things that somehow managed to vanish.
He was startled to remember the green and sapphire marble that, at the age of twelve, he thought was the most beautiful object he had ever seen.
He had kept it in his pocket, showing it only to his mother, and of course to Tommy Noles, who crossed his heart three times and hoped to die if he ever mentioned its existence to another soul.
Showing it around would have been a violation, somehow. He kept it, instead, a private thing, never using it in a game. But he grew careless with it, he began to take it for granted, and where he had lost or misplaced it, he never knew.
He had grieved over that marble, in a way. Not over the thing itself, but over the loss of its private and remarkable beauty.
Hadn't Cynthia been like that to him? He had enjoyed the warmth and rarity of her nature, but he had never cherished her enough. Over and over, he had carelessly let her go, and only by the grace of God, she had not been taken from him altogether.
He remembered the times she had shut herself away from him, guarding her heart. The loss of her ravishing openness had left him cold as a stone, as if a great cloud had gone over the sun.