by Jan Karon
He looked up from his e-mail. “He’s not the Man in the Attic.”
“You know what I mean.”
“His name is George, and I trust him completely, as I do Harley. And no, I’m not collecting criminals who’ll loose themselves on the town to wreak havoc. Who’s saying such things anyway?” If she knew so much, maybe she knew the source of this wild rumor-mongering.
She shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”
“I am asking you. Who’s saying this? Where did you hear it?”
“At The Local.”
“Who said it?”
“Somebody…,” she said, throwing up her hands and looking pained.
“Next time you see Somebody, tell them these men paid their debt to society and are now making every effort to contribute to it.”
“Oh, all right,” she said. “It was Ed Coffey. I didn’t want to say his name, since I know how you feel about that witch he works for.”
Edith Mallory. Alive and well and spewing her venom.
He’d just written and delivered a sermon and now it was time to write another. A priest whose name he couldn’t remember had nailed it: “It’s like having a baby on Sunday and waking up pregnant on Monday.”
He ran along the road toward Farmer, with Barnabas loping behind.
He wanted Sunday’s message to count for something. Otherwise, why bother?
“Your words for Your people,” he huffed aloud.
“Hey, buddy.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“Is this a good time?”
“I’m just gettin’ ready to feed the horses.”
“There’s no way to know whether Sammy will be home, but we could take a shot at it tomorrow morning. That’s a good time for Buck and me. What about you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you meet me at the Grill at eight o’clock? We’ll have breakfast and connect with Buck on the way down the mountain.”
A long pause. “I’ll be there.”
He heard the apprehension in the boy’s voice, and went to his chair in the study and prayed again about tomorrow’s mission. “And while I’m at it, Father, please…show me how to put an end to this darkness, or if You choose to let it go on, give me a brighter spirit to endure it.” He was whining. He hated whining.
“Father! John Brewster here.”
“John, how’s it coming? I’ll be over next week to see the children. I’ve missed my visits.”
“We’ll be glad to have you, as always. I’ve got great news!”
“Shoot.”
“We’ve had a call from an anonymous donor. They want to give us a check for twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Great! You can use it.”
“There are a couple of strings attached.”
“The usual,” he said.
“They want you to conduct services at a private chapel over in Kinloch, somewhere on the lake.”
“Me? Why me?”
“I don’t have all the details, the check will be delivered with the info as soon as they know whether you’ll do it.”
“What’s the timeline for the service?”
“Next Sunday evening at six o’clock. You know how much twenty-five thousand would mean to us right now, Tim.”
“Yes, I do know. But why not Stuart Cullen?” The sum of twenty-five thousand bucks didn’t equate to a country priest, it equated to a big-city bishop.
“You’re the one they requested, said they’d heard you preach a couple of times.”
“Do you know the identity of this anonymous donor?”
“I don’t. That was the other string. Maybe you’ve heard that Kinloch is currently without a priest. Looks like this is something the donor wants to do for the parish, but doesn’t want to be recognized for it.”
“What sort of service? What’s the occasion?”
“I’ll tell you more when I know more, probably by tomorrow morning. You’ll do it, then?”
He hesitated.
Did he have the stamina to perform two services at Lord’s Chapel, make the nearly four-hour round-trip drive to celebrate and preach in Kinloch, then meet Cynthia’s plane the following morning? But that wasn’t the point. The point was twenty-five thousand dollars for a cause with an urgent need, a cause he’d passionately believed in and supported for more than two decades….
“Consider it done,” he said.
He was relieved to hear from John Brewster as he was going out the door to meet Dooley for breakfast.
“Got the check!” said the hardworking administrator. This was a big day in John’s book; currently, thirteen seriously ill or handicapped children were counting on his skills. “Of course, I can’t cash it ’til you do the service. By the way, there’s no special occasion, they just want a good, all-around worship service.”
“Who signed the check? Where did it come from?”
“Signed by…let’s see, Jonathan Ferguson, out of a Schwab account in Miami.”
His heart literally skipped a beat.
Edith Mallory, of course, had a home in Miami. But then, so did a couple million other people.
“It arrived by courier service about ten minutes ago, they knew I’d be in early this morning. I never realized we had a courier service in these hills.” John laughed, heady with the updraft of unexpected financial support. “Thanks, Father, this is great, thanks a million.”
Besides, thought Father Tim, Edith would never let twenty-five thousand dollars go so easily, and for so little in kind. She craved honor, glory, fame, and praise, which the low-profile Children’s Hospital rarely bestowed, save in an inexpensive annual printout of donor names. No, this had nothing of her stamp on it.
He released his breath in a long sigh.
He was in the booth at ten ’til eight.
Though ready for the trip to the trailer, and believing in the best, he was trying to prepare himself for the worst.
“How’re the gizzards doing?” he asked Percy.
“Big,” said Percy. “Really big.”
“It’s th’ sauce,” said Velma.
“I like your sign.” Father Tim nodded toward the hand-lettered broadside taped to the back of the cash register.
Gizzards Today.
Now with Velma’s
Homemade
Dipping Sauce.
Someone had tried to illustrate the broadside with pencil sketches of gizzards. Not a good idea.
“What we’re findin,’” said Percy, “is Velma’s dippin’ sauce is great with a whole bunch of menu items.”
“Burgers!” said Velma.
“Fries!” said Percy.
“You name it,” Velma concluded. “Even turnip greens.”
“Aha!”
“Th’ fire chief puts it on ’is eggs, you ought to order your eggs scrambled this mornin’, goes great on scrambled eggs.”
“It’s a little too early for dippin’ sauce,” said Father Tim, feeling queasy.
Velma gave him the once-over. “Variety is th’ spice of life.”
“Right,” he said. “But not before eight o’clock.”
Dooley was tight-lipped, as he idled his spoon in a bowl of Cheerios. Father Tim felt quiet himself—who knew what the day would bring?
Dooley looked up suddenly. “How come Doc Harper bought her a BMW?”
“It’s in mint condition, he got it for a great price, and it’s said to be one of the safest cars out there.”
“It was a stupid move.”
“A stupid move?”
“Nobody in college needs a hot car like that, it makes her look like a snob, a real show-off.”
“I don’t believe Lace is a show-off.”
Dooley didn’t respond. The look Father Tim saw on his face was familiar; he’d seen it when he and the boy first met. Dooley was seething inside.
“Talk to me,” said Father Tim. “What’s going on?”
“My Jeep looks like crap. I don’t have the money to get the rust spots fixed or have it painted. I
hate driving it.”
“You never mentioned that ’til Lace got the…coupe.” He wanted to avoid using the name BMW entirely; it seemed to have some spell-binding power that coupe or car lacked.
I have put one and a quarter million dollars where it will grow, and have made provisions to complete his preparatory education.
When he is eighteen, the income from the trust will help send him through college.
I am depending on you never to mention this to him until he is old enough to bear it with dignity.
Dooley’s voice was cold. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then let’s don’t,” said Father Tim.
The air had cooled; along the riverbanks it was fresh and sweet, with none of the broiling humidity of August.
Buck steered the red pickup down a road that Father Tim now found familiar, and made the turn by the wayside pulpit.
Fear knocked, faith answered.
No one was there.
Buck pulled at his chin with his left hand, deep in thought. Dooley was as frozen as park statuary; Father Tim knew that, in his father, the boy would face a thousand demons.
As for himself, he tried sitting loose. He had prayed the prayer that never failed and was trusting the One to whom he’d prayed it.
There was nothing more he could do. Nothing.
Frail and shirtless, Clyde Barlowe squinted through the torn screen door.
“They ain’t no Sammy livin’ here.”
“I’m Tim Kavanagh from Mitford.” The dog sniffed his pant leg.
“Buck Leeper,” said Buck.
“And this,” said Father Tim, “is Dooley. Dooley Barlowe.”
The barefoot, unshaven man peered closely at Dooley, then uttered an oath.
“When’s Sammy due back?” Buck demanded.
Clyde Barlowe’s left eye gazed at them, blank. “I don’t keep up with nobody named Sammy. Y’all better split before I git my dogs on you, I keep some bad dogs out back.”
Father Tim recoiled at the flume of breath that issued like a sour vapor through the screen.
“Look here, Barlowe…” Buck stepped closer to the door.
“M’ name ain’t Barlowe, it’s Jaybird Johnson. Ever’body calls me Jaybird, that’s th’ name on m’ my gov’ment checks. Cain’t nobody prove I ain’t Jaybird. Now git offa my place, an’ stay off.” Clyde Barlowe stepped back, grabbed the door, and slammed it hard.
Dooley jumped from the top step and ducked around the corner of the trailer by a propane tank. He returned moments later, shamefaced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Puked,” he mumbled.
They waited a half hour near the entrance to the shade garden, speaking very little. Perhaps he would come…
For a time, the dog stood at a distance, then ambled over and lay at Dooley’s feet, its tail beating the dust.
“Let’s wait a few more minutes,” said Dooley.
They were walking toward the bridge more than an hour later when Dooley stopped and looked back at the trailer.
“He’s not…” There was a long pause.
“He’s not what?” Father Tim asked.
“He’s not tall anymore.”
Hope Winchester knew what people were saying about George Gaynor.
Not that it was anything incredibly serious, but she despised the snide remarks made here and there, and the skeptical glances.
It seemed very clear—as long as he’d been the Man in the Attic, he’d been glamorous, mysterious, exotic. He’d descended the church stairs looking like a rock star with his long, flowing hair, then made his dramatic confession in front of the entire congregation, afterward asking Father Tim to call the police to take him away. Not a few witnesses of this breathtaking event thought it a thrilling scenario for a movie; several found it a shame that Harrison Ford was too old for the part.
She remembered vividly the day the FBI arrived in Mitford in their black cars with dark windows that no one could see through—nearly everybody in town had stood on Main Street to wave goodbye to a confessed criminal who’d endeared himself to their hearts for all eternity.
But of course it hadn’t been for all eternity.
Now the Man in the Attic was real and actual, a flesh-and-blood human being working in their bookstore and living with another convict just down the street. At least two customers had insinuated that for all they knew, George Gaynor and Harley Welch spent their nights plotting shadowy deeds while innocent people lay sleeping. They thought it unwise of Father Tim, who did so many things right, to get this one thing so very wrong. The least he could do, someone suggested, was separate the two. The owner of Chelsea Tea Shop, who considered Harley a good sort, said that being in prison for running liquor wasn’t all that bad, really, but consider what a criminal did in prison—he learned bad things from other criminals, so that what he knew going in was horribly multiplied when he came out, did anyone get the point?
Helen, the bookstore owner, hadn’t said a word about their new employee, but then, she lived in Florida for nine months of the year and all she looked at was the bottom line. In truth, the first several weeks of George Gaynor’s employment had been quite evident in the bottom line—people had swarmed in to see him, people like Emma Newland, who had never read a book in her life, as far as Hope could determine, and Esther Bolick, who had purchased a copy of Bathroom Trivia, Volume I for her husband who, Esther didn’t mind confiding, was constipated due to his current medication for a brain tumor.
Scott Murphy, the chaplain at Hope House, had come in at least twice. Once he’d stepped into the mailroom with George and she thought she heard Scott call him “brother” and heard them praying together, which didn’t please her at all; maybe Scott knew this, because on the way out, he bought a copy of The Clean Joke Book in paperback. “For the residents at Hope House,” he said, smiling. She’d heard that Scott Murphy had those elderly people dancing, writing their life stories, and working in the garden. She knew he had two Jack Russells which he used somehow in his work.
Hope had been frankly relieved when the common horde had gotten their fill of George Gaynor and made room for people who actually loved and read books, which, in the scheme of things, seemed a dwindling and precious few.
In any case, the owner had for years trusted Hope Winchester to get it right, and so far, Hope believed, she had gotten it right.
And now this.
She was wringing her hands in the mailroom when George came in with a large box for UPS. He set it down and looked at her, smiling. She realized she was wringing her hands, but couldn’t seem to stop, she could not will herself to stop. It was hugely embarrassing to be caught in so many awkward circumstances—talking too much, laughing too loudly, dropping books, calling Henry James ‘James Henry’; she had even stopped using big words unnecessarily.
“You’re concerned about something,” he said.
She hated the direct way he stated things, stripping away convention and getting to the very marrow of meaning. If only she had courage, she would fire him at once, just to be rid of the volatile feelings she suffered in his presence.
But she’d never fired anyone; and, until George Gaynor, she’d never hired anyone, either. All she had ever wished to do was sit on the stool and order books, read, and satisfy customers like Father Tim, who often wanted the unique, the hard-to-find, the out-of-print. She had never wished to be management.
“Yes!” she said. “I mean, no. No! Not at all.”
“Are you concerned about what people are saying?”
“What…exactly…are they saying?”
“Some feel uncomfortable because Harley and I—”
“Oh, that!” she said, her voice hoarse. Then, without warning, she burst into tears. The tears seemed to explode from her, as one might suddenly be seized by a violent cough, and she realized she was sobbing.
She had every intention of running into the bathroom and locking the door, but instead thumped down on the box of book
s he’d just carried in, and put her head in her hands, and wept without caring what he thought.
They were making the turn by the wayside pulpit when they noticed the faded green pickup truck moving toward them.
Though his vision wasn’t the best, Father Tim saw the hair through the windshield and knew at once.
“Dooley,” he said with a lump in his throat, “it’s your brother.”
“Ho!” yelled Buck, throwing up his hand at the driver.
Lon Burtie made the turn and braked his vehicle as he pulled alongside. He peered cautiously at the occupants of the red truck.
“How’re y’all?”
“Good,” said Buck. “Sammy, we’ve brought your brother, Dooley, to see you.”
Father Tim opened the passenger door and got out. Dooley sat for a moment as if paralyzed, the color drained from his face. Then he moved over and got out, also, and walked around to the front of the truck as if in a dream.
Sammy jumped down from the green truck and stood by the door, waiting, his eyes wide and frightened.
No one spoke. Lon Burtie cut off the ignition and sat with his right wrist on the steering wheel. Buck turned off his ignition.
Dooley stood for a long moment, leaning against the hood. Then he drew himself up and walked to the front of the green truck.
“Hey,” whispered Dooley, looking at his brother.
Sammy nodded, but could not speak.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Coal Yet Burning
He’d expected to pay a price for yesterday’s journey. Yet it hadn’t exhausted him in the least.
After bounding with Barnabas to the monument, he legged homeward with schoolboy eagerness, changed into something comfortable, brewed a cup of tea, and sat down to his long-neglected essay.
He found it as mute as marble.
What had he meant by all that scribbling, anyway? Another man might have penned it; he’d never known something from his own hand to be so alien in meaning and purpose.
He dumped the pages into the wastebasket, removed the legal tablet from his desk drawer, and took up the pen his wife had given him. Then, filled with conviction, he went at it—head down, as into the wind.