These High, Green Hills

by Jan Karon

“They ain’t nobody, an‘ I ain’t stayin’!” Lace said vehemently. “Leave me be ‘til I can git up an’ go, an‘ I don’t aim t’ argue about it, neither. I hate town people. I hate th‘ guts of town people. You talk stupid.” She cursed again, with the same feeling he had heard in Buck Leeper.

  “We’ll sit with you,” Cynthia told her.

  Like he had sat with Buck Leeper last year, through Buck’s suffering. Unable to walk away, he had stuck with Buck’s rage and lasted it out.

  The clock ticked in the silent room as the hands moved slowly toward one in the morning.

  Lord have mercy, he prayed silently, Christ have mercy ...

  He dozed in the chair until five-thirty, when he heard Cynthia in the kitchen and went in and called Rodney Underwood at home.

  Lace had slept fitfully, occasionally talking in her sleep or waking and asking for water. At a little past six, he helped her up, and she sat on the edge of the sofa.

  He placed his hands on her head gently, over the place that had bled, and prayed for her. It was madness to let her leave, but her determination to go to her mother was final and complete; he felt the sheer, unswerving power of it.

  Cynthia wiped the girl’s face with a damp cloth, helped her swallow hot cocoa from a spoon, then knelt to put her shoes on.

  “I’ve brought you some socks,” Cynthia said.

  “I don’t want no socks. Pap’ll be wantin‘ t’ know where they come from.”

  “You’ll need peroxide and ointment on your back every day for a while. Can you come and let me treat you?”

  “They ain’t no way.”

  “Will your father be up when you get home?”

  “He’ll lay asleep ‘til up in th’ day, but my mam, she’ll be needin‘ me. She’ll want ’er egg and coffee, she cain’t go ‘ithout it.”

  “Your school ... is it over yet?”

  “I don’t go t‘ no school. I laid out s’ long, they come lookin’ f‘r me, but Pap told ’em I’d went t‘ Tennessee t’ live with ‘is kin people.”

  He saw the pain in Cynthia’s face as she tied the laces of the battered work shoes. “I’ve packed your breakfast. There’s hardboiled eggs and rolls and bacon and fruit and cheese. You must eat, Lace, and keep your strength.”

  “If I git a notion....”

  They helped her up and led her through the kitchen, where he opened the screen door and held it. “What can we do?” he asked, hoarse with feeling.

  “Nothin‘. I thank you f’r washin‘ me an’ all.”

  Cynthia touched the girl’s hand. “Come back, Lace,” she said.

  “Anytime,” he added.

  They watched her go across the yard, walking as if bent with age. She passed through the hedge that gave way to Baxter Park, and vanished in the cool morning mist.

  They stood silent, then turned back to the kitchen, where they poured coffee and sat at the table.

  Cynthia put her head in her hands. “We lead a sheltered life, Timothy ... out of the fray.”

  “The fray,” he said, “has come to us.”

  According to Rodney, he’d have to go to social services and file a statement that Lacey Turner said she was being battered. A law enforcement officer could go along to investigate, but that was up to social services.

  When he finally found the right office in Wesley and told what he knew, the social worker said matter-of-factly, “It happens all the time.”

  “How long will it take you to investigate and get back to me?”

  “I’ll put the report in today. Depends. Five days, a week at the most.

  A week. Someone could be killed in a week.

  He felt useless, impotent—stupid, somehow, like Lace Turner had said.

  Dooley would be home from school in a matter of days. He’d ride down with a boy and his family on their way to Holding, and be delivered to the rectory. A blessed relief, given the demands of Cynthia’s new book and his own commitments, which included plans for a surprise celebration of Miss Sadie’s ninetieth birthday, to be held in the parish hall Sunday after next.

  There was no question in his mind that a blowout was in order.

  Hadn’t Sadie Baxter given five million dollars to Lord’s Chapel, to build one of the finest nursing homes in the state? And hadn’t her father, and then Miss Sadie herself, kept a roof on the church building throughout its long history?

  He called the bishop, to ask whether he could attend, but Stuart Cullen had no fewer than four events on the Sunday in question, all of them miles from Mitford.

  “Emma,” he said, “call the entire parish and tell them they’re invited.”

  Emma’s lip curled. “Call th‘ whole bloomin’ mailin‘ list?”

  “The whole blooming list,” he said, his excitement mounting.

  “That’s a hundred and twenty households, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.” He was pleased with the number, especially as it had risen by seven percent in two years, even with the recent loss to the Presbyterian camp.

  “I suppose you realize that nobody’s ever home anymore, to answer the phone.”

  He couldn’t argue that point. “So have cards done at QuikCopy. But you’ll have to get them in the mail no later than tomorrow. Oh. And remember to say it’s a surprise.”

  “It’s certainly a surprise to me.”

  “When we get our computer,” he said jauntily, “it’ll knock the labels out in no time. Until then ...”

  She glared at him darkly. “I’ll have to address every blasted one by hand.”

  “Every blasted one,” he said, swiveling around in his chair and dialing Esther Bolick. This was an occasion for a three-tier orange marmalade cake, and no two ways about it.

  “Have you found out anything?” he asked the social worker. It had been only four days since he had filed the complaint, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

  “I can’t say. I haven’t seen anything on it.”

  “Have you investigated?”

  “The person responsible for the investigation isn’t in today. You’ll be advised as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll call back,” he said.

  Cynthia agreed to buy the birthday present in Wesley when she went to get new towels and washcloths for the rectory. She thought it should be a cardigan sweater, a blend of wool and cotton, even silk.

  “Spare no expense!” he said, feeling a warm largesse toward his all-time favorite parishioner.

  Emma softened and bought a silver-plated letter opener, as Miss Sadie had lost hers and was using a kitchen knife with a serrated edge. “She goan cut her han‘ off jus’ openin’ th‘ ’lectric bill,” Louella said. “An‘ th’ ‘lectric company already takin’ a arm an‘ a leg.”

  He called Katherine in New Jersey, thinking she might like to drop a card to the lady who’d been kind to her on a long-ago visit to Mitford.

  Katherine proceeded to give yet another of her sermons on why he and Cynthia should go to Ireland with them in August, and he responded with yet another sermon on why they could not, the chief reason being that Dooley Barlowe would still be home from school, and he wanted to spend every possible moment with the boy.

  “Oh, well,” said his cousin’s wife, “I’ll keep trying. In the meantime, I’ll send Miss Sadie two of the pot holders I’m making for our church bazaar.”

  He didn’t mention that the pot holders she once sent him had unraveled to the size of petits fours, and faded in the wash on his underwear.

  The Sweet Stuff Bakery volunteered to make vegetable sandwiches, and the ECW promised to round up trays of lemon squares, brownies, and ham biscuits, not to mention a heap of Miss Sadie’s favorite party food, which was peanut butter and jelly on triangles of white bread without crusts.

  He jogged up Old Church Lane to the Hope House site to render an invitation to Buck Leeper, and marveled at the way construction was humming along. The windows, at last set in place, reflected the afternoon sun like so many squares of gold. Dazzling!

  Buck wo
uld, indeed, come to the party, though the fact that it was being held in a church building did not appear to increase his eagerness.

  Father Tim ordered ice cream, and plenty of it, vanilla and chocolate, and rummaged through drawers in the parish hall kitchen for birthday candles. He came up with fewer than twenty-one pink candles, and made a note to pick up more at the drugstore, along with a container of rouge called Wild Coral, which Miss Sadie once said she liked.

  Esther Bolick would play the piano, Mayor Cunningham would deliver a speech, and Dooley Barlowe, he felt certain, would sing.

  In advance of the occasion, Cynthia brushed his best dark suit and picked one of two silk squares for his jacket pocket. He shined his shoes and wrote, in longhand, a poem that he would read aloud. He rifled through his study library to find any references to “birthday” that might be funny, wise, thought-provoking, or all of the above.

  He supposed he should let Louella in on it, and popped over to Lilac Road during Miss Sadie’s nap time.

  “You ain’t!” said Louella. “You ain’t gone an‘ done all that!”

  “I certainly have,” he said, suspicious of her frown.

  “Miss Sadie don’t want no big doin’s for her birthday, she done tol‘ me that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She say, ‘Louella, don’t you let nobody be singin’ and jumpin‘ aroun’.‘ ”

  “But Miss Sadie likes singing and jumping around!”

  “Not this time, she don’t. She ain’t feelin‘ herself. Ever since she fell off th’ sofa and broke her wris’ bone, she been grumpy as you ever seen.” Louella shook her head. “I don‘ know. She ain’t sick, she ain’t ailin’, she jus’ ain’t th‘ same Miss Sadie.”

  “Let me have a word with her.” Sadie Baxter was not a grumpy person. She was sunshine itself. Maybe he should tell her about the party, how excited people were. That would fix everything, no problem.

  “Come eat with us Wednesday, after Holy Euc‘ris’,” said Louella. “I’ll have a pot of snap beans an‘ a cake of cornbread. It puts her in a good mood t’ have comp‘ny.”

  “Done!” he said, feeling encouraged.

  It was the last thing he needed in his life, the very last thing he needed on the whole of this earth. The prospect made a series of root canals seem nothing at all, a picnic.

  “We’ll be there tomorrow,” said the computer technician.

  He went to the Grill for breakfast, as Cynthia had been up since four-thirty working on an illustration due in New York, pronto.

  Sliding into the booth, he felt as if breakfast were his last supper.

  “Business has fell off,” said Percy, looking gloomy.

  “Looks th‘ same to me,” said Mule, eyeing the room. “An empty stool or two ...”

  “I cain’t afford a empty stool or two, especially with th‘ new help I’ve got on th’ breakfast shift. Th‘ doc said, ’Percy, take a load off your feet,‘ so here I set, swillin’ coffee like th‘ rest of th’ loafers.”

  “You’ll catch up,” said J.C., unusually consoling.

  “I cain’t see how. Th‘ price of cookin’ oil is up, th‘ price of eggs is up, even bread has went up. I need to expand my customer base.”

  “You’ve got us,” said Mule. “We come in regular as clockwork. That ought to count for something.”

  “I cain’t make a livin‘ off a preacher, a part-time Realtor, and a jack-leg newspaper man. I got to advertise.”

  “I can’t believe you used that dirty word,” said J.C., chewing a combination mouthful of sausage, eggs, toast, and grits. “You’ve fought advertisin‘ like a chicken fights a hawk.”

  “I’m not talkin‘ ordinary, run of th’ mill advertisin‘ like newspapers and such.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m talkin‘ a banner to hang over my awnin’.”

  “A banner,” said J.C., obviously bored with the conversation.

  “Happy Endings uses banners, th‘ Collar Button puts up two banners a year at sale time ... an’ remember how they lined up when Th‘ Local did a banner on fresh collards last October?”

  “Who can keep up with such as that?” asked Velma, refilling their cups. “Lord, I hardly know where I was yesterday, much less who lined up for collards last October.”

  “You was here yesterday,” Percy said helpfully. “From ten t‘ two. I needed you from eight t’ two, but you was havin‘ your hair dyed.”

  “Put that on a banner,” Velma snapped. “Most people think this is my natural color.”

  “What do you want the banner to say?” asked the rector.

  “Dern if I know, I just this mornin‘ decided to do it.”

  “How much does a banner cost?” Mule asked.

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  Mule blew on his coffee. “What it says better be good, then.”

  “Memorable,” suggested the rector.

  “Right,” said Mule.

  Percy looked at Father Tim. “What do you think it ought to say? You write sermons and put those snappy little notions on your wayside pulpit. And here sets th‘ editor of th’ local paper, a scribbler and a half, to my mind. Seems like between th‘ two of you, you could come up with what to say.”

  “How many words?” asked J.C.

  “No more’n ten. More’n ten, th‘ price goes up and readership goes down. That’s th’ rule for billboards same as banners, is what th‘ banner man says.”

  “Homeless Hobbes,” said the rector. “He’s your man. He was in advertising. Did cereal, automotive, and toothpaste.”

  “I don’t have time to go stumblin‘ around th’ Creek, gettin‘ my head shot off by one of them hillbillies. I got to get right on this thing.”

  “When it comes to advertising,” said J.C., “there’s always some big deadline deal. You waited this long, why can’t you give a man a day or two to come up with the copy?”

  “If I call it in today, th‘ paint dries Thursday, an’ it’s delivered Friday. That way, I get drive-by recognition all weekend, and when I open th‘ door on Monday mornin’—full house!” It was a rare occasion when Percy Mosely smiled.

  J.C. sopped his toast around his plate and handed the plate to Velma as she walked by. “No need to wash that.” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “So why don’t we come up with a line right now?”

  “Right now?”

  “Why not? I can’t be laborin‘ over a dadblame banner like I got nothing else to do.”

  “I’ll throw in a free breakfast, two mornin’s,” said Percy.

  “Two mornings?”

  “Three.”

  “With sausage?”

  “Links or patties, your call.”

  “Deal,” said J.C., taking a legal pad from his bulging briefcase and a pencil from his shirt pocket. “OK, what’s the occasion? Free refills on coffee? Twenty percent off for senior citizens?”

  “Just general.”

  “General? You can’t write great advertising about general. You got to have particular. In fact, outstanding particular. The finest pies, the cheapest breakfasts, the biggest salad bar. Like that.”

  “I got one,” said Mule. “This is the best place to eat in town. ”

  J.C. rolled his eyes. “This is the only place to eat in town.”

  “Scratch that,” said Mule.

  The rector smoothed his paper napkin and took out the pen he won in an American Legion raffle. “Since this is the only place, being better than somebody else won’t hack it. Maybe you need to give something away.”

  “Balloons!” said Mule. “Bumper stickers! Mugs!” He looked around the table. “How about refrigerator magnets?”

  Percy wagged his head vigorously. “I ain’t givin‘ nothin’ away. Look what I’m givin‘ away now—breakfast, two ninety-nine; cheeseburgers a buck-fifty; BLTs a buck-eighty when I ought t’ be haulin‘ down two dollars ... nossir, I ain’t givin’ nothin‘ else away.”

  “Right,” said Velma.

 
“Th‘ deal,” Percy said, “is to pull in some new people, people that could be stoppin’ by on their way to work in Wesley or Holding, like that. Or people that’s packin‘ their lunch and could be eatin’ right here just as cheap.”

  “OK,” said Father Tim, “what about a line ... something like ... these aren’t the words, just the gist of it ... something like, check us out and you’ll come back again and again. I don’t know. This is hard.”

  “That doesn’t have any spin on it,” said J.C., chewing the pencil.

  “Spin?” said Percy. “What’s that?”

  “What time is it?” asked the rector, checking his watch. “Good Lord! I’m out of here.”

  “What’s th‘ hurry?” said Mule. “The fun’s just beginnin’.”

  That, thought the rector as he raced to the office, was not how he would describe things, at all.

  “There you go,” said the technician, slapping a manual on his desk.

  The rector picked it up and stared at it. It was heavier than his study edition of the Old Testament, something close to the weight of a truck tire.

  He thumbed through to the back as the technician plugged in the keyboard. Eight hundred and twenty-nine pages! If this didn’t turn out to be the worst experience of his life, he’d eat the index—a mere ten pages, including appendixes.

  Emma had scarcely moved since he arrived at the office. She sat at her desk, as frozen as a halibut, and deathly pale under two spots of rouge. He could not come up with one word of consolation.

  “Before we go into your spreadsheet application,” said the technician, whose name was Dave, “let’s take a look at your word processing toolbars.”

  “Aha.”

  “Would you like to hide your toolbars or display them?”

  Honesty was the best policy. “I don’t have a clue.”

  “OK, so let’s get basic.”

  “Right.”

  “Let’s start with your mouse, and practice pointing, clicking, and dragging.”

  Emma didn’t move her head, but rolled her eyes around to watch the demonstration.

  “OK, put your hand on your mouse like this....” Dave demonstrated. “Click it. Fun, right? You’re off and running. Now, let’s choose a menu option. Or would you rather use a keyboard shortcut?”