Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  “A somewhat esoteric thought,” said Andrew, pulling at his chin. “Nonetheless, I’m in!”

  As the men worked with easy absorption, Father Tim smelled the fresh coffee on the hob; he heard the busy whisk, whisk of sandpaper, and Beethoven’s “Pastorale” pouring from Andrew’s radio.

  He felt a happy contentment flowing up in him, as a spring from a hidden source.

  When Scott called in the afternoon, Hope told him all that she was thinking. He said he’d drop by after she closed the store, if that was OK, and help out. Would she like pizza with everything, or just cheese?

  As long as she could remember, she’d had it with just cheese.

  “Everything!” she said, suddenly filled with unspeakable happiness.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .”

  Avis Packard had locked up The Local and was going to his car in the alley, when he glanced north along the twilit street. It was the first time in memory that he’d seen a light above the bookstore.

  As he walked Barnabas to the monument a little after nine o’clock, Father Tim noticed it, too.

  He drew his wool scarf close against the chill October wind and mused how the light seemed to cheer the hushed and empty street.

  The first Sunday of Advent dawned bitterly cold and clear beneath the platinum sheen of a half moon.

  Random gusts of wind whistled around houses, rattling shutters and downspouts. Smoke was snatched from the chimneys of early risers and hurtled east by a freezing westerly blow.

  At the yellow house on Wisteria Lane, Father Tim let Barnabas into the yard, and whistled him in again. Then he read the Morning Office in his study and carried two mugs of coffee upstairs, where Cynthia opened the first door on their Advent calendar.

  Propped in bed against the pillows, she read aloud the supplication from the prophet Isaiah.

  “ ‘Let the sky rain down justice, and the earth bud forth a saviour!’ ”

  “Amen!” he said, handing her a mug.

  He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “A blessed Advent to you, beloved.” She put the palm of her hand to his cheek. “And to you, dearest.”

  “I’ve set out your little crèche.”

  “Oh, that ragged thing!”

  “Fourteen years old, and sewing robes for those clothespins!” He recklessly counted this among the most endearing things he knew about his wife.

  “Phoo, darling!”

  “I want to thank you for something.” He sat on her side of their bed and took a sip of the strong, black brew. “I want to thank you for encouraging me to retire.”

  “But you’ve struggled with it so.”

  “I know. I think most people do. But I was exhausted all the time; I never knew how to rest or take a break, or how to refuel. I think God is at last teaching me something about that.”

  “Hoppy said if you hadn’t retired, your health would have suffered greatly.”

  “I wish I’d spent the last couple of years enjoying retirement instead of fighting it. But now I believe I can.” He grinned. “I’m giving up the book of essays. It’s a blasted nuisance.”

  “Hallelujah, darling! You always looked woeful when you sat down to an essay.”

  “I thought I had to stay busy with something important, that I had no right to rest. Of course, I want to keep myself open to any use He might make of me.”

  “Look at the use He’s made of you in supplying so many pulpits, and the lives that were changed in that wonderful year at Whitecap, and the way you found Sammy. . . .”

  “Ah, well,” he said, mildly flustered. Though he had no knack for totting up such things, his wife definitely possessed a certain skill. “I have a confession to make about the essays—I’ve just realized it in the last few days. I thought I had to keep up, somehow, with my successful wife.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you back.”

  They were silent for a moment, comforted, as the wind keened around the north corner of the house.

  “We used to talk about what we might do when I retired,” he said. “You always wanted to travel. Truth be told, it’s something I’m beginning to think I’d like to do.”

  “Your old fear of flying—is it going away?”

  “A lot of my fears seem to be going away.”

  “Remember how I used to be afraid you’d leave me?” she asked. “That fear has vanished completely.”

  He raised his coffee mug in a glad salute. “After our year at Meadowgate, how would you like to go to Ireland?”

  “Ireland! I’d love to go to Ireland!”

  “See the Kavanagh family castle, muck about with the cousins, do rubbings of gravestones . . . like that.” His heart lifted up.

  She set her coffee on the bedside table and opened her arms to the man whom she’d always believed, even when others didn’t suspect it, to be wise and romantic, witty and ardent, generous and brave—in the end, the truest soul she had ever known.

  At the end of an unpaved road, in a white frame house surrounded by three acres of pines, Lew Boyd sat up in bed and yawned. He didn’t know if he wanted to go to church this morning or not.

  If he remembered right, this afternoon was the annual Advent Walk. A horde of locals would start out at the Episcopalians, then march around to the Presbyterians and Methodists, enjoying a brief service at each stop and singing hymns and carols along the way. The whole caboodle would end up at First Baptist, with all the hot cider, cookies, and whatnot a man could hold.

  If he showed up at church this morning, the elders would be after him to join the walkers this afternoon and fill in the bass. You’d think a town church, especially Baptist, would have more than one poor rube to sing bass, but no deal—it was his luck to be the spotted monkey. Over and over again, they’d tried to trick him into joining the choir in order to regulate his churchgoing, but even he wasn’t dumb enough to go for that stunt.

  In the great commotion outside, he heard his garbage can slam against the side of the house.

  A man couldn’t sing bass in gale-force winds and freezing temperatures! Besides, he’d just worked six days at a hard run; why would he want to go walking? Come to think of it, now that he had cable, he ought to just hole up at home and get it over with. Of course, Earlene would be asking if he was going to church. . . .

  He checked his Timex. About now, she’d be taking her mama’s little dab of breakfast up the stairs and fluffing the pillows so her mama could sit up in bed and eat, with Earlene feeding her every bite. Then, in a little bit, the next-door neighbor would come over and Earlene would go off to church, looking pretty as a speckled pup and toting the chess pie she’d baked last night for the Coffee Minute.

  That’s the way Earlene was, she cared about people. Nearly forty-five years ago, when he’d won a blue ribbon in that pickle contest, Earlene had run over and kissed him, then run off, embarrassed half to death by what she’d done.

  He’d never forgotten that moment, even when he was married to Juanita.

  “Why’d you do that?” he asked when he and Earlene met again a few years ago. “I didn’t even hardly know you.”

  “I didn’t know I was goin’ to do it ’til I did it!” she said, blushing. “I secretly liked you, and I just felt so . . . happy’cause you’d won!”

  In his heart, he was sometimes hard on Earlene for not being here. But he was disgusted with himself for this. She didn’t deserve it. Taking care of her failing mama was what she’d committed to do; plus, she wanted to work another few months at the flour company to get her retirement benefits—she’d told him right up front that this is how it would be, and he’d accepted it and married her.

  Then there were her sisters, who said if the word leaked out that they were married, it would kill her mama. Lord knows, he didn’t want to be party to a thing like that, no way. Except for telling Father Tim, he’d kept the whole blooming thing a secret. He knew as wel
l as anybody that news travels—it’d run straight up to Knoxville on both legs, hard as it could go.

  Next weekend, he’d take Saturday off and go see her. He’d stay with his old Aunt Bess, as usual, and do a few odd jobs for his elderly relative, like fix her top porch step and put a new shelf in her pantry.

  In the evening, Earlene’s neighbor would come in to sit, and he’d take his bride out to a nice dinner, maybe surf and turf. He felt a little shiver of happiness as he imagined helping her up in his new truck, and giving her a big kiss.

  They’d hold hands and sit together on the same side of the booth, and he’d try not to say a word about how hard it was to keep living like this. And he dern sure wouldn’t say, like he’d said one time before, Well, sugar, how long do you think it’ll take your little mama to die? Nossir, he’d never do that again. He should’ve been strung up by his feet.

  He sniffed the cold air of the bedroom. The new coffeemaker with the timer had kicked on in the kitchen.

  After drinking two mugs of engine oil and knocking back a couple of Pop-Tarts, maybe he’d spend the day laid up in bed watching the Titans shut down the New York Giants.

  Whop. The garbage can slammed against the porch rail.

  “Go, Titans!” he hollered.

  Around ten o’clock, the winds increased; leaves that had fallen during a hard November rain were blown upon the sharp, clean air like coveys of startled quail.

  On Main Street, a red scarf was snatched from the shoulders of a churchgoer and hurled aloft, dipping and tossing like a Chinese kite, before it landed on the green awning of Sweet Stuff Bakery.

  The Kavanaghs observed the wonderment of the flying scarf as they drove to Wesley for the ten o’clock service at St. Paul’s.

  “It definitely won’t be an Advent Walk,” said Cynthia. “More like an Advent Run!”

  “I may leave the walk a mite early this afternoon.”

  “Really?”

  “And I may be a tad late for dinner.”

  “Whatever for?”

  He smiled, his eyes on the road. “Christmas is coming, you know.”

  She looked at him, beaming. “Of course, dearest! That explains everything!”

  “Come, thou long expected Jesus,

  Born to set thy people free;

  From our fears and sins release us, Let us find our rest in Thee.

  Israel’s strength and consolation,

  Hope of all the earth Thou art;

  Dear desire of every nation,

  Joy of every longing heart. . . .”

  The walkers sang lustily as they processed from an inspiring service at the Methodist chapel and turned north on Main Street. They were hard by the fire station when Lew Boyd saw Father Tim weaving his way quickly through the procession, moving south.

  “You’re goin’ th’ wrong way!” hollered Lew, in case the Father didn’t know they were headed back to First Baptist for hot cider and all the trimmings.

  “A blessed Advent!” shouted Father Tim. He raised a gloved hand in salute and kept going, the wind at his back.

  From the window above Happy Endings, Hope Winchester peered down upon the straggle of walkers making their way to First Baptist while holding on for dear life to their sheet music.

  “Lift up your heads, ye mighty gates;

  Behold, the King of glory waits;

  The King of kings is drawing near;

  The Savior of the world is here! . . .

  Fling wide the portals of your heart;

  Make it a temple, set apart . . .”

  She was happy that she could hear most of the words, liking especially “Fling wide the portals of your heart.”

  In the music floating up to her, she was struck by a deep, resonant voice that was clearly able to bind the other voices together. She looked for its source, but couldn’t locate it, and was turning away from the window when someone peered up at her and waved.

  She waved back, glad to be noticed, and stood and watched the toboggans and flapping coattails disappear beneath the green awning.

  She turned to go downstairs, but stopped instead and gazed at the large room, now delivered of the detritus of more than two decades. It was empty, clean, and bright with the dazzle of winter light.

  It had been six long weeks since she’d sent the letter, but she hadn’t heard a word from Mrs. Mallory. Possibly she intended to lease the building to someone else and hadn’t informed her, nor did Helen know anything. If Helen’s movers had to come and take everything away, the packing needed to begin at once; only the stock she was conserving for Christmas sales could wait until the last minute.

  Then there was the letter to her landlady, who would need to know something immediately. . . .

  She found she was wringing her hands, a habit she had tried without success to break.

  But, no! She would not give up.

  Even with concerns that sometimes overwhelmed her, she refused to abandon her belief in a glad outcome.

  Don’t worry about anything, Hope, Father Tim had said, but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving . . .

  “ ‘ . . . make your requests known unto God,’ ” she recited aloud, going quickly down the stairs, “ ‘and the peace that passes all understanding will fill your heart and mind through Christ Jesus!’ ”

  Finding Margaret Ann at her feet, she picked her up and held her close and stroked her orange fur.

  She would have to let her secret out to Mrs. Havner. She would go and speak with her at once . . .

  . . . then she would call Louise and say she might be moving home to live with her in their mother’s house, with its overgrown garden of hollyhocks and foxglove . . .

  . . . and she would call Scott and ask if he would come for spaghetti and meatballs this evening—it was the only dish she knew how to make for company. . . .

  Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of cooking for Scott and setting the table for the two of them. With everything else before her, it was almost too much even to consider, but she remembered how she would feel in his company—she would feel happy and unafraid.

  She stopped for a moment, leaning against the newel-post at the foot of the stairs; Margaret Ann’s rhythmic purr resonated upon her heart. Though she and Helen hadn’t discussed it, they both knew that Margaret Ann would find a new home with Hope.

  Whatever happens, she thought, I must continue to believe in a glad outcome—but I must also prepare for whatever else may lie ahead.

  She suddenly felt purposeful, and relieved, as if a great weight had flown from her shoulders.

  “I’m makin’ a list and checkin’ it twice,” said Fred.

  Fred had volunteered to give him a hand today, an offer that might not be valid any other Sunday this month.

  “You’ve got your five sheep, you’ve got your donkey, and you’ve got your first shepherd knocked out,” said Fred. “That’s seven down an’ a dozen or so to go.”

  All sanding and priming was done, and the seven finished pieces stood lined up on a shelf above the sink.

  “Hallelujah!” said Father Tim, slipping into a green bib apron. “Ol’ time, it is a-flyin’!” He hadn’t made the deadline to put the shepherds and all the sheep on the sideboard today. Now the plan was to set out the complete scene on Christmas Eve.

  Freshly ground coffee dripped into the pot; two slices of pumpkin pie, as frozen as bricks since Thanksgiving dinner at the yellow house, sat thawing on the drain board of the sink.

  “You got four ewes an’ a ram to go. You want me to keep doin’ sheep?”

  “Keep doing sheep!” said Father Tim. “And God bless you for it!” He rolled up his sleeves and sat down at his worktable across from Fred. “For several years, it seemed that every Christmas season, the Lord would send me a Christmas angel, somebody who came along at just the right time, to give me a hand or help me over a hurdle. I believe you’re my Christmas angel this year, and I thank you.”

  Fred ducked his head, shy. “An’ I th
ank you, Father, for lettin’ me sit in on this. My wife’s glad to get me out of th’ house. She’s got two quilts to get done.”

  “Would you call me Tim?”

  “Nossir, I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I never call a preacher by a first name.”

  “Does this mean I have to call you Mr. Addison?”

  Fred laughed. “Nossir, that’s what the IRS called me last spring, an’ I’ve had a dislike for th’ sound of it ever since.”

  “What would I do if I had to stipple this whole flock?” Father Tim threw up his hands. “I’d be here ’til lambing time!”

  “I like stipplin,’ but I wouldn’t want to fool with wings or robes—and ’specially wouldn’t want to fool with skin; nossir, you’re th’ Skin Man. Look at that shepherd on th’ shelf! Real as life!”

  And, by heaven, it was. Father Tim was amazed that the shepherd had started out with a horrific case of jaundice and now looked merely well tanned, which would certainly be expected in his line of work.

  The damaged hand, however, had been another matter. He and Fred and Andrew had all had a go at it, and the effort-by-committee showed. But there was no looking back. The hand was done, they were not Michelangelos around here.

  Father Tim took the second shepherd from the shelf and examined it, turning it in his hands. “I think I’ll start with the robe—any ideas?”

  Fred scratched his head. “Seems like shepherds would’ve stayed pretty ragged-lookin.’ I reckon they slept under bushes or rocks or like that.”

  “Actually, shepherds around Bethlehem lived in caves. Caves made safe places for their flocks at night.”

  “Maybe somethin’ th’ color of a burlap sack?”

  “That might be hard.” He took a deep breath. “But let me see what I can do.”