by Jan Karon
He wasn’t especially up for visiting the scene of the crime; he still felt fragile, like nearly transparent porcelain that might shatter if jostled. He knew only that he must get on with his life, which lately seemed to have passed him by. Thanks be to God, his blood sugar had been down this morning, things appeared nearly normal, he was right on the cusp of the prophesied six weeks. Soon, all would be well and very well.
“Father! Bonjour!” Hélène Pringle stood on the back stoop, waving. Her cat, Barbizon, sat by her feet, looking disgruntled.
“Bonjour, Hélène! I hope you don’t mind me lurking around your backyard?”
“Indeed not, Father. It’s your backyard, you may lurk whenever you please.”
“That was a terrific storm we had last night. I wanted to visit what was left of the roses. Oh, my.” He looked at the leaves lying about, and the rain of petals on the dark mulch. “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“My grandmother believed a bit of ill weather was good for the garden.” She came down the steps, tentative yet smiling with some delight. “It’s wonderful to see you out and about.” She wrung her hands as she spoke, as if greeting him gave her intense anxiety. He wondered if he might try to be more affable, in hopes of putting her at ease.
“Thank you, Hélène, I was beginning to ossify.”
“Ossify?” she said, perplexed.
He smiled. “Harden like bone.”
“Oh!” she said. “Oui!”
He walked around the bed, trying to care about the devastation as fully as he might have cared a year or two ago. It took such energy to care….
“Are you…feeling all right, Father?”
“Oh, yes. Pushing along.” He sat on the bench. “If you don’t mind…”
“Certainly not! It’s your bench, after all!”
She stood on the opposite side of the bed, still wringing her hands. He realized there was nothing he could do.
“I was in Holding yesterday and saw your dear boy.”
“Dooley?”
“Yes, he was coming out of the drugstore as I was going in. I don’t go to Holding often, it seems such a journey.”
“Yes, it is a bit of a haul. But you couldn’t have seen Dooley. He’s in New York.”
“In New York?” She pondered this news, clearly befuddled. “But I spoke to him! Of course, he didn’t reply, he appeared to be in a great hurry…and awfully thin and pale.” She hesitated. “I wasn’t going to say anything to you, but he was…soiled and mal habille, quite unlike himself. I know he’s living on a farm this summer, perhaps that’s why.”
“Yes, well, Dooley is in New York.”
“Oh, oui, bien sûr, you did say that.” She shook her head. “I suppose this boy did look younger than Dooley, yet…how extraordinary.”
He rose from the bench. “I’ll push off, Hélène. Incidentally, the roast chicken you brought was very good, indeed. Très…”—he hesitated—“bon! Oui, très bon!” How hideous his French was. He had embarrassed himself and his neighbor into the bargain.
Her cheeks flushed. “It was nothing!”
“Au revoir, then!” he said, waving.
“À bientôt, Father! Thank you for coming, please come again!”
He shuffled home and sat on the sofa, panting. He should have the blasted sofa removed from the house, stored under lock and key, until things were a bit further along. His heart pounded.
“Water,” he said, as Puny came into the room.
“You’ll worry me t’ my grave!” she said, looking distraught. She dashed to the kitchen and brought him a glass of water, which he drank down at once.
“Good. Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Father…”
“Yes?”
“I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.” Tears rolled heedlessly down her freckled cheeks.
“Why, Puny, how amazing—I feel the very same way about you.”
She laughed and wiped her eyes on her apron. “Are you all right?”
“I’m perfectly fine. It’s true.”
“You ain’t been yourself.”
“Who have I been, do you think?”
She giggled. “Somebody sad an’ grouchy.”
“Aha.”
She looked at him, wrinkling her brow. “Cynthia loves you more’n anything, she’d do anything f’r you, an’ so would I, an’ so would th’ girls, they love their granpaw.”
“Their granpaw loves them back.”
“You cain’t die,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Certainly not!”
“Are you goin’ to git back to your ol’ self?”
“You bet.”
“Good!” she said. “I hope you make it snappy!”
Dooley at the drugstore in Holding…
It dawned on him as slowly as a sunrise, when it should have hit him like a bolt of lightning.
He quickly punched the numbers on the handset and paced the floor.
“Bonjour!”
“Hélène, Tim Kavanagh. I hope I haven’t interrupted a lesson.”
“Not at all, Father. Two students are out today with summer colds. I don’t have a lesson until four-thirty.”
“Where is the drugstore in Holding?”
“There are two drugstores. I patronize the one on Main Street, it has a special hard candy Mother enjoys.”
He’d never been on Holding’s Main Street; he’d always gone to the mall on the bypass like the rest of the common horde. “Could you give me directions?”
“It’s awfully hard to get to just now, they’re restoring the monument to the town square and the streets are a bit…”—she searched for a word—“addled. In a jumble.”
“Aha.” He’d have to get someone to drive him; he knew he couldn’t make the trip alone. He’d call Buck. On second thought, he didn’t want to give false hope; and he certainly couldn’t ask George, who was just getting established at the bookstore, and part time work at Lew Boyd’s.
“I’m going down there if I can find someone to…I think it’s a bit soon to make the drive myself.”
“I’ll drive you!”
“Oh, heavens, no, that would be asking—”
“But you’re not asking,” she said, clearly excited. “I’m offering! It would be a great privilege to do something for you, Father, who has done so much for me.”
“Now, Hélène…”
“When would you wish to leave?”
He thought a moment. “Could we leave at once?”
“Je serai devant votre maison dans cinq minutes!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll be there in five minutes, Father. Five minutes!”
“Thank you!” he said. But Hélène had already hung up.
Uncle Billy Watson stood before the mirrored door of the bathroom medicine cabinet and spoke aloud to his image.
“Wellsir, this feller got a parrot f’r ’is birthday, don’t you know.”
He glanced at the almanac he was holding, but his trembling hand caused the words to dance a jig. It was enough to give a man a headache, trying to read words that bounced around like a monkey on a mule.
“Hold still!” he commanded. He was surprised to see that his hand obeyed him. He adjusted his glasses, held the almanac closer to the light above the cabinet, and squinted at the next line.
“Hit was a full-growed parrot an’ come with a mean attitude an’ a manner of talkin’ that was scand’lous. Seem like ever’ other word or two would near about kink a man’s hair.
“Course, th’ feller tried t’ change things, don’t you know, he was all th’ time sayin’ polite words, playin’ soft music on th’ radio, anything he could think of t’ try an’ set a good example, but they wouldn’t nothin’ work.”
Uncle Billy laid the almanac on the tank of the commode, squeezed his eyes shut, and repeated by memory what he’d just read aloud. He figured he’d done that part pretty good; he picked up the almanac and adjusted his glasses, which were taped ac
ross the nose bridge where, several months ago, they had broken in two.
“One day he got s’ mad, he took ’at ol’ bird an’ shook it ’til its beak rattled. Boys, ’at fired th’ parrot up, he went t’ cussin’ th’ feller ever’ whichaway, sayin’ worser things than he’d been a-sayin’.”
“Wellsir, th’ feller grabbed ‘at bird up an’ stuck it in th’ freezer an’ slammed th’ door. Yessir! Heard it a-squawkin,’ a-kickin’, a-screamin’, an’ I don’ know what all. Then it got real still in there.
“Feller was scared he’d lost ’is parrot, so he opened th’ freezer door, and dadjing if th’ parrot didn’t step out nice as you please, said, ‘I’m mighty sorry if I offended you with my language an’ all, an’ I ask y’r forgiveness, don’t you know. I’ll sure try to correct my actions from here on out.’
“Th’ feller was about t’ ask what caused such a big change when th’ parrot said, ‘About that chicken in there—may I ask what’n th’ world it done?’”
By johnny, that ought to work if he practiced it enough times. He just hoped it would make the preacher laugh, that was the main thing. He’d never seen a man look so low, like he could crawl under a snake’s belly wearing a top hat. He’d give a dollar bill to say this joke to Rose Watson, to get somebody else’s opinion, but Rose never laughed at his jokes, nossir, never did.
He noted that his right hand had begun to tremble again. He stuck it in his pocket and walked into the hall with his cane in the other hand, singing under his breath. It was the song his mother had taught him as a boy; he often mumbled or sang a few words of “Redwing” when he was happy.
Driving with Hélène Pringle made flying with Omer Cunningham resemble an Altar Guild tea party.
He shut his eyes, unable to look. Hélène was proceeding down the winding mountain road like a ball from a cannon. If his blood had been as turgid as a river bottom these past weeks, it was now pumping like oil through a derrick. To make things worse, Hélène seemed incapable of driving and speaking English at the same time. Worse still, she was precisely the height of Sadie Baxter and could barely see over the steering wheel.
“I do love these mountain roads, they make me feel so free! Je n’ai jamais de la vie été plus heureuse nulle part ailleurs que je ne le suis ici dans ces montagnes. I presume that’s true for you, also, as you’ve chosen to live here so many years. Ça par exemple! Regardez les nuages audessus de ce pic là!”
“Hélène,” he croaked, “could you slow down? Just a mite?” He emphasized mite, as he certainly didn’t want to offend.
“Of course, Father, but my speedometer reads only fifty-five.”
“Better take your car in and let Harley have a look, I think we’re doing…seventy.” Eighty was more like it, but he didn’t want to push.
“Seventy? But this car has never done seventy.”
He shut his eyes and prayed.
“What’s he look like?” asked the pharmacist.
Father Tim reached for his wallet as Hélène explained.
“Tall, very thin. Freckles. Red hair. Quite…dirty.”
“Here,” said Father Tim, holding out a photo of Dooley. “Something like this.”
The pharmacist looked disapproving. “You must be talkin’ about Sammy Barlowe. We’ve caught him tryin’ to stuff his britches with candy, but nobody’s ever actually found anything on ’im.”
Father Tim’s heart pounded. He looked around for a chair, someplace to sit for a moment…. “Where does he live?”
“God only knows. Someplace with his old man, who’s the worst drunk you’ll ever run into. Why would you be looking for this boy? I see you’re clergy.”
“Yes, well, he’s…” Father Tim paused a moment. “He’s family.”
The pharmacist raised his eyebrows.
“You could ask at the pool hall. Go down to the corner, cross the street, an’ it’s on your left.”
They bolted from the drugstore, the bell jangling on the door, and went at a trot to the corner, where they waited for the light.
His breath came quickly; his head felt lighter than air. “Hélène, this could be a dead end. But you need to know how terribly, terribly important it is for us to do…what we’re doing. Do you pray?”
“I’ve just begun!” she said, thrilled that this might somehow make things more convenient for him.
“Pray, then. You may have found Dooley’s kid brother.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh!” she said, breathless. “Oh!”
“That definitely ain’t Sammy Barlowe,” said the pool hall owner. He took a long drag on the last of his cigarette, dropped it to the cement floor, and stepped on it. “This boy looks like he’s livin’ high on th’ hog.” He exhaled a considerable fume of smoke.
“Right. What I’m saying is, does Sammy look like this boy? Is there a strong resemblance?”
“Oh, yeah. I’d say so. What you need to know for?”
“I’d like to contact him.”
“Has he come into big money?” The man cackled. Two other men halted their pool game and listened to the conversation.
“Nothing like that. Perhaps you can tell us where he lives.”
“I cain’t tell you that.”
“Why not?” He hadn’t careened down the mountain with Hélène Pringle, risking life and limb, to be put off so easily.
“Because it ain’t nobody’s business, is why not.”
“I’m family,” he said, as if that would change everything.
The man smirked. “You’re a preacher.”
“Preachers have families!” said Hélène, indignant.
“You might as well go on, I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’.” The man walked across the room, entered a door marked Office, and slammed it behind him.
A radio played, drifting randomly between two country stations.
One of the pool players walked over and held out his hand. “How bad you want t’ know where Sammy lives at?”
“Real bad,” said Father Tim.
“Pink Shuford.”
“Pink,” said Father Tim, shaking hands. “Tim Kavanagh. And this is Miss Pringle.”
Hélène put her hands behind her back. “Bonjour.” Father Tim thought he heard a tremor in her voice.
“Named after m’ great-granpaw, Pinckney.”
“A fine old southern name.”
“This here’s Skin Head Bug Eye Snaggle Tooth Austin, you can call ’im Bug f’r short.”
Father Tim nodded toward Bug, who blinked but didn’t return the nod.
“You ever shoot any pool?” asked Pink Shuford. His left arm was tattooed with a snake coiled from wrist to elbow.
“Once or twice. I’d appreciate knowing where we can find Sammy.”
Pink walked back to the table, hunkered over it with the stick, and made a shot. The balls clicked together and rolled apart. The seven ball dropped into the corner pocket.
“I reckon you ain’t played enough pool to recognize that as a mighty fine shot.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Father Tim.
“Seven in th’ corner pocket. Most places, I could’ve won cash money on that shot.”
“What will it take for you to tell us where to find Sammy?”
“Well, let’s see.” Pink scratched his head and gazed at the ceiling.
“Let me just see, now.” The odor of stale tobacco and sour beer permeated the room; a ceiling fan oscillated over their heads.
Pink Shuford looked at Father Tim and suddenly grinned. “How about…”
Bug’s cue ball scratched in the side pocket. Pink eyed the table, chalked his cue, bent over the rail, and returned the shot. “Eight ball in the corner pocket, eat y’r heart out,” said Pink. Bug uttered a curse.
“Now,” said Pink, “back to business. How about fifty bucks?”
Father Tim took out his wallet and examined the billfold. Twenty, thirty, thirty-five, -six, -seven, -eight…He felt a trickle of sweat along his spine. This whole scenario exuded a p
alpable darkness; he wanted out of here. Hélène was already backing toward the door.
“Thirty-eight,” said Father Tim.
“Deal.” Pink crossed to him quickly and took the money. He stuffed it in his jeans pocket. “Follow me an’ Bug. I’m in th’ blue Chevy truck out front.”
“Perhaps you could just give us directions.”
“You ain’t goin’ t’ find it without help.”
There was no turning back. “We’re parked in front of the drugstore.”
“A gray Dodge sedan,” said Hélène, the quaver still in her voice.
“How far do you think it might be to…where we’re going?”
Pink Shuford pulled a Lucky Strike from a package in his shirt pocket. “Maybe ten, twelve miles.” He lit the cigarette with a match, inhaled deeply, and grinned at Hélène. “I hope you got good shocks, lady.”
Father Tim managed to beat her to the car and, racing to the driver’s side, gripped the door handle. “I’ll be glad to drive!”
“Oh, no, Father! There’s something wrong with the brakes, I have to tap them just so or…”
“Or…what?”
“Or they don’t work very well. You just get in and relax and leave the driving to me!”
Relax? Relax? He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow, then got in, sat down and crossed himself. Surround us with Your loving care, he prayed silently. Protect us from every danger; and bring us in safety to our journey’s end; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.
Hélène started the car with a roar. “I’m so glad you’re praying,” she said happily.
The pickup truck didn’t appear to slow down for the bend in the road. Hélène gunned the motor and they careened after it.
“Mon Dieu!” gasped Hélèn. “What haste they make. Our own speed is fifty.”
Sixty! he thought, paralyzed with dread. But why worry? Didn’t he believe God had a time for everybody? If so, so be it; he was ready. It’s just that there were other ways he’d rather go Home, like in his sleep, with a smile on his face….
He had an awful and hankering thirst. It had come upon him suddenly as they pulled away from the curb in Holding. Not only had he left the house without a bottle of water, he realized he’d utterly forgotten his morning insulin shot.