These High, Green Hills

by Jan Karon

  “Ummm.”

  “Do you think we’d have celebrated Miss Sadie like that if she hadn’t put the roof on and given the nursing home?”

  “Definitely! Absolutely!”

  “Good.” She started inside as Dooley came along the hallway.

  “That girl’s here again,” he said, looking coldly at them.

  “Lacey ... ”

  “In the kitchen. Man, she stinks.”

  “Get your things,” said the rector, and turned to his wife. “Would you see if he’s rounded up what he needs? I’ll look in on Lacey.”

  He found her slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, her hair pushed under the battered hat.

  “Y‘r door won’t locked, so I come in.”

  He sat opposite her. “How are you?”

  “M‘ pap’s gone t’ Tennessee t‘ work on th’ bridge.”

  “Wonderful!” he said.

  “He’ll come home Fridays. They ain’t nothin‘ t’ eat in th‘ house, he done cleaned out what we had and took it.”

  “We’ll handle that. How’s your mother?”

  “Bad off.”

  He heard the emptiness in her voice. “I’m sorry, Lacey.”

  She looked at him coolly. “I said t‘ call me Lace.”

  “Yes. Has your mother got her medicine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about a hot bath? It’ll be good for you, and good for your back, and we’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “I don’t need no bath.”

  Dooley and Cynthia came into the kitchen. “Lace! We’re glad you’re here! Dooley Barlowe, Lace Turner.”

  Dooley glared at the girl, and she glared back.

  “Everything’s at the front door,” said Cynthia, unwrapping the cake. “I’m just going to cut some of this to send to the farm.”

  “I’d eat a piece of that if you was t‘ give it t’ me,” said Lace.

  “I’m taking it with me,” Dooley announced. “It’s mine.”

  “Actually, it’s ours,” Cynthia said. “And she may have a piece.”

  Dooley gave the girl a withering look. “Where’d you come from?”

  “None of y‘r business.”

  The phone rang, and Dooley bolted for it. “Hello!” He listened intently. “Yes, ma‘am. I liked doing it. I hope you have a real good birthday and ... many more. Thank you for doing stuff for me. Yes ma’am. I will. ‘Bye.”

  “Miss Sadie?” queried Cynthia.

  “She said she appreciated that I sang her favorite hymn. I hated to make her cry.”

  “Oh, but it was a good cry!” said Cynthia, giving Lace a piece of cake. Lace took it from the plate with both hands and devoured it.

  Dooley glowered at her. “You ought to say thank you.”

  Lace licked her fingers and gave him an insolent look. “You ain’t my boss.”

  “Step out front with me, son,” said the rector, “and we’ll visit ‘til Marge and Hal get here.”

  They carried the bags to the front porch, where Dooley thumped down on the top step. “If she wasn’t a girl, I’d knock her head off.”

  “What would that accomplish?” the rector asked.

  “She’d know who she was talkin‘ to, that’s what.”

  “Who would she be talking to?”

  “I bet you’re lettin‘ her move in here, lettin’ her eat here and everything. She sure as heck better stay out of my room—and why’s she tryin‘ to look like a guy, anyway? Gag. Puke.”

  He noticed that Dooley’s prep school varnish was peeling off pretty fast. “Calm down,” he said. “If you knew her circumstances ...” “

  Hal Owen pulled his red pickup to the curb, and Rebecca Jane leaned out the window. “Uncle Dools!”

  Dooley grabbed a heavy bag in each hand, and the rector hoisted the duffle and the rabbit cage.

  His heart beat dully. It seemed they had welcomed him home only yesterday, and now ...

  Swallow it down, he thought, going to the curb. Swallow it down.

  Hal got out and came around to help. “We’ll just put your stuff in the back. Everything zipped up tight?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Dooley.

  Marge opened the door and pulled Rebecca Jane onto her lap. “Climb in,” she said.

  “Marge ... ” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “Timothy, I ... ” She lifted her hands and let them fall.

  Hal slapped the rector on the back. “We’ll take care of him, and you and Cynthia come out anytime. We mean it.”

  “Anytime,” said Marge, nearly whispering.

  He reached in and patted Rebecca Jane, who displayed teeth like seed corn when she smiled. “Come with us!” she said.

  The rector managed to smile back. “Not today.”

  Cynthia ran down the walk with the bag. “Wait! Esther’s cake!”

  Cynthia stuck her head in the truck cab and gave Rebecca Jane a kiss. “Take care of Uncle Dools for us.”

  “We will,” said the little girl, nodding soberly.

  She kissed Dooley. “Call us.”

  “OK.”

  “We love you, buddy,” he said, suffering. He looked into the boy’s eyes. Would the pain he saw there never go away?

  “Mam says if you wash an‘ go outside, y’r pores’ll be open an‘ y’ll git sick.”

  Cynthia passed her another piece of roast chicken. “This is June, though, Lace, and that’s not likely to happen. Washing and going out in winter is probably what she meant. In any case, I want to look at your back.”

  Lace thought for a moment. “I thank y‘uns, but I ain’t goin’ t‘ take no bath.”

  “Fine. How do you like the chicken?”

  “I like chicken, it’s m‘ favorite.”

  “Mine, too,” said Cynthia.

  “I’d like it better if it was fried.”

  There was a long silence as they ate their hastily prepared dinner.

  “Lace ... ” said Cynthia.

  “Huh?”

  “How do you feel about your father?”

  “I hate ‘im.” More silence. “But I used t’ like ‘im.”

  “What did you like about him?”

  “He was good t‘ me when I was a baby. They said I was s’ little, I slep’ in Pap’s beard ‘til I growed out of it. He used t’ be nice t‘ me, bring me candy an’ all, then liquor got ‘im and he went down.”

  “Went down,” said the rector.

  “Yeah.”

  “Has he actually threatened to kill you?”

  “Lots of times. An‘ he said if I tol’ anybody anything, or let th‘ school people catch me, he’d hit Mam a lick she wouldn’t forgit.”

  “I hear,” he said, “that a woman named Pauline Barlowe lives at the Creek. Do you know her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “She’s nice, she’s good. She he‘ps me sometimes, but ’er man don’t like her doin‘ it.”

  “What’s nice about her?”

  “She prayed that prayer I prayed, an‘ it made ’er different, she smiles an‘ all, an’ does things f‘r people.”

  “I heard she has a child.”

  “She’s got Poobaw, he’s ten.”

  “That prayer you prayed, Lace ... did it make you different?”

  The girl shrugged. “Made me want t‘ quit stealin’. I know it ain’t right, m‘ mam knows it ain’t right.”

  “Anything else?”

  She stared at them coldly. “Y‘uns ask a lot of questions.”

  He didn’t know why, but that struck him as funny, and he burst into laughter, liking the feeling. Cynthia laughed, too.

  And then, so did Lace.

  She paused at the back door, clutching the parcel of food. “I’ll be back, now an‘ agin.”

  “If I were to give you this,” he said, holding a twenty-dollar bill, “what would you do with it?”

  “I’d buy Mam some goobers, she loves goobers, an‘ I’d spend th’ rest on som
ethin‘ t’ eat, like ham an‘ all.”

  “Do you go to the store?”

  “I don’t go t‘ no stores n’r anywhere th‘ school people can catch me. I dress like a boy, an’ know how t‘ duck around so people cain’t see me. Like when I come here, I come th’ back way—down th‘ creek and th’ough th‘ apple trees an’ acrost th‘ park.”

  “Who goes to the store for you, then?”

  “Pauline, most of th‘ time.”

  “She’s honest?”

  “Yeah. Honester’n anybody ‘cept Mam.”

  He handed her the money. “Take it. And I’d also like you to take this. I know you have a place to hide it, if you need to.” He pulled a small edition of the New Testament from his pocket and gave it to her.

  She looked at it without comment and dropped it inside the bag of food.

  “When you send to the store,” said Cynthia, “please get a bar of soap and wash yourself.” He thought his wife sounded as if she meant it.

  “I might,” said Lace. “If I take a notion.”

  As they watched her pass through the hedge, he remembered that social services was looking for her. The very thought horrified him one moment, and gave him relief the next.

  At Cynthia’s house, a cool breeze blew through the open kitchen window, and another from the living room met it in the hallway. In the bedroom upstairs, he found she had turned the covers back, and a vase of flowers sat on the small table she kept before the fireplace.

  Violet lay curled on the vanity seat, and a breeze puffed the curtains out.

  “Thank God!” he exclaimed, surveying the peace of it.

  “Undress, dearest. I’ve got your robe hanging on the bathroom door.”

  He turned and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m dashed if I have a clue how I ever made it without you.”

  “Don’t try and figure it out,” she said gently. “Don’t try and figure anything out. This is a retreat!”

  They were sprawled in bed, listening to the patter of a summer rain. The crumbs of a shared piece of cake sat in a plate on the nightstand, and glasses of lemonade perspired on coasters.

  “It’s like going on holiday,” he said, yawning hugely.

  “What do you know about going on holiday, you big lug? You never go on holiday unless forced by a direct command from the bishop.”

  “True enough. But that’s going to change.”

  “It is?” she said, looking hopeful.

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s wonderful news, darling! Someone said that people who can’t find time for recreation are obliged sooner or later to find time to be sick.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Where do you want to go this summer? August is a good time for me to get away. How about you?”

  “Perfect. The book will be out of my hands, and I’ll be able to kick up my heels. What about ... ” she threw her arms open wide, “northern Italy?”

  “I was thinking of something more ... within driving distance.”

  “Of course. You didn’t say you were going to get over your fear of flying, just your fear of having fun.”

  “Right.”

  “How about Mississippi? You could show me where you lived when you raised rabbits!”

  “Mississippi in August? I don’t think so.”

  “How about Massachusetts, then, and I’ll show you where I lived when I learned to whistle.”

  “You may be on to something, Kavanagh. And while we’re at it, I’ve been meaning to ask you another question.”

  “What’s that?”

  He cleared his throat. Could he actually talk about this? Yes. Yes, he could. In fact, he felt a small tremor of excitement. “Where would you like to live when we ... retire?”

  The faint ticking of the clock merged with the sound of the rain.

  “Goodness! I’ve steeled myself not to think about it, so now I don’t have a clue,” she said. “Somewhere warm in winter?”

  “That’s for sissies.”

  She peered at him. “So you like having your face blistered by the wind, and your feet go numb on the short walk between our house and The Local?”

  “Crazy about it.”

  “So am I, actually.”

  He laughed. “So we’re both keen on four distinct seasons.... ”

  “Quite.”

  “Possibly somewhere near water?” he mused.

  “Possibly.”

  “But nothing flat.”

  “No! Absolutely nothing flat.”

  They listened to the rain for a time, and felt the ravishing coolness of the breeze on their faces.

  “Something rather small,” she said happily.

  “Right. Fine. But with a big yard.”

  “Small house, big yard. OK. I plant, you mow.”

  “No way. We plant, we mow.”

  They shook hands, grinning.

  “Well,” he said, “we have lots of time to think about it.”

  “Really?” she inquired. “How much time, do you imagine? Just asking, of course.”

  “Oh. Maybe a couple of years.”

  “Ummm. Yes. A couple of years sounds perfect to me.”

  “Good! Then it’s settled.”

  “What’s settled?”

  “It’s settled that we have a future,” he said. “Don’t you like having a future?”

  “Like it?” she exclaimed. “I love it!”

  Holding her close, he drifted into sleep as peacefully as a child.

  The cave had been about forgiveness. And because of that, it had also been about freedom.

  He glanced at the clock when the phone rang. Three in the morning. “Hello?” he answered, dreading the news.

  “Miss Sadie done fell ag‘in,” moaned Louella. “Come quick.”

  He increased the speed of the windshield wipers.

  Thank heaven they’d given the party, and not a moment too soon. But if God’s timing had been perfect for the party, he had to believe it had been perfect, as well, for allowing this hard thing. Like it or lump it, nothing happened to a child of God by accident, and scripture inarguably proved that out.

  “For all things work together for good ... ” he murmured, quoting from the book of Romans. “Use this for good,” he prayed.

  As he turned onto Lilac Road, he saw the attendants carrying the stretcher to the ambulance. He heard his heart beating as they closed the doors, and he followed them up the hill in the rain.

  How many times had he received grim news from Hoppy Harper?

  “Bad break,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “Very bad. We’re taking her into surgery, but ...” He paused and ran his fingers through disheveled hair. “I didn’t want to tell you this.”

  “I didn’t want to hear it.”

  Sadie Baxter would be among the first to need the nursing home she was building.

  During surgery, he sat in Hoppy’s lamp-lit office with Louella and Cynthia and Olivia Harper.

  “She say she spill a little drinkin‘ water goin’ out of her bathroom to her bedroom, an‘ when she went to th’ toilet in th‘ night, her foot hit that little patch of water and she went down.”

  Miss Sadie’s friend and companion since childhood hugged herself as if she felt a chill. “This is a bad thing, honey, a bad thing. I can feel it in m‘ bones.”

  Olivia put her arm around Louella. “This strikes us all at the marrow,” she said, trying to appear calm. Not long ago, Olivia had discovered Miss Sadie to be her great-aunt and only living relative. The bond had been, for both of them, one of the great joys of their lives.

  They held hands and took turns praying as the clock ticked toward daylight.

  He swallowed hard before he went into Intensive Care, and could scarcely believe what he saw. It was Sadie Baxter with the light gone from her countenance; it was someone gray and suffering and very, very old.

  He had to force down the cry that welled up in him, a cry that said, This can’t be, I can’t accept this, this is wrong.

  He
stood at the study window and looked out to a drenching rain that made the rhododendron leaves glisten and dance. Beyond the hedge lay Baxter Park, a green pool of quiet and solitude in the summer dusk.

  Cynthia came to him and put her arm around his waist. “What is it, my dearest?”

  He clenched his jaw and spoke hoarsely. “It’s Dooley. And Lace. And Sadie Baxter. And Sophia and Liza. And all the others.”

  “I’ll go to the hospital tonight. You’ve had only three or four hours sleep.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “I’m your deacon, Timothy, you said so. Give me a chance to do my job.”

  He wanted to weep, he wanted to wail, he heard sounds forming somewhere in him that were unrecognizable, sounds of grieving he could never express.

  “We’ll go together,” he said.

  She went off to the kitchen. “I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

  Sadie Baxter was tough, she was resilient, she was made of strong stuff, and last but not least, her faith was up to the job. She could live to be a hundred. Still, he could not shake the dread he felt.

  “And many more,” he whispered urgently into the gathering dusk outside the window.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Loving Back

  “OK,” SAID PUNY, giving him a mischievous look, “which one is Sissy and which one is Sassy?”

  “Now, Puny ...”

  “Oh, jis’ try!”

  He didn’t have a clue, but figured the odds were pretty good. “This one is Sissy!”

  “Wrong! That’s Sassy!”

  He was resting on the study sofa, under what he felt to be a veritable pile of fat, squirming babies, stuffed ducks, squashy monkeys, a rubber pig that squealed when he sat on it, and a stack of folded diapers.

  “Blast,” he said. “How do you tell?” As far as he could see, both had red hair, both had the same eye color, both were the same size, and they smelled exactly alike.

  “See this?” said Puny, pointing to a fat cheek. “Sissy has a dimple on the left side, Sassy has a dimple on the right side.”

  Sissy, Sassy, left, right. He could hardly wait until they were walking and talking, at which time he would simply speak a name, and whoever came running, well, that’s how he would know which was which.