Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  He remembered George Gaynor talking about the jewels hidden in the oil pan of a Packard, but Miss Sadie, for all her savvy, was not the oil pan type.

  “Nothing,” he said to Andrew, who was looking his usual trim and urbane self, while lamenting the downward spiral of the dollar and the upward spiral of the pound.

  “We probably shouldn’t mention this to anyone,” he suggested to Andrew.

  “I agree completely.”

  “Tony said you may be having it restored?”

  “I looked into it a few months ago. Something nostalgic for the Independence Day parades! However, at several thousand dollars to bring it into mint condition, and the economy in its present state . . .”

  “Indeed. How’s business at the Oxford?”

  “Slow.The good stuff is harder and harder to find. How’s life in the country?”

  “Slow,” he said, chuckling.

  “Law, lookit how you’ve growed!”

  “J. C. Hogan, Percy Mosely, Mule Skinner, Lew Boyd—meet Sammy Barlowe, Dooley’s brother.”

  “No way!” said Percy. “I took ’im for Dooley.”

  “Set down, set down,” said Lew, clapping Sammy on the back. “Let me treat you to a Coke an’ a pack of Nabs.”

  “I’ll kick in a bag of chips,” said Mule. “You want sour cream or barbecue?”

  “B-barbecue,” said Sammy.

  “I thought we’d have lunch in Wesley,” said Father Tim.

  “Don’t go over there an’ fling your money around.” Percy dropped a half dollar in the slot of the vending machine. “Keep y’r b’iness at home is what I always told my customers.”

  A Moon Pie thunked into view; Percy handed it off to Sammy. “On me!”

  Father Tim eyed the Moon Pie with some disdain. “We were going to the all-you-can-eat salad bar in Wesley.”

  Percy rolled his eyes. “This boy don’t need a salad bar, he needs somethin’ to put meat on ’is bones! Ain’t that right, Sammy?”

  “They got another word out of Edith Mallory.” Conversation froze; J. C. looked around at the assembly, relishing his moment.

  “Spit it out, buddyroe.”

  “Said she rolled into ’er breakfast room th’ other mornin’, looked her people dead in th’ eye, an’ said . . .” J. C. leaned back in his plastic chair and milked the pause.

  “He’s doin’ it again,” said Mule. “Come on, dadgummit.”

  “An’ said . . . ‘God is. ’”

  “God is what?” asked Percy.

  J.C. shrugged. “That was it. All she wrote.”

  “Could have been a complete sentence,” said Father Tim. For Edith Mallory, those two words alone would be an astonishing affirmation.

  “Prob’ly tryin’ to say God is one mean soan’-so for droppin’ a ceilin’ on ’er head. Who knows? Who cares?” Percy’s estimation of his former landlady was decidedly on the low side. “How’s that little church comin’ along?”

  “Growing! Attendance is up one hundred percent.”

  “No way,” said Mule.

  “I’ll be dogged,” said Percy.

  “They ain’t got a t-toilet,” said Sammy. “Have t’ use th’ b-bushes.”

  Hee haws, thigh slapping, general hilarity.

  Lew Boyd stepped in from the grease pit.

  “That’s what I like to see at Lew Boyd’s Exxon,” he said. “People enjoyin’ theirselves.”

  They schlepped the whole caboodle into the kitchen until it could be sorted through tomorrow morning: seeds, seedlings, seed pots, planting mix, an English garden spade, a set of tiller tines, fifty pounds of organic fertilizer, four sport shirts, four T-shirts, a sweatshirt with a hood, two pairs of khaki pants, two pairs of jeans, a dozen pairs of socks, tennis shoes, a V-neck sweater, a windbreaker, two packages of underwear, a case of Cheerwine, and, in readiness for Lily’s visit tomorrow, four sacks of groceries.

  He’d dropped Emma’s eggs at Lew’s; left a dozen in Esther’s screen door with a note; gone by to see Uncle Billy, who was sleeping; and stopped on the highway for a sack of burger combos, which they devoured to the last fry before leaving the town limits. As for Sammy’s haircut, no cigar.

  He was killed, and so was Sammy. At eight o’clock, they dragged up the stairs to bed, maxed to the gills.

  “Lily?” he said, opening the back door.

  “No, sir, it’s Delphinium, you c’n call me Del. Glad to meet you.” The tall, well-built woman gripped his hand in an iron clasp—was that one of his knuckles breaking?—and swept by him with a bucketful of cleaning rags.

  Del who pulls furniture out from walls! Who upends chairs on tables! Who beats rugs . . . “But I thought Lily . . .”

  “Lily’s sick as a dog. Puking!” said Del. “Want t’ show me what you’uns need done?”

  He didn’t know how Del would go down with his wife; Cynthia may not like the furniture pulled out and the rugs beaten.

  “I’ve got a surprise,” he told Cynthia as she came along the hall to the kitchen.

  “You’re white as a sheet.”

  “You may not like it.”

  “Of course I’ll like it; I love surprises.”

  “It was supposed to be Lily,” he whispered.

  “Supposed to be Lily?”

  “But it’s Del.”

  “Del?”

  “She pulls furniture out from the walls and can’t cook to save her life.”

  “Timothy, why are you whispering? And what are you talking about?”

  He threw up his hands, stricken. “I hired Lily to help you, but she’s puking and sent Del.”

  “One of the Flower Girls! Is she in the kitchen?”

  “She’s very tall,” he said.

  He came out the backdoor at a trot, and not a minute too soon. Del had just whipped on a head rag and was ready to roll.

  “Lloyd, how long do you think you’ll be with us?”

  “You know we’ve got t’ tear th’ rest of y’r chimney down t’ where it goes t’ two-brick wide. We’ll be layin’ two-brick wide all th’ way to th’ top this time.”

  “Right.”

  “Then you’ll have t’ get y’r flue put in.” Lloyd gazed at the sky. “If th’ weather holds like this, which it won’t, prob’ly take about six weeks.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—can all your work be done from the outside? I’m sure my wife is hoping as much.”

  “‘Fraid not. Once we get goin’, there’ll be a good bit of in an’ out.”

  He positively roared out of the driveway and onto the state road.

  The new wayside pulpit message went by him in a blur.

  “Thirty-eight across; the clue is baloney,” said Agnes. Her glasses sat near the tip of her nose as she pored over the folded newspaper with great concentration. “Thirteen letters.”

  They’d had their signing lesson, and were on to the crossword as they bumped along on their visitation rounds.

  “What do you have so far?”

  She told him.

  “Umm.” He’d never been good at the crossword, especially if he couldn’t look at the blasted thing. Nonetheless, he wanted to be helpful. “Remind me again about twenty-four down.”

  “Claim on property. Four letters. Starts with L.”

  “Lien!” he said.

  “Of course! That gives us an N in thirty-eight across! Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I’d like to stop and say hello to Jubal. What do you think?”

  “Important business to tend to,” she said, tapping the crossword with her pen. “I’ll sit in the truck.”

  “God people’s always a-harryin’me.” Though Jubal looked fierce, he opened the door wider.

  Father Tim eased across the threshold. “Brought you a dozen eggs.” There was a mighty aroma of something cooking . . .

  Jubal took the carton, suspicious, and lifted the lid. “I’ll be dogged!” The old man’s eyes brightened. “Brown Betties is what we called ’em when I was comin’ up. I thank ye
.”

  “You’re mighty welcome.”

  “Don’t be a-tryin’ t’ weasel in on me, now. Preachers are bad t’ weasel in on a man.”

  “Hope you enjoy them!”

  “They’ll go good with th’ ’coon I shot last e’nin’. That’s him a-cookin’.”

  “Coon?” He realized he was backing over the threshold.

  “A whopper.”

  “Aha!”

  “I once boughted a coon dog, but hit turned out a possum dog.”

  “Got to scurry, Jubal.”

  Jubal squinted at him. “You ain’t up here t’ git a bridge put o’er th’ creek, are ye?”

  I hadn’t given it any thought.”

  “We don’t want ary bridge o‘er th’ creek; they’d be people a-swarmin’ ever’ whichaway. Nossir, we don’t want no bridges an’ don’t ye be a-tryin’ t’ give us none.”

  “You can count on me!”

  He stepped off the porch into the yard. “I’ll drop in again if you don’t mind, bring you some more Brown Betties.” You’re in my prayers, he almost said, but caught himself. “By the way, anytime you have a spare squirrel or two, Miss Martha said she’d sure like to have a couple.”

  Jubal’s eyes narrowed. “Tell ’at ol’ woman t’ shoot ’er own dadgone squirrel!”

  “Come to think of it, I believe she might swap you a pie, or maybe a batch of cookies still warm from the oven.”

  Jubal’s jaw dropped.

  “Take care of yourself, now!”

  He hastened to the truck, his face about to bust from grinning.

  “Miss Agnes, we might be working this puzzle ’til Judgment Day. We only have three letters in thirty-eight across.”

  “It’ll be finished tonight!” she said, confident. “But I’d covet getting at least two more letters in thirty-eight across before we part. By the way, if there’s time after church on Sunday, will you and Cynthia come and see Clarence’s work?”

  “We’d be honored.”

  “He’s just gotten the biggest order he’s ever had. It will require a great deal of him for many months.”

  “I’ll pray for God to supply all his needs.”

  “So many boys to pray for,” she said.

  “And girls,” he said, turning into Donny Luster’s yard.

  “You’re wearing your yellow shoes!” said Father Tim.

  “Mama says I c’n wear ’em one day b’sides Sunday. I picked t’day.”

  “They’re mighty nice and shiny.”

  She bent low over her shoes, admiring. “I c’n near about see m’self; Donny he rubbed ’em with a biscuit.”

  “With a biscuit?”

  “Mama says they’s lard in a biscuit; hit makes shoes shiny.”

  “I’ll remember that! That’s a very handy tip.”

  “Mamaw Ruby teached Mama t’ use a biscuit.”

  He sat in the chair beside the bed and took Dovey’s hand; Agnes eased herself into a rocking chair.

  “How is your mother, Dovey? Do you hear from her?”

  Sissie stood by the bed and patted her mother’s arm. “She’ll be a-cryin’ if you talk about Mamaw Ruby.”

  “Crying can be good,” said Father Tim.

  Tears ran along Dovey’s cheeks and onto the pillow. “She’s doin’ fine,” Dovey whispered. “She’s turnin’ fifty-two th’ last of May.”

  “Mamaw Ruby teaches ‘bout Jesus in th’ prison house.”

  “Please hush, Sissie, an’ let our comp’ny talk.”

  “I’d like to write her, if you’ll give me her address.”

  “Sissie, git me Mama’s address, an’ bring th’ medicine in m’ cup.”

  Sissie trotted to the front of the trailer.

  “Mama didn’t go t’ kill Daddy,” said Dovey. “He’d beat ’er since we was little, an’ she never done nothin’ about it. Then he went t’ beatin’ me. She’d never picked up a gun in ’er life, but she took ’is twelve-gauge an’ . . .”

  She turned her head away from him. “Mama didn’t go t’ do it. He was beatin’ me so bad . . .”

  “I understand,” he said. Perhaps he did; perhaps he didn’t.

  “Miss Martha, I have a confession to make.”

  “It’s about time clergy started confessin’; I read th’ newspapers, you know.”

  “Well, we don’t want to go there, do we?”

  “Certainly not in my house!” she said, affronted by the whole notion.

  “I asked Jubal about sending you and Miss Mary a couple of squirrels.”

  “An’ th’ ol’ so-an’-so refused.”

  Try as he might, he couldn’t keep from grinning. “He did. Said let Miss Martha shoot her own.”

  To his glad surprise, Martha McKinney hooted with laughter.

  “Now here’s my confession,” he said. “I told him I thought ... I thought you might bake him a pie. You know—in exchange.”

  Miss Martha looked thunderstruck. He had stepped in it, big time.

  She folded her arms across her ample bosom and looked down at him from on high. She was a mighty oak; he was a worm.

  “Or, maybe”—he was back-pedaling, and no help for it—“a few cookies?”

  Lower than a worm.

  “A biscuit or two?”

  “Meddlin’! If there’s anything I can’t tolerate, it’s meddlin’! I spied evidence of this hopeless affliction when I first laid eyes on you!”

  It was true. He was the worst meddler in the world. He bowed his head, resigned to this ineffable flaw in his character.

  “Look!” said Miss Mary. “He’s a-prayin’.”

  “He’d better be prayin’!”

  He heard Agnes chuckling, Miss Mary giggling.

  He looked up, as one about to be beheaded.

  Miss Martha was as red in the face as a turkey gobbler, trying to hold back her laughter.

  “You tell th’ old dirt dauber I’ll bake him a blackberry pie, but if you ever go an’ do such a thing again, I’ll ...”

  “You’ll ... ?”

  “I’ll give you th’ rollin’ pin an’ let you bake your own bloomin’ pie!”

  “Yes, ma’am!” he said, thankful to be among the living.

  He’d known he wouldn’t be at home, but he left a note and a carton of eggs on a shelf beside the door.

  Dear Robert,

  There’s more where these came from.

  We hope to see you at Holy Trinity on Sunday. Afterward is the Covered Dish, but no need to bring anything, we’ll have a gracious plenty.

  Your friend in Christ,

  Fr Kavanagh t

  He’d fretted about the covered dish deal. Should he let Robert off the hook because he lived alone and probably didn’t cook, or should he allow him to step up to the plate with the rest of the parish? In any case, the vicar would be bringing a ham; Lily would be baking a cake; his wife would be making enough potato salad for the Roman legions; and all would be well.

  “Thank you,” said Agnes when he returned to the truck.

  He looked at her, curious, but didn’t ask her meaning.

  “How can I find Robert during the day?”

  “He has an automotive repair shop in Lambert, about ten miles away. I haven’t been there in years. Lloyd would know how to find it.”

  “I’d like to make a call soon. Want to come along?”

  “I believe just the two of you would be best.”

  “Why did you thank me just now?”

  She appeared oddly moved. “For meddling,” she said.

  The other people on their list hadn’t been at home. At every stop, they left a new flyer, and inserted quite a few into roadside mailboxes.

  Arriving at Meadowgate a little before three, he sat on the top step of the back porch, removed his brown loafer, and shook out what felt like a piece of driveway gravel. Through the screen door he heard Del and Cynthia talking.

  “I seen y’r white cat at th’ smokehouse.”

  “That’s Violet. She was sunning herself.
”

  “I’d keep ’er in if I was you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Bear.”

  “Bear?”

  “Spotted one crossin’ th’ road th’ other mornin’.” Long silence, the rattle of a lid against a pot. “Then there’s bobcat an’ coyote.”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. Th’ coyotes used t’ didn’ mess around these parts, but now they’ve come over th’ mountain and sometimes carries off little animals, don’t you know.”

  He heard his wife’s sharp intake of breath.

  “Course, I guess you heard ‘bout th’ painters.”

  “The painters?”

  “Wild painters. They mostly live in th’ mountains, but some has seen ’em in th’ valley.”

  “What on earth is a wild painter?”

  “A cat. Like in Africa, but diff’rent. They say they’re extinct, but they ain’t.You ought t’ hear ’em scream. I ain’t never heard ’em scream, but my brother Jack has. He said th’ only way t’ keep a painter from tearin’ y’ t’ pieces is if you shuck off your clothes while you’re runnin’ an’ drop a piece at a time. That gives ’em somethin’ t’ stop an’ chew on so you can git away.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Hawks.”

  “Hawks?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They’ve been known t’ carry off little animals that cain’t hardly fight back.”

  Bolting from the kitchen and slamming the screen door behind her, his wife nearly mowed him down on her way to the smokehouse.

  “Fourteen,” said Willie.

  “Again?”

  “Nineteen lambs, seven calves, fourteen eggs.” Willie gave him one of his very rare grins. “Farmin’ these days is all about numbers, ain’t it?”

  Though he dreaded the answer, the question had to be asked.

  “How did Del do?”

  “Absolutely towering strength. Have never seen her equal. Was a blur the livelong day.”