Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  “Cantaloupe. I’ve been craving a good cantaloupe.”

  “Sliced or cubed?”

  “I’ve got a choice?”

  “Naw, I was jis’ kiddin,’ all we got is sliced.”

  “All I want is sliced,” said Father Tim, grinning.

  “I got somethin’ in th’ back with your name on it. Come in yesterday, UPS.”

  “Right. I’ll get it before I go. Thought I’d hang with Mule and J.C. awhile, then meet Buck Leeper here around eight-thirty.”

  “Yeah, well, th’ Turkey Club ain’t been the same with you gone.”

  “The Turkey Club?”

  “That’s Velma’s name for th’ reg’lars in the rear booth.”

  “Descriptive. So what’s the latest scandal and gossip? What have I missed?”

  J.C. slid into the booth with his bulging, unzippered briefcase. “All scandal and gossip has been duly recorded in th’ Mitford Muse. If I didn’t report it, it didn’t happen.” The editor shoved a copy of the newspaper across the table. “Hot off the press, all th’ news that’s fit to print, you heard it here first. That’ll be fifty cents.”

  “Fifty cents?” said Father Tim.

  “Paper’s gone up, ink’s gone up, distribution’s gone up….”

  Percy filled J.C.’s cup, frowning. “Quality’s gone down….”

  “A man has to make a living,” said J.C. He dragged a rumpled handkerchief from his jacket pocket, unfurled it, and mopped his brow.

  “Ten cents’ worth of news for half a dollar is what that deal is.’

  “While you’re preaching,” snapped J.C., “let me have a quarter’s worth of sausage biscuit for a dollar, with a twenty-cent side of hash browns for a dollar seventy-five.”

  “Turkey,” muttered Percy, legging it to the grill.

  “So look at th’ front page,” said J.C.

  There was his wife, nearly as large as life, with a shot of the Davant Medal used as an inset. The picture definitely did not do her justice, no, indeed, heads would roll at her publishing house for sending out this particular photo….

  “Read th’ headline,” said J.C. “I wrote that, I always write th’ big stuff, I don’t farm out th’ big stuff.”

  “‘Prestigious Davant Metal Bestowed on Local Author.’”

  “I had trouble with the headline,” confessed the editor.

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t know whether to say local or world-famous. I thought local was more…”

  “Sells more papers,” said Father Tim, trying to be helpful.

  “Then I thought bestowed kind of a big word for a small town newspaper….”

  “Right.”

  “But I figured that learnin’ a new word could be educational.”

  “Good thinking.” Why should he be the one to point out the spelling in the much-talked-about headline?

  “Lookit, I put in there about the invitation for her to tour the country on that literacy deal. It was in th’ letter her publisher sent down.”

  “Very thorough story. But she won’t be going on the tour.”

  “Let me slide in here and drink a little coffee b’fore th’ roof caves in!” Mule Skinner thumped down beside Father Tim.

  “Why is the roof caving in?” asked J.C.

  “Because th’ father’s here, blockhead.”

  “Oh,” said J.C.

  Though he’d been out of the picture for only a few weeks, Father Tim felt it might have been a few years; these guys looked…different, somehow. It would take a while for the new to wear off and the old to kick in again.

  “So what’s it goin’ to be?” Percy called from the grill, where he was working bacon, sausage, and hash browns.

  “The usual!” said Mule.

  “What th’ dickens is that?” Percy wanted to know. “You ain’t ordered th’ same thing twice in twenty years!”

  “Give me a break. Just last week I ordered eggs over light twice in a row.”

  “So that’s your order, eggs over light?”

  “I didn’t say that was my order, I said—”

  Velma blew out of the rest room. “Let me get in here! I’ll yank ’is order out of ’im.”

  J.C. put his head in his hands. “Just once, man, heaven knows, just once…”

  “Just once what?”

  “Just once, order and get it over with.”

  “Right!” said Velma, gripping her order pad. “And make it snappy.”

  “Over light or not?” demanded J.C.

  “Over light, for Pete’s sake! White toast! Hold th’ butter! Grape jelly! Orange juice! Hash browns!”

  There was a stunned silence.

  “There, dadgummit!” Mule looked triumphant. “I hope y’all are satisfied.”

  “I cain’t believe it!” said Velma. “This’ll be one for th’ hist’ry books. Now—what was it you said after orange juice?”

  Mule shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what you said?”

  “I wadn’t listenin’.”

  “Hash browns,” said J.C. “He said hash browns.”

  “Yeah, but maybe I should have grits. With butter! Why not? Butter on the grits, but no butter on the toast.”

  “Bring ’im hash browns,” said J.C.

  Velma gazed briefly at the ceiling, ripped the order off the pad, stuck it on the spindle at the counter, and stumped to the next booth.

  “Man!” said J.C., mopping his face.

  Mule turned to Father Tim and grinned broadly. “So, buddyroe, welcome back.”

  “Thanks. Glad to be back. Looks like nothing’s changed.”

  “Same ol’, same ol’,” said Mule.

  Father Tim was certain that Mule had glanced at him in an odd way. In truth, he might as well take the bull by the horns and deal straight up with what people were thinking about the accident. His heart hammered as he asked, not really wanting to know.

  “So, what are you thinking?”

  “Thinkin’?” asked Mule. “I’m not thinkin’ anything.”

  “Par for the course,” said J.C.

  Father Tim smelled the bacon frying, he heard the rattle of the window air conditioner, he saw Percy slicing the cantaloupe….

  He wedged his back into the corner of the booth as he’d done for nearly two decades; the place where the green, painted wood converged felt a lot like home.

  “Maybe we should turn it over to the authorities, let Social Services be the go-between.”

  “With three marriages an’ a drinkin’ problem, I’ve had all the go-between I can choke down,” said Buck. “Sometimes I think we should let sleepin’ dogs lie. Jessie was a baby when the kids were split up, she doesn’t remember Sammy or Kenny, and Poo hardly remembers them, either. Things are settled with us, runnin’ pretty smooth.” Buck looked at the tabletop, then at Father Tim. “But there’s no way we can’t try an’ pull this family back together. No way.”

  “If it all works out, you’d want Sammy to live with you?”

  “We’d want to give him the option,” said Buck.

  “The boy could have serious behavior problems.”

  “We understand that. It would mean a lot just to know he’s all right—and if he wants to live with us, if we could get it through th’ courts…we’ll give it our best shot.”

  “When I went to Holding the other day, I did it without thinking. I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish, perhaps it was just to see him, to remind him of his brothers and sisters, to look over the circumstances—maybe he wouldn’t have been home, or maybe it would have set his father off in some way that—”

  “Let’s just find him, then take it from there. We’ve both got a pretty good idea how he’s livin’, an’ as far th’ courts go, it wouldn’t stack up against th’ home we could give him.”

  “You’re doing a fine job with Jessie and Poo.”

  “It’s been good tryin’ to be their daddy, I couldn’t ever have kids…an’ when you think about th’
road I’ve been down, that’s prob’ly th’ best. I try to do right by Dooley, too, but I know he looks on you as his dad an’ I’d never want to mess with that.”

  “The first time I saw him is etched in my memory like an engraving—a little redheaded guy with freckles, mad at the world, old before his time. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s been rich…and I’m thankful.”

  “I admit I’m real uneasy about what could come of this….”

  “Dooley’s afraid it could be a powder keg.”

  “But I’ve been prayin’ about findin’ th’ boys since we got married. So has Pauline. And I know you’re prayin’.”

  “Have been, will be.”

  “So…” Buck finished his coffee and set the cup down firmly.

  “Why don’t you an’ me plan a time to run down th’ mountain? I’d like to start from scratch with Pink Shuford an’ ’is buddy.”

  “Father Tim!”

  He turned and saw Father Talbot trotting toward him from Happy Endings, in his running gear.

  “Wait up!”

  It wasn’t easy, thought Father Tim, to have been succeeded at Lord’s Chapel by a man who, though only a few years younger, had all his hair, ran daily, worked out, used a rowing machine, and wore top-of-the-line Nikes.

  “Henry! Glad to see you!” And he was glad.

  “Just going down to the office to ring you,” said Henry Talbot, huffing. “You’re looking terrific, very trim and fit!”

  In truth, he was so drained that he was headed home instead of to Sweet Stuff for fruit tarts. “Pushing along very well, thanks. How are you and Mary getting on?”

  “Planning our trip to the Bahamas for ten days, a surprise anniversary gift from our kids. I’m hoping you can supply for me at Lord’s Chapel next month. The, ah, let’s see…” Henry Talbot fetched a small planner from the pocket of his running shorts, and flipped the pages. “The eighth and fifteenth. It would make a lot of people happy, I daresay.”

  Lord’s Chapel! Something like fear pierced his heart. Was he rusty? Was he up to it?

  “Yes!” he said. “I’d like nothing better.”

  Hessie Mayhew dodged into the handkerchief garden between the Collar Button and the Sweet Stuff Bakery and stood, frozen, by a bed of dahlias, hoping Father Tim would not spot her as he passed.

  She clutched a brass vase chock-full of multiflora roses that she’d just cut from her arbor and was taking to the office building next door to Sweet Stuff. It was a forty-dollar arrangement and worth every dime, but she suddenly felt like a common criminal. To think of all he’d been through, and now, at last, he was out and about, no doubt to pay tribute to those who’d sent food and flowers through the long weeks, while the absence of a single, solitary word from Hessie Mayhew pained him like a sore and festering thumb….

  “Good morning, Hessie!”

  She turned, humiliated, and looked into his beaming face.

  “It’s great to see you, Hessie! How are you?”

  Unthinking, she hastily closed the distance between them and thrust the vase of roses into his hands.

  “There!” she blurted, sloshing water onto his shirtsleeve. Appalled at her grossly inept presentation, she turned and fled along the sidewalk.

  Since he was standing at the door of Sweet Stuff, he decided to go in. It would, at the very least, be a place to sit for a few minutes before he began the long trek home. The vase of flowers seemed to weigh more than he would have thought. He went inside, thumped the vase onto a table, and sat.

  “Water,” he said to Winnie, who gave him a concerned look.

  “Where’s your car, darling?”

  “Ah,” he said. “My car.”

  “Yes. You know, the red Mustang with the rag top, the leather seats, the—”

  “Oh, that car.” Blast! “Parked in front of the Grill.”

  He thrust the vase into her hands. “There!” he said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Oh, my! Lovely!”

  “Happy birthday!” he said, recovering his wits.

  She set the vase on the coffee table before the sofa. “Perfect! What a wonderful shade of pink! Thank you, dearest!” She plucked a small envelope from among the roses and smiled. “Let’s see what tender sentiment you’ve inscribed to me.”

  He lifted his hands helplessly. He hadn’t seen an envelope!

  She withdrew a small card and peered at it. “‘Happy retirement, Mildred…,’” she read aloud.

  “‘Old bookkeepers never die, they just nickel and dime the rest of us to death.’ Timothy, what on earth?”

  “Joke,” he said feebly. However, as the joke was on him, he told her the truth and was vastly relieved when she howled with laughter.

  He lay across the bed, remembering what else he’d forgotten—the fruit tarts, the promised visit to Bill and Rachel….

  Voices floated up from downstairs. Three o’clock. He must have fallen asleep after lunch. He was slightly disoriented; the morning had seemed an entire day in itself. Maybe he should see Hoppy tomorrow—but no, tomorrow was full….

  He sat up on the side of the bed and gazed at the floor, unseeing.

  “Timothy?”

  “Yes?”

  Cynthia stood in the doorway; the blanched look on her face alarmed him.

  “Harley just brought this over.” She walked to the bed and handed him a sheet of paper.

  “‘For labor and parts,’” he read aloud, “‘one hundred and sixty-eight dollars.’”

  “For Miss Pringle’s car. Harley said you told him to repair the brakes and gas gauge and that you’d pay the bill.”

  The tone of her voice made his heart beat heavily. “Come and sit down,” he said.

  “I’m perfectly fine standing up. He said you noticed her car needed work when she…drove you down the mountain while I was away.”

  He hadn’t told his wife everything. He had postponed the truth.

  He would definitely be paying for this unfortunate mistake.

  The pain he’d experienced over the last terrible weeks had been a dull pain. This suffering was sharp and hard. He looked at the closed door of her workroom; he had seldom ever seen this door closed….

  In both cases, he’d hurt someone through selfish neglect. The accident had occurred because he’d neglected to follow doctor’s orders; he’d hurt his wife by neglecting to share the simple truth of what he’d done. Hélène Pringle had made a gesture of sacrifice for him, and in return, he’d tried to do something he knew she needed and couldn’t easily afford. It hadn’t occurred to him that this act of gratitude might be a breach of Cynthia’s trust.

  It was as if the earth had disappeared beneath him, and he was falling through a space both vast and cold.

  Words cannot express the sorrow I feel for having…

  He put the pen down and stared into Baxter Park.

  This was his wife’s birthday, the day he was to take her into this very park for a picnic and give her the gift he’d planned so carefully all those months ago. They could not utterly lose this day, it was too important; indeed, it was crucial. One must not lose the day that belongs so especially to a loved one; birthdays must not be tossed about by every ill wind that blows….

  He looked at his watch. Four forty-five. He had thirty minutes to throw himself on her mercy and get this show on the road.

  “Here y’ go,” said Avis Packard, wearing an apron imprinted with the green Local logo. Father Tim stood at the front door and held out his arms to receive the picnic basket, packed to the brim. “Tell me what you think, maybe I’ll offer this as a reg’lar deal, maybe have a banner printed…First-Class Picnics, Fresh Daily, what d’you think?”

  “I think it’ll work,” he said, backing away from the door. Avis was a talker and he didn’t have all day….

  “A nice touch for honeymoons, anniversaries, or just takin’ th’ ol’ buggy for a spin on th’ Parkway, pull off to an overlook with your honey, roll out this basket, an’…” Avis rubbed his hands toget
her, grinning.

  “You’re a marketing genius,” said Father Tim, closing the door to within an inch of the jamb. “Thanks for the personal delivery. Put it on my tab.”

  “Th’ goat cheese is from France,” said Avis, peering through the crack, “not th’ valley. I thought for your special occasion you’d want th’ French.”

  “Right. Thanks a million.” He closed the door.

  Avis knocked.

  He opened the door.

  “Your champagne…”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s from Champagne, France, th’ real thing, you said do whatever it takes. An’ oh, yeah, happy…what is it? Anniversary?”

  “Birthday,” he said. “Got to run.”

  “I’m havin’ a birthday next week, guess how old—”

  “Catch you later,” he said, closing the door.

  “Cynthia,” he implored, standing at the door to her workroom. “I have something important to say.”

  She opened the door and looked at him, calm, unruffled.

  “Will you come out to our garden bench?” he asked.

  He gave her his arm. As she took it, his heart leaped with gratitude.

  “When I asked you to marry me,” he said, “I failed to do all that you deserved.”

  He stood before her, ashamed and naked in his regret.

  “When I asked you to marry me, I went down on one knee. My very soul knew it wasn’t enough, but in those days, I didn’t heed my soul the way you’ve taught me to do. I heed it now.”

  He sank to one knee, then the other, and took her hands in both of his.

  “Forgive me, please, for shutting you out. I was going to tell you everything, I vow that I was.”

  He saw a certain light return to her eyes, the light he had lived by, the light he could not bear to lose.

  “Hélène remarked that she’d seen Dooley at the drugstore in Holding, and something in me knew it might be one of the boys. I didn’t have the strength to drive down the mountain, and she offered to take me. It was the most urgent thing I’d done in a long time, I had to go, I wanted to see whether it might be…” He swallowed down a lump. “We’ve all waited so long, and prayed so fervently…”