by Jan Karon
However—and there was always the however—Truman enjoyed getting out and about. Soon after the adoption, he and Cynthia had driven the little guy to Meadowgate, where Hal put an end to any future patrimony. The thorn of venturing through their neighborhood had been removed.
‘Toys,’ said his wife. ‘Something to do with all that energy. Maybe a windup mouse.’
‘We don’t have time to wind up a mouse,’ he said.
‘A cat door,’ said Sammy.
‘How would we get one?’ she said.
‘Me an’ him could m-make you one.’
He had never been anything at all to Sammy. Not ‘this guy’ or ‘that man,’ and certainly not Dooley’s ‘dad.’ Now, at least, he was ‘him.’
• • •
AT A LITTLE PAST FIVE, he was rummaging around at his desk, still hoping to find the missing love letter. Talk about a complete and aggravating mystery . . .
He answered the knock at the side door.
‘In you come!’ he said to his French-born neighbor. ‘A cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you, Father. I smelled something cooking and knew you were home.’
‘Cynthia is painting with a friend and won’t be here ’til six. Will you sit at the counter while I stir the pot?’
‘The aroma drifted all the way to my porch—I pursued it through the hedge!’ She popped herself onto a stool.
‘Soup,’ he said. ‘Full of scraps, as soup must be. I’m using chicken, lamb, and beef bones for flavor.’
‘Very wartime,’ she said. ‘My grandmother fled Paris when it fell to the Germans. She went to Vichy, where she learned to cook like a paysan, the bone being always the chief ingredient of good soup.’
She watched him stir in the rice, positively mesmerized. If her news was bad, he wished she would get along with it.
‘Congratulations, Father, on being voted our leading citizen. A designation of great merit!’
‘Thank you,’ he said. His wife had advised him not to rattle on with self-conscious modesties.
‘You remember how I said I wished to help someone.’
‘I do remember.’
‘Thus I am going to the bookstore on Tuesdays and for my small effort, I have been revitalized, quite nouveau-née. Now I wish to do something more.’
He put the lid on the pot, and went around and sat at the counter with her.
‘Your Dooley brought me a bouquet. Trés chamant, Father! I suspect it was your idea, and a very lovely one. But that did not influence what I have to tell you.’
The other shoe was being dropped.
‘Sammy may stay, Father.’
‘Ah!’
‘But only as long as he minds the rules that must be laid down.’
‘Thank you, Hélène. You’ve been more than generous as it is. What are the rules?’
‘He may not smoke in the house at any time; he may smoke only at the rear of the house in the old garage—and he may not burn it down.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘He must keep current with his loyer.’
‘That’s rent, I believe?’
‘Oui. He may not leave any clutter of any kind on my porches.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Finis! But what if I have forgotten something he must not do and wish to add it later?’
‘Always good to have rules known beforehand. I’ll help you think.’
‘Perhaps I am acting too quickly in this decision, perhaps I should wait for further proof of good intentions. But Mr. Welch and Kenny seem to think there is . . .’ She sought words. ‘. . . un changement véritable en lui.’
‘He might easily have been killed when the car went down the bank. The police have seen people walk away from such accidents, but rarely. Perhaps, in some way, it waked him up.’
‘You have reminded me of another rule,’ she said. ‘He may not be arrested or have anything at all to do with violating the law.’
‘Yes. Good.’
‘If,’ she said, gripping her hands together, ‘he defies any one of these rules, Father, he will be . . . he will be . . .’ She looked to him.
‘Dismissed.’
‘At once,’ she said.
They were both relieved to have done with it.
‘I’m pleased for you that he’s doing better.’
‘Quite a bit, yes. He took it upon himself to go to the old garage for his tobacco doings, and removed his clutter from the porches. Kenny is a sensible influence, of course, so mature and wise. And Mr. Welch has done his utmost. Only yesterday, Sammy thanked me for the roast poulet I made for their supper.’
‘Highly deserving of thanks.’
‘If he is merely buttering me up, as they say, and such courtesy is soon to be ended, then—pardon me for repeating—he is poof!’
‘Understood.’
‘I always felt I owed you something because I stole your angel.’
‘You owe me nothing, Hélène. Please never think that again.’
‘You gave me a second chance, and I wish to do that for Sammy.’
‘Thank you. God bless you.’
‘Well, I must be going.’ She got down from the stool and made her way to the side door. ‘Please give my fondest greetings to Cynthia.’
‘It’s dark out there, Hélène. Let me walk you through the hedge.’
‘Non, non, merci. I left my flashlight on your stoop. Oh, and Father . . .’
Hélène had a particular gift for looking as if the sky might fall.
‘Could you loan us another roll of . . .’ She blushed.
‘Out again?’
‘When I send Mr. Hendrick to shop, we buy but one roll at a time—for the sake of frugality.’
‘No, no,’ he said, amused. ‘You must buy the large economy-size packs. We are operating a business for the public!’
• • •
HE WAS AWAKE AT FIRST LIGHT.
Hearing the patter of rain, he remained in bed, drowsing, dozing, a rare gift. He didn’t need to be early at the bookstore this morning, he would arrive a little before ten. Coot would be sitting in his truck around the corner, eager to begin.
At eight, he raised himself on one elbow and watched her sleep. He loved this woman.
She opened her eyes, smiled. ‘Hey. Was I snoring?’
‘Never. I’m here in an official capacity.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘I’m making a cold call.’
‘On who?’
‘You.’
‘What for?’
‘We’re going to need money for trash bins, signage, a few shrubs—and greasy fast-food for the crew.’
‘How much?’
‘Maybe two thousand.’
‘Two thousand?’
‘Trash bins have to be heavy-duty. Signage has to be on metal. With lag bolts.’
‘Lag bolts.’
‘Then there are the gutter guys at the Sunday school.’
‘The gutter guys. How much total?’
Probably three thousand. Then again, nothing ever came in on budget. ‘Thirty-five hundred.’
Like everybody else who was hammered for money, she looked grim.
‘All deductible!’ Just a reminder.
‘Four thousand,’ she said, ‘and not a penny more.’
More than he asked for. He had just experienced every development director’s dream.
Chapter Twenty-five
In the second week of November, here was weather so ardently wished for in October—Carolina-blue skies, the intoxicating dose of clear, keen air, and, though the planet had tilted some weeks ago, finally the slanting golden light and plangent cries of geese along Mitford Creek.
After long rains and snow muck, it was a delayed harvest of pure pleasure. Yet there were a number of people not inclined
to enjoy the moment, preferring instead to noodle their noggins with the prospect of snow for Christmas.
Local fire chief and weather guru Hamp Floyd was number one of the above number. Amazingly, Hamp was generally more accurate than the woolly bear caterpillar so fondly celebrated in local folklore, albeit for different reasons. While the width of the woolly worm’s stripes were believed to forecast winter weather in general, Hamp’s predictions were for Christmas snows in particular.
Indeed, he had nailed three out of five Christmas snow forecasts in recent years, including one forecast of ‘no snow, zero,’ and had become known simply as the Worm—a distinction quite apart from the woolly worm itself, or the good fellow called Mr. Woolly Worm, a zealous aficionado of the aforesaid actual vermis.
Though Hamp’s Christmas forecast was usually announced around Thanksgiving, he said he felt ‘led’ to declare early this year.
On Saturday, his soothsaying was recorded on a chalkboard at Lew Boyd’s, next to a display of locally crafted deer jerky.
Get Out Your Shovels!
The Worm’s
Christmas Forecast
Is In!
~~
Snow Start Dec 24
End 26
12 3/4 inches
You heard it here first!
As was the custom when Hamp’s forecast hit the street, there was a mild flurry of bets placed around town, though nothing so serious as to alarm authorities.
Generally speaking, there was a good bit of aggravation at the prediction, as most people preferred two or three inches, max, just for the seasonal look. A foot-plus would stall traffic, force everybody out with shovels, and generally make a mess.
Apprised of this news while filling up with regular, J. C. Hogan could not believe that a gas station had scooped his newspaper. He would talk to Hamp—would he ever. In the meantime, he gave Lew a look that would kill and scratched off from the pump in his 1997 Toyota hatchback with the rusted rear fender.
The Worm had never revealed his method of forecasting—it was as secret as Esther Bolick’s OMC recipe had been in days of yore. Did it come to him in dreams? Was he ripping off the Farmer’s Almanac and claiming such wisdom as his own? Did his joints ache that far in advance of a snow event six weeks out?
He had been asked these questions for years, and for a fact could not tell anybody his method because he didn’t have one.
In his particular case, weather forecasting had begun a few years ago while getting a haircut in Wesley.
As he recalled, they had been talking baseball—he rooted for the Yankees—which was common even in football season. He was just getting a dose of his barber’s rant on the Red Sox when in walked some character in a woolly worm costume, promoting the annual Woolly Worm Festival everybody was nuts about.
‘Just a little off th’ sides,’ said a muffled voice from within the costume.
Everybody wanted to know would it be a long winter, a warm winter, a hard winter—how would the woolly worm describe what was coming?
‘A long winter with plenty of snow,’ was the best the guy could do.
‘Yeah, buddyroe, but when?’ said the barber. ‘When’s th’ snow comin’? That’s th’ trick.’
Whoever was in the costume did not have a clue.
Just to hear his head roar, Hamp rattled off a couple of dates and precipitation levels specifically for Christmas, the only time anybody in their right mind, except ski slope owners, wanted snow. And boom, two and a half months later the weather did what he said it was going to do.
This scared him to death. The Muse had credited him with an 84.5 percent accuracy rate, which was two points ahead of the actual woolly worm.
Who Needs The Woolly Worm When We Have Hamp?
The headline had run on the front page of the Muse, along with a picture of the fire chief standing by the department’s new yellow truck. His wife, Jeanette, had the page blown up to ridiculous proportions, mounted, and screwed into the wall of their den for his sixtieth birthday. When he passed, it was his wish that it be installed in the engine room of the fire station, though God knows, everybody there hoped that such an installation would be a long time coming.
• • •
‘THIRTEEN INCHES!’ SAID ABE, WHO refused to own a snow shovel. ‘Oy!’
‘Somebody said fourteen or fifteen inches!’ Winnie looked positively distraught when he dropped by on Saturday for a loaf of whole wheat.
‘Only a foot and three-quarters,’ he said, pacifying. No matter—Winnie and Thomas had a very steep driveway; this was not a good thing.
The news swept along Main like a brush fire, picking up several inches along the way. By the time it reached the Oxford Antique Shop, the forecast was for a couple of feet.
More than a few were ticked at Chief Floyd. Lew Boyd, to name one. ‘Anything over two inches,’ said Lew, ‘an’ th’ only business through here is snowplows.’
‘It’s only a prediction,’ he said to those, Cynthia included, who appeared to take the emanation as gospel truth.
• • •
HE WALKED HIS DOG around Baxter Park, threshing it out.
Did he really want to do this? Nobody had asked him to do it, or even hinted that he should.
It would make sense for everyone else, but did it make sense for him? He wasn’t accustomed to considering things in this way.
Bottom line, he had only so much get-up-and-go left in this life. How best to spend the remains, as it were? More to the point—if he didn’t do this, what would he do? Sit in his chair by the fire reading Quo Vadis? Books had to be read, and since when could reading a classic be considered an unwise use of time?
In the end, three questions:
What time of year was best for bookstore sales? Christmas—which started before Thanksgiving these days.
What day of the week historically showed the best sales numbers?
Saturday.
How could they afford to miss the biggest hurrah of the year?
They couldn’t.
• • •
‘I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY,’ she said. ‘If you’re happy, I’m happy.’
‘That simple?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘You’re absolutely certain?’
‘Cross my heart.’
Maybe he wasn’t absolutely certain. But since she was certain, well, okay, he felt more certain.
On Sunday evening, he walked the three blocks to the Murphy cottage to deliver the news. He gave the prescribed loud knock so it could be heard all the way to the bedroom.
• • •
‘MY DEAR MISS PRINGLE. Lest you forget, I am Sales, not Marketing and Promotion.’
On Thursday, Hélène had come by to say hello, and was saying more than he cared to hear.
‘But Father, being the good Saint Nicholas is Sales. Don’t you see? With you sitting in the window in that novel costume, people will flock inside!’
He studied the cash drawer.
‘Saint Nicholas was a very lovely person,’ she said. ‘His family was wealthy and left him everything, and what did he do? He gave it all away. Do you think those poor, malnourished children would have had a single nut or sweet if it hadn’t been for this godly man? He was no poulet de l’anée, and yet there he was, a lowly bishop journeying about in the snow with his heavy sack . . .’
She was looking at him intently.
‘. . . all for the happiness of others.’
He tried to appear absorbed in opening a roll of quarters. She pressed on.
‘He is, you understand, the patron saint of children! And I know . . . how you care . . . for children.’
He felt his pulpit voice coming on, but had no idea what to say. Leave off, Hélène! Arrête!
Pushy Frenchwomen!
• • •
/> HE HAD NO EAGER DESIRE for a helpful hint, no curiosity as to how J.C. handled Hamp’s crossover to the enemy. He was in agreement with Esther Cunningham—he was tired of this town running him, albeit via the Muse. He was a free agent.
‘Take that,’ he said, tossing today’s edition into the wastebasket.
Barnabas looked up, blinked.
• • •
BUT WHAT TO READ TO COOT? He had failed to ask; Miss Mooney had failed to say.
He sat with her eager pupil at the coffee station.
‘“Tom!”’ he read.
‘No answer.
‘“Tom!”’ No answer.
‘“What’s gone with that boy, I wonder? You, Tom!”’
• • •
ONE NEVER KNEW who was coming through the door in the afternoon, for the light from the west was behind . . .
Talbot.
Or was it Talbot?
He stood, and remembered to close his mouth. It was Talbot. Without hair, without much flesh on his bones. The shock of seeing him sent blood pounding in his temples.
Talbot walked to the counter with a kind of frailty he’d never seen in the man. ‘Greetings, Father. I’m on the street for the afternoon. Running the gauntlet, you might say.’
‘Henry . . .’
‘I’ve been spat at twice, called a name that shows no favor to my mother, and shunned by all the rest. It was the stoning I came for, though lacking in the zeal I feared.’
The beating pulse in Henry’s hand as he clasped it in both of his . . . He was thoroughly startled.
‘I just emptied my warehouse—I’m about to depart Mitford for the last time.’
‘Come,’ he said. They walked into the refuge of verse, and sat in the wing chairs, one of them added recently by a customer. Henry Talbot seemed somehow distilled, as if flesh had been exchanged for sinew. ‘I parked the U-Haul on Church Hill to force myself to walk here.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m all right enough to take off the rug, the wig, the piece, the sham. My head is bare. And there you have it.’ Talbot gave him something like a smile. ‘How are you liking your bookstore parish?’
‘Small, but rewarding.’
‘How did you know where to find me that night?’
‘It was a hunch. You once said you ran back there.’