by Jan Karon
At the end of the short walkway to the street, George hesitated. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Tell away!” He felt lighter; his flesh seemed less dense and burdened.
“A customer was pumping gas the other day at Lew’s and recognized Harley as someone he’d done time with.”
“Ah.” Not good.
“He was from West Virginia, so he had nothing to lose around here by saying he’d been in prison, he broadcast it all over the station. Harley was devastated.
“Now Lew has two ex-cons on his hands and people are talking. Since we’re living in your house, you may want to know what they’re saying.”
“What are they saying?” The lightness of spirit he felt only moments ago had fled, and something like dread came rushing in.
After jogging for two miles along the flat road to Farmer—uphill to Church Hill was out of the question—he went home and called Hoppy. His doctor was with a patient, but the receptionist took his number.
He changed clothes and went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Starving. But he’d eaten already. He took two carrot sticks from the crisper. Blast this disease to the ends of the earth, he wanted a burger, lightly charred on an outdoor grill, with mayo and sweet pickle relish, a slab of Vidalia onion, and a thick slice of a valley-grown Big Boy with plenty of salt and pepper, all on a homemade sourdough bun with a side of coleslaw. He went to his study and kicked the footstool in front of his leather chair.
There was no more putting it off, no more pacing the floor, and no more holding on to even the faintest hope that Sunday’s sermon would drop from the sky into his lap.
Could he do it? Could he preach in his old church and bring something worthwhile to the service? He couldn’t kid himself or God, either—he felt jittery about it, unnerved. He needed someone to preach him a sermon.
“‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me!’” he shouted aloud from Philippians 4:13.
“Is that merely a few things, Timothy, or is it actually all things?” he demanded of himself as he walked to and fro in the light-filled study. He was ravenous.
“All things!” he thundered in his pulpit voice.
There. That should do it.
He thumped into his desk chair and stared at the Royal manual he’d foraged from the corner of the room where it had sat for an age under its dust cover, then opened the drawer, took out a sheet of paper, and rolled it into the typewriter.
So far, so good.
He took up his Bible, already turned to the passages in Hebrews that he’d studied again last night. Thank God for this chapter, one of the grandest in the whole of Scripture. Its powerful reminder had saved his neck and that of legions of others more than once.
In truth, the eleventh chapter of Hebrews was a sermon in itself, requiring no feeble exegesis from him, a tired and re-tired country parson—but it was exegesis folks wanted and exegesis they would have….
He answered the insistent phone, forgetting he’d planned to turn the ringer down and switch on the answering machine.
“Father? It’s Betty Craig.”
“Betty!” The wonderful nurse who cared for Dooley’s grandfather in her cottage up the way. “Did we forget Russell’s livermush delivery this week?”
“No, sir, it’s not that.”
He knew at once.
“Mr. Jacks passed this morning at eight-thirty.”
“I’m sorry, Betty.” This was a blow. It would be a greater blow, however, to Dooley, to Pauline, and the children—and even to Betty Craig, who had learned to love the former Lord’s Chapel sexton who made the church grounds a showplace for many years.
“He always said he wanted you to do his funeral.”
“Yes.”
“He sat on the side of th’ bed this mornin’ an’ just stared at the wall, I saw him when I went down th’ hall. ‘Betty,’ he said, ‘can you come here a minute?’ an’ I went in an’…”
He prayed silently as she wept.
“An’ he said, ‘Betty, you’ve been a daughter to me.’” She sobbed into the phone. “I can’t talk now, Father, can you come?”
“I’m on my way.”
He and Russell had been friends for twenty years and in recent times, except for the interim at Whitecap, he’d toted Russell his livermush every week or two. He’d always stayed awhile to sit in the rocker, or walk with Russell to the small garden he’d proudly installed for his “keeper.”
“See there, that’s m’ keeper!” the old man once said of Betty. “God rest ’er soul!”
Now Russell’s soul was at rest. And he must be the one to break the news.
He drove to Meadowgate, where Dooley was disinfecting the kennels. They sought the shade of a maple tree behind the barn.
“I feel really bad I didn’t go see him more.” Dooley rubbed his eyes, then with evident shame and sorrow said, “I could’ve.”
Father Tim went looking for Pauline at Hope House, and found her in the dining room setting tables for the evening meal.
Pauline dropped her head; tears escaped along her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry I didn’t visit Daddy more’n I did.”
Regret. As his own heart could attest, the world seemed filled with it.
“Law help!” said Puny. “I’d th’ow that phone out th’ winder if I was you!”
He was helping Pauline with the funeral arrangements; a young couple had called for counseling; he was wanted down at the church to advise the sexton where to plant four white azalea bushes that had to be moved for a water line repair….
“It’s jis’ like it used t’ be!” said his house help.
Yes, he thought. It is! And to tell the truth, he rather liked it. In fact, he liked it immensely.
Harley came to the door at four-thirty on his way home from Lew Boyd’s.
Father Tim had seldom seen Harley without his toothless grin.
“I cain’t even tell you how sorry I am,” Harley said, hanging his head. “I hate f’r Dooley t’ know it worser’n anybody. Lace, she knowed, but hit didn’t matter t’ her.”
“Harley,” he said, “it doesn’t matter to me, either.”
Harley looked at him, wordless.
“You and George have paid your debt, it’s over, it’s all in the past.”
“Seem like th’ worst thing is me’n George bein’ in your house, like you might be…collectin’ criminals.”
Father Tim laughed.
“Seem like it might he’p a little if one of us was t’ move som’ers else.”
“Don’t think about it. This will blow over. You and George come walk with me to church on Sunday, I could use the support.”
There went Harley’s grin again, meeting behind his head.
Hoppy rang after five o’clock. “Bill Watson has congestive heart failure. There’s no cure, but medication can help relieve the symptoms.”
“He’s off his medication,” said Father Tim, feeling like a turncoat.
“When we hang up, I’ll give him a call and preach him a sermon.”
“Have at it!” He wasn’t eager to conduct another funeral service.
“Now,” said Hoppy, “how are you doing?”
“Doing fine.” He hadn’t keeled over, so he must be doing fine.
“How was the Oregon Trail?”
Hoppy completely ignored this thoughtful inquiry.
“You’re taking your shots twice a day?”
“Absolutely.”
“No cornbread?”
“Not a crumb.”
“Exercise?”
“Three times a week, two miles on the road to Farmer.”
“What about the antidepressant?”
Silence. He could not tell a lie.
“I want to see you tomorrow. Speak to Jean about working you in.”
“Can’t do it! I have a funeral.”
“Funerals don’t last all day, pal. I’ll tell you about the trail when I see you tomorrow.
”
Blast.
He was dozing on the sofa when the phone rang.
“Father, how you doin’? It’s Lew Boyd.”
“Lew!” He was addled from sleep, but conscious enough to sit up straight and take a deep breath. This was the call he’d been dreading.
“There’s somethin’ I been meanin’ to talk to you about.”
“Yes, Lew, I know, and it’s very unfortunate. I’m sorry.”
There was a startled silence. “You are?”
“Yes. I regret it deeply, and hope it doesn’t hurt business in any way.”
“Hurt business? How could it hurt business?”
“I’ve been concerned it could scare some of your customers away.”
“I don’t see how,” said Lew, sounding completely bewildered. “All I’m tryin’ to do is git married.”
“Married!” Good heavens, he’d just shouted. His dog leaped off the rug, barking.
“When I won a pickle contest back in high school, she kissed me.”
“That’ll do it every time!”
“I didn’t enter kosher dills that year, I entered gherkins.”
“Aha.”
“Her name’s Earlene.”
“Earlene! I’ll say…”
“You know Juanita’s been gone six years.”
“That a long time.”
“Almost seven.”
He couldn’t seem to figure out where this was headed. “Is there something I can do to…help?”
“See, Earlene lives in Tennessee an’ me’n her, well, it’s about to half kill me runnin’ up an’ down th’ road in my ol’ pickup. I’m no spring chicken, you know what I mean?”
“Indeed I do.”
“So, what it is, I’d like you to marry us.”
“Ah! Well! Goodness. Congratulations!”
“But we can’t tell nobody for a while yet. It has t’ be secret.”
“Why is that?”
“Her mama’s real bad off with heart trouble. It wouldn’t do to tell ’er, we want to go real easy on breakin’ this to ’er; see, Earlene’s been takin’ care of ’er mama more’n ten years, since her daddy died.”
“I see. When were you thinking?”
“Sometime next week.”
“Next week?”
“It’d have t’ be a Tuesday or Wednesday,” said Lew, apologetic.
“Those are th’ only days she could get off from th’ flour company. She used to be a librarian, but th’ flour company offered a benefit package you wouldn’t believe.”
“This is great news, of course. However, I can’t perform the ceremony until I’ve counseled with you and Earlene.” Older marriage prospects seldom cared for this idea, so he emphasized its consequence. “That’s very important; it’s practically canon law.”
“Cannon law?”
“Also, there would be a waiting period of thirty days.”
His caller was clearly flabbergasted.
“May I ask why you’d like me to marry you?” Lew was a Baptist, no two ways about it.
“Well, see, Bill Sprouse is still laid up. An’ since I been workin’ on your vehicles f’r twenty years or such, I thought it’d be a good way to say I ’preciate your business.”
When Lew rang off, Father Tim lay on the sofa, dizzied by the prospect of what lay ahead.
How would he get it all done? He didn’t know. One thing he did know was that he needed help, he needed…
He was loath to even think it, but truth be told, he needed Emma Newland.
He clapped his hand to his forehead and uttered a piteous sound, loosely akin to a moan.
Though his startled dog sat bolt upright, he declined to bark.
He was afraid to answer the phone. Let the machine take it…
Beep. “Father! It’s Olivia. We’re back home in Mitford, and we’d love to see you. I hear Cynthia’s traveling, and—”
He grabbed the receiver from the hook. “Olivia! Welcome home!”
“There you are, Father! How lovely to hear your voice! Will you come to dinner tonight? Everything we’re having is good for us. I know it’s short notice, but do say yes!”
“Yes!”
“Lace brought you something, I mustn’t say what, you may faint! It was her idea, I had nothing whatever to do with this scheme.”
Lace brought him something? He was grinning from ear to ear.
“She also wants to show you her new car—it isn’t really new, of course, still I’m mortally envious! And I’m sure Hoppy would like to have a look at his patient—though you’ll be the one making the house call.”
He dressed for dinner, and had a few minutes to scan his sermon notes when the phone rang.
Cynthia wouldn’t call ’til late evening; he’d let the machine pick up.
“Tim, Bill Sprouse, you got to hear this. Buddy, tell th’ father how many Persons in th’ Holy Trinity.”
Hard by the receiver, Buddy barked three times.
“Good fella! Now, how many Testaments in th’ Bible?”
Two barks.
“Amen! Now tell ’im how many true Gods.”
One bark.
“Brother, did you ever hear th’ beat of that?”
Hooting with laughter, Father Tim snatched the receiver from the hook.
“Ask Buddy if he’d like to preach for me on Sunday.”
“Sorry, but he won’t be able—he’s supplyin’ over in Farmer.”
Father Tim couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed from the heart instead of the head.
“I wanted to tell you I’m up an’ hobblin’ around,” said Bill.
“Thanks be to God!”
“Buddy an’ I’ll be out on th’ street first thing you know, evangelizin’ the neighborhood.”
All the way to the Harpers, he held on to the sound of happiness in the voice of Bill Sprouse.
The mint-condition, fern-green BMW 325 coupe was parked in the drive, bathed in the glow of a gas-lit lamp.
“Man!” said Father Tim, speaking for Dooley as well as for himself.
Lace stood before him with the wrapped box, radiant.
“Would you like to guess? You could shake it!”
“I can’t imagine…,” he said, feeling like a kid at Christmas. He took the deep, square box and shook it. Muffled knocking about of something heavy. “Umm…” He would love to make this beautiful girl laugh with a clever guess or two, but blood could not be squeezed from a turnip.
“Bellows for the fireplace?” he asked, completely pathetic.
“No, Father! Guess again!”
Hoppy sat in an easy chair, one long leg crossed over the other, wearing his much-talked-about cowboy boots and grinning from ear to ear.
“Perhaps you could give him a clue!” said Olivia.
“You’ll be head over heels about these!” Lace crowed. He thought it marvelous the way her amber eyes danced and shone.
He shook the box again. The pressure was on. It could be books….
“Books!”
“You’re warm!” she said. “Change one letter!”
In the easy chair, Hoppy couldn’t seem to remove the foolish grin from his face as he conspicuously jiggled his foot.
Aha! Could it be? “No way,” said Father Tim, laughing. “No way are these boots!”
Lace jumped up and down. “You guessed it! You did it! Now you can open the box!”
Hand-tooled. With heels. Sharp as a tack.
Boots.
“Do you like them?” Lace waited, expectant, as he trotted around the living room to a minuscule thunder of applause.
Being a loafer man for roughly the whole of his existence, he was a tad nonplussed. Boots, like capers and eggplant, might be an acquired taste. On the other hand, they seemed to fit, they definitely made him taller….
“He’s thinking about it,” said Hoppy, “like I had to do.”
“I believe I’ve thought it through,” said their guest. “It’s entirely possible that in the
not-too-distant future, I may well be…head over heels!”
That they all gave him a congratulatory hug was a welcome bonus.
Lace studied the car owner’s manual; Hoppy returned to the hospital to check on a patient; Father Tim and Olivia walked out to the terrace and stood at the railing. In the cool night air of August, there was an ephemeral scent of fall.
“Father, Lace’s gift is meant to thank you, if only a little, for all you’ve done for her. When she saw how thrilled Hoppy was with his present, she wanted to give you that delight, also. She bought them with her own money.”
“All the more appreciated!”
“We know a pair of boots can’t express everything we feel. I hope you aren’t offended.”
“Offended? Good heavens, I’m flattered beyond words.”
“Without you, I almost certainly wouldn’t be standing here on this wonderful evening, and who can say where Lace might be? Thank you, dear friend.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “It was altogether the leading of the Holy Spirit.” He patted Olivia’s hand with true fondness. “Lace looks wonderful; tell me how she’s doing, what’s happening in her heart.”
“I wonder if the anger will ever go away. But even worse is the fear—she lived with it for so many years, I still see it in the way she holds her shoulders. It’s softening, yes, but a kind of around-the-clock alertness to danger seems just beneath the surface.
“I remember walking in the woods with my father, I was perhaps nine or ten. He showed me a special tree near the river. Long years ago, someone had struck a blow with an axe, leaving the blade in the tree. Daddy showed me how the trunk of the tree had grown around it ’til only a little of the blade was left showing.
“Lace’s fear and anger are an old axe blade, buried deep.”
“Her faith. How has that helped?”
“It’s helped greatly. Yet I think she may believe what too many of humankind believe—that it’s really our own raw determination which sees us through. The power of God’s grace isn’t fully realized in her yet, she’s still young.”
“I’ll pray that it be fully realized,” he said. Indeed, as he moved each day down the list of souls for whom he prayed without ceasing, Lace Turner was nearly always next after Dooley Barlowe. “I know it’s premature, but Cynthia and I have hoped that one day…” He found he couldn’t say it, after all; it seemed foolish when spoken aloud.