by Jan Karon
“How is it?”
“Huge.”
“You’re a saint to let him do this.”
“Otherwise it would be just another room with lamps and tables, and chairs in a fabric I could never bear to look at, anyway. Harley and Dooley hauled everything to the basement, and good riddance.”
“When will the boys be over?”
“They’re coming for supper. They’ll use the back door, of course, so nothing will be revealed ’til after we eat. Dooley is beside himself with joy. He saw it yesterday afternoon and thinks you’ll approve.”
“Definitely. What are you feeding the legions?”
“Dooley asked for steak, Sammy requested pizza, Kenny wants fried chicken. So we’re having burgers with oven fries.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
“Are you eating properly?”
“I cannot tell a lie. I’m not. But I’ll be home before real damage is done. How’s Kenny?”
“Amazing. A truly amazing young man. Who would have dreamed Ed Sikes would drop Kenny off with his grandparents and he’d be raised by loving believers? I find it the most miraculous of all the miracles that brought the Barlowe family together.”
“Grace, and grace alone.” He still marveled at the recent upturn that reunited Dooley with all his siblings.
“Dooley has bought new clothes for himself and his brothers and little sister. He seems intent on sharing his wealth. And, of course, this wonderful surprise for Sammy will be fun for all of us.” Sammy was the high school dropout whose genius had surfaced in a pool room.
“What’s up with Dooley and Lace?”
“More of what’s always up with them—fear. Both are terrified of loving. They’re going to dinner and a movie tomorrow night. I’m praying.”
“I’m praying with you,” he said. “Summer is short.” He would like it if Lace and Dooley could come to an understanding and stick at it—though he’d been hard-pressed to do the same when he courted Cynthia. After months of misery, the fear had simply released him, like a hawk on the wing might suddenly release a chicken from its talons.
“Rats. I was just walking up the hall to the living room and turned my ankle a funny way. I’m seeing the doctor tomorrow, this boot is driving me nuts. I’ve been moaning and groaning to beat the band.”
“I’d be glad for a dose of your moaning and groaning. I miss you.”
“I miss you back. I’m starving for your hugs and kisses. Oh, good grief.”
“What?”
“I just popped in here to have another look. It’s bigger than I thought. We’ll have to be lowered by crane to make a shot, there’s hardly room to move around the darn thing.”
Dooley’s gift of a billiard table to his pool-shooting brother, Sammy, had established itself in their minuscule living room. Life would definitely never be the same.
He talked a little mush, as Dooley called it, with his wife before ringing off, and thought of calling Walter. Instead, he sat with the envelope of prints beside him on the passenger seat and stared unseeing at people moving on the sidewalk.
The point was to do it all—and after that, let it all go.
He cranked the engine and drove to Van Dorn and parked at the curb, then got out of the car and stood looking at the double front doors and up to the cross on the spire. The sky was perfectly blue and cloudless…
He had never before heard his parents fight, he’d heard only the long, loud silences.
He sat up, straining to make sense of the words that traveled through their closed door and across the hall.
‘Christ Church’ and ‘ignorant’ and ‘no more,’ he heard his father say. And later, his mother’s cry, ‘For the love of God, Matthew!’
He was holding his breath. He should go and help her. But his legs were paralyzed like Albert Hadley. He punched his right leg and felt the blow, it was not polio. It should be polio, he deserved polio for not being able to do anything about his father. He pummeled both legs with his fists, very hard and very fast, feeling the pain.
During the break between Sunday School and church the following morning, he was sitting in the front row at Walnut Grove Baptist with his mother, waiting for the service to begin. This was the church where his mother had been baptized and grown up, the church where his Grandpa Yancey had preached until he was asked to move to First Baptist in town. Everybody at Walnut Grove said how much they hated to see Yancey Howard go, he’d been the best of the best, they said, but they got a blessing in the end—after she married, his daughter, Madelaine, moved to the country and returned her letter to Walnut Grove. Everybody thought it was because she loved her old church, but he, Timothy, knew the truth. The truth was, his father didn’t like Baptists, and never let them have the car to drive into town on Sunday; they rode the half mile to Walnut Grove with the Blackburns, or sometimes they walked.
Mr. Blackburn, the organist, hammered out a last-minute rehearsal of the opening hymn; members of the choir scattered down the aisles and disappeared into the robing room. It was raining, a terrific downpour that someone said would last the day and into the night. He pretended to look at the rain lashing the windows, but cut his eyes toward his mother when he thought she wasn’t looking. She had wanted him to sit by her during the break instead of playing, as he usually did, in the church hall with his friends. He hated the awful sadness in his mother, he was seeing a lot of it lately. It might be a sin for someone so beautiful and kind to be so sad.
She turned her head sharply and looked directly into his eyes; he felt as if he’d been caught in a crime. Embarrassed for them both, he tried to look away, but could not. He knew only that there was a whole book of words in her eyes—she was trying to tell him something.
‘Let’s open our Bibles,’ she said over the roar of the organ. ‘Pastor Simon is taking his message from John’s Gospel, chapter three, verse three.’
He paged toward the Gospels, quick as a rabbit, wanting to beat his mother to the scripture.
‘I beat you,’ he said. He was looking into the sudden warmth of her smile when somebody grabbed the collar of his jacket and jerked him to his feet.
‘Matthew!’
He was nearly lifted from the floor as his father hauled him into the aisle and along the worn carpet to the door. ‘March,’ he was told.
He choked back the scream because he understood at once this was not real, this was a nightmare and he would soon wake up.
They drove into town, wet as dishrags, silent. His father’s hair was sopping, but the comb marks were still perfect, like the furrows Louis and Ol’ Damn Mule made in the vegetable garden.
After parking the Buick at the curb in front of Christ Church, his father turned and looked at his mother. ‘Henceforth,’ he said, ‘this is where the Kavanagh family will attend services.’
TWELVE
Walter…”
“Cousin!”
“You’ll never guess where I am.”
“Surely you haven’t ventured beyond the Mitford town limits?”
“I have.”
“This reenforces my view that miracles still happen. But you’re right—I’ll never guess. Where art thou?”
“I’m sitting on a bench outside Christ Church at Van Dorn and North Randolph.”
“In Holly Springs?”
“Our old stomping grounds.”
“I’m just picking myself up from the floor. Tell me everything.”
“Remember Rosie? Louis and Sally’s son?”
“I do. Little skinny guy. Great marble shooter.”
“I went to see him yesterday. He’s the spittin’ image of his father, it was like paying a visit to Louis. And I’m spending a couple of nights at the old place, at Whitefield.”
“Good heavens. How does it look?”
“Better than ever. Two fellows are fixing it up, top to bottom—they live there and have taken me in like family. Wish you were here. It’s wonderful.” He was surprised by the truth he’d just spoken—suddenly,
it actually was wonderful to be in his hometown, sitting in the sun on a rain-washed summer morning, talking to his living kin. “I’ve seen Peggy Cramer.”
“No regrets there, I presume.”
“We had a good visit. A widow with seven grandchildren. A believer. Still beautiful. Asked my forgiveness, and I asked hers.”
“Glad to hear it. What on earth took you out there? Is Cynthia with you?”
“Nope. Brought Barnabas. You know about her ankle, of course. Again, sorry we had to cancel Ireland. Did you get your refunds?”
“By a hair. We’re on for the end of August.”
“Great. As for what took me out here, I’ll tell you that another time. It begs disbelief.”
“I don’t suppose Stafford’s is still open?”
“No, but Booker’s is, and Tyson’s, and Phillips Grocery still makes cheeseburgers.” He glanced at his watch. Noon.
“Amazing. I’m starved for a dose of something that hasn’t changed in a hundred years. Makes me want to fly down and join you. Any gardens left at Whitefield?”
“Just the old boxwood, nothing more. The washhouse is gone, of course; I think Mother took you out there once and gave you what-for.”
“I remember it well, which was undoubtedly her intention. I said the s-word. Just quoting, of course, what was written in plain view on the water tank.”
“Ah, yes.”
“She sent me to the forsythia bush after my own switch, had to strip the leaves off and present it ready to roll.”
It was good to laugh. “This trip comes with a reminder that life is short. We haven’t laid eyes on each other in…how long?”
“Since you and Cynthia tied the knot—nearly eight years.”
“I’m forgetting what you look like.”
“More and more like Woody Allen, I regret to say. But it’ll be great to meet again in August, to go slogging through sheep meadows, visiting the family castle. Pretty spooky place, by the way, I’ll take only a small portion of family castle this go-’round.”
“After Ireland, maybe we could fly down here—bring Cynthia and Katherine, check out our haunts in Oxford, have a picnic in your beloved Grove. What do you think?”
“Very appealing idea,” said Walter. “Very appealing.”
He entered the narthex and stood for a moment in its cool shadow. Little had changed, which, in his opinion, was one of the lesser, albeit important, gifts a church building could offer—timelessness in the midst of a time-obsessed world.
The black slate shelf. And the guest book. Still here.
He took a deep breath, then walked to the shelf and picked up the pen and inscribed the fact of his being—here, now.
July 3 Fr Timothy A. Kavanagh
Mitford, North Carolina…
Tommy was suspicious of the ability to memorize anything, especially verses from the Bible. ‘How many of ’em can you say?’ asked Tommy.
A lot. But he didn’t want Tommy to know it was a lot. ‘Maybe eight or ten,’ he said.
‘Do you b’lieve all ’at mess?’
He shrugged. ‘Kind of.’
‘If there’s a God, why can’t we do stuff together without you gettin’ your butt whipped?’
With all his heart, he wanted to say something to defend God, but he couldn’t think of anything. ‘Prob’ly God knows stuff we don’t know.’
Tommy said the word that had been painted on the water tower…
‘You’ve got an amazing boy, Matthew.’
The rector was talking with his father toward the rear of the nave; he sat apart on the gospel side in what had become the Kavanagh family pew, and thumbed through the hymn book.
‘Amazing in what way?’
‘Very learned about things of the Bible.’
‘No surprise. His mother, his grandmother, his grandfather, Archibald Simon at Walnut Grove—they’ve all kept after him like hounds after a hare.’
‘Are you aware of what he’s been able to take in?’
‘Not really.’
‘Timothy,’ said Father Polk.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘How many books in the Old Testament?’
He couldn’t count on his voice lately, so most of the time he kept his mouth shut. Totally to his surprise, it would go baritone on him, and people would fall out laughing, even Louis. He cleared his throat.
‘Thirty-nine.’
‘The New Testament?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘What’s the, let’s see, shortest verse in the Old Testament?’
Please, God. ‘First Chronicles one twenty-five.’
‘Can you recite it?’
‘“Eber, Peleg, Reu.”’
‘Did you know that, Matthew?’
‘Of course not, it isn’t worth knowing.’
‘True in the strict sense, of course, but in a practical sense, think how it trains one’s mind to commit to memory such incidentals.’
‘A waste of time.’
‘Timothy?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘The, ah, middle verse of the Bible?’
He sucked in his gut. ‘Psalm One hundred an’ three, verses one and two.’
‘Would you give us the pleasure of reciting those verses?’
He sighed deeply. ‘“Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.”’
‘Well done. Would you step back here, please?’
He walked up the aisle—his legs like water, his breath gone from him.
‘He also knows the longest verse in the Bible,’ said the rector. ‘Esther eight, verse nine. Want to hear it?’
‘These are ridiculous Sunday School games. For God’s sake, Father.’
‘You’re an amazement, Timothy. Just a few more questions and we’re finished. How’s that?’
He nodded, suddenly dumb as a doorknob. He had never done anything like this in front of his father, except for occasional recitations at the Sunday dinner table.
‘Tell us, Timothy, what is Holy Baptism?’
‘It’s a sacrament. It means God adopts us as His children. When this happens, we get to be members of Christ’s body and inheritors of the kingdom of God.’
‘Can you fill us in on the concept of prayer? What is that all about, anyway?’
‘Prayer is getting into relationship with God.’
‘Isn’t it about asking for things we want, and letting God know what’s what?’
‘No, sir. He already knows what we want and what we need. Prayer is about getting to know him, and worshipping him and trusting him, and thanking him.’ If he fainted in front of his father, much less his priest, he would hobo out of Holly Springs on the afternoon train and nobody would set eyes on him again.
‘Well done. Now. What is sin? People certainly dislike hearing about it, especially from the pulpit. What do you think sin is?’
Reverend Simon had caused him to suffer many times on this particular point. He knew what sin was. ‘Sin comes about because of its middle letter: i,’ he said in his old voice. ‘It’s the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God,’ he said in his new voice.
His father appeared impatient. The rector appeared delighted. ‘Is there any hope for us, Timothy, weak and foolish as we are?’
Though his face flamed, he felt a bold strength gathering in him. ‘Loving God is our only hope,’ he proclaimed in the new baritone. He realized how ardently he meant it. He hadn’t known he would mean it, but as he said it, he recognized the truth of it.
He sank into a pew, exhausted.
‘See there, Matthew? It’s obvious we’ve got something to learn from your boy.’
‘Surely you don’t believe all the drivel—like the virgin birth, for God’s sake, and the resurrection?’
‘I’m afraid I do believe it, and I proclaim it every Sunday in the Apostles’ Creed—just as you, by the way, also do. Perhaps you’d like to meet one day and discuss the g
reat articles of our faith.’
‘That sort of thing is entirely your business.’
‘Well, then. I’m also very taken with Timothy’s current desire to help with the Berlin Airlift, he’s proposed a wonderful project for the Sunday School. Thirteen years old, mind you! At thirteen, I was empty-headed as a chicken.’
Father Polk turned to him and extended his hand. ‘So, Timothy! How would you like to be an acolyte?’
‘He’d like it very much,’ said his father.
He wouldn’t like any such thing. He wanted to go back to Walnut Grove, where he’d been happy. He didn’t want to wear a goofy robe and light candles in front of everybody. He’d been at Christ Church long enough to know that candles don’t always light, sometimes you have to try over and over while the other kids snicker and point like goons, and sometimes they won’t snuff out, either, which is even worse, plus acolytes were famous for going to sleep on the bench in front of God and everybody.
He wanted to be a Baptist in honor of his grandfather, and maybe one day a Baptist preacher, though his father would never heed anything a Baptist had to say—the Baptists with their covenantal ways were anathema to Matthew Kavanagh.
But he’d been thinking. Maybe if he was a priest, he could save his father’s soul. Maybe God would let him say what his father needed to hear, and everything would be different.
His heart beat dully as he took the rector’s hand and they shook.
It was done. Something irreversible was done…
He knelt in the pew his family had so long ago occupied—on the center aisle, gospel side, five rows back, with a view of the organ loft.
His heart was a stone; his shoulders ached as if he’d been heaving bricks over a wall. Clearly, he was tensing himself against whatever the Henry Winchester business might be, and the fear of running into someone who would dredge up the Martin Houck affair and call out the dogs all over again.
He put his arms on the back of the pew before him and rested his forehead on the cushion they made. The worst thing about this trip, really, was the fear it stirred in him. In truth, he seemed to be tending what C. S. Lewis called a “nursery of fears,” all of which he managed to deny very ably at home.