by Jan Karon
Donny turned around, tears swimming in his eyes. “She could git well if she tried.”
“I can see she has no strength to sing; I’m sure she’d sing if she could.”
Donny covered his face with his hands. “Oh, God!” he said, sobbing.
Though she’d never received the Eucharist, Dovey, who’d been baptized at the age of eleven, had been pleased to take it. As vicar of Holy Trinity, he determined never to make a home visit without his communion kit.
On their way back to the ridge, he told Agnes how the strain had affected Donny Luster.
“He’s convinced it’s depression and thinks she can get over it at will. When she doesn’t feel like singing, he’s angry and discouraged. And needless to say, he’s working himself to death. Is there a husband?”
“He left three years ago; Donny moved Dovey and Sissie to his place when she became so ill. Granny comes some days when Rooter is in school, and Clarence occasionally drops me off when he goes to Wesley.”
He felt a weight on his heart.
“How does Granny help?”
“Mainly, she keeps Dovey and Sissie company, and helps Dovey eat her midday meal.”
“Thank God for Granny.”
“Granny’s a gem. Her grandfather came here when the government would give a man all the property he could walk around in a day—if he built a house on it. The old house is still standing, but just barely. Lloyd Goodnight and a few others have done what they can, but it’s a mere bandage on the critically wounded.”
They drove for a time, silent.
“Did Donny tell you their mother is in prison?” asked Agnes.
“What for?”
“Killing their father.”
“No,” he said, stricken. “When did it happen?”
“Dovey was sixteen; Donny was going on ten.”
“How old is he now?” Twenty-five or twenty-six would be his guess, though in a way he looked older.
“Seventeen.”
He had no words. Words would not suffice.
As he walked Agnes to her door, he stopped and struck his forehead.
“I can’t believe my forgetfulness! We’ve visited around the livelong day, and failed to give out a single flyer.”
“Perhaps...”
“Perhaps?”
Agnes looked resolved. “Perhaps it’s just as well.”
“Why is that?”
“Is it possible that the flyer announced the wrong date, Father? I’ve prayed mightily about this, and here is what I propose. Let’s not wait until May. So many need what God is eager to give at Holy Trinity. Let’s open our doors to one and to all ... on Easter morning.”
“Easter morning? But that’s only three days away.”
Though worn from their trot over hill and dale, her eyes sparkled with feeling. “‘Every noble work is at first impossible.’”
“Thomas Carlyle,” he said, suddenly grumpy.
Flowers, music, communion wine, kneelers—he mentally ticked off the items on his list, which was, in his opinion, on the huge side, not to mention a homily with meat on the bone.... An Easter service couldn’t be thrown together like some hilltop picnic, for heaven’s sake ...
“For heaven’s sake!” he blurted.
“Your lovely flyers won’t be wasted at all. We’ll mark through the old date and put in the new, and Clarence will deliver them around.”
He took a deep breath.
“Shall we do it, Father?”
She had waited forty years; who was he to wait ’til May?
“Yes,” he said, suddenly beaming at his deaconess. “Yes! Absolutely!”
He felt as if he’d left Meadowgate days, even weeks, ago. It had been a long trek, and somewhere in his mortal frame, he felt every pothole.
Yet when he saw Cynthia at her drawing board by the window, he saw her, somehow, with new eyes. She turned and looked at him, smiling, and his weariness vanished. He went to her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“I’m happy to be home,” he said, nuzzling the top of her head with his cheek. “Get dressed, we’re going out to dinner. At Lucera!”
“Out to dinner? At Lucera? In Lent?”
“I need to start courting you again.”
She gazed up at him, happy. “I didn’t realize you’d stopped.”
He made the sign Agnes had shown him.
“I love you, too!” she said.
“How’d you know that?”
“When I taught Sunday School, the children and I learned it.”
She pointed to the fireplace, and the ashes that lay about the hearth, then rolled her eyes heavenward and shrugged and threw up her hands.
Now there was gestural and facial for you.
He sat on the side of the bed and watched her pluck pink curlers from her hair, as she’d done on the day of their September wedding.
What a day that had been, with his bride-to-be locked in her bathroom in a chenille robe the age of his English boxwoods, while the organist at Lord’s Chapel hammered down for dear life and the choir checked their watches.
Chances are, half the congregation supposed she’d skipped town rather than exchange vows with their bachelor priest. Though to a man, his parishioners were known to adore him, they couldn’t imagine that anyone else actually would.
Alarmed by her uncharacteristic lateness, he’d run all the way to the yellow house in his dress shoes and tuxedo, liberated her from the bathroom, waited in a panic as she dressed in five minutes flat, then raced back to Lord’s Chapel, his fiancee huffing at his side in high heels, and covering the distance with flabbergasting speed.
“Why you didn’t fall and break your neck...” he mused aloud.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Our wedding day. I was just thinking of our wedding day, and how you plucked the curlers out of your hair like so many chicken feathers; they were raining around us—and then the Talladega thing we did to church; you were flying, Kavanagh!”
She laughed as she spritzed herself with the stuff that turned the room into an arbor of wisteria.
Perhaps it was the memory of that day in September, or the relief of coming home after a long and productive sojurn among his new parish—or both.
Whatever it was, he realized he was happier than he remembered being in a long time.
Before they left for Mitford, he popped into the library. Wind shuddered along the tin roof as he checked phone messages.
“Father, Buck here. Lon Burtie don’t have a clue where Sammy is. He says Clyde Barlowe cut out a few weeks ago, an’ he thinks Sammy saw his chance an’ took off. Lon said he gave it a couple of weeks to see if Sammy turned up, but he was ready to call us when I called him. He said Sammy had been talkin’ about goin’ out on his own. Th’ only thing worries Lon is that Sammy tells Lon everything, an’ Sammy up an’ left without sayin’ a word. I went around to th’ drugstore, th’ poolroom, th’ usual, but nobody’s seen ’im. I’m wonderin’ if we should get the police in on this. Give me a call.” Beep.
“Tim, it’s your one and only cousin. Piece of cake. All you do is file a petition with the circuit court. The name issue is separate from the issue of adoption, but both can be filed on the same petition. Fortunately, he’s twenty-one-makes things a whale of a lot simpler, and no parental assent of any kind is required. The procedure basically terminates their right to the biological child.
“So you’re on your way, buddy, and congratulations. I’m personally delighted that the family name, however tattered or torn, will be perpetuated. Happy Easter, and love to Cynthia.” Beep.
“Father Tim! It’s Emma! Gene’s back in th’ hospital an’ not doin’ too good, you need to go see Esther if you can catch ’er at home. She’s a basket case.”
Emma was apparently eating something known for its high-performance crunch.
“Th’ wind’s been blowin’ up a storm all day. If you’re out in it, I hope you’ve got your head covered up. I read where bald-headed p
eople get sick twice as fast as people with hair.”
Slurping something through a straw ...
“Somebody said the queen goes to her country place in May, so I’m over even thinkin’ about runnin’ into her, which I’m glad of since I nearly broke my neck tryin’ to curtsy by your directions.”
More crunching...
“Anyway, ten weeks to go and I’m out of here. Say hey to Cynthia, I hope y’all aren’t turnin’ into a bunch of hayseeds. Ha-ha.”
Agitated barking ...
“Oh, hush up! That was Father Tim, you remember him. No, no, get down, you wouldn’t like pork rinds. Too salty. You’d drink a gallon of water and wee wee in th’ closet, because I’m definitely not runnin’ you down th’ driveway in this wind...” Beep.
The fatigue returned, but he was going through with their dinner at Lucera, and no two ways about it.
When they opened the front door, it nearly blew off the hinges. He shut it at once. “Holy smoke!”
He wife looked at him, imploring. “Dearest—let’s don’t go.”
She leaned her head to one side, smiling. “You can court me at home, can’t you?”
“Oh, boy,” he said, vastly relieved. “Can I ever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
This Dark Hour
He and Cynthia read Evening Prayer from the 1928, and before turning off the bedside lamp, he entered a quote by Will Rogers in his journal: Go out on a limb—that’s where the fruit is.
That would preach ...
He peered at the other scribbling he’d done on the back of an old receipt from The Local.
“And it will come to the question of how much fire you have in your belly.” Directly beneath the first entry, he jotted this wisdom by Oliver Wendell Holmes, then turned to a blank page and gazed at it for a time, pensive.
Mr. Dooley Kavanagh, he wrote.
With some wonder, he considered what he had penned, then wrote again.
Dr. Dooley Kavanagh.
“Look,” he said to Cynthia.
She raised her head and saw what he’d written, and smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes!”
He was on his feet before he realized what he was doing. A terrible crash somewhere below, dogs barking their brains out ...
Cynthia sat up in bed. “Good Lord!”
“I’m going downstairs,” he said, pulling on his robe.
The smell of ashes and wood smoke, the infernal howling of the wind ...
He raced into the hall and turned on the light above the landing and flew down the steps, Barnabas at his heels. It was something in the kitchen; he heard a loud crumbling sound, then a tremendous thunk against the side of the house that rattled the shutters. Lord, not the old oak ...
He snapped on the light at the kitchen door.
The room was clouded with the dust of ashes; rubble lay on the hearth and about the floor. Mortar, soot, broken bricks ... he took a handkerchief from his robe pocket and held it over his nose, dumbfounded.
Bodacious clung to the sofa; the other dogs crowded to the perimeter of the debris, barking wildly at the intrusion.
“It’s the chimney,” he said as Cynthia came into the room. “I heard something hit the side of the house. Stay by the sink, who knows what else may come down. I’ll go out and look.”
The gale was from the northwest; he had to push hard against the door to open it.
Roughly half the brick chimney had collapsed in the wind; he saw the jagged outline against the first light of Maundy Thursday.
Willie had installed a piece of plywood over the fireplace opening to keep soot from continuing to come in; but it was too little too late. The wind continued to thrum down the hollow until Willie at last rounded up the plywood and the hole was covered. Particles of ash hung in the air.
Her forehead streaked with soot, Cynthia sat across the table, looking red-eyed and disconsolate.
He held his hand over his warm coffee mug to keep the stuff from sifting into it. “Willie knows a brick mason, he said he’d try to get him out here today or the first of next week. The chimney is more than a century old, so no wonder.”
She put her head in her hands. “Ugh.”
“Willie gave me the name of the company that insures all the buildings on the place, I’ll call them as soon as their office opens. When they come out,Willie can show them around if I’m not here. And, of course, I’ll need to talk with Hal, let him know...”
“I don’t want to trouble Marge about cleaning the house,” she said. “We’re adults, we need to figure out what to do. It’s all over the place; it’s on everything, even the furniture and windowsills upstairs. And there’s no way I can ask Puny to come out and help do this.”
“Didn’t Marge give you the name of a cleaning service when you talked last time?”
“The Flower Girls!” His wife’s face was instantly brighter. “She said to look in her red phone book.”
Cynthia flew to the bookcase, and hauled the book down. “D, E, F ... Fagan, Flanagan, Flemming ... Flower! Flower Girls, Pansy. What time is it?” She coughed mightily.
“May be a tad early. It’s only six-thirty.”
“Working women are up at six-thirty!” she announced, snatching the handset from the hook.
He had to get to Mitford today. Agnes and Clarence weren’t, after all, some ecclesiastical retail complex in which he might find all that was needed for the Easter service. According to Agnes, she was down to a few candle stubs, and not a drop of communion wine on hand.
He would check Mitford Blossoms for Easter lilies, dash to The Local for wine and candles, then swoop by the yellow house and pick up his Easter vestments.
He made a hasty list and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He also needed to visit Uncle Billy, Esther Bolick, and Louella. He would run up and see Louella after he met with Pauline. He phoned Hope House and asked them to tell Pauline, now their dining room manager, that he hoped to see her before the big push at noon.
Puny and the twins ... that visit would have to wait ’til after Easter.
He rubbed his sandpapered eyes and checked his watch. If he played his cards right, he’d have a half hour to noodle with the Turkey Club, and hit the vending machine for nourishment.
The wind had died down, thanks be to God. But he felt like a heel for running out on his wife. Though they’d cleaned up the floor and wiped off the table, the kitchen was a disaster. Fortunately, her work on the easel had been draped with a cloth that she put on each evening like a cover on a birdcage.
“Don’t worry about me,” she had said. “You have your work to do and I have mine. I’ll manage the inside if you and Willie will take care of the outside.” She sneezed mightily. “Do not, I repeat, do not, expect me to manage a crew of brick masons.”
“You have my word.”
He had wiped her forehead with his handkerchief and made the sign. She signed back, and he gave her a heartfelt, albeit guilt-stricken, hug.
He’d talked to Buck last night; they had prayed together on the phone that Sammy would turn up, safe and sound. Buck said Lon Burtie had been to the Barlowe trailer and looked in the windows. Nothing appeared suspicious.
Lon had asked around about Clyde Barlowe’s whereabouts and a couple of people claimed he’d gone off with Cate Turner, who was Lace Harper’s father and Clyde’s long-time drinking buddy.
In the end, the question was the same: Should the police be notified?
Father Tim, Cynthia, Agnes, and Clarence would be working at the church on Saturday, giving it a complete cleaning, and readying it for Sunday morning. Thus the only time he could get down to Holding with Buck was tomorrow, Friday. They agreed they’d meet at eight o’clock at Lew Boyd’s Exxon, and head down the mountain to the Holding police station.
He and Cynthia had further agreed to have their own Maundy Thursday service this evening in the ash-blasted kitchen—a fitting setting.
As for the paperwork on the adoption/name change, he’d be in touch wi
th his attorney next week, and by the time Dooley came home for the summer, he would walk in the door as a Kavanagh.
Esther wasn’t at home, but he left a note at the patio door, and a box of chocolates that he’d picked up at the pharmacy.
It was a pathetic offering; his heart was wrenched for Gene and Esther, whom he’d known as friends and parishioners for twenty years. He looked at the patio and thought how many steaks had been grilled and song birds fed and geraniums watered, and no one, not even once, thinking of inoperable brain tumors.
Tears sprang to her eyes.
“I think it’s wonderful,” said Pauline Leeper. “I know he’ll feel proud to carry your name.”
“He’ll always spend time with you and Buck and Poo and Jessie when he comes home; you’ll always be his family.”
“Yes, sir.” She took a Kleenex from her uniform pocket and wiped her eyes. “I’ll be lookin’ a mess,” she said, laughing.
He felt awkward and disconsolate. “Thank you for your understanding. You’re a fine and caring soul, Pauline.”
“By th’ grace of God is th’ only way that could happen,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“What you doin’ ’bout Miss Sadie’s money?”
Clearly, he’d been mistaken to think Louella forgetful.
“I’m waiting for the owner of the car to come home so we can talk about it. I can’t search the Plymouth without his permission.”
Louella looked skeptical of this modus operandi, and returned her attention to the box of sugar-free candy he’d toted along.
“What’s that? I cain’t half see. I’m lookin’ for somethin’ wit’ nuts.”
“Nougat.”
“No nougat. What’s that ’un right there?”
“Umm.” He was salivating. “Dark chocolate.”
“Here, honey,” she said, holding forth the box. “Fin’ me somethin’ wit’ nuts.”
He took the sugar-free dark chocolate for himself. Not bad. But not good, either. “What do you think Miss Sadie would have us do with the money if we find it?”