Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  “He’s harmless, I promise. Just overly friendly.”

  “I was jis’ startin’ t’ clean m’ snake pistol when I seen ye drive up. What in th’ nation do ye want with me, now? I cain’t hardly git a minute’s peace since you‘uns opened up y’r church.”

  “Just stopping by to say hello, see how things are going.”

  “Set down.” Jubal wagged his gun at the sofa, newly delivered from its winter tarpaulin.

  He sat.

  “Where’s Miss Agnes at?”

  “She’s got a stiff knee.”

  Jubal looked petulant. “I reckon she’s done f’rgot about me.”

  “Oh, no, she wouldn’t forget about you, not by a long shot. How’s th’ squirrel business?”

  “May’s m’ cut-off date, but hit’s been s’ cold, I’ll be a-shootin’ squirrel f’r another week or two.”

  “Your gun ...”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s, ah, pointing at me.”

  “They ain’t nothin’ in it, far as I know.” Jubal aimed the pistol above his head and pulled the trigger. Click. “That’s one empty chamber f’r ye.”

  The vicar bolted to his feet. “We’ve caused enough trouble for one day, we’ll just be pushing on.”

  “Ye ain’t got ary eggs, are ye?”

  “No eggs today. Next time. I promise.” That gun was waving around in his face for a fare-thee-well; he was out of here.

  “Ye wouldn’ be goin’ by Miss Martha, would ye?”

  “I would, I would. Directly by.”

  “I shot two squirrel this mornin’ b’fore th’ dew was off; they’re done skinned out, nice an’ meaty. I could send ’em with ye ...”

  “I’m sure Miss Martha wouldn’t want to take food off your table.”

  “They’s more where them come from.”

  “Well, then, I’ll be glad to make a delivery!” Father Tim had suspected all along that a big heart beat beneath Jubal Adderholt’s beard.

  “Course ye know I’ll be expectin’ somethin’ from Miss Martha.”

  “Aha.”

  “An’ I’d be obliged if ye’d drop it off on y’r way back.”

  How he got himself in this mess, he couldn’t figure. He had to haul out of there securing a poke of squirrels between his feet, with his dog going nuts in the passenger seat.

  And, of course, Miss Martha wasn’t at home.

  He couldn’t leave this particular offering stuck in the screen door like a morning newspaper. Indeed, today’s high was predicted to be in the seventies, and what if the sisters didn’t come home ’til the afternoon?

  “Lord have mercy!” he said aloud, quoting Granny.

  “I hate that y’ found out about m’ drinkin’. Sissie says she tol’ you.

  “Tells ever’thing, that young’un. I’d ‘preciate it if you wouldn’t preach me a sermon, I’ve done preached m’self half t’ hell an’ back.

  “Ever’thing’ll go along good for a while, then somethin’ happens, I cain’t even tell y’ what it is. It’s like goin’ down th’ road and all at once th’ road jis’ drops off a cliff. I see th’ drop comin’ but like a fool I keep walkin’.

  “I want t’ quit, I’ve prayed t’ quit, I’ve tried t’ quit, but I keep fallin’ off th’ cliff. An’ besides th’ worser thing of lettin’ th’ Lord down, I don’ have time t’ mess with alcohol, I got a b’iness t’ run. Th’ way things is goin’ with havin’ t’ take care of Dovey an’ Sissie, it’s root hog or die.”

  Donny leaned his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands.

  “My daddy was th’ worst sot you ever seen, an’ you know what th’ Ol’Testament says about th’ sins of th’ fathers. But I believe God t’ be a merciful God, otherwise he wouldn’ve sent Jesus. I b’lieve th’ sins of th’ fathers runs in us like poison, but we’re not bound. He was willin’ t’ die f’r us on th’ cross so we wouldn’t be bound, but set free.”

  Indeed, Donny had preached him a sermon; one that Madelaine Kavanagh, his mother, would have called the gospel truth.

  “Can I go on y’r rounds? Can I?” She stood on her tiptoes and held her arms out to him.

  “Not today, Sissie.” He bent down and picked her up. “Whoa, you’re growing!”

  “I ain’t a baby n’more, that’s why.”

  “I’m glad your mother’s sleeping. How’s she feeling?”

  “She don’t hardly sleep at night, she sleeps mostly in th’ day.”

  His heart felt heavy against the child in his arms, against the things of the world in general.

  “We’ll look for at you at church on Sunday. We’re having our first Sunday School, you know.”

  Sissie furrowed her brow. “Are they cake at Sunday School?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He set her down, and squatted beside her. “May I pray for you, Sissie?”

  She bowed her head; he placed his hand upon it.

  “Father, I thank You for the marvel of Sissie Gleason. For her bright spirit, her inquisitive mind, her tender heart. Thank You for blessing her life above anything I could ask or think. Prepare a way for her, Lord, that she might become all You made her to be. In Jesus’ name ...”

  Sissie squeezed her eyes shut. “An’ Lord, please make Mama better, make Donny quit drinkin’, bring Mamaw Ruby home, an’ give us cheese dogs f’r supper t’night.”

  “Amen!” they said in unison.

  He was feeling suddenly brighter.

  While at the trailer, he’d parked in the shade, set the bag of squirrels under the truck, and made sure the windows were rolled high enough to contain his dog.

  He looked at his watch as he pulled out of Donny’s yard. He had no idea how long his cargo had sat in Jubal’s kitchen before he picked it up forty-five minutes ago.

  He applied his lead foot to the accelerator and hauled to Hank Triplett’s store at the crossroads.

  “Do you have a freezer I could put this bag in, and maybe pick it up later in the day?”

  “What’s in y’r bag?”

  “Two squirrels. Dressed.”

  Hank pondered this. “Don’t think that’d be too good. I mean they’s ice cream san‘wiches an’ all in there.”

  “Right. Well.” He smoked over the shelves and bought pretzels, chips, Snickers, assorted crackers, and a lump of what country stores call rat cheese. He also exchanged the paper bag for a plastic bag and dumped ice in on the contents, managing not to look.

  “See you and Sally on Sunday, I hope.”

  “We’ll be there,” said Hank, looking pleased about it.

  He knocked on five doors, only one of which was slammed in his face, but lacked courage to approach the sixth, which sat in the midst of a private junkyard. He also stuffed seven mailboxes, and posted flyers on nine telephone poles. On the way to the schoolhouse, he stopped to offer a ride to an elderly man who was walking along the right-hand side of the road in a pair of overalls and a battered hat.

  He rolled the window down a few inches. “Need a lift?”

  The old man looked up with alarm into the face of a black dog that seemed only slightly smaller than the truck, and turned and fled into the woods.

  Clearly, Barnabas was not a good marketing tool.

  “Agnes,” he said, hurrying into the schoolhouse, “would you mind if I put this bag in your freezer?”

  “Of course not, Father. What’s in it, may I ask?”

  “There’s the rub. Two squirrels, dressed out and ready to go in Miss Martha’s pot, but she wasn’t home.”

  Agnes burst into laughter. “You’ve been to see Jubal.”

  “Yes, and he asked about you. Said he reckoned you’d forgotten him.”

  “The old so-and-so. Who could ever forget Jubal Adderholt?”

  “Not me!” he said, meaning it.

  “How was your round?”

  He stuffed the bag into the freezer and gave her a synopsis.

  “I’ll just put the kettle on for tea; I’m eager to hear you
r plan, Father.”

  He drew the papers from the large envelope and sat down at her table. “This will be a surprise even to Cynthia. So, please—keep it absolutely to yourself.”

  “Consider it done,” she said, quoting her vicar.

  On his way to Meadowgate, he gave it another go.

  He tried the front door and went around to the back. As tight as Fort Knox.

  He hoped nothing was wrong; the sisters were usually here except for grocery shopping days.

  He schlepped the bag around to the front yard and got in the truck, noting that Barnabas had at last lost interest. What a blasted pickle.

  “Stay!” he said in his pulpit voice.

  The moment his foot hit the porch, Jubal’s door opened.

  “I been a-lookin’ f’r ye.”

  “I expect so.”

  “What’re ye totin’?”

  He thought Jubal had a very expectant look on his face.

  “Well, you see, Miss Martha wasn’t home. I stopped by twice, and don’t have a clue where she might be. Your squirrels have been on ice and in Miss Agnes’s freezer, so I’m sure they’re just fine.” He handed off the bag, thankful to his very depths to be rid of the blasted thing.

  Jubal opened the bag and eyed the contents suspiciously. “This ain’t squirrel.”

  “It ain’t? I mean ...”

  “Hit’s ... Lord he’p a monkey; what is it?”

  The vicar peered into the bag. “You’ve got me.”

  “I send ye out with two fine squirrel an’ back ye come with a pig in a poke!”

  “Wait right there, Jubal.”

  He dashed to the truck and pulled the other bag from behind the driver’s seat. The idea was, if Miss Martha had been home and wasn’t prepared to send her own offering today, Jubal would still get a return on his investment.

  Back he trotted to Jubal’s porch. Lord help a monkey, indeed, seeing as how Timothy Kavanagh was the monkey. Sometimes, he’d like to just lie down and go morte, as Lew Boyd would say.

  Lloyd and Buster were pulling out as he pulled in at four o’clock. Thanks be to God, their kitchen was free; he was weary in every bone.

  “You’re not going to believe this!” said his wife. She was beaming; she was glowing; she was electric.

  “Come with me.”

  She grabbed him by the arm and away they went along the hall and up the stairs and past Sammy’s bedroom and around the corner to the green door. He was panting like a farm dog after a rabbit.

  “Do you know where this door leads?” she asked.

  “The attic, I seem to recall, though I’ve never been up there.”

  She opened the door and they ascended the narrow stairs until they came to a spacious, light-filled room with three north-facing windows and a smaller window to the west.

  Silent, she took his hand as they wound themselves through the jumble of old furniture and dust-covered boxes, and stood at the large center window.

  They looked down upon the mossy roof of the smokehouse and Sammy’s emerging garden, then out to the barn with its red tin roof and away to green pastures dotted with cows, and up to blue mountains beyond.

  Wordless, she drew him to the west window, to the view of ewes and lambs and Meadowgate’s recalcitrant ram, and the great outcrop of rocks pushing forth from emerald grass.

  “Beautiful beyond telling!” he said, moved.

  “It needs only one thing more.”

  “Del!”

  “Yes! Otherwise”—her eyes were bright with feeling—“it’s heaven.”

  “Speaking of heaven,” he said, “why am I too often surprised when God answers prayer?”

  “How’s May coming?” he asked, grating cabbage.

  “My favorite. Want to see?”

  She dried her hands and fetched the watercolor sketch. A lamb lay by the side of a ewe, smiling—as lambs are wont to do. Violet perched on a nearby rock, her green eyes wide with curiosity.

  “Aha! My favorite, as well. Blast, but I’m proud of you! And Violet, also. A charmer, that girl.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart. Only seven more to go, and three months to finish.”

  “Sammy and I can take your things up to heaven after supper.”

  “Supper?” she said, grinning.

  In some way he couldn’t understand, dinner was becoming supper since they’d moved to the sticks.

  After grating enough cabbage for a small regiment, he sat in the war zone, aka the kitchen, and stared unseeing at the blue tent. His diligent wife was going about the business of getting their meal up and running.

  She came to his chair and touched his shoulder. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “I’m feeling my age.”

  “Well, then, go and do something about it!”

  “Like what?”

  “Walk in the pasture with the dogs, zip down to the mailbox ... get your heart racing.”

  “I’ve spent nearly seven decades getting my heart racing.”

  “How’s your sugar?”

  “Fine. I really want to just sit here and feel my age. Instead of, you know, denying the feeling.”

  His wife gave him an odd, but undeniably tolerant, look, and went back to the business at hand.

  He guessed his own nose, like Lloyd’s, was pretty sensitive. As he walked toward the garden to call Sammy in for supper, he smelled tobacco smoke on the spring air.

  Sammy was sitting with his back against the picket fence, and was startled when Father Tim opened the gate. Sammy flicked the cigarette into the fence corner, where it landed among the rakes and shovels.

  “Supper time,” he said.

  They were silent as they walked to the house. Did he talk with Sammy now and spoil Cynthia’s dinner? No. But if he didn’t talk with Sammy, the dinner was spoiled anyway—he felt his stomach in a veritable knot. Perhaps what was needed was time.

  “We’ll talk after we eat,” said Father Tim. If nothing else, they’d have time to think about what they wanted to say to each other.

  As he bowed his head to ask the blessing, he noted that Sammy’s scar was aflame.

  If he had such a scar, his would be aflame, also.

  He decided to talk on what could loosely be called his own turf the library. The leather chairs lent a certain authority that he might find lacking in himself when push came to shove.

  “The day after you arrived, we talked about the rules.”

  “Yeah, but you said th’ g-garden was all m-mine.”

  “I also said no smoking, and thought that should cover it.”

  “Yeah, but if it’s all m-mine, then I ought t’ be able t’ do what I want t’ d-do in there, I’m th’ one w-workin’ it.”

  “You’re being paid to work, the rules come from the household that’s taken you in.”

  “You t-tell me somethin’, then it ain’t t-true n’more.”

  The clock ticked on the mantle. A lamb bleated in the paddock. “You lived as an orphan for many years, Sammy. No mother, and a father who couldn’t be a true father to you. In truth, you were father to him.

  “Now you’re living in a family. There’s a oneness to family life—what one person does affects all the others. I know it’s frustrating for you, you’ve been making your own rules for a long time.”

  “No smokin’, no hustlin’, no c-cussin’, k-keep m’ room clean. I can’t d-do all that b-b-bull.”

  “Here’s the deal about rules. They aren’t meant to put you in a box; they’re meant to give you freedom. Doesn’t pool have rules? Can you ignore the rules and win the game?”

  Sammy didn’t respond. He jiggled his leg, anxious to be away from the inquisition.

  “You have a secure roof over your head, three meals a day, a job you say you like, a paycheck, your own room, people who care about you. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Sammy’s jaw flexed; Father Tim sensed he was ready to bolt. He didn’t want to push Sammy too far—he had money in his pocket, and shoe leather for the road.


  “Think on these things, son. And let’s go up and get some rest.We can talk again tomorrow; we can always talk. One thing you can count on is that we can talk.”

  Sammy shot to his feet and headed for the library door. He stood for a moment with his hand on the knob, his eyes defiant. “I hate this p-place.”

  He opened the door and vanished down the hall and up the stairs.

  Father Tim listened to the sound of Sammy’s feet on the treads, as he’d often listened to Dooley’s all those years ago.

  It was painful to do what was right. There were times when he’d like to let things slide, go with the flow, call it a day, whatever.

  His heart was a stone as he poked his own way upstairs.

  He had no idea how he’d lived so many years without someone to talk with in bed. In his somewhat unsophisticated opinion, it was the apex of the common life.

  Thankfully, the fries weren’t mentioned. They’d tasted like cardboard, he thought, through no fault of the cook.

  “He says he hates this place.”

  Cynthia sighed, rolled toward him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Poor Sammy. I guess you could say we’re in over our heads.”

  “Way over,” he said, disconsolate.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Cake

  “Father Tim? Lew Boyd.

  “I been meanin’ to tell you that some rough-neck come by th’ station lookin’ for you. I told ‘im you were livin’ in th’ boonies. Don’t know who it was, ’e looked mighty low on th’ food chain t’ me. I give ‘im directions t’ where you’re at.

  “Let’s see. I guess it was two, three weeks ago when he come by, maybe more, I don’t know—time flies when you’re balancin’ front ends.” Beep.

  The call must have arrived in the library answering machine yesterday; he’d been too distracted to notice the blinking light when he talked with Sammy.

  For years he’d had an odd fantasy that his childhood best friend, Tommy Noles, would come searching for him. He devoutly hoped, however, that Tommy, who’d vanished after college as into ether, wouldn’t turn up looking “low on the food chain.”