These High, Green Hills

by Jan Karon

  “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

  “Go back and start over,” said Mule, looking grouchy.

  J.C. gave a shuddering sigh and wiped his face with a Scot towel.

  “See? Look at that? A paper towel. You’re in such sorry shape, I can’t believe it. If you’re ever going to get a woman to look after you, the time is now, before you’re too far gone.”

  “Right!” said the rector.

  J.C. shambled out of the booth, dragging his bulging briefcase.

  “Call her up!” said Mule.

  “Right now!” instructed the rector.

  “Lord have mercy,” groaned J.C., heading for the door.

  Mule blew on his coffee. “You don’t think we were too hard on him, do you?”

  “Stuart? Tim Kavanagh.”

  “I’ll be hanged, I was just thinking about you,” said his bishop and seminary friend.

  “What were you thinking?” asked the rector. “Do I want to know?”

  “I was thinking that I hadn’t heard from you in far too long. I’m curious about something.”

  “You’re always curious about something. Nosy was what we called it when I was coming up.”

  “I admit, I’m nosy. Anyway, I want to know how you like being married.”

  “I like it greatly, as a matter of fact.”

  “Excellent! Not too much for you, then?”

  “What do you mean, too much for me?”

  “Cynthia’s a live wire.”

  “So am I,” he said.

  “You? A live wire? Since when?”

  “Since I decided to retire, which is why I’m calling.”

  “What?”

  “What, indeed, my friend. I would have written you, but I can’t find the time.” He hoped that didn’t sound cocky, but why worry about it when there were larger issues to occupy his mind?

  “Keep talking.”

  “I’ve decided to retire in two years, and thought I’d go ahead and let you know now. I’ll be sixty-five then, that’s my cutoff date. I’m thinking that I definitely want to remain active, which means I’d like to supply. You can give us something in this diocese, of course, but not necessarily. I’m ready for some adventure in my life.”

  “Excuse me, is this Father Timothy Kavanagh?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Being married has clearly loosened you up, Timothy! There’s a new ... tone in your voice.”

  “That’s determination you hear, Stuart, determination. I’m determined to have a new life, which is not to say I don’t like the one I’ve got. Actually, I like it vastly.”

  “I knew Cynthia would be good for you!”

  “Cynthia is good for me, you’re perfectly right. But she can’t take all the credit.”

  “Really? How’s that?”

  “I foolishly—or wisely, as the case may be—dropped through a hole in the ground like the White Rabbit, and was lost in a cave. It gave me something to think about.”

  “You old stick-in-the-mud!” Stuart said fondly.

  “I’m convinced that every stick-in-the-mud should get stuck in a hole in the ground.”

  Stuart laughed. “What did you learn down there?”

  “For one thing, I learned something about my father and about my feelings. I’ve been chewing over it for weeks, and it strikes me that one reason I went into the priesthood was to minister to my father. I wanted his soul to be saved, but as far as I know, that never happened. I believed that if I kept going and never stopped, I could reach people like my father, and make up, somehow, for failing to reach him for Christ. I still feel the urgency to reach people, but bottom line, I don’t feel the bondage anymore. I feel ... the liberty.”

  Stuart was quiet. “Maybe I need to fall in a hole.”

  “Maybe,” he said, boldly.

  His bishop sighed. “There are a few old wounds I’ve kept licking over the years, but conveniently, I’ve kept too busy to deal with them.”

  “Fall in a hole and the only busy you’ll be is trying to haul your tail out of there.”

  They laughed.

  “I don’t know when I’ve liked a phone call better,” said Stuart. “So. You want to supply, and I can trade you around like a fancy baseball player to other bishops?”

  “Something in the Caribbean, maybe.”

  “You dog.”

  “Seriously, Canada would be of interest to us, or England. Ireland, possibly. Virginia? Vermont? I don’t know. I have the providence of a wife who finds all of life an adventure. And I think there’s definitely something in me that needs airing out, so there you have it. Should I put it in writing to make it official?”

  “Consider it official. Write me when you get around to it, just for the records. In the fullness of time, we’ll get the search process started at Lord’s Chapel. It can take up to a year and a half to put a new priest in place, given the tough parameters we’re now using.”

  “Keep it quiet until we have to make it public. My parish is—”

  “Your parish is devoted to you! I hope I’m in farthest Africa when the word gets out that I’ve allowed you to go.”

  “You’re kind.”

  “I’m your friend.”

  “How many years?” asked the rector. “Thirty-six, thirty-seven?”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “Sorry I asked. How’s Martha?”

  “Trying to get me to slow down....”

  “And having no success,” he said.

  “I see slowing down as a kind of death.”

  “You think slowing down to take your two adopted grandkids to the zoo or out to lunch is death? My friend, that is life.”

  “Don’t preach me a sermon, Timothy.”

  “You’ve certainly been known to preach me one, Bishop.”

  “Go fly a kite,” said Stuart, chuckling.

  “Go step in a hole,” said the rector, meaning it.

  Uncle Billy’s arthur was so bad after the rain that he asked Father Tim to come fetch his tithe.

  The rector arrived just before lunch, and went around to the back stoop. He should have sent his beautiful deacon, he thought, but the moment the old man opened the door, he was glad he’d come. If there was ever a face to give a preacher a lift, it was Bill Watson’s.

  “Come in an‘ take a load off y’r feet, hit’s hot as blazes and Rose made us a pitcher of tea.”

  What the heck? He’d resisted Rose Watson’s suspect refreshments for years on end, but maybe he’d loosen up, for once, and do the thing.

  “Rose! Hit’s th‘ preacher come t’ have a glass of tea.”

  “Pour it yourself,” she snapped, glaring at them from the hallway.

  “Oh, law,” said the old man, embarrassed, “hit’s th‘ heat, she don’t like it.”

  Miss Rose came and stood in the doorway and watched her husband pour tea for their guest. She was wearing a calf-length chenille bathrobe, the sling-back pumps Uncle Billy had ordered last year from an almanac, and the hat from Esther Cunningham’s Waves uniform.

  Uncle Billy passed him the glass of tea with a trembling hand. “That was some rain, won’t it, Preacher?”

  “Either that or a colossal dew!”

  “Possum stew?” demanded Miss Rose. “What’re you saying about possum stew?”

  Where was his deacon?

  “I’d never eat a bite of anything made with possum,” said the old woman, “and I wouldn’t think you would, either, being a preacher!”

  “Yes ma‘am,” he said, cowering in the corner.

  He dearly loved his parishioners, but collections had never been his long suit.

  “Father? Scott Murphy! I hope I’m not making a pest of myself.”

  He instantly felt the grin spreading across his face. “Quite the reverse! How are you?”

  “Great, sir. I’m back to running. How about you?”

  “Off my schedule and no help for it.”

  “Go out there and do it, sir, and get in shape for Septem
ber. I’m not going to hang back for you.”

  He laughed with delight. Here was someone who’d give him a run for his money, all right. “Consider it done. What’s up?”

  “I just called your friend, Mr. Skinner, about places for rent, and he said a Miss Winnie Ivey’s cottage might be coming up.”

  “That’s right.” Olivia had invited Winnie to stay on in her home on Lilac Road, and graciously included Winnie’s two elderly cats in the bargain. “I know that cottage well. It sits on a creek. Has a porch, a nice view, and it’s private. Winnie runs the bakery here.”

  “Yes, I stopped in there and had a Napoleon.”

  “She’s kept her little place as clean as a pin. And it’s only a short run to Hope House, up the hill and past the orchards.”

  “Sounds too good to be true. I’ll call Mr. Skinner back and tell him I’ll take it. What’s going on in your parish, Father?”

  “I’ve had a boy with me for a couple of years, and his mother’s just been terribly burned, but we’re sorting that out. And there’s a girl, thirteen ... we’ve just had her removed from a very bitter and violent situation in a blighted community we call the Creek.”

  “Poverty? Inbreeding? Drugs?”

  “All that. It’s said to be dangerous in there for law enforcement and clergy, and the upshot is—nobody does much about it, including myself, I’m ashamed to admit.”

  There was a thoughtful pause.

  “I’ll go in there, Father. When I come to Mitford, send me.”

  Send me. The words spoken by the prophet Isaiah, when God had a rotten job to get done.

  “I don’t know, Scott, maybe you need to ... look into it first.”

  “Well, sir, I believe the only way to look into something is to go in and look.”

  That wasn’t an impertinence. What it was, was the truth.

  “Remember how I said I felt invincible because of my grandparents’ love?”

  “I remember.”

  “Because I know so surely that God loves me, I feel that invincibility all over again,” said Scott. “When I come, let’s talk about it. I’ll go in there and see what I can do. There has to be a way.”

  Scott was right, of course. There has to be a way. The rector felt suddenly encouraged about something that had discouraged him for months.

  Was Scott Murphy’s bravado just a lot of smoke and youthful optimism? Time, which tells everything, would also tell this, he reasoned.

  What could be done about Poobaw? Father Tim hadn’t said a word to Dooley about his little brother, and apparently Pauline hadn’t, either.

  He went up to the Harpers’ rambling mountain lodge and found Olivia cutting out a dress for Lace on the dining room table.

  She looked peaked, to say the least.

  “I’m not exactly wringing my hands yet, but I don’t do very well at ... reaching her.”

  “That’s to be expected,” he said, grinning. “What you’re talking about takes two or three hundred years to accomplish.”

  “Oh,” said Olivia, laughing. “I thought I was supposed to do it in two or three days.”

  “It’s hard to reach someone who’s been betrayed by everyone she’s ever known, including her mother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean her mother’s inability to look after herself and her daughter has cost Lace great heartache. I know her mother is an invalid, but even that has something of betrayal in it, since Lace has had to be the mother.”

  Olivia sighed. “It’s not that we haven’t made any progress at all. So far, she’s taken two baths and even let me scrub her hands and nails. Oh, and she allowed me to brush the tangles out of her hair, which is a miracle. I don’t think anyone had ever done that for her.”

  “What does she like about living here, so far?”

  “My makeup. Hoppy. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My hats.”

  “Terrific. You know you can be a lifelong blessing to her.”

  “If I hold up,” said Olivia, who gave him a dazzling smile.

  “If you can’t hold up, nobody can. I need to talk with Lace. May I?”

  Olivia brought Lace into the living room, and he found that he hardly recognized her in a skirt and blouse, with her hair tied back. He was, in fact, shocked at her surprising beauty.

  “You look wonderful. Absolutely wonderful!” he said.

  Lace glanced at him, then looked at the wall.

  “I have a report on your mother. You can visit her tomorrow. She’s doing very well and seems to feel stronger.” Just in case she didn’t get it, he drew the bottom line. “This is good news.”

  “Yeah,” said Lace.

  “I need to know everything you can tell me about Poobaw, and I need you to tell me now.” He spoke gently, but he meant it and she knew it. “Let’s sit down.”

  She sat in a chair, looking suddenly awkward in her new clothes. Odd, but he’d gotten used to the rags she’d worn.

  “Pauline Barlowe is going to improve, but soon she’ll go away for a long stay to a place where she’ll learn to use her arm again and care for herself. She’s just seen her oldest son, Dooley—you met him.”

  “He’s a creep. I hate redheads.”

  “Some of my best friends are redheads, so I’ll thank you to be kind. What she needs now is to see Poobaw, to know he’s safe and taken care of.” He let that sink in. “So tell me. Where is he? How can we find him?”

  She looked at him.

  “Listen to me, Lace. You don’t trust me, and I don’t blame you because you don’t know me. But you’ve got to believe that no harm will come to Poobaw. We need to locate him and take him out of that place, and find someone for him to live with until Pauline is well and can take care of him herself.”

  She shrugged. “I told ‘im t’ go t‘ Harley’s trailer if I didn’t come back from gittin’ us somethin‘ t’ eat.”

  “Who is Harley?”

  “Harley’s crazy, but he’s all right. He wouldn’t tell nobody that Poobaw was there, an‘ if they come lookin’ for Poobaw, I told Harley t‘ shoot their brains out, it’s th’ only kid Pauline had left. I didn’t know about Dewey, or whatever ‘is name is.”

  “Where does Harley live?”

  “Down there where people dump stuff off th‘ side of th’ hill. He’s got a blue trailer and three dogs that’ll eat your butt up, so you better step easy if you mess around there.”

  He was going to need Scott Murphy before September ... way before September.

  Why did she have to tell Harley to shoot somebody’s brains out if they came looking for Poobaw?

  Every time he raised the courage to go get the boy himself, he thought about Harley and sank back. Blast, he hated cowardice. He had nearly lost Cynthia through a type of cowardice, and here he was a grown man in a free country, perspiring—no, sweating like a field hand—at the thought of stepping up to a door and knocking on it.

  Rodney Underwood would be of no use—it wasn’t his county. And social services, by their own admission, could take days to get the wheels turning.

  Right. But better them than him staring down the barrel of what had, in his mind, become crazy Harley Welch’s twelve-gauge shotgun.

  The urge to do something would not let him alone; it was now on his heart constantly. This morning, Pauline had searched his face as she asked again, “Poobaw? Is he all right?”

  Worse still, he recalled the anguish on Dooley’s face, the kind of anguish he’d believed time would erase, and remembered how he and Dooley, long ago, had held hands and prayed for his sister and brothers, with a special sense of concern for Poobaw.

  Why couldn’t they call Harley and ask him to drive the boy to the hospital in his truck, for Pete’s sake? He and Cynthia would take it from there.

  He rang Olivia and asked to speak with Lace.

  “Harley ain’t got a phone. He ain’t even got a toilet.”

  Was there any way she could get a message to Harley?

  “Th‘ only way is to go
up there.”

  “Up there?”

  “Acrost th‘ creek and up th’ bank. Hit’s steep but I been up it a million times, don’t anybody use that trail but me an‘ Granny Sykes.”

  “What about the dogs?”

  “They know me pretty good, but anybody else goin‘ in there better tote a sack of meat.”

  When he hung up, he realized he was perspiring again. He thought he had hidden the idea from his conscious mind, but he had not.

  He suddenly knew very clearly that he was going in there to get Poobaw.

  “We can’t leave that boy in these circumstances,” he told Olivia. “I know it’s a crazy idea and there could be tremendous risk, but I feel we must do it. Would you agree?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she said, her violet eyes dark with concern.

  “How many you feedin‘?” asked Avis Packard at the meat counter of The Local.

  “Three,” he said. “But they’re plenty hungry.”

  “Three pounds ought to do it, then.”

  “Better make it six pounds,” he said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “And it doesn’t have to be your best.”

  Avis winked. “Must be entertainin‘ your vestry.”

  He laughed. “I’m not entertaining at all. This is ... ” Should he tell? Why not? It wouldn’t reveal anything. “This is for dogs,” he said.

  “Six pounds of beef for three dogs. Must be some dogs.”

  “Oh, they are, they are.”

  The large, wrapped parcel seemed so conspicuous as he hit the sidewalk, he wanted to shove it under his coat.

  Be back soon, he wrote. Should he say, “Don’t worry?” Of course not. That would make her worry. Important meeting. Wasn’t that the truth? Love, Timothy.

  He kept the beam of the flashlight low to the ground.

  “You better catch on right here if you don’t want to bust your butt.” Lace had gone up the muddy bank ahead of him, as nimbly as a squirrel.

  “Slow down!” he whispered. The shoe treads he had envisioned the other night would sure come in handy....

  “You don’t want t‘ lose y’r step along here or you’ll end up some‘ers around Leesville.”