Light From Heaven

by Jan Karon

  He left the basket and blanket by the creek and trekked through the woods. Barnabas would love this ...

  As he rounded a turn in the overgrown trace, he was startled to see a shingled, one-story house standing in a clearing.

  Had he somehow walked off the Owens’ land and onto a neighbor’s property? He didn’t think so. The path had run here from the far side of the sheep paddock, well inside the property line marked by the state road ...

  A gutter rattled as a squirrel raced across the roof and fled onto a tree limb.

  Might have been charming once, he thought. He walked toward the house, taking his time, inventorying the ruin of weather and neglect.

  ... A large pine tree across the broken ridge of the roof.

  ... Roof tiles missing and decking showing through; broken window panes; a shutter propped against the porch; the chain of a porch swing dislodged from its hinge on one side ...

  He didn’t remember this house. When he and Hal had walked the property with the dogs a few years ago, they’d kept to the fields, and the stand of old hardwoods to the north.

  Probably a tenant house, disused since Willie’s little cottage was built in the fifties. His eyes roved the yard. A bale of rusted wire, discarded bottles, general rubbish.

  With a good rehab and a coat of paint, exactly the sort of thing his wife would find intriguing. But she wouldn’t be intrigued by the eerie feeling he got as he stepped onto the porch.

  Beyond the patched screen, the door stood open.

  There was a distinct sense of emptiness about the place, but just in case...

  “Hello!”

  In the two front rooms, ivy was growing through fissures in a west wall; thanks to the derelict roof, a large portion of flooring was rotted through. The kitchen had been stripped of cabinets and appliances; only a rusted sink remained and a fireplace half filled with ashes. A few sticks of wood had been thrown down next to the hearth; a wooden chair sat on cracked and peeling linoleum.

  Curious, he took the stick that leaned against the chimneypiece and poked the sour-smelling ashes. A couple of crushed beer cans. A plastic top from a fast-food drink. Chicken bones.

  He looked around the room and saw a narrow door—possibly a space that contained an ironing board—and opened it.

  The small pantry retained only one of its shelves; on it were a fast-food drink cup, a pair of sunglasses with one lens missing, an unopened can of pork and beans, several dead bees, an open box of saltines, a half-roll of toilet paper, small packages of mustard, ketchup, salt, and pepper, and a beer opener. He took the cup down and peered into it. Dentures. Lowers. Not a pretty sight.

  He shut the pantry door, leaving everything as he’d found it, and walked out to the porch, closing the screen door behind him.

  His plan was to circle the house, but he stopped when he came to the derelict woodshed, where he smelled a curious stench. He saw the fire pit first, then the large mound of feathers partially hidden beneath a slab of plywood.

  In the farm library, illumined only by the glow of a computer screen, several e-mails queued up.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  If I baked just one, they’d be checking me into Mitford Hospital on a gurney.

 
  The vicar was hammering down on his Sunday morning toast when Sammy came in from the garden.

  Sammy held forth an offering partially wrapped in newspaper.

  “Asparagus!” crowed Cynthia.

  “It’s g-gittin’ tall out there. I was j-jis’ lookin’ around in them ol’ beds th’ other side of th’ f-fence, an’ there it was.”

  “Roasted with olive oil and garlic, and spritzed with lemon—heaven! Thank you, Sammy.”

  “Lettuce might be in p-pretty soon, eight or ten days if we don’t g-git a frost.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—what’s your favorite thing to eat in the whole wide world?”

  “Fries.”

  “Perfect! You’ve come to the right place. I’m doing a practice run Tuesday night.”

  Father Tim spread his allotted dab of no-sugar-added marmalade. “There’s Irish in that boy somewhere.”

  Cynthia squinted at Sammy’s home-style haircut, executed the night before.

  “Short!” she said.

  He shrugged; a light smile played at his mouth. “Won’t have t’ do it ag’in ’til th’t-taters come in.”

  Accompanied by his fourteen-year-old daughter, Sally, Hank Triplett thumped down on the epistle side, as did nine Millwrights. Though recovered from the worst, the Millwrights produced a veritable symphony of coughing for everyone’s listening pleasure.

  Lloyd Goodnight arrived with Buster, who, much against his will, had cleaned up considerably.

  Miss Mary and Miss Martha brought a neighbor, Edna Swanson, who devoutly hoped that word of her visit to the Episcopalians wouldn’t get around to the Methodists, where she’d been a member for thirty-odd years.

  Though Miss Martha explained that the Methodists and Episcopalians had formerly been one Communion, anyway, this fact was much doubted by Edna, who knew a thing or two about local church history and had written a pamphlet on the subject that sold for fifty cents and helped support field missions.

  Unaccustomed as most of the congregation was to the Anglican hymns, Sparkle Foster, who’d learned to read music in ninth grade, today felt sufficiently comfortable to sing out, loud and clear.

  Father Tim pitched in with Sparkle, Lloyd gave it what-for, and Cynthia brought up the rear, doing her level best. Together with Agnes’s confident but warbly soprano and Miss Martha’s roof-raising mezzo, the melody of the opening hymn launched out upon the air above the gorge, mingling with the balmy May thermals enjoyed by fourteen Cooper’s hawks.

  “Thy beautiful care

  What tongue can recite?

  It breathes in the air,

  It shines in the night;

  It streams from the hills,

  It descends to the plain,

  And sweetly distills

  In the dew and the rain ...”

  Some minutes after the service began, two young children peered through the open front doors.

  As the self-appointed greeter of latecomers, Miss Martha got up from the back row and went to see what was what.

  “Well?” she demanded in a loud whisper.

  The boy looked terrified, but courageous. “I’m Roy Dale; she’s Gladys, th’ baby. We heered you’uns got cake.”

  “Come in, come in, we’ll see what we can do!”

  As she herded them to her pew, Martha McKinney thanked God that Agnes had frozen the remains of last week’s German chocolate ...

  Fol
lowing the service and a brief tutorial on the rubrics, the vicar introduced Rooter Hicks. Rooter, he said, would demonstrate a way to communicate a simple greeting to Holy Trinity’s crucifer, Clarence Merton, or to anyone without full hearing.

  Rooter was seized by terror as he stood to make his demonstration. He was, in fact, struck dumb, and signed the greeting repeatedly before he at last recovered his voice.

  “‘Is here’s how t’ say How y’ doin’, man. Y’all are s‘posed t’ do it, too.”

  Father Tim mimicked Rooter’s signing. “How are you doing, man,” he said as he signed. “Now, if we’re going to get out of here at a reasonable hour...”—he glanced at his watch—“... let’s all pitch in and sign with Rooter.”

  At this exhortation, the congregation pitched in and signed with Rooter.

  “Now you’re talking!” said the vicar.

  Fond of counting heads, Cynthia was pleased to report that attendance at Holy Trinity had shot to twenty-eight. Including their vicar, of course.

  He was at first elated, then glum. Twenty-eight was more than half the capacity of their nave. What would they do if ... ?

  “Chairs in the aisle!” said his mind-reading deacon.

  “Two services!” he said, astounded by the thought.

  Cynthia threw up her hands. “Wait a minute; wait a minute. We’re starting to mess around in the Lord’s business.”

  He laughed, instantly relieved. “Thanks, Kavanagh. I was just cranking up to a full building program.”

  “If Roy Dale and Gladys come back, Sammy and I could have twelve in our Sunday School next week. Twelve! I’m sort of... nervous, really.”

  “Don’t be. Have you talked to Sammy?”

  “Not yet. Timing is everything. But I think he’ll do it.”

  “Have you thought the lesson through?”

  She gestured toward her heart. “It’s kind of ... soaking in there.”

  “And all the better for it!” he said.

  He prayed for Esther Bolick, who was reeling with a hurt he could only dimly imagine.

  Having known her for nearly twenty years, he came to a simple conclusion: Esther is grieving. And out of it was coming considerable good.

  He hit “send.”

 
  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Shady Grove

  A blue plastic tent, occupying a large area around the mouth of the fireplace, had been erected to keep mortar dust and creosote from sifting into the room.

  As anyone could see, it wasn’t working.

  The stuff continued to leak its way into the kitchen, living room, and dining room, and then turn the corner and drift along the hall to the library. The soot had a greasy base, which meant that wiping it off a surface had to be handled with some discretion.

  Adding insult to injury, the pile of wet sand next to the back porch was slowly making its way into the house on the soles of Lloyd’s and Buster’s work boots. Then there was the issue of the kitchen table, which had to be jammed cheek by jowl with the stove, making it a nuisance to get the oven door open.

  “How long?” he asked Lloyd, feeling desperate.

  “Well, see, we’re tearin’ out y’r fireplace surround so we can get at th’ old lintel and pull it out of there.”

  “That’s so we can install y’r damper,” said Buster.

  “Aha.”

  “We’ll be layin’ y’r brick two wide up through th’ throat,” said Lloyd, “then pargin’ up th’ throat, which ain’t easy.”

  “Rough,” said Buster, shaking his head.

  Lloyd removed his ball cap, hoping to clarify things. “See, pargin’ th’ throat from outside down is fine, but pargin’ from inside up is harder, if you know what I mean...”

  “How long?” His eyes were glazing over; he couldn’t help it.

  “I’m sorry about y’r two bushes,” said Lloyd. “We’ll sure be more careful.”

  “Yeah,” said Buster.

  This would be the third time of asking. “How long?”

  Lloyd looked at Buster; Buster looked at Lloyd.They both looked at the vicar, and spoke in unison. “Three weeks?”

  He couldn’t help but notice the question mark at the end of what he’d hoped would be a declarative statement.

  “Have you caught him in the act?”

  He’d called the district attorney, whom he’d gotten to know during Dooley’s encounter with the police a few years ago.

  “Haven’t even seen him. But my dog ripped a piece from his shirt, and he left some things in another house on the property.”

  “Is the property posted?”

  “It is.”

  “How many chickens are you missing?”

  “Seven. And I found the feathers and a fire pit.”

  “Did he cut down any trees for firewood?”

  “Don’t think so; didn’t look for that. He probably picked up a few dead limbs around the place.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “He left his lower dentures behind.”

  The DA laughed. “He’ll be back.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. What kind of offenses do we have here?”

  “Larceny Second-degree trespassing. Cruelty to animals, which carries a class one misdemeanor. And if he cut down any trees or bushes for firewood, add a class two misdemeanor. Bottom line, if he has five or more convictions on his record, the judge could give him up to two hundred and forty days.”

  “Thanks,” said Father Tim. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Your guy’s prob‘ly over at Value Mart checkin’ out the baby food aisle; you’re OK for a while.”

  Very funny, thought the vicar.

  Before his dash up to Wilson’s Ridge, he found Willie mixing sweet feed for the cows. “Tell me about the house in the woods.”

  “About t’ fall in, looks like.”

  “Know anything about who lived there?”

  “Don’ know Miz Owen said their boy, John, used to write music over there b’fore he passed.”

  The Owens’ son had died in his late teens of severe encephalitis; Marge and Hal had never been able to resolve that loss, and seldom talked about it.

  “Ever notice anybody hanging around, using the path?”

  “Nossir. I never went over but once, I don’ hardly think about it bein’ there.”

  Father Tim had long ago learned his lesson about keeping the truth from his wife. In this case, however, he didn’t see how the truth could possibly help matters. Evidence gave pretty good indication that the poacher would return—news that would make the whole household edgy.

  He’d keep his eyes and ears open, keep the phone number of the sheriff’s office handy and, of course, keep counting their chickens.

  “Granny will hold your hand and Father Tim will pray for you,” said Hoppy. “You can’t get a better deal than that.”

  Dovey was stiff with fear. “OK,” she whispered.

  “The needle will go in with a question, and I believe it will come out with the answer.”

  Dovey flinched as the needle found its mark.

  “I’m about t’ pass plumb out,” said Granny.

  “Don’t even think about it,” said Hoppy.

  When the vial filled with Dovey’s dark blood, he removed the needle and flipped up the safety cap. “You’re going to live,” he said, applying a gauze pad to the insertion point.

  “Is it over?”

  “Not yet. I’ll listen to your breathing and your heart with this.” He put the stethoscope around his neck. “And I’ll check your pulse, check your blood pressure, and probe your liver.”

  “How d’ you probe m’ liver?”

  “Use my fingers to feel around ... right here. Nothing serious.”

  “Do I need to hold ’er hand f’r that?” asked Granny.

  “You’re off duty, Nurse Meaders.”

  Dovey raised her head. “Can I have me a drink of water?”

  “I’ll git it,” said Granny.

/>   Hoppy helped his patient sit up on the side of the bed. “What are you going to do when you’re up and around and feeling like a young woman again?”

  “I don’ know, I’ve near about f’rgot how it feels. Sing, I reckon.”

  “Breathe in and hold it. Do you sing? Let it out.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Breathe. Hold it. Let it out. Good.”

  He placed the diaphragm of the stethoscope over her heart, then moved it to her back.

  “What’re you‘uns hearin’ in there?” asked Granny, delivering the water.

  Hoppy grinned. “Ker-thump, ker-thump.”

  After the examination, Hoppy sat in the chair by the bed, thoughtful, and watched Dovey drink with obvious thirst from her transferware cup.

  “OK, Dovey, how about this one?”

  Mitford’s Harvard-educated doctor began singing in what Father Tim remembered from his Lord’s Chapel days as a darned good tenor.

  “I went to see my Shady Grove

  Standing in the door

  Shoes and stockings in her hands,

  Little bare feet on the floor.”

  As Hoppy headed into the chorus, Dovey joined him, harmonizing.

  “Shady Grove, my little love,

  Shady Grove I say

  Shady Grove, my little love,

  I’m a-goin’ away...”

  “Well done!” crowed Hoppy.

  “Lord have mercy!” Granny was wide-eyed. “You best not tell Donny you done that!”

  Hoppy stuck the stethoscope and blood sample in his bag. “What shouldn’t she tell Donny?”

  “Donny’s been a-beggin’ ’er t’ sing, an’ she ain’t sang a note in I don’ know when.”