A New Song

by Jan Karon

  “You’d be surprised,” said Coot, tucking his thumbs in the straps of his overalls. “They say my great-great-granpaw shot five and give ever’ one of ’em a solemn burial.”

  “I didn’t know there were any battles fought around Mitford,” said Cynthia, who appeared deeply interested in this new wrinkle of local history.

  “They won’t. Th’ Yankees was runaways from their regiment.”

  Spying Esther and Gene Bolick making a beeline in their direction, they excused themselves and met the Bolicks halfway.

  “We just hate this!” said Esther. Overcome, she grabbed his hand and kissed it, then, mortified at such behavior, dropped it like a hot potato. “Gene and I have run th’ gambit of emotions, and we still just hate to see y’all go!”

  “We hate to go,” he said simply.

  “I baked you a two-layer orange marmalade and froze it. You can carry it down there in your cooler.” There was nothing else she could do to keep her former priest in Mitford where she was certain he belonged—she had prayed, she had lost, she had cried, and in the end, she had baked.

  Her husband, Gene, sighed and looked glum.

  This, thought Father Tim, is precisely where a going-away party turns into a blasted wake unless somebody puts on a funny hat or slides down the banister, something. . . .

  He turned to his wife, who shrugged and smiled and sought greener pastures.

  “Gene’s not been feelin’ too good,” said Esther.

  “What is it?” asked Father Tim.

  “Don’t know exactly,” Gene said, as Miss Rose strode up. “But I talked to Hoppy and went and got th’ shots.”

  “Got the trots?” shouted Miss Rose. Everyone peered at them.

  Gene flushed. “No, ma’am. The shots.”

  “Bill had the trots last week,” she said, frowning. “It could be something going around.” Their hostess, who was monitoring everyone’s plate to see whether her pudding had gotten its rightful reception, moved on to the next circle of guests.

  “We reckon you know how hot it gets down there,” said Gene.

  “Honey, hot’s not th’ word for it!” Fancy Skinner appeared in her signature outfit of pink Capri pants, V-neck sweater, and spike-heel shoes. “You will be boiled, steamed, roasted, baked, and fried.”

  “Not to mention sautéed,” said Avis Packard, who owned the grocery store on Main Street, and liked to cook.

  Fancy popped her sugarless gum. “Then there’s stewed and broiled.”

  “Please,” said Father Tim.

  “Barbecued!” contributed Gene, feeling pleased with himself. “You forgot barbecued.”

  Fancy, who was the owner of Mitford’s only unisex salon, hooted with laughter.

  “Did you consider maybe goin’ to Vermont?” Gene wondered if their former rector had thought through this island business.

  “Because if you think your hair’s curlin’ around your ears now,” said Fancy, “wait’ll all that humidity hits it, we’re talkin’ a Shirley Temple-Little Richard combo. That’s why I liked to keep your hair flat around your ears when I was doin’ it, now it’s these chipmunk pooches again.” Fancy reached out to forcibly slick his vagrant pooches down with her fingers, but restrained herself.

  He looked anxiously around the room for Cynthia, who was laughing with the mayor and Hope Winchester.

  Omer Cunningham trotted in from the kitchen with a plate piled to overflowing, wearing his usual piano-key grin. Father Tim vowed he’d never seen so many big white teeth as the mayor’s brother-in-law had in his head. It was enough for a regular Debussy concerto.

  “Lord, at th’ traffic I’ve run into today!”

  “On Main Street?”

  “I mean air traffic,” said the proud owner of a ragwing taildragger. “I been buzzin’ th’ gorge. You never seen th’ like of deer that’s rootin’ around in there. Seems like ever’body and his brother was flyin’ today.”

  Father Tim had instant and vivid recall of his times in the ragwing with Omer. Once to Virginia to hear Dooley in a concert, with his stomach lagging some distance behind the plane. Then again when they flew over Edith Mallory’s sprawling house on the ridge above Mitford, trying to see what kind of dirty deal was behind the last mayoral race.

  “I spotted a Piper Cherokee, a Cessna 182, and a Beechcraft Bonanza.”

  “Kind of like bird-watching.”

  “That Bonanza costs half a million smackers. You don’t see many of those.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t.”

  “Listen, now,” said Omer, ripping the meat off a drumstick with his teeth, “you let me know if I can ever buzz down to where you’re at to help you out or anything. My little ragwing is yours any time of th’ day or night, you hear?”

  “Thank you, Omer, that’s mighty thoughtful!”

  Omer’s chewing seemed unusually efficient. “I’ve flew over them little islands where you’re goin’ any number of times. Landed on many a beach. If you stay out of th’ bad thunderstorms they have down there, it’s as calm an’ peaceful as you’d ever want t’ see.”

  Omer picked up a ham biscuit and eyed it. “I don’t like ham in a cathead biscuit,” he said. “Have to dig too far for th’ ham.”

  It was his fault. He was the one who casually mentioned it to Mule Skinner.

  In nothing flat, the word of Dooley Barlowe’s driver’s license had replaced the party buzz about Avis Packard’s decision to buy a panel truck for grocery delivery, and the huge addition to Edith Mallory’s already enormous house.

  Did he imagine it, or were they all peering at him as if to inquire when he was trotting out a car to go with Dooley’s license?

  Absolutely not. He had no intention of buying a car for a sixteen-year-old boy, then running off and leaving him to his own devices. Fortunately, Dooley had agreed to ride his red bicycle this summer, but he knew the notion of a car was definitely in the boy’s mind. After all, didn’t everybody’s father in that fancy school toss around snappy convertibles and upscale four-wheel drives like so much confetti?

  While it was obvious that Dooley couldn’t earn enough money for a car by bagging groceries, Father Tim thought a summer of trying would hardly damage the boy’s character.

  In truth, there was an even more serious concern than Dooley’s automobile hormones. And that was the fact he’d have nearly ten weeks to come and go as he pleased. Harley Welch would make a dependable, principled guardian, but Dooley could outwit Harley.

  He muddled his spoon in the banana pudding.

  As if reading Father Tim’s mind, Mule said, “We’ll all watch after ’im.”

  “Right,” said Gene, “we’ll keep an eye on ’im.”

  Adele Hogan, Mitford’s only female police officer and nearly-new wife of the newspaper editor, caught up with him at the jukebox, as her husband snapped pictures for Monday’s edition of the Muse.

  “Just wanted you to know,” said Adele, “we’ve got cars cruisin’ around the clock. We’ll keep our eyes open for your little guy while you’re gone.”

  The truth was, there’d be a veritable woof of men to look after the boy, not to mention a fine warp of women, including Puny, and Dooley’s mother, and now Adele.

  “Thank you!” he said, meaning it.

  Adele stood with her thumbs tucked into her belt, appearing for a moment to be hired security. She had come straight from the station in her uniform, wearing a Glock nine-millimeter on her hip. The sight of Adele, who was the new hotshot coach of the Mitford Reds and also the grandmother of three, never failed to astonish and impress him.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” said Adele.

  He was almost inclined not to.

  “Right!” agreed Avis. “I’m th’ only one that’ll drive my delivery truck, except for Lew Boyd’s cousin, who’s fillin’ in on Saturdays. Anyway, I’m goin’ to work your boy’s butt off this summer. He won’t have time to get in trouble.” In a spontaneous burst of camaraderie, Avis slapped him on the shoulder.
/>   The mayor barged up and slapped him on the other shoulder. He nearly pitched into the Wurlitzer, which was now playing “One Mint Julep.”

  “Run out on us, then,” said Esther Cunningham. “See if I care.”

  “You don’t need me anymore. After praying you into office eight times in a row, you’re hanging it up and going off with Ray in the RV.”

  Esther narrowed her eyes and peered at him. “I guess you know about th’ hurricanes they get down there.”

  “I do.”

  “And th’ heat . . .”

  Would they never hush . . . ?

  A muscle twitched in the mayor’s jaw. “We’ll miss you.”

  “We’ll miss you back,” he said, putting his arm around his old friend’s well-cushioned shoulders. He hated this goodbye business. He’d rather be home yanking a tooth out by a string on a doorknob, anything. “Are you laying off the sausage biscuits?”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” she said.

  Esther cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Somebody unplug th’ box!”

  Omer squatted by the Wurlitzer, which couldn’t be shut off manually, and pulled the plug.

  “Must be Uncle Billy’s joke,” said Gene Bolick, getting up from the stair step where he was sitting with Mule.

  Mule sighed. “I hope it’s not that deal about th’ gas stove! I’ve heard that more times than Carter has liver pills.”

  “Here’s one for you,” said Gene. “What’s a Presbyterian?”

  “Beats me.”

  “A Methodist with a drinkin’ problem who can’t afford to be Episcopalian.”

  Mule scratched his head. He had never understood jokes about Episcopalians.

  “Come on, everybody!” yelled the mayor, her voice echoing in the vaulted room. “Joke time!”

  Uncle Billy stood as straight as he was able, holding on to his cane and looking soberly at the little throng, who gave forth a murmur of coughing and throat-clearing.

  “Wellsir!” he exclaimed, by way of introduction. “A farmer was haulin’ manure, don’t you know, an’ ’is truck broke down in front of a mental institution. One of th’ patients, he leaned over th’ fence, said, ‘What’re you goin’ t’ do with y’r manure?’

  “Farmer said, ‘I’m goin’ t’ put it on m’ strawberries.’

  “Feller said, ‘We might be crazy, but we put whipped cream on our’n.’”

  Uncle Billy grinned at the cackle of laughter he heard.

  “Keep goin’!” someone said.

  “Wellsir, this old feller an’ ’is wife was settin’ on th’ porch, an’ she said, ‘Guess what I’d like t’ have?’

  “He said, ‘What’s that?’

  “She said, ‘A great big bowl of vaniller ice cream with choc’late sauce and nuts on top!’

  “He says, ‘Boys howdy, that’d be good. I’ll go down to th’ store and git us some.’

  “Wife said, ‘Now, that’s vaniller ice cream with choc’late sauce and nuts. Better write it down.’

  “He said, ‘Don’t need t’ write it down, I can remember.’

  “Little while later, he come back. Had two ham san’wiches. Give one t’ her. She looked at that san’wich, lifted th’ top off, said, ‘You mulehead, I told you t’ write it down, I wanted mustard on mine!’”

  Loving the sound of laughter in the cavernous room, Uncle Billy nodded to the left, then to the right.

  “One more,” he said, trembling a little from the excitement of the evening.

  “Hit it!” crowed the mayor, hoping to remember the punch line to the vanilla ice-cream story.

  “Wellsir, this census taker, he went to a house an’ knocked, don’t you know. A woman come out, ’e said, ‘How many children you got, an’ what’re their ages?’

  “She said, ‘Let’s see, there’s th’ twins Sally and Billy, they’re eighteen. And th’ twins Seth an’ Beth, they’re sixteen. And th’ twins Penny an’ Jenny, they’re fourteen—’

  “Feller said, ‘Hold on! Did you git twins ever’ time?’

  “Woman said, ‘Law, no, they was hundreds of times we didn’t git nothin’.’”

  The old man heard the sound of applause overtaking the laughter, and leaned forward slightly, cupping his hand to his left ear to better take it in. The applause was giving him courage, somehow, to keep on in life, to get out of bed in the mornings and see what was what.

  Uncle Billy and Miss Rose looked considerably exhausted from their social endeavors; the old man’s hands trembled as they stood on the cool front porch.

  “I’d like to pray for you,” said Father Tim.

  “We’d be beholden to you, Preacher, if you would,” said Uncle Billy, “but seems like we ought t’ pray f’r you, don’t you know.”

  Hardly anyone ever did that, he thought, moved by the gesture. “I’d thank you for doing it.”

  Cynthia slipped into the circle and they joined hands.

  “Now, Lord . . .”—the old man drew a deep breath—“I ain’t used t’ doin’ this out loud an’ all, but I felt You call me t’ do it, an’ I’m ex-pectin’ You t’ help me, don’t you know.

  “Lord Jesus, I’m askin’ You t’ watch over th’ preacher an’ ’is missus. Don’t let ’em git drownded down there, or come up ag’in’ meanness of any kind. You tell ’em whichaway to go when they need it.”

  Uncle Billy paused. “An’ I ’preciate it. F’r Christ’s sake, a-men!”

  “Amen!”

  Father Tim clasped his arms around his old friend. “Uncle Billy—”

  “I hope they give you plenty of fried chicken down there!” squawked Miss Rose. She’d always heard preachers liked fried chicken.

  He didn’t know how many more goodbyes he could bear.

  It wasn’t that he and Cynthia hadn’t wanted to go to Whitecap to see and be seen. They had carefully planned to go for five days in March, but the weather had turned foul, with lashing rains and high winds that persisted for days along the eastern shoreline.

  He had then tried to set a date for April, but most of the Whitecap vestry, who were key players in any approval process, would be away for one reason or another.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Stuart Cullen had said in a phone call. Stuart was not only his current bishop, but a close friend since seminary days. “They know all about you. They’re thrilled you’ll do the interim. Bishop Harvey agrees it’s a match made in heaven, so don’t worry about getting down there for the usual preview.”

  “It’s a little on the pig-in-a-poke side, if you ask me.”

  Stuart laughed. “Believe me, Timothy, they need exactly what you’ve got to offer. Besides, if you don’t like each other, Bill Harvey and I will give you your money back.”

  “How about telling me the downside of this parish? All Bill Harvey talks about is the church being so attractive, it ends up on postcards.”

  “Right,” agreed Stuart. “He also vows he hears the nickering of wild ponies through the open windows of the nave, though I don’t think Whitecap has wild ponies these days.”

  “What I’d rather know is, who’s likely to stab the interim in the back? And who’s plotting to run off with the choir director?”

  He was joking, of course, but equally serious. He wanted to know what was what in Whitecap, and nobody was telling him.

  “Ah, well, Timothy, there isn’t a choir director.” His bishop sounded strained.

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Stuart!”

  “Because the choir director ran off with the organist.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “I wish.”

  “Surely you can come up with something slicker than that. Good heavens, man, we had a jewel thief living in the attic at Lord’s Chapel, not to mention a parishioner who tried to buy the last mayoral election. Tell me something I can get my teeth into.”

  “Sorry. But I’ve just given you the plain, unvarnished truth.”

  There was a long silence
. “What else do I need to know?”

  The bishop told him. In fact, he told him a great deal more than he needed to know.

  He stepped into the downstairs bathroom and took his glucometer kit from the medicine cabinet. With all the hoopla going on, and the radical changes in his diet, he figured he should check his sugar more often.

  Once or twice, he’d felt so low, he could have crawled under a snake’s belly wearing a top hat. Other times, his adrenaline was pumping like an oil derrick.

  He shot the lance into the tip of his left forefinger and spilled the drop of blood onto a test strip. Then he slid the strip into the glucometer and waited for the readout. 130.

  Excellent. He didn’t need any bad news from his body. Not now, not ever.

  “Thank you, Lord,” he murmured, zipping the case shut.

  He and Dooley loped across Baxter Park with Barnabas on the red leash, then turned left and headed up Old Church Lane.

  They ran side by side until the hospital turnoff, where Dooley suddenly looked at him, grinned, and shot forward like a hare.

  As he watched the boy pull away toward the crest of the steep hill, he saw at once the reason for his greater speed. Dooley Barlowe’s legs were six feet long.

  He huffed behind, regretting the way he’d let his running schedule go. Oh, well. Whitecap would be another matter entirely. All that fresh salt air and ocean breeze, and a clean, wide beach that went on for miles . . .

  He would even walk to his office, conveniently located in the basement of the church, only two blocks from Dove Cottage. Nor was he the only one whose physical fitness would take an upturn. Cynthia was sending her old blue Schwinn down with their household shipment, and would leave her Mazda in Mitford. For an island only eleven miles long and four miles wide, who needed a car? Even many of the locals were said to navigate on two-wheelers.

  “Better watch your step down there,” Omer had advised. “Them bicycles’ll mow you down, they ride ’em ever’ whichaway.”

  “Wait up!” he shouted to Dooley.