by Jan Karon
“Any interest in taking a final look?
“I’ll wait to hear back. All best to you and Cynthia; oh, yes, and to Dooley. I have word he’s become a Kavanagh. Congratulations to all.”
Beep.
In faraway New Jersey, Walter took a sip of his after-dinner espresso. “Forget it, Cousin.”
“Forget it?”
“Absolutely. Once a conviction has been obtained, the laws are very strict about overthrowing it. Further, there was never any evi- dence that pointed to Fred, and even if you pursued your hunch and something came of it, he’d be mentally incompetent to stand trial. No DA in his right mind would touch it.”
He sighed. “I’ve always believed it’s never too late.”
“You’re a priest, it’s your job to believe that.”
“You’re a lawyer. I thought that was your job, as well.”
Walter laughed. “Not this lawyer.”
“You’re right, of course. Well, sorry to hear you won’t make it down this summer, but we understand; we have a house full, in any case. Dooley, his brother Sammy, and, temporarily, a five-year-old with the stamina of a freight train.”
“Timothy, you are ever and a day taking in stray children. What a good fellow!”
“Can’t help myself.”
“To wrap up, Cousin, leave the poor, demented soul to his own devices. Unless there’s something I don’t know, you don’t have the energy or years to chase a wild goose.”
In truth, he was already chasing a wild goose, though of a far less serious nature—it was that blasted stack of hundred-dollar bills ostensibly buried in the deeps of a ’58 Plymouth Belvedere.
“I c-could’ve c-c-cut y’r hair,” Sammy said as he wolfed his lasagna.
“You could?”
“Yeah.You n-need a little more t-took off of th’ sides.”
Father Tim felt around up there; it seemed perfectly fine to him. “I do?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dooley. “You do.”
His wife was enjoying this way too much.
He’d like to shave his head as slick as a cue ball, and be done with the whole miserable business.
“That was a tough rack.”
“Pretty hot shooter.”
“She’s th’ champion sh-shooter in th’ whole United S-states. Look how many b-b-balls she made on that break.”
“Man,” said Dooley. “Could you do that?”
He stood at the upstairs linen cupboard, lis- tening to the voices down the hall.
“I don’ know. P-prob’ly not.”
Sure you could, he thought. Sure you could!
Dooley had begun his summer internship at Hal’s clinic, and Sammy was working, shirtless, in the garden. On the hottest, most humid day they’d had so far, he took Sissie for a lengthy and circuitous trek—out to the chicken house, down to the pond, up to the hay loft, and around by the cow pasture.
He’d been instructed to exhaust as much of her energy as possible, to prevent a repeat of last night’s session. Unable to sleep, Sissie had climbed into their bed and talked a mile a minute until ten o’clock.
“It’s sugar,” Cynthia had announced at breakfast. “We can’t give her anything sweet today. Fruit only.”
“Raisins!” he said, being helpful. “Apples!”
“Silly me to show her where the cookie jar was. I’ve put it on top of the cabinet.”
“Better hide the step stool,” he cautioned.
After Lily’s lunch, which utilized a considerable amount of Sammy’s lettuce and peas, he announced nap time. Surely after a late bedtime and early rising, their young charge would sleep like a log ...
As Sissie curled beneath an afghan on the library sofa, he scribbled in his quote journal.
If the trials of many years were gathered into one, he penned from an old book found on Marge’s shelf, they would overwhelm us; therefore, in pity to our little strength, He sends first one, and then an- other, then removes both, and lays on a third, heavier, perhaps, than either; but all is so wisely measured to our strength that the bruised reed is never broken. We do not enough look at our trials in this continuous and successive view. Each one is sent to teach us something, and altogether they have a lesson which is beyond the power of any to teach alone. H. E. Manning.
He reread what he’d written. Wisely mea- sured to our strength ... amen and amen, Brother Manning, whoever you were ...
His eyelids were drooping. He propped his head in his hands for a moment, then moved to the wing chair and thumped into it. A light breeze stirred through the open window. Bliss.
Sissie popped up from the pillow, looking urgent.
“How does Jesus git in us?”
“We ask Him in. When we do that, He comes and lives in our hearts.”
She put her hand over her heart, furrowed her brow, and listened intently.
“What does ’e do in there all day?”
He heard the front screen door slap, and Dooley’s footsteps along the hall to the library.
“Hey,” said Dooley, going to the bookcase.
“Hey, yourself.”
Dooley shook his head, disbelieving. “Unbelievable!”
“Blake?”
“You got it.”
“Now what?”
“Bo’s been having trouble with her neck; I noticed she can’t bend it. Plus she hasn’t been eating much, or moving around a lot.”
“I thought it was probably the heat.”
“No. She’s in pain; I can feel the muscle spasms in her neck. And she’s starting to drag her right hind foot. I’m sure she has a ruptured disk.” Dooley located a book, took it down, and paged through it.
“What needs to be done?”
“Blake wants to call in a vet who does back and neck surgeries. Nobody around here does that anymore, we’d have to take her to Johnson City.”
“Do you agree with Blake’s idea?”
“No way. There’s only a sixty-percent chance that surgery will work, and if it doesn’t, she could need repeated surgeries.”
“What are the options?”
“I think we should try acupuncture.”
“Acupuncture? Isn’t that kind of... out there?”
“Lots of vets are using acupuncture to manage pain. Along with that, we need to give her time; sometimes these things take care of themselves. Then, if that doesn’t work, opiate drugs and steroids. Surgery would be a last resort.”
In Hal’s absence, Blake was definitely the boss. “Has Blake made up his mind?”
“He’s going to call Hal and see what Hal says. But Hal will side with Blake.”
“You’re sure?”
“They think alike.”
Dooley turned to Father Tim, looking fierce. “Blake is an arrogant, self-serving pain in the butt.”
And you have to work with him all summer, thought Father Tim. Lord, thanks in advance for wisely measuring this to his strength.
With Sissie in tow, he made a run to visit Dovey, wheeling first into Lew Boyd’s.
“Miss Sadie’s car is going down to Charleston to be restored,” he told Harley. “Could we comb over it again tomorrow?”
“What time would that be?”
“You tell me.”
“Aroun’ four I could do it. I got a awful job of work on Miz Mallory’s Lincoln. Ed Coffey’s bringin’ it in at ten o’clock. They ain’t kep’ ’at car up like they should.”
“I’ll be here at four.” Ed Coffey. Maybe he could learn Edith’s latest prognosis.
“By the way, Harley ...”
“Yes, sir?”
“If Cynthia and I had to raise another boy, could I count on you to help us out?”
Harley’s toothless grin was wrapping around to the back of his head. “You c’n count on me f’r anything, Rev’ren’.”
Frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to raise another boy; he didn’t know if he could summon the strength. Even his indefatigable wife, though willing, had seemed daunted by the prospect. But what else
was there to do?
At the sight of her mother, Sissie burst into tears and climbed onto the hospital bed, bawling. “When are we goin’ home, Mama?”
“Soon, honey. Soon. Please don’ cry.” She smoothed the hair from Sissie’s forehead. “Looky yonder, Donny brought m’ plate an’ cup an’ all. Ain‘t’ that nice? They won’t let me use it, but I c’n look at it when I pray f’r Mamaw Ruby.”
Father Tim took Dovey’s hand. “Feeling stronger?”
“Maybe a little bit. I got up an’ walked around th’ room this mornin’.”
Nurse Herman squished into One Fourteen on her lug-sole shoes.
“Mrs. Gleason, may I borrow your pitcher a minute?”
“Yes, ma’am, but please pick it up easy; th’ handle’s been broke off.”
“Two times,” said Sissie, “but hit was pasted back.”
Nurse Herman drew Father Tim into the hall, closed the door behind her, and held forth the pitcher.
“Here’s your culprit,” she said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bingo
He stopped by Dora Pugh’s for a mask, picking up an extra for Harley. The last time he rooted around in the Plymouth, the dust caused his sinuses to drain like spigots.
“Operatin’ on somebody?” asked Dora.
“Operating on a car, actually.”
“Takin’ out th’ drive shaft, I reckon.”
Their hardware store owner was never at a loss for words.
“If we have to,” he said, counting the correct change.
“Have you heard th’ one about ...”
“Next time!” He struck out for the door with his brown bag.
“... th’ fella who fell in a lens-grindin’ machine an’ made a spectacle of hisself?”
No rest for the wicked, he thought, charging up Main Street to the truck.
He saw a small gathering in front of Sweet Stuff. A good reminder! Cynthia had been craving Winnie’s fig bars, which were, all things considered, relatively low cal. His wife would demolish a couple in no time flat.
He crossed Wisteria Lane, noting that the crowd appeared to be gathered around ...
His heart hammered.
... around Edith Mallory ...
... in her wheelchair.
As he approached, the Collar Button man was bending toward Edith, as if to hear what she was saying.
“Right, right.” Appearing uncomfortable, he fled next door to his own shop.
Mitford’s fire chief, Hamp Floyd, exited Sweet Stuff with a cake box, the bell jingling above the door.
“Miz Mallory! I declare!” Last September, Hamp Floyd had pulled out all the stops to save Edith’s mansion on the ridge, but it had burned to the ground in spite of his effort.
Hamp leaned closer to Edith. “He is, ma’am, He certainly is!”
Winnie Ivey peered through the glass door of her shop to see what was going on, then came out to greet the woman who had tried without success to buy Sweet Stuff for a third of its value.
“Miz Mall’ry! Glad to see you on th’ street again!”
Winnie extended her hand, and Edith took it. Father Tim was standing behind Edith and couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it made Winnie smile. “Yes, ma’am,” said Winnie. “Oh, yes, ma’am.”
Ed Coffey stood patiently at the handlebars of the chair, gazing around the small gathering. He caught Father Tim’s eye.
Father Tim had known Ed Coffey through some tough times; things had never been easy between them. He was surprised, and even moved, by the look in Ed’s eyes—there was no anger or defiance as before, but a warmth he’d never seen. Ed nodded and gestured for him to step closer.
“Look here, Miz Mallory. It’s Father Tim.”
Ed eased the chair around.
Father Tim was struck by the frailty of his old and bitter nemesis; always a petite woman, she now appeared shriveled, even childlike. Yet her face was radiant.
“Tim ... o ... thy ...” She scarcely spoke above a whisper.
“Edith.”
“For ... give ... me.”
“I did that long ago.”
“God ... is ... good.”
“Yes. Very good.” He squatted beside the chair and took her hand and held it. Tears streamed, uncontrolled, down his cheeks.
“Thank ... you.”
“Thank you, Edith, for your witness. And thank God for His faithfulness.”
She managed a smile from the left corner of her lips. “God ... is ... good,” she said again. The large eyes, which had always alarmed him, shone with new light.
He watched Ed and Edith pass up the street, stopping to talk with everyone they met. It was some minutes before he realized his knees were weak and shaking, as if a terrible storm had passed and the sun had come forth at last.
He walked into the garden between Sweet Stuff and the Collar Button and sat on the bench, the brown paper bag in hand.
Bill Sprouse sat beside him with his dog, Buddy, on a leash. “A miracle, brother.”
“It is.”
“Lord bless ’er, she’s puttin’ the gospel truth into three little words. Tellin’ everybody she sees”.
Father Tim mopped his eyes with his handkerchief. The tears wouldn’t stop; a dark weight, long carried, had been lifted.
“I know y’all went at it a time or two.”
“More than a time or two.”
“Old Scratch in a dress is what some called her. I love it when God reaches out and yanks up one of His bad young ’uns and holds ’em in His arms!”
“Like He did me,” said the vicar, blowing his nose.
“Like He did me,” said the preacher from First Baptist.
He and Harley pulled on their masks.
Andrew stood by, dressed to the nines in a cashmere jacket. Buttoned, noted the vicar. Still carrying a wooden spoon, Tony had taken a break from the Lucera kitchen, and thumped down on an ancient garden bench by the garage.
“What do you think, Harley?”
“Right off, let’s git th’ doors open an’ let some air circ’late in there.”
Andrew opened the rear left door; Tony opened the rear right door; he and Harley worked the front doors.
“Teamwork!” said Father Tim.
Harley stuck his head inside. “Been a mouse in here, looks like. An’ I heerd snakes’ll sometimes crawl up in a ol’ car.”
“Whoa, buddy; don’t go there.”
Tony brandished his spoon. “I’ll take care of snake.”
Father Tim laughed. “Good! Tony takes care of the snake; Harley takes care of the mouse.”
“If a mouse jumps out, I’ll be haulin’ over th’ county line. I never liked nothin’ in th’ rodent fam’ly.” Harley got in, cautious, and sat in the passenger seat.
“Louella said Miss Sadie was handy with her toolbox. I can’t imagine Miss Sadie han- dling a wrench or a drill. But maybe a screwdriver ...” He sat on the backseat, eyeing the surroundings, trying to see things with a fresh eye.
“Top t’ bottom is what you tol’ me,” said Harley. “So here we go ag’in.” Harley poked the felt roof liner; dust baptized the interior.
When all was said and done, he still didn’t know whether to take Louella’s story seriously. Louella certainly believed it; but was it, perhaps, some fragment of an old dream? He felt like a sweaty, overweight fool pulling such a caper in front of Andrew Gregory, who, as ever, looked trim, cool, and dashing.
“I been readin’ up on this deal,” said Harley. “She’s got it all—overdrive, power brakes, full-time power steerin’, you name it.” Harley continued to poke. “Prob’ly y’r worst problem’s goin’ t’ be y’r power steerin’, hit’ll need rebuildin’ ...”
Poke, poke; dust, dust.
“... an’ y’r fuel tank’ll mos’ likely need replacin’.”
“She’ll look good on the street again,” said Andrew. “Those tail fins will be a crowd pleaser.”
“Bello!” said Tony.
“Hi
t’ll be a jaw dropper, all right. Meantime, they ain’t nothin’ up here but roof an’ linin’. Same as b’fore.”
“What do you think about taking the door panels off?” asked Father Tim. “Looks like that could be done with a screwdriver.”
“Wouldn’ hurt.” Harley got in the backseat and began unscrewing the right rear door panel.
Nothing but door-panel entrails and more dust.
“What do you think? Should we take off all the door panels? And what about the dash?”
“Do dash,” said Tony, apparently having a delightful time. “Radio, clock, like that.” He waved his spoon for emphasis.
“If ’at little woman took out ’er radio, I’ll give y’ a brand-new five-dollar bill. We start messin’ around in th’ dash, we’ll be here ’til Christmas.”
Needing a breath of fresh air, Father Tim suddenly stood, cracking his head on the dome light. “Dadgummit!” He staggered out the door, his hand to his scalp. Just as he thought—blood.
“Man!” he squawked, quoting Dooley.
“I’ll bring alcohol and a Band-Aid!” said Andrew, looking concerned.
“I’ll get!”Tony struck out for the house.
“Or would you rather come up to the kitchen, Father?”
“Oh, no, no. I’ll be fine.” He mopped his smarting cranium with a handkerchief. “Not a problem.”
“Tell you what...,” said Harley.
“What?”
“I’m goin’ t’ take a look in that dome light y’ jis’ nailed. Hit’s a whopper.”
Harley unscrewed the dome light and trained his flashlight into the cavity. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!”
The men stooped down to peer in at Harley.
“You got bingo, Rev‘ren’.”
When he drove Harley back to Lew’s, J.C. was pumping gas into his beat-up SUV
J.C. threw up his hand, looking positively sunny. Father Tim eased the farm truck to the other side of the gas island.
“So. What’s going on?”
“Not too much.”
“What’s with the happy face? You look like the ice cream truck just stopped on your street.”
“You’re a meddlin’ fool,” said J.C.