by Jan Karon
“Who with?” J.C. surveyed the table with a smug dignity reserved exclusively for the press. “Edith Mallory.”
“What?” Percy set the empty coffeepot on the table, hard. “You’re talkin’ to that low-life, money-grubbin’—”
“Hold on!” yelled Velma, who was setting up the adjoining booth. She grabbed her husband by the arm and dragged him to the grill, where she planted him like a chrysanthemum.
“Now hush up!” she snapped to J.C. “I’ve told you before, don’t talk about that woman in our place, it makes ’is heart act up. If you got to talk about that woman, step outside and do it on th’ dadblamed street.”
“She means business,” said Father Tim, lowering his head in case anything started flying.
“I’m a journalist!” J.C. yelled in the general direction of the grill. “I can’t confine my inquiry to the upstanding, kindhearted, and lovable; it’s my duty to dig down, get at the truth wherever it exists, and report it to the readers—whether some people like it or not!”
“Preach it, brother!” said Mule under his breath. He’d never much cared for Velma Mosley, who, just for meanness and only last week, had served him a side of slaw made with pickles when she knew for a fact that he despised pickles.
Father Tim was surprised to see Ed Coffey out and about in broad daylight. Though often observed chauffeuring Edith Mallory, Ed otherwise kept a low profile in Mitford—some said Ed drove his employer to Wesley, where all grocery shopping and other errands were done. Yet here was Ed Coffey in the produce aisle of The Local, only a couple of feet ahead.
When Father Tim first came to Lord’s Chapel, he’d often seen Ed at the Grill. Everyone agreed he’d been a decent enough fellow, born and raised just down the road, until Edith and Pat Mallory hired him. Soon after Pat dropped dead of a heart attack and tumbled down his hall stairs, the town saw a change in Ed. He became furtive, sullen, and short-tempered, as if Edith’s toxic nature had somehow contaminated him.
Father Tim started to turn his cart around and head in the other direction, but stopped abruptly. No, he wouldn’t go the other way. He rolled his cart alongside the man who, on a warm August morning, was wearing a black raincoat and the billed cap he sported in his role as chauffeur.
“Good morning, Ed.”
Ed Coffey turned, startled.
“I hear you’re mongering some pretty negative stuff about Harley Welch and George Gaynor.” Emma Newland might be a lot of things, but she was no liar.
Ed’s face flushed with anger. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, I don’t know anybody named Gaynor.”
“If you did know this particular Gaynor, I believe you’d find him to be upright, law-abiding, and a contribution to our community. As for Harley Welch, he, too, has paid his debt to society and proves daily to be a kind and responsible citizen. I pray you’ll find it in your heart to think twice…before misrepresenting these men again.”
“Where do you come off, tellin’ me what to do about somebody I never heard of? Preachers think they know it all—goin’ around actin’ high an’ mighty, tellin’ innocent people how to live.”
Father Tim walked away, pushing his cart toward the seafood case. Ed Coffey, it appeared, did not take kindly to reprimand.
“Fresh salmon!” he told Avis Packard. “That’s what I was hoping. But of course your seafood comes in on Thursday, and if I buy it on Thursday, I’d have to freeze it ’til Monday.”
“For ten bucks I can have a couple pounds flown in fresh on Monday, right off th’ boat. Should get here late afternoon.”
No one in the whole of Mitford would pay hard-earned money to have salmon shipped in. But his wife loved fresh salmon, and this was no time to compromise. Not for ten bucks, anyway.
“Book it!” he said, grinning.
“You understand th’ ten bucks is just for shippin’. Salmon’s extra.”
“Right.”
“OK!” Avis rubbed his hands together with undisguised enthusiasm. “I’ve got just the recipe!”
Some were born to preach, others born to shop, and not a few, it seemed, born to meddle. Avis was born to advocate the culinary arts. Father Tim took a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Shoot!”
“Salmon roulade!” announced Avis. “Tasty, low-fat, and good for diabetes.”
“Just what the doctor ordered!” said Father Tim, feeling good about life in general.
After putting the groceries away, he made a quick swing up the hill to the hospital, where he prayed with Joe Ivey. Then he visited the Sprouses, where he dropped off dog treats, delivered a pot of chives for Rachel’s kitchen window, prayed with Bill, and was able to witness, firsthand, Buddy’s Bible quiz. Afterward, he hustled to Hope House, where he sat on the footstool and provided rough harmony for Louella’s rendition of “Bread of Life,” after which he took the elevator to the dining room and found Pauline.
“How do you feel about tomorrow?”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t blame Sammy for not wantin’ to see me. I understand.”
“You do?”
“Yessir, I think I do. Just look at th’ miracles God has worked in our family. But I’m countin’ on Him for two more. Do you think that’s askin’ too much?”
He saw the scar on her cheek from the terrible burn. “Never! Saint Paul reminds us that God is able to do super-abundantly, over and above all that we ask or think. But it may take time.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
He hugged her, wordless. Pauline was the one whom God had chosen to give Dooley Barlowe to the world, to him; he was extra thankful for that gift.
It was a conundrum.
As technological advances increased to make people’s lives easier, life became increasingly difficult, i.e., faster, more frantic, more complicated and demanding, all due, in his opinion, to technological advances.
Nonetheless, he could hardly wait to get hold of his e-mail.
“Everybody’s online,” said Emma, giving him a look that would stop a clock.
“Good for them!” he said, more determined than ever to go against the grain.
Timothy, for heaven’s sake
this is a new keyboard /I am doing my best9
have not hearD from you in a coon’s age. Get cracking.
abner expert at building things—a bookcase for my hut and a dog house for Willie who has adopted the lot of us. tHe children come daily, their number growsWe are having a show of their art based on Bible stories and charging one dollar admission which goes to the local food bank/I hope you’ll be willing to triple what we raise, in return you will receive a vibrant depiction of Noah and the Flood. oR would you rather have Jonah And the Whale?
(*U
Hope you’ve mended,, too bad your medic won’t allow you into the boondocks, it would do you good and help you, too. Richard backed the Jeep into the front corner of my hut yesterday a/
.m. as I was having morning prayer. The underpin was knocked out which sent the corner dipping—all books and furnishings on the northwest side slid/flew/careened to the south east side, piling on top of yours truly. I am uninjured, but justifiably appalled at Richard’s driving skills. We have heaved the thing back onto its pin, a monstrous job.
attendance growing at all churches, we break bread together on Sunday in a parish-wide dinner on the grounds. Pray for us.
your sec’y says you abhor anything to do with computers, be a good fellow and join us in the twenty-first century…if you were online we could have daily chinwags. Great fun@
will let you know amount raised Tues next, will look for yr check returnmail, best greetings to yr lovely consort. Fr Roland
PS Elly is a seven year old girl who yesterday asked if my collar keeps away fleas and ticks. Look what you’re missing!!
PPS Thanx for the $$, it wasn’t half enough but we shall manage.
Thank you, Father, for asking Emma to keep in touch, I urge you to start e-mailing, you will enjoy it ever so much
!
The wall between Mona’s and Ernie’s has been partially removed and turned into a kind of waist-high divider with pots of artificial plants sitting on top. This is being generally looked upon as good news. All I know is that Ernie is more himself again.
Sam’s health is improving daily. Thank you for your prayers, we could not do without them. It helps so much to know
that a dear friend takes our concerns to the Lord, sometimes Sam and I believe we can actually feel the prayers lifted for us, and ask God to bless those praying!
Will let you know when Misty’s baby arrives, it won’t be long now. Junior is beside himself.
More good news! Morris stayed for coffee and cake last Sunday, but only a few minutes, it is a great triumph for Jean Ballenger who has always believed it could happen. We are planning a most ambitious Christmas program around our organ music. Morris is composing something special, and people will be coming from across. Oh, how I wish we could get you to join us!
I think we can safely say the Tolsons will make it—Jeffrey is what we call a changed man in every degree! Clearly, it is the work of the Lord (he says you had a long talk that night on the beach).
We beg you to take care of yourself! Please give our fondest greetings to Cynthia. Any time you can get away for a visit, you may have our guestroom and all the love our hearts hold for you both. Sam sends his best. Marion
Hope Winchester climbed the wooden stepladder and, poised on the third rung, cleaned the topmost interior of the bookstore display window with a solution of vinegar and water.
She had considered asking George Gaynor to do the job, since he was so much taller and wouldn’t have to stand on tiptoe as she was doing. But she couldn’t ask a Ph.D. to perform a menial task like washing windows.
She was careful not to splash any of the smelly solution onto the display below, which featured stacks of Foggy Mountain Breakdown by Sharyn McCrumb, and other books set in the southern highlands. So far, the third annual Mountain Month at Happy Endings had enjoyed only mild success, even in view of the ten percent discount for every book containing the word mountain in its title. People could get ten percent off anything, anywhere, she concluded. She proposed that next year they offer fifteen percent. In her opinion, fifteen percent was when people started to pay attention.
She raised the squirt bottle with her right hand and fired the solution toward the window, then turned slightly to wipe it down with the paper towel in her left hand.
It seemed as if she were falling in slow motion, like a feather, or perhaps some great hand held her gently, guiding her down and breaking her fall to the floor of the display window, where she landed on an arrangement of Charles Frazier’s Cold Mountain in paperback.
“I declare!” said the Woolen Shop’s Minnie Lomax, who was on her way to the post office. “That is the most interesting window display. Very modern. A mannequin lying on books.” She knew Hope Winchester liked to try different things; she had once put a fake cat on a footstool, which caused half the population to stand in front of the window waiting for the cat to move. Though impressively lifelike, it never did, of course, which made some people feel foolish.
Adjusting her bifocals and walking on, Minnie deemed the current display “too New York for this town!” a criticism she proclaimed aloud, albeit to herself, as she waited for the light to change.
“Hope!”
She saw George Gaynor bending over her, instructing her to do something.
“Hope!” he said again, looking anxious.
Why should she hope any longer? She was an old maid who would never marry, who made clumsy, foolish mistakes in front of handsome men, and who had fallen off a ladder. She was so disgusted with herself that she didn’t even try to move or get up. She felt no pain, only a certain breathlessness, as if the wind had gone out of her altogether. She wanted nothing more than to lie here, to close her eyes and somehow get the whole thing over with. She was mildly disappointed that she hadn’t died in the fall.
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“I’ve had some medical training. I’m going to lift you very gently. Easy, now.”
His face was close to hers. What if she had bad breath? She drew her head away sharply.
“Have I hurt you?”
“No!”
He raised her to a sitting position. “There. How does that feel?”
“Wonderful!” she said, without meaning to. “That is, fine ! Just fine, thank you.” She supposed she would have to get up now, and go on with her life; she couldn’t just lie in the window with a gaggle of small children staring at her. She spied Miss Tomlinson waving at her with one hand, while holding on to a string grasped by each of her day care brood.
Are…you…all right? mouthed Miss Tomlinson.
Yes, Hope mouthed back.
“How does your back feel?” asked George.
“Good! Great! I’m just a little…addled, I think.”
“Shall I help you stand?”
She nodded.
His long, slender fingers touched hers, and then his hands gripped her own and were pulling her up, up, up…
When she came to her feet, she felt strong and tall—easily as tall as George Gaynor.
“There!” he said, smiling. “Thank God you weren’t hurt.”
“I was only standing on the third rung,” she said, dazzled suddenly by an extraordinary happiness.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Looking Alike
“I bet I know why Sammy don’t want to see Mama.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he hates her for givin’ him away.”
Jessie announced her opinion to Poo, who sat between herself and Dooley in the backseat of the Mustang on their way down the mountain.
“But Mama says our daddy run off with ’im.”
“Yeah, but Mama didn’t run after our daddy to get Sammy back.”
“Oh,” said Poo.
Jessie took a comb from her plastic purse and pulled it through her long hair. “Me an’ Sammy were lost.”
“But now you’re found,” said Dooley.
“I wadn’t ever lost,” said Poo. “I was always with Mama.”
Jessie frowned. “Because you’re her pet.”
“I ain’t her pet, she likes us all th’ same.”
“No, she don’t.”
“Doesn’t,” said Dooley, clenching his jaw.
“Yeah, she does, ’cause you’re th’ only one she didn’t give away or let somebody run off with.”
“She loves us all th’ same,” said Poo. “Exactly th’ same.”
Jessie dug into her purse and pulled out a compact. “I wonder if Sammy looks like us.”
“He does!” Father Tim peered into the rearview mirror at the talkative and opinionated Jessie, the peacemaking Poo, and Dooley, who looked unseeing out the window. “When Miss Pringle saw Sammy, she thought he was Dooley.”
Dooley shot a brief but irritable glance into the rearview mirror. Clearly he didn’t agree that the boy with a ponytail might be confused with himself.
Jessie sat forward and questioned the front seat. “Do y’all think me an’ Poo an’ Dooley look alike?”
“Peas in a pod,” said Father Tim.
Buck laughed. “The only way I can tell you from Poo, is Poo don’t wear a skirt to school.”
“How can you tell Poo from Dooley?”
“Dooley’s a couple heads taller,” said Buck.
Jessie sat back, surveyed herself in the mirror of the compact, then studied her younger brother. “Poo is much, much uglier than me,” she announced.
“You’re a big, fat dope,” said Poo.
Lon Burtie’s place was a 1950s Amoco station set on a slab of cracked asphalt.
Lon greeted them at the door. “It ain’t much,” he said, extending his hand. “But come on in, an’ welcome.”
They entered a small, concrete-floored room with a wall of empty shelves. A vintage sna
ck-vending machine stood in the corner.
“Y’all come on back, I don’t live up here in th’ front.”
“I’m scared,” Jessie whispered to Buck.
He took her hand. “What’s there to be scared about?”
“I don’t know, but I’m shakin’, so I must be scared.”
“You’re excited,” said her stepfather. “There’s a difference.”
Jessie looked sober. “Maybe sometimes,” she said, “but not every time.”
When they entered the room, Sammy sat in a chair opposite a television set. He stood instantly, looking anxious.
“Better turn this thing off,” said Lon. He walked to the table next to Sammy and picked up the remote. The screen went black and Lon nodded to the group. “Y’all sit down. This is where I hang out, it was th’ grease rack back when Amoco had it.”
Sammy cleared his throat. “H-h-hey,” he said.
Jessie burst into tears, clinging to Buck’s arm.
Buck’s hand was gentle on her shoulder, guiding her toward Sammy. “You an’ Poo come say hey to your brother.”
Sammy moved stiffly toward them; Father Tim watched the scene unfold in a kind of slow motion.
Jessie approached Sammy with caution, as did Poo. The room was strangely quiet. Dooley remained by the door, his face tense.
Suddenly Poo sprinted toward Sammy, arms outstretched, sobbing. “Hey, Sammy! Hey, Sammy!”
Poo and Jessie reached their brother at the same time, where some awkward connection of feet knocked Sammy to the floor. The three went down in a pile, Jessie shrieking with excitement.
Father Tim watched Dooley go to his brother and hold out his hands and help him to his feet. They looked at each other for a moment, then embraced, silent and weeping.
“I’m goin’ to cook for you, Sammy!” Jessie pulled on Sammy’s T-shirt. “Every mornin’ before school, I’ll cook you eggs an’ you can have all th’ money I been savin’.”
“I got a new baseball bat, Sammy, it’s th’ best bat you ever seen, you can use it if you want to.”