by Jan Karon
Because Kim could be recognized, he hurried her into Happy Endings as the limo drove away. He switched on a single lamp in the Poetry section, choosing not to use the main store lights.
She was dressed simply. Dark pants, dark sweater, gold earrings. In truth, much like Irene often dressed.
They situated their chairs so he could see the door. ‘Is your father living?’ he asked.
‘He’s in skilled nursing and doesn’t know me. Division in our family has had, if you will, a way of multiplying. Our mother divided from her children, the children divided from each other, my father now divided from his mental powers.’
‘You have no children, I believe you said.’
‘No children. And no husband after three marriages. I am by nature impulsive. I’ve often acted in haste and regretted it—another reason I’ve taken my time in following through about Irene. I’m shaking, Father. Completely undone.’
‘Let me pray for you.’
‘Please. I need help of any kind. I was raised Catholic, but somehow it never stuck. I couldn’t imagine that God would be interested in me.’
‘He’s more than interested in you. It’s a pretty radical notion, but he actually made us for himself, for his pleasure. He wants to hear from you anytime, about anything. Try to know that.’
He took her hand and prayed then, against the fear he felt throbbing in her palm.
As he looked up, he saw Cynthia and Irene walk by the display window.
‘God be with us,’ he said. He didn’t let go of her hand as they went to open the door.
He heard Kim’s sharp intake of breath, saw the incredulous expression on Irene’s face. The glass door between them became a kind of mirror in which each of the two women saw herself in the other.
• • •
HÉLÈNE PRINGLE. Eight o’clock in the evening. Hélène never called in the evening.
‘Hélène!’
‘Yes, Father. Are you and Cynthia well?’
‘We are. And you?’
‘Very well, thank you. I was wondering if we might arrange to have a . . . conversation privée?’
A private talk, he knew that much French. ‘Would this be a good time?’
‘Oui, if you can be spared at home.’
‘I’ll pop over now if that works.’
‘Come to the rear porch—would you mind coming in by the rear porch?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘We’ll have tea in your pleasant old kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on.’
They sat at the same table, in the same chairs he’d used all those years in another life.
There was the stove where he made dinner for his new neighbor with the great legs; where he’d fried bologna for Dooley and baked a Christmas casserole on the morning Dooley found a red bicycle beneath the tree.
This was where Miss Sadie’s letter about Dooley’s inheritance of a million-plus had been read with such grave astonishment, where his brand-new wife had travailed over the first Primrose Tea, and where Barnabas and Violet had at last made their peace and lay down together, lion and lamb. The rectory on Wisteria Lane was a museum of memories.
She filled their cups with Earl Grey and passed him a small plate of lemon slices. ‘I’ve been thinking, Father. Quite a lot.
‘Teaching piano is the only great thing I have ever done for anyone. But I’m paid to do that. I want very much to do something I’m not paid to do. I wish to do something from the heart, Father. Ever since he came out from behind the curtain . . .’
She gave him a shy look. ‘Comprenez-vous?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘A few of my pupils have grown up and moved on to other interests and I have a bit more time. Time is something that must be managed, tu vois ce que je veux dire? One must get it firmly by the neck!’
She leaned toward him, confiding. ‘I believe he has asked me to give a day to the bookstore.’
‘Formidable!’ he said in the French way.
‘I’ll take . . . Tuesday!’ she said, as if choosing a chocolate. ‘I’d like to begin right away, if that would be opportun.’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the ropes tomorrow.’
‘I shall be the first to read the Sunday Times! After Hope and Scott, of course.’ His neighbor had a very agreeable laugh. ‘And Tuesday gives us an unbroken succession of days—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Good for business, I should think.’
‘Wonderful news. Hope will be thrilled, as am I. Thank you, Hélène.’
‘There is, however, a problem of some concern.’
He sipped his tea.
‘I have no idea how to sell a book.’
‘Books sell themselves, I’ve found.’
‘And you would have to show me how to use the . . . machine á carte de credit.’
‘I can certainly show you that. Trés simple!’ He was quickly exhausting his French. ‘There’s only one true requirement in this job. Can you make coffee?’
‘Oui, oui! Since childhood. And very strong!’
He doubted he could show her how to unlock the door, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it.
She fidgeted with her napkin, her chin trembled.
‘And now, Father, may I bring before you a most unpleasant subject?’
‘Please.’ The other shoe was falling.
‘I am a romantique, Father, I do not deny it. I had thought we might all live together under one roof as a type of family, each with their own strict privacy, of course. Having someone down there has been so . . . satisfaisant until . . . until things began going wrong with Sammy.
‘I teach innocent children, Father, many of them young women, and word is getting round that he lives downstairs. He has a very, shall I say, sale bouche, and some very indelicate habits. You take Mr. Welch, Father—an uneducated man, but with delicate habits—clean, a fine cook, very courteous and thoughtful always. But Sammy—he smokes, you see. He leaves the house to do it, but there he stands beneath my cherry tree, smoking like a cheminée as people go by, and throwing his . . . um, mégot de cigarette into the grass.
‘And if he isn’t smoking, he is spitting. I have never seen such a lot of spitting. We got through the business of Mr. Welch being a former . . . prisonnier . . . and then there was Mr. Gaynor, and now here’s another piece of business to go through—but I don’t wish to go through it.’
‘You’d like him to leave.’
‘It would break Mr. Welch’s heart, I’m sure of it, and with young Kenny going away the first of the year, Mr. Welch would be, how do you say, an empty nester. But I don’t know what else to do. This is my livelihood, Father, my livelihood, and I am no longer young. Mother’s estate is useful, but it does not solve the day-to-day issues of keeping body and soul together.
‘Mr. Welch assures me that he frequently speaks to Sammy about such behavior, but . . . en vain, Father, en vain.
‘I saw the authorities parked at your curb the other evening. I thought something may have gone wrong in your household, and asked Mr. Welch about it. Being an honest man, he told me the terrible truth.’
He didn’t know what to say. He had never developed a Plan B for Sammy. He didn’t remind Hélène that it was she who had found Sammy. She had seen him coming out of a drugstore in Holding and thought it was Dooley. When he heard this, he knew at once what was up. They had taken off in her aging car with the very bad brakes, and gone searching. It had been the ride of his life.
‘Would you be willing to . . . give us a bit of time to settle things?’
‘But only a bit, Father. I’m so sorry. I would do anything to please you and Cynthia, but this . . .’
She looked done in. ‘. . . this is frightful.’
Frightful.
A truer word was seldom spoken.
• �
� •
‘IT HASN’T BEEN CALLED the little yellow house for nothing,’ said Cynthia. ‘It can’t contain the very big issues of a hurting boy. I simply can’t do it, Timothy. If you feel you must, then I will comply in whatever way I can. But no, I cannot volunteer for this.
‘I’m sorry for many reasons, not the least of which is that I may look mean-spirited to others, and only you will know that I am not.’
The talk had been stressful for both. He put on a heavy jacket and a wool hat and walked with Barnabas to the bench under the maple. A nearly full moon was setting over the mountain. Its light silvered the trees, the lawn, the fence.
He sat until the chill overtook him, and walked his silvered dog back to their silvered house.
• • •
HE LAY ON THE SOFA in front of a fire gone to coals, Violet at his side. He was wiped, as Dooley would say. An emotionally rousing day, at the very least, albeit with happy consequences for Irene and Kim. Today’s meeting was beyond any joy he’d witnessed in years. He had bawled like a baby, as had his wife; his handkerchiefs were two too few.
He stroked Violet’s head, listening to the thrumming in her throat. ‘What a good job you’re doing. Just wanted to say thanks.’
He felt an unexpected peace but for one thing—something was nagging him, he couldn’t put his finger on it.
• • •
‘HEY, DAD.’
‘Hey, yourself.’
‘Just checkin’ in. I know it’s late.’
‘Never too late to hear from you.’
Dooley wanted him to do something about Sammy’s behavior, he could feel the pressure, but he would avoid that subject at all costs. Nor would he mention the talk with Hélène Pringle. Not tonight.
‘I’ve been thinking about a vehicle,’ he said.
‘Great!’
‘I don’t want a car. I want a truck. A man needs a truck.’
Dooley laughed. ‘You’re full of surprises. What kind of truck?’
‘Stick shift. Long bed. Two or three years old.’ He had never been so sure of himself in the automotive realm. ‘Red.’
‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said Dooley, who would rather turn a vehicle deal than eat when hungry. ‘But you need to consider new, really. Break it in yourself, like a pair of farm boots. You don’t want another guy’s truck, people can be hard on trucks.’
‘I don’t have time to break in a truck.’
‘Trust me—buy new. Leather seats. A really good sound system. Chrome-clad aluminum wheels . . .’
‘Those are things. Things don’t matter in the end—they wither like grass; the soul lives on.’
Dooley cackled. ‘Hey, Dad, this is a truck we’re talkin’ about.’
• • •
HE WOKE AT THREE. The thing that nagged him was like a barely audible movement in a room at the back of the house.
Now he knew what it was.
During his rant on Saturday, Sammy had not stuttered.
He got up and went downstairs and gave his dog a scratch behind the ears and fired up his computer and Googled what he thought may be a phenomenon.
Sudden onset of stuttering is common. A sudden end to it is rare, but it happens. Why it happens is a mystery. Maybe the blow to the forehead? No search gave credence to this. And maybe it wasn’t the end for all time, maybe Sammy had simply forgotten himself in his anguish for the boy in the hospital bed.
He went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water and drank it down, his wife would be proud.
• • •
MONDAY, SIX-THIRTY A.M., the phone.
‘Good morning, Harley.’
‘Yessir, good mornin’, hit’s twenty-eight degrees.’
‘Right.’
Silence on the other end.
‘You called to give me a weather report?’
Harley cleared his throat. ‘Sammy wants to come t’ work later, when it warms up. Or work tomorrow when the temperature’s more like fifty-two.’
‘He told you to say this?’
‘Yessir, he did, I cain’t git ’im up.’
‘Tell him to get himself out of bed and I’ll see you at seven-thirty sharp. Did you pick up the trellises?’
‘Yessir. Nice. Real nice.’ Harley did the throat-clearing again. ‘I cain’t git ’im up for nothin’.’ Harley Welch had rather taken a whipping than make this call.
‘We won’t be working outdoors. We’ll paint trellises in the Sunday school. Bring your sawhorses.’
Another tense silence.
‘You might mention to Sammy that I have the capability to change my mind about pressing charges.’
An intake of breath. ‘Yessir. An’ I’ll bring m’ other oil heater. You want to ride down with us? Not havin’ a vehicle . . .’
‘I’ll walk, thanks, and see you there.’
‘Yessir, Rev’rend, seven-thirty.’
‘Sharp.’
‘We’ll be there sharp.’
His tolerance for a stolen cue?
Generous.
His tolerance for a wrecked automobile?
Beyond generous.
His tolerance for not showing up for work on time?
Zero.
• • •
‘WHAT Y’UNS WANT FOR LUNCH?’ said Harley.
‘The usual,’ he said.
‘Reu-reuben,’ said Sammy. ‘An’ f-f-f-fries.’
Not only had the stuttering not stopped, it was worse.
He’d given the matter into God’s hands; he had other fish to fry.
With a table contrived of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood, the occasional sound of rain on the tin roof, and their heaters going at full gallop, the old Sunday school was a pretty tolerable winter headquarters. Today the trellises, tomorrow the benches—which they had decided to build themselves.
After lunch, he walked up from the church and met Hélène for a run-through. He dreaded the possible street theater with the lock business. He gave her fair warning and handed over the key.
In went the key, click went the lock.
‘C’est merveilleux!’ she said.
From: Emma Newland
To: Fr Tim Kavanagh
Tuesday, 7:15 p.m.
‘Not nearly soon enough!’
‘What did you say?’ Cynthia asked from the kitchen.
‘Just talking to myself.’
‘It’s come to that,’ she said, popping chicken in the oven.
‘What’s Olivia’s report on Hoppy?’
‘He’s been sick, but improving. It’s not malaria, as feared. Home in November, then off again to South Sudan and home for Christmas.’
He called Hélène.
‘How did it go?’
‘Trés bien, Father, trés bien! I was nervous as a cat, but can’t recall when I’ve known such enjoyment. Pur plaisir! I feel I have stood at the crossroads of the world!’
That would be one way of looking at it.
‘Two people from Canada, three from Missouri, and someone from Franklin, Tennessee. The last of the leaf peepers, says Winnie.’
‘And all went well at the bank?’
‘Oh, yes, one hundred and ninety-six dollars, I put in four of my own to make an even number.’
‘Well done, Hélène! Well done! I’ll let Hope know.’
‘Sometimes we go too long, do we not, Father, for want of refreshment of our souls? I love music, but I had forgotten how I love words. And people can be rather enjoyable, as well, vous ne pensez pas?’
• • •
Coot was a regular German hausfrau. In the corners, tight to the baseboards, under chairs and tables. All this preceded by the beating of chair cushions and the dusting of a grim rubber plant from a customer relieved to be shed of it.
‘’At’s done,’ said Coot, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Now, let me show y’ somethin’.’ Coot held up a book, grinning to beat the band. ‘Looky here!’ he said, pointing to the second word in the title. ‘C-A-T. Cat!’
‘Yes! Wonderful!’
‘Now, looky here.’ Coot pointed to the fifth word in the title. ‘H-A-T. Hat!’
He whistled, gleeful.
‘But I ain’t got them in-between words yet.’
‘You’ll get ’em,’ he said. ‘You’ll get ’em.’
• • •
THE MUSE TRUCK WAS RUNNING LATE this morning. He stood at the window, looking for the truck with the avidity of a Christian Science Monitor subscriber. Had his brain ossified? Was he carrying around a rock up there?
When he saw the truck coming, he stepped outside and caught the delivery in midair.
Two for One: Today’s Helpful Hints
We are big into clean, happy air, how about you??
One: To make your rooms smell fa-bu-lous, try a few drops of lavender oil in a glass of really hot water and yayyy, you have destroyed unwanted cooking odors and doggie smells if you have a dog&^.
Two: to clean your bottles Cut up a raw potato and put the pieces in the bottle with a tablespoon of salt and two tablespoons of water and shake. Every stain gone in a flash! You will not believe it!
Susan, Joe, Avice and Wilma Faye Are Taking Care of Our Own. Are You?
Dear Vanita, here is a pic of a bag of trash I picked up on the road to Farmer. I power walk out there which is crazy because I could get killed in a heartbeat. If people are not driving on the shoulder they are driving in the middle of the road and saying it’s because they pay taxes on both sides!
Anyway, by the time I get home I have usually picked up about seven pounds of garbage thrown out by cretans (I looked this up, it fits exactly), otherwise known as rednecks. Yours sincerely and go, Panthers! Susan Glover, age 56, Rural Route 4
Hi I am Joe Zwieback like the toast. Here is a picture of me from last year’s two-foot powder blowing snow off the walk of somebody who did not have a shovel, a blower or even a job. You cant see me for the snow flying but that is my dog Howdy a real trooper—me and him moved down here from Minnesota for the climate ha ha. Thank you.