by Jan Karon
Enough right there to found a civilization!
He walked to the church door, looking for Rooter to come in and give his weekly demonstration. He saw four young Millwrights seated on the wall; Rooter stood facing them, and appeared to be holding forth with some zeal.
“’Bout half of ever’body in ’is church has kilt somebody,” he heard Rooter declaim.
The Millwrights were wide-eyed.
“Robert with th‘tattoos on ’is arm? He kilt ’is own granpaw.”
Mamie Millwright clapped both hands to her mouth.
“An’ Sissie’s granmaw? She shot Sissie’s granpaw dead. Blam! Square in th’ head. ‘Is brains gushed out all over ever’thing.”
Father Tim walked down the steps and crossed to the shady north corner of the church. “Rooter!” he said.
Rooter wheeled around, startled.
“Would you step over here, please?”
He sometimes felt as if he could soar over the gorge like the hawks. Standing with Cynthia and Dooley and Sammy as his parishioners filed through the church door and back to their lives above the clouds, he realized he was as eager as a child for all the Sundays to follow; Holy Trinity was his cake.
“Rooter, this is my son, Dooley Kavanagh.” His heart seemed to swell, quite literally, as he spoke these words.
Rooter furrowed his brow and looked at Dooley “How come if you ’n’ Sammy are brothers, he ain’t but one of y’all’s daddy?”
“I don’ see how he could be y’r daddy,” said Roy Dale.
Dooley grinned. Why not?”
“’E’s too old.”
The vicar winked at Dooley No rest for the wicked, he thought, and the righteous don’t need none.
Granny peered closely at Dooley, then at Father Tim. “He don’t look much like y’r ownself.”
“More hair,” he said.
“See ‘at bunion?” Granny pointed to her right foot, generously exposed by a bedroom slipper. “Hit’ll be took off t’morrow. Lord have mercy, I’m skeered of th’ knife! I’ll be jumpin’ out th’ winder an’ runnin’ clear t’ Ashe County”
Cynthia gave Granny a hug. “We’ll be praying for you, Granny And don’t worry, you’re going to be just fine.”
“Agnes,” he said, “what was in the bag I took from your freezer?”
“Wasn’t it squirrels?”
“No, ma’am, I’m afraid the squirrels are still where I left them.”
She laughed. “Which is where they’ll stay ’til someone other than myself removes them!”
“Jubal couldn’t identify what I took from the schoolhouse. I certainly apologize—and I’ll be glad to replace it!”
“I have no earthly idea what it might be.The turtle Jeff Stokes brought us made the most delicious soup. And the frog legs... I believe Clarence fried them last week while I planted asters. Come to think of it, there was something his sales representative gave him, but I never saw what it was.”
He didn’t know if his culinary inclinations would ever catch up to those of his parish.
Each and every Millwright filed past with a wordless nod or hesitant smile. He found the entire family to be as shy as deer—a characteristic generously compensated for by Sparkle Foster.
“I used t’ play th’ piano at church,” she confessed as she came through the line, “an’ got s’ wore out, I was kind of glad y’all didn’t have one. Then when you called for somebody this mornin’, I got this warm feelin’, kind of like choc‘late meltin’ if you leave it in th’ car when it’s hot, an’ I knew th’ Lord wanted me to do it.”
“And God bless you for it, Sparkle! It will make all the difference.”
“Somebody’ll have t’ get me some sheet music. Y’all sing really diff’rent stuff.”
“Consider it done!”
“An’ tunin’,” she said, “it’ll need tunin’.”
Miss Martha grasped his hand with both of hers and shook it mightily.
“Fine service, Father.Very fine.”
“Very fine!” said Miss Mary.
“And thank you, Cynthia, for the new Sunday School. I’ve always said, if you don’t go to Sunday School, you go home with half a load of bricks!”
Miss Mary nodded. “Half a load!”
“I really liked bein’ with y’all, said Violet. “It’s a good thing I can read music! Oh, an’ I put th’ dollar in th’ plate.”
“One of your better investments, I assure you. Bring her again and again, Lloyd.”
Lloyd shook the vicar’s hand, blushing furiously.
Father Tim liked to think that something in Robert Prichard might be lighter, freer. And yet, each time he looked into Robert’s eyes, the darkness held fast, he couldn’t find the light.
“Lead poisoning,” he told Donny when they stopped by the trailer after church.
“She’ll need to be at Mitford Hospital for at least three days, according to Dr. Harper. He wants her there first thing tomorrow morning, she’s dangerously anemic and undernourished. They’ll test her liver function; give her chelation therapy; start iron supplements; that sort of thing.”
“It ain’t depression?”
“Almost certainly some depression caused by her inability to be up and about. But no, depression isn’t the main issue.”
Donny kicked at a tree stump in the yard of the trailer. “How come they didn’t find it th’ other two times I took ’er?”
“Lead levels aren’t always part of a fatigue workup.”
A car sped along the gravel road, sending a flume of dust into the air.
“Any insurance?”
Donny gave him a hard look. “Lusters pay as they go.”
“What about Sissie? Who ... ?”
“Don’know who she’ll stay with. I’ll be cut-tin’ pines of a mornin‘and runnin’ ’em th’ough th’ mill of a e’nin’. Granny’s goin’ down th’ mountain to have a bunion took off t’morrow. I’ll figure out somethin’.”
“Doctor Harper says Dovey can’t come back to the trailer for a while.”
Donny glowered. “Why not?”
“The state environmental people need to come in and check the pipes, and any other potential lead sites. You and Sissie will need to get out, too.”
“F’r how long?”
“I don’t know”
Donny uttered an oath. “Now I got t’ git out of m’ own house?”
“I’ll meet you at Mitford Hospital at seven in the morning, help you get her checked in.”
“I don‘know whose goin’t’pay f’r all ’is mess.”
“Tell you what,” said the rector. “Let’s pray about it.”
“Pray about it? I’ve prayed about th’ whole deal ’til I’m blue in th’ face. He don’t hear me n’more.”
Donny turned away and took a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and lit it with a book match. He inhaled, and angrily flipped the dead match into the bushes.
“You pray,” he told the vicar.
They were headed toward Meadowgate with Sissie, a grocery bag stuffed with pajamas, a derelict toy bear, and a change of clothes. Dooley and Sammy drove ahead in the Jeep.
Father Tim glanced down at Sissie, who was looking glum. “Can you tell me what you learned today in Sunday School?”
Sissie kicked at the dashboard with the toe of a yellow shoe. “Sammy, he give us a seed apiece an’ a little pot with dirt in it. I went off an’ f’rgot mine.”
“We’ll give you another one. Did he say anything about the seed?”
“Cynthy, she said a seed’s got t’ git light... an’ what else?”
“Water,” said Cynthia. “And food.”
“She said Jesus is all them things, an’ when He lives in us, He makes us grow.”
“Well done, Sissie. Have you ever watched a seed grow?”
“No.”
“You will when you get to our house,” said Cynthia. “Can you believe that the little seed we gave everyone this morning is really a very tall sunflower,
as high as this truck?”
Sissie shook her head. “No.”
“Me, neither,” said the vicar.
“Sho-o-o!” Sissie looked around their desecrated kitchen and wrinkled her nose. “Hit stinks in you’uns’ house.”
“M-might be y’r upper 1—lip,” said Sammy.
Father Tim crawled into bed and punched up his pillow. As all beds were taken, Sissie sprawled on the loveseat in their bedroom, snoring beneath a quilt.
“A full house,” he said, feeling both the weight and the providence of such a circumstance.
His wife heaved a sigh. “I always wanted children. But I never dreamed they’d all belong to other people.”
As he was leaving the house at a little after six on Monday, he saw Willie trotting to the porch in the dusky first light. He was toting his hat and looking defeated.
“Took ’em out of th’ nest yesterday evenin’. Eleven.”
“You counted the chickens?”
“Eleven.”
“Blast. We lost one, then.”
“Yessir. But didn’t hear nothin’ in th’ night.”
Willie shook his head. He was totally mystified, and plenty disgusted into the bargain. The whole thing was a dadgum aggravation.
He did all he could to assure Dovey, and promised to visit again on Tuesday. Afterward, he scooted to Dora Pugh’s Hardware, jingling the bell above the door.
“I been lookin’ for you in th’ obituaries!” said Dora.
“Don’t look there yet!”
“Have you heard about Coot Hendrick’s new job?”
“Coot’s working?” As far as he knew, Coot hadn’t struck a lick at a snake in at least two decades.
“Has a hundred and seventy people under him.”
“What?”
“Weed—eats th’town graveyard.”
He laughed. “Ah, Dora, you’re a sly one.”
“I hear Bill Sprouse up at First Baptist cut his chin pretty bad while shavin’, said he had his mind on his sermon.”
“I’ll be darned. Sorry to hear it.”
“They say he should’ve kep‘his mind on his chin and cut ’is sermon.”
“You got me twice in a row!”
Dora cackled.
“What’s your best deal on a garden spade?”
“You want a good garden spade or a sorry garden spade?”
“Better give me a good garden spade.”
“Thirty-four ninety—five.”
“Done,” he said, reaching into his hip pocket.
He noted that Dora was smoking him over. “You’ve sure let your hair get long.”
“Only around the collar,” he said. “Nothing much happening on top.”
It was definitely that time again.
He raced up Main Street and crossed to The Local, carrying the shovel.
“Avis, how’s business?”
“Can’t complain. How’s yours?”
“Growing,” he said, pulling out the grocery list. “We’ve got a crowd at the house—two strapping boys and a five-year-old. If you could put this together for me, I’ll pick it up in a cou—ple of hours.”
“You need a U-Haul,” said Avis, looking at the list. “I see Ol’ Dooley’s home—steak and p’tatoes.” He scanned the list. “Nothin‘on here for a little kid; better get you some peanut butter an’jelly.”
“Brilliant! And while I’m thinking of it, add a couple of cake mixes. Chocolate.”
“You heard th‘one about th’guy who broke into th’dress store three nights in a row?”
“Haven’t heard it.”
“Told th‘judge he picked out a dress for his wife an’ had to exchange it two times.”
Father Tim burst out laughing. He’d never known the poker-faced Avis Packard to tell a joke in the twenty years he’d known him. Miracles, he was glad to be reminded, happen all the time.
He had a few minutes to fill the tank and shoot the breeze, but no time for lunch.
Wheeling into Lew’s, he realized he dreaded seeing J. C.
It wasn’t his place to report what he’d stumbled upon, and yet, shouldn’t J.C. know that his worst fear had come to pass? On the other hand, J. C. would find out soon enough—someone would surely spill the beans; carrying on in a patrol car wouldn’t go unnoticed in Mitford, not by a long shot.
He thought the Muse editor looked... what? Tan? Slimmer?
And Percy, he observed, was definitely looking younger. “It’s layin’ up in bed ’til six o’clock,” said Percy, who’d risen before five for more than forty years.
Mule, on the other hand, looked like he’d always looked which, in a world of change, was sort of comforting, thought Father Tim.
“You know how th’ Presbyterians don’t pay their preacher anything to speak of,” said Mule.
That news had been on the street for years.
“Th’ other night, somebody broke in through his bedroom window, and held a gun on ’im.”
“Good grief!” said Father Tim.
“Told ol’ Henry not to move; said he was huntin’ for his money. Henry said, ‘Let me get up an’ turn on th’ light, an’ I’ll hunt with you.’”
Father Tim hooted with laughter, as did the rest of the Turkey Club.
Percy unzipped his lunch bag. “I guess you heard about th’ carrier pigeon that rolled in twelve hours late.”
Nobody had heard it.
“Said it was such a nice day, it decided to walk.”
J.C. rolled his eyes.
“What’s going on?” asked Father Tim. “All of a sudden, Mitford is Joke City. I get jokes from Dora Pugh, a joke from Avis, of all people ...”
“It’s an Uncle Billy kind of thing,” said Mule. “Holdin’ on to th’ tradition.”
“Yeah,” said Percy.
J.C. hauled a foil-wrapped lump from his briefcase. “Eat more fiber, tell more jokes. It’s sort of a health deal that’s goin’ around.”
“Speaking of health, looks like you’re dropping a little weight.”
“I blew off six pounds.” J.C. peeled away the foil.
“And what’s with the tan?”
“Yard work, buddyroe, yard work.”
The fumes from J.C.’s lunch were killer. The vicar glanced at his watch.
“You heard about th’ guy who was so short you could see his feet on his driver’s license?” asked J.C.
Mule groaned.
“Th’ same guy had his appendix out, it left a scar on his neck.”
What an amazing outbreak, thought Father Tim, something like measles...
“You heard th’ one about two guys who rented a boat to go fishin’ on th’ lake?” asked J.C.
“Haven’t heard it,” said Father Tim.
“Th’ first day, they caught thirty fish.”
“That’s a joke right there,” said Mule, who never caught anything to speak of.
“When they started back to shore, one said ...”—J.C. took an enormous bite of his sandwich—“ ‘Bettermarkisspotsowecancomebackt’ morrow.’”
“What’d he say?” asked Percy.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, for Pete’s sake.” This was definitely one of Mule’s personal peeves.
J.C. gulped. “So, next day when they were goin’ to rent a boat, the guy said, ‘Did you mark our spot?’ Other one says, ‘Yeah, I put a big X on the bottom of th’ boat.’ His buddy says, ‘That was pretty stupid; what if we don’t get the same boat this time?ʼ”
J.C. burst into laughter, a sound something like ham sizzling in lard.
“Oh, man.” Another of Mule’s personal peeves was people who laughed at their own jokes.
Watching J.C. hoot his head off, Father Tim felt a stab of pity. Innocence was always bliss. “Any news of Edith?”
“I hear she keeps sayinʼ th’ same thing over anʼ over. God is, God is, like that.”
He’d been right, thought the vicar. Edith was making a complete and full confession of His Being. There were miracles everywhe
re.
J.C. peered at Mule’s lunch. “Mineʼs tuna fish on whole wheat. Whatʼs yours?”
“Ravioli.” Mule stabbed his lunch with a plastic fork, which snapped in two. “Shoot a monkey, wait a minute. Maybe itʼs...” The realtor looked bewildered. “I don’t know what it is.”
“I’m out of here,” said Father Tim.
“I don’t know what to do,” he told Betty Craig on the porch of the town museum.
“If you don’t do somethinʼ, you’ll be seein’ me in Broughton next time.”
“That bad?”
“If you only knew.”
“Then tell me, so I’ll know.”
“But you don’t want tʼ know.”
Nor did he want to be the one to remove Rose Watson from the house her brother built, the home she’d loved and lived in nearly all her life. Further, he certainly didn’t think much of the nursing home in Holding. And, as the only way to get into Hope House was for someone to die, he darn sure wasn’t praying along that line.
Time. That’s what he needed. Time, and the prayer that never fails.
“Father, I’ll give you another week and after that, I’m done. I’m sorry, ’cause you’ve been awful good to me, but I’m only human. I am not a saint with a halo.”
“Oh, yes you are, Betty!”
“An’ don’t go flatterin’ me, now, ’cause it wonʼt work.”
A week. To do the impossible.
On Tuesday morning, he figured he should slip over to the house in the woods, check it out, and get this thing behind them once and for all.
There was no need to say anything to anybody here. Heaven knows, there was enough going on at Meadowgate, including an improvised kindergarten in the attic, where Sissie was painting and coloring, and asking questions a mile a minute.
While the boys were still sleeping, he’d go over alone, see what was what, and if he needed to involve the county police, Justice and his partner looked like fellows who could take care of business.
Then again, maybe he shouldn’t go alone...