Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  Roughly half the brick chimney had collapsed in the wind; he saw the jagged outline against the first light of Maundy Thursday.

  Willie had installed a piece of plywood over the fireplace opening to keep soot from continuing to come in; but it was too little too late. The wind continued to thrum down the hollow until Willie at last rounded up the plywood and the hole was covered. Particles of ash hung in the air.

  Her forehead streaked with soot, Cynthia sat across the table, looking red-eyed and disconsolate.

  He held his hand over his warm coffee mug to keep the stuff from sifting into it. “Willie knows a brick mason, he said he’d try to get him out here today or the first of next week. The chimney is more than a century old, so no wonder.”

  She put her head in her hands. “Ugh.”

  “Willie gave me the name of the company that insures all the buildings on the place, I’ll call them as soon as their office opens. When they come out,Willie can show them around if I’m not here. And, of course, I’ll need to talk with Hal, let him know...”

  “I don’t want to trouble Marge about cleaning the house,” she said. “We’re adults, we need to figure out what to do. It’s all over the place; it’s on everything, even the furniture and windowsills upstairs. And there’s no way I can ask Puny to come out and help do this.”

  “Didn’t Marge give you the name of a cleaning service when you talked last time?”

  “The Flower Girls!” His wife’s face was instantly brighter. “She said to look in her red phone book.”

  Cynthia flew to the bookcase, and hauled the book down. “D, E, F ... Fagan, Flanagan, Flemming ... Flower! Flower Girls, Pansy. What time is it?” She coughed mightily.

  “May be a tad early. It’s only six-thirty.”

  “Working women are up at six-thirty!” she announced, snatching the handset from the hook.

  He had to get to Mitford today. Agnes and Clarence weren’t, after all, some ecclesiastical retail complex in which he might find all that was needed for the Easter service. According to Agnes, she was down to a few candle stubs, and not a drop of communion wine on hand.

  He would check Mitford Blossoms for Easter lilies, dash to The Local for wine and candles, then swoop by the yellow house and pick up his Easter vestments.

  He made a hasty list and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He also needed to visit Uncle Billy, Esther Bolick, and Louella. He would run up and see Louella after he met with Pauline. He phoned Hope House and asked them to tell Pauline, now their dining room manager, that he hoped to see her before the big push at noon.

  Puny and the twins ... that visit would have to wait ’til after Easter.

  He rubbed his sandpapered eyes and checked his watch. If he played his cards right, he’d have a half hour to noodle with the Turkey Club, and hit the vending machine for nourishment.

  The wind had died down, thanks be to God. But he felt like a heel for running out on his wife. Though they’d cleaned up the floor and wiped off the table, the kitchen was a disaster. Fortunately, her work on the easel had been draped with a cloth that she put on each evening like a cover on a birdcage.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she had said. “You have your work to do and I have mine. I’ll manage the inside if you and Willie will take care of the outside.” She sneezed mightily. “Do not, I repeat, do not, expect me to manage a crew of brick masons.”

  “You have my word.”

  He had wiped her forehead with his handkerchief and made the sign. She signed back, and he gave her a heartfelt, albeit guilt-stricken, hug.

  He’d talked to Buck last night; they had prayed together on the phone that Sammy would turn up, safe and sound. Buck said Lon Burtie had been to the Barlowe trailer and looked in the windows. Nothing appeared suspicious.

  Lon had asked around about Clyde Barlowe’s whereabouts and a couple of people claimed he’d gone off with Cate Turner, who was Lace Harper’s father and Clyde’s long-time drinking buddy.

  In the end, the question was the same: Should the police be notified?

  Father Tim, Cynthia, Agnes, and Clarence would be working at the church on Saturday, giving it a complete cleaning, and readying it for Sunday morning. Thus the only time he could get down to Holding with Buck was tomorrow, Friday. They agreed they’d meet at eight o’clock at Lew Boyd’s Exxon, and head down the mountain to the Holding police station.

  He and Cynthia had further agreed to have their own Maundy Thursday service this evening in the ash-blasted kitchen—a fitting setting.

  As for the paperwork on the adoption/name change, he’d be in touch with his attorney next week, and by the time Dooley came home for the summer, he would walk in the door as a Kavanagh.

  Esther wasn’t at home, but he left a note at the patio door, and a box of chocolates that he’d picked up at the pharmacy.

  It was a pathetic offering; his heart was wrenched for Gene and Esther, whom he’d known as friends and parishioners for twenty years. He looked at the patio and thought how many steaks had been grilled and song birds fed and geraniums watered, and no one, not even once, thinking of inoperable brain tumors.

  Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “I think it’s wonderful,” said Pauline Leeper. “I know he’ll feel proud to carry your name.”

  “He’ll always spend time with you and Buck and Poo and Jessie when he comes home; you’ll always be his family.”

  “Yes, sir.” She took a Kleenex from her uniform pocket and wiped her eyes. “I’ll be lookin’ a mess,” she said, laughing.

  He felt awkward and disconsolate. “Thank you for your understanding. You’re a fine and caring soul, Pauline.”

  “By th’ grace of God is th’ only way that could happen,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “What you doin’ ’bout Miss Sadie’s money?”

  Clearly, he’d been mistaken to think Louella forgetful.

  “I’m waiting for the owner of the car to come home so we can talk about it. I can’t search the Plymouth without his permission.”

  Louella looked skeptical of this modus operandi, and returned her attention to the box of sugar-free candy he’d toted along.

  “What’s that? I cain’t half see. I’m lookin’ for somethin’ wit’ nuts.”

  “Nougat.”

  “No nougat. What’s that ’un right there?”

  “Umm.” He was salivating. “Dark chocolate.”

  “Here, honey,” she said, holding forth the box. “Fin’ me somethin’ wit’ nuts.”

  He took the sugar-free dark chocolate for himself. Not bad. But not good, either. “What do you think Miss Sadie would have us do with the money if we find it?”

  “Give it to th’ Lord!”

  “We’ll definitely do that. But do you think she’d like something specific? The Lord’s Chapel roof is perfectly fine, thanks to her. The expansion was paid for long ago. Hope House is running in the black....”

  “I think we should pray about it. That’s what Miss Sadie an’ I always do when she givin’ money. I ‘member how we prayed ’bout th’ money she give your boy. Whew, law! When Miss Sadie wrote that down, that was more aughts than I ever seen behind a number! What’s he doin’ with it, anyway?”

  “He doesn’t know he has it. I haven’t told him.”

  “What you waitin’ for? Th’ creek t’ rise?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Child, I’m glad nobody ever give me a million dollars; it would’ve been my ruination.”

  “You think so?”

  “This ’un an’ that ’un would have took it off of me like takin’ candy from a baby. No, honey, I never liked to fool with money.”

  “Here,” he said. “This whole row has nuts.”

  Louella gave him a fond look. “Ever’ time you come t’ see me, I feel like Miss Sadie in th’ room.You an’ her was close, honey.”

  “I dreamed about her the other night.”

  “How’d she look?”

  “She looke
d young! I was amazed to see her looking so well!” He remembered the dream as if it had been a visit.

  Louella winced.

  “What is it?”

  “This ol’ shoulder be actin’ up ag‘in. Hurtin’ me all night.”

  “Let me have a go at it,” he said.

  He got off the low stool where he always sat when he visited, and touched her shoulder. “Here?”

  “No, honey, that ain’t th’ place. Move up a little to th’ lef’.... That’s right. On up a little more.”

  “Right here?”

  “Right there! Oh, mercy, that’s sore as a boil, don’t rub too hard.”

  Nurse Herman stuck her head in the door.

  “I’m next in line after Miss Louella!” she said, grinning.

  He stepped along the hall to Ben Isaac Berman’s comfortable room.

  Ben Isaac nearly always kept his door open, and was nearly always listening to classical music. The offering of the moment was definitely Mozart... possibly the Divertimento no. 10 in F Major, but only possibly.

  He knocked on the open door. “Ben Isaac?”

  “Here, Father, right here! Come in, come in.”

  The tall, handsome old man appeared, using a cane and dressed in a coat and tie with dark trousers.

  “Ben Isaac! You’re dressed fit to kill.”

  Ben Isaac leaned toward the vicar, and spoke in a low voice. “I have a nice woman friend, Father.”

  Father Tim shook his hand vigorously. “I’m happy to hear it! That changes everything, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does. We’re walking down to lunch together in half an hour.”

  “And where does this fortunate lady live?”

  Ben Isaac’s eyes gleamed as he pointed to the wall and whispered. “Right next door.”

  “Right next door is the very place I found my wonderful wife!”

  The old man chuckled. “Oh, my,” he said. “Oh, my.”

  He popped into the chaplain’s office, glad to see Scott Murphy, who had been a literal Godsend to Hope House—not to mention the Kavanaghs’ favorite bookseller.

  “Congratulations!” he said, embracing his friend.

  “Thank you, thank you, Father. And thanks for agreeing to officiate at our wedding.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he said, meaning it. “We’re having our first service at Holy Trinity on Easter morning at ten o’clock. Wish you could come up.”

  “My service is also at ten. But we’ll definitely come another Sunday. What’s the driving time?”

  “Fifteen or twenty minutes to the farm, then about fifteen or twenty to the ridge.You could come for coffee and follow us up.” He checked his watch. “Got to get moving....”

  “Any advice before you go?”

  “For... ?”

  “For being engaged? I’ve never done this before.”

  Father Tim laughed. “You don’t want any advice from me. I nearly botched the whole thing. No, wait, here’s my advice; it’s what I’d have done if I’d had sense: Thank God continually for His kind favor. And send flowers before you mess up, as well as afterward.”

  Scott grinned. “Consider it done,” he said. “And umm, there’s something on your left cheek. Looks like ...”

  The vicar reached up and rubbed his cheek.

  “Soot,” he said. “But you don’t want to know.”

  “Blast! A dollar fifty for a pack of Nabs and a Diet Coke,” he told J.C. “The trouble is, we remember when a pack of Nabs was a nickel.”

  “I don’t go as far back as th’ nickel,” snapped J.C.

  “Oh, excuse me, I forgot your extreme youth places you in the dime category.”

  “Fifteen cents,” said J.C., hammering down on something unidentifiable.

  “When pigs fly,” said the vicar. He thought the Muse editor looked as if he’d tossed and turned all night—in his clothes. “So where’s Mule? Where’s Percy?”

  “Percy’s gettin’ a colonoscopy. Mule’s takin’ Fancy to lunch in Wesley.”

  The vicar thought he’d rather have the colonoscopy. “Let me ask you something,” he said, popping the tab on his Coke.

  “Ask away.”

  “What’s eating you?”

  J.C. frowned and held up the remains of a sandwich. “I’m eatin’ it.”

  “Come on, be straight with me.”

  He’d never messed in J. C. Hogan’s business, with the possible exception of the time J.C. was courting Adele and, in both his and Mule’s opinions, doing it all wrong.

  J.C. rewrapped his sandwich and stuffed it in his briefcase. “Adele got a promotion.”

  “Right. And a new gun.You told us.”

  “She got a raise.”

  “That’s good.”

  “She got a new hairdo.”

  “Aha.”

  “She’s gettin’ a new squad car.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  There was a long silence. Father Tim watched a fly crawl up the inside of Lew’s front window; a horn blew in the grease pit; Lew came in to ring up a gas sale.

  When Lew left, J.C. looked at Father Tim, obviously miserable.

  “An’ she got a new partner.”

  Bingo. “Driving partner, I take it.”

  “Right.”

  “So, look. I’m out of here in ten minutes. Let me ask you something. What are you doing about all this? Wasting time thinking Adele’s sweet on somebody else? Trying to figure out what she’s up to? Worrying that you aren’t number one anymore?”

  “Yeah,” said J.C.

  “So a lot of good things are happening for Adele. Have you congratulated her?”

  “No.”

  “Unbelievable! Sent her flowers?”

  “That’s not my style.”

  “Told her she’s the best? Kissed her when you came home? Kissed her when she came home?”

  “That hasn’t got anything to do with anything.”

  “It has everything to do with everything, buddyroe. I remember what you did for Adele when you were courting.You took a couple of pork chops over to her house. And you did that only one time! This is serious business, J.C., and once again, you’re giving it the old pork chop routine—which never cured anything; never has, never will.”

  “You’re preachin’ me a sermon.”

  “You’ve got that right. When you have a terrific wife like I have a terrific wife, you can’t diddledaddle around. How long since you took Adele out to dinner? How long since you courted this woman? Your wife is going places. Are you going places with her?”

  No response.

  “I believe I know Adele pretty well, she works her tail off to make Mitford a better place to live, plus she does all she can to keep you straight. You need to be rubbin’ her feet at night, takin’ her a cup of coffee in th’ mornin’....” He was lapsing into his Mississippi vernacular.

  The editor’s face was as red as a parboiled beet. “Rubbin’ her feet? Are you out of your cotton-pickin’ mind?”

  “OK, OK, somewhere between pork chops and a foot rub is where this thing needs to fall. But let me tell you, a new aftershave won’t cut it. And bein’ too high and mighty to get excited about her success definitely won’t cut it.You got to court this woman, and you got to get a move on.”

  “I got to court her again?”

  “The way you courted her the first time was so triflin’, it didn’t even count. You got to court Adele like this is the first time.”

  “I should never have said pee-turkey to you.” J.C. slammed his briefcase shut.

  “And I’m sayin’ all this to you because I think the world of Adele, and dadgummit, buddy, I love you.” Good grief, he’d never said such a thing to J. C. Hogan in his life.

  “Over and over again, I acted the fool with Cynthia, and let me tell you, that is a very dangerous thing to do.” He remembered being unfairly jealous of her editor, threatened by her success, and desperately afraid of losing all that God had given him. “Do you love Adele?”

 
; “Yeah,” said J.C. “Big time.”

  “Did you take your vows seriously when I married the two of you?”

  “I did.”

  “The way I see it, you don’t have any time to lose.You need to get yourself down to the police station and walk in there ...” He looked at his watch. “I saw her patrol car in the parkin’ lot a few minutes ago—walk in there and...”

  “And what?”

  He had preached himself into a lather. And what, indeed? J.C. was sitting on the edge of his chair.

  “Say you’re turning yourself in for bein’ a fool.”

  “Come on! Don’t be a horse’s behind.”

  “Ask her to sign out early tonight, tell her you have plans.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “My meddlin’ ends right there.” Father Tim wadded up the wrapper from the Nabs and tossed it in the trash bucket. “You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

  He’d forgotten to ask J.C. if he knew anything more about Edith Mallory. He prayed for her faithfully and thought of her often—trying to imagine her urgent search for the connecting word among what Jubal had likened to the swarming of bees.

  And what if the first word she had expressed with such feeling was lost again?

  God, she had said! On the day she’d locked him in the room with herself at Kinloch, she had no heart for God, not in the least.

  He didn’t want her to lose that word; it was imperative that she be able to hold on to that word.

  Hold on, Edith! he thought, as he removed the key from the ignition in the town museum driveway.

  Betty Craig looked done in.

  “How is he?”

  “Not a bit good.”

  “And Miss Rose?”

  “Th’ meanest ol’ woman that ever drew breath, Father, an’ that’s all there is to it.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “He’s jis’ goin’ down; he won’t hardly eat nothin’, an’ you know he loves my cookin’. He wanted chicken an’ dumplin’s, but just sucked some of th’ broth out of a spoon.”