Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  The light was getting stronger now. He found it odd that it didn’t hurt his eyes one bit; indeed, it felt good, like it was making his worn-out eyes brand-new ...

  Uncle Billy felt a hand close over his own. It was a touch that seemed familiar somehow ...

  The Almighty and merciful Lord ...

  Now, he was in the topmost branches of an apple tree, throwing apples down to his little sister, Maisie, and over yonder was his mama, waiting for him ...

  ... grant thee pardon and remission of thy sins ... It seemed the words came from a very great distance ...

  He knew only that he was happy, very happy; his heart was about to burst. He tried to utter some word that would express the joy ...

  “... and the grace and comfort of the Holy Spirit,” said Father Tim. “Amen.”

  His voice sounded hollow in the empty room.

  The following morning, Mitford learned that two of their own had been taken in the night.

  William Benfield Watson had died in his sleep with a smile on his face, and in so doing, had attained the chief aim of every soul who desired a peaceful passing.

  Less than an hour later, Gene Bolick died of the causal effects of an inoperable brain tumor. His wife, Esther, worn beyond telling, had left the hospital only a short time earlier at the insistence of the nursing staff.

  It was Nurse Herman who stood at Gene’s bedside when he spoke his last words.

  “Tell Esther ...”

  Nurse Herman leaned down to hear his hoarse whisper.

  “... to pay the power bill.”

  Nurse Herman didn’t know whether to share with Esther these pragmatic sentiments; the bereft widow might have hoped for something more.

  Yet her greater concern was that Esther’s power might, indeed, be shut off—not a good thing with so many family and friends dropping by.

  Thus, with the blessing of Dr. Harper, she recited these last words to Esther, and was vastly relieved when the grieving and exhausted widow thanked her for the reminder.

  “Are you sure that’s all he said?” Esther mopped her eyes with a wadded-up section of hospital toilet paper.

  As ardently as Nurse Herman wanted to report something truly heartwarming, the truth was the truth. “Yes, ma’am, that’s all.”

  Indeed, she had long kept a memorized selection of made-up last words to offer a bereaved family—but only if absolutely, positively necessary.

  In this case, Tell Esther I love her would have been very nice, though basic.

  Tell Esther I appreciate all the years she devoted herself to my happiness would be more flowery, but not completely believable, as Mr. Bolick hadn’t been the flowery type.

  Tell Esther I’ll see her in heaven would be tricky, as it was sometimes impossible to figure who was going to heaven and who was going to the other place.

  And then there was her personal favorite: Tell Esther she was the light of my life.

  She had heard of people saying amazing things as they passed. She would never forget being told in seventh grade what Thomas Edison had said: “It is very beautiful over there.”

  That sort of remark was comforting to those left behind; she wished dying patients would say things like that more often.

  In any case, she had told Esther the plain truth and, happy to have these odd last words off her chest, reported further that Mr. Bolick had looked peaceful, very peaceful, and had not struggled at the end.

  Willie handed the carton over the threshold.

  “Twelve.”

  “Twelve? Pretty big drop.”

  “Don’t know what’s got into ’em.”

  Willie had a lot to say grace over these days. Maybe it hadn’t occurred to him to do it. So he’d do it himself.

  Trekking across the yard with a plastic bag of cabbage leaves and apple peelings, he looked toward the vegetable patch. Sammy was trundling a wheelbarrow through the gate.

  “Good job, Sammy!” he shouted, pumping his fist into the air. Sammy nodded, intent on his work. The vicar recalled that payday was right around the corner; that would bring a smile to their young gardener’s face.

  He lifted the latch and let himself into the hen house. Two on the roosting poles. One on a nest. Another pecking in the mash trough.

  Four.

  He went out, hooked the latch, and peered into the fenced lot.

  Six. Eight. Ten. Twelve, thirteen. Chickens weren’t much at holding still to be counted. Blast. Six. Eight. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

  Twelve.

  Had he counted right?

  He counted again.

  Twelve.

  Strange, he thought. Mystifying.

  He opened the bag and tossed cabbage leaves into the lot; the hens scampered after them, gleeful. One by one, the remaining four exited by the opening in the side of the house and flew down the ramp as the shower of apple peelings fell through the wire at the top of the lot.

  “Chick, chick, chick!” he called. That was how Peggy had taught him to gather the chickens when he was a boy. He remembered letting himself into the lot, unafraid of the rooster, and squatting down to look the whole caboodle in the eye.

  What did chickens think? Were they stupid like some people said? They didn’t seem stupid, but they did seem nervous. Did they know about dumplings, about the things that were going to happen to them? How did God get eggs into chickens?

  At the conclusion of this scientific investigation, Peggy discovered he was crawling with lice. They were in his hair, in his clothes ...

  “Run to the washhouse!” said his horrified mother, “and wait for Peggy and me.”

  It was, in his opinion, a bitter remedy; he could remember the smell to this day. Sulfur!

  Stuffing the empty bag in his pocket, he struck out for the barn, where Willie was giving a lamb its bottle.

  “I just went to the henhouse and counted. Didn’t you say we had nineteen?”

  Willie looked perplexed. “Yes, sir, I counted ’em m’self on New Years Day.”

  “I counted twice. We’ve got twelve.”

  Willie looked shocked, then perplexed. “But that don’t make no sense. I ain’t seen any dead when I feed up.”

  Father Tim squatted next to Willie. “Any way they could be getting out? Flying the coop?”

  “That little house is tight as a drum. No way out, no way in. An’ I been looking aroun’ th’ fence t’ see if anything’s been diggin’ under. Ain’t nothin’ diggin’ under.”

  “So it couldn’t be a mink?”

  “We’d find feathers. Worser’n ’at, we’d hear th’ uproar. When a fox or mink gits in a henhouse, chickens go t’ squawkin’. They ain’t no way anything could get in there without unlatchin’ th’ door like ... like me’n you.” This thought appeared to give Willie a bad turn.

  “Should I leave the farm dogs out tonight?”

  “y’r farm dogs won’t sleep out, they’re inside dogs now. Miz Owen’s done ruined ’em. Anyhow, all but one of ’em’s too dadgone old t’ do much barkin’.”

  “What about your dogs?”

  “I don’t let m’ dogs run at night. We got coyote, y’ know.”

  “So I’ve heard. Could anybody get by your kennel without stirring your dogs?”

  “I guess if they was smart enough an’ quiet enough, they could. At night, it ain’t too hard f’r somebody t‘slip in on chickens without ’em squawkin’. You can lift one off of th’ roost pretty easy if you know how t’ handle it.”

  “Do you know the neighbors?”

  “Not t’ speak of. Once in a while, I see a neighbor or two at Kirby’s Store. But don’ look like nobody’d steal chickens this day an’ time.”

  “Right,” said Father Tim, “all a man has to do is run to Wesley; he can get one already dressed for less than a buck and a half a pound.” He shook his head, pondering. “So, how’s this little fella coming along?”

  Willie came as close to beaming as Father Tim had seen. “He’ll be strappin’.”

  “Good. K
eep your eyes peeled,” said the vicar.

  “Will do,” said the shepherd, still looking perplexed.

  “Have you ever noticed, Father, the peculiar surnames of certain clergy? When I first came here, Father Church was our priest, and I read an article recently by Father Paradise.”

  He chuckled. “In my time, I’ve known a Father Divine, a Bishop Steeple ... oh, and a Bishop Bell. Old Bishop Bell! A force to be reckoned with! And let’s see, there was Father Cross in Alabama. Wallace Cross, as I recall.”

  “What do you make of it?” she asked.

  He laughed heartily. “I’ve never known what to make of it!”

  They bumped along on their way to pick up Sissie. A day of stinging cold, though with bright sun and clear skies. Agnes huddled on the passenger side in a heavy, albeit threadbare, coat.

  “Well, then, we’d best move along to more important considerations. What am I saying, Father?” Agnes signed something familiar, then something puzzling and strange. Their lessons for the week had begun.

  “Law, look who’s here! Sister, come see who’s callin’ on us!”

  Miss Mary shuffled into the parlor, her cheeks flushed from the stove.

  “It’s Miss Sissie Gleason in her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ shoes!” announced Miss Martha.

  Miss Mary clapped her hands. “Oh, my mercy! It’s Miss Sissie Gleason in ’er Sunday-go-t’-meetin’ shoes!”

  Proud, Sissie stuck up one foot and then the other.

  “And us without a crumb in th’ house!” Miss Martha looked stricken. “Well, come in, come in, we’ll find something sweet in th’ painted cabinet; we always do.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, “we didn’t come to eat, we came to make a delivery and see your smiling faces. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  “You don’t turn up at th’ McKinney sisters without puttin’ your feet under th’ table. Come in th’ kitchen where it’s warm! This part of th’ house has been closed off for five years, it’s a morgue in here!”

  “Five!” said Sissie. “That’s how many I am!”

  Miss Martha was herding them along like so many sheep, no matter how he and Agnes might protest. Truth be told, he was happy to be herded into the sisters’ kitchen where they received a salutatory blast of oak-fired heat.

  “Ladies, Cynthia estimates you used up your dozen for that splendid cake. Here’s a replacement.”

  “Look at that! An answer to prayer if I ever saw one. Less than ten minutes ago, I said, Lord, there’s nobody to carry us to the store for eggs and we’re plumb out!”

  “Plumb out,” affirmed Miss Mary.

  “We can carry you to the store,” he said. “Glad to.”

  “Where on earth would we all ride?” Miss Martha asked. “One of us would have to be tied on top, and it wouldn’t be me!”

  “It wouldn’ be me!” piped Miss Mary.

  “It wouldn’ be me, neither!” announced Sissie, who was, nonetheless, intrigued by the idea.

  “I’ll be staying behind to poke up the fire,” said Agnes, “so it wouldn’t be me.”

  “And it absolutely, positively wouldn’t be me,” said the vicar. “I’m driving!”

  They all had a good laugh.

  “Thomas will carry us on Friday,” declared Miss Martha, “which leaves us free to enjoy the afternoon. Got your tillin’ done, Father?”

  “Sammy just got the patch cleaned up and the rotted manure down; tilling is right around the corner. How about you?”

  “I’m not putting in a garden this year. Too much bloomin’ work!”

  Miss Mary nodded furiously. “Too much bloomin’ work!”

  “Where’s y’r painted cab’net at?”

  “Now, Sissie,” said Father Tim.

  “It’s in this little room right here behind the stove.” Miss Martha opened the door, revealing a dark, unheated space with bead board walls and canned goods on shelves lined with oilcloth. “It’s right back here; come on, don’t fall over that tub of potatoes. I’ll just switch on th’ lightbulb.”

  He and Agnes had made their way to the door and saw the painted cabinet at the end of the small room.

  Miss Martha pointed to it with pride. “Walnut off th’ home place. Our papa made it, bless his soul.”

  “An’ our mama painted it,” said Miss Mary. “Bless hers, too!”

  “Beautiful!” exclaimed Agnes.

  “Papa was mighty grieved to see walnut painted over, I can tell you that! But he loved our dear mother, and the paint made it doubly precious in the end.

  “See the cow on the right-hand door? That was mama’s cow when she was growing up. Its name was Flower, she did this from memory. And over here’s our house, the very one you’re standing in. And here on the other door is Papa’s bird dog, Ol’ Mack, and his favorite wagon team.”

  “A treasure,” said Father Tim. “Wonderfully executed!”

  “What’s in it?” demanded Sissie.

  “Never mind that, young lady, pay attention while I tell you what’s on it.

  “Right here on the top drawer is Wilson’s Creek; see it winding through the mountains? And over here’s our little dog, Tater.”

  Sissie peered at the image of the spotted dog. “Does he live in th’ house? I want t’ see im.”

  “Tater passed on,” said Miss Martha. “Fifty years ago this June.”

  “Johnny had a dog; its name was President Roosevelt, we called ’im Teddy ...”

  “Now! Bottom drawer, here’s Miss Agnes’s schoolhouse with the old bell—and over here by th’ knob is ... what’s this, Sissie Gleason?”

  “Th’ church me’n’ Granny goes to!”

  “Yes! Holy Trinity. With a shake roof, before they put on the green tin.”

  “A gem!” said the vicar.

  Sissie stomped her foot, impatient. “What’s in y’r cab’net?”

  “You stomp that foot again, miss, and you’ll never lay eyes on what’s in this cabinet. You hear me?” Miss Martha was ten feet tall.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” instructed Miss Martha.

  “Yes, ma’am, what’s in y’r cab’net, please!”

  Miss Martha looked at the vicar and sighed. “It’s the squeakin’ wheel that gets the grease,” she said, opening the cabinet door.

  “Oh, law! Enough apple butter to sink a ship! But no biscuit to put it on.”

  She closed the door and opened a drawer.

  “Why, look here, Sister, I forgot about the cookies I baked on Saturday! Nice and chewy; oatmeal with raisin! I’d forget my head if it wasn’t tied on. Sister, set out five glasses, we’ll want milk with these cookies.”

  Oatmeal with raisin! His favorite!

  He lingered with Miss Martha as her sister walked with Agnes and Sissie to the truck.

  “What do you know about Donny?”

  “The finest boy you’d ever want to meet, but a drinking problem. They say he doesn’t drink right along, but, how do they say it? In binges. And no wonder, if you ask me.”

  “Did you know Robert Prichard’s grandfather?”

  “Everybody knew Cleve Prichard, and there’s not a soul on this ridge that misses th’ low-down sonofagun!”

  “That’s plain talking.”

  “He was nothin’ but trouble. Only two people showed up at his funeral. Agnes Merton was one, because he used to work on her truck, and I can’t recollect the other. You know Robert says he didn’t do it, and to tell the truth, I believe him!”

  “I believe him, also.”

  “Some say a convicted murderer oughtn’t to be in church.”

  “Who says that?”

  “I’ve already spoken a wicked thing against the dead, and I’ll not go tattlin’ into the bargain!”

  “What made Cleve Prichard low-down, as you say?”

  “Gambling and drugs! Bringing lowlife into our little holler! Corrupting our young! Running that hateful homemade!”

  “People still make whiskey?”

  “They c
ertainly do; it’s not ancient history in these hills. But to be fair, I’ll say this about Cleve Prichard—he didn’t start out mean and no-account. He was a hard worker, and was making a good name for himself, but he was weak-minded and fell in with the wrong crowd.”

  The truck horn blared. Sissie, no doubt.

  “Full of herself!” Miss Martha declared. “Dangles her participles! Needs a firm hand!”

  Leanna Millwright was home, as were her seven sick and coughing children. She took a flyer and asked the vicar to drop by another day.

  Rankin Cooper was looking for two cows that had gotten loose from the pasture; Mr. Cooper met the truck in the road as they slowed to turn into his driveway. He was a lapsed Baptist, he said, but a God-fearing Christian, and would consider visiting Holy Trinity if he could talk his wife into it, which he seriously doubted, as she stemmed from Methodists.

  They left leaflets with everyone, and resupplied the store at the bridge. He was pleased that the owner, Hank Triplett, remembered him from a former visit.

  “The little church on the ridge is up and running,” the vicar told the several customers. “We welcome one and all!”

  “It’s th’ church me’n’ Granny goes to,” Sissie announced. “They always got cookies, an’ sometimes they got cake!” She lifted one foot in case anyone wanted a closer look at her yellow shoes.

  As they walked to the truck, Sissie reached up and took his hand.

  “I like helpin’ you’uns out,” she said.

  “Where is Donny today?” he asked Sissie as they drove along the road to the trailer.

  “He’s loggin’.”

  He didn’t want to ask if he was still drinking. If he was working, he assumed things had settled down. God knows, drinking and logging would be a lethal combination.

  “I’d like to talk to your mother in private.”

  “What’s in private?”

  “Just the two of us. Agnes?”

  “We’ll sit in the lawn chairs and work the puzzle,” said Agnes.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I think forty-four across may be heliotrope.”

  “Of course! Father, you’re a genius.”