Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

“Amen to that.”

  “My grandma was so good-hearted, it’s no wonder God picked her out for an Elvis experience.”

  “An Elvis experience?”

  “It’s th’ greatest story of our whole family. I mean, none of my kin was ever cousin to Daniel Boone or kidnapped by Indians, or anything you could really talk about to people.

  “I called my grandma Mam. When it happened, she was exactly my size: five-foot-two an’ weighin’ a hundred an’ sixteen. She just loved Elvis an’ wanted to express her love in—you know—a Christian way. So she baked him a cake.”

  “That’ll do it.”

  “I don’t know if caramel was his favorite, but that’s what she baked—a caramel cake. It was two-layer, an’ with th’ pecans she put on top, it cost three dollars for th’ makin’s. I don’t know if your family was ever like mine, but we didn’t have three dollars to just fling around, you know?

  “But anyway, Mam baked Elvis this cake, but she didn’t have any way to take it up to Graceland. I mean, she didn’t have a car. So she walked four miles to Graceland, an’ the gate was closed. She was just devastated. She thought th’ gate would prob’ly be open since it was broad daylight.

  “She took it over there in a nice carrier that belonged to a neighbor, so it wouldn’t get dust or car fumes or anything on it. Th’ neighbor didn’t want to let her use th’ carrier, but since it was for Elvis, she said okay, but bring it back, it cost a ton of money.

  “Well, she couldn’t just stand at th’ gate ’til th’ cows came home. She saw there was enough room to push the cake under th’ fence, but only if she took it out of th’ carrier. So she took it out of th’ carrier and pushed th’ cake under on th’ cardboard round, an’ then she climbed over th’ gate. She went over th’ gate because it had better toeholds than th’ fence, an’, course, she had to take her shoes off to do it, they were high heels. Well, not exactly high anymore—Mam was so strapped, she’d walked th’ heels off all her shoes, they were more like flats, you know?

  “But when she got over to th’ other side, she realized th’ cake carrier was still settin’ in th’ grass on the front side. She didn’t want to take a buck-naked cake up to the house, it wouldn’t look right, so she crawled back over the gate and got th’ carrier. That was not easy to do, you know? I mean, have you ever seen that gate?”

  “I’ve never been to Graceland.”

  “You’ve never been to Graceland?”

  “Not once.”

  “I can’t believe it. Are you not from around here?”

  “I’m from North Carolina.”

  “Well, that’s no excuse, I can tell you that right now. You have got to go. Who’d want to die without goin’ to Graceland?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “I can just see my little Mam walkin’ up that driveway in her flat heels an’ knockin’ on th’ door. She said she was scared to death, she couldn’t believe she’d got that far without runnin’ back home like th’ devil was chasin’ ’er. An’ who do you think opened th’ door?”

  She looked at him in the mirror, expectant, but he couldn’t come up with anything.

  “Elvis,” she said. “Himself. He’d been out ridin’ his horse in th’ back yard an’ thought it was maybe his, what do you call it, his, you know, person who shoes horses.”

  “Farrier.”

  “But it wadn’t, it was Mam. He said, Who are you?

  “She said, I brought you a cake.

  “He said, What kind?

  “She said, Caramel two-layer. From scratch.

  “He said, Come in.

  “Can you believe it? Come in. Elvis. Th’ King. An’ my little Mam right there in ’is house. He took her in th’ livin’ room, it had white shag carpet an’ still does to this day. He showed her this glass-top table, said, Set it right there, I’ll be back. She said he was wearin’ a cowboy getup with a hat an’ boots an’ all. It was before he gained weight, which I personally think was fluid.

  “He went off and came back with a knife and two paper napkins. He cut th’ cake an’ gave her a piece, then he took a piece an’ they sat on th’ sofa while they ate.

  “An’ you know what they talked about? They talked about her—my little Mam. He said, What do you do? She said, Wait tables. He said, Where at? She told him th’ place, I forget th’ name, they tore it down. He said, Where do you live at? She told him she lived with her grandma, told him exactly which corner an’ everything, an’ that it was a white house with blue shutters.

  “He said, How’d you get over here?

  “She said, Walked.

  “He said, How’d you get in th’ gate?

  “She said, Climbed over—but pushed th’ cake under th’ fence.

  “He said, This is really good cake.

  “She said he ate another piece and offered her one, but she didn’t take it, she had really nice manners. He gave her his autograph on a paper napkin an’ walked her to the door an’ said, Thank you for comin’, an’ goodbye, little darlin’.

  “Goodbye, little darlin’. Can you feature that?”

  His sides were definitely flatter. “That’s a wonderful story,” he said.

  “But that’s not all. Oh, no, that’s just th’ beginnin’.

  “She hated she’d forgot th’ cake carrier, because it was her neighbor’s, but who could remember their cake carrier when you’re up at Graceland hangin’ around with Elvis? She figured she’d have to buy a replacement, though Lord knows, she shouldn’t have to, bein’ it was settin’ up at Graceland—a fact which her neighbor could brag about for th’ rest of her life.

  “Two days later, she opened th’ front door of my great-grandma’s house, and what do you think was settin’ in th’ front yard?”

  Her cheeks colored. “A baby-blue Eldorado Cadillac.”

  “Was Elvis in it?”

  “Wadn’t nobody in it. It had a big ol’ red bow tied on th’ hood, an’ a big sign stuck under th’ win’shield wipers sayin’ LITTLE DARLIN. An’ guess what was settin’ on th’ front seat.”

  “I give up.”

  “Th’ cake carrier.”

  “I’ll be darned.”

  “She was just thrilled; she said it was the best thing ever happened in her whole life, includin’ marryin’ my grandpaw when she was fifteen.”

  He shook his head, incredulous. “He just gave her a Cadillac?”

  “Out of th’ goodness of his heart. He had a heart as big as Texas, even Alaska. An’ you know what?”

  “What?”

  “Mam couldn’t drive a lick. She lived to be sixty-six and never did learn to drive a car.”

  “What did she do with the Cadillac?”

  Jolene’s eyes flashed with anger. “That’s another story.”

  “Doesn’t have a happy ending, then.”

  “No. Not one bit. I don’t tell that part.”

  “Well, I certainly enjoyed the part you did tell. Thank you.”

  She removed the cape and whisked the hair from his collar.

  “I tell it as a tribute to Mam for her thoughtful ways, and a tribute to Elvis for bein’ a very kind man—a very great man. A lot of so-called intelligent people don’t think he was a great man—but,” she said, looking fierce, “they would be wrong.”

  “I believe you,” he said.

  “Are you comin’ back to Memphis anytime soon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m here every day but Monday. You need somebody to give you a good conditioner. We rub in this really nice cream, then put a plastic bag over your head. All you do is lay back for five minutes an’ take it easy.”

  “A bag over my head.”

  “Not your whole head.”

  “I’ll remember that,” he said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  What his wife dubbed Reclining Day, roughly in the tradition, say, of the church calendar’s Rogation Day, had arrived at last, and thus he was reclining.

  “‘With the knife the tree he girdled, just ben
eath its lowest branches.’” He hadn’t meant to say that at all. You look great in red—that’s what he meant to say. His wife never wore red; he liked red.

  Cynthia raised one eyebrow. “We know who’s going to have all the fun today.”

  “A little anxious?” the nurse had asked.

  “A little, yes.” A lot, actually. Though Sutton had called apheresis “a benign procedure,” he had slept in quick, edgy doses and waked up anxious and off-kilter.

  The nurse had requested a pill of some kind, and he didn’t protest. “It’ll settle you down,” she said. “You’re going to be just fine. Dr. Sutton usually puts a newspaper in the room; you can kick back, watch a game show—I’d be glad to swap places.”

  First thing this morning, he’d gone in to Henry. His color wasn’t good, not at all, and he was too weak to talk. Yet he had looked up with evident pleasure, and smiled a little. “Tim,” he whispered.

  Henry’s weight was dropping fast, the skin flattened against his cheekbones.

  Henry whispered again, but he didn’t catch it. He leaned closer. “May God watch over you.”

  “And you,” he said. Touching Henry wasn’t allowed; he felt as if his hands had been amputated.

  Now, tethered to the machine in the exam room of a dialysis unit, he pondered Henry’s spirit of surrender in this horrific circumstance. Henry was doing what the English clergyman Jeremy Taylor had promoted with great passion.

  Nothing is intolerable that is necessary, Taylor had written. Now God has bound thy trouble upon thee, with a design to try thee, and with purposes to reward and crown thee. These cords thou canst not break; and therefore lie thou down gently, and suffer the hand of God to do what He pleases.

  “‘With purposes to reward and crown thee,’” he said to his wife. “Very important to keep in mind.”

  Cynthia looked up from reading the newspaper and smiled. No, actually, it was a grin. “What was that pill they gave you?”

  “Did they give me a pill?”

  “I spoke with Leon about the car,” she said. “He found a cooler on the backseat and took it home and put it in his freezer—to give you when we pick up the car.”

  No balm. No way, nohow.

  “But his mother-in-law was visiting, and found the cooler in the freezer, and…” She looked at him oddly. “And?”

  “She roasted the groundhogs.”

  “Hallelujah.” He would have applauded, but with a catheter in each arm and the mandate to keep his arms flat, he was limited.

  “He said he’s really sorry.”

  “Too late for sorry.”

  “He said they were the best he ever tasted. He’ll put in new floor mats absolutely free.”

  “Deal.”

  “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “I love things I won’t believe.”

  “Later,” he said. “As entertainment on the drive home. Which reminds me—I need something to write on.”

  She browsed through her carryall, which appeared to be living up to its name. She had been to a bookstore and bought whatever caught her fancy, including Wendell Berry, Graham Greene, Thomas Merton, and Annie Dillard. “How about a sheet from my sketchbook?”

  “I was thinking a card, maybe. To say thanks to Smokey and the boys.”

  “Who?”

  “You know—th’ fellows in th’ cammo.”

  “I’ve had a wonderful idea.” She was clearly interested in changing the subject. “You said you wanted to come back in a couple of weeks to see Henry. How about letting Dooley drive you?” “Oh, no. It’s fine. I can do it.”

  “But he would love to do it; I know he would.”

  “He has his own life.”

  “He hasn’t spent much time with his dad in years; and think how nice it would be for you. Besides, how long has it been since the two of you spent ten hours together in a truck?”

  He laughed. “Never.” It was an odd idea. But he liked it. Maybe he’d think about it.

  A nurse flew into the room. A flying nurse. Well, not precisely flying, but moving quickly nonetheless, as nurses tend to do.

  “You have visitors,” she said. “Just checking to see if it’s all right.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Cynthia, “we love visitors.”

  He tried to sit up straight to see who was coming in, but he couldn’t sit up straight. Blast. It was because the chair was reclining. Of course. He lay back and craned his neck toward the door and there was the red head rag. There was Peggy.

  “Peggy,” he said, unbelieving.

  A nurse rolled her toward him in a wheelchair, her cane lay across her knees.

  “I aks Brother Grant to bring me to Memphis to see how you doin’.”

  “Doing well, very well. My goodness—all the way to Memphis.” His brain was churned butter; he wanted to stand up, but couldn’t seem to manage it. “Have you seen Henry?”

  “We’re fixin’ to go down there. First, we wanted to see th’ one makes it all possible for Henry to get better.”

  “Peggy Winchester, my wife, Cynthia.”

  Cynthia was embracing Peggy and bawling like a kid. His wife would weep at the drop of a hat.

  “It’s mo’ better to see you in th’ flesh, you’re a beautiful lady.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you, Peggy, we thought we might have to wait until heaven.”

  “Feels like heaven right here, with what you all are doin’ for us. God goin’ to bless you for it, but Henry and I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Never.”

  Please don’t say that, he thought. It isn’t done yet, it’s just beginning.

  “Is this the young man I found in my graveyard?”

  A bass-baritone voice, offstage to the right. Then an elegant, elderly black man stood before him. A black man in a black suit, carrying a black book.

  “This is our preacher, Brother Grant,” said Peggy. “He says he met you as a little chap, when you were lookin’ for me.”

  It was a wonderful life. To have a stage play right in this room, with real people acting real parts. And he’d thought the reward only a newspaper.

  “I retired out where Peggy and Henry live, and took on a little church some years ago. Like Jacob, they won’t let me go ’til I bless them.” Brother Grant laughed. The sound of his laughter was a kind of nourishment.

  “Brother Grant is older than me,” said Peggy. “He’s ninety-three.”

  “And still looking fit,” he said, marveling.

  Brother Grant smiled. “Psalm One-sixteen says, ‘The Lord preserveth the simple.’ Do you remember that day in the graveyard?”

  “I remember it well. I bawled and you stood by me—you were a consolation. I thought you might be an angel, but the black suit threw me off.”

  “Been wearing black before th’ Lord all these years. It was the best way I knew to keep away from flashy clothes and live out John three-thirty.”

  “‘He must increase,’” he quoted, “‘but I must decrease.’”

  “That’s it,” said the old man.

  “You all drove up here by yourselves?”

  “Yessir, we did. We took it slow and easy.”

  “Brother Grant got what he calls pulled,” said Peggy.

  “Pulled? You mean…”

  “Brother Grant got a warnin’ for drivin’ thirty-five miles in a fifty-five mile zone.”

  “Young policeman leaned in my window an’ said, ‘Do you know why I’m stopping you?’ I said, ‘Yessir, I’m th’ only one you could catch.’”

  Everybody in the play was laughing.

  “It’s a miracle,” he said. “A miracle.” Brother Grant, of all people. And Peggy.

  “God stays busy with miracles,” said Brother Grant. “Some people don’t believe miracles still happen every day.”

  “They’re missin’ out,” said Peggy.

  “Amen,” said Cynthia.

  “Bless God!” said Brother Grant.

&nb
sp; “If you let us,” Peggy told him, “we’ll come back in a little bit an’ Brother Grant will lay hands on you.”

  “Thank you.” He felt like a child, a very small child. “Please come back.”

  When they left, he closed his eyes for a time, incredulous and happy.

  “I’m happy with you,” said Cynthia. “We could be happy always if we always trusted God.”

  “There’s the rub. Remember the quote from Elizabeth Goudge that stayed pinned over your drawing board for an eon?

  “‘She had long accepted the fact that happiness is like swallows in spring. It may come and nest under your eaves or it may not. You cannot command it. When you expect to be happy, you are not…’”

  She joined her voice with his. “‘…and when you don’t expect to be happy, there is suddenly Easter in your soul, though it be midwinter.’”

  They smiled foolishly at one another.

  “When you were in New York for such a long time,” he said, “I’d go to your house to ‘check on things,’ as I called it. I really went to seek out your smell, and touch your paint boxes, and read the words that helped me realize again how happy you made me. You had given me the Easter I didn’t deserve.”

  “Easter is never deserved,” she said. “I’d never before given anyone Easter; if I gave it to you, it was by grace alone.”

  He studied his wife intently. He must tell her how terrific she was looking in red. General Henry…“General Henry E. Williamson!” he exclaimed.

  More laughter. He was liking this machine with its double-barreled thingamajig.

  “You’re far too much fun, sweetheart. I’m going down for coffee, want some?”

  “Not in Styrofoam, please.” As a clergyman, he had paid his dues with coffee in Styrofoam.

  “In Royal Worcester, then? Or Spode?”

  “Meissen, if they’ve got it.”

  He heard his wife speaking to a nurse at the door. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  He wondered if Jack Sutton knew he had a half sister and was an uncle to three children in Manhattan. Perhaps he knew, but never spoke about it.

  It stood to reason that there were lots of half sisters and brothers out there. Miss Sadie had had two of her own, one from each parent, and both entirely unknown to her. By an extraordinary turn of events, her much younger paternal half sister now rented the rectory next door to him in Mitford. He remembered that Miss Sadie, who thought herself an only child, had longed for family, when all the while, family abounded.