by Jan Karon
“I’ll set m’ dogs on ye!”
“The tea is nice and hot for a chilly spring morning!”
“Dogs?” Father Tim whispered.
As they climbed the steps to the porch, Jubal’s bearded face vanished from the doorway.
“He hasn’t a dog to his name! It would be a desperate mongrel, indeed, who’d take up with Jubal Adderholt.”
He thought Agnes looked positively delighted with the reception they were getting.
They stood a moment on the creaking floorboards of the porch, which was stacked with split firewood. A profuse assemblage of squirrel tails had been nailed to the log walls, and even to the front door. The wind ruffled the hair of the tails.
“His collection extends around the cabin,” Agnes said in a low voice. “It is, you might say, a fur-covered cabin.”
“Good insulation for winter!”
Through the open door, appetizing cooking smells escaped into the air.
“We’re coming in now, Mr. Adderholt!”
“I hain’t here, I done jumped out th’ winder.”
She pushed the door open with her cane. “Good!” she said. “That’s more tea for Father Kavanagh and myself.”
“I’m naked as a jaybird!” Jubal threatened from the other room.
“Don’t mind us, Mr. Adderholt; we’ve seen worse, I’m sure.”
The cabin was close with heat; something simmered on the woodstove in an iron pot.
Agnes was removing the mugs and thermos from the basket when Jubal came into the room, wearing a thermal undershirt and pants held up by braces. He was stooped, with dark, bushy eyebrows and a mane of white hair that flowed into his long beard.
The old man peered angrily at Father Tim.
“Don’t ye be a-tryin’ t’ save this ol’ sinner, ye hear? An’ don’t be a-tryin’ t’ warsh m’ feet, I warsh m’ own dern feet, thank ye.”
“That was the Baptist preacher who wanted to wash your feet, Mr. Adderholt.” Agnes poured a mug of tea and handed it to Jubal.
“An’ look what happened t’ their church hall—hit burnt down.” He took the steaming mug and sniffed its spicy aroma. “I done drunk up th’ dried ’frass ye brought,” he said, looking accusingly at Agnes.
“You know full well where to find more like it in your own woods.”
“A man my age can’t be hobblin’ aroun’ th’ piney woods by hisself.”
“Miss Martha is nearly ten years your senior, and still tilling up her garden every spring.”
“Ye come t’ pester me ag’in, did ye?”
“I did,” said Agnes, half smiling at Jubal. “Pestering you keeps me young.”
“How’d you git hooked up with that ’un?” Jubal shot a piercing look at Father Tim.
“I rang the bell up at Holy Trinity, and there she was.”
“God he‘p ye.” Jubal took a long swallow of his hot tea, then another. Tears suddenly spilled down his cheeks. “Jis’ like my ol’ mam used t’ make.”
Uncertain how to respond to Jubal’s show of feeling, the vicar looked around the room. Several pictures, cut from magazines, hung on the log walls; a spider had spun her web in a ceiling corner. “A comfortable place you have here.”
Jubal wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “Hain’t room enough t’ cuss a cat without gittin’ fur in y’r teeth, but hit’ll do. Long as you‘uns’re pushin’ in on me like this, ye might as well set down.”
Taking his cue from Agnes, Father Tim thumped onto the ancient sofa, from which a cloud of dust arose. Agnes sat in a caned chair by the woodstove, and Jubal lowered himself onto the sofa with the vicar, who consequently sneezed three times.
“Bless you!” said Agnes.
“Thank you,” said Father Tim, whipping out his handkerchief. A thunderous blow of wind roared down the stove chimney, fanning the fire. “And how was your winter, Mr. Adderholt?”
“Call me Jubal. Only one as calls me mister is that ‘un there. Winter was too dadblame long; hit was too dadblame cold; hit snowed too dadblame deep; an’ I’m dern glad t’ see it over with.
“Only good thing about winter was th’ squirrels, don’t ye know; they was nice and meaty. A while b’fore dinnertime, I like t’ set on m’ porch with m’ twenty-two pump, hit’s easy as takin’ candy from a little young ’un. Blam! Square behin’ th’ front leg is where I git ’em at. I don’t never shoot ’em in th’ head; I like t’ stew ’em whole an’ suck out th’ brains th’ way m’ granddaddy done.”
Jubal settled back on the sofa and looked at the vicar. “I reckon ye knowed ye can’t eat squirrel when th’ weather turns hot.”
“I don’t believe I knowed—knew—that,” said Father Tim.
“Hot weather, they git worms as burrows right down in th’ skin. Hit’s cold weather as makes squirrel good eatin’; I’ll be cookin’ squirrel on up into May. If you’uns’d like to stay an’ eat a bite, I’m stewin’ me one right now; goin’ t’ make me a few dumplin’s with this ’un.”
“Thank you,” said the vicar, “but we’ll be pushing on soon.”
“Now you take turkeys, you got t’ shoot a turkey in th’ head, an’ ye have t’ be a mighty sharp shooter, ’cause they ain’t much head on a turkey.”
Father Tim glanced at Agnes to see how this information was going down. She was apparently unfazed.
“I git me a turkey ever’ now an’ ag’in; th’ turkeys hain’t as many this year as squirrels, seem like. Rabbits has fell off pretty sharp, too, but they’ll be back. I’ll plant me a row of cabbages ag’in, that’ll bring ’em a-runnin’.”
“I’ll say!”
“They’s some on th’ ridge as eats whistle pig, but I don’t mess with no whistle pig—too much grease. An’ deer, hit’s too much dadblame work t’ dress out.”
“Aha.”
“Th’ whole point to th’ thing is, a man can live good if he’s got a sharp eye an’ a steady hand. Looky here at m’ hand.” Jubal held forth his wizened right hand.
“Steady!” said Father Tim, impressed.
“If a man’s goin’ t’ keep a steady hand, he’s got t’ stay away from liquor. I’ve made it, I’ve hauled it, I’ve bootlegged it, but hit never got a-holt of me.When I was a boy, I got into a bad jug of shine, hit like t’ kilt me. I never touched n’ more of it.”
“Dodged a bullet,” said the vicar.
“I got m’ eyesight, too; I’m as good a shot as you ever seed, an’ me a-goin’ on eighty-two year.”
“Well done!”
“I hain’t never put out m’ eyes with readin’ like some do. Nossir, I cain’t read a lick an’ never wanted to. Hit’d make me crazy as a bed-bug t’ have all them words a-swarmin’ around in m’ head like bees in a hive.
“On th’ other side of th’ dollar, I hain’t got no teeth a’tall ’cept these jackleg choppers I put in when comp’ny comes.” Jubal snatched the dentures from his mouth and tossed them into the seat of a badly worn recliner. “That’s enough of that tribulation.”
“Do you have family, Jubal? Brothers, sisters?”
“They was five of us, but only two a-livin’. We all come into th’ world by way of a ol’ granny woman who forded th’ creek down yonder on a mule. She bornded young ’uns all over this ridge. Me, I costed m’ daddy a chicken—plucked, singed, an’ quartered was th’ deal. Ol’Toby, he costed two rabbits, kilt an’ dressed. Jahab costed ...”Jubal looked at Agnes. “What’d I tell ye Jahab costed?”
“A laying hen,” said Agnes.
“On an’ on like ’at ‘til hit come t’ m’ little sister, Romey, th’ baby. She costed a pig.”
“A pig!” exclaimed the vicar.
“Th’ most we ever give f’r any of us young ’uns was ’at sow pig.”
“Inflation.”
Jubal drained his tea mug; another blow came down the chimney, huffing smoke into the room.
“Any children of your own? Did you ever marry?”
“Ol’ Peter Punkin Eater is what they called me
, I couldn’t never keep a-holt of a wife. Had one, she took off with a crook a-sellin’ lightnin’ rods. Had another’n; she one day baked me a pie, hit was settin’ on th’ table with a note when I come in from th’ saw mill at ’Lizbethton. My neighbor read it to me, hit said, ‘Jubal, I’m gone an’ don’t look f’r me.’ ” Jubal sighed. “Th’ last I ever seed of Ruthie Adderholt was ’at pie.”
There was a ruminative silence.
“Hit was blueberry,” said Jubal.
“Umm, what are you paying for shells these days?” Father Tim had no idea where such conversational fodder had come from; it appeared to have dropped from the sky.
“Too dadblame much, I can tell ye that. Let me show ye m’ rifle, I’ve jis’ cleaned ’er up. She’s goin’ on twenty year ol’ an’ as good a arn as th’ day I got ’er.”
Jubal’s untied shoelaces dragged the floor as he shuffled to a gun rack and took his rifle down.
“Is she ... loaded?” asked the vicar. He hadn’t handled a gun since he was twelve and had nearly blown his foot off. No, indeed, he was no friend of firearms.
“Dadblame right, she’s loaded. A man’s got t’ keep ’is gun loaded if ’e’s t’ keep his belly full.”
Jubal presented his rifle, holding the stock in one hand and the barrel in the other. Father Tim touched the polished stock, tentative. “Aha!” he said, not knowing what else to say. “Well, Jubal, we’d best get moving.We came to invite you up to Holy Trinity when we reopen our doors the first Sunday in May.”
“I hain’t a-comin’.”
“Just wanted to let you know you’d be mighty welcome; we’d be happy to have you join us.”
Jubal glared at the vicar. “I don’t b’lieve none of that church b’iness, all that dyin’ on th’ cross an’ love y’r neighbor an’ such as that. I hain’t a-havin’ it, an’ if I’ve told ’er once, I’ve told ’er a hun’erd times.” He shot a hard look at Agnes, who was collecting the mugs.
Jubal Adderholt, sporting a beard to his belt buckle and a loaded gun in his hand, was not, thought the vicar, a pretty sight.
They were getting into the truck when Jubal stuck his head out the door and bellowed at the top of his lungs.
“An’ don’t you’uns be a-prayin’ f’r me, neither!”
They laughed their way through, and over, the potholes.
“Now, Father, confess.That squirrel in Jubal’s cook pot was making you hungry as a bear.”
“It was! I also confess I wouldn’t want to rile Jubal Adderholt.”
“He’s completely harmless, of course, and always glad for company, though he pretends we’re a nuisance. Rather like a child who wants to be held and loved, but chooses, instead, to pitch a fit.”
Father Tim nodded; he’d seen many such Jubals in his years as a priest.
“He weeps each time I bring him tea. When he smells the sassafras, it reminds him of his mother; she was cooking on the hearth of their cabin when her clothes caught fire. Jubal got to her too late, and she burned to death. He was just a young boy, the only one of the seven children who heard her cries and tried to save her. The beard disguises the terrible burns on his face.”
They were quiet for a time, bumping along a dirt track that had turned off a state road. He would, of course, pray for Jubal Adderholt, whether Jubal liked it or not.
“What,” asked Father Tim, “is a whistle pig?”
She laughed. “A groundhog.”
“I’ll be darned.”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you, by the way, that Holy Trinity hasn’t been completely forgotten by the world. Over the years, a sentimental priest or two has been found peering in the windows, and occasionally we get picnickers. Or, once in a rare while, someone visits the cemetery and leaves flowers.
“Then there was the summer day an entire busload of tourists debarked below the creek. They were out to see historic churches, and climbed up the ridge to Holy Trinity. They had the best sort of time, and even took the lack of toilets with proper good cheer.
“It just happened to be the day I was conducting our annual Evening Prayer. You know we must hold one liturgical service a year, to remain under church ownership and off the tax rolls. Imagine our joy to have every pew filled.” She looked at him, her face radiant.
“I think I can imagine!”
“It was one of the many ways God encouraged us over the years.”
“Would today be a good time to pick up your story where you left off?”
She smoothed her dress over her knees, silent.
“Your venerable Buick had died, and you switched to a truck.” He tried to imagine Agnes Merton whipping around these narrow, winding roads in a pickup truck.
Agnes didn’t speak for some time, but looked out the window into the woods. A male cardinal swooped across the lane, a flash of scarlet against the still-leafless trees.
“I sometimes think,” she said at last, “that God didn’t fashion or fit me for the world. Perhaps I am a type of Desert Mother, transported to the oldest mountains in the world.”
She grew quiet again, then turned and gave him one of her half smiles.
“I never thought much about marrying; my mission work was rewarding and often very exhausting. Jessie and I toiled hard, and her faith greatly overshadowed my own. I was laboring for the people; Jessie was laboring for God. She often recited something from St. Francis, which I committed to memory, so that we might encourage one another.
“‘Keep a clear eye toward life’s end. Do not forget your purpose and destiny as God’s Creature. What you are in His sight is what you are and nothing more. Remember that when you leave this earth, you can take nothing you have received ... but only what you have given; a full heart enriched by honest service, love, sacrifice and courage.’ ”
He recalled that he’d once preached on those words of the troubador, in a sermon titled “A Clear Eye.”
“If one breaks this passage down, line by line,” she said, “it is deeply instructive. For years, I believed in giving my life to honest service, love, sacrifice, and courage, without any need at all to trust my life to God. I had made a covenant with my head, but not with my heart.
“Quint Severs had given his heart to God long years before Jessie and Little Bertie and I came to the ridge. Quint was a wonderful mechanic for our Buick; he was completely self-taught, and had a natural gift for engines, for the way things worked in general. He always rendered his service to us as unto the Lord. He was an angel if ever there was one.
“But our truck was another matter. Oh, my, here we are at the sisters’; they’re on our list for the last stop, but we could visit now instead of on the way home ... if you’d like.”
“Let’s do it now,” he said. “I can use more spontaneity in my life!”
“Pull in here, then. You can park by the old shed.”
He saw an unpainted house with a sagging porch beside a pile of discarded mattresses, a refrigerator, and a variety of other abandoned household goods. All had been arranged in an orderly manner, and left to season beneath a blue tarpaulin stretched over four sapling poles. An orange and white cat perched on the side of an old watering trough, drinking. Neat stacks of used tires lay about the yard, punctuated by the ancient chassis of a tractor and a mélange of rusted oil drums. Overall, he found the spectacle oddly ceremonial in effect.
He parked by the shed, which leaned toward the truck as if it might come down upon the hood at any moment. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, as he opened her door. “We need a Porta John for Holy Trinity.”
“They won’t bring a truck up these roads to pump it. It’s the piney woods, Father, and no help for it.”
“Ah, well!”
She gave him her amused half smile. “Don’t fret. When we get under way, I’ll open the schoolhouse to the congregation.”
“But that’s your home.”
“It’s His home,” she said, stepping onto the stool, “and I’m sure He would approve.”
“Necessit
y is the mother of invention,” he said, grinning.
“We were cradle Episcopalians,” Martha McKinney told him, “and very heartbroken to see our old church closed as if it was nothin’ more than a gas station!”
They had assembled in the kitchen of the McKinney sisters, in the house their father had built “in nineteen-aught-two.” Though the kitchen contained an electric range, the air was redolent with cooking smells from the pot on a wood cook stove.
If he’d thought Jubal’s squirrel made his mouth water...
... and what was going on in the McKinney oven? Something was definitely going on in that oven; he suddenly had the appetite of a stevedore.
Martha removed her thick-lensed glasses. “In the end, there was nothin’ to do but what we did,” she said with finality.
She turned toward the window and held her glasses to the light. “Lard!” She gave the lenses a vigorous polish with the hem of her apron.
“And what was it you did?” He hoped he wasn’t being overly nosey.
“We became Methodists!” confessed Martha.
“We became Methodists!” crowed her sister, Mary, who sat by the stove with her bare feet tucked onto the stretcher of the chair.
“Aha!”
“But we didn’t really want to!” said Mary.
Martha gave her sister a stern look. “We certainly couldn’t fall away to the Baptists! Needless to say, Father, I miss the liturgy!”
“She misses the liturgy!” said Mary.
Martha popped her glasses on again and looked him in the eye. “We need to get this show on the road. You like white meat or dark?”
Had their unexpected visit forced their hosts to share their meal? Would accepting be the thing to do or should they run along? What was the social code in this matter? The cold spring wind keened around the corners of the house; he looked at Agnes for guidance.
“Miss Martha,” said Agnes, “we like anything that doesn’t go over the fence last.”
Chicken and dumplings in a mountain kitchen warmed by a zealous woodstove; the fragrance of strong coffee percolating on the back burner; Eastertide drawing nigh; and every grand possibility stretching ahead.