by Jan Karon
• • •
‘YOU DIDN’T LIKE IT,’ said J.C. ‘I can tell.’
‘I didn’t, you’re right.’
‘I think you’ll change your mind.’
‘Good. I hope so.’ His wife had the winning strategy; she laughed at nonsense. He wanted to learn how to do that.
‘So let’s be productive today,’ said Mule, joining them at the table, ‘an’ name this place.’
‘In the interest of time,’ said J.C., ‘we ordered for you.’
‘What did you order?’
‘Surprise,’ said J.C.
‘A children’s plate,’ he said, ‘with chocolate pie.’
‘Fancy told me last night I have to quit chocolate.’
‘Oh, boy,’ said J.C.
‘Okay, okay, but just this once,’ said Mule. ‘Here’s th’ deal—I thought about it a lot last night. The Lunch Box!’
‘How about this place is also open for dinner and that won’t get it?’ said J.C.
‘Okay, here’s one that comes off of th’ fact we’re at thirty-six hundred feet above sea level. High country, mountains, like that. So how about . . .’ Mule leaned in, confidential. ‘. . . Pie in the Sky?’
‘Too much of a dessert theme. People are tryin’ to lose weight.’
‘Man,’ said Mule. ‘This is hard. Those were my best shots. How about Foggy Mountain Dew?’
‘What?’
‘Kind of senseless, but kind of intriguin’.’
‘Way off message,’ he said. He knew that much about marketing.
‘What’s th’ message?’
‘Good food, reasonable prices, come and get it.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mule. ‘Maybe we should leave it alone, it’s none of our business what th’ name is. Chelsea Tea Shop—fine with me. But what’s a Chelsea? I’ve been meanin’ to ask for a couple of years.’
‘A district in London,’ he said.
‘There you go,’ said J.C. ‘Definitely not th’ local feeling we’re lookin’ for. Th’ family thing might be good to weave in. My mother called us to th’ table saying, Soup’s on. How about Soup’s On?’
‘Then they think the menu’s all soup,’ said Mule.
He took a long draught of his iced tea; J.C. ogled the ceiling fan.
‘How about the Daily Blessing?’ He definitely wasn’t good at this.
‘Not bad,’ said Mule. ‘If you’re hungry, any food’s a blessin’.’
‘Too religious,’ said J.C.
‘We ought to put th’ owner’s name in,’ said Mule. ‘You know, like Pete’s Barbecue in Wesley, or Cindy’s Lunch Spot on th’ highway. Owners go nuts over havin’ their name in th’ name.’
J.C. sat for a time, eyes closed.
‘He’s in a trance,’ said Mule.
J.C. looked up. ‘How about Wanda’s Feel Good Café?’
‘Whoa!’ said Mule. ‘Where’d that come from?’
J.C. shrugged.
‘Does that mean you feel good when you’re in here?’
‘Not particularly,’ said J.C. ‘How about you, Tim?’
‘I’ve felt better in other places,’ he said. ‘But since this is the only place . . .’
• • •
‘SO THERE YOU HAVE IT.’ J.C. ended the presentation to Wanda Basinger, who had joined them at the table. ‘New ownership, new name.’
Wanda displayed a decidedly crooked grin. One side of her mouth appeared to smile, the other side read, Back off.
‘I love it,’ she said from the smile side.
‘Free lunch for five days,’ said Mule.
‘For which turkey?’
‘Th’ whole flock,’ said Mule.
‘Five times three is fifteen,’ she said, ‘which at roughly ten dollars a pop is a hundred and fifty bucks. Way out of line.’
‘Free lunch, five days,’ said Mule.
There was a staring competition between the realtor and the proprietor. Pretty heady stuff, he thought. He took a turn looking at the ceiling fan, J.C. wiped his face with his lunch napkin.
‘All right, all right,’ said Wanda, speaking from the back-off side. ‘But no tips included, you can forget that.’
‘Deal,’ said Mule.
He’d just witnessed how Mule Skinner was able to make it in today’s real estate market.
• • •
HE’D GONE OUT to the recycling bin and saw Harley in the driveway next door. He dodged through the hedge.
‘Harley! Welcome home, buddy!’
‘Yo, Rev’ren’!’
Hugging the slightly built, highly metabolized Harley Welch was like grabbing on to a field hare that smelled, curiously, of cologne.
‘Ye’re a sight f’r sore eyes. Boys howdy, I’m glad to be back, we was out in th’ boonies, I can tell y’ that.’
He stared, dumbfounded.
‘Harley?’
‘It’s m’ teeth, ain’t it?’
‘But you said . . .’
‘I know. I said teeth never give me nothin’ but trouble—what didn’t rot out was knocked out; I didn’t want nothin’ more t’ do with ’em.’
He was feeling oddly betrayed, accusing. ‘You said you’d gotten used to the way things were in there.’
‘I thought teeth’d jis’ take up too much room, but I was dead wrong. I tried to git Sammy to git a set, but he won’t be havin’ none of that.’
This was a whole other Harley, and he didn’t much like it. Harley with teeth? It was . . . he couldn’t find the word.
• • •
‘HARLEY’S BRINGING HIS FAMOUS BROWNIES,’ he said. ‘We can freeze Winnie’s for the October crowd.’
His wife sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’
Hugging Harley had left its mark. ‘Harley’s cologne.’
‘Harley’s cologne?’
He would have to change shirts.
‘Just a warning,’ he said. ‘Harley has teeth.’
‘Teeth? Harley? What for?’
‘For Miss Pringle, he says, out of respect.’
‘Miss Pringle! Good heavens. Do you think . . . ?’
‘I can’t imagine it, no. Just being thoughtful of others, surely. I have to tell you, the teeth scared me to death.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘In Kentucky. A cousin cut him a deal.’
He loved the look on her face.
‘Just a warning,’ he said.
• • •
HE’D SEEN SAMMY toward the end of July, before the Ireland trip. Now he marveled again how people can change so noticeably, so quickly. Striding across the yard to the porch, Sammy seemed taller, more muscular; the old scar on his cheek more noticeable. Really noticeable was the boy’s mane of red hair caught back in a ponytail. Though younger than Dooley, Sammy could easily pass for Dooley’s twin.
Sammy pounded up the porch steps carrying the cue stick he’d given the boy for Christmas last year.
‘Hey,’ said Sammy.
‘Hey, yourself.’ He gave Sammy a hug, slapped him on the back. They’d been down the road together, so to speak. ‘Great to see you. Welcome home.’
Sammy peered at the dozen quarter-pound burgers on the fire. ‘Smells good, I could smell ’em c-cookin’ from over yonder.’
‘Where’s the rest of your crowd?’ It was hard to picture Hélène Pringle as part of this particular mélange.
‘They’re comin’. Where’s ol’ B-Barn at?’
‘Under the deck chair. How was Kentucky?’
‘They cain’t sh-shoot pool, I can tell you that, I whipped ever’body plus somebody’s granmaw, she was eighty-two. She was a wild ol’ woman, sank five balls in one turn. I hope you g-got coleslaw.’
‘We’ve got it all.’
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Sammy drew a cigarette from his shirt pocket.
‘No smoking, remember?’
‘I was hopin’ you’d g-got over that notion.’ A word, then, that wasn’t allowed.
‘Watch your language, buddy. You know the rules.’
Sammy looked at him with distaste, spit over the porch railing. ‘You ain’t changed any.’
‘Just a little older,’ he said. No wiser.
• • •
AS A FRENCH-BORN ONLY CHILD of a Parisian mother, Hélène might rightly be fascinated by sibling relationships and the less cosmopolitan ways of her tenants.
During dinner on the porch, he watched her watching them. He was amused by her generous laughter, a side of Hélène Pringle he hadn’t previously seen.
• • •
‘YOU READY?’
‘As I’ll ever be. Remember this is a tutorial.’
‘A what?
‘You’re just teaching me the basics this time. It’s not about winning, right?’
Sammy was incredulous. ‘It’s always about w-winnin’.’
• • •
WHEN DOOLEY WANTED TO BUY Sammy a pool table a few months ago, the only problem was where to put it. Not many women would move the dining room furniture to the basement and replace it with a pool table.
He gave his wife a pat on the back. ‘You’re the best,’ he said as they gathered in what Dooley called the Kavanagh Ball Hall.
‘I already racked ’em f’r eight ball,’ said Harley, glad to be of service.
Though he’d shot a few games with Sammy, he was as nervous as a cat. In truth, he hadn’t really learned anything; the instructions had passed through his head like a drift of smoke.
He could grow roses, he could make a decent soufflé, he could quote long passages from the old poets and Holy Writ, he could run five miles—what was his problem? He took a cue stick from the rack. Why was everyone staring? So intently did Hélène gaze at the preacher chalking his cue, she might have been front row center at the opera.
‘I’ll b-break,’ said Sammy. ‘Don’t want you to strain yourself.’
Sammy hunkered down, scattered the balls, made a stripe, kept shooting, pocketed four stripes in a row.
Cynthia stood by the window with Hélène, another opera buff hoping for the best, yet he’d somehow known from the get-go: there would be no aria from him tonight. He was too old to eat fries and a burger-all-the-way before shooting pool with a seventeen-year-old shark.
Sammy missed a shot, said something under his breath, looked up. ‘I could of hammered that ’un, just wanted to make you l-l-look good.’ Sammy pointed at the six ball. ‘Okay, there’s your six. Shoot it in th’ side pocket.’
He stepped to the table.
‘It’s a easy shot,’ said Sammy, ‘unless you’re like a t-total beginner.’
He leaned over the table, sighted the ball.
‘Remember your bridge hand,’ said Sammy. ‘Grip on c-cue. Hit th’ cue ball in th’ center. Now, sight through th’ cue ball to th’ s-six ball. Got that?’
‘Got it.’ Not really, but God knows, he was trying.
‘Put th’ six in th’ side pocket—it’s pretty much a straight-in s-shot.’
The silence in the room was unnerving.
‘T-two words of advice,’ said Sammy. ‘Don’t miss.’
He stroked the shot, smacked the cue ball, and sent it into the six ball, but at the wrong angle. The six ricocheted off the cue ball and rolled to the left of the side pocket; the cue ball careened to the right of the pocket, bounced off the side rail, rolled to the end rail, and wedged behind the four ball.
Harley and Kenny erupted in laughter.
‘He’s sandbaggin’ ye, Sam!’
‘You’ve met your match, dude.’
The scar flamed on Sammy’s cheek. ‘Where’s your head, man? I told you to hit th’ freakin’ six ball into th’ s-side pocket.’
More laughter.
Sammy’s violent strike of the cue stick against the table rim snapped the stick in two. Harley and Kenny ducked as the cue end flipped into the air, fell to the floor, and skittered into the hall. Sammy stood as if paralyzed, then slammed the butt-end onto the table.
He heard Hélène catch her breath, the sound of Sammy’s feet pounding along the hall, the screen to the side door slapping shut . . .
He turned to Kenny, stricken. ‘What happened?’
‘Your shot left ’im with a really bad leave,’ said Kenny. ‘He had nowhere to go.’
‘Y’r shot was real good,’ said Harley, hoarse with feeling. ‘But he sure handled it bad. Lord help, I’m sorry.’ Harley looked at the floor, shaking his head. ‘Lord help.’
‘We shouldn’t have laughed,’ said Kenny. ‘But it was pretty amazing, that shot.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harley, fighting to put a shine on things. ‘It was . . . real good.’
But it hadn’t been real good. Not at all.
• • •
HARLEY FOLLOWED HIM TO THE KITCHEN.
‘That was a fine spread, Rev’ren’, we thank ye.’
He poured a cup of coffee for Hélène. ‘Enjoyed it myself. Glad you’re home safely. We missed you.’ He and Harley were avoiding eye contact.
‘Me an’ Kenny’ll stay an’ give y’uns a hand.’
‘Not tonight, thanks.’ He set the sugar bowl on the small tray. ‘How did the boys do out in Kentucky?’
‘Kenny done fine, he’s a upstandin’ young ’un if I ever seen one, but Sammy, he was always tryin’ t’ fight m’ cousin’s boys. It’s a wonder he didn’t git ’isself shot.’
He put a napkin on the tray, a spoon.
‘He’ll be feelin’ bad about ’is cue stick you give ’im. I don’t think he meant t’ do that, he was real attached t’ that stick.’
He turned and looked at his old friend. ‘What’s it going to take for him, Harley?’
‘A strong hand, a real strong hand—which I ain’t exactly got. He’s a pain in th’ butt, Rev’ren’, but he’s m’ boy an’ he’s gon’ be all right.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Yes, sir, I do. He’s gon’ be all right, don’t you worry.’
Harley’s earnest face.
He wanted to bust out crying, but no. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I needed that.’
• • •
HÉLÈNE LINGERED AT THE FOOT OF THE PORCH STEPS.
‘What shall I do, Father?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘About the boy. I’m so sorry for . . .’
She was choosing her words.
‘. . . the heartache he caused this evening.’
What solution could he possibly come up with right here, right now? What could he say to her about what she should do?
‘He needs help, he needs love, he needs prayer. Let’s continue to trust in a brighter outcome.’ How ineffectual this sounded.
‘Merci, Father. I would hate to turn him away. I do pray . . .’ She cast her eyes down. ‘. . . ever since the time he—God, you know—made himself present behind the curtain.’
‘I remember you telling me,’ he said.
‘He’s not behind the curtain any longer, there’s nothing between us now. Do you . . . understand?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
Not knowing what else to do, he took her hand for a moment, then watched as she went along the path to the dusky hedge where Harley waited to see her through.
• • •
HE SAT ON THE FLOOR next to Barnabas, who had made light work of his own burger and fallen asleep immediately after their walk. He ran his fingers into the bristly coat, searching out the steady rhythm of his good dog’s heartbeat and feeling his own separation anxiety.
‘Visit this place, O Lord,’ he
prayed into the darkened room, ‘and drive far from it all snares of the enemy; let your holy angels dwell with us to preserve us in peace; and let your blessing be upon us always; through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen.’
• • •
THEY HAD MADE IT to the bedroom and changed out of their clothes through a feat of singular endurance. He hung up his gear; his barefoot wife sought the consolation of her wing chair.
‘He has two older brothers,’ she said. ‘One with money, which Sammy sees as raw power, the other with a special kind of patient wisdom. Sammy has pool. I think that losing the game to you, a total beginner, proved how easily he could lose that identity. Then the brothers would have everything and he would have nothing.’
‘Maybe a garden,’ he said. ‘He’s as adept at gardening as he is at pool. Helping Harley with his lawn work around town is good, but . . .’
They were trying, God knows they were trying.
‘His whole world has been unpredictable and unsafe,’ she said. ‘And he’s fallen for what was preached to him by his father’s abuse and his mother’s neglect—that he’s unlovable and incompetent—disposable, really.
‘Wanting to teach you how to shoot pool was a gift, I think—a way of proving he isn’t disposable, that he has something to offer.’
‘Look at Dooley,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if that could happen again, it was a miracle, really. We didn’t know what we were doing.’
‘We were loving him, that’s what we were doing. But . . .’
He looked at her in the lamplight, in her white gown. ‘But?’
‘I don’t think we can do it again, raise a broken boy.’
Lon Birdie had said, ‘Sammy has his daddy’s temper, you don’t want to cross him.’ But Sammy would be crossed in this life again and again, and how would he learn to handle being crossed if the people who cared never crossed him?
The thought was too weighty; he let it go. It had been a long day.
‘No matter what,’ he said, ‘I need to get rid of any notion that Sammy could be another Dooley. We mustn’t hold him to his brother’s standard, it wouldn’t be fair.’
He went to the chair and took her by the hand and led her to bed, and they crawled beneath the duvet and felt the ease of this familiar place and the way nine years can have with love.