Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  “We found that we loved the people, and found also that we were loved by them. I came to understand that the people here weren’t objects to which one does good, but true hearts whom I wanted more than anything to help.

  “Jessie and I pled with the diocese to send every thread of clothing they could collect, we even went to Asheville on two momentous occasions, to sound a special plea for winter coats and shoes.You can’t imagine the want we found here in those days.”

  He smiled. “I was a young clergyman in the backwaters of Mississippi nearly forty years ago. So, I can imagine.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had long experience with all sorts of souls. Forgive my boldness, but perhaps one day you’ll tell your story.”

  “Deal!” he said.

  “We used our Buick Town Car to ferry people to the doctor, sometimes all the way to Holding. It took a full day to go to Holding and back, we often forded the creek well past dark.”

  “No doctor in Mitford?”

  “Only on occasional days. Like a clergyman, he rode the circuit. And none of us cared for the sour old fellows in Wesley—they were twins, and both looked as if they’d eaten a bucket of green persimmons!

  “But everyone loved our Buick. So many had never ridden in a car at all. They’d pile up in the backseat like taters in a basket, as Jessie used to say, and all clinging to the hand ropes for dear life. I think I was a very fast driver in those days, some said Miss Agnes just whipped around these back roads.”

  She laughed. “I remember there would be a knock on the door and two or three unwashed young ‘uns saying ‘Miss Agnes, can we set in your automobile?’ And one winter night Jessie went out to put two squash pies in that cavernous trunk—which we also used for refrigeration—and there were three neighbor children dead asleep under our lap robe on the backseat. They’d come to spend the night in Miss Agnes’s car! It was quite the thing to do for a year or two.

  “Of course, not everyone in these parts enjoys the notion of automobiles. There are a few, even today, who don’t fancy hurtling down the side of a mountain in a vehicle.”

  “I’m one of them, actually.”

  “Jubal Adderholt hasn’t been off this ridge in fourteen years. He’s someone I’d like us to visit tomorrow.” She gazed away. “Perhaps...”

  “Perhaps?”

  “Perhaps we should be making our plan for visitation, instead of sitting here like turnips.”

  “Ten more minutes?”

  She hesitated, then nodded her assent.

  He thought a shadow passed over her face then, but perhaps he was mistaken.

  “We know the roads today aren’t always the best, but in those days, they were immeasurably worse. Touring a Buick Town Car around the poorest county in the state may sound adventurous or even romantic, but all that wear and tear took a great toll on everything from tires to engine.

  “Not long ago, I asked an elderly lady what she’d found most remarkable in her long life. ‘Men on the moon!’ I thought she might say, but she looked at me with the firmest conviction and declared, ‘Good roads, Agnes, good roads!’

  “Parts were frightfully expensive then, as I hear they are today. We had parts shipped from Bangor, Maine, for several years, because we could trust the dealer; but as you know, far-fetched is dear-bought. I suppose it was a blessing, really, when our grand old automobile simply gave out, and we were forced to make a transition ... to a truck....”

  She looked beyond the high window above the altar to the branches of an oak. He felt she’d forgotten he was there.

  “Are you all right?”

  She crossed herself. “Yes,” she whispered. She turned then, and looked at him steadily.

  “I know I’m going to tell you everything, Father; it simply must be done.”

  She glanced behind him, and he saw the anxious expression of her face at once transformed. “Clarence!”

  He turned and saw Clarence’s large frame silhouetted in the doorway.

  “I never got to speak more than a word to him on Sunday. This is a blessing!” He rose from the pew as Clarence came toward them along the aisle.

  “Clarence ...” He extended his hand. “It was a very happy pleasure to serve with you, and I’m absolutely astonished at the beauty of our pulpit.”

  Agnes used her hands in what Father Tim recognized as sign language.

  Clarence smiled with unmistakable happiness as he extended a large, calloused hand to Father Tim. Then he signed to his mother, who translated his greeting to the vicar.

  “He says we have waited a long time. And he rejoices that you have come.”

  Clarence closely observed his mother as she spoke, and nodded in assent.

  “My son is completely deaf, Father, nor can he speak. His heart converses, instead.”

  “Look, Stuart, I know you’re busy...”

  “Not too busy to talk with you, old friend. How’s it going with Holy Trinity?”

  “Did you know the building and grounds have been maintained for three decades by a woman and her son?”

  “I didn’t know it, actually, until after I e-mailed you in December. Then I decided not to mention what I found out, so you could discover it for yourself. Besides, I didn’t know how much of what I heard was true. It sounded like some Appalachian folktale.”

  “It’s no tale. And the woman, Agnes Merton, is a deaconess, a remnant of the old mission church deaconesses. I didn’t know there were any left.”

  “A few, of course. One in Virginia, one or two in New England, maybe more, I don’t know. It’s a lost part of church history.”

  “Now I know why you said you were patently envious.”

  Stuart laughed. “Did I say that?”

  “You did.”

  “And I am.You’ve never seen so much high muckety-muck as the trifold event of cathedral consecration, my retirement, and the installation of the new bishop. We’re all just this side of stroke. And there you are on your untrammeled mountaintop, birds eating from your hand, mountain panthers lying curled at your feet...”

  “Right. Precisely.”

  “Truth be told, you sound fifteen years younger, possibly twenty. Uh-oh, have to trot. Keep me posted. See you in June!”

  “You’re ever in my prayers.”

  “And you in mine. May He provide all you need for Holy Trinity.”

  “I can hardly believe what He’s provided thus far. But I’ll tell you everything another time. You and Martha must come here, you must.”

  “Perhaps next fall. After the consecration, we’re headed to the islands for a month. I have no idea what I’ll do with all that time.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” said the vicar.

  A month? In the islands! He couldn’t begin to imagine such a thing for himself. He knew only that he was glad to be where God had planted him—looking down upon the clouds, at roughly forty-five hundred feet above sea level.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  The e-mail raved on at some length. Clearly, Emma was scared out of her wits about flying across the pond, and had gone ballistic.

  Willie Mullis presented the contents of his hat.

  “Nine.”

  “Nine! How wonderful!” He took the egg bowl from the shelf above the coatrack. “Won’t you step inside?”

  “Nossir.”

  “I suppose the laying will pick up to—what do you think?”

  He plucked the eggs from the hat and put them in the bowl. Four brown, five white. “To maybe a dozen a day?�
�

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen?”

  “Yessir.”

  “A day?”

  “Yessir.”

  “We have quite a few left from yesterday; would you like these back?”

  “Nossir.”

  “Ah, well, then. Won’t you help us out and take some all along?”

  “Eggs gives me gas.”

  “I see. Care to come in for a cup of hot cocoa?”

  “Nossir.” Willie’s eyes lowered to his boots, which had attracted a considerable bit of straw on the soles. “Been muckin’ out th’ stalls this mornin’”.

  “I see. Well, if you need help, let me know. And thank you, Willie, thank you.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I don’t think he likes me,” he told Cynthia.

  “Phoo, darling. Everyone likes you.”

  “Now, now, Kavanagh. So, tell me—what are we to do with nineteen eggs a day?”

  She sighed. “I have no idea. Quiches. Omelets. Egg salad.What did Marge do, for heaven’s sake? She never said. I refuse to bake a cake, by the way, I have no time to bake a cake, so don’t even mention baking a cake!”

  “A cake? I would never mention such a thing.”

  His wife looked oddly pale and distraught.

  “What is it, my girl?” He put his arm around her as she stood at the kitchen sink.

  “For one thing, it’s laundry! Where does it all come from? It multiplies like coat hangers in a closet! And then there’s dusting and sweeping and cooking and shaking out the dog beds and emptying the dishwasher and working on the calendar and...”

  “How’s February coming?”

  “Ugh. Not well. Not well at all. I got off light with January and I’m paying my dues with February.”

  “How can I help?”

  “This house was so cozy and snug and even sort of small when Joyce was here, and now it’s positively huge. That vacuum cleaner, whoever invented the thing should be put in stocks.”

  “Come and sit down,” he pled, tugging her away from the sink. “I’ll do the laundry, leave it for me. And how about this, I’ll start wearing my shirts three days instead of two. Plus, I’ll make dinner tonight! How about omelets? Or a quiche, I could do a quiche ...”

  “And the fireplace,” she said, thumping into the wing chair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but every time there’s a breath of wind, it starts blowing ashes all over the floor.”

  He couldn’t bear to see his usually cheerful wife so frazzled and worn. Worse still, why hadn’t he noticed before? Was he as blind as a bat or merely as dense as a rock?

  Or both?

  “I’ll be in Holding a couple of days checkin’ the job we’re doin’ with th’ bank,” said Buck. “I’ll look up Lon Burtie, and see what’s goin’ on at Clyde Barlowe’s trailer.”

  “Good.You’re sure you don’t need me?”

  “Don’t see why I would.”

  “How’s business?”

  “We’re slammed,” said Buck. “But no way am I complainin’.”

  A few years ago, Dooley’s stepfather had asked God to turn his life around, and since then, he and Buck had worked together more than once to search for the missing siblings. In truth, a deep bond had grown between the vicar and the uncompromising job supervisor who’d overseen the construction of Hope House.

  “Pauline said you called. Anything wrong?”

  “Dooley wants to take the Kavanagh name.” He felt mildly uncomfortable saying it. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me speak with Pauline before you mention it. I plan to be at Hope House on Thursday”

  “Cat’s got m’ tongue.”

  “Do you think she... how do you think she’ll receive this?”

  “Don’t know. Could make ’er feel she’s losin’ one of ’er kids all over again. I’ve kept quiet about Sammy bein’ missin’. Course, we don’t know if he’s missin’.”

  “True.” He only knew he didn’t feel encouraged about Sammy. His heart was heavy when he thought of the boy who looked enough like Dooley to be a twin, and who had a gift for turning rude wilderness into the miracle of a garden.

  “How long does it take to get a cup of coffee at Starbucks?”

  “For Pete’s sake, I wasn’t at Starbucks; I was in Atlanta for four days.”

  “Aha.”

  “I have the answering service from the netherworld,” said Walter. “What’s up, Cousin?”

  “Dooley turned twenty-one in February. After what I hope is soulful consideration, he wants to take the Kavanagh name.”

  Walter laughed. “I like it when an English-man opts for an Irish name. Probably happens at least once or twice a millennium. In any case, that’s great news; I believe there’s enough melancholy in your boy to make an admirably authentic Irishman. And hey, you’ll be a dad! At the tender age of what—seventy?”

  “Sixty-nine, if the legal stuff happens before June twenty-eighth.”

  “This is not my specialty, but I think it’s going to be pretty simple, given that he’s the age of majority. Let me look into it and get back to you.”

  “Soon, do you think?”

  “A day or two, let’s say no later than next Wednesday, max. How’s your ravishing bride?”

  “Wanting you and Katherine to join us on the farm this summer.”

  “And muck about with the sheep and cows? We’ll talk about it, sounds great. So, what are you up to in your dotage?”

  Dotage! He realized he absolutely loathed this word; he refused to be in a dotage—in any way, shape, or form.

  He should never, ever, have gotten himself into this mess with Emma, he’d known better.

  He hit “reply,” and typed.

 
 
 
 
  Someone was definitely sitting at the foot of their bed, on his side. He raised his head from the pillow.

  Miss Sadie was barefoot and wearing a long, white nightdress.

  Miss Sadie! His heart was in his throat. I thought... I thought you were ...

  Crossed over? I am!

  Where are your shoes? You’ll catch your death!

  She giggled like a girl. Too late!

  He thought it strange that she didn’t look old at all, but extraordinarily young.Where had she been, and what had she been doing all this time?

  He felt definitely cross with her. Why had she pretended to be dead, which had saddened them all so grievously, and broken Louella’s heart? And had she stopped even once to think how homesick he’d been for her over the years? He was furious that he’d allowed himself to be so profoundly deceived.

  When are you going to tell him, Father?

  “When the time is right,” he said, grumpy as a bear.

  Cynthia rolled toward him and slung her arm across his chest. “What did you say?” she murmured.

  Miss Sadie had been right there, as real as life! She’d been sitting there in the very flesh—after a fashion.

  “Miss Sadie!” he said, thunderstruck.

  “Oh,” replied Cynthia, and resumed her whiffling, albeit companionable, snore.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Go Tell It

  Agnes hung on to the strap as the truck jounced through a hole the size of a washtub.

  “This was once a Cherokee trading path!”

  “A trading path would have been a distinct improvement!” Indeed, the availability of the farm truck was providential; the Mustang would be chopped liver in his new parish.

  Throughout the morning he’d been praying for Sammy, as he knew Cynthia would be. “Agnes, will you add another name to your prayers?”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Sammy.” He was surprised that his voice broke as he said the name.

  “Clarence will pray, too.”

  “You know better than anyone that Clarence is clearly exceptional.”

  Her eyes brightened.

  “How can I learn to speak with him
?”

  “I can teach you.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Clarence and I use American sign language, as we’ve done since he was a child. This includes finger spelling, or the ABCs, body movement—often referred to as gestural—signing, and facial expression. There’s great dynamism in facial expression, which of course everyone uses; though in my opinion, the deaf employ it in more pronounced and interesting ways. The face of a deaf person can be very alive with expression.”

  He geared down for the steep decline. “Aren’t there simple hand signs that express whole thoughts or sentences? Even complex concepts? I’m looking to begin with Sign Language 101.”

  “Here’s one that’s known universally; you can sign this tonight to your beautiful Cynthia.”

  She raised her right hand and, bending her middle fingers toward the palm, extended her little finger, forefinger, and thumb, and told him the meaning.

  He’d once known this sign, but had quite forgotten it; it was lost knowledge come home to him when he needed it. He repeated her gesture with his left hand, feeling a piercing of happiness.

  “Very good!” said Agnes. “It’s a lovely bit of hand language to know if you never learn any other.”

  “What about signs for words only?”

  He slowed the truck to a crawl as she held her hands, palms down, above her head, then opened them upward.

  “Steeple!”

  “Close. Heaven.”

  “Aha!”

  “And this?”

  She touched her shoulders lightly and moved her hands outward.

  “Umm ...” He wished to be clever, but couldn’t.

  “Angel.”

  “A very ecclesiastical language!”

  “A very full and exciting and immediate lan- guage!” she said. “One more for today. It’s what you are to us at Holy Trinity.”

  She formed a letter with her right hand, brushed her left arm twice, and placed her arms alongside her body.