Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  He was forcing himself to intercede for her; it was stop and start, like a mule pulling a sled through deep mire. He quit striving, then, and gave himself up; he could not haul the weight of this thing alone.

  “By the power of Your Holy Spirit, so move in her heart and her life that she cannot ignore or turn away from Your love for her. Go, Lord, into that black night where no belief dwells, where no candle burns, where no solace can be found, and kindle Your love in Edith Mallory in a mighty and victorious way.

  “Pour out Your love upon her, Lord, love that no human being can or will ever be able to give, pour it out upon her with such tenderness that she cannot turn away, with such mercy that she cannot deny Your grace.

  “Fill her heart with certainty—with the confidence and certainty that You made Edith Mallory for Yourself, that You might take delight in her life…and in her service. Yes, thank You, Lord, for the countless thousands of dollars she’s poured into the work of Your kingdom, for whatever reasons she may have had.” Right or wrong, a good deal of Edith Mallory’s money had counted for good over the years, and he would not be her judge.

  He was gripping her hand now; as he had gripped the handle above the passenger door, he was holding on to her as if she might be taken from him by force.

  “Thank you, Father, for this extraordinary time in Your presence, for holding us captive in the circle of Your love and Your grace. With all my heart, I petition You for the soul of this woman, that she might be called to repent and become Your child for all eternity.”

  Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, though the room was cool.

  “Through Christ our Lord,” he whispered. “Amen.”

  He raised his head slowly, feeling an enormous relief.

  Tears had left a smear of mascara on her face; she withdrew her hand from his. “I despise you,” she said. “I despise you utterly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you believe.”

  She took a handkerchief from her suit pocket and pressed it against her eyes. “I think for the first time I actually believe that you believe.”

  “Why do you despise me for that?”

  “Because I would like to believe, and cannot.”

  “Why can you not?”

  “Because none of it makes sense to me.”

  “Good!” he said.

  “What do you mean, good?”

  “Faith isn’t about making sense. Faith is faith.”

  “Foolishness!” she said.

  “Chesterton put it far better. He said, ‘Faith means believing the unbelievable, or it is no virtue at all.’”

  “Enough of such blather! I don’t know why I did this ridiculous thing.” She tapped the ashes from her Tiparillo, impatient.

  “Who are you, Edith? I met you nearly twenty years ago, yet I know almost nothing about you. Who were your parents? What was your life like when—”

  Her laughter was hoarse. “I’ve never paid twenty-five thousand dollars an hour to be analyzed, especially by a country priest, and I don’t intend to start now. I’m sure you learned a great deal about me from my husband, though he was devoted to twisting the truth. He loved saying how he frequented that grease pit you call the Grill, in order to be out of my presence.”

  He’d known as much. Pat Mallory often spoke maliciously of his wife.

  “I cared nothing for my husband because I quickly learned he could be beaten down. A man who can be beaten down is no man at all. That’s one reason I’ve been intrigued by you over the years, Timothy—it’s difficult to beat you down.”

  “If God be for me, who can be against me?”

  She stiffened. “Can’t you have a simple conversation without dragging God into it? I abhor piety. It’s something clergy in particular should strive to avoid.”

  “This is going nowhere.”

  “Perhaps you’d be titillated by a bit of local Mitford gossip. I’m selling Clear Day. I always hated Mitford, Mitford was Pat’s idea. All of you think yourselves above me, I’ve scarcely received a decent welcome there in years.” She angrily stubbed her Tiparillo in an ashtray.

  “You tried to rig a mayoral election, you tried to throw a family out of their rightful lease—”

  “I’m sick of this nonsense. Go home!” She rose from the love seat, so near to him that he couldn’t get up from the chair. “In the end, what misery it always brings to be in your company. It wasn’t worth it, not twenty-five thousand, not twenty, not five.”

  She strode to the door, where she turned, her expression pained and bitter. “Your hour is up. Collect your dog outside.”

  “Edith.”

  Her hand was on the knob “What?”

  “I have a request.”

  She looked at him, frozen.

  “Tell Mary Fisher I’d like to drive the car to the parking lot. If this isn’t agreeable, I’ll walk down.”

  She burst suddenly into laughter. Still laughing, she opened the door, then slammed it behind her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Salmon Roulade

  “Father Tim?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m sorry to call you so early, this is Jeanine Stroup at th’ hospital, I’m new and don’t know everybody yet. Mr. Bill Watson’s askin’ for th’ preacher. Would you by any chance be th’ one, somebody said it was probably you.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I think it’s probably me. Has he taken a bad turn?”

  “Nossir, he’s pretty lively.”

  “Wonderful! Well, look…how about eight o’clock?”

  “Oh, good! I’ll go down the hall right now and tell him.”

  “Can he have a doughnut?”

  “A doughnut? I don’t know.”

  “Plain, of course,” he said. “No jelly.”

  “Why don’t you bring one, and if he can’t have it, I’ll eat it.”

  “Jeanine,” he said, “I think you’ll go far.”

  “Emma! Tim Kavanagh.” He didn’t have to apologize for calling; Emma got up so early, it was hard to beat her out of bed. “Got a minute?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I need some jokes off the Internet.”

  “Jokes off the Internet? You, who don’t want anything to do with the Internet, absolutely, positively leave you alone about the Internet, you want jokes off the Internet?”

  “Right,” he said. “Clean jokes.”

  “That’s hard,” she said. “Trust me.”

  “If anybody can do it, you can.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere. I’m going to teach you how to get online, once and for all.”

  “Now, Emma…”

  “It’ll take thirty minutes, max. I’ll even run over to Wesley with you to buy a computer. We’ll go Tuesday morning. You can’t keep doin’ this.”

  She was right. “You’re right!”

  “I’m right? Has my hearin’ gone bad? Do I need to get fitted for a Magic Ear while we’re at th’ mall ?”

  “No, dadgummit, you heard me—you’re right. I can’t keep calling you to do these things for me, I’m a grown man.”

  She was speechless.

  “So get me some jokes,” he said. “By seven o’clock.”

  “Seven o’clock this morning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Consider it done!” she said, quoting her erstwhile employer.

  Uncle Billy opened his eyes. “I’ll be et f’r a tater if it ain’t th’ preacher,” he whispered.

  Father Tim swallowed hard. “Uncle Billy…”

  The old man lifted his hand and Father Tim took it. Dry as a corn husk, cool as marble. Father Tim sought to warm it with his own. “How are you feeling?”

  “Rough as a cob.”

  “Didn’t take your medication.”

  “Nossir, hit was makin’ me feeble.”

  “They say mean people live longer. You’ve got to mind Dr. Harper and get mean about it.”

  “Rose, she’s mean enough f’r th’ both of us.” Uncle Billy’
s eyes twinkled, but only a little.

  “I brought you a doughnut. Nurse Herman says you can have it.”

  “Put it over yonder,” said Uncle Billy.

  Father Tim had never seen Uncle Billy so sick he couldn’t eat a doughnut. He felt the lump in his throat. Though he didn’t relish the thought of rooting the old woman out of her childhood home, he would now make every effort to get them moved to Hope House.

  “Are you strong enough to hear a joke, Uncle Billy?” He had studied this one out, along with a backup. He hoped with all his heart that he could make Uncle Billy laugh.

  “Yessir. I’m about t’ give up joke-tellin’, maybe I can turn th’ job over t’ you.”

  “That’s a mantle I can’t wear, my friend. Too much responsibility.”

  “For a fact.”

  “Okay, here goes. Are you sure you feel like hearing a joke?”

  “If hit’s any good, I do, if hit ain’t any good, I don’t.”

  The pressure was on.

  He wet his lips. He cleared his throat.

  “Two men were sitting on a bench arguing about their devotion to their faith. First one says, ‘I bet five dollars you don’t even know the Lord’s Prayer.’ The other one says, ‘I do, too—now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.’ First one says, ‘Dadgummit, here’s your five dollars, I didn’t think you knew it!’”

  Uncle Billy gazed at him at a long time, then shook his head. “Law, law.”

  “You don’t like it.” He felt mildly stricken.

  “They won’t nothin’ to it.”

  “I’ve got another one!”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Uncle Billy, not sounding very enthusiastic.

  “OK. Here goes. A man was digging a hole in his backyard when his neighbor came up and said, ‘What are you doing?’ He said, ‘I’m digging a hole to bury my dog—’”

  “Wait a minute!” said Uncle Billy. “Is this th’ one where th’ neighbor says, ‘What’s that other hole f’r over yonder,’ an’ th’ feller said, ‘That was m’ first hole, hit was too small’?”

  “Yessir, that’s it.”

  “I heard that dadjing thing when I was fourteen year old.”

  “Ah,” said Father Tim.

  “If you’re goin’ to go t’ joke-tellin’, you got t’ do better’n that by a long shot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You cain’t tell jist any ol’ thing that comes along.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You got to wait f’r th’ right one; sometimes you got t’ wait a long time, hit’s like shootin’ ducks.”

  “I never shot a duck.”

  “See what I’m sayin’?”

  He left the hospital determined to make Bill Watson laugh. Uncle Billy was being stubborn as a mule simply because he was Mitford’s certified Joke King. But he’d find a good one somehow, somewhere, just wait.

  In the meantime, he had to race to the airport and pick up his wife…

  “Good morning, Father!” said Nurse Herman.

  …then return to Mitford to collect his fresh salmon, and rush home to have lunch with his boy. A shower of blessings!

  “Herman, this is the day the Lord has made…”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “…let us rejoice and be glad in it!”

  “Proverbs?”

  “Psalm One hundred and eighteen!”

  Nurse Herman was pleased to see that Father Tim had definitely recovered his health and good spirits.

  Dear Editor:

  The term Yankee has an underlying hostile meaning in the south. It doesn’t just designate where the person is from as much as it calls that person a jerk. I myself personally am from the north and don’t appreciate being called a Yankee. I suggest that when you write about the unfortunate multipile murder now lost to history, you use the term Union soldiers out of respect. Another thing, why do people say so and so is from up north? Of course north is up, just like south is down.

  As for me, I prefer to be known as someone from the great city of Boston. Go, Socks.

  Sincerely yours,

  Richard Crandon, POLITICALLY CORRECT AND PROUD OF IT!!

  Hendrick Attorney Says Client

  Will Enjoy Victory in the End

  Once again, Mrs. Edith Mallory, a longtime Mitford resident of more than twenty years, has refused to speak with the Mitford Muse/ Her attorney could not be reached for coment.

  Johnson Cutliff,e the attorney for Coot Hendrick, local resident and great great grandson of Mitford’s founder, said that Mr. Hendrick would appear in court in mid to late October. Mr. Cutliffe reports that Mr. Hendrick, who was recently released on $500 bond for trespassing on the Mallory property, will plead guilty.

  “Mr. Hendrick ought not to have broken the law and gone looking for the gravesights on private property,” he said. “But there are larger issues involved here and I believe my client will enjoy victory in the end.”

  Mr. Hendrick’s elderly mother, Mrs. Marshall Hendrick, has offered to sing the song composed by her greatgrea-tgrandfather at the court trial.

  The song indicates that her ancestor Hezekiah Hendrick, killed five Yankee soldiers and buried them on the property which was once the sight of our founder’s humble cabin and which now is known as Clear Day and belongs to Mrs. Mallor.

  Mrs. Hendrick told the Mitford Muse that she will also sing the song for any local organization or group who cares to hear it.

  For more information on getting Mrs. Hendrick to sing for your club or group, call 555-6240 at the town office and ask for Mildred. Sign up and bring your tape recorder! Please note that Mrs. Hendrick needs wheelchair access.

  He was as nervous as a schoolboy. It had been two weeks by the calendar, but two years by other calculations.

  He dressed himself with special care, agonizing over his hair, which he thought wouldn’t please her—once again, it looked like a chrysanthemum, and no help for it. He slicked it down, then decided this made him appear too formal. He fluffed it up. No way; he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed.

  “Puny,” he said, as she busied herself making macaroni and cheese, not to mention chocolate cake, “I’ve got an hour to get down the mountain to the airport. Look at my hair. What can you do with it?”

  She studied him carefully. “Turn around,” she said.

  He turned around.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Nothing what?”

  “There’s nothin’ I can do with it.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  Of all things, he thought, of all things! When he saw his wife step off the small commuter plane from Charlotte, tears sprang to his eyes.

  Though he was profoundly embarrassed, she thought his tears wonderful and shed a few of her own for good measure.

  They sat for a moment in the parking lot, holding hands.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  During the first leg of their drive up the mountain, she told him everything—the great enthusiasm of the school audiences, how she climbed on a horse in Montana, but only to have her picture taken, the funny thing that happened on the way to San Francisco, her renewed inspiration for the Violet books, her complete and utter exhaustion….

  During the second leg of their drive, he told her everything—the visit to Lon Burtie’s, the chance meeting with Millie Tipton, Bill Sprouse’s welcome phone call, the sermon on Sunday, the trip to Kinloch.

  Though the latter made her furious, to say the least, he would never again keep anything from her.

  If he’d learned nothing else, he’d learned that.

  “Really good,” Dooley said.

  Puny grinned. “Thanks, sport!” Getting a compliment out of Dooley Barlowe was something to write home about.

  Father Tim pushed his chair back from the kitchen table. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”

  “You and Dooley?” asked Cynthia.

  “All of us, the whole caboodle.”

  W
hy didn’t people use their porches anymore? Occasionally he heard of a porch revival in which a few pioneering souls were seen sitting on theirs, but the trend quickly passed.

  Father Tim and Cynthia thumped onto a bench; Dooley sat on the bench facing them.

  “I’ve got to get out of here in…”—Dooley looked at his watch—

  “ten minutes.”

  “Got your shaving kit?” asked Father Tim. Heaven knows, he’d left it behind on two occasions and they had to hustle it to Georgia, twoday air.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What Cynthia gave you?”

  “Right here.” Dooley patted his jeans pocket. A hundred-dollar bill.

  “What I gave you?”

  “Same place.” Another hundred. “Thanks again.”

  “You stopped by Lew’s.”

  “Yes, sir. Gas, oil, air in the tires.”

  “And macaroni and cheese into the bargain,” said Father Tim, happy for this boy, this moment. “Not a bad day’s work.”

  “Don’t forget the chocolate cake,” said Dooley, indicating the paper bag beside him on the bench. “It’ll be history before I hit Spartanburg.”

  Father Tim thought Dooley Barlowe looked a prince in his University of Georgia T-shirt and pressed khakis. He missed the freckles, however. “I’ve been meaning to ask—what’s become of your freckles? I see only three or four, max.”

  Dooley shrugged. “I don’t know. They just started disappearing.”

  “Shaved them off!” declared Cynthia, who appeared to know. “Please don’t worry about anything; we’ll try and see Sammy next week, and keep you posted about Thanksgiving.”

  “We believe it’s all going to work out,” said Father Tim.

  “Oh, look!”

  Cynthia stood and waved to Lace Turner, who was coming along the sidewalk at a trot, with Guber pulling hard on the leash.

  “Let’s go say hello!” Father Tim hurried down the steps.

  Dooley was stone-faced as Cynthia grabbed his arm. “Come on, you big lug.”

  They trooped to the sidewalk, where Cynthia gave Lace a fond embrace. Father Tim followed suit as a taciturn Dooley stood by.