by Jan Karon
“Got his money’s worth!” said his wife, looking stoic.
“Three of the kneelers came in with loose seams in the Naugahyde, and have to be returned ; thought I’d drop those at UPS. And Blake can’t leave today, he’s found foot rot in several ewes, which is bad business; I told him I’d pick up the treatment he needs at the vet in Wesley. And if there’s time, I might pop over to Mitford and see Gene and Uncle Billy. Of course, I’d also like to get up to Lambert and look in on Robert Prichard ...”
“Dearest.”
“Yes?”
“You’re in a lather.”
He knew he was out of breath but he hadn’t figured out why.
“Come with me,” she said, taking him by the arm.
They trooped onto the porch and down the steps.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Away! Away from the charming tap, tap, tap of the trowels now inside the chimney and beneath my very nose! Away from the tormenting thunder of the vacuum cleaner, and poor Lily’s thousand apologies for disappointing us yet again, and two laundry baskets piled to the ceiling with Sammy’s muddy gardening clothes ... ”
Conciliatory, he let himself be dragged along like a sack of potatoes.
“Away from mounds of dog hair,” she raved on, “and white cats who insist on running out of doors to be eaten by wild painters! Away from the commerce of calendars, and lambs that look like dogs in woolly pajamas and must be painted again and again, and most especially ...”
They were trekking toward the sheep pasture, lickety-split, as if on the lam from some criminal act.
“... away from a new deadline just foisted upon yours truly, which makes me furious with my obdurate, slave-driving, pinheaded editor! Away!”
“But away to where?”
“I have no idea. None. Furthermore, I don’t even want an idea.”
“Aha.”
“Then again,” she said, out of breath, “if I were to get an idea, it might be something like this. Away to peace. Away to solitude. Away to laughter!”
She stopped suddenly and sat in the grass.
He sat down beside her. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry” He’d read that line in a comic book when he was a boy. He’d always thought it a great line.
She burst into laughter and lay back in the grass.
“You’ve been going at a trot yourself, Timothy, just like you always did at Lord’s Chapel and Whitecap. Even when you don’t have a church, you go at a trot. It’s the way you’re wired, sweetheart. I’m not wired that way in the least, yet I find myself being swept along by the trot at which everyone else is going!”
He didn’t want to race away when his wife was venting a dash of exasperation; she never raced away when he vented his. However, Miss Lottie wouldn’t be around forever ...
“Ireland next year,” he said, patting her hand. “And Whitecap, for a long visit.”
She sat up. “But it all seems a century away. Besides, we need something sweet and simple right now. Something ... uncomplicated.”
“Like our clergy retreats of yore?”
“Exactly! I mean, look over there ... at that lovely little path leading into the woods. Wouldn’t it be fun to ‘journey thither,’ as Mr. Wordsworth said, and explore it to the end?”
“I remember seeing that path when Dooley was home.”
“I love the way the old fence is falling down on either side of the path, and vines are growing up the posts. There must have been a gate there—and think of the wonderful beds of moss we’d find along the creek. The creek does run into those woods, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Timothy, we’re living in the country like two bumps on a log. And I have no idea what to do about it!”
“I haven’t seen Miss Lottie in more than a year. She’s ninety, you know.”
“Of course you must go.” She stood up and brushed off her pants. “And I must call New York and thrash over this wrenching new production schedule, and get the drawing ready for FedEx by eleven o’clock, and decide what sort of pie Lily should bake today, and ... ”
“Cherry!” He creaked to a standing position. “Ask her to bake cherry and I’ll kiss your ring.”
“You big lug,” she said. “Consider it done.”
She kissed his cheek, then drew back and looked at him, sobered. “Forgive me. We have so much to be thankful for, yet I allow the vagaries of this good life to overwhelm me. You never seem to be overwhelmed.”
“I can’t believe that you’ve lived with me for nearly eight years, and can say that with a straight face.”
“All right, then. But you handle it better.”
“You handle it just fine, Kavanagh. Our Lord, Himself, had to get away from the vagaries of life. We’ll explore the path next week. Let’s set aside some time just for that.”
“I’ll bring the picnic basket,” she said.
He felt his grin spreading. “And I’ll bring the blanket.”
After knocking on the door of her life-estate quarters at the back of the Greer general store, he inquired of the storekeeper.
“Miss Greer went out with a neighbor about an hour ago.”
“Then she’s still getting around! ”Thank God he hadn’t come too late.
“You bet.”
“Her cat?”
“Gone to glory, as she says. Eighteen years old, that cat was!”
“I’ll be darned. Well. Tim Kavanagh.”
“Judd Baker from California. Me an’ my wife, Cindy, bought this place a year ago, and decided to keep the Greer name. What do you think?”
He looked around. Definitely not the old store where he and Absalom had robbed the drink box and talked a blue streak; not the old store where he and Absalom had sat in the back rooms and eaten Miss Lottie’s mashed potatoes and lamb with homemade mint jelly; and certainly not the store where a young Absalom had seen the choir of angels ...
“Good! Oh, yes, very good. But ... ” He sighed without meaning to.
“But different,” said the storekeeper, nodding wisely.
Homeless Hobbes wasn’t at home, either.
His old confidant and one-man soup kitchen had relocated himself from a hut at the Creek to a small, white house by the side of a gravel road. A note of greeting was tacked on the wood surround of the screen door.
Dear Friend,
This is God’s house. In my absence, you are welcome to sit on the porch and rest a while and drink from the tap to the right of the steps. In any case, I shall return at four o’clock on the afternoon of the 23rd. God bless you.
H. Hobbes
He penned a note of his own and stuck it in the mailbox attached to the porch railing.
Dear Homeless:
Once again, you have refused to live up to your name, and have got yourself a very fine dwelling!
I think of you often, and miss our conversations on what Jefferson called “antediluvian topics. ” I’m living down the road a piece and pastoring Holy Trinity on the crest of Wilson’s Ridge. Ten o’clock each Sunday morning. How I would relish seeing your face!
In His great mercy,
T. Kavanagh ✝
Here’s one for yon, my book-loving friend—by François Mauriac:
“If you would tell me the heart of a man, tell me not what he reads but what he rereads. ”
Amen.
During his years as a priest, he’d gazed into countless pairs of eyes—some reflecting Christ’s own love; many more guarded, or angry and distrustful. He read in Robert Prichard’s eyes something he couldn’t absolutely define. But there was hunger, certainly. Pleading, yes. And a terrible grief that was wrenching to look upon.
He gestured toward the faded lettering above the grease-pit door: Prichard Enterprises. “This is yours, then? Well done!”
Robert took a rag from his pocket and used it before he shook the vicar’s hand.
“Thought I’d drop by and say hello. Beautiful country out here.” Across the r
oad from the auto shop, he saw the great swell of mountains rolling away to the west.
“I wanted to say we’re glad to have you at Holy Trinity. Each and every one of our little handful is a blessing.”
The vicar watched Robert continue to wipe his hands on the rag, uncertain. A visit from a parson often threw people off kilter.
“I’d like to see your shop, if you have time to show it.”
“They ain’t much t’ see. I got a rack, a pit, no big deal.”
“Looks like a vending machine over there. May I treat you to a cold drink? It’s warming up today.”
“I got t’ git this Chevy van out of here by two o’clock. But yeah, that’d be OK.We can set over yonder.” Robert jerked a thumb toward a bench under a stand of scrub pine.
“Sounds good. What’ll you have?”
“Cheerwine.”
The machine produced a Cheerwine, then he punched a button for a diet drink—he’d learned his lesson well.
They walked across the worn asphalt to the bench, and sat down.There was an awkward silence; Robert looked at him, defensive.
“I didn’ do it, if that’s what y’re here about.”
He would risk something by digging in, but he’d prayed about it, and here was his opening, plain as day. “I want to tell you that I don’t believe you did it.”
A squirrel raced up the tree behind them. Robert didn’t respond to this declaration but toyed with his drink can.
“I ain’t never talked about it much; it scares people t’ think about it, ’pecially when they think I done it.”
“It took courage for you to come to Holy Trinity.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
A muscle moved in Robert’s jaw.
“Hit’s hard. Hit’s hard t’ talk about.”
“Let’s just visit, then.”
“Naw” Robert released his breath, as if he’d held it a long time. “I’ll tell you.
“Me’n Paw had fought twicet. Both times about money. He’d borry off of me, then not pay it back. Said he didn’t have no mem‘ry of borryin’ off of me. Th’ last time was five hundred dollars I’d saved f’r a truck, you cain’t hardly git t’ work up here if you ain’t got wheels.
“I went over to he’p ’im dress out a deer, an’ had m’ good deer knife on me; I’d carved m’ initials on th’ handle, RP. After we skinned th’ deer—it was a young ’un an’ didn’t take too long—I laid m’ knife up on th’ shelf in th’ shed. Th’ shed was right by th’ house. Then we went in th’ house t’ git th’ washtub. We was goin’ t’ load th’ meat in it an’ carry it out to th’ smokehouse.
“Hit’d got t’ rainin’ pretty hard, an’ Paw told me t’ poke up th’ fire, an’ we set around f‘r a little while. Paw he was drinkin’, which was usual.
“I remember lookin’ out th’ winder an’ seen somebody walk past. I couldn’t see who it was f’r the rain, but it was a man wearin’ some kind of a hat. I said looks like they’s somebody out there, so ’e took ’is gun an’ went out an’ come back soaked to th’ skin, said they ain’t nobody out there, you’ve been a-drinkin.’
“I’d been drinkin’, but he’d been drinkin’ a lot worser. I said when’re you goin’ t’ pay back m’ money, he said they won’t nothin’ t’ pay back. He said he was m’ granpaw, he was blood, an’ blood don’t have t’ pay back. We got t’ hollerin’, an’ he hit me pretty hard with a iron skillet. I knowed if I didn’t git out of there, I’d knock ’is head off.”
Robert looked at the vicar. “So I run.
“I took off for th’ house. Then I remembered m’ knife layin’ up on th’ shelf; I’d give thirty dollars f’r that knife.”
Robert was folding his grease rag into a small square.
“Th’ rain had slacked off when I headed back, an’ when I got to th’ shed, I heard somebody holler, ‘Hush up talkin’.’ Plus a word I ain’t goin’ t’ say in front of a preacher.
“Then I heard Paw holler out, it was a sound you don’t never want t’ hear ag’in.
“Hit scared me s’ bad, I didn’t go in th’ shed, I run back home. Th’ next day, th’ phone started ringin’ at m’ mama’s house, people sayin’ Paw had been killed. I reckon I must be stupid, I never thought they’d come after me. Th’ sheriff an’ two men come about dinnertime. Whoever it was had used my knife, but th’ only fingerprints on it was mine.
“Th’ sheriff seen th’ place Paw hit me with th’ skillet; hit was black an’ blue an’ swole up bad. I was a goner from th’ minute they took me out of th’ house.
“I don’t mind tellin’ y’ that a time or two, I’d prayed for Paw t’ die. Many a night I laid awake hatin’ ‘is guts f’r how he treated ever’body But somehow ...” The muscle clenched in Robert’s jaw.
Father Tim waited.
“Somehow, I guess I ... kind of loved ’im.”
Robert put his head in his hand, weeping.
“If I‘d’ve went back in there instead of runnin’, I might could’ve saved ’im.”
If he, Timothy Kavanagh, had hung in with his father at the end, instead of running ...
He sat with Robert Prichard for what seemed a long time, praying silently. Then they got up and walked back to the shop.
“What about Fred who lives in the school bus?”
Robert frowned. “What about ’im?”
“Did he testify in court?”
“Said he heard me fightin’ with Paw.”
“How well did you know him?”
“I didn’t hardly know ‘im a’tall. He moved ‘is bus down in there a couple of months b’fore it all happened. I heard Paw mention ’is name a time or two; maybe I met ’im on th’ road, but I never knowed him t’ speak of.”
“Thank you for your trust, Robert. It means a lot to me. You’re faithfully in my prayers.”
“Thank y’.”
“And I want to say again that I believe you.”
“One or two does, maybe. Most don’t. I guess it don’t matter.”
“It matters,” said Father Tim. “It matters.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Flying the Coop
“Father?”
He glanced at the clock: four a.m.
“Can you come?”
“I’m on my way.”
Though he’d been called out in the middle of the night only a dozen or so times in his priesthood, he resolutely adhered to a common practice of fire chiefs—he kept a shirt and pair of pants at the ready, and his shoes and socks by the bed.
He was entering the town limits when he realized he’d just blown past a Mitford police officer.
No need to be surprised, he thought, when he saw the blue light in his rearview mirror.
The officer stooped down to peer in the window. “You were haulin’.”
Clearly, Rodney Underwood had begun hiring people twelve years old and under.
“I was, officer. I’m sorry.” He adjusted his tab collar, to make sure the officer noticed he was clergy. “It’s Uncle Billy.” To his surprise, tears suddenly streamed down his cheeks.
“Uncle Billy?”
“One of the most important people in Mitford. He’s dying; Dr. Harper called me to come.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“Certainly not.”
The young turk shook his head, as if greatly mystified.
“I don’ know what it is about preachers. All y’all seem t’ have a lead foot.”
In his room at Mitford Hospital, Uncle Billy tried to recollect whichaway th’ lawyer joke started off. Was th’ lawyer a-drivin’ down th’ road when he hit a groundhog, or was he a-walkin’ down th’ road? An’ was it a groundhog or was it a sow pig?
His joke tellin’ days was givin’ out, that’s all they was to it.
He looked at the ceiling, which appeared to be thick with lowering clouds, and with something like geese flying south.
Winter must be a-comin’. Seem like winter do
ne come a week or two ago, and here it was a-comin’ ag‘in, hit was enough t’ rattle a man’s brains th’ way things kep’ a-changin’.
He shivered suddenly and pulled the covers to his chin.
Snow clouds, that’s what they was! Hit’s goin’ t’ come a big snow or worser yet, a gulley-washin’ rain.
Bill Watson! What are you hammering about?
He hadn’t opened his trap, as far as he knowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her settin’ up in th’ bed next t’ his ’un, lookin’ like a witch on a broom.
Did you say it’s going to snow?
He lay as still as a buck in hunting season, and pressed his lips together so no words could escape.
Are you talking to yourself or to me, Bill Watson?
No, dadgummit, I ain’t a-talkin’ t’ you, I ain’t said a word t’ you! Lord knows, you’ve fretted me ’til I’m wore to a nubbin. Now, lay down!
He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, in case they popped open and she saw that he was awake.
In a little bit, he’d try an’ git his mind back t’ th’ joke about th’ lawyer, maybe he’d stir up a laugh or two if anybody come a-knockin’ on th’ door, like maybe Preacher Kavanagh.
He breathed easier, then, and opened his eyes and gazed again at the ceiling. The geese had disappeared.
Gone south!
Hush my mouth? squawked his wife.
He felt a chill go up his spine; he reckoned ’is wife was a-readin’ ’is mind!
He’d never heered of such a low trick as that!
Lord have mercy, they was no end to it.
He didn’t know when he realized he was passing up through a cloud, like a feather floating upward on a mild breeze.
There was light ahead, and the cloud felt like his toaster oven set on low, just nice and warm, as it was a long time ago in his mama’s arms.
He kept his eyes squeezed shut so he wouldn’t see the ceiling coming at him, then reckoned he must have floated right through it, as easy as you please.