Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  He peered at the decrepit Royal manual that had served him well for longer than he could remember. It had gone through his sixteen-year tenure at Lord’s Chapel and was still working like a clock, except for the lowercase i, which often printed ii; he’d always meant to have that fixed and now nobody repaired typewriters anymore.

  Dooley trotted down the hall to the kitchen, which opened directly to the study, and examined the contents of the refrigerator. He popped the top on a Coke and glanced at Father Tim. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.” Father Tim felt the grin on his face.

  “What’s going on?” Dooley asked.

  He opened his mouth to answer, but Dooley didn’t wait for an answer; the question was rhetorical. He vanished down the hall, the soles of his tennis shoes squeaking on the pine floor.

  Dooley. Of course! It was Dooley who, through whatever bumbling influence he’d had upon the boy’s life, would serve the future hour. Yes!

  He felt the sting of tears in his eyes and got up and crossed the study and went to the kitchen and peered down the hall, hoping to see Dooley before he reached the front door. He wanted to tell him something, he couldn’t think what, exactly. But Dooley was gone.

  His wife was gone, too, he’d forgotten just where, and his study was quiet as a tomb, the whole house seemed in a kind of repose which he should savor, but he could not. He listened to his dog snoring in the corner and observed Violet sleeping on the sofa. Violet, who was no longer a spring chicken, had lately begun to snore, as well. He stood for a moment listening to the odd cacophony, the delicate whiffle from the sofa, the bass rumble from the corner of the room near his desk. If he didn’t watch out, he’d join the throng any moment. In truth, the world was standing still until Cynthia came in the door; it was as if half of him were missing—his better half.

  Better half! He’d once found this term as quaint as missus. But he was wiser now, and wasn’t she indeed his better half? The half that laughed more easily? The half that didn’t take life so seriously? The half that was more spontaneous and free, more expectant of God’s blessings, more certain, at times, of His love?

  He heard the tolling of the bells at Lord’s Chapel, a mere block away, and checked his watch. Three o’clock. Thirsty, he was very thirsty, but returned to his desk and sat as if asleep until he heard her come into the kitchen and set something on the counter. It was a glad sound; he wanted to rush to her, to see her face, but it was this very need that nailed him to the chair where he sat.

  “What are you doing, dearest?”

  “Thinking!” he said.

  “Thinking? But you’ve been thinking for hours. You were thinking when I left!”

  He picked up a piece of paper, trying to feign scholarly absorption. In truth, there was absolutely nothing on the paper; it was blank. He put it down and fumbled in his desk drawer.

  “It’s a gorgeous day, Timothy!” Rustle of bags in the kitchen, a few things from The Local, he supposed. It was her night to make dinner.

  “Just gorgeous!” she crowed.

  His wife wanted someone to play with, he could tell—a walk around Mitford Lake, perhaps, or a drive on the Parkway with the top down. Couldn’t she see he was busy with something important? He grabbed a book off the stack by his desk and opened it. At once he felt filled with authority, as if he were knowledgeable and wise and she a child without purpose.

  She came and stood by his chair and looked at him fondly. “Timothy, you think too much!”

  He couldn’t believe he was hearing those words from his wife, words he’d heard since childhood—from his mother, his teachers, his first bishop, even from Stuart Cullen. What was too much? Who was to say which chalk line one should think up to and then come to a screeching halt? What if Wordsworth had never thought too much, or Shakespeare or Milton or Cranmer or Socrates? And what about Beethoven or Edison or…Madame Curie? Why was thinking such a crime?

  “Why is thinking such a crime?” he asked, oddly angry.

  “Oh, pfoo, darling!” She threw up her hands and walked back to the kitchen.

  He didn’t want her to leave the room, he wanted her to stay, he wanted her to…sit on his lap and ruffle what was left of his hair. He felt suddenly small and bereft. In a fleeting moment, she had become the authority and he the child without purpose.

  Dear George,

  As you know, we won’t be here when you arriive on June 15, as we leave June 1 for Tennessee. Everything iis finalized for your arrival. Our upstairs tenant at the rectory, Helene Priingle, has approved your moving into the basement apartment with Harley Welch, and ii believe the two of you wiill do fine together. Harleyi is a pretty darned good cook and hi s brownies can’t be beat. He’ll be glad for the company. Anything you can do in the yard for Miss Pringle will be appreciated.

  harley wiill take you to a body shop I n Wesley, where he thinks there may be a job available. he could Drive you each morning before he goes to work at his job in Mitford. I also have a few friends looking out for you, and have mentioned iit to Avis Packard of the Local, who is going to replace his delivery truck driiver at the end of June.

  Rodney Underwood is still our police chief and is aware that you’re coming. He invites you to stop by the station and say hello to the guys who attended your baptiism ceremony, they’re all still there except the good fellow who gave you the socks.

  the rectory basement isn’t the Ritz, but we Believe you’ll be comfortable. The mattress on the sofa bed is a little lumpy but only on the left siide. Remember the orange marmalade cake you called ‘the finest cake you ever ate in your life’? that same good parishioner has offered to put one in the basement refrigerator for your arrival.

  Mmay God bless you George as you go about the considerable business of making a new life. Cynthia and I deeply regret that we can’t be here to welcome you but we’ll be home on leave for a long weekendi in September, and home for good in June of next year.

  Hal and marge Owen invite you and Harley out to Meadowgate Farm for homemade chicken pie any Sunday iin July. Take my word for it, you definitely don’t want to miss this great treat.

  In closing ii think back on the portion of psalm 126 which ii quoted at our parting eight years ago. he that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him. how good it is that God would have you come again, my friend…this time with rejoicing.

  in the love of Him Who Loved Us fiirst

  On his way to the Grill, a strange thing happened. Out of the blue, he had an idea that was so perfect, so right, that he couldn’t imagine why he’d never thought of it before. Of course. Of course! The only problem was, how would he present it to Dooley?

  “I got to do somethin’ to rake in business.”

  Percy slid into the booth, looking…Father Tim pondered what Percy was looking…Percy was looking old, that’s what; about like the rest of the crowd in the rear booth. He sucked up his double chin.

  “Maybe I ought t’ mess around with th’ menu,” said Percy, “an’ come up with a special I could run th’ same day ever’ week.”

  “Gizzards!” said Mule.

  “What about gizzards?”

  “I’ve told you for years that gizzards is th’ answer to linin’ your pockets.”

  “Don’t talk to me about gizzards, dadgummit! They’re in th’ same category as what goes over th’ fence last. You’ll never see me sellin’ gizzards.”

  “To make it in th’ restaurant business,” said Mule, “you got to set your personal preferences aside. Gizzards are a big draw.”

  “He’s right,” said J.C. “You can sell gizzards in this town. This is a gizzard kind of town.”

  Mule swigged his coffee. “All you got to do is put out a sign and see what happens.”

  Percy looked skeptical. “What kind of sign?”

  “Just a plain, ordinary sign. Write it up yourself an’ put it in th’ window, no big deal.”

  “When me an’
Velma retire at th’ end of th’ year, I want to go out in th’ black, maybe send ’er to Washington to see th’ cherry blossoms, she’s never seen th’ cherry blossoms.”

  “That’s what gizzards are about,” said Mule.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Gizzards’ll get some cash flow in this place.”

  “Seem like chicken livers would draw a better crowd,” said Percy.

  “Livers tie up too much capital.” J.C. was hammering down on country ham, eggs over easy, and a side of yogurt. “Too much cost involved with livers. You want to go where the investment’s low and the profit’s high.”

  Mule looked at J.C. with some admiration. “You been readin’ th’ Wall Street Journal again.”

  “What would I put on th’ sign?” asked Percy.

  “Here’s what I’d put,” said Mule. “Gizzards Today.”

  “That’s it? Gizzards Today?”

  “That says it all right there. Like you say, run your gizzard special once a week, maybe on…” Mule drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. “Let’s see…”

  “Tuesday!” said J.C. “Tuesday would be good for gizzards. You wouldn’t want to start out on Monday with gizzards, that’d be too early in th’ week. And Wednesday you’d want something…”

  “More upbeat,” said Mule.

  Father Tim buttered the last of his toast. “Right!”

  “Wednesday could be your lasagna day,” said J.C. “I’d pay good money for some lasagna in this town.”

  There was a long, pondering silence, broken only by a belch. Everyone looked at Mule. “’Scuse me,” he said.

  “Do y’all eat gizzards?” Percy inquired of the table.

  “Not in this lifetime,” said J.C.

  “No way,” said Mule.

  “I pass,” said Father Tim. “I ate a gizzard in first grade, that was enough for me.”

  Percy frowned. “I don’t get it. You’re some of my best reg’lars—why should I go to sellin’ somethin’ y’all won’t eat?”

  “We’re a different demographic,” said J.C.

  “Oh,” said Percy. “So how many gizzards would go in a servin,’ do you think?”

  “How many chicken tenders d’you put in a serving?”

  “Six,” said Percy. “Which is one too many for th’ price.”

  “So, OK, as gizzards are way less meat than tenders, I’d offer fifteen, sixteen gizzards, minimum.”

  J.C. sopped his egg yolk with a microwave biscuit. “Be sure you batter ’em good, fry ’em crisp, an’ serve with a side of dippin’ sauce.”

  Percy looked sober for a moment, then suddenly brightened. “Fifteen gizzards, two bucks. What d’you think?”

  “I think Velma’s going to D.C.,” said Father Tim.

  A brief silence was filled with the sound of the dishwasher running full throttle behind the rear booth. Accustomed to its gyrations, the occupants of the booth no longer noticed that the wash cycle occasioned a rhythmic tremor in the floorboards.

  “So how do you think your jewel thief will go over?” asked J.C.

  “He’s not my jewel thief,” snapped Father Tim.

  “It was your church attic he hid out in,” said Percy.

  “I think he’ll go over just fine. He’s paid his debt to society in full, but better than that, he’s a redeemed man with a strong faith.”

  Silence.

  Chewing.

  Slurping.

  “I hope,” said Father Tim, “that you’ll extend the hand of fellowship to him.” There. That’s all he had to say about it.

  Mule nodded. “No problem. It’s th’ right thing to do.”

  More chewing.

  “So how come you’re not goin’ to Rwanda or someplace like that?” asked Percy.

  “Hoppy wouldn’t allow it.” Hoppy would never have considered such a thing. Father Tim knew his limitations and they were numerous.

  “What about th’ kids in your own backyard? You ever thought of doin’ somethin’ for them?”

  The fact that he’d supported the Children’s Hospital in Wesley for twenty years was his own business; he never talked about it. “Tennessee is our own backyard.” How he ever ended up with this bunch of turkeys was more than he could fathom.

  “We’ll miss you,” said Mule, clapping him on the shoulder. “I won’t hardly know what to order around here.”

  Father Tim laughed, suddenly forgiving. He thought he might miss them, too, though the possibility seemed a tad on the remote side.

  “Here comes Hamp Floyd,” said J.C. “Hide your wallet.”

  “What for?”

  “Th’ town needs a new fire truck.”

  “Seems like a good cause,” said Father Tim. He took out his billfold and removed a ten.

  “Th’ town’s got th’ money for a standard truck, but Hamp wants a few bells an’ whistles.”

  “Aha.”

  “Plus, he won’t have anything to do with a red truck,” said J.C.

  “Seems like a fire chief would like red. Besides, what other color is there?”

  “Yellow. He’s holdin’ out for yellow.”

  A yellow fire truck? Father Tim put the ten back in his billfold and pulled out a five.

  The usually talkative Puny moved around the kitchen without once acknowledging his presence. He might have been a bump on a log as he sat at the kitchen island drinking tea.

  He peered over his newspaper.

  He knew that pinched brow of hers and the soulful cast of her eyes; Puny Guthrie wore her heart on her sleeve, she couldn’t hide anything from him. He should ask her straight out what was going on, but then again…maybe he didn’t want to know.

  He dropped his gaze to the story about the grave sites of Union soldiers presumed to exist on Edith Mallory’s sprawling ridge property above Mitford. Coot Hendrick, their unofficial mayor pro-tem and great-grandson of Mitford’s founder, wanted the graves identified and available to public view, as did several preservationists in the area. Edith Mallory, secure behind a combination of electric fences and electronic gates, continued to deny access to anybody, much less what she called in a letter to the editor, “the morbid and profane.”

  Though the controversy between the town and Edith Mallory had dragged on for two or three years, most people didn’t give a hoot either way. Who wanted to see graves? And especially Yankee graves? The legend that the soldiers were shot in cold blood by the town’s founder might have gone over big a hundred years ago, but in today’s world, said another letter to the editor, it was murder, plain and simple, and “nothing to be proud of.”

  As usual, the Muse printed a sidebar containing all the verses of a song said to have been composed by Mitford’s founder, Hezekiah Hendrick, and believed by Coot Hendrick and his elderly mother to be proof positive that the graves could be located on the Mallory property.

  Shot five yankees a-runin’ from th’ war

  Caught ’em in a cornfield

  Sleeping by a f’ar

  Now they’ll not run no more, oh

  They’ll not run no more!

  Dug five graves

  With a mattock and a hoe

  Buried ’em in th’ ground

  Before th’ first snow

  Now they’ll not run no more, oh

  They’ll not run no more!

  Editor’s note: Mrs. Hendrick, who enjoys singing the song passed down through her family, believes the first verse may have originally said, caught ’em in my cornfield, adding weight to the theory that five Yankee soldiers do, indeed, lie buried on the Mallory property.

  “Brouhaha!” exclaimed Father Tim.

  This comment elicited no response from his longtime house help, who remained silent as a tomb as she peeled apples for a pie.

  “Puny, what’s on your mind?”

  She turned from the sink and looked at him oddly, then burst into tears.

  See there? He should have kept his big mouth shut.

  Puny pulled up her apron and hid her f
ace. “I had th’ awfulest dream!”

  “Tell me everything,” he said. “Come and sit here.” He patted the stool beside him.

  “I cain’t talk if I sit,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Th’ dream was so lifelike, I thought it was real. It’s worried me to death all day.”

  “What did you dream?”

  “It was about you. I didn’t know if I should tell you. I mean, I want to tell you, but I don’t know if I should, because it’s like if I tell you, it might really happen.” She drew her apron over her face again. “You were so sick.”

  “Puny, Puny, it was just a dream, don’t cry, everything’s fine! I’m healthy as a horse!” He got off the stool and went to her and put his arm around her solid shoulders.

  “I jis’ couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you, you’re th’ only granpaw th’ girls’ll ever have….” She blew her nose on the handkerchief he handed her.

  “What was the dream about?”

  “In th’ dream I begged you to go to the doctor and Cynthia did, too, and you wouldn’t go and you got real bad off an’…”

  “And what?”

  “An’ maybe died, I cain’t remember th’ end, but it seemed like you died, Joe Joe woke me up because I was cryin’.”

  “Let it go from your mind, it was only a dream. You were probably sleeping on your back. I have bad dreams if I sleep on my back.”

  “I was sleepin’ on my side, I always sleep on my side,” she assured him.

  “So you probably ate too late, that’ll do it every time.”

  “No!” she said, shaking her head. “All I had was fruit salad, you cain’t have bad dreams on fruit salad.”

  He sighed.

  “I feel like this dream meant somethin’. I think you’re supposed to go to Dr. Hopper and see if you’re OK.”

  “Well…,” he said, not wanting to make a big production over a dream.