Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  ”An’ ’er car keys! Lord have mercy, if we didn’t run aroun’ like chickens wit’ their heads cut off lookin’ for them keys, she never knowed where she’d hid ’em.”

  “She hid her keys?” Keys that weren’t hidden at all were hard enough to locate ...

  “If a bu‘glar broke in, she say he’d want that high-dollar car, he’d be lookin’ for them keys first thing. Then there was them high-dollar pills she was takin’, she hide them in ’er shoes. Miss Sadie never th’owed away a pair of shoes, honey! She had forty, fifty pair of shoes in that big closet, an’ ol’ Louella never knowed which pair t’ look in.”

  “Why did she hide her medicine?”

  “Said th’ bug’lar could sell ’er pills on th’ street.”

  “Aha.”

  “She got that notion off a TV show. See this ol’ gray head?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My hair was black as coal ‘til I come back t’ live wit’ Miss Sadie!”

  Louella laughed heartily, and he joined in.

  “I loved Miss Sadie better’n jam an’ bread; she help raise me! But let me tell you, she was a han’ ful t’ keep up wit’.

  “One time Miss Olivia sent a big box of choc‘lates. Oohee, it was a nice box. I wanted to eat it up quick so it wouldn’ go to th’ bad, but Miss Sadie, she want to ration it out. A little dab here, a little dab there, and no secon’ helpin’s!

  “I say, ‘Miss Sadie, what if Jesus come, an’ we ain’t eat up this candy—it would all go to waste!’

  “She say, ‘Louella, if Jesus come, you won’t be studyin’ no candy, no way.’ ”

  Louella closed her eyes and shook her head, chuckling.

  “One night I was thinkin’ ’bout them choc‘lates, this was ’fore we moved to Miss Olivia’s house. We was still climbin’ them steps at Fernbank ever’ night; was it eighteen steps or twenty-two?”

  “I believe it was twenty-two.”

  “You know it took us half th’ night t’ get up there—that’s why we started sleepin’ in th’ kitchen!”

  “I remember.” They’d all had sweet times in that kitchen.

  “Honey, I got out of my bed in that little sewin’ room, an’ down I went, slow as m’lasses so’s not to make th’ steps creak. Got down there, went to huntin’ for that box an’ couldn’ find it. No, sir, that box was hid! That was th’ first time Miss Sadie hid somethin’ from me!

  “Lord have mercy! Now I go t’ start back up, an’ I cain’t git up! That was b’fore my knee operation. I say to m’self, I say, Louella, you done for now, Lord, you got t’ help me!”

  “Suspenseful!” he said.

  “I was at th’ bottom of th’ steps, lookin’ up an’ prayin’ an’ these ol’ bad eyes seen a little angel way up on th’ landin’. A little angel, all in white!”

  He scooted his stool closer.

  “I say, ‘Thank You, Lord, for sendin’ a angel t’ he’p me!’ An’ Miss Sadie say, ‘You gon’ need a angel t’ he’p you if you been messin’ in them choc’lates!’ ”

  Louella burst into laughter; the cardinal departed the feeder.

  “She was comin’ down t’ git in ’em, ’erself!

  “She went an’ got that box an’ we set on th’ steps an’ eat ever’ one. She say, ‘Louella, I been thinkin’. We ain’t goin’ t’ live forever, we best make tracks’; an’ I say, ‘Amen!’

  “Whatever was in them choc‘lates, th’ good Lord used it t’ git us movin’. Up we went like two little chil’ren, an’ couldn’t sleep a wink th’ whole night! We lived upstairs two days, we was so wore out from bein’ bad!”

  “Where had she hidden the box?”

  “I don’ know, but she got out some little tool or other t’ do th’ job. Miss Sadie was handy with that ol’ green toolbox.”

  “After she hid the money, did she come back to the house with the envelope?”

  “Sure she did, Miss Sadie don’t throw nothin’ away! She use somethin’ ’til it fall apart!”

  “We’ll keep looking, Louella. I promise we’ll do our best.”

  “Th’ thing I don’ like is all this we b‘iness. Miss Sadie’s money is private b’iness!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, respectful.

  “You be prayin’ what t’ do wit’ all that money when you find it.”

  He stood and kissed her cheek. “I’m praying,” he said.

  She patted his hand, and looked at him fondly. “Now see what you done, honey, you gone an’ made me miss my mornin’ show.”

  Bud’s Billiards was empty except for someone who appeared to be the manager.

  Sammy glanced at the sign on the wall, dug in his pocket for four ones, and laid the cash on the counter.

  “Th’ table in th’ corner,” said the manager.

  They watched Sammy as he walked to the table. Father Tim remembered his craving, during the early years with Dooley, to hear Dooley laugh. He craved now to see Sammy lose the defeated stoop in his shoulders.

  “You want a beer or anything?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “I personally don’t drink. There’s some as drinks their b’iness down th’ toilet.”

  “True enough.”

  “You ’is daddy?”

  “A family friend.” The vicar extended his hand. “His name is Sammy and I’m Father Kavanagh.”

  They shook hands.

  “You ain’t goin’ t’ b’lieve my name; nobody does.”

  “Try me.”

  “Bud Wyzer.”

  “No way.”

  “Some say I was named for that sign over th’ bar.”

  “Truth is definitely stranger than fiction.”

  “We don’t get many preachers in here.”

  Father Tim watched Sammy take a cue stick from the rack and examine it.

  “I always liked preachers.”

  “You did?” Not everybody could say that, more’s the pity.

  “My great uncle was a preacher. Every summer, me’n’ my brother went down to Uncle Amos’s little farm in th’ valley an’ stayed ‘til school started. Kep’ up with ‘is horses, fed ’is cows, done a little cookin’ for ’im when Aunt Bess passed.”

  “What kind of cooking?”

  “I took to cookin’ when I was ten or twelve. Mostly barbecue, cole slaw, fried chicken. Like that.”

  “Your basics,” said the vicar.

  “Right. Where d’you preach at?”

  Father Tim watched Sammy hunker over the table and sight the cue ball. “A little church in the wildwood, you might say. Holy Trinity on Wilson’s Ridge. Episcopal.”

  “I don’ know about nothin’ but Baptists. I guess th’ rest is all pretty different.”

  “The key is relationship with Jesus Christ. If we get that right, the differences usually matter less than we like to think.”

  Sammy loosened his arm and wrist with a couple of practice strokes of the cue, then stroked the ball, hard. In the empty room, the loud and sudden cracking sound was startling.

  “Good grief! What did he just do?”

  “Broke th’ rack.”

  “I’m sorry, we’ll certainly replace it.”

  Bud hooted with laughter. “Don’t worry, nothin’s busted.”

  Father Tim adjusted his glasses. He was needing new lenses, big time, but he could see the look on Sammy’s face.

  Sammy Barlowe liked shooting pool better than planting peas.

  “He’s a slick little shooter,” said Bud. “Got a nice stroke.”

  “I wouldn’t know, never shot pool.”

  “You ought t’ try. Whoa, look at that.”

  “What?”

  “Put a little high left English on th’ cue ball an’ drove th’ three ball in th’ upper right corner. Th’ cue banked off three rails an’ dropped th’ seven in th’ lower right corner.”

  “Aha.”

  Sammy appeared completely focused, oblivious to anything except the table.

  “Looks like he knows ho
w to concentrate. Th’ problem with most shooters is, they cain’t keep their mind on th’ table.”

  The cue ball cracked against the object ball and sent it into the upper right pocket.

  “Pretty nice. How long’s ’e been shootin’?”

  “A few years is my guess. At a place down in Holding.”

  Bud leaned against the end of the bar, squinting toward Sammy’s table.

  Sammy banked the four ball off the rail and put it in the side pocket. Then he hunkered his tall frame over the rail, and with his right hand made an open bridge for the cue stick. He studied the table intently and fired his shot.

  “Blam!” said Bud. “Sonofagun.”

  “That t-t-table ain’t no g-good,” Sammy told Bud.

  “I don’t see it held you back any.”

  “It m-must be settin’ on a slope.You ought t’ level it.”

  “It don’t bother most people. But here’s your money back.”

  Sammy looked annoyed. “Plus you got a couple of bad d-dimples in th’ s-slate.”

  “You want t’ keep shootin’, that table on th’ left is as level as level can git.”

  The door opened and four customers blew in, one carrying a leather case under his arm.

  “There goes th’ neighborhood,” Bud told the vicar.

  “Th’ kid in th’ blue jacket is Dunn Craw-ford, th’ vice chancellor’s boy. He’s a smart ass with a big mouth, an’ th’ only customer I’ve got that carries his own cue stick.”

  Father Tim felt mildly uneasy. The new customers had somehow changed the way the room felt.

  “Dunn’s buddies call ‘im Hook. He’s a hustier that goes after th’ country boys. Reels ’em in like fish.”

  Father Tim watched Dunn light a cigarette and eye Sammy. Sammy never looked up. His cue ball cracked against the two ball but missed the mark.

  “Rattled in the pocket,” said Bud.

  Greek, thought the vicar. Croatian!

  He and Bud watched Dunn watching Sammy, while the other three in Dunn’s crowd hassled about who had paid for the beer last time.

  “I’ll lay you money ol’ Hook’s goin’ to hustle your boy.”

  “Should I let Sammy know?”

  “In life, you’re goin’ t’ git hustled, they ain’t no way around it. Maybe he’ll learn a good lesson. Th’ way I look at it, this game’s about a whole lot more than pool, that’s what keeps it in’ erestin’ .”

  “All them boys is college-ruint.” Bud lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled through his nose.

  Dunn had warmed up with a couple of games of partners’ eight ball, and walked over to Sammy’s table.

  “Haven’t seen you in here before.You shoot pretty good.”

  “Th-thanks,” said Sammy. “Not g-good enough t’ have m’own s-stick.”

  “Birthday gift from my dad. I’m pretty lousy, really. Bet you could teach me some stuff.”

  “Here it comes,” Bud said under his breath.

  Dunn made a couple of random shots on Sammy’s table and missed both.

  “Look, since I don’t have much time, let’s play best two out of three games of nine ball. For ...” Dunn lowered his voice.

  Sammy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on.”

  Sammy shrugged again. “OK, I guess.”

  Dunn removed the striped balls, except for the nine, which he racked with the others. “Go ahead and break ’em up if you want to.”

  Sammy lined up his break and stroked hard.

  The balls careened around the table; the seven rolled in.

  “Got to catch th’ phone,” said Bud. “You’re on your own.”

  Father Tim climbed onto the stool and drank bottled water. Sammy’s scar was blazing as they finished the game.

  “Who won?” he asked when Bud came back to the end of the bar.

  “Your boy. That means he’ll break again.”

  Sammy broke the rack.

  “Pretty nice. Two balls on th’ break shot, an’ a good leave on th’ one ball. He’s makin’ a very soft stroke here, yeah, great, sinks th’ one. Okay, he’s got an easy shot at th’ five ball to th’ upper corner ...”

  Sammy bent over the table, his chin just above the cue stick, and made his shot.

  “Stroked th’ ball too hard,” said Bud. “Rattled in th’ pocket.”

  Dunn’s buddies quit their own game, and walked across to the table on the left. Father Tim saw the look on their faces as they watched Sammy. Not friendly.

  Dunn aimed at the five and put it away.

  “Where ’is cue ball’s at don’t give ’im much of a shot at the six ball.” Bud ground out his cigarette and watched Dunn bend over the table. Dunn stroked the cue ball with reverse English off the rail, just behind the six ball.

  “Oh, yeah! Caromed off th’ six ball into th’ nine, right in front of th’ side pocket. Boom. Game’s s over.”

  “Hey, Bud!” yelled one of the players. “Four beers and a deck of Marlboros!”

  “Who won?”

  “Hook.”

  The vicar took out his billfold. “I’ll have another bottle of water when you get to it. Make it a double.”

  Dunn broke with a shot that drove the one, six, and seven balls into the pockets. He lined up the two ball, stroked, and put it in the side pocket.

  “Pretty slick,” said Bud.

  Dunn attempted to bank the three ball the length of the table, but missed.

  Sammy had nothing between the cue ball and the three, but other balls blocked a direct shot to a pocket.

  “Cheese gits bindin’ right here,” said Bud.

  FatherTim figured he didn’t have to know the game to identify the feeling in the room. Tense.

  Sammy aimed and stroked the cue ball using upper-right-hand English. The cue ball barely touched the three ball, then rolled off the cushion with an angle that drove it onto the nine ball. The nine rolled toward the corner pocket, glanced off the eight ball, and fell into the lower corner pocket.

  “Done,” said Bud.

  The vicar couldn’t tell much from the faces of the pool players, including Sammy’s.

  “What happened?”

  “Your boy whipped ol’ Hook.” Bud turned toward the bar so nobody could see the grin on his face.

  “You want a little summer job, I’d like t’ talk to you,” Bud told Sammy.

  “He has a job,” said the vicar. “He’s a very fine gardener.”

  On the way home, he could feel it coming.

  “I’d like t’ work f’r Bud.”

  “How do you think you’d get there?”

  Long silence. Looking straight ahead, Sammy finally answered. “You could take me.”

  Father Tim restrained himself from out-and-out hilarity, and merely chuckled.

  “I skinned t-twenty bucks off ’is butt.”

  What Lon Burtie had told him about Sammy’s gambling in the Wesley pool hall had, until now, gone from Father Tim’s memory.

  “I didn’t know gambling would be going on today, I’m pretty dumb about these things. You’re a fine player, Sammy; Bud says you’re a natural. It’d be great to see you play for the thrill of the game. Let the game itself be the payoff.”

  “I like hustlin’. I like it even b-better when s-s-some smart ass thinks he’s hustlin’ m-me.”

  “You have a good job with good pay. You don’t have to hustle to put food on the table or take care of your dad like you once did. Money always changes things. It looks to me like pool is a great game, and it deserves better than that.”

  They drove in silence for a couple of miles. He’d better lay it out right now, not tomorrow, not next week when Sammy wanted to go to Wesley again.

  “Here’s how it has to be. I’ll drive you to shoot a little pool now and again, but only on one condition: No gambling.”

  They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  “You should see him shoot pool. Blew everybody away. The owner offered him a job!” He w
asn’t ready to share the rest of the story.

  “Say what we will about their upbringing,” said Cynthia, “the young Barlowes have some amazing capabilities. Where is he?”

  “In the garden, seeing if anything’s sprouting. Who showed up today?”

  “Lily.”

  “Thank goodness!”

  “Violet is on the docket for tomorrow.”

  “You know they say Violet sings as she works.”

  Cynthia wrinkled her brow. “Continually, do you think?”

  “Not sure.”

  “I’ve got to move my easel, Timothy The kitchen is tourist season at the Acropolis; it’s the Mall of America! I can’t keep doing this, and yet—that’s where the north light comes in.”

  “Shall we go home to Mitford?”

  She rubbed her forehead. “Ugh, I’ve had a splitting headache all day”

  “We can work it out,” he said. “We could have you back in your studio, with everything pretty much in place, in two days.”

  “No, I’d rather find a way to do my work and let everyone else do theirs.”

  “Remember our retreat? We could have it tomorrow—and try to figure something out.”

  She smiled, cheered. “I’ll bring the picnic basket.”

  “And I’ll bring the blanket,” he said.

  When Violet arrived at eight o’clock, she wasn’t wearing her cowgirl outfit, but something that resembled, however vaguely, an Austrian dirndl.

  “Why, look here! An Alpine milkmaid!”

  “I got it at a yard sale for three dollars!” she said, twirling around to give the full effect. “I also yodel.”

  “Yodel?”

  She threw her head back and demonstrated. “Idaleetleodleladitee, yeodleladitee, yeodleladeeeee!”

  “I’ll be darned!” he said, blushing. “Umm, please don’t do that in the house; my wife works in the kitchen.”

  “No problem!” she said. “Did you hear me on th’ radio?”

  “I didn’t. But give us a heads-up next time, and we’ll try to listen in. By the way, we have a cat named Violet. She’s around here somewhere.”

  “I’m crazy about cats. Lily don’t like ’em; she sneezes her brains out. Shooee, what’s ’at smell?”