These High, Green Hills

by Jan Karon

  Smiling, he made a fist and scrubbed the top of Dooley’s head. “We love you, big guy.”

  Dooley looked away, and said something. It was barely audible, but they heard it clearly. He said, “I love you back.”

  “Where are Sissy and Sassy?” he asked, popping home for a meatloaf sandwich and a couple of books from his study shelves.

  “Shhh,” said Puny. “They’re asleep in your study. You ought to see ‘em, they’ve growed a foot!”

  “I have to get a couple of books out of there,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “I’ll git ‘em for you. You’d wake ’em up and oh, law, they didn’t sleep five minutes straight last night. What d‘you need?”

  He scratched his head, trying to imagine the books on their particular shelves. “I need Pilgrim’s Progress—I’m referring to it in a sermon—and a book called In the Wake of Recovery.”

  “Where’re they at?” she whispered.

  “Let’s see. Pilgrim’s Progress should be on the third or fourth shelf down, right-hand side, blue leather cover. The other one should be on the left-hand side, maybe the bottom shelf, I don’t know what color the cover is.”

  “Third or fourth shelf, right side, blue cover, and left side, bottom shelf—what’s th‘ name again?”

  “In the Wake of Recovery. ”

  “Shhh. OK, I’ll be right back. Try not to rattle anything.”

  He opened the refrigerator door quietly, removed the meatloaf, and carefully pushed the door shut. He took the bread from the bread-box, and nearly jumped out of his skin when the round box lid crashed onto the floor, rolled under the table, and came to a window-rattling stop.

  Crawling under the table after it, he decided to go next door to the little yellow house, where he could occasionally find crackers and cheese.

  Puny returned to the kitchen, closing the door behind her. “Lord help!” she whispered. “What did you drop in here, your teeth? I cain’t find nothin‘ with any pilgrims on th’ cover. And this ... is this what you were talkin‘ about on the bottom shelf?”

  “It is, thank you. Well done! But I have to have Pilgrim’s Progress, too.”

  “Does the cover have pilgrims with black hats and those funny shoe buckles and all?”

  “No, there’s no drawing or anything, just a plain blue cover and the title and the author’s name, John Bunyan.”

  “That huge man that cut down trees? What do you need him for in a sermon? Or was that Davy Crockett?”

  “Let me go in. I won’t wake them up, I’ll tiptoe.”

  “Men don’t know how to tiptoe. You should hear Joe Joe tiptoeing—clunkety, clunk, slam, bam—”

  “Pun ...”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, reluctant.

  He took off his shoes and eased into the study like a burglar, dodging the floorboards that usually groaned when he passed. At the bookcase, he searched the right-hand shelves.... Where in blast was it, anyway?

  He heard a squeal behind him and turned to look at the twins, who were bedded down in tandem on his sofa. One of them slept peacefully, while one gazed at him with wide, solemn eyes.

  He made another frantic search of the shelf and fled the room, empty-handed.

  Sliding into his loafers, he whispered to Puny, “One of the girls is awake, I saw her eyes—and trust me, I didn’t do it!”

  “Which one is awake?” inquired the concerned mother.

  “Sassy!” he said, gambling. A great howl issued from the study.

  He snatched the recovery book from the table and made a run for it.

  “I thought you’d want to know,” said Hoppy, calling early.

  “I do.”

  “I was listening to her heartbeat this morning and something doesn’t sound right. There’s swelling in her ankles, looks like edema. My guess is early congestive heart failure.”

  “What can you do?”

  “Medication. Some respond, some don’t.”

  He was silent for a moment. “It’s hard to get good news out of you, pal.”

  The doctor sighed. “Right. Let’s just say I owe you one.”

  When he arrived at the Grill for breakfast, he found Mule looking puzzled.

  “So why do you think J.C. won’t tell us about Adele Lynwood?”

  “I think,” said the rector, “that he doesn’t want anybody to know he’s getting overhauled. After what he’s said about women to half the population in this town, he’s probably trying to save face.”

  “I think he ought to come out with it and go on about his business. It looks like she’s good for him, don’t you think?”

  “Considering he’s dropped twenty-nine pounds, lowered his cholesterol, and carries a clean handkerchief, yes, I think so.”

  “Fancy Skinner’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” Mule said proudly.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yessir, I was rough as a cob when I met her. I’d never taken a drink in my life, but I was about to jump on some Beefeater gin my buddies had lifted off a transfer truck.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I was saved by the bell. Her daddy told me, he said, ‘Mule, if I ever hear of you takin’ a drink, I will personally whip your head to a very bad degree. My lips have never touched liquor,‘ he said, ’and lips that touch liquor will never touch Fancy’s.‘ Buddy, he stood there in front of me, he was big as a house, her daddy, and I told him I wouldn’t—and I didn’t.”

  “Excellent.”

  “He bought us our first little home.”

  “Good fellow.”

  “Three rooms. Neat as a pin. I was sellin‘ Collier’s encyclopedias.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Velma set poached eggs and toast in front of the rector and gave the Realtor a box of Wheaties and a bowl.

  “Thank you,” said Mule, responding to Velma’s recent lament that customers seldom said thank you, much less left decent tips. “So is bein‘ married good for you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You never look back?”

  “Never. It’s the best thing I ever did. Cynthia keeps me ... real,” he said, meaning it. He pushed the butter aside and took a bite of the dry whole wheat toast his wife insisted was good for him.

  Mule stared into his empty bowl. “Velma didn’t bring me any milk. No wonder nobody around here says thank you. How can you eat cereal without milk?”

  “You can’t,” said the rector.

  Mule looked up, brightening. “Well, I’ll be dadgum! Here comes J.C., he’s comin‘ back here straight as a shot. I declare! Speak of th’ devil!”

  J.C. threw his bulging briefcase under the table and slid in beside Mule, glowering.

  Mule slapped him on the back. “Where you been, buddyroe?”

  J.C. ignored the question and gave his order to Velma, who had followed him with her order pad. “I’ll take two sausage patties, a double order of grits, two buttered biscuits, two eggs over well, and I wouldn’t mind if you’d slip a piece of country ham in there.”

  J.C. removed a section of paper towel from his shirt pocket and mopped his face.

  The rector and the Realtor turned their heads and looked at each other, blinking.

  He pulled the chair close to her bed and sat down and took her hand. Oh, how small it was, and delicate and cool, with the blue veins shining through. He wanted the warmth of his own hand to radiate heat to hers, for his own vitality to flow out like a spring and emerge in her, so she could raise her head and sit up and tell him a story.

  “Miss Sadie ...”

  “Father.”

  They were quiet for a time.

  “I need you,” he said, but that was not at all what he meant to say. “I need you ... to tell me a story.”

  “Oh, Father. My stories are done.”

  That was what he had feared most. He could not bear to hear it.

  “I don’t want to believe that, so I ... I’ll just go on believing there are stories yet to be told. Will you promi
se me one?” He would have to be positive in the face of this thing.

  She smiled faintly. “You’re a bother.”

  “I know it!” he said, encouraged. “I am!”

  “Let me gather my strength,” she said, and turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “And then, perhaps then ...”

  “I’ll appreciate it,” he said, swallowing hard.

  He kissed her hand and gently lowered her arm by her side. “There was the story of the 1916 flood you once mentioned.”

  “Ah. So long ago....”

  “And the story of the dentist who pulled the wrong tooth when you were a little girl. You never told me that from start to finish.”

  She closed her eyes and smiled. “I’m glad we hired Scott Murphy,” she said.

  “Yes, ma‘am. That was a good thing.”

  “Go home, now, Father, and rest. If I’m going to tell you a story, I must have time to think which one.”

  He leaned down and kissed her cool cheek, not wanting to go.

  At the door, he paused and looked back, thinking he would say something more, or wave, perhaps, but she had turned her head toward the window.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sing On!

  WHEN HE DROPPED BY to see Uncle Bill Watson, the old man welcomed him happily. “Preacher, come set in th‘ yard an’ we’ll watch th‘ traffic.”

  They walked across the grass, which had been recently mowed and watered by the town crew, and thumped down in chrome dinette chairs stationed by the sign that identified the Porter place as Mitford’s Town Museum.

  Uncle Billy spit in the bushes and drew his hand across his mouth. “Sadie Baxter ain’t doin‘ too good, is she?”

  “She sat up and sang a hymn the other day, but I don’t know, Uncle Billy—she’s weak.”

  “She’s old!” said Uncle Billy. “That’s what it is. Now you take Rose—Rose is startin‘ t’ git s’ old, she’s losin‘ her hearin’. Yessir, cain’t hardly understand a word I say and won’t git aids.”

  The rector nodded.

  “Like th‘ other day, Rose said t’ me, ‘Billy, I ain’t got a dadblame thing t’ do,‘ an’ I said, ‘Rose, you ought t’ go in there an‘ start readin’.‘ Well, she like to had a fit. ’I ought t‘ go in there an’ stop breathin‘?’ she said. ‘You’re tellin’ me I ought t‘ go in there an’ stop breathin‘?’ I said, ‘Rose, I didn’t say no such thing. I said you ought t’ go in there an‘ start readin’.‘ ”

  He roared with laughter. “Uncle Billy, I’m sorry to laugh ...”

  “Oh, don’t think nothin‘ of it, that’s th’ way I do—I keep laughin‘, don’t you know.”

  “You’re a good one.”

  “Nossir, I ain’t. I lose heart, now’n ag‘in.”

  They watched the traffic circle the monument. Coot Hendrick rattled by in his rusted pickup truck, waving, and they waved back. Ron Malcolm circled in his Cadillac and threw up a hand.

  “Preacher, did you hear about th‘ deputy sheriff who caught a tourist drivin’ too fast?”

  “Don’t believe I did.”

  “Well, sir, he pulled that tourist over and said, ‘Where you from?’ An‘ th’ tourist said, ‘Chicago.’ ‘Don’t try pullin’ that stuff on me,‘ said th’ deputy. ‘Your license plate says Illinoise.’ ”

  The rector threw back his head and laughed.

  “Did y‘ hear that ’un about th‘ feller whose driver’s license said he had t’ wear glasses when drivin‘? Well, th’ sheriff stopped ‘im, don’t you know, an’ said, ‘Buddy, you’re agoin’ t‘ jail for drivin’ without glasses.‘ Th’ feller said, ‘But Sheriff, I have contacts.’ An‘ th’ sheriff said, ‘I don’t care who you know, you’re agoin’ t‘ jail.’ ”

  “Bill Watson, you’re good medicine!”

  “One more an‘ I’ll walk down th’ street with you,” said Uncle Billy. “Did y‘ hear about th’ feller hit ‘is first golf ball and made a hole in one? Well, sir, he th’owed ‘is club down an’ stomped off, said, ‘Shoot, they ain’t nothin’ to this game. I quit.‘ ”

  He ought to be paying good money for this. “I’ve got to get down to my office,” he said. “Come and walk with me.”

  Ray Cunningham roared around the monument in his RV and hammered down on the horn. They waved.

  “Let me tell Rose I’m agoin‘ with th’ preacher. She don’t like me disappearin‘, don’t you know.” Uncle Billy creaked out of the chair, and they walked slowly across the yard and around to the side of the house.

  “Rose!” called the old man, pounding on the screen door. “Rose, I’m agoin‘ off with th’ preacher. I’ll be back.”

  Miss Rose appeared in a chenille robe, argyle socks, and a shower cap. “You’re going to see Jack?”

  “Said I’ll be back!”

  “Be back by four o‘clock, and I don’t mean maybe!”

  “See what I’m tellin‘ you?” said Uncle Billy as they made their way to the sidewalk. “Old age is settin’ in t‘ ever’body! Rose cain’t hear and I cain’t half remember. What time did she say she wanted me back?”

  Winnie Ivey, bless her soul, was spending nights with Louella, who had seldom spent a night alone in her seventy-nine years.

  He picked Winnie up and when she closed the Sweet Stuff bakery at five-thirty, and, since her car was in the garage and her bunions didn’t permit much walking, he drove her to her little house by the bridge, where she fed her cat before going to Louella’s.

  He sat in Winnie’s porch swing and looked across Little Mitford Creek to the green woods. Somewhere in there, quite out of view from this peaceful place, was the community hardly anyone wanted to acknowledge.

  Out of sight, out of mind....

  When he arrived home at nearly six o‘clock, Cynthia was drinking a cup of tea at the kitchen table, with Barnabas at her feet. He saw his wife’s face and knew something was wrong.

  “Timothy...” “

  He pulled out a chair and sat down. “What is it?”

  “They want me to sign a paper saying I’ve seen Lace’s bruises, that I know she’s been beaten. Then they’ll get the district attorney’s office involved, and they fully expect to find her and take her out of the home. This is too hard....”

  “I know.”

  “It was one thing to want her out of there, but this is quite another. How can I be the one to sign the paper, to make a decision that will take her away from her mother? And yet, how can I not?”

  “They’ll give her mother the choice of staying or leaving.”

  “Yes, but they say she probably won’t leave. I asked what might happen, and apparently people often choose the horror over help.”

  “We haven’t seen Lace since her father came home. I wish we knew what’s going on. I’d like to think that having work will help his drinking problem, but...” “

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “No, I don’t think so. What did you tell them?”

  “I said I’d let them know by Wednesday. If we do this thing and she’s taken away, where will they send her?”

  “They’ll try to place her with a relative. Failing that, she’ll be placed in foster care.”

  “What if ... that is ... should we consider being her foster care?”

  “I have no idea how that works.”

  She was silent for a time before she spoke again. “I wish I could go to the Creek and see things for myself.”

  “What possible good would that do? What would that solve?”

  “I don’t know,” she said vaguely. “I don’t know.”

  If there was anything a church had, it was lists, and in no time flat, according to Dave, they would have their lists formatted, bulleted, and numbered, not to mention sorted. Before Dave arrived, he hoisted the manual and read the following:To change text appearing next to a number in the list, enter text in the Text Before box or the Text After box. To alter a number format or the bullet, select a number or bullet format under Number Format, Bullet Ch
aracter, or Number or Bullet.

  To change the indentation between sections of the list, enter a measurement in the Distance From Indent To Text box.

  He noted that, to include hanging indents, he was to select the Hanging Indent box. He would not know a hanging indent if he met it in the street.

  He looked with longing at his Royal manual, which sat mutely under its ancient black cover.

  “There’s only one problem with doin‘ lists today,” Emma announced.

  “More than one, to my mind.”

  “I can’t find the folder with the lists in it. The ones we’re supposed to key in this morning.”

  “It was right there on your desk two weeks ago, as I recall.”

  “Not anymore. I’ve searched high and low. Did you move it?”

  “I never touch your desk.” It might have been ringed with barbed wire for all the touching he ever did of her desk. “Which lists did it contain?”

  “All the lists. Current membership, Sunday School roll with names, addresses, and phone numbers, lists of pledgers and nonpledgers, lists of people who’ve made special contributions and memorial gifts ... lists of people who worked on the roof since who-shot-Lizzie ... and oh, a list of all the costs to date on Hope House, and the projected expenses for next year’s budget.”

  “Certainly those lists weren’t the originals?” He didn’t want to know the answer.

  “Well, of course they were the originals; they were what I typed directly from all those messy notes you’ve been giving me since kingdom come. Plus, how was I going to make copies when the copier at the post office stays broken down half the time, and the one at the library’s so little you can hardly get a postcard on it? Besides, we’ve been out of carbon paper practically since I went back to bein‘ a Baptist.”

  “We’ve got to find those lists.”

  “Fine,” she said. “You look.”

  “Who else has been in here?”

  “In the last two weeks? How am I supposed to remember? That chaplain you hired....” She looked at him as if Scott Murphy were the culprit, there was the answer right there.