by Jan Karon
H. Hobbes
He penned a note of his own and stuck it in the mailbox attached to the porch railing.
Dear Homeless:
Once again, you have refused to live up to your name, and have got yourself a very fine dwelling!
I think of you often, and miss our conversations on what Jefferson called “antediluvian topics. ” I’m living down the road a piece and pastoring Holy Trinity on the crest of Wilson’s Ridge. Ten o’clock each Sunday morning. How I would relish seeing your face!
In His great mercy,
T. Kavanagh ✝
Here’s one for yon, my book-loving friend—by François Mauriac:
“If you would tell me the heart of a man, tell me not what he reads but what he rereads. ”
Amen.
During his years as a priest, he’d gazed into countless pairs of eyes—some reflecting Christ’s own love; many more guarded, or angry and distrustful. He read in Robert Prichard’s eyes something he couldn’t absolutely define. But there was hunger, certainly. Pleading, yes. And a terrible grief that was wrenching to look upon.
He gestured toward the faded lettering above the grease-pit door: Prichard Enterprises. “This is yours, then? Well done!”
Robert took a rag from his pocket and used it before he shook the vicar’s hand.
“Thought I’d drop by and say hello. Beautiful country out here.” Across the road from the auto shop, he saw the great swell of mountains rolling away to the west.
“I wanted to say we’re glad to have you at Holy Trinity. Each and every one of our little handful is a blessing.”
The vicar watched Robert continue to wipe his hands on the rag, uncertain. A visit from a parson often threw people off kilter.
“I’d like to see your shop, if you have time to show it.”
“They ain’t much t’ see. I got a rack, a pit, no big deal.”
“Looks like a vending machine over there. May I treat you to a cold drink? It’s warming up today.”
“I got t’ git this Chevy van out of here by two o’clock. But yeah, that’d be OK.We can set over yonder.” Robert jerked a thumb toward a bench under a stand of scrub pine.
“Sounds good. What’ll you have?”
“Cheerwine.”
The machine produced a Cheerwine, then he punched a button for a diet drink—he’d learned his lesson well.
They walked across the worn asphalt to the bench, and sat down.There was an awkward silence; Robert looked at him, defensive.
“I didn’ do it, if that’s what y’re here about.”
He would risk something by digging in, but he’d prayed about it, and here was his opening, plain as day. “I want to tell you that I don’t believe you did it.”
A squirrel raced up the tree behind them. Robert didn’t respond to this declaration but toyed with his drink can.
“I ain’t never talked about it much; it scares people t’ think about it, ’pecially when they think I done it.”
“It took courage for you to come to Holy Trinity.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
A muscle moved in Robert’s jaw.
“Hit’s hard. Hit’s hard t’ talk about.”
“Let’s just visit, then.”
“Naw” Robert released his breath, as if he’d held it a long time. “I’ll tell you.
“Me’n Paw had fought twicet. Both times about money. He’d borry off of me, then not pay it back. Said he didn’t have no mem‘ry of borryin’ off of me. Th’ last time was five hundred dollars I’d saved f’r a truck, you cain’t hardly git t’ work up here if you ain’t got wheels.
“I went over to he’p ’im dress out a deer, an’ had m’ good deer knife on me; I’d carved m’ initials on th’ handle, RP. After we skinned th’ deer—it was a young ’un an’ didn’t take too long—I laid m’ knife up on th’ shelf in th’ shed. Th’ shed was right by th’ house. Then we went in th’ house t’ git th’ washtub. We was goin’ t’ load th’ meat in it an’ carry it out to th’ smokehouse.
“Hit’d got t’ rainin’ pretty hard, an’ Paw told me t’ poke up th’ fire, an’ we set around f‘r a little while. Paw he was drinkin’, which was usual.
“I remember lookin’ out th’ winder an’ seen somebody walk past. I couldn’t see who it was f’r the rain, but it was a man wearin’ some kind of a hat. I said looks like they’s somebody out there, so ’e took ’is gun an’ went out an’ come back soaked to th’ skin, said they ain’t nobody out there, you’ve been a-drinkin.’
“I’d been drinkin’, but he’d been drinkin’ a lot worser. I said when’re you goin’ t’ pay back m’ money, he said they won’t nothin’ t’ pay back. He said he was m’ granpaw, he was blood, an’ blood don’t have t’ pay back. We got t’ hollerin’, an’ he hit me pretty hard with a iron skillet. I knowed if I didn’t git out of there, I’d knock ’is head off.”
Robert looked at the vicar. “So I run.
“I took off for th’ house. Then I remembered m’ knife layin’ up on th’ shelf; I’d give thirty dollars f’r that knife.”
Robert was folding his grease rag into a small square.
“Th’ rain had slacked off when I headed back, an’ when I got to th’ shed, I heard somebody holler, ‘Hush up talkin’.’ Plus a word I ain’t goin’ t’ say in front of a preacher.
“Then I heard Paw holler out, it was a sound you don’t never want t’ hear ag’in.
“Hit scared me s’ bad, I didn’t go in th’ shed, I run back home. Th’ next day, th’ phone started ringin’ at m’ mama’s house, people sayin’ Paw had been killed. I reckon I must be stupid, I never thought they’d come after me. Th’ sheriff an’ two men come about dinnertime. Whoever it was had used my knife, but th’ only fingerprints on it was mine.
“Th’ sheriff seen th’ place Paw hit me with th’ skillet; hit was black an’ blue an’ swole up bad. I was a goner from th’ minute they took me out of th’ house.
“I don’t mind tellin’ y’ that a time or two, I’d prayed for Paw t’ die. Many a night I laid awake hatin’ ‘is guts f’r how he treated ever’body But somehow ...” The muscle clenched in Robert’s jaw.
Father Tim waited.
“Somehow, I guess I ... kind of loved ’im.”
Robert put his head in his hand, weeping.
“If I‘d’ve went back in there instead of runnin’, I might could’ve saved ’im.”
If he, Timothy Kavanagh, had hung in with his father at the end, instead of running ...
He sat with Robert Prichard for what seemed a long time, praying silently. Then they got up and walked back to the shop.
“What about Fred who lives in the school bus?”
Robert frowned. “What about ’im?”
“Did he testify in court?”
“Said he heard me fightin’ with Paw.”
“How well did you know him?”
“I didn’t hardly know ‘im a’tall. He moved ‘is bus down in there a couple of months b’fore it all happened. I heard Paw mention ’is name a time or two; maybe I met ’im on th’ road, but I never knowed him t’ speak of.”
“Thank you for your trust, Robert. It means a lot to me. You’re faithfully in my prayers.”
“Thank y’.”
“And I want to say again that I believe you.”
“One or two does, maybe. Most don’t. I guess it don’t matter.”
“It matters,” said Father Tim. “It matters.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Flying the Coop
“Father?”
He glanced at the clock: four a.m.
“Can you come?”
“I’m on my way.”
Though he’d been called out in the middle of the night only a dozen or so times in his priesthood, he resolutely adhered to a common practice of fire chiefs—he kept a shirt and pair of pants at the ready, and his shoes and socks by the bed.
He was entering the town limi
ts when he realized he’d just blown past a Mitford police officer.
No need to be surprised, he thought, when he saw the blue light in his rearview mirror.
The officer stooped down to peer in the window. “You were haulin’.”
Clearly, Rodney Underwood had begun hiring people twelve years old and under.
“I was, officer. I’m sorry.” He adjusted his tab collar, to make sure the officer noticed he was clergy. “It’s Uncle Billy.” To his surprise, tears suddenly streamed down his cheeks.
“Uncle Billy?”
“One of the most important people in Mitford. He’s dying; Dr. Harper called me to come.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“Certainly not.”
The young turk shook his head, as if greatly mystified.
“I don’ know what it is about preachers. All y’all seem t’ have a lead foot.”
In his room at Mitford Hospital, Uncle Billy tried to recollect whichaway th’ lawyer joke started off. Was th’ lawyer a-drivin’ down th’ road when he hit a groundhog, or was he a-walkin’ down th’ road? An’ was it a groundhog or was it a sow pig?
His joke tellin’ days was givin’ out, that’s all they was to it.
He looked at the ceiling, which appeared to be thick with lowering clouds, and with something like geese flying south.
Winter must be a-comin’. Seem like winter done come a week or two ago, and here it was a-comin’ ag‘in, hit was enough t’ rattle a man’s brains th’ way things kep’ a-changin’.
He shivered suddenly and pulled the covers to his chin.
Snow clouds, that’s what they was! Hit’s goin’ t’ come a big snow or worser yet, a gulley-washin’ rain.
Bill Watson! What are you hammering about?
He hadn’t opened his trap, as far as he knowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her settin’ up in th’ bed next t’ his ’un, lookin’ like a witch on a broom.
Did you say it’s going to snow?
He lay as still as a buck in hunting season, and pressed his lips together so no words could escape.
Are you talking to yourself or to me, Bill Watson?
No, dadgummit, I ain’t a-talkin’ t’ you, I ain’t said a word t’ you! Lord knows, you’ve fretted me ’til I’m wore to a nubbin. Now, lay down!
He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, in case they popped open and she saw that he was awake.
In a little bit, he’d try an’ git his mind back t’ th’ joke about th’ lawyer, maybe he’d stir up a laugh or two if anybody come a-knockin’ on th’ door, like maybe Preacher Kavanagh.
He breathed easier, then, and opened his eyes and gazed again at the ceiling. The geese had disappeared.
Gone south!
Hush my mouth? squawked his wife.
He felt a chill go up his spine; he reckoned ’is wife was a-readin’ ’is mind!
He’d never heered of such a low trick as that!
Lord have mercy, they was no end to it.
He didn’t know when he realized he was passing up through a cloud, like a feather floating upward on a mild breeze.
There was light ahead, and the cloud felt like his toaster oven set on low, just nice and warm, as it was a long time ago in his mama’s arms.
He kept his eyes squeezed shut so he wouldn’t see the ceiling coming at him, then reckoned he must have floated right through it, as easy as you please.
The light was getting stronger now. He found it odd that it didn’t hurt his eyes one bit; indeed, it felt good, like it was making his worn-out eyes brand-new ...
Uncle Billy felt a hand close over his own. It was a touch that seemed familiar somehow ...
The Almighty and merciful Lord ...
Now, he was in the topmost branches of an apple tree, throwing apples down to his little sister, Maisie, and over yonder was his mama, waiting for him ...
... grant thee pardon and remission of thy sins ... It seemed the words came from a very great distance ...
He knew only that he was happy, very happy; his heart was about to burst. He tried to utter some word that would express the joy ...
“... and the grace and comfort of the Holy Spirit,” said Father Tim. “Amen.”
His voice sounded hollow in the empty room.
The following morning, Mitford learned that two of their own had been taken in the night.
William Benfield Watson had died in his sleep with a smile on his face, and in so doing, had attained the chief aim of every soul who desired a peaceful passing.
Less than an hour later, Gene Bolick died of the causal effects of an inoperable brain tumor. His wife, Esther, worn beyond telling, had left the hospital only a short time earlier at the insistence of the nursing staff.
It was Nurse Herman who stood at Gene’s bedside when he spoke his last words.
“Tell Esther ...”
Nurse Herman leaned down to hear his hoarse whisper.
“... to pay the power bill.”
Nurse Herman didn’t know whether to share with Esther these pragmatic sentiments; the bereft widow might have hoped for something more.
Yet her greater concern was that Esther’s power might, indeed, be shut off—not a good thing with so many family and friends dropping by.
Thus, with the blessing of Dr. Harper, she recited these last words to Esther, and was vastly relieved when the grieving and exhausted widow thanked her for the reminder.
“Are you sure that’s all he said?” Esther mopped her eyes with a wadded-up section of hospital toilet paper.
As ardently as Nurse Herman wanted to report something truly heartwarming, the truth was the truth. “Yes, ma’am, that’s all.”
Indeed, she had long kept a memorized selection of made-up last words to offer a bereaved family—but only if absolutely, positively necessary.
In this case, Tell Esther I love her would have been very nice, though basic.
Tell Esther I appreciate all the years she devoted herself to my happiness would be more flowery, but not completely believable, as Mr. Bolick hadn’t been the flowery type.
Tell Esther I’ll see her in heaven would be tricky, as it was sometimes impossible to figure who was going to heaven and who was going to the other place.
And then there was her personal favorite: Tell Esther she was the light of my life.
She had heard of people saying amazing things as they passed. She would never forget being told in seventh grade what Thomas Edison had said: “It is very beautiful over there.”
That sort of remark was comforting to those left behind; she wished dying patients would say things like that more often.
In any case, she had told Esther the plain truth and, happy to have these odd last words off her chest, reported further that Mr. Bolick had looked peaceful, very peaceful, and had not struggled at the end.
Willie handed the carton over the threshold.
“Twelve.”
“Twelve? Pretty big drop.”
“Don’t know what’s got into ’em.”
Willie had a lot to say grace over these days. Maybe it hadn’t occurred to him to do it. So he’d do it himself.
Trekking across the yard with a plastic bag of cabbage leaves and apple peelings, he looked toward the vegetable patch. Sammy was trundling a wheelbarrow through the gate.
“Good job, Sammy!” he shouted, pumping his fist into the air. Sammy nodded, intent on his work. The vicar recalled that payday was right around the corner; that would bring a smile to their young gardener’s face.
He lifted the latch and let himself into the hen house. Two on the roosting poles. One on a nest. Another pecking in the mash trough.
Four.
He went out, hooked the latch, and peered into the fenced lot.
Six. Eight. Ten. Twelve, thirteen. Chickens weren’t much at holding still to be counted. Blast. Six. Eight. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
Twelve.
Had he counted right?
He counted agai
n.
Twelve.
Strange, he thought. Mystifying.
He opened the bag and tossed cabbage leaves into the lot; the hens scampered after them, gleeful. One by one, the remaining four exited by the opening in the side of the house and flew down the ramp as the shower of apple peelings fell through the wire at the top of the lot.
“Chick, chick, chick!” he called. That was how Peggy had taught him to gather the chickens when he was a boy. He remembered letting himself into the lot, unafraid of the rooster, and squatting down to look the whole caboodle in the eye.
What did chickens think? Were they stupid like some people said? They didn’t seem stupid, but they did seem nervous. Did they know about dumplings, about the things that were going to happen to them? How did God get eggs into chickens?
At the conclusion of this scientific investigation, Peggy discovered he was crawling with lice. They were in his hair, in his clothes ...
“Run to the washhouse!” said his horrified mother, “and wait for Peggy and me.”
It was, in his opinion, a bitter remedy; he could remember the smell to this day. Sulfur!
Stuffing the empty bag in his pocket, he struck out for the barn, where Willie was giving a lamb its bottle.
“I just went to the henhouse and counted. Didn’t you say we had nineteen?”
Willie looked perplexed. “Yes, sir, I counted ’em m’self on New Years Day.”
“I counted twice. We’ve got twelve.”
Willie looked shocked, then perplexed. “But that don’t make no sense. I ain’t seen any dead when I feed up.”
Father Tim squatted next to Willie. “Any way they could be getting out? Flying the coop?”
“That little house is tight as a drum. No way out, no way in. An’ I been looking aroun’ th’ fence t’ see if anything’s been diggin’ under. Ain’t nothin’ diggin’ under.”
“So it couldn’t be a mink?”
“We’d find feathers. Worser’n ’at, we’d hear th’ uproar. When a fox or mink gits in a henhouse, chickens go t’ squawkin’. They ain’t no way anything could get in there without unlatchin’ th’ door like ... like me’n you.” This thought appeared to give Willie a bad turn.