by Jan Karon
this is a new keyboard /I am doing my best9
have not hearD from you in a coon’s age. Get cracking.
abner expert at building things—a bookcase for my hut and a dog house for Willie who has adopted the lot of us. tHe children come daily, their number growsWe are having a show of their art based on Bible stories and charging one dollar admission which goes to the local food bank/I hope you’ll be willing to triple what we raise, in return you will receive a vibrant depiction of Noah and the Flood. oR would you rather have Jonah And the Whale?
(*U
Hope you’ve mended,, too bad your medic won’t allow you into the boondocks, it would do you good and help you, too. Richard backed the Jeep into the front corner of my hut yesterday a/
.m. as I was having morning prayer. The underpin was knocked out which sent the corner dipping—all books and furnishings on the northwest side slid/flew/careened to the south east side, piling on top of yours truly. I am uninjured, but justifiably appalled at Richard’s driving skills. We have heaved the thing back onto its pin, a monstrous job.
attendance growing at all churches, we break bread together on Sunday in a parish-wide dinner on the grounds. Pray for us.
your sec’y says you abhor anything to do with computers, be a good fellow and join us in the twenty-first century…if you were online we could have daily chinwags. Great fun@
will let you know amount raised Tues next, will look for yr check returnmail, best greetings to yr lovely consort. Fr Roland
PS Elly is a seven year old girl who yesterday asked if my collar keeps away fleas and ticks. Look what you’re missing!!
PPS Thanx for the $$, it wasn’t half enough but we shall manage.
Thank you, Father, for asking Emma to keep in touch, I urge you to start e-mailing, you will enjoy it ever so much!
The wall between Mona’s and Ernie’s has been partially removed and turned into a kind of waist-high divider with pots of artificial plants sitting on top. This is being generally looked upon as good news. All I know is that Ernie is more himself again.
Sam’s health is improving daily. Thank you for your prayers, we could not do without them. It helps so much to know
that a dear friend takes our concerns to the Lord, sometimes Sam and I believe we can actually feel the prayers lifted for us, and ask God to bless those praying!
Will let you know when Misty’s baby arrives, it won’t be long now. Junior is beside himself.
More good news! Morris stayed for coffee and cake last Sunday, but only a few minutes, it is a great triumph for Jean Ballenger who has always believed it could happen. We are planning a most ambitious Christmas program around our organ music. Morris is composing something special, and people will be coming from across. Oh, how I wish we could get you to join us!
I think we can safely say the Tolsons will make it—Jeffrey is what we call a changed man in every degree! Clearly, it is the work of the Lord (he says you had a long talk that night on the beach).
We beg you to take care of yourself! Please give our fondest greetings to Cynthia. Any time you can get away for a visit, you may have our guestroom and all the love our hearts hold for you both. Sam sends his best. Marion
Hope Winchester climbed the wooden stepladder and, poised on the third rung, cleaned the topmost interior of the bookstore display window with a solution of vinegar and water.
She had considered asking George Gaynor to do the job, since he was so much taller and wouldn’t have to stand on tiptoe as she was doing. But she couldn’t ask a Ph.D. to perform a menial task like washing windows.
She was careful not to splash any of the smelly solution onto the display below, which featured stacks of Foggy Mountain Breakdown by Sharyn McCrumb, and other books set in the southern highlands. So far, the third annual Mountain Month at Happy Endings had enjoyed only mild success, even in view of the ten percent discount for every book containing the word mountain in its title. People could get ten percent off anything, anywhere, she concluded. She proposed that next year they offer fifteen percent. In her opinion, fifteen percent was when people started to pay attention.
She raised the squirt bottle with her right hand and fired the solution toward the window, then turned slightly to wipe it down with the paper towel in her left hand.
It seemed as if she were falling in slow motion, like a feather, or perhaps some great hand held her gently, guiding her down and breaking her fall to the floor of the display window, where she landed on an arrangement of Charles Frazier’s Cold Mountain in paperback.
“I declare!” said the Woolen Shop’s Minnie Lomax, who was on her way to the post office. “That is the most interesting window display. Very modern. A mannequin lying on books.” She knew Hope Winchester liked to try different things; she had once put a fake cat on a footstool, which caused half the population to stand in front of the window waiting for the cat to move. Though impressively lifelike, it never did, of course, which made some people feel foolish.
Adjusting her bifocals and walking on, Minnie deemed the current display “too New York for this town!” a criticism she proclaimed aloud, albeit to herself, as she waited for the light to change.
“Hope!”
She saw George Gaynor bending over her, instructing her to do something.
“Hope!” he said again, looking anxious.
Why should she hope any longer? She was an old maid who would never marry, who made clumsy, foolish mistakes in front of handsome men, and who had fallen off a ladder. She was so disgusted with herself that she didn’t even try to move or get up. She felt no pain, only a certain breathlessness, as if the wind had gone out of her altogether. She wanted nothing more than to lie here, to close her eyes and somehow get the whole thing over with. She was mildly disappointed that she hadn’t died in the fall.
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“I’ve had some medical training. I’m going to lift you very gently. Easy, now.”
His face was close to hers. What if she had bad breath? She drew her head away sharply.
“Have I hurt you?”
“No!”
He raised her to a sitting position. “There. How does that feel?”
“Wonderful!” she said, without meaning to. “That is, fine ! Just fine, thank you.” She supposed she would have to get up now, and go on with her life; she couldn’t just lie in the window with a gaggle of small children staring at her. She spied Miss Tomlinson waving at her with one hand, while holding on to a string grasped by each of her day care brood.
Are…you…all right? mouthed Miss Tomlinson.
Yes, Hope mouthed back.
“How does your back feel?” asked George.
“Good! Great! I’m just a little…addled, I think.”
“Shall I help you stand?”
She nodded.
His long, slender fingers touched hers, and then his hands gripped her own and were pulling her up, up, up…
When she came to her feet, she felt strong and tall—easily as tall as George Gaynor.
“There!” he said, smiling. “Thank God you weren’t hurt.”
“I was only standing on the third rung,” she said, dazzled suddenly by an extraordinary happiness.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Looking Alike
“I bet I know why Sammy don’t want to see Mama.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he hates her for givin’ him away.”
Jessie announced her opinion to Poo, who sat between herself and Dooley in the backseat of the Mustang on their way down the mountain.
“But Mama says our daddy run off with ’im.”
“Yeah, but Mama didn’t run after our daddy to get Sammy back.”
“Oh,” said Poo.
Jessie took a comb from her plastic purse and pulled it through her long hair. “Me an’ Sammy were lost.”
“But now you’re found,” said Dooley.
“I wadn’t ever los
t,” said Poo. “I was always with Mama.”
Jessie frowned. “Because you’re her pet.”
“I ain’t her pet, she likes us all th’ same.”
“No, she don’t.”
“Doesn’t,” said Dooley, clenching his jaw.
“Yeah, she does, ’cause you’re th’ only one she didn’t give away or let somebody run off with.”
“She loves us all th’ same,” said Poo. “Exactly th’ same.”
Jessie dug into her purse and pulled out a compact. “I wonder if Sammy looks like us.”
“He does!” Father Tim peered into the rearview mirror at the talkative and opinionated Jessie, the peacemaking Poo, and Dooley, who looked unseeing out the window. “When Miss Pringle saw Sammy, she thought he was Dooley.”
Dooley shot a brief but irritable glance into the rearview mirror. Clearly he didn’t agree that the boy with a ponytail might be confused with himself.
Jessie sat forward and questioned the front seat. “Do y’all think me an’ Poo an’ Dooley look alike?”
“Peas in a pod,” said Father Tim.
Buck laughed. “The only way I can tell you from Poo, is Poo don’t wear a skirt to school.”
“How can you tell Poo from Dooley?”
“Dooley’s a couple heads taller,” said Buck.
Jessie sat back, surveyed herself in the mirror of the compact, then studied her younger brother. “Poo is much, much uglier than me,” she announced.
“You’re a big, fat dope,” said Poo.
Lon Burtie’s place was a 1950s Amoco station set on a slab of cracked asphalt.
Lon greeted them at the door. “It ain’t much,” he said, extending his hand. “But come on in, an’ welcome.”
They entered a small, concrete-floored room with a wall of empty shelves. A vintage snack-vending machine stood in the corner.
“Y’all come on back, I don’t live up here in th’ front.”
“I’m scared,” Jessie whispered to Buck.
He took her hand. “What’s there to be scared about?”
“I don’t know, but I’m shakin’, so I must be scared.”
“You’re excited,” said her stepfather. “There’s a difference.”
Jessie looked sober. “Maybe sometimes,” she said, “but not every time.”
When they entered the room, Sammy sat in a chair opposite a television set. He stood instantly, looking anxious.
“Better turn this thing off,” said Lon. He walked to the table next to Sammy and picked up the remote. The screen went black and Lon nodded to the group. “Y’all sit down. This is where I hang out, it was th’ grease rack back when Amoco had it.”
Sammy cleared his throat. “H-h-hey,” he said.
Jessie burst into tears, clinging to Buck’s arm.
Buck’s hand was gentle on her shoulder, guiding her toward Sammy. “You an’ Poo come say hey to your brother.”
Sammy moved stiffly toward them; Father Tim watched the scene unfold in a kind of slow motion.
Jessie approached Sammy with caution, as did Poo. The room was strangely quiet. Dooley remained by the door, his face tense.
Suddenly Poo sprinted toward Sammy, arms outstretched, sobbing. “Hey, Sammy! Hey, Sammy!”
Poo and Jessie reached their brother at the same time, where some awkward connection of feet knocked Sammy to the floor. The three went down in a pile, Jessie shrieking with excitement.
Father Tim watched Dooley go to his brother and hold out his hands and help him to his feet. They looked at each other for a moment, then embraced, silent and weeping.
“I’m goin’ to cook for you, Sammy!” Jessie pulled on Sammy’s T-shirt. “Every mornin’ before school, I’ll cook you eggs an’ you can have all th’ money I been savin’.”
“I got a new baseball bat, Sammy, it’s th’ best bat you ever seen, you can use it if you want to.”
Lon Burtie wiped his eyes on his bare arm.
Buck drew a bandanna from his jeans pocket.
Father Tim turned and looked away, his heart nearly bursting with joy and sorrow intermingled.
“Sammy wants to show us his garden, may I take the car?”
“How far is it?”
“A couple of miles.”
“What about…?” He didn’t want to say your father.
“He’s not there, he won’t be there all day.”
“Good.” Father Tim reached into his pocket and handed the key to Dooley. He had never before seen the boy’s face so radiant. The power of love was transforming; God had known that all along.
“I learned to drink this stuff in Nam,” Lon said as he poured tea into three mugs.
“They wouldn’t take me.” Buck looked at the floor, then up again.
“What branch?”
“Army. I was a machine gunner’s mate, E-4. We flew Hueys in and out of th’ war zone, a big ’copter that transported men and artillery.”
In a moment of uncomfortable silence, the only sound came from two fans moving the close, humid air.
“I thought I might never get over bein’ there, but I had to, it was eatin’ me alive. The stuff goin’ down in Nam was hard enough to deal with…then we came home and had to deal with what was goin’ down in here.” He made a fist and hit his head with a quick, ironic gesture.
“I’m sorry,” Father Tim said.
“Yeah, well, I can talk about it a little now. Only thing is, there’s not many to talk to ’cept Sammy.” Lon grinned. “He’s a good boy, I’m glad you found ’im. But you don’t want to cross ’im, he’s got ’is daddy’s temper.”
Buck blew on his steaming tea. “We don’t know how to go about this, exactly, we’re tryin’ not to step in anything. I don’t know if he might like to, you know, come live with us.”
Lon shrugged. “Sammy feels responsible for ’is daddy, he does everything but wipe ’is rear end. Buys ’is liquor, puts food on th’ table, hoofs to town when I can’t take ’im, washes th’ bedsheets his old man pukes on. Clyde Barlowe is one sorry sonofagun. For a fact, about as sorry as they come.”
“We assume it’s true about Barlowe bein’ gone today. I wouldn’t want th’ kids to get in any trouble.”
“It’s all right, he hightailed it up to Virginia with Cate Turner, one of his drinkin’ buddies.”
Cate Turner. Lace Harper’s father. Father Tim was glad there’d never be any reason to mention this to her. “When will he get back, do you know?” Maybe they could take Sammy up the mountain for a day….
“He’ll get back tonight, they go across th’ state line to buy lottery tickets. He’ll come home blasted out of his gourd and stay that way for four or five days.”
“He needs help,” said Buck. “I was bad to drink myself.”
“Us ol’ liquor heads, you line us up, we’d go around th’ world more’n a few times.”
“What can we do?” asked Buck. “For now? For th’ short haul?”
Lon shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. I offered Sammy a place over here, but he wouldn’t leave Clyde.”
“We don’t want to force anything,” said Buck. “But…”
“If you ran this deal through a social service agency, you could get Sammy out. The question is, would he be willin’ to go?”
“What’s this Jaybird Johnson business?” asked Father Tim.
“I think Clyde prob’ly stole somebody’s ID, I don’t have all th’ details on that.”
“How much schooling has Sammy had, do you have any idea?”
“I’ve known him since he was around seven, eight years old. Not much schoolin’, I can tell you for sure. He don’t like sittin’ in a classroom, they’ve held ’im back two grades. But he’s got a keen mind, very keen. You saw his garden, he took to doin’ that like a pig takes to slop, it’s natural to him. On th’ other hand, he can shoot the hair off any pool player you want to name. That’s natural, too; it’s an odd combination. I believe he could do ’most anything he set his mind to, bu
t stayin’ around here, he’ll never amount to nothin’.” Lon shrugged. “I don’t much care to stay around here myself, but…”
“But what?” asked Father Tim.
Lon gave a short, cackling laugh. “But I ain’t plannin’ to amount to nothin’, so why bother to leave?”
“An old preacher in Mississippi once said, ‘God don’t make junk.’ I’m sure you amount to more than you let on.” Father Tim smiled.
“You have a trade?”
“I paint houses. I got a truck, a couple of ladders, I keep busy. Th’ whole deal is to show up on time, do your work, stay sober, an’ clean up after yourself.”
“Good plan.”
“You might say my sideline keeps me goin’.”
“What’s that?” asked Buck.
“While th’ kids are over at Clyde’s, I’d like to show you—I don’t get much of a chance to, you know, show it to anybody.”
“Please!” said Father Tim. “Lead on.”
Lon took them across the large, sparsely furnished room to a door.
“This was th’ head.”
“That’s OK,” said Buck, “I don’t need to go. How ’bout you, Father?”
“Was th’ head,” said Lon. Father Tim thought their graying, fiftyish host was a surprisingly handsome man when he smiled. Lon opened the door and stood back.
Father Tim drew in his breath. “Good heavens!”
Buck removed his ball cap. “Man!”
“This is my garden. Walk in.”
The room was fairly sizable. Where toilet stalls had been, the walls on three sides were lined with shelves containing potted orchids of varying colors and petal shapes. Orchids also sat in pots on shelves above a washbasin, and clung to a wire screen, their roots trailing into the air. A rattan blind was raised over a small window admitting light from the south.
“Some of these plants are pretty old, I bought ’em after I came back from Da Nang. This’n right here, it’s Paphiopedilum delenatii, I brought it out of Nam in a duffel bag, wrapped bare root in my underwear. For a long time people thought it was extinct, it would’ve been worth ten, fifteen thousand bucks back then.”