A New Song

by Jan Karon

  It was rather a nice thought, actually, that he’d soon be looking into the nave and seeing his entire congregation turned out in new duds, whether they needed them or not.

  The encounter with Jeffrey Tolson had shaken him badly. He sat in the study at Dove Cottage with his head in his hand for longer than his wife liked.

  “Timothy, dear, what is it?” she demanded on a third inquiry.

  “Ahhh,” he said, lacking the energy to tell the sordid thing. Besides, did this mean Jeffrey Tolson might be hanging about to forcibly take Jonathan while Cynthia and the boy were alone? He despised even thinking this.

  He was just getting into bed when he heard the knock.

  What time was it, anyway? He peered at the clock on the night-stand. Past ten.

  Through the glass panels in the front door, he saw what appeared to be a flashlight bobbing on the porch. He switched on the porch light and threw open the door.

  It was someone in uniform, and someone plenty big, to boot.

  “Would you identify yourself, sir?”

  “Tim Kavanagh. Why do you ask?”

  “I have a civil paper to serve you. You’re being sued.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you the Reverend Timothy A. Kavanagh?”

  “I am, yes.” His heart was hammering.

  “I’m Bill Deal, th’ sheriff of this county.” Bill Deal pocketed his flashlight and brought out his wallet to display a badge. “I hate to do this to you, I believe you fish with Cap’n Willie.”

  Speechless, he opened the screen door, took an envelope from the man, and gazed at it, dumbfounded. The sheriff cleared his throat and stepped to the edge of the porch, looking at the sky.

  “Prob’ly goin’ to get us some rain before long. Well, you take it easy, Reverend.” The sheriff lumbered down the steps, walked to the front gate, and got in the car.

  He stood there in the chill October air as if mesmerized.

  Cynthia called from the hallway. “Timothy, what’s going on?”

  “I have no idea, I don’t know.”

  Nor did he want to know.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dorchester Island

  It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand the general intent of the papers he’d been served—he could. It was that he wasn’t able to make it all come together in any sensible order; each time he read them, it was as if his mind split like an atom. He knew only one thing for certain—he was deeply alarmed.

  He went to the study and took his quote book from the shelf, the quote book he’d made entries in for fifteen years. He wanted something St. Francis de Sales had said; he’d copied it into the book just the other day. . . .

  Do not look forward to what may happen tomorrow; the same everlasting Father who cares for you today will take care of you tomorrow and every day. Either He will shield you from suffering, or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace, then, put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginations, and say continually: “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart has trusted in Him and I am helped. He is not only with me but in me and I in Him.”

  It was after eleven o’clock when he dressed and drove to St. John’s, went down the cement steps by the light of the moon, and faxed the papers to his cousin’s home in New Jersey. The fax machine was located in Walter’s study where he’d be sure to find the papers the following morning, before he left for his law office in Manhattan.

  Father Tim scribbled a cover sheet with St. John’s phone number and a brief message:

  Please call me the moment you look this over. I’ll be at the church office by six a.m.

  He didn’t want to have the conversation with his attorney cousin at home, where his wife was already in a state of trepidation over this ghastly turn of events.

  He left Dove Cottage at five forty-five, bundled into a sweater and jacket.

  “Layspeak, Walter, layspeak.”

  He sat at his desk in the chill basement office, drinking a tepid cup of coffee from home and scribbling on a legal pad. “Start at the beginning. I’m writing everything down.” Put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginations. . . .

  “Hélène Pringle is suing you, as trustee, for one-third of the escrow funds of Hope House.”

  “Right.” His voice sounded like the croaking of a frog, and he realized he was again holding his head in his hand.

  “She claims to be the illegitimate daughter of Josiah Baxter. . . .”

  Miss Sadie’s father. This claim seemed so bizarre and extraordinary, his mind couldn’t contain it; the whole notion kept flying out of his head, even as he tried to poke it back in.

  “But why now, after all these years . . . ?”

  “I’ve no idea. Apparently they’re basing the suit on Baxter’s holographic will, in which he decreed that a third of his estate would go to Hélène Pringle’s mother, Françoise, upon his death. When did Baxter die, anyway?”

  He’d tried to work this out in his mind last night. The date was on the urn in the columbarium at Lord’s Chapel. He’d seen it numerous times, but couldn’t remember exactly. “Sometime in the late forties.”

  “How old was he at the time of death?”

  “Miss Sadie told me once . . . in his seventies, I think. In fact, I believe she said he died soon after an extended trip to France.” He knew Miss Sadie’s mother had died in 1942, so Josiah Baxter must have been a widower when . . .

  “Of course, the domestic statute of limitations has run out by several decades,” said Walter.

  “Then they don’t really have a case?”

  “Unfortunately, the suit is based on French law, involving an obscure treaty between France and the U.S., which was adopted at the end of World War II. I don’t know much about it, probably something that spun off the problem of occupation troops and paternity issues.”

  He thought the whole thing a veritable hash of mystery and confusion.

  “Looks like Pringle’s attorney is French—Louis d’Anjou of d’Anjou and Pichot—and both Pringle and her mother are French citizens. Let me look into it; I know almost nothing about French law. You’ve got thirty days to file a written response to the allegations.”

  He shook his head as if to wake himself from a bad dream.

  “I’ll call her attorney and see what’s what, and get back to you in a couple of days—right now, I’m in court on a big one.”

  “Anything,” he said. “Anything you can do . . .”

  He hung up, as winded as if he’d run a mile on the beach.

  Ava Goodnight was coming day after tomorrow, the day of the Dorchester trip. He’d have breakfast at Mona’s, let Roanoke give him a trim around seven-thirty, tend to a couple of things at St. John’s, then go back to Ernie’s no later than nine-thirty to meet Ava and her sister. So . . . if he and Cynthia and Jonathan left shortly before eleven, they’d arrive at Ella’s around noon. They’d visit with Ella, then he’d administer the sacraments to Captain Larkin and they’d head home. Considering all they had to do before Mitford, he’d suggest they tromp through the graveyard another day; heaven knows, the dead weren’t going anywhere.

  “Our trek to Dorchester is coming up day after tomorrow,” he said over the last of their lunch. “We’ll try to keep it short. I know you have plenty to do.”

  “Jonathan may not be able to go,” she said. “He has a miserable cough and his nose is dripping like a faucet.”

  “Allergies?”

  “I don’t think so, and besides, Timothy, I hear there’s a storm front moving in.”

  “If we had to drop everything each time a storm came our way, we’d get absolutely nothing done around here!”

  She looked bleak. “A lawsuit, a sick boy, a ten-hour drive, and a storm front . . .”

  “When it rains, it pours,” he said. “No pun intended.”

  Jonathan ran into the kitchen and clambered onto Cynthia’s lap. “Heavens!” she exclaimed, wiping his nose with the lunch napkin. “Now, blow !”
r />   “We’re looking forward to seeing you, buddy.”

  “Me, too. Mama said Buck came in the other day, he’s bunkin’ with Harley, she says he lost weight an’ all for th’ wedding. Poo’s wearin’ a suit, I can’t believe Poo in a suit.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Umm,” said Dooley. “A suit.”

  “Don’t forget your shirt and tie—or, you could borrow one of my ties.”

  “Your ties are too . . .”

  “Too what?”

  “Boring.”

  For someone who was usually in a collar, he’d never thought much about ties. Maybe he needed to buy something . . . upbeat! Something Italian! “What time are you rolling into Mitford?”

  “ ’Bout eleven Friday morning.”

  “How are you feeling about the appearance before the judge?”

  “Not too good.”

  “It’ll go well, don’t worry. And how are you feeling about Caroline?”

  Dooley was shrugging; he could practically hear it. The boy was blushing; he could sense it.

  “Ah . . .”

  “Pretty good?”

  “Well, yeah, she’s really neat, really interesting. She does these great watercolors, like Cynthia. You should see the one she did of the mountains behind her school, it was exactly like real life, except better.”

  “I’ll be darned.”

  “She’s got this cool laugh, too, sort of like . . . like this.” Dooley made an odd sound, something between a snort and a cackle. “That’s not right, it’s more like . . . I don’t know!”

  “I can kind of guess.”

  “Plus she’s really funny.”

  Dooley Barlowe was a goner, as far as he could tell.

  “We can’t go, dearest, he’s burning with fever. I hope it’s only the flu. Nearly everyone in story group was croupy and sick on Wednesday; I’d never have taken him if I’d known. I have a call in to his doctor.”

  He felt the boy’s head, he looked at his red eyes and runny nose, he listened to his labored breathing. Convinced that hauling Jonathan to Dorchester would only make things worse, he finally told her. “Jeffrey Tolson may be hanging about. I don’t think he’s dangerous, but there’s no telling what he might do.”

  “He can do nothing here!” she said, looking fierce. “We’ll keep the doors locked and you’ll only be away in broad daylight, so there’s no use at all to worry. I’ll send Ella the lasagna I froze the other day. Single women almost never make lasagna!”

  His wife could convince him of anything. Feeling mildly relieved, he went to the study and closed the door and sat in the chair and prayed about it. He had written Captain Larkin the other day to say he was coming, and the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint. Should he go, or move the trip to a later date?

  After he prayed, he listened.

  God would have him go. He felt certain of it.

  The sky was gunmetal from horizon to horizon; it seemed as if a leaden weight had been clamped over Whitecap like a lid on a turkey roaster.

  He paced the front porch, unable to think clearly, anxious about leaving tomorrow. Maybe he should skip the Ava business and leave early, but Ernie was as excited about this little gathering as any parent, a fact he didn’t feel like treating lightly. Besides, he wanted to see Ava Goodnight, who, let’s face it, had accumulated some pretty heavy mystique without even trying.

  Cynthia would be fine, she’d insisted on it, and he’d call her from Ella’s house at least once, maybe twice.

  While he was thinking of it, why didn’t he have a car phone? Everyone else seemed to be zooming around at top speed, yammering into one as if their lives depended on it. Yet there was nothing in the thought of a car phone that attracted him. Wouldn’t people break into his car and steal it, or did they steal phones anymore? Maybe car phones were now so cheap and run-of-the-mill that no one wanted the hassle of smashing a window. Anyway, if he had one, wouldn’t he have to keep the top up on the Mustang? Otherwise, they could just reach in and yank it off its hinge or whatever.

  Why was he thinking such nonsense? He was thinking nonsense because he dreaded thinking the real thing; he was trying desperately to hide from the reality of the lawsuit.

  He zipped his jacket and sat in his favorite rocker, looking into the gathering dusk.

  The lawsuit dogged him like a dark cloud. What on earth could be the possible meaning behind it all? Thank God, Walter was more than a cousin who happened to practice law. Walter was a tough, no-nonsense attorney with a decent reputation and several heavyweight clients; surely he could help him hammer this thing through.

  He realized he was wringing his hands, something he’d hardly ever caught himself doing, and stopped it at once.

  Yet, even more than the fret and worry of being slammed with a lawsuit was the possibility of losing a third of the escrow, which included part of what Andrew Gregory had paid for Miss Sadie’s antiques, and a third of what the money had earned in mutual funds, making Hélène Pringle the possible recipient of around a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Miss Sadie had trusted him to be a good steward of all she left behind, and he’d never begrudged this enormous responsibility, not for a moment. Now he felt the full weight of it squarely on his shoulders, with no one to turn to but someone he’d known since childhood as Potato Head.

  God hadn’t given him much family, but God had given him Walter; perhaps, just as Mordecai said in the Book of Esther, for such a time as this.

  So—he had excellent legal counsel, and he and Cynthia were praying the prayer that never fails. What more could be done, after all?

  Aha! His neighbor was at it again, though he didn’t recognize the music.

  He walked to the north side of the porch and cupped his hands to his ears. Interesting. Very interesting.

  He squatted, then sat on the end of the porch, swinging his legs over the side.

  Yes! That’s it, Morris! What you’re doing with the bass, keep it up, great, beautiful, have at it. . . .

  He slipped off the porch, trotted to the rear gate and unlatched it, then went into the twilit street, where he stood for a moment, listening.

  His wife would not like him pulling a disappearing act, no, indeed, but he’d be gone only five, maybe ten minutes, she’d never miss him; his dog, however, was another matter. If Barnabas knew he’d gone on a joyride without him . . .

  He dropped to the ground on the other side of the wall, and found himself jogging along the driveway.

  When he reached the house, he thumped into his chair under the window, and listened.

  He alternately nodded enthusiastically and wagged his head. He wagged his head at the foreboding passages in the music, though he knew they gave greater light to the passages of illumination.

  Man alive, that Casavant was blowing the roof off.

  When the music ended, he felt tears on his cheeks. He waited a few moments.

  “Morris?” he shouted.

  “It’s you, Father.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long, oddly comfortable silence.

  “I’m going away for a few days and I came to say . . .” There was a sudden lump in his throat. “I came to say I think the music is . . .” The music is what? Moving? Powerful? How did critics manage to make a living with a language that must often fail them?

  “Wonderful!” he shouted. Full of wonder! That was the best he could do for the moment.

  “Perhaps you’d like to come in . . . and see the Casavant.”

  Had he heard right? He wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “Why, yes, thank you, I’d like that.” His wife would be frantic, but this was an extraordinary invitation. He was stunned. . . .

  “The door is open. Take the stairs. I’ll meet you on the landing.”

  He bolted from the chair, careful not to stumble over the uprooted bricks that once paved the entranceway.

  The heavy front door opened easily, and he stepped into a dimly lit foyer. The light appeared to come from a
single bulb in a wall sconce, though a large chandelier loomed above his head.

  There was definitely a musty smell, but everything looked clean and orderly. Ornately carved armchairs stood on either side of a heavy mirror in which he was startled to see himself. On the floor, a pattern of black and white tiles, and to the right, a curving stairwell and a vast, lighted oil painting on the high wall. The painting was of rolling countryside, somewhere in Europe, perhaps, with a church spire and a procession of people in a lane.

  “Father.”

  He looked toward the landing and saw Morris standing at the rail.

  “Morris!”

  “Come up.”

  He went up, as if in a dream. There was absolutely no sense of reality about where he suddenly found himself. He knew only that he needed to be here, was supposed to be here. . . .

  Morris held his hands behind his back, apparently declining a handshake, as Father Tim looked directly into his eyes. He noted Morris’s prominent forehead and the deep, vertical furrow between his heavy brows.

  “You are not surprised,” Morris said flatly.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Come with me,” said his host.

  He was surprised, however, to see that Morris walked with such difficulty. As if sensing his curiosity, Morris turned and said, “Spinal stenosis, aggravated by arthritis. It is not uncommon to my condition. We’re in here.” Morris stood aside so that he might enter first.

  As he stepped over the threshold, he drew in his breath. There, in a room illumined by lamplight, stood the Casavant, regal beneath the rank of elaborately stenciled facade pipes. With its ornamented mahogany casework, he thought the organ possessed the aura of a great throne.

  He might have gaped interminably, but turned his gaze to the room itself, which was paneled with walnut. His eyes moved along the intricately detailed dentil moldings and carved inlays, to the open window where Morris must stand when talking with him; it was free of draperies, with only a simple pelmet above, perhaps to enhance the acoustics of the room.