by Jan Karon
“Would you like t‘ hold Sissy while I change Sassy? It won’t take a minute. Or—you could change Sissy while I hold Sassy!”
She looked so excited and pleased about the prospect of either that he could hardly refuse. “The first thing you said,” he mumbled.
“OK, here she is. Uh-oh. I need to change Sissy worse’n I need t‘ change Sassy!”
“If it’s not one thing, it’s two,” he said, quoting a former bishop.
She hauled Sissy to his wing chair, plopped her in the seat, and did what she had to do. “Now!” she said, snapping the diaper in place. “Come and sit on your granpaw’s lap!”
Granpaw! Granpaw? He’d better nip this thing in the bud while the nipping was good. “Ah ... Puny.”
“Yes, sir?” She turned around with the baby in her arms, and he saw the prettiest sight this side of heaven—his one and only Puny, who had lit up the gloomy rectory with the glow of a thousand candles. Could he refuse her anything at all?
“Bring her on!” he said, holding out his arms, as Sassy landed him a swift kick.
He had jogged, Puny had scooped up the babies and their ocean of paraphernalia and gone home, and Cynthia was arriving any minute. It was his night to cook dinner, and he was running behind.
Did he dare fix the boring and economical Parson’s Meatloaf for a woman who had been his bride only a few months? He had spoiled her rotten with roasted this and glazed that, not to mention his barbecued ribs specialty, which she craved, plus a fairly deft output of everything from grilled quail and oyster stuffing to broiled mountain flounder with pecan sauce.
Was the honeymoon over? He bowled ahead with the meatloaf, fervently hoping not.
He heard tapping at the back door and turned to see Olivia Harper peering through the screen. “Hello!” she said.
“Olivia! Hello, yourself! Come in!”
He held the screen door open and was dazzled, as was everyone, by the striking beauty of Sadie Baxter’s great-niece. “This is a grand surprise. Cynthia’s on her way any minute, and I’ve got kitchen duty tonight. Have you been up with Miss Sadie?”
“Yes,” she said, sitting down at the table, “and she’s in terrible pain, Father.”
“I know.”
“The bedpan is impossible with the kind of break she had, and getting up to use the potty chair is nearly more than she can bear. It hurts me so to see her suffer like this, and Hoppy says there’s nothing we can do.”
“I know. She’s too small and too frail to medicate more heavily.”
“I didn’t want to come bringing doom and gloom,” said Olivia.
He saw the grim concern that shaded her extraordinary violet eyes. “And you didn’t,” he assured her.
“I suppose I’m thinking of the future.”
“Of sending her away to a rehab center,” he said. “Then nurses around the clock when she comes home....”
“And possibly confined to bed for ... a long time.”
“You know Cynthia and I will do whatever it takes. You’re not in this alone. How is Louella today? I didn’t see her when I went at three.”
“Suffering, Father. This thing has aged them both at once.”
“ ... the Lord do so to me, and more also,” he quoted from the Book of Ruth.
“ ... if ought but death part thee and me,” she said, finishing the verse.
Cynthia and Lace came up the back steps and into the kitchen.
“Olivia!”
The two women embraced warmly. “Olivia, meet Lace Turner. Lace, this is Mrs. Olivia Daven ... oops, Harper.”
Olivia extended her beautifully manicured hand to Lace, who looked at it for a fleeting moment, then awkwardly took it.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Lace.”
The girl dropped her head.
“Oh, Timothy,” said Cynthia, “I’m so glad it’s your night in the barrel. I thought it was mine, and I didn’t have a clue what to fix. Maybe meatloaf, or something consoling.”
“Meatloaf!” he said. “Just the ticket!” Great minds think alike.
“Lace came to see me,” Cynthia said, “and I’ve been showing her my watercolors.”
“She c’n draw!” Lace announced, sitting down and pushing her hat back on her head. “Looky here, she gave me these books.” She hauled two violet books from the belt of her workpants, and passed them to Olivia. He saw a sparkle in her eyes that he’d never seen before.
“I’ve seen them,” said Olivia, “and they’re grand! I can’t draw a straight line, can you?”
“I can draw some.” Lace rested her chin on her dirty hand and stared at Olivia. “You’re real purty,” she said.
“So are you, Lace.”
“No, I ain’t! You don’t have t‘ tell me that ’cause I said it t‘ you.”
“I didn’t say it because you said it to me. I said it because it’s true. You’re a very pretty girl, with beautiful features and wonderful hazel eyes.”
Lace blushed and pulled the hat down, nearly covering her eyes.
“I see you like hats,” Olivia said. “I like hats, too.”
“I can’t wear a hat,” said Cynthia, thumping into a chair at the table. “I look ridiculous.”
The rector turned from dicing onions. “Don’t be so modest. You look fetching in a baseball cap!”
Olivia laughed. “If you’d ever like to see my hats, Lace, I’d like to show them to you. I have hats that were made at the turn of the century, with glorious feathers and pins and veils. They came from someone in my family.”
“This was m‘ pap’s hat.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“I don’t go t‘ no school. I lay out.”
“I see.”
“M‘ pap won’t let me go t’ school. They’d land him in jail f‘r whip-pin’ me.” She pulled up her shirtsleeve and showed Olivia the healing bruises, then suddenly yanked the sleeve down and stood up from the table.
“I got t‘ git home. Pap’s comin’ tonight.” She collected the books and stuffed them under her belt.
“Wait, don’t go just yet!” Cynthia went to the refrigerator, found cheese and tomatoes, and removed a loaf of bread from the freezer. She quickly put a jar of mayonnaise into a bag with a jar of pickles, cans of soup and baked beans, and two apples.
“There,” she said, nearly out of breath. “Run home quickly, then, and hide it if you have to. You’re in our prayers, all of you. Be safe, be careful—don’t cross your father, and come back when you can.”
Lace nodded and backed toward the door, clutching the bag. “Thank y‘uns f’r th‘ stuff. I’ll see y’uns now an‘ ag’in.”
He stepped to the door and watched her walk toward Baxter Park. Today, he had seen the child in her, if only for a moment; he thought she nearly skipped through the hedge.
He was getting ready to go to the hospital when the phone rang.
“Timothy?”
“Yes, Marge?”
“I ... we need to talk. Is this a good time?”
“I was just stepping out the door to see Miss Sadie.”
“Shall I call you tomorrow?”
“No. Let’s talk now.” He took the cordless into the study and sat in his wing chair.
“Timothy, there’s a hard thing between us.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“Let me tell you how I feel. I feel ... caught in the middle. You see, Dooley wrote and asked if he could come for the summer and, of course, I said he could, if that’s what all of you wanted and agreed on. I thought he would talk to you about it, and you would talk to me. I’m so sorry it came as a surprise to you.”
“We were both surprised, then.”
“Yes. You know I treasure your friendship, and I love Dooley. Nothing can change that. Whatever I’ve done to hurt you, Timothy, please forgive me.”
He thought he had forgiven her, but he hadn’t. He felt the bile of it in him yet.
“I’m sorry, Marge. I’m sorry for being so ... �
� What had he been? Possessive? Selfish?
“Then you forgive me?”
He heard the concern in her voice, and his heart softened. “Yes,” he said eagerly. “Yes. There’s nothing to forgive, nothing at all.”
“I think I’ve had an insight about Dooley. When he helps Hal with a sick or wounded animal, I believe it’s his way of loving his brothers and his little sister. Perhaps that’s why he runs to the opportunity to help an animal, which makes it look like he’s running from you and Cynthia.”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“I believe he hated to leave you the other day, that he was conflicted about it, but he sucked up and did it.”
“Thank you, Marge, for talking this over. I’m ashamed of—”
“Don’t be ashamed, old friend. Life is too short.”
He chuckled. How good to have the weight off their hearts.
“Please come on Sunday afternoon and visit, you and Cynthia. Bring Barnabas, too. I’ll give you chicken pie, your old favorite.”
He felt a grin spreading across his face. “Consider it done. And thank you. Thank you.”
“You know, Timothy, it’s not having someone to love us that’s so important—but having someone to love, don’t you think?”
“Yes!” he said, knowing. “Oh, yes.”
“I pray he’ll be reunited with his family. Do you think that’s possible?”
He was silent for a moment. “I don’t know, Marge. With God, all things are possible. So, yes. The answer is yes.”
Miss Sadie was reported to have made a good turn, and was gathering strength. Before he reached the hospital on Wednesday morning to give her the Holy Eucharist, she sat up, according to the nurses, and sang the opening verse of “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.”
“It was a little squeaky,” said Nurse Kennedy, “but she did it and we’re thrilled!”
He sang it himself, barreling down the hill in his Buick to the noon service—shouted it, in fact, to whoever might be listening.
Love divine, all loves excelling,
joy of heaven, to earth come down,
fix in us Thy humble dwelling,
all Thy faithful mercies crown.
Jesus, Thou art all compassion,
pure, unbounded love Thou art;
visit us with Thy salvation,
enter every trembling heart.
Sometimes, being elated drained him more than feeling despondent. His high at Miss Sadie’s turnaround left him limp on Wednesday night.
His wife was propped up in bed, scribbling in a sketchbook, while he examined himself in the dresser mirror.
“You’re tired, dearest?” she asked.
“A dash.”
“More than a dash, I think. You know you can’t shine if you don’t fill your lamp.”
“Where did you dig up that old platitude, Kavanagh?”
“Ummm. I can’t remember.”
He peered into the mirror, lamenting the new gray in what was left of his hair.
“Darling,” she said, “I think your gray hair is wonderful. Very distinguished, in fact!”
He gave her a wicked sidelong glance. “Yes, and just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there’s no fire in the furnace.”
She went into gales of laughter. “Timothy! I can’t believe you said such a thing.”
“That may be only the first of the things you can’t believe I said.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean ... what do I mean? I mean, let’s drive to Holding for dinner tomorrow evening, for starters. There’s a new place, and it’s foolishly expensive.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“You see? And another thing: Let’s take in a movie. You can eat all my Milk Duds.”
“Timothy! What is happening to you? If you don’t watch out, you’re going to be positively fun.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, grinning.
“I’d love to do all of that! And now that Miss Sadie is feeling better, I can talk to you about something I’ve been thinking.”
“And what’s that?” he asked, coming to sit on the side of the bed.
“Having my will made last week reminded me ... if I keel over before I get my roots touched up, don’t let Fancy Skinner lay a hand on me, do you hear?”
He stared at her, blankly.
“You must send for a hairdresser in Charlotte, and I definitely want foil, not a cap. Understand?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Foil! Not a cap! Oh, phoo, I’ll write it down and put it in the envelope with the will. I did tell you where I put the will, didn’t I?”
“I don’t recall that you did.” Good Lord, she sounded as if it were all coming down the pike tomorrow.
“In the top drawer of your desk in the study. Under the ledger.”
“Right. So why are you concerned about your hair if you’re going to be cremated?” Episcopalians were historically fond of ending up in an urn, which surely didn’t require getting their roots touched up, much less by out-of-towners.
“I’m not going to be cremated! Just plopped in the old-fashioned casket that takes up all that room underground and is now politically incorrect from here to the Azores.”
“Aha.”
“I’ll leave you a note about what I’m going to wear. I think it should be that plum-colored suit you like so much.” She stopped and pondered. “Unless, of course, I keel over in the summer, which means that little piqué dress with the blue piping.”
“Could we talk about something else?” he asked. When it came to discussing the future, he was far and away better at it than his wife, and he’d only recently begun.
Sunday was all the perfection of June rolled into one fragile span of time, a golden day that no one would have end.
They feasted on Marge’s chicken pie and raved over the flaky crust, and drank an entire pitcher of iced tea. Dooley rode Goosedown Owen around the barnyard, holding tightly to Rebecca Jane, who shared the saddle. Barnabas caroused with several of the Meadowgate dogs, and returned with a coat full of burrs, twigs, dead leaves, and other cast-offs of nature.
The rector headed for the woods with his wife and her sketchbook, where they found a cushion of moss along the sunlit path.
“Dearest,” she said, opening her box of colored pencils, “maybe we should buy a farm when you retire.”
“That’s a thought.”
“I’d love to pick wildflowers and put them in Mason jars on a windowsill!” She peered at a grove of Indian pipes that had pushed through a layer of leaf mold, and sketched quickly. “And I’d love making deep-dish blackberry pies. Would you do the picking?”
“No way,” he said.
“Why not?”
“The last time I picked blackberries, I was so covered with chigger bites, I was nearly unrecognizable.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, when I was ten or eleven.”
“And it put you off blackberry picking for life?”
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe we’d better not buy a farm.”
“Maybe not,” he said laughing.
Dooley and Barnabas came crashing along the wooded path, followed by Bonemeal, one of Meadowgate’s numerous canine residents.
“Hey!” said Dooley.
“Hey, yourself!” they replied in unison.
“I’m through watering the horses.”
“Great. Come and sit while Cynthia draws.”
Dooley thumped down on the moss as Barnabas sprawled on the Indian pipes.
“Get up, you big oaf!” cried Cynthia.
“Barnabas, old fellow, over here!” Barnabas lumbered over and lay next to his master, panting.
“Mashed pipes,” said Cynthia. “Oh, well, Dooley, I’ll draw you.”
“Don’t draw me,” he said. “I ain’t ... I’m not ... my hair’s not combed and all.”
“Perfect! It’ll be a candid portrait.”
Doo
ley covered his face with his hands.
“Uncover your funny face this minute!” said Cynthia, charcoal pencil at the ready.
Dooley kept his face covered, cackling with laughter.
“Nobody minds me,” she sighed. “Timothy won’t pick blackberries, Barnabas squashes my subject matter, and you hide your face. Rats, I’ll just take a nap.” She crashed back onto the moss.
“No, don’t take a nap!” said Dooley. “You can draw me.”
“Great!” she said springing up. “OK, hold still and look this way. Actually ... look that way. Now, drop your chin. I love your freckles. Don’t squint your eyes. Is that a cut on your forehead? What happened?” She sketched hurriedly. “Don’t, mash down your hair, it looks wonderful that way. Ummm, raise your chin a little. Just a tish. No, that’s too much—”
“I hate this,” said Dooley, as the rector shook with laughter.
“Why,” asked Father Tim, “should you do all the drawing in the family, anyway? We’ll draw you.”
“No, no, a thousand times no, you will make my nose look like a squash.”
“Tough,” said Dooley.
“Yeah!” said the rector.
“Have a go, then,” she said, finishing the drawing and giving Dooley her pencil and sketchbook.
“Look this way!” urged the rector.
“No, look that way!” said Dooley. “And get your hair out of your face!”
“Amazing!” said Father Tim, peering at the hastily completed sketch. “Your nose doesn’t look like a squash at all. It looks like a gourd.”
Dooley and the rector rolled with laughter, as Cynthia peered at them with stunning disdain.
“It certainly doesn’t take much for you turkeys.”
Dooley picked up the sketch she’d done of him and examined it carefully. “Man!” he said. “That’s me all right.”
The rector looked into the boy’s eager eyes. “You like it out here, buddy?”
“Yep.”
“I’m glad you were such a big help with the calf.”
“That calf is jumping around like new. Doc Owen said he couldn’t have done it without me.”
There were a few things that he, too, couldn’t have done without Dooley Barlowe.