Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  “Amen!”

  “Brothers and sisters,” he said, as the congregants rose to leave, “please join Cynthia and me for a simple meal on the stone wall.” The idea had come to him quite out of the blue.

  “It’s a picnic made for two, but God intended it for eight, which reminds me of the old table grace, ‘Heavenly Father, bless us and keep us all alive; there’s ten of us for dinner and not enough for five!’

  “He has given us loaves and fishes this morning, that we might celebrate the beginning of our journey as a congregation, and offer thanks for a marvelous new chapter in the life of Holy Trinity.

  “Now, let us go forth to do the work that He has given us to do.”

  Three voices responded. “Thanks be to God!”

  As he moved along the aisle in his purple Lenten vestments, he sensed in his soul the definite quickening of Easter.

  “We started bringing things over yesterday evening,” Agnes said. “Twelve prayer books, the fair linen, and the old alms basin, and look how we had need of them all! Mr. Cowper made it perfectly clear that God works in mysterious ways.”

  “So clear that many think his line of verse to be Holy Writ! Tell me, is it uncomfortable for you to kneel—I mean, with the cane, I thought ...”

  “It is uncomfortable, but I shall kneel as long as I’m able—and as long as you’ll help me up again!”

  He mingled with Agnes and the visitors as Cynthia unpacked the basket at the stone wall. “And where has Clarence got to? He was a dab hand at the candles, not to mention carrying the cross and passing the basin ...”

  “He’s gone back to the house for a bit. He’s extremely shy; this is the most activity we’ve had at Holy Trinity in a very long time.”

  Cynthia set out two thick sandwiches of sliced roast chicken on whole wheat, and cut them into eight pieces. Then she withdrew from the basket a jar of Lew Boyd’s bread-and-butter pickles and a chunk of white cheddar...

  Walking with her cane, Agnes approached the wall. “Is there something I might do to help, Mrs. Kavanagh?”

  “Will you please call me Cynthia?”

  “Cynthia. That was my paternal grandmother’s name. And you’ll call me Agnes.”

  “Agnes, what would we have done without you and Clarence?”

  “You would have done perfectly well! May I introduce you to Granny Meaders and her grandson, Rooter?”

  “Hey,” said Rooter, “can I have that ’un?”

  “That one what?” asked Cynthia.

  “That piece of sam’wich you jis’ cut.”

  “That would be the biggest one.”

  “Yeah. That ’un.”

  “Well, I suppose since you’re the youngest, and still growing, you need it most.”

  “An’ I’ll have me some of them cookies, too.”

  “There’s no sugar in these cookies.”

  “Pfaw I ain’t eatin’ ’em, then.”

  “Granny,” Cynthia held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Hit’s nice t’meet you’ns. We was baptized at th’church what burnt down Christmas Eve. Hit was th’ wars.”

  “The wars?”

  “The wires,”said Agnes. “They were old. They say the church will be rebuilt, but farther down, in the valley.”

  “Shall I call you Granny?” asked Cynthia.

  “Ever’body does, honey.”

  “Please take a napkin and I’ll pile on what we have. Would you like a pickle?”

  “Are they sweet? My stomach cain’t hardly tolerate sour.”

  “Yes, ma’am, they’re sweet. And here’s a cookie, and a slice of apple and a bit of cheese ...”

  “I cain’t hardly chew nothin’.”

  “She can gum it t’ death!” said Rooter, proud of such a skill.

  “... and of course, we have a lovely thermos of raspberry tea, but only two drinking cups. Rats in a poke!”

  “What’s ’t you jis’said?”

  “I said, ‘rats in a poke.’”

  “Is that cussin’?”

  “Well, sort of, I suppose.”

  “’At ain’t what I say when I cuss.”

  “Yes, but you could say ‘rats in a poke’ and get lots more attention than those words you’re alluding to. I mean, no one pays any attention to that old stuff anymore.”

  “I got it licked about y’r tea. You’n th’ preacher could drink out one of them cups, me’n Granny could drink out th’ other’n.”

  “What about everyone else?”

  “Ol’ Robert he could drink after me’n Granny, an’ Mr. Goodnight, he could drink out of th’ lid of that bottle y’ got there.”

  “Rooter,” said Agnes, “run along that path to the little house—not the big one, the little one, and ask Clarence for eight paper cups. If he’s not there, look over the sink at the back door. Eight! Run!”

  Rooter ran.

  His grandmother grinned, revealing pink gums. “Hit’s good y’ didn’t need n’more, he cain’t hardly count past ten.”

  “Thank goodness I put these in!” Cynthia withdrew yet another comestible from the basket. “I packed for a celebration, and I was right!” She peeled away the foil and displayed two small apple fritters. “They’ll slice perfectly into eight small bites.”

  “Lloyd Goodnight, this is Mrs. Kavanagh.”

  “We welcome you, ma’am.” Lloyd Goodnight extended his large, rough hand.

  “Lloyd came to this church as an infant.”

  “I was baptized in Wilson’s Creek down yonder. An’ I was twelve year old when they closed th’ church. They wadn’t nobody around to come n‘more, ’cept my mama and daddy, an’ then we moved offa th’ mountain. I come back home to th’ ridge last year.”

  Lloyd Goodnight looked pleased about his homecoming.

  Cynthia served the pie onto napkins. “Did you enjoy the service this morning?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, I did. It was me that pulled th’ bell.” Lloyd drew himself up, beaming.

  “And well done, I must say!”

  “I could’ve went on pullin’, but seem like we was all ready to get goin’.”

  Cynthia laughed.

  “I’ve missed our old church. I carried th’ cross when I was a boy, an’ done a lot of what Clarence done today. I can still hear th’ priest say, ‘Let us pray f‘r th’ whole state of Christ’s church.’ I thought that was a mighty big thing, to pray f’r th’ whole state of th’ church across all th” whole wide world.”

  “Yes,” said Cynthia. “It is a mighty big thing. And we still need it in a mighty big way.”

  “We have Robert Prichard over there,” said Agnes. “Robert, will you come and greet Mrs. Kavanagh?”

  Robert, who had sat on the back row and hadn’t come to the rail for communion, was leaning against a tree, looking upon the gathering with an expressionless face. He was tall and lean, and wore a short-sleeve shirt that revealed numerous tattoos.

  He took his time walking over. “Hey,” he said, putting his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

  “Hey, yourself,” said Cynthia.

  Rooter ran up, breathless, and surrendered the cups. “Here!”

  “Thank you, Rooter.” Cynthia lined up the cups on top of the wall. “I believe we’ll each have a half cup to the very drop. Agnes, will you pour?”

  “I didn’t hardly know what t’ say in y’alls meetin’,” confessed Granny Meaders.

  “Hit was all wrote down,” said Rooter. “Plain as day.”

  “Them words was too little f’r me t’ half see.”

  Cynthia was digging slices of pickle from the jar and putting one on top of each sandwich. “I didn’t hear you speak up, Mister Rooter.”

  “I ain’t a-goin’ t’ read out loud in front of nobody.”

  “He was held back two year in ’is grades,” said Granny.

  “An’ I ain’t a-goin’ back t’ that school after I git done in August, neither.”

  “Where d’you think you’re a-goin’
?” asked Granny.

  “T’ hell an’ back before I go down th’ mountain in a bus, I can tell y’ that.”

  Cynthia held forth a laden napkin. “Robert...”

  Robert took it, wordless.

  “I hope you‘uns don’t mind me wearin’ m’ bedroom slippers,” said Granny. As everyone peered at her open-toed slippers, she wiggled her digits beneath wool socks. “I cain’t hardly wear reg’lar shoes n’more, my feet swells s’bad.”

  Cynthia nodded. “I understand perfectly!”

  “I ain’t never seen a preacher in a dress,” said Rooter. “How come ’e was wearin’ a dress?”

  Now disrobed, Father Tim strolled into the midst of the party in his favorite gray suit. “Let’s thank the good Lord for our loaves and fishes! Shall we wait for Clarence?”

  “He wouldn’t want us to wait,” said Agnes. “I’m sure he’ll come along in a while.”

  But Clarence didn’t come along.

  “Senior dry food only,” said Blake Eddistoe. “This fella’s been living too high.”

  “I figured it might come to this.”

  “We need to get about seven pounds off his frame. Hip dysplasia is aggravated by weight gain, and of course the extra weight isn’t good for his heart. I believe you said he’s what, ten, eleven?”

  “He was young when he came to me; I don’t know his age exactly, but yes, I figure eleven years.”

  “More romps in the pasture wouldn’t hurt the old boy.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt this old boy, either,” said the vicar, who hadn’t a clue where he’d find time to romp in a pasture.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  “Adele’s been promoted,” said J.C. “You’ll read about it in th’ Muse tomorrow.”

  He thought J.C. looked oddly dejected.

  “Promoted to what?” asked Mule.

  “From corporal to sergeant.”

  “Congratulations!” said Father Tim. “We’re proud with you.”

  J.C. ducked his head and fumbled with his overstuffed briefcase, which sat beside him on a dinette chair salvaged from a Mitford dumpster.

  “Are they promotin’ her nine millimeter, too?” In Mule’s opinion, women shouldn’t be allowed to become police officers, much less tote heavy metal around in a holster.

  “She’s not carryin’ a nine millimeter anymore,” snapped J.C. “She’s carryin’ a forty-caliber H and K.”

  “You don’t have t’ bite my head off.”

  “So what else is new?” asked Percy.

  “Gene Bolick’s not doing so hot,” said J.C. “Th’ tumor’s too deep in there to operate, and the medication’s not working like it should.”

  Mule peered into his lunch sack. “Uh oh. What in th’ dickens ...”

  “Don’t even start that mess,” said Percy. “I don’t want t’ hear it.” Percy unwrapped the foil from his wedge of lasagna, and removed a plastic fork from his shirt pocket.

  “Lasagna!” marveled Mule, peering over the top of his glasses. “What’d you bring?” he asked Father Tim.

  “Chicken sandwich on whole wheat with low-fat mayo and a couple of bread and butter pickles.”

  Mule looked into the recesses of his paper bag and sighed deeply.

  “We thank the Lord for this nourishment!” said Father Tim.

  “Amen!” Percy forthwith hammered down on last night’s leftovers. “Lew needs to get ’im a microwave in this place. Hey, Lew, why don’t you put in a microwave?”

  Lew walked in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “Put in your own bloomin’ microwave. I ain’t runnin’ a restaurant, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Lookit,” said Percy, “we buy drinks, we buy Nabs, we fill up with gas an’ whatnot—it’d be an investment in keepin’ us as reg’lars.”

  “Yeah, well, these turkeys was all reg’lars up at your place, an’ look what happened, you went out of b’iness!”

  Everybody had a good laugh, except J.C., who was staring at his unopened cup of yogurt.

  “Thanks again for the Christmas pickles, Lew,” said Father Tim. “I believe this is the recipe that inspired Earlene to kiss you on the mouth when you won the blue ribbon.”

  Lew blushed. “Yessir, that’s th’ recipe, all right.”

  “When is Earlene moving down to Mitford?”

  “September!” said Lew. “Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “An’ don’t forget Mama,” said Mule. “Lock, stock, barrel, and Mama.”

  Lew ignored this reference to his mother-in-law, who was moving from Tennessee with his once-secret wife. “How’s your new church comin’ along, Father?”

  “We had our first service yesterday, I’m happy to say.”

  “Great!” said Mule. “How many?”

  “Including yours truly? Eight.”

  Mule removed a see-through plastic container from the bag. “Mighty low numbers.”

  “Numbers aren’t everything,” said the vicar.

  “Who give you that haircut?” asked Mule. “Pretty sporty lookin’.”

  “A woman who lives above the clouds across a creek without a bridge.”

  Percy stared at him blankly. “No wonder it gets s’ long between cuttin’s,” he said.

  “So, J.C., any more news of Edith Mallory?”

  “I hear she said God again and was tryin’ to add another word.”

  “How’d you hear that?” asked Percy.

  “Ed Coffey.”

  Mule looked offended. “Why were you talkin’ to that low-life bum? You just talked to ’im th’ other day.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Thank you very much.” Mule snapped off the lid. “Oh, law!”

  Percy looked the other way. “Don’t tell us what it is, we don’t care what it is.”

  “What is it?” asked Father Tim.

  “I’ll be darned if I know. Lookit.” Mule displayed the item for all to inspect.

  “That makes yogurt look like pheasant under glass,” said J.C.

  “It’s brown,” said Percy. “Or is it dark green? My glasses ain’t doin’ too good.”

  Father Tim peered closely. “Dark green.”

  “Call ’er up and ask what it is,” said Percy. “I’d give a half-dollar to have it identified.”

  Father Tim searched his pants pocket for a couple of quarters. “I’ll give the other half.”

  “I usually don’t call Fancy at th’ shop, but for a dollar...”

  J.C. pointed to the wall. “There’s th’ phone.”

  “Yeah, but if I use th’ phone, which costs a quarter, I don’t get but seventy-five cents out of th’ deal.”

  “It’s seventy-five cents you didn’t have,” counseled Father Tim.

  “Right. OK.”

  Mule dialed.

  “Fancy, baby? Got a minute? What’s this you packed for my lunch?”

  Long silence.

  “You don’t mean it. I declare, that’s th’ way it goes, all right.”

  More silence. The members of the Turkey Club sat forward on their chairs.

  “What color was it before?”

  Further silence.

  “It’s not th’ first time somebody threatened to sue you over a hair deal. It ain’t goin’ to happen, so don’t worry about it. Right. Right. I love you, too.”

  “You call your wife baby?” J.C. appeared mildly stricken by this revelation. “You tell ’er you love ’er in front of God and everybody?”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Percy. “We’re gettin’ off track here. What is that mess sh
e packed you for lunch?”

  “Dadgum,” said Mule. “She forgot to say, an’ I ain’t spendin’ another quarter.”

  “You’re losing all around on this deal,” said Father Tim. “Canceled out your dollar, and invested a quarter of your own money.”

  “Shoot,” said Mule. “I quit. I guess I ought t’ just eat th’ thing an’ get it over with, I’m half starved.”

  “Who’s suing Fancy this time?” asked J.C.

  “What do you mean, this time? There’s only been one other time,” said Mule, offended.

  “So that was that time, and this is this time.”

  “You said it like somebody’s suin’ ’er all th’ time.”

  “Lord help us,” said Percy. “Your blood sugar’s shot, you need nourishment. Get you a pack of Nabs out of th’ machine, and hush up, for Pete’s sake.” If Velma Mosely was here, she’d knock Mule Skinner in the head once and for all. How they’d dealt with ornery, hard-to-please Grill customers for more than forty years was way, way more than he’d ever understand.

  “Smell it,” said Mule, trying to hand off the plastic container to Father Tim.

  “No, thanks.”

  Mule gazed into the container. “I think it’s guacamole.” He fished around in his lunch bag for a plastic fork and gave the thing a poke. “Ha! You’ll be sorry you bad-mouthed this little number. It’s guacamole over roasted chicken!”

  J.C. stood up and grabbed his briefcase. “I’m outta here.”

  “Where you goin? You ain’t even touched your yogurt.”

  “I’m headed down to th’ dadblame tea shop with th’ women. Sayonara, hasta la vista, and see you in th’ funny papers.”

  “Man,” said Mule, as J.C. blew through the door.

  “His aftershave nearly gassed me,” said Percy. “Prop th’ door open, get a little air circulatin’ in here. What’s ’is problem, anyway?”

  Father Tim didn’t comment, but he thought he recognized J.C.’s problem as one he’d formerly had himself.