Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  “That’s some bad paint on that camel,” said Dooley. “Why would they outline his eyes with red? He looks like he’s been through a couple of exam weeks, back to back. And that blanket between his humps is a really a weird color.”

  “So, big guy, what color would you paint the blanket?”

  “Red.”

  “Color of your head,” said Father Tim.

  Dooley laughed.

  “You’re a poet an’ don’t know it!” Fred told Father Tim.

  As calm as he’d meant to be, as poised as he’d planned to be, he was seeing his good intentions dashed—he was a basket case. Christmas Eve had arrived, and there was no rest for the wicked.

  Paint, paint, and more paint—he had labored over that camel to beat the band, and so had Fred, and still it was a camel he wouldn’t personally want to ride across the desert.

  And did he have everything he needed to glaze the ham, or had he only imagined seeing a jar of molasses on the pantry shelf?

  “Lord,” he whispered into the dark room, “would You please handle everything that comes today? And, as Mr. Shakespeare said, ‘thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks’!”

  Awake at four to the sound of the wind, and up at five, he was a motor set on high speed, with no “off” switch.

  “Our Father who art in heaven,” he prayed aloud as he ground the coffee. The words always soothed him, even when he couldn’t concentrate; they helped pull his sundered parts together. Not every prayer could be uttered in the coddling sanctuary of holy quietude; a man had to do what he had to do.

  “Hallowed be thy name. . . .”

  He would drive to Lord’s Chapel at five o’clock, to check on the greening of the church and matters in general, then pop over to the Oxford and load the figures into his car trunk. He’d bring them into the house after Cynthia went upstairs to dress for the midnight service, and put them all in their places at the foot of the tree—the thought excited him beyond description. He’d escort Cynthia to the car through the back door, and only after coming home from Lord’s Chapel would they go into the living room. . . .

  While stuffing the filter into the basket, he remembered he’d begun the prayer, but had no idea at what point it had flown his mind.

  “Our Father who art in heaven . . .”

  He poked the buttons on the coffeepot until the red light came on, and noticed the timer was blinking. He patted the pocket of his oldest robe, seeking his glasses, but found only a wadded-up Kleenex from his earlier bout with the flu.

  And the tree . . . thank God for Harley Welch, who would go to Ashe County for a Fraser fir and bring it over after lunch, then put it up, fill the stand with water, and carry off any unsightly limbs he’d pruned. . . .

  “Hallowed be thy name!”

  Off with his tattered robe and on with a pair of sweatpants over his pajama bottoms, an act that precipitated the loss of a bedroom shoe, which shucked from his foot and lodged somewhere around his knee; he shook his leg, but it wouldn’t fall down through the leg of the sweatpants, so he dove in through the waistband with his right hand and hauled it out and tossed it across the room. Barnabas followed its airborne passage with his eyes, without moving his head.

  As for the camel, he supposed he’d be forced to tuck it in the background, perhaps on the other side of a low-hanging branch of the tree, which they would decorate before the church service.

  Aha! There was the sweater he was looking for, in the bin under the coatrack. He pulled it on over his pajama top and layered it with a pea coat found at the Army/Navy store in Wesley.

  “Thy kingdom come . . .”

  He hoped Mule would remember to pick up the cakes, and that he wouldn’t be slinging them around in the trunk of his Bronco without stabilizing them in some way. . . . Ah, yes, and he must remember to bring his black hat to collect the money for the tickets to Washington. He took the hat off the rack and scooted it along the polished hall floor like a bowling ball toward the pins. It rested at the foot of the staircase, where he couldn’t avoid seeing it as he exited the front door on his way to the Grill at noon.

  He found he was huffing like a coal-fired engine.

  After returning from the monument, he must not fail to read the Morning Office and pray. Indeed, he must concentrate his pathetic mind in prayer ASAP or be a goner the livelong day.

  He grabbed his wool socks from the bin and, with one bedroom shoe on and the other off, hied to the study and thumped into his chair and pulled a wool sock onto one foot and then the other, and crammed his feet into his lug-sole boots and tied the laces.

  To the kitchen door, then, snatching his cap and the red leash from the rack as he went, and out the door he flew, closing it behind him.

  “The first rule is to keep an untroubled spirit,” he exclaimed, his breath vaporizing on the frosty air. “The second is to look things in the face and know them for what they are!”

  He was looking things in the face and knowing them for what they are. “And they are. . . ,” he huffed, fishing for a word, “berserk!”

  It was blowing out here, yes indeed, and the thermometer reading sat square on the nose of twenty degrees. He retrieved his gloves from one pocket and unraveled a wool scarf from the other.

  “Our Father . . .” He wound the scarf about his neck and shook his head as if to clear it; his brain was chopped liver.

  “ . . . who art in Heaven.” He pulled his hat down over his ears before it ended up on a lamppost in Johnson City.

  Sighing deeply, which filled his lungs with a blast of frigid air, he looked at the red leash dangling from his gloved hand and heard his dog barking in the kitchen.

  “Surpri-i-ise!”

  “Here we come, ready or not!”

  A Mitford crowd always arrived early, and today was no exception.

  “Merry Christmas!”

  “Surprise! Surprise!”

  “We ain’t hardly got th’ dishes washed,” said Percy, drying his hands on his apron.

  “Take that apron off, it’s party time!” Lois Holshouser, who was retired from teaching drama at Wesley High and wanted more fun in her life, untied Percy’s apron and flung it over the counter, where it landed on a cake box.

  “Watch it!” said Mule. He’d hauled those cakes around all morning, slowing down for every bump in the road.

  “We’ve got to get these cakes out of the box!” said Father Tim. Did Mule think cakes jumped out of the box and served themselves? “Here,” he said, setting a stack of plates on the counter.

  “What d’you want me to do with these?”

  “Start cutting cake, and cut it thin—it’s got to feed the Roman legions.”

  “What do I cut with?”

  “A knife!” He slid one along the counter.

  “Man!” said Mule. “You should of bought this place an’ gone t’ runnin’ it.’ ”

  “Plastic forks, plastic forks,” said Father Tim, searching under the counter. “Percy! Where are the plastic forks?”

  “Down under th’ bread box!” said Percy. People were crawling around in his place like worms in a can; it was all he could do to keep from hollering, “Set down, for Pete’s sake!”

  “Hey, Mule, when’ll th’ coffee be ready?” Coot Hendrick had apparently undergone a miraculous recovery.

  “Hold your horses,” said Mule, “it just started drippin’.”

  “You can git me a glass of tea, then, I wouldn’t mind havin’ a glass of tea.”

  “Coffee’s all we got, take it or leave it.”

  “You don’t have to bite my head off,” said Coot. He coughed loudly to remind people that he’d been very sick, and that pneumonia was no laughing matter even if was the walking kind.

  “Surprise!” yelled an arriving partygoer.

  “It ain’t a su’prise,” said Percy, who was tired of hearing that it was.

  “How come?” asked Mule. “We told people not leak it to a livin’ soul.”

  Velma, who had obviously spent the bette
r part of the morning at Fancy Skinner’s, peered over her glasses. “Blabbermouth Jenkins let th’ cat out of th’ bag.”

  “Why is this blasted coffeepot leaking water all over the burner?” asked Father Tim. “Mule! Can you step over here and take a look at this?”

  “I’m cuttin’ cake, buddyroe. Ask Percy.”

  “Percy’s worked this counter for forty years. I’m giving him a break.”

  “Suit yourself, it’s runnin’ down on th’ floor.”

  Blast! He flipped the switch to “off.”

  Ray Cunningham helped himself to a counter stool. “I hear coffee’s on th’ house! I’ll have a little shooter, and one for your former mayor here.”

  “Ray, good to see you!” said Father Tim. “Esther, do you how to work this blasted coffeemaker?” Their former mayor could fix anything, including people’s lives.

  “Let me get back there,” said Esther. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Rev’ren’, how you doin’?” Harley Welch’s grin was wrapping clear around his head.

  “Hey, buddy! Help yourself to a piece of cake. We’re looking forward to having your feet under our table tomorrow.”

  “I’ve done made m’ pan of brownies. I b’lieve they git better by settin’ overnight.”

  “That seems to improve a good many things in life. Why, look here, it’s Lew Boyd!”

  “Father, meet Miz Earlene Boyd.”

  “Earlene!” Every head turned. He supposed he’d shouted.

  “I’m glad to meet you, Father Tim.”

  “My goodness, Earlene, you’re pretty as a picture.”

  “Who’d you say this is?” asked Coot Hendrick.

  “My wife. Miz Earlene Boyd.”

  “Hey,” said Earlene, shaking hands.

  “His what?” asked an onlooker. “What’d he say?”

  “His wife.”

  “His wife? I ain’t believin’ that! She’s too good-lookin’ to fool with him.”

  “From Tennessee,” said Lew. He rocked back on his heels, about to bust the zipper off his jacket.

  “Tennessee!” said Lois Holshouser. “I used to go out with a boy from Tennessee. His name was Junior something, dark hair, medium build, would you know him? I wouldn’t mind lookin’ him up.”

  Percy pumped Lew’s hand with real feeling. “Congratulations!”

  “I guess I’m too late t’ claim my photo prize.”

  “You went an’ got y’r own prize, looks like.”

  Earlene smiled at Father Tim. “Lew told me you know our circumstances. I appreciate you helpin’ him.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve been any help, Earlene. But I must say we’re happy to see you. To what do we owe this wonderful surprise?”

  “Two days ago, Mama sat up in bed and looked at me like she knew who I was. An’ you know what she said?”

  “I’m eager to hear.”

  “She said, ‘Earlene, I want you to be happy.’ ”

  “Ah!”

  “I nearly fell over, she’d never said anything like that. I said, ‘Mama, can I tell you somethin’?’ I just had this peace that it was right to say it—I said, ‘Mama, I am happy, I’m married to a wonderful man.’

  “All this time I thought she’d drop over with a heart attack an’ everybody would blame me, but she just patted my arm.” Tears pooled in Earlene’s eyes.

  “I said, ‘Mama, do you mind if I run down to North Carolina for a little bit?’ She said, ‘No, honey, you go on, I want you to be happy.’ Those were her exact words.

  “So I got our neighbor to come in for five whole days.”

  “Five whole days!” said Lew.

  “I get my retirement in nine months, and after that, I’ll be movin’ to Mitford. I’m so excited!”

  “We’ll be proud to have you,” said Father Tim.

  “Lew said I could bring Mama with me.”

  Lew’s Adam’s apple worked overtime. “We got an extra bedroom.”

  “I wanted my visit to be a surprise, so when I got here yesterday evenin’, I parked behind th’ privet ’til Lew drove up. After he went in th’ house, I stuck my head in th’ door and hollered, ‘Anybody home?’ You nearly fell over, didn’t you, baby? Father, do you like surprises?”

  “I must tell you, Earlene, I’m not much on being surprised, but my wife is!”

  New arrivals pushed through the door, driving early arrivals to the rear.

  “Did I hear you’re givin’ your boy a rototiller?” Bob Hartley asked his boothmate.

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s forty-two an’ workin’ a steady job. Why can’t he buy ’is own rototiller?”

  “We like to be nice to Harry; he’ll choose our nursin’ home.”

  Mitford’s former mayor had the coffeepot up and running and was pouring and serving as if she were campaigning for office. “Percy, you ol’ coot, where’m I supposed to get a decent bowl of grits for breakfast?”

  “Beats me,” said Percy. “An’ don’t count on gettin’ grits in Wesley, they’re educated over there at th’ college an’ don’t eat grits.”

  People were clearly happy to see their former mayor back in the thick of things, especially as their current mayor had been called to a social event at the governor’s mansion.

  “Congratulations, you dog!” Omer Cunningham, aviator, bon vivant, and in-law of former mayor Esther Cunningham, waded through the crowd, his big teeth gleaming like a piano keyboard. “Where are you an’ Velma headed off to?” Omer gave a Percy a slap on the back that nearly knocked him into the drink box.

  “After gettin’ up at four o’clock every mornin’ for a hundred years, I’m headed off t’ lay down an’ sleep ’til Groundhog Day. Velma, she’s headed off to th’ pet shelter for a dadblame cat.”

  “Don’t get a cat, get a dog!” someone urged.

  “Don’t get a dog, get a monkey!”

  “Don’t get nothin’,” counseled the fire chief. “Animals strap you down—get somethin’ with four legs an’ you’ll never see th’ cherry blossoms, trust me.”

  Percy eyed the room—the booths and stools had filled up, and there was standing room only. Where were these turkeys when business had gone south a couple of times last summer?

  “Speech! Speech!” someone hollered from the rear.

  “Hold it!” J. C. Hogan blew in the front door, ushering a blast of arctic air into the assembly. “Make way for the press!”

  “Oh, law!” whispered Minnie Lomax, who had closed the Irish Woolen Shop for this event. “It’s J. C. Hogan—he wants to be th’ bride at every weddin’ and th’ corpse at every funeral.”

  A blinding flash went off, then another, and another.

  “Stand over there with Velma,” ordered the editor. “Velma, look here an’ give me a big grin! I know it’s hard for you to grin at me, but force yourself, there you go, Betty Grable lives. Okay, let’s have a shot of Percy at th’ grill. Hey, Mule, move your big rear out of this shot an’ let Percy flip somethin’ on the grill. . . .”

  “His last flip!” said Coot Hendrick.

  Lois Holshouser wrinkled her nose. “Who made this cake? Esther Bolick didn’t have anything to do with this cake, I can tell you that right now.”

  “Store-bought,” said Winnie Ivey Kendall, who was not having any.

  “Whose hat is this?” inquired Avis Packard. “Somebody handed me this hat. Is this your hat?”

  “You’re supposed to put somethin’ in it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Money. For th’ cherry blossoms.”

  “What cherry blossoms?”

  Faye Tuttle announced a relative’s sad news to Esther Cunningham. “Multiple dystrophy,” said Faye, shaking her head.

  J.C. mopped his brow with a paper napkin and handed off his Nikon to Lew Boyd. “Here you go, buddyroe, you won that big photo contest, crank off a shot of th’ Turkey Club with Percy an’ Velma. Come on, Mule, come on, Father, get over here. That’s it, look right through there and push
th’ button. . . .”

  Flash. Flash.

  “Speech! Speech!”

  Hand clapping, foot stomping. A spoon ringing against a coffee mug.

  “I’ve made plenty of speeches th’ last forty-four years,” said Percy, “an’ you’ve done forgot everything I said.

  “So I ain’t makin’ a speech t’day except to say . . .”

  In all his years as a regular, Father Tim had never seen Percy Mosely choke up. In case it was catching, he grabbed his handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

  “ . . . except to say . . .”

  “What’d he say?” asked someone in the rear.

  “ . . . tosay. . .”

  “Looks like he can’t say it.”

  It was catching, all right. Father Tim peered around and saw several people wiping their eyes. Velma pushed forward from the crowd. “What he’s tryin’ to say is, thanks for th’ memories.”

  “Right!” said Percy, blowing his nose.

  Applause. Whistles.

  “Great speech!” said Coot.

  “You mustn’t miss your nap,” Cynthia reminded him.

  They were slurping her Roasted Red Pepper and Tomato Soup to a fare-thee-well. He could eat a potful of this stuff.

  “I’ll lie on the sofa when we finish the tree, and look at the lights. I’m sure I’ll nod off.”

  “I think you should nap for at least an hour. But do you really want to lie on that sofa? Ugh! It’s so Victorian, you can’t possibly be comfortable.”

  “I’ll get a pillow from the bed.”

  “I’ll bring you one, and a blanket, too.”

  “Thanks. We’ve both been too blasted busy.” Slurp. It was hard not to slurp soup. “But there’s light at the end of the tunnel, my love!”

  “Did you get through with you-know-what?”

  “I did, by the skin of my teeth. And how about your you-know-what? The odor seeping from your workroom smells terrible. What’s the deal?”

  She laughed. “You’ll see!” Leaning her head to one side, she nailed him with her cornflower-blue eyes. “You know what I keep thinking about?”

  “That you can think at all these days is a marvel to me.”

  “Our trip to Ireland.”

  “Ah.”