In This Mountain

by Jan Karon

  She found that she was wringing her hands, and knew she must put this thing away from her once and for all. It had jangled her nerves most dreadfully and distracted her attention from her students.

  “Ça ne va pas!” she said aloud, scolding herself.

  “Bake a loaf of bread, if you must, and leave it on their doorstep! Better still, roast a nice poulet !” He’d told her he enjoyed roast chicken.

  Bien sûr! That solved it, then!

  Since her youthful faith grew cold years ago, she regretted that she hadn’t often prayed. Of course she must pray at once; she had quite neglected to do this most crucial thing for a man who had, in almost every sense, saved her life, whose tender forgiveness of the wrong she’d done him had resurrected her from a grave of bitterness and guilt.

  She crossed herself quickly and looked toward the ceiling. “Saint Père, accorde-moi, s’il te plaît, l’occasion de faire quelque chose pour ton cher émissaire, quelque chose que fera une différence!”

  She reflected a moment, then spoke the same words in English. “Holy Father, please give me the opportunity to do something for your dear emissary, something that will make a difference.”

  She hoped that two separate pleas might be doubly persuasive, yet had no idea at all that she’d been heard. She felt an odd relief, nonetheless, as she straightened the collar of her blouse and pinched her cheeks and walked downstairs to prepare for her next student.

  In the hallway, she hesitated—was that a sound from the basement?

  No, it was a car on the street. Since the Man in the Attic, as Mitfordians often called him, moved in with Mr. Welch two days ago, she thought she might hear uproarious laughter or a great deal of coming and going. In truth, she wouldn’t have known another soul was down there if he hadn’t come knocking on her door to introduce himself. He’d even invited her to call on him if she needed anything at all.

  She had thought him attractive, or perhaps comely was a more precise term, and was relieved to see he was clean-shaven, which she supposed was required in prison. He had also been immensely courteous—but, of course, if he was going to get ahead in the world, he could hardly afford to be otherwise. On the whole, she had approved, confident that Father Kavanagh would not send anyone suspicious to live on his own property.

  She moved toward the music room, thinking, the man in the attic….

  She mused on this odd appellation, finding it odder still that George Gaynor was now l’homme au sous-sol.

  After a meatloaf sandwich and iced coffee for lunch, Esther Bolick lay in her plaid recliner in full repose, listening to the snores of her husband and wondering what she could do for Father Tim.

  It was hard, very hard, when people couldn’t—and, in today’s world, wouldn’t—eat cake. When she was coming up, families lived from cake to cake. A cake was a special event, it meant something. Now a homemade, baked-from-scratch cake meant next to nothing. For one thing, most young people had never experienced such a thing. All they’d ever known was bought from a store and tasted like hamster shavings, or had been emptied from a box into a bowl, stirred with low-fat milk, and shoved into an oven that nearly blew a fuse from being turned on in the first place. Such a cake could never be your cake, no way, it would be Betty Crocker’s or Duncan Hines’s cake, and the difference between yours and theirs was vast and unforgivable.

  And look how people acted these days at the mere sight of a piece of cake. Cake? Get it out of here! I’m on a diet! I don’t want it in the house!

  Worse yet was the inevitable declaration: I never touch cake!

  Never touch cake. Pathetic! The world was increasingly filled with such people, not to mention the crowd that ate cake in secret, stuffing it in their faces when nobody was looking, and claiming to nourish themselves on a diet of boiled eggs and dry toast. She knew who they were.

  Father Tim was different, of course; eating cake would not merely add a measly pound or two, it would kill him dead as a doornail. Just look what he’d done to himself with a Coke, or was it a Pepsi?

  Gene snorted and woke himself up. He raised his head and looked at her inquiringly. “What’d you say, Sugarfoot?”

  “Go back to sleep!” she snapped, fed up with the whole notion of modern civilization.

  And take biscuits—biscuits had fallen into disgrace right along with cake. Would anybody eat a biscuit anymore? No way, not on your life. Too fattening! Too much cholesterol! All that white flour! All that shortening! On and on, ’til you could keel over and croak. She’d been born in the wrong century.

  She cranked her chair upright, dismounted, and went in the kitchen and jerked open her cabinet doors.

  Nothing. There was absolutely nothing in this house that the father could eat, except maybe a can of salmon.

  A card, then. Pitiful though it was, it was the best she could come up with. She had waited ’til the dust settled on this awful mess before acting, and now was the time to act; it was a new season and a fresh beginning—Father Tim would want to know that people didn’t hold anything against him….

  She went to the downstairs half bath and ran water over a washrag and scrubbed her perspiring face and dried it, then dipped her little finger in the lipstick tube. She had gouged stuff out of there for so long, there was hardly a scrap left; she’d get another tube at the drugstore when she went looking for a card. She stretched her lips in a wide grimace and applied the dab of color with her finger. Maybe coral this time, instead of mauve—mauve made her look washed out.

  She sighed, hoping she’d be able to find something that would make him laugh.

  Over the last few days, he’d had the odd impression of a recent visit with Miss Sadie. There was some fresh, instinctive connection to her that he hadn’t experienced since her death. Perhaps he’d dreamed….

  Father Tim sat at his desk, looking out to the space where the garage had stood. He was surprised by two extremes of feeling—he would miss seeing the moss on the roof tiles and the nest the swallows were building with daubs of mud; at the same time, the opening of the view gave him a sense of liberty he realized he’d been craving.

  He watched George Gaynor toss a couple of old boards into the bed of Harley’s truck, as Harley swigged Gatorade from a plastic bottle. He’d mentioned to Harley his sudden inspiration about tearing out the garage, a project they might do together when he was feeling stronger. The next thing he knew, the two men were at work, fulfilling his vision within hours of the telling.

  With Harley’s cleanup of the hedge, Father Tim could see into Baxter Park as if with new eyes. The labor of yesterday and today had revealed a corner of the park grounds he’d never especially noticed, including a red maple that spread its branches over summer grass that, even in today’s sultry heat, appeared cool and inviting.

  He felt his dog move at his feet. “Good fellow,” he whispered, the lump coming again to his throat.

  What would he have done if someone had…if the same thing had happened to Barnabas? He looked down into the dark and soulful eyes from which he’d drawn consolation for so many years, eyes that sometimes seemed a window into the depths of his own soul. Had Bill Sprouse known this mysterious and consoling connection with Sparky?

  Of course…and it had been violently wrenched from him.

  Cynthia came into the room and stood by his chair, watching George toss another board onto the truck bed.

  “A blessing!” she said.

  “A blessing, yes.”

  She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “God is good.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “God is good.”

  He heard her leave the room and wanted to turn around and watch her go, but he could not.

  “Barnabas!” Cynthia called, jingling the leash. “Monument time!”

  Barnabas rose slowly and trotted to the kitchen, where Cynthia snapped on the worn red leash.

  “Back in ten, dearest! Then I’m dashing to the Sprouses’ with a tuna casserole.”

  They were gone al
ong the hall and out the front door.

  He sat as if frozen. At least a month of rest, Hoppy had said; now three weeks had gone by and he hadn’t recovered an ounce of strength; in truth, he couldn’t even walk his dog. Perhaps he’d ask Dr. Wilson about his medication, perhaps it wasn’t doing the job. He resented Hoppy’s absence—he who had urged his doctor, year after year, to take a vacation.

  He glanced at the open journal on his desk, and the quote from Thomas à Kempis which he’d inscribed early this morning: “Great tranquillity of heart is his who cares for neither praise nor blame.”

  He had no tranquillity of heart; the blame that he felt from himself and imagined from others was corrosive. He regretted, in some perverse way, that Bill Sprouse would not sue him.

  “I’m not a suing man,” Bill had said when they spoke on the phone. “‘Dare any of you, having a matter against another, go to law before the unjust and not before the saints?’ St. Paul said it, and I trust it! Then over in Luke, we’re told, ‘As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.’ The Lord himself said it, and I trust it! Besides, I wouldn’t want you suing me for something I couldn’t help. You couldn’t help it, brother. Let up on yourself.”

  “I’ll be over to see you as soon as I can,” he had said, mopping his eyes.

  Bill had laughed. “Whichever cripple is th’ first to get up an’ around calls on th’ other one. How’s that?”

  “Deal.”

  “God bless you, Timothy.”

  “And you, my friend.”

  You couldn’t help it, Bill had said. But he could have helped it. He could have helped it by not cutting back on the insulin, by buying another glucometer and using it, by not skipping meals, by sticking to his exercise, by drinking water instead of sugar-loaded soda….

  But he couldn’t say that to anyone, he couldn’t utter the horrific truth that he had been that day like a loose cannon, that, indeed, he could have helped it.

  The rabbits…he still thought about his little herd and how they had been seemingly well one day and dead the next, every one of them. He would never forget his father’s wrath, the conviction that his son had done nothing to prevent the wasteful crime of their loss and the useless drain on the family finances.

  Yes, he had noticed some listlessness in several of the does, but he hadn’t known it was anything serious, he hadn’t known he could…help it.

  He watched Harley’s truck pull out of view; he was headed to the dump, where, for fifteen dollars a load, a garage built more than seventy years ago would vanish from the face of the earth.

  If only…

  He realized he’d sat here like a stone for what seemed to be hours, and stood, stiff in every joint.

  He wanted his wife—her softness, her breath on his cheek, her warmth, her benediction.

  He went slowly up the stairs and into their room and began to turn back the bedspread. When had he ever gone to bed in the afternoon? Even when he’d had the flu a time or two, he’d toughed it out on the sofa. He wanted to stop turning back the covers, but he could not.

  He undressed, noting for the first time that he’d buckled his belt differently and that his pants were surprisingly loose-fitting. Then he hung his clothes in the closet and put on his pajamas; the whole thing seemed to take a long time.

  He lay down, then, and pulled the sheet over him and waited for his wife, ashamed for her to find him like this, yet eager for her touch.

  “Timothy?” she said, standing in the doorway. He couldn’t see her face and read her thoughts about his lying in bed like a sluggard. He wanted desperately to please her; perhaps she would forgive him.

  She came into the room and sat on the side of the bed. He was relieved to see no judgment in her eyes, only concern. “Dearest?”

  “Come,” he said, drawing back the sheet.

  With all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his might, he wanted to reassure and gratify his wife. And yet, when she lay down beside him and embraced him, he could not.

  Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul.

  I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me.

  I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God….

  O God, thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from thee….

  My prayer is unto thee, O Lord, in an acceptable time: O God, in the multitude of thy mercy hear me….

  Hear me, O Lord; for thy lovingkindness is good: turn unto me according to the multitude of thy tender mercies.

  And hide not thy face from thy servant; for I am in trouble: hear me speedily.

  Draw nigh unto my soul, and redeem it: deliver me because of mine enemies.

  Thou hast known my reproach, and my shame, and my dishonour: mine adversaries are all before thee.

  Pour out thine indignation upon them, and let thy wrathful anger take hold of them…

  He sat in the pool of lamplight at three in the morning, Barnabas at his feet. He was praying the Psalms, as he’d done in times past, with the enemies of King David translated into his own enemies of fear and remorse and self-loathing, which, in their legions, had become as armies of darkness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Touching God

  He’d put off returning the calls of two priests who wanted to give him communion.

  He’d also put off calling Dr. Wilson, but his wife had not.

  Her end of the conversation could be heard through the open door of her workroom—obviously she didn’t mind being overheard, though he missed some of it.

  “It’s dreadful…and he never laughs, which is so unlike him. Yes, possibly. Well, almost certainly…. little appetite, though I’ve been…favorite things…quite thin. Thank you, Doctor. What a blessing that you’ll come. Yes, hardly enough energy to get out of the chair….”

  She came into the study and announced that Dr. Wilson would be dropping by after five o’clock.

  “And since tomorrow is your birthday, dearest, I thought we might have a little party.”

  “No,” he said. “Please. I don’t want a party.”

  “I understand. But you’ll love it, Timothy. Trust me.”

  He wanted to trust her.

  “Depression,” said Dr. Wilson. “And please don’t think it’s unusual after what you’ve been through.”

  Depression. The word impacted him like a ton of bricks. He loathed the very thought of such a thing snaring him. Depression was everyone else’s problem; he was clergy, he was…

  “Depression usually stems from anger turned inward. I’m no psychologist, but I suggest you look at what the anger is about—getting to the root of it could help.”

  His blood surged in a kind of fury.

  “We’re going to change your medication, but more important, I want you to start seeing people—perhaps you could have a few friends in to visit.”

  “I don’t want to see anyone,” he snapped.

  “That’s all well and good, Father, but it’s doctor’s orders for you to have a bit of company.”

  That was the trouble with Wilson, he acted like he ran things when Hoppy was out of town. “Before Hoppy went tooting off to heaven knows where, it was doctor’s orders that I not have company.”

  Wilson grinned. “That was then, Father. This is now.”

  He smelled coffee and opened his eyes.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” His wife put the tray on the bedside table and kissed his face: his nose, his chin, the tender spot where he’d banged his head….

  He didn’t sit up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry that I can’t be more…that I can’t be…everything you need.”

  “But you are everything I need,” she said. “This will pass away, Timothy, this difficult time is not for all eternity. Remember our good verse from Jeremiah, ‘I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for good and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.’”


  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand Him, Timothy; if I did, would He be God? I believe that everything that happens must pass God’s muster, and that somehow He permitted this. He is very present—and working in our lives.”

  “Yes.”

  “But sometimes you forget it?” She handed him a steaming mug.

  He nodded.

  “I’m praying that He will use this hard thing for good. I mean, after all, darling, look what He did for the Israelites!”

  “Right.” But he didn’t have forty years….

  “You’re going to have fun today!”

  “Do I have to?” He couldn’t believe the whine he heard in his voice; it was nauseating.

  “Preacher…”

  Bill Watson shuffled into the study. Though obviously nervous, he revealed his gold tooth in a broad smile.

  “Don’t git up, now.” He came and stood before his former priest, bowed slightly, and shook his hand. “Happy birthday, don’t you know.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Billy.” Bill Watson’s hand was as dry as a corn shuck in winter. “Sit down, my friend.”

  His onetime parishioner sat opposite him in the leather wing chair. Early afternoon light from the long bay of windows dappled the old man’s face.

  “Rose couldn’t come, she was peelin’ taters f’r supper.”

  “Aha. How are you faring these days?”

  “Fair to middlin’. I was settin’ in my chair this mornin’ when all of a sudden I felt somethin’, don’t you know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Itchin’. Th’ worst kind. What it was, I had broke out in whelks.”

  “Somethin you ate.”

  “Nossir, it’s workin’ a garden that done it.”