by Jan Karon
“Should I leave the farm dogs out tonight?”
“y’r farm dogs won’t sleep out, they’re inside dogs now. Miz Owen’s done ruined ’em. Anyhow, all but one of ’em’s too dadgone old t’ do much barkin’.”
“What about your dogs?”
“I don’t let m’ dogs run at night. We got coyote, y’ know.”
“So I’ve heard. Could anybody get by your kennel without stirring your dogs?”
“I guess if they was smart enough an’ quiet enough, they could. At night, it ain’t too hard f’r somebody t‘slip in on chickens without ’em squawkin’. You can lift one off of th’ roost pretty easy if you know how t’ handle it.”
“Do you know the neighbors?”
“Not t’ speak of. Once in a while, I see a neighbor or two at Kirby’s Store. But don’ look like nobody’d steal chickens this day an’ time.”
“Right,” said Father Tim, “all a man has to do is run to Wesley; he can get one already dressed for less than a buck and a half a pound.” He shook his head, pondering. “So, how’s this little fella coming along?”
Willie came as close to beaming as Father Tim had seen. “He’ll be strappin’.”
“Good. Keep your eyes peeled,” said the vicar.
“Will do,” said the shepherd, still looking perplexed.
“Have you ever noticed, Father, the peculiar surnames of certain clergy? When I first came here, Father Church was our priest, and I read an article recently by Father Paradise.”
He chuckled. “In my time, I’ve known a Father Divine, a Bishop Steeple ... oh, and a Bishop Bell. Old Bishop Bell! A force to be reckoned with! And let’s see, there was Father Cross in Alabama. Wallace Cross, as I recall.”
“What do you make of it?” she asked.
He laughed heartily. “I’ve never known what to make of it!”
They bumped along on their way to pick up Sissie. A day of stinging cold, though with bright sun and clear skies. Agnes huddled on the passenger side in a heavy, albeit threadbare, coat.
“Well, then, we’d best move along to more important considerations. What am I saying, Father?” Agnes signed something familiar, then something puzzling and strange. Their lessons for the week had begun.
“Law, look who’s here! Sister, come see who’s callin’ on us!”
Miss Mary shuffled into the parlor, her cheeks flushed from the stove.
“It’s Miss Sissie Gleason in her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ shoes!” announced Miss Martha.
Miss Mary clapped her hands. “Oh, my mercy! It’s Miss Sissie Gleason in ’er Sunday-go-t’-meetin’ shoes!”
Proud, Sissie stuck up one foot and then the other.
“And us without a crumb in th’ house!” Miss Martha looked stricken. “Well, come in, come in, we’ll find something sweet in th’ painted cabinet; we always do.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, “we didn’t come to eat, we came to make a delivery and see your smiling faces. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“You don’t turn up at th’ McKinney sisters without puttin’ your feet under th’ table. Come in th’ kitchen where it’s warm! This part of th’ house has been closed off for five years, it’s a morgue in here!”
“Five!” said Sissie. “That’s how many I am!”
Miss Martha was herding them along like so many sheep, no matter how he and Agnes might protest. Truth be told, he was happy to be herded into the sisters’ kitchen where they received a salutatory blast of oak-fired heat.
“Ladies, Cynthia estimates you used up your dozen for that splendid cake. Here’s a replacement.”
“Look at that! An answer to prayer if I ever saw one. Less than ten minutes ago, I said, Lord, there’s nobody to carry us to the store for eggs and we’re plumb out!”
“Plumb out,” affirmed Miss Mary.
“We can carry you to the store,” he said. “Glad to.”
“Where on earth would we all ride?” Miss Martha asked. “One of us would have to be tied on top, and it wouldn’t be me!”
“It wouldn’ be me!” piped Miss Mary.
“It wouldn’ be me, neither!” announced Sissie, who was, nonetheless, intrigued by the idea.
“I’ll be staying behind to poke up the fire,” said Agnes, “so it wouldn’t be me.”
“And it absolutely, positively wouldn’t be me,” said the vicar. “I’m driving!”
They all had a good laugh.
“Thomas will carry us on Friday,” declared Miss Martha, “which leaves us free to enjoy the afternoon. Got your tillin’ done, Father?”
“Sammy just got the patch cleaned up and the rotted manure down; tilling is right around the corner. How about you?”
“I’m not putting in a garden this year. Too much bloomin’ work!”
Miss Mary nodded furiously. “Too much bloomin’ work!”
“Where’s y’r painted cab’net at?”
“Now, Sissie,” said Father Tim.
“It’s in this little room right here behind the stove.” Miss Martha opened the door, revealing a dark, unheated space with bead board walls and canned goods on shelves lined with oilcloth. “It’s right back here; come on, don’t fall over that tub of potatoes. I’ll just switch on th’ lightbulb.”
He and Agnes had made their way to the door and saw the painted cabinet at the end of the small room.
Miss Martha pointed to it with pride. “Walnut off th’ home place. Our papa made it, bless his soul.”
“An’ our mama painted it,” said Miss Mary. “Bless hers, too!”
“Beautiful!” exclaimed Agnes.
“Papa was mighty grieved to see walnut painted over, I can tell you that! But he loved our dear mother, and the paint made it doubly precious in the end.
“See the cow on the right-hand door? That was mama’s cow when she was growing up. Its name was Flower, she did this from memory. And over here’s our house, the very one you’re standing in. And here on the other door is Papa’s bird dog, Ol’ Mack, and his favorite wagon team.”
“A treasure,” said Father Tim. “Wonderfully executed!”
“What’s in it?” demanded Sissie.
“Never mind that, young lady, pay attention while I tell you what’s on it.
“Right here on the top drawer is Wilson’s Creek; see it winding through the mountains? And over here’s our little dog, Tater.”
Sissie peered at the image of the spotted dog. “Does he live in th’ house? I want t’ see im.”
“Tater passed on,” said Miss Martha. “Fifty years ago this June.”
“Johnny had a dog; its name was President Roosevelt, we called ’im Teddy ...”
“Now! Bottom drawer, here’s Miss Agnes’s schoolhouse with the old bell—and over here by th’ knob is ... what’s this, Sissie Gleason?”
“Th’ church me’n’ Granny goes to!”
“Yes! Holy Trinity. With a shake roof, before they put on the green tin.”
“A gem!” said the vicar.
Sissie stomped her foot, impatient. “What’s in y’r cab’net?”
“You stomp that foot again, miss, and you’ll never lay eyes on what’s in this cabinet. You hear me?” Miss Martha was ten feet tall.
“Yeah.”
“Yes, ma’am,” instructed Miss Martha.
“Yes, ma’am, what’s in y’r cab’net, please!”
Miss Martha looked at the vicar and sighed. “It’s the squeakin’ wheel that gets the grease,” she said, opening the cabinet door.
“Oh, law! Enough apple butter to sink a ship! But no biscuit to put it on.”
She closed the door and opened a drawer.
“Why, look here, Sister, I forgot about the cookies I baked on Saturday! Nice and chewy; oatmeal with raisin! I’d forget my head if it wasn’t tied on. Sister, set out five glasses, we’ll want milk with these cookies.”
Oatmeal with raisin! His favorite!
He lingered with Miss Martha as her sister walked with Agnes and Sissie to the t
ruck.
“What do you know about Donny?”
“The finest boy you’d ever want to meet, but a drinking problem. They say he doesn’t drink right along, but, how do they say it? In binges. And no wonder, if you ask me.”
“Did you know Robert Prichard’s grandfather?”
“Everybody knew Cleve Prichard, and there’s not a soul on this ridge that misses th’ low-down sonofagun!”
“That’s plain talking.”
“He was nothin’ but trouble. Only two people showed up at his funeral. Agnes Merton was one, because he used to work on her truck, and I can’t recollect the other. You know Robert says he didn’t do it, and to tell the truth, I believe him!”
“I believe him, also.”
“Some say a convicted murderer oughtn’t to be in church.”
“Who says that?”
“I’ve already spoken a wicked thing against the dead, and I’ll not go tattlin’ into the bargain!”
“What made Cleve Prichard low-down, as you say?”
“Gambling and drugs! Bringing lowlife into our little holler! Corrupting our young! Running that hateful homemade!”
“People still make whiskey?”
“They certainly do; it’s not ancient history in these hills. But to be fair, I’ll say this about Cleve Prichard—he didn’t start out mean and no-account. He was a hard worker, and was making a good name for himself, but he was weak-minded and fell in with the wrong crowd.”
The truck horn blared. Sissie, no doubt.
“Full of herself!” Miss Martha declared. “Dangles her participles! Needs a firm hand!”
Leanna Millwright was home, as were her seven sick and coughing children. She took a flyer and asked the vicar to drop by another day.
Rankin Cooper was looking for two cows that had gotten loose from the pasture; Mr. Cooper met the truck in the road as they slowed to turn into his driveway. He was a lapsed Baptist, he said, but a God-fearing Christian, and would consider visiting Holy Trinity if he could talk his wife into it, which he seriously doubted, as she stemmed from Methodists.
They left leaflets with everyone, and resupplied the store at the bridge. He was pleased that the owner, Hank Triplett, remembered him from a former visit.
“The little church on the ridge is up and running,” the vicar told the several customers. “We welcome one and all!”
“It’s th’ church me’n’ Granny goes to,” Sissie announced. “They always got cookies, an’ sometimes they got cake!” She lifted one foot in case anyone wanted a closer look at her yellow shoes.
As they walked to the truck, Sissie reached up and took his hand.
“I like helpin’ you’uns out,” she said.
“Where is Donny today?” he asked Sissie as they drove along the road to the trailer.
“He’s loggin’.”
He didn’t want to ask if he was still drinking. If he was working, he assumed things had settled down. God knows, drinking and logging would be a lethal combination.
“I’d like to talk to your mother in private.”
“What’s in private?”
“Just the two of us. Agnes?”
“We’ll sit in the lawn chairs and work the puzzle,” said Agnes.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I think forty-four across may be heliotrope.”
“Of course! Father, you’re a genius.”
“What’s a genius?” asked Sissie.
Wordless, Dovey offered her hand to him. He took it and held it in both of his. “Feeling any stronger?”
“I keep thinkin’ I will be, but I ain’t.”
“I’d like to take you to see my friend, Doctor Harper, in Mitford.”
“No, sir, I ain’t goin’ to another doctor.”
“Do you want to get well?”
“More’n anything.” Tears escaped along her cheeks. “I jis’ need time for th’ medicine t’ work.”
“You’ve been taking it a few months, Donny says.”
“I don’t want to go back ag‘in. They was pokin’ holes all over me an’ drawin’ blood. I one time fainted and would’ve fell out of th’ chair but th’ nurse grabbed ahold of me.”
“Sissie needs you.”
She withdrew her hand and stared at the ceiling.
“It may be hard to believe, Dovey, but God can use this time in your life.”
“I don’t see how.”
“We don’t need to see how, but to trust that He can, and will. Perhaps God is pruning you, Dovey. In the gospel of John, Jesus tells us He prunes every branch that bears fruit, that it might bear more fruit. Whatever His plan, God works in our lives for great good—if we ask Him to. Do you pray, Dovey?”
“All th’ time.”
“May I ask how you’re praying?”
“For God t’ let Mama come home.”
“I’m praying that God will reveal the mystery of your illness. But I don’t see how lying here can help Him do it.”
She burst into tears and turned toward the wall, her shoulders heaving with sobs.
“I have a plan,” he said, at last. “Will you trust God to help me carry it out?”
“I reckon,” she whispered.
“Will you?” he insisted.
She turned in the bed and faced him. “Yes,” she said. “Yes!”
There would be no viewing. Uncle Billy would be buried in the town cemetery next to the plot reserved long ago for Miss Rose Watson, nee Porter, by her long-deceased brother.
Betty Craig, God bless her, would care for Miss Rose until he figured out what else might be done, but Betty wouldn’t last long, he could tell by her voice.
He called Hope House again, pleading.
“We’re not miracle workers, Father.”
He was wasting his time, and theirs, too. He asked to be put through to the chaplain.
“Scott, Tim Kavanagh. I need a miracle.”
“Shoot.”
“Uncle Billy’s gone and Miss Rose can’t live alone. She has no relatives. Isn’t there a room ... ?”
“I hear we’re full up, Father.”
“But Miss Rose is the sister of Willard Porter, who built the town museum! Miss Sadie loved Willard Porter until her death, and I know she’d want Miss Rose to have a room at Hope House.” He was babbling like a brook.
“I hear you. I wish I could help. I’m really sorry, Father. I’ll commit to pray about this, and you can count on it.”
He was making people miserable, including himself.
He dialed Esther Cunningham, the tough, no-nonsense retired mayor who’d served the town for sixteen, maybe eighteen years. It was Esther who’d seen to it that Miss Rose and Uncle Billy had heating oil in their tank, and who’d negotiated a first-rate life-estate apartment in the Victorian-style mansion cum town museum across from the monument.
Esther Cunningham was an army tank, she was Tyrannosaurus rex, she was ...
Esther would help him out.
“This is Ray Cunnin‘ham, husband of Esther, father of four, gran’daddy of twenty-two, an’ great-gran’daddy of more’n I can count. We’re on th’ road again, prob’ly doin’ th’ Oregon Trail as we speak. Leave a message at th’ tone, an’ get out there an’ see America youself.” Beep.
He thought Sammy’s eyes beautiful, and full of expression.
“Thanks for your hard work, buddy. We’re glad to have you as our chief gardener.”
Sammy studied his paycheck; a mockingbird sang from the top branches of a pear tree.
“We’re going to Mitford on Friday. I’m conducting a funeral and attending one.You could come along if there’s something you’d like to do in town.”
“I’d like t’ shoot some pool.”
“No pool in Mitford. You’ll have to wait ’til we go to Wesley.”
Sammy shrugged.
“That’s a fine wage you’ve earned, we’re proud of you.” He shook the boy’s calloused hand. “Well done!”
Sammy looked at the ground.
> Father Tim realized again that he had no idea what to do with a boy who’d been held at gunpoint by his own father. He suddenly felt his heart as leaden as Sammy’s appeared to be. “I’ll be glad to hold your earnings for you, if you’d like. That’s how Dooley got his first bicycle, by saving up.You could buy a used car or truck ...”
“Maybe,” said Sammy. He folded the check and put it in his shirt pocket.
Father Tim indicated the tiller. “Remember to run it at half throttle, not wide open, and go over the beds twice. Call me if you need me, I’ll be in the library.”
He spoke to Lloyd, who was working today from the scaffolding.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d help keep an eye on our boy while you’re out here.”
“None too happy, looks like.”
Maybe, just maybe, things would be brighter for Sammy when he got his peas and potatoes in. And certainly things would change when Dooley came home.
Father Tim looked at the date on his watch. He was definitely counting the days.
The loss of Uncle Billy signaled the end of an era. But an era of what? Something like innocence, he thought, poring over the burial service.
Uncle Billy’s rich deposit of memory had included a time when kith and kin went barefoot in summer and, if money was short, even in winter; when pies and cobblers were always made from scratch and berries were picked from the fields; when young boys set forth with a gun or a trap or a fishing pole and toted home a meal, proud as any man to provision the family table; when the late-night whistle of a train still stirred the imagination and haunted the soul ...
He sat at the desk in the Meadowgate library and considered the jokes Uncle Billy had diligently rounded up over the years, and told to one and all. Of the legions, he remembered only the census taker and gas stove jokes, the latter worthy, in his personal opinion, of the Clean Joke Hall of Fame, if there was such a thing.
It would certainly be an unusual addition to the 1928 prayer book office for the burial of the dead, but he was following his heart on this one.
He called Miss Rose and asked permission, not an easy task right there. Then he leafed through the Mitford phone book, jotting down numbers.