by Jan Karon
This was a runaway horse. ‘How about buying a book today?’ His sales techniques, so far, were pretty limited.
‘A book.’ Esther looked at him as if from the depths of a coma.
‘Pick any title beginning with S and get fifteen percent off. Maybe a picture book for your grandchildren. The last I heard there were twenty-one of them, but that was a while back. What’s the latest count?’
‘Twenty-four!’ she said. ‘And more on th’ way. You know th’ Cunninghams carry out th’ biblical injunction to go forth and multiply.’
‘I know that, yes.’
‘You want to see pictures?’ She gouged in her handbag and pulled forth a four-by-six-inch album in the accordion format.
‘Do I want to see pictures? Esther, Esther, is the Pope Catholic?’
• • •
BEFORE HE TALKED TO SAMMY, he would talk to Harley. If Sammy kept going like this, he would end up in jail—that simple.
At two-fifteen, voices on the sidewalk. The door swung open, the bell jangled, and in swarmed Unbounded Clamor and Delight, with a couple of teachers in tow. It was story time for Mitford’s third grade.
‘My name is Hastings. I would like to buy a book, please.’ A boy peered at him from just below the top of the sales counter.
‘How do you do, Hastings?’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘What book will you be buying?’
‘I don’t know. But I have money. I saved it just for a book.’
‘Come with me,’ he said. He was playing this by ear. He had no idea what the bestsellers were, or what this demographic or that might be reading. It was the blind leading the blind.
The Call of the Wild—he had loved that as a boy. But it was a tearing, violent thing.
He found Miss Mooney squinting into the pages of a slender volume. ‘What do you think for young Hastings?’ he said. The boy walked ahead and joined a couple of classmates.
‘He’s gaining on Dickens. But for now, maybe Around the World in Eighty Days?’
‘How old is he?’
‘Nine,’ she said, ‘but small for his age. Very bright.’ She smiled. ‘Most of his body weight is constituted by his brain.’
‘Have you ever taught anyone to read, Miss Mooney?’
‘All the time,’ she said, and proud of it.
‘An adult?’
‘Never.’
‘Do you know anyone who might teach an adult to read? For pay, of course.’
‘I would be interested,’ she said, ‘considering I have two girls to put through school.’
Hastings came and tugged at his sleeve. ‘Excuse me, are we looking for my book?’
‘Absolutely. But help me out here. Is there something you might especially enjoy?’
‘Um. Maybe Mr. Wordsworth,’ said Hastings. ‘I’ve heard he can be a very good read.’
He turned away for a moment, smacked by the beauty of complete surprise.
• • •
‘WE CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH,’ said Scott Murphy. His therapy dogs, Luke and Lizzie, panted at the chaplain’s feet. ‘What can we ever do for you, Father?’
If there was a trait he especially admired, it was that of being earnest. Hope’s good-looking husband was earnest in spades.
‘I needed Happy Endings for my own benefit. God made a way for all of us in this—three birds with one stone. I’m the grateful party. How is she?’
‘Depressed.’
‘Is she ready for a visitor?’
‘You,’ he said. ‘But not yet.’ Scott took out his billfold. ‘I’d like to buy a book.’
There was the Murphy smile he always enjoyed. ‘And what book might that be?’
‘A book for you to give someone who needs it. I don’t know.’
‘Intriguing. Paper or hardcover?’
‘Hardcover.’
‘Deal,’ he said, taking thirty bucks from the good chaplain. ‘Will you let me know when to visit? I’ll take the Eucharist to her.’
‘Yes, please, that would be the best medicine.’ Scott’s face betrayed a certain pleading.
• • •
HE TOTTED UP THE DAY’S SALES, recalling that Esther Bolick had bought an almanac at forty percent off, just for the recipes, and a calendar at fifty percent off, just for the pictures.
Esther Cunningham had bought three children’s books and three birthday cards.
J.C. had bought a book on petit point for his wife, Adele, who, while lamenting her poor skills with the needle, was known to be handy with her Glock .45. J.C. had also sprung for a book of jokes which could likely be run in the Muse with proper credit to the person who collected them.
Seemingly without concern for the S for September discount, the mayor had stepped up to the plate and bought Ina Garten’s latest and a big-ticket coffee table book by Bunny Williams, which, he said, would please his Italian wife, who was doing over their bedroom.
As for Hastings, the boy had forked out $13.95 plus tax for a paper edition of Eighty Days, as there was no Wordsworth to be found save in a pricey anthology.
All of which, when added to Scott’s hardcover and the teachers’ rather brisk business, amounted to . . .
‘Two hundred and eighty-four dollars and twenty-six cents,’ he reported in a call to Hope. ‘Is that good?’
‘That’s wonderfully good!’ she said.
‘And my wife gave us an order for a hundred and twenty dollars for items we don’t have in stock. Should I pass that list to Marcie?’
‘Yes, please. This is such good news, Father; I don’t know what to say. How can I ever thank you?’
‘Taking care of yourself is all the thanks I need. I’ll be over to see you soon, and I’ll be here tomorrow, same time. Tomorrow’s payday around town, we need to be open.’
Tears.
‘My dog enjoys coming in. Must get down to the bank now.’
‘You’re a saint.’
‘If you only knew,’ he said.
• • •
AFTER LOCKING UP, he gave the new postings a once-over.
There is no frigate like a book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry
—EMILY DICKINSON
Pray for Hope!
Push lawnmower for sale, good condition $45 or make offer -2895 ask for Lloyd
Esther was right, of course. Their community billboard would have to go. He set the backpack down and peeled the many contributions off the window and put them in his backpack.
A little white vinegar and the Times’ Style section and all would be well. He wondered if the Muse had ever run that as a helpful hint for glass-cleaning.
• • •
HIS MAMA WAS SETTIN’ on the side of the bed; he could tell she had dipped a little snuff.
‘Looky here,’ he said. He didn’t even stop to take off his jacket. ‘It’s my name in a book.’
‘What’re ye doin’, gittin’ y’r name ever’where all of a sudden?’
‘I ain’t doin’ nothin’, it’s jis’ in here. Th’ preacher says always was in here, always gon’ be in here.’
‘Is my name in there?’
‘It ain’t. What my name’s in here f’r is a duck. A coot is a kind of a duck I reckon you named me after.’
‘I never heard of such,’ she said. ‘Your gran’daddy on my side, they called ’im Coot, you was named after your gran’daddy. It wadn’t no duck you was named after, I can tell ye that.’
He liked being named after a duck, but he wouldn’t say a word about it, nossir, that would be his secret. He took the book and set it on the mantelpiece where he could see it from nearabout anywhere in the room.
• • •
AFTER RAW COLD,
the air was mild and forgiving. He walked with Harley to the west side of the house and the bench beneath the maple.
‘My cue is missing. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Your cue?’ Then it dawned. ‘Lord help!’ Harley said.
‘He’s headed for trouble.’
‘I know it, I know it, Rev’ren’, I lay awake knowin’ it. They was a competition over at Bud’s ball hall in Wesley a few nights back, he prob’ly hated to go in there without a cue. I let ’im ride with Jupe from down at Lew Boyd’s. Jupe’s a good boy, he got Sammy back by eleven-thirty. He done real good in th’ competition.’
‘I’m going to try talking with him,’ he said. ‘No accusations, no guilt trip, no conflict of any kind. Just want to draw him out if I can, see if there’s something we can grab on to. Just talk.’
‘You’ll be blue in th’ face.’
Life with Sammy had been hairy at Meadowgate, but they’d worked at it and Sammy had settled down. And then came the trip to Holly Springs and Ireland, and what was gained now appeared lost.
Also lost was the chance to commandeer the Lord’s Chapel landscaping project and involve Sammy. That was his only regret in saying no to Jack Martin.
• • •
RESTLESS, he went to his bookshelves in the study and searched among the Wordsworth volumes. There were many, both by and about the good poet whom he’d loved since boyhood. The paperback bought while in seminary was worn but not wasted. He stuffed it into the backpack.
He wandered up the hall, Barnabas following, to the living room they’d never lived in. Then he peered into the Ball Hall, aka dining room, where they had seldom dined.
He switched on the lights, lonesome for the clattering of balls, the cries of triumph or lamentation. It was as dead in here as a funeral parlor.
The cue rack—it was full. All cue sticks were in place.
Had he and Puny been mistaken? But he’d seen the empty slot with his own eyes and now he was seeing this. He walked to the rack and removed his cue and examined it with some absorption. No marks or damage of any kind.
He replaced the cue and hurried to the study and called next door, expecting Harley to answer.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sammy?’
‘Yeah.’
He couldn’t summon whatever it took to ask for Harley.
‘Just wanted to say . . . we miss seeing you.’ That had flown out, unexpected and true.
Silence.
He didn’t know where to go with this.
‘Well. See you soon.’
‘Yeah,’ said Sammy.
• • •
ABSALOM GREER HAD BEEN a mighty encouragement. The eightysomething country evangelist had never pulled punches with the town priest. They had been two respectful equals serving from the common ground of one-God-made-known-through-Jesus-Christ, and having a pretty good time of it.
The old man often spoke of the God of the Second Chance. To roughly reassemble Kafka’s metaphor, God had sure used his axe to break the frozen sea inside Tim Kavanagh, who, as a priest in his forties, had not yet come to a living faith.
He’d been given the grace of the Second Chance over and over again. More than anything, he wanted Sammy to break the bread of grace.
He sat at his computer and brought up the search engine and typed in his search. A lot of sites. He clicked on a link, it opened on exactly what he was looking for. Yes, yes, and yes.
Holy smoke.
In roughly ten minutes, he hit Add to Cart.
• • •
WHEN HE RETURNED Friday morning from walking Barnabas to the monument, Puny was jubilant.
‘I have good news!’
‘Last time you had good news, you also had bad news.’
‘Same this time. But th’ good news is, your cue stick’s back! Jis’ like it never left!’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘You mean you found it and put it back?’
‘I just walked in the room and there it was.’
‘Oh,’ she said, knowing. ‘You want to hear th’ bad news?’
‘Not really.’
‘I really don’t want to tell you, either.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t.’
‘You’ll be mad.’
‘Puny. You’ve known me for ten years. How often have you seen me mad?’
‘Well.’
‘See there? So what’s the bad news?’
‘I had to run up to your room to get your laundry, and because Timmy was cryin’, I jis’ slung ’im on my hip an’ took ’im with me, you know how I do. An’ I laid him down a minute on your pillow, I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘You would be right.’
‘And so . . .’ Puny looked at her feet.
He waited.
‘And so he threw up all over your favorite pillow-w-w!’ A small wail and then tears—a Puny trademark. ‘I know you have trouble sleepin’ and how you looked for years for that one pillow, and now . . .’
‘Now?’
‘Now it’s really stinky.’
He flashed back to his days as a bachelor. So routine, so undisturbed by dissonance, one might have heard a pin drop in his life. Then a dog as big as a Buick started following him home, and then Dooley showed up, and then Puny came to work, and then Cynthia moved in next door, and then Puny started having twins, and that’s how he ended up with a real life. And even though he loved it and wouldn’t trade it for anything, he had no idea how he’d find another pillow as beloved as the one just gone south with upchuck on it.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said. ‘This is very bad news. On the other hand, if we consider the really bad news in the world, this news is actually pretty good.’ He was suddenly laughing and didn’t want to stop.
‘I thought you’d be mad,’ she said, looking startled.
‘I’m furious,’ he said, wiping his eyes.
• • •
HE STUCK THE VINEGAR in the yellow backpack. Nine-thirty. He had to get out of here. But while he was thinking of it, he went to the basement and checked the windows. They were small, but not too small. And one was unlatched.
• • •
LIGHTS, MUSIC, COFFEE.
The high-ceilinged room was originally a drugstore built and operated by the object of Miss Sadie’s unrequited love, Willard Porter. For some reason, the space had a calming effect on him. Add the smell of old wood, the companionable creak of heart pine floorboards, the light through the display windows . . .
He flipped the sign around: OPEN.
He would run tomorrow and again on Monday and Wednesday. As for the Thursday/Friday bookstore schedule, he would see how things progressed.
Chapter Eleven
While his first letter had sprouted on a dry stalk, now came the bush, ablaze with truth and ardor.
If he’d gone back to Lord’s Chapel, Cynthia would have let him off the letter-writing hook. As things stood, two days at the bookstore bought no acquittal. As it happened, the idea for the second letter had struck him quite forcibly; it was the lightbulb above the head of the cartoon character.
Zealous to capture every drop from this underground aquifer, he had written like the wind and now lacked only the ending.
How convenient it would be to trust the inspiration of Duff Cooper, a crackerjack writer of the love letter, but Cooper had stolen unashamedly from Jefferson. All’s fair in love, he knew that much, he could not speak for war.
He laid the pen aside and took a break, considering the many sermons he’d composed at this very hour during years of Saturdays. There had been more than a few, of course, that refused to compose—he’d gone into the pulpit on a wing and a prayer, as surprised as the congregation with what the Holy Spirit gave forth.
He was cooking tonight, and needed a few
items from town, but first he would finish the letter—and seal it, so he couldn’t meddle with it later.
He picked up the pen. It wasn’t exactly Beethoven’s address to his Immortal Beloved, but with just the right touch at the end, this would be his finest hour. He couldn’t possibly top this.
• • •
FIRST HE SMELLED IT, then he saw it.
Next to the fireplace, the Old Gentleman had thrown up a fairly unrecognizable portion of . . . maybe a chipmunk.
Whatever he said caused his dog to crawl beneath the coffee table.
The miserable deed had been done, of course, when he walked Barnabas to a tried-and-true spot beyond the tulip bed. While his dog nosed around at the end of the leash, the parson had been oblivious—his mind on the afternoon light, on the chiaroscuro of the mountains, on Henry Talbot . . .
• • •
SAMMY WAS AVOIDING HIM, of course. But avoiding Sammy would lead nowhere.
Before he ran out to the Local, he popped through the hedge, crunched across the gravel, and knocked on the rectory’s basement door.
‘Hey, Father Tim! Come in, an’ ’scuse th’ mess.’
Kenny was tall and muscular, a bigger fellow than Dooley and Sammy, with a wide smile and the blue-green Barlowe eyes. Hearty, this one, without Sammy’s angst or Dooley’s steel resolve.
He embraced the boy. ‘How’s my timing?’
‘Good! It’s just me an’ Miss Pringle’s cat. Harley an’ Sam’s gone to Wesley for pizza.’
Kenny muted the sports channel. The place felt good, like home.
‘You can sit right there,’ said Kenny. ‘It’s th’ only chair in th’ house not upholstered with cat hair.’
Barbizon gave him a cool eye. Maybe a few too many pizza crusts for Miss Pringle’s cat, who was one hefty feline.
‘Thought I might catch Sammy,’ he said.
Kenny sat on the sofa, a relic from the glory days of the rectory. ‘He stole your cue, Harley said.’
‘But he put it back. I wanted Harley to know.’
‘Sammy had it th’ worst of any of us. Some people think our mother swappin’ me for a gallon of whisky was a tragic thing. Well, it was, but God worked it out to be a good thing.’ Barbizon climbed into Kenny’s lap.