by Jan Karon
“How are things at Meadowgate? Still wanting to be a vet?”
“Yes, sir!” The acclamation was immediate and fervent. “We did a uterine torsion procedure on a llama yesterday.”
“A llama!”
“There’s a llama farm in Wilson Creek.”
“What’s a uterine torsion procedure?”
“Sometimes a llama, even a cow, will have a twisted, or torsed, uterus. That means the fetus can’t pass through the birth canal. Doc Owen says most fetuses are in the left horn of the uterus—”
“Left horn?”
“The lamoid uterus has two horns. Doc Owen says most u.t.’s are twisted in a clockwise direction, so the left horn flips over the right horn. It’s really hard on the llama, and we had to work fast, so Doc Owen decided to do a plank in the flank.”
“A what?”
“We used a two-by-five board, put it into the flank of the llama, and Doc Owen told me to kneel on the plank, right over the flank area. Then we used ropes looped around the front and hind legs and rolled her over. See, what we wanted to do is hold the fetus and uterus in place with the plank and roll her to kind of catch up to the uterus. That solved the whole thing.”
“It did?”
“Yes, sir. Her cria is really beautiful.”
He was stunned by this piece of completely incomprehensible information. Dooley Barlowe must be a genius.
“You’re a genius!” he said, gushing, proud, moved.
“No, I ain’t, I mean aren’t.” Dooley turned red. “Doc Owen is.”
He didn’t know when such seeming nonsense had made him so happy. “I’m so proud of you I could bust!”
Dooley studied the geranium in a pot on the table.
“So how’s the social life out there in the sticks?”
He loved to see his boy grin from ear to ear.
“Not bad, I take it.”
“No, sir.”
“Aha.”
“I’m going out with Reba Sanders.”
“Really? Who is Reba Sanders?”
“A girl.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Her dad’s a farmer, they have four hundred head of cattle. Angus crossed with Hereford. Her mom teaches fifth grade.”
Maybe he should tell Dooley that the Harpers were coming home in a couple of days—wouldn’t he like to know how Lace liked the Oregon Trail? Probably not.
Dooley hammered down on the remainder of his cake. “She’s cool.”
“Reba?”
“Yes, sir. The Jeep needs some work. Hal thinks it’s the carburetor.”
“After lunch, we’ll run over to the station and let Harley take a look. Why don’t you take a look with him? It’s good to know what’s going on with your vehicle.” He was a fine one to talk; he’d never peered under a car hood in his life, except to scratch his head momentarily before slamming the thing down again.
His heart was full, and so was the boy’s. He sensed the quiet happiness between them; yet he was about to change all that. Surely it couldn’t hurt to postpone his announcement a few minutes—let the boy’s meal digest, for heaven’s sake.
“So. Tell me more about Reba.”
“Tall.”
Lace was tall, if he was looking for tall.
Dooley thought a moment. “Her hair’s kind of brown—or maybe blond.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Umm. I can’t think of anything.”
Getting quality information out of Dooley Barlowe was right up there with squeezing blood from a turnip.
“What are her interests?”
“Motorcycles.”
“Motorcycles.” What could he possibly say to that? He pushed ahead. “In…what way, exactly, is she interested in motorcycles?”
“She rebuilds sport bikes to make money for college next year. Right now she’s working on a Suzuki GSXR 1100. When she gets through, it’ll do a hundred and sixty, just like it came out of the crate.” Dooley looked at his empty cake plate. “Man! I’m killed!”
“I’m only half killed, but we’d both better hug Puny’s neck.”
Dooley cackled. “I ain’t huggin’ her neck.”
“I like it when you say ain’t.”
“I can’t believe you said that. You used to hate it when I said ain’t.”
“I know. I only like it because you never say it anymore.”
“Let’s go see Harley, we can take ol’ Barnabas.”
His stomach was literally churning over what he’d just learned about Reba Sanders. While he had dreaded delivering a blow to Dooley, Dooley had delivered one to him. A hundred and sixty miles an hour? Nonetheless, he couldn’t put it off any longer.
“I have something to tell you, son. We found Sammy.”
Dooley’s fork clattered to the table and bounced to the floor.
“He’s living with your father, he’s blind in one eye and has lost part of his hearing.” Why had he said that, what did it have to do with anything? Perhaps it would make Clyde Barlowe seem less threatening.
“Who’s blind?” Dooley asked, hoarse.
“Your father.”
“He’s not my father!” Dooley shouted.
He would not tack to the left or the right, he would sail directly into the storm. “They’re living about twelve miles east of Holding. Buck and I have seen Sammy and talked with him. He’s fine, he looks a lot like you, he wants to see his brothers and little sister.” Sammy hadn’t said that, but Father Tim had read it clearly in his eyes; thus it wasn’t a lie. “I thought we could talk about it, work out how you’d like to handle it.”
Dooley turned from the table and faced the stove, stricken.
The boy’s conflicts would have to do primarily with his father, but Father Tim remembered a lesser issue: Dooley had said he would find Sammy and Kenny, he would do something that would be miraculous, magical. Instead, it had been done for him. He wished Dooley could have found his brother, but it had been ordained otherwise—Sammy had been found by a Frenchwoman who, as an infant, had been deserted by her own father.
The very thought made him pace the study like something caged. He was itching to preach a sermon, but he knew better.
At six-thirty, he called Meadowgate Farm and was relieved that Dooley answered.
“Hey, buddy.”
“Hey back.”
“Are you wearing a helmet?”
“Right now?”
“When you ride a motorcycle.”
“Yeah.”
“Every time, no excuses?” He knew country roads, and the lure of breaking a few rules.
“Yes, sir,” Dooley said over a burst of background laughter.
“Good. I’m counting on it.” He paused to let that pronouncement sink in.
“Don’t worry,” said Dooley.
Music to his ears. “Is Meadowgate having a party?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Reba came over for supper, we’re having spaghetti. Miz Owen says tell you thanks for what you sent. Got to go.”
I give him into Your hands, Lord, he prayed as he hung up. Send
Your angels with him, to keep him from every harm. He pondered a moment. And bless him, please, with wisdom and discretion in all that he does, through Christ our Lord, Amen.
While he was at it, he figured he’d better pray for Reba Sanders, too.
At seven o’clock, he was rustling up a partial reprise of lunch, and found he wasn’t even remotely tempted by the sweetened tea; thank heaven he’d learned a little sense in this life. For safety’s sake, he’d packed Dooley off to Meadowgate with the rest of the cake.
“Preacher?”
Startled, he turned around from the kitchen island to see Uncle Billy peering through the screen door. “Are you’un’s havin’ y’r supper?”
“Getting ready to, Uncle Billy. Come in here and have it with me.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said the old man.
Father Tim was shocked to see his friend—some inner
illumination had gone from him, like sap tapped from a tree. “How did you get way down here?”
“Harley seen me a-comin’ down th’ street an’ picked me up. I like t’ never climbed in ’is truck, hit seemed tall as th’ Wesley bank buildin’. I’d as soon walked.”
“You’re out of breath, my friend. I’ll carry you home.”
“I’d be beholden.”
“How are you?”
“I ain’t been too good.”
Father Tim helped the old man to the island.
“Can you swing up here on this stool?”
“Let me git ahold of you.” Uncle Billy set his foot on a rung, then grabbed Father Tim’s shoulder with one hand and pushed on his cane with the other. “Aye, law!” he exclaimed as he hauled himself up and thumped onto the stool. He couldn’t help but wonder why an important man like the preacher didn’t have a table and chairs like the rest of Creation.
“Glad to see you, Uncle Billy. I hope you don’t object to leftovers.”
“Nossir, I like leftovers, as we don’t usually have none. A man stays s’ hungry on Rose’s provisions, they ain’t nothin’ t’ leave over, don’t you know.”
Father Tim ducked to the refrigerator and pulled out the platter of chicken and the bowls of potato salad and cranberry sauce, and displayed them proudly. “And there’s fresh corn to boot. Puny cut it off the cob and creamed it, it’s sweet as sugar. Let me heat you a bowlful.”
“That’d be good,” said the old man. “I hate t’ trouble you.”
“No trouble at all!” In truth, he was thrilled to do something for somebody after weeks of being as useless as moss on a stump.
He poured a hearty portion of corn into a bowl, assembled a few leftover biscuits, and zapped the whole caboodle in the microwave. He’d gotten to be a pro at microwaving; it was a liberation he never dreamed he’d enjoy.
As he served two plates and got out the flatware, he eyed the old man from the corner of his eye. Something was wrong. “Uncle Billy, you’re not your old self. I’m going to ask a blessing on our supper, then I’d like you to tell me what’s what.”
Uncle Billy clasped his hands under his chin and bowed his head. His left hand was doing its best to keep his right hand from trembling.
“Father, thank You for sending this dear friend to our table, it’s an honor to have his company. Lord, we ask You for Bill Watson’s strength: strength of spirit, strength of mind, strength of purpose, strength of body. May You shower him with Your mighty, yet tender grace, and give him hope and health all the days of his long and obedient life. We pray You’d heap yet another blessing on Puny for preparing what You’ve faithfully provided, and ask, also, that You make us ever mindful of the needs of others. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
“A-men!”
He set the bowl of corn and a plate of hot biscuits in front of his guest. “Piping hot! Have at it, Uncle Billy, and here’s the butter.”
“Yessir, I will, an’ I hope they ain’t too much salt in y’r corn, doc said stay offa salt.”
“You’re in good hands. We don’t use much salt around here.”
“When we’re done, I’ve got a joke drummed up f’r you.”
“Great!” he said. “Great!” And he’d laugh if it killed him.
Uncle Billy picked at his supper; then, with what Father Tim’s mother had called “a coming appetite,” he worked up momentum and laid his bowl and plate thoroughly bare.
The old man grinned. “I’ve eat ’til I’m about t’ bust!”
“And I’m bustin’ to hear your joke.”
“They’s three in all. Hit’s took a good bit of time t’ collect th’ dadjing things.”
“I understand. Sermons can come hard, too.”
“Are you glad you ain’t a-preachin’ steady n’more?”
“I’ll be preaching next Sunday—right down the street. And the Sunday following, as well. I hope you and Miss Rose will be there.”
“If we’re able.”
“Tell me how you’re feeling. What does Hoppy say?”
“One of them pills he give me made me swimmy-headed, so I ain’t a-takin’ ’em n’more.”
“I don’t know who’s the worse patient, you or me.”
“He says my heart ain’t a-pumpin’ right, makes me weak as pond water.”
“You can’t stop taking your medication, Uncle Billy, this is serious business.” He heard the sternness in his voice. “Maybe it’s time for you and Miss Rose to move to Hope House.” He knew the reaction he’d get, but it wouldn’t hurt to bring it up again.
“Nossir, we ain’t a-goin’ up there, you couldn’t drag Rose out of ’er brother’s place with a team of mules. What with m’ arthur a-botherin’ me an’ m’ heart a-givin’ out, I’d as soon go on home to th’ Lord if it won’t f’r leavin’ Rose.”
Father Tim sighed.
“They’s not a soul a-livin’ that’d put up with ’er, don’t you know.”
He would call Dr. Wilson tomorrow and find out the whole story. Right now they’d better cheer up before both their chins were dragging on the floor.
“How’s your garden coming along?”
“Hit ain’t. They didn’t nothin’ come up from them seeds Dora give me. I got one little sprout is all, an’ a rabbit eat that.”
“Let’s go sit in the study, Uncle Billy, I’ll help you down.”
With Father Tim’s assistance, the old man aimed his feet at the floor and slid from the stool. “By johnny!” he exclaimed, as the mission was accomplished.
“Wellsir…,” said Uncle Billy. The first joke had gone over better than he expected. Now came the preacher joke, which he reckoned had a fair chance due to the subject matter. Standing by the coffee table, which seemed a central location, he took a deep breath and leaned on his three-pronged cane.
“A preacher died, don’t you know, an’ was a-waitin’ in line at th’ Pearly Gates. Ahead of ’im is a feller in blue jeans, a leather jacket, an’ a tattoo on ’is arm. Saint Pete says to th’ feller with th’ tattoo, says, ‘Who are you, so I’ll know whether t’ let you in th’ Kingdom of Heaven?’
“Feller says, ‘I’m Tom Such an’ Such, I drove a taxicab in New York City.’
“Saint Pete looks at th’ list, says, ‘Take this silk robe an’ gold staff an’ enter th’ Kingdom of Heaven!’ Then he hollers, ‘Next!’
“Th’ preacher steps up, sticks out ’is chest, says, ‘I’m th’ Rev’rend Jimmy Lee Tapscott, pastor of First Baptist Church f’r forty-three years.’
“Saint Pete looks at ’is list, don’t you know, says, ‘Take this flour-sack robe an’ hick’ry stick an’ enter th’ Kingdom of Heaven.’
“Preacher says, ‘Wait a dadjing minute! That man was a taxicab driver an’ he gits a silk robe an’ a gold staff?’
“Saint Pete says, ‘When you preached, people slept. When he drove, people prayed.’”
Father Tim threw back his head and hooted with laughter. Then he clapped his hands and slapped his leg a few times, still laughing. Uncle Billy had never seen such carrying on. Why didn’t the preacher save something back for the last joke?
“Hold on!” he said. “I got another’n t’ go.”
“Right,” said Father Tim. “That was a keeper.”
“You can use that’n in church, won’t cost you a red cent.”
Uncle Billy felt his heart pumping, which was, in his opinion, a good sign. He straightened up a moment and rested his back, then leaned again on his cane as if hunkering into a strong wind. This was the big one and he wanted it to go as slick as grease.
“Wellsir, three ol’ sisters was a-livin’ together, don’t you know. Th’ least ’un was eighty-two, th’ middle ’un was ninety-some, an’ th’ oldest ’un was way on up in age. One day th’ oldest ’un run a tub of water. She put one foot in th’ water, started a-thinkin’, hollered downstairs to ’er sisters, said, ‘Am I a-gittin’ in th’ tub or out of th’ tub?’
“Th’ middle sister, she star
ted up th’ stairs t’ he’p out, don’t you know, then thought a minute. Yelled to ’er baby sister, said, ‘Was I agoin’ up th’ stairs or a-comin’ down?’
“Th’ baby sister, she was settin’ in th’ kitchen havin’ a cup of coffee, said, ‘Guess I’ll have t’ go up yonder an’ he’p out…boys, I hope I never git that forgetful, knock on wood!’
“Went t’ knockin’ on th’ table, don’t you know, then jumped up an’ hollered, ‘I’ll be there soon as I see who’s at th’ door!’”
Uncle Billy couldn’t help but grin at the preacher, who was not only laughing, but wiping his eyes into the bargain. The old man took it to be his proudest moment. He’d had laughs before; he reckoned anybody could get a laugh now and again if he worked hard enough, but crying…. that was another deal, it was what every joke teller hoped for. His heart was hammering and his knees were weak. He sat down, hard, in the preacher’s leather chair and heard something he hadn’t heard in a good while—
It was the sound of his own self laughing.
After Father Tim dropped his friend at the town museum and walked him to the door, he drove home and parked in the garage. As he switched off the engine, the exhaustion switched on. It came suddenly, in a wave that left him feeble and shaken. But for Barnabas needing a walk, he would have sat in the car ’til Kingdom come. Would this snare to his soul never end?
He would force himself to walk his good dog to the monument. It was a known fact that both dogs and diabetics required exercise.
Barnabas was slower this evening than his master, which was something Father Tim didn’t enjoy noting. His dog wouldn’t be with him forever; a man might mourn the loss of four or five best friends in a lifetime—but he mustn’t think of that now.
The fireflies were coming out as they walked through town. At the monument he stood transfixed in the grassy circle and watched the minuscule lights dancing above the hedge. One briefly illumined the ear of his dog, others sparkled among the branches of trees across the street. He should go home and find a Mason jar and punch holes in the lid and catch a handful and turn the lights out in his room and, with Barnabas lying on the foot of the bed, watch them flicker and gleam like stars. Later, of course, he would open the window and let them go, just as he’d done as a boy….