Song of Life

by C. L. McCullough

  “No, I won’t take your place. I’ll be fine in the back.”

  “Good Lord, there’s too much of you.” Martha protested, watching as he folded himself into the back seat. “Good Lord. Your knees are practically touching your chin.”

  Quickly she got into the car and maneuvered her seat forward, allowing Cas to stretch his legs a bit. Jon winked at him in the rearview mirror.

  “It took a lot of years,” he said laconically, “but I finally learned you can’t stop Martha when she’s made up her mind. Not without more fuss than it’s worth. Sit back and enjoy it, son. You never had a chance.”

  “Jonathan McIntyre–how you do talk. Cas, don’t you believe a word he says. He’s been known to exaggerate on occasion.”

  “You saying you’re not a nag, Martha?” Jon asked innocently.

  Martha bridled. Cas watched, fascinated, as her neck stiffened and her lips pursed. She playfully slapped her husband’s arm, to which he responded with an ‘ouch.’ It was obvious their relationship was a close, loving one. It was what he wanted for himself and he’d been working toward for the last couple of weeks. A woman he loved and who loved him and a place they could make their own.

  He rested his head against the seat, turning his face to the window. The river paralleled the road and across the rushing waters rose the blue gray mountains known as the Smokies.

  I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills . He’d heard or read that somewhere. It fit so well. If there was a God, he must live in these hills, these mountains. If he did, maybe he would meet him. Maybe this time he and God would come to an understanding. Perhaps there could be second chances.

  Perhaps.

  * * * *

  Father Yuri Bauer’s congregation was scattered widely between three churches. He was like the traveling preachers who used to ride the remote trails in centuries past, holding services wherever enough people could be gathered. Father Yuri was in charge of a very large parish. The problem was there were very few people populating it.

  When thinking of Catholicism, the uninitiated probably imagined scenes from ‘The Bells of St Mary’, or the Irish countryside with its parish church and Barry Fitzgerald as the local priest. Father Yuri’s parish was more like ‘Have Bible, Will Travel.’ Efforts by the ruling hierarchy to close the churches down, forcing people to trek long miles to Eufaula or Johnson City to worship, were thwarted by Highland stubbornness and determination. Father Yuri was the compromise.

  His weekends were always busy. Sunday mass was not negotiable, it was a must, and he had perfected his schedule and made sure his tires were all in one piece and his bike in good condition. It wouldn’t do to have a break down in some of the remote areas he had to travel through.

  There was a late mass Saturday night, usually at St Peter’s. A morning mass at the Nevis church, Assumption, and another late evening mass seventy-five miles away at St Boniface. All within regulations and the people began to make their plans around their several masses.

  Father Yuri was a fisher of men and women. His flock was scattered, which made it easier for them to transgress and fall out of the arms of the Church. It was Father Yuri’s job to gather them up again and he had become quite adept in his wooing.

  Not all Highlanders were Catholic, but the ones who’d settled this particular part of the Blue Ridge were. For decades they had been the forgotten ones, the Church barely aware they were even there. Their already strong independence was reinforced, and by the time the Church rediscovered them, they were not as willing to blindly follow Church dictates as the Bishop might wish.

  They wanted their own churches, around which much of their social lives revolved. They did not want to spend their Sundays driving most of the day and all for one hour of worship. When they threatened to turn Episcopalian, the Bishop had given in. It was never a serious threat, but the Bishop couldn’t take the chance, wouldn’t take the chance. The last thing he needed was bad publicity.

  Father Yuri suited the congregation of Nevis. He wasn’t too strict and he wasn’t too lax. He understood their difficulties, sympathized with their problems, and always helped as best he could. The Songs of Joy was his idea, a time to relax and have fun and at the same time teach the children.

  He was determined to bring Sunny Douglas back into the fold. Asking her to provide refreshments for the Songs was an inspiration, he thought, and then guiltily prayed for forgiveness for his pride.

  * * * *

  Now Father Yuri stood in the pulpit, eyeing the new addition to his flock. A very reluctant one, from all he could make out. Jon McIntyre had read from both the Old and New Testaments, and the Gospel had been proclaimed. Father Yuri was ready to sermonize, but it appeared Martha and the stranger weren’t ready to listen.

  The stranger kept his seat, neither standing nor kneeling when the service called for it. He stared out a window, his mouth tight, his black brows lowered in a frown during the singing. That’s what Father Yuri couldn’t understand. Non-Catholics were sometimes a little uncomfortable during a Mass, but they usually appreciated the music. This man looked like he was enduring. The love of God was not reaching him.

  But Martha surely was. She was whispering furiously, neck stretched to reach the stranger’s ear. He looked stubborn as he shook his head, and Martha’s speech revved up.

  That was certainly interesting, and right then and there Father Yuri changed his opening statement. Just a bit.

  “Blessed are the silent,” Father Yuri declaimed, his trained voice reaching the farthest corners of the church, cutting Martha off short and bringing the color to her cheeks. “For they shall hear truths and receive the love of God.”

  Martha’s mouth snapped shut. She hardly knew where to look. Her husband tried his best to appear not to know her. The stranger sat up straighter and looked more interested.

  * * * *

  Martha had been right about the socializing.

  She’d elaborated further during the ride to the church. Folks made a point of arriving early, she’d said, so they could catch up with news and talk with people they hadn’t seen since last week. Farmers made the trip in from the deep countryside, the business folks could take their time and relax and talk. It was like a big cocktail party only without the cocktails and would continue until the bell heralded the beginning of the service.

  But there’d be more talking afterwards, she’d promised. There was a reluctance to go back to the duties and sameness of everyday life. “You can’t blame them, can you?” she’d asked “Sunday’s a day of rest for most of these folks. Some of them have a hardscrabble life and church is the only relief they get.”

  Martha had introduced him to many people. Their names and faces blurred together in his mind, but Cas had enjoyed himself, until the service started.

  The service brought back memories he would rather forget. As a child, he had never understood why his father wasn’t struck by lightning for his hypocrisy. His father was a liar. He lied to God, because no priest in his right mind would feed his father consecrated bread if a true confession had been made. But Hannah had said nobody could lie to God and so therefore God must know all his father’s sins and still He let him live. Hannah swore he’d be punished, but Hannah wasn’t God. She couldn’t know everything. In his child’s mind, he’d decided God must not care and the priest was lying. Either that, or there wasn’t a God, because what God would let Jose Aguilar continue on as he was?

  Father Yuri caught Cas’s attention. He’d listened closely to the sermon, sat stoically through the Communion, but when the Blessing was given, he was more than ready to leave.

  The bad taste left by his memories receded somewhat as people came up to him and drew him into their conversations, invited him to ball games and to the Songs of Joy, and asked him how he liked their town. Martha and Jon had moved off and he decided he’d walk back to the cottage, get his neglected laundry and begin on Sunny’s plant room.

  He turned to go and found his way blocked.

  �
��I’m Father Yuri,” the priest introduced himself, holding out his hand. He was younger than Cas thought a priest would be, his face clean shaven, his hair brushing the white collar encircling his neck. He still wore his cassock, the black of it emphasizing his white skin. His amber eyes narrowed as he studied Cas.

  Cas nodded and shook his hand. “Cas Martin,” he said briefly.

  “You seemed uncomfortable inside, Cas,” Father Yuri remarked.

  Cas gave a little smile. “I was brought by an irresistible force, and blackmailed on top of that. Martha threatened tears.”

  Father Yuri laughed. “Martha is a good woman. I can see she thinks a lot of you. I don’t think you think so much of God, though.”

  “I’m not sure there is a God, or if there is, that he cares.”

  “I sense you’ve been through a lot, my son. Consider this, if you will. God may have allowed you to suffer, but who do you think gave you the strength to get through it and come out the other side the person you are today? God often gives the hardest tests to those he loves the most.”

  “That’s not good parenting,” Cas replied, trying not to sound bitter. “But then, I don’t think I’d know good parenting if it bit me on the ass.”

  “Look around you.” Father Yuri waved a hand at the people surrounding them. “Pick any one of them, and they’ll stand as a good example.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Cas said. He did not want to get into a discussion of the state of his soul.

  “We must talk again soon,” the priest said easily. “Are you coming to Songs of Joy?”

  “No. Nice to meet you, Father.”

  He didn’t so much leave, as retreat. It would be some time before he would be able to make a decision about the success of his church-going venture. It seemed to him Father Yuri saw too damned much.

  Chapter 14

  Ruth Ervin lived in a quiet old house, in a quiet old neighborhood. One of those places where mature trees lined the street, arching their full leaved branches overhead. Where children could ride bikes without being in danger of life and limb, and the ice cream truck came by at least once a day in the summer months. Ruth herself seemed ageless, always neatly dressed in pleated slacks or a cool house dress, her white hair perfectly groomed and under control. She made no attempt to hide her wrinkles, which she called her battle scars, but those wrinkles all seemed to turn up. Whatever Ruth’s battles had been, she had not forgotten how to laugh.

  Usually Sunny found it relaxing and restful at Ruth’s. They talked over coffee or tea, perhaps went out for dinner, or maybe Ruth would put together one of her famous meals. It was probably the only house in North Carolina where roast beef and Yorkshire pudding were served on a regular basis.

  Or they might go to the local shopping center if one of them needed something, strolling along the shaded street in the coolness of the early morning, returning several hours later at a brisker pace as the day heated up. Sometimes they attended a play put on by the Johnson City Performing Arts, if it caught their fancy.

  Always, they talked.

  Sunny wouldn’t mention Cas. Everything was still too new, too uncertain and she had the sinking feeling Ruth wouldn’t approve. Cas was not exactly successful, not as most people judged success, and he had a past he seemed to think alienated him from others. No sense in stirring up a storm before it was necessary.

  Late Sunday morning, they sat on the patio, having brunch and watching a mockingbird bully the cat. Ruth’s patio, like Ruth herself, was elegant and serene. They ate off a glass topped table with white wrought iron legs and sat on wrought iron chairs cushioned in a bright, sunny yellow. Potted plants softened the red bricks and hanging baskets of brilliant impatiens and geraniums glowed against the green of the lawn.

  Sunny, studying the plants, said, “This is what I want for the conservatory. I hope Cas can pull it off.” Damn. She hadn’t meant to say that.

  “Cas? Oh yes, I’ve heard him mentioned,” Ruth said. “Ida Ratcliff called me last night. Sunny, dear, are you dating your handyman, really?”

  Sunny flushed. “I know what it sounds like, but I promise you, this is different. He’s different. Anyway, it wasn’t a date…well, it might have been…sort of…it was just a meal at Mimi’s.”

  “Are you sleeping with him?” Ruth asked. “The town consensus is, if you aren’t, it won’t be long.”

  Ruth sounded remarkably calm, as if sleeping with one’s handyman was an everyday occurrence. Sunny ruthlessly pushed back a horrified giggle.

  “No, I’m not sleeping with him. I do have some sense between my ears. He–both of us–have some things to work out. Oh, I know you don’t approve, but I can only say…” She stopped helplessly. “It was…well, don’t laugh, but it was as if we knew each other, from the beginning it was like that. I can’t explain right.”

  “Sunny, darlin’, you don’t have to explain a thing to me. Love happens when it happens. After what Jim put you through, you deserve some happiness.”

  Sunny gave her a quick glance. “You knew? I was hoping you didn’t.”

  Ruth laughed. “I still have my contacts in Nevis. How could I not know? It’s only a matter of picking which story I like best.”

  Sunny stirred uncomfortably. Out on the lawn, the mockingbird dive bombed the cat again, screeching loudly. “He left some debts,” she said reluctantly. “That’s all past now, though. I’m doing just fine.”

  “And you need someone to love, someone besides an old woman who lives too far away. Is it just physical, or is it going to last a lifetime?”

  Sunny looked down at her teacup, turning the handle in a slow circle. “For me it could be a lifetime. Don’t know about him. Not yet.” There was a long pause. “He’s considerable younger than me,” she added reluctantly.

  “Well don’t be sounding so ashamed of it, girl.” Ruth said in a robust voice. “Good Lord, you act like nothing like that ever happened before. I ever tell you about Mason?”

  Sunny shook her head. To her knowledge, Ruth’s husband Mason had been the perfect spouse and perfect for Ruth. He had led an exemplary life, loved his wife and children and had died too soon of a massive heart attack out on the golf course.

  “Mason used to fret sometimes. He was younger than me, you know. Oh, only a couple of years, but it used to wear on him sometimes. So I asked him one time if he’d stopped loving me because I had a few years on him. Maybe I’d turned ugly? Maybe everything was drooping too much to give him pleasure anymore?”

  Sunny suppressed a smile. She’d never heard Ruth talk like this before.

  “You know what he said, honey? He said any droops or wrinkles had been put there by him and the kids, and I could look like the Witches of Endor and he’d still love me. ‘A man don’t need a perfect body in his bed,’ he said, ‘although we do like to talk a lot about it. It’s who’s inside that body that counts.’

  “I believe your Cas is thinking the same way. With some men it just comes natural, to think that way. They have the gift of seeing the person inside. They can enjoy the physical and always will, but it’s you he’ll love, not just your body.”

  “You think so?”

  “You tell me, girl. You know him, I don’t. Is he shallow? When he’s talking to you, is he talking to your boobs? Is he always feeling you up, trying to get you to bed?”

  “Aunt Ruth.” Sunny was rather shocked. “Well, of course he wants…so do I,” she ended defiantly.

  “Of course you do,” Ruth soothed. “But is he making your life miserable over it?”

  “No. No, when I said to take it slow, he agreed. He says he’s wooing me.”

  “Well there you go, then!” Ruth said. “I’m going to have to take me a trip to Nevis, see this paragon.”

  “He’ll love you. He’s already bonded with Martha. He just fits in, Aunt Ruth. I can’t say it any better than that.”

  “Then please tell me why you’re here with a foolish old woman, instead of back home being wooed?”

  Sunny
rose from her chair, leaned over Ruth and gave her a hug. “Because I love this foolish old woman and wanted to see her.”

  “Well, you’ve seen her. Get yourself back home and get your affairs settled.”

  “You throwing me out?”

  “That I am. When next you see me, it’ll be in Nevis. I’ve got an urge to see all the improvements,” Ruth said slyly.

  Sunny laughed. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Good Lord, girl, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. Say ‘hey’ to Ida for me, and tell her I don’t need any more damned impertinent phone calls. Us Douglases know our own business best. Always have, always will.”

  “Consider it done. It’ll be a pleasure.”

  “Go on, get yourself packed up. And call me when you get back so’s I know you made it safely.”

  Sunny hugged her again, this time adding a heartfelt kiss on the cheek. People could sure be surprising. They surely could. She couldn’t wait to get home.

  * * * *

  Cas had received quite an education when he and Sunny discussed the old summer kitchen and how her vision for it could be realized. It included botany, structural engineering, the aesthetics of pots versus planters, a short history of southern living, and the psychological advantages of a controlled wilderness. He’d been impressed.

  The old summer kitchen had been built at a distance from the house, in the days when fire was a real hazard to be guarded against. It also kept the heat of the wood burning cook stoves away from the rest of the rooms. During the heavy heat of deep summer, this was a blessing. Most people who could afford it had built separate kitchens for just that reason.

  Jim had wanted to grow his own flowers to decorate the inn, Sunny had said, and perhaps vegetables too. To this end, he’d had most of the walls torn out of the old kitchen, covering the studs with faux pillars and replacing sheetrock with tempered glass. He’d run out of money before he got to the roof, which still retained its cedar shakes, but he had managed to include climate control, which was what made Sunny’s idea feasible.