In This Mountain

by Jan Karon

  “But ol’ Hamp floored his new truck an’ in they went. Only trouble is, they couldn’t get very far. There they were, three trucks stalled in that tunnel of rhodos and th’ house goin’ up like kindling.

  “I think Hamp did some damage to his new vehicle before he finally got to th’ house.” He handed the mug back to Percy. “Shoot me a little cream in there and about a bucket of sugar.

  “My take is, all th’ heavy equipment she’s had on th’ place th’ last couple of months, they maybe ran over a cable, somehow cut some wires, and took th’ security system out—that’s why Hamp didn’t get a call off th’ smoke alarm.” J.C. jerked several paper napkins from the aluminum holder and wiped his face. “Man, that was th’ worst thing I ever saw, I don’t want t’ see anything like it again in this lifetime.”

  “Th’ father says Ed Coffey drove ’er to Wesley an’ they sent a trauma unit to pick ’er up.”

  “I got to find Ed,” said J.C. “He’s th’ main man, th’ missin’ piece. This story’s got to run Monday, I got a lot of facts to pull together. What kind of trauma unit?”

  “I don’t know,” said Father Tim. “They said part of the ceiling caved into her bedroom, she was flown out of Wesley about two-thirty this morning.”

  J. C. swigged his coffee. “I wish we could run color like Gary Barnes’s paper over th’ mountain. When it comes to a fire, black and white photos don’t cut it.”

  “So how come how Ed didn’t get hurt?” asked Percy.

  “He lives in th’ carriage house out back,” said J.C. “Which is prob’bly what saved her neck.”

  “Looked like the fire was bad enough to take the whole ninety acres,” said Father Tim.

  “Yeah, well, when th’ guys saw th’ house was a goner, they went to work to keep th’ fire out of th’ woods; it was fish or cut bait, accordin’ to Hamp.”

  “So, what’re you orderin’?” Percy asked J.C. This CNN news hour could go on ’til the cows came home. A man had to make a living.

  “Can you do lunch?”

  “Depends on what it is.” It was six-thirty in the morning, for Pete’s sake.

  “Give me a ribeye, well done on a toasted bun, with mayo, steak sauce, onions, an’ an order of hash browns—make that a double order. I been goin’ like a sonofagun since Hamp hauled by my house at two A.M.”

  Percy crossed his arms. “I can do it, but it’ll be a one-time-only deal.”

  “An’ while you’re at it, fry my onions along with th’ steak.”

  Percy had no intention whatever of frying onions at six-thirty in the morning. Let Mister Fat Cat Know-It-All fry his own blooming onions.

  On Monday morning, the ashes of Clear Day still smoldered on the ridge; the smell hung over the village like an acrid incense.

  Though a number of people couldn’t resist being secretly pleased that Clear Day’s owner had gotten her comeuppance, most of them kept their mouths shut. As dry as it had been, the fire could easily have spiraled out of control and advanced down the ridge to devour the town, like the Gordonsville fire in 1978. Nossir, you didn’t want to go badmouthing somebody at a time like this, especially since your own neck had been spared—they would badmouth Miss High and Mighty after the smoke cleared and the dust settled.

  Ridge-Top Home

  Burns to Ground

  Clear Day, the home of longtime Mitford resident, Edith Mallory, burned to the ground at about two-thirty a.m. on Saturday morning of last week.

  Fire Chief Hamp Floyd and his squad of hard-working volunteers joined forces with two trucks from our sister station in Wesley. They battled the blazing inferno until seven o’clock Saturday morning, with special emphasis on building a fire screen that prevented the blaze from igniting surrounding woods.

  Chief Floyd said a large area of raw ground and a large swimming pool also helped contain the fire. Someone reported that Ms. Mallory was having a helicopter pad constructed on the west lawn of her 90-acre property, once the sight of the log cabin home of Mitford’s founder, Hezikiah Hendrick.

  “It was a big one,” stated Chief Floyd/. “Apparently, the Mallory alarm system had malfunctioned, and we did not get a call from the security company. My call came from Buster Boyd, who had to let his dog out and saw what was happening on the ridge. I would like to personally thank Buster for his contribution.”

  It was learned that Ms. Mallory suffered severe injuries, though not from fire. Ed Coffey, an employee of Ms. Mallory who returned to the sight for personal belongings from his living quarters, said he could not discuss the specific nature of the injuries. He did say that Ms. Mallory is recuperating in a Charlotte hospital, and will return to her home in Florida in several weeks. He added that new wiring was underway in the attic of the house and may have caused the problem.

  We would like to thank all who bravely battled the fire that if not properly contained might have spread to other home sights with tragic results.

  The story was accompanied by a large black and white front-page photo showing a crescent moon risen over the enormous conflagration. A piece of garden statuary in the foreground appeared to be of Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. In the confusion of men and equipment, an arm had been broken from the statue and was lying in the grass.

  “Lookit!” said Emma.

  She pulled something from a shopping bag, unfurled it, and presented a navy blue dress with a white collar.

  “England! What d’you think?”

  “I like it.”

  “I decided I’m not going to try an’ lose weight, I’ll just buy somethin’ dark and loose that makes me look thin.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “On sale. Half price.”

  “Brilliant to the max.”

  He wouldn’t exactly call Emma Newland beautiful, no, indeed. But ever since Andrew had insisted she be the one to go, she had looked radiant, a new woman.

  “I’m studyin’ how to speak English,” she announced.

  “It’s about time.”

  “Boot for trunk, post a letter for mail a letter, garden for yard, and ha-ha for a ditch to put cows in….”

  “Spot on,” he said.

  “Timothy, Stuart. I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “The bad first.”

  “You know about Edith Mallory?”

  “I do. But not many details. It was a terrible fire, a sight I’ll never forget.”

  “You remember I asked if you know how to reach her, thinking we might scare up a gift for the cathedral? She’s no longer on the membership list at Lord’s Chapel, so we had to trace her. Beth O’Conner—did you know Beth?”

  “Yes, she visited Edith several times, came to church.”

  “We knew she was a friend of Edith’s, so we called her. And listen to this…”

  It had definitely been a while since he’d heard joy in Stuart’s voice.

  “She’s giving us a half million dollars for the choir school!”

  “Congratulations! Mazel tov!”

  “It’s in memory of her son who died of cancer a few months ago. She’s been waiting, she said, until God spoke to her heart about where to give it. She loves the idea of the choir school, her son began singing in the choir when he was eleven years old, she may even do something for us again.”

  “My friend, you sound eleven years old yourself. But I thought you were going to start with the bad news.”

  “I was, but I forgot and gave you the good stuff instead. Anyway, that’s the first specific commitment we’ve had to the choir school, and I’m frankly beside myself. By the way, thanks a thousandfold for the Kavanagh gift, it means a great deal to have it.”

  “It meant a great deal to send it.”

  “The bad news, of course, is that Edith Mallory is in serious condition. Beth says Edith would want it kept quiet, but I thought you should know—both her motor and speech centers have been damaged. There’s great difficulty in expressing herself verbally, and she’s paralyzed along her right side, something like what happens
with a stroke. She’ll be in a wheelchair, and the doctors don’t know where the brain injury could lead. Right now, Beth says she can only speak gibberish. The doctors call it word salad.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it.

  “Yes. So am I. She’ll be in a rehab center for a couple of months, then down to Florida.”

  “Do you know where she is in Charlotte?”

  “Putney.”

  “That’s good. Thanks for bringing me up to speed. I needed to know.”

  “It occurs to me that Edith has participated in building the choir school, albeit unwittingly. In any case—moving along to happier themes—I’m encouraged, Timothy. I hope you are.”

  “I am. Very much.”

  “God is faithful, Timothy, listen to this—my secretary wrote it on my notepad this morning. ‘Those who go through the desolate valley will find it a place of springs, for the early rains have covered it with pools of water.’ Psalm Eighty-four.”

  “Amen and amen.”

  “Love to Cynthia.”

  “And love to Martha.”

  He sat for a time, looking out the window to Baxter Park.

  Then he opened the desk drawer and took out his Mont Blanc pen and a sheet of ivory writing paper.

  Dear Edith,

  He wouldn’t speak to her of God. Let God do that Himself.

  You are faithfully in our prayers.

  Cynthia and Timothy Kavanagh

  “Ugh!” exclaimed his wife, trying to huff the box from the porch bench.

  “Here,” he said. “Let me get it.”

  “It’s from Tennessee!” she said, as eager as he to see what the delivery contained.

  “I must chide Father Roland for shipping UPS when the post office could have done it cheaper.”

  “Tell him that next time he begs for money.”

  They sat on the floor of the study, slicing through the laboriously applied tape with an old kitchen knife.

  She pulled up the lid and peered inside. “The bundle on top says, ‘Unwrap first.’”

  “Heave to.”

  She removed the string and unrolled the paper, and Noah’s ark tumbled onto the floor, landing upright.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Timothy!”

  He was smitten at once with the grace and skill of Abner’s carving. The long, shoe-box-like vessel had clearly been modeled after the architectural and engineering directions contained in the book of Genesis.

  “Amazing!” he said.

  “And look!” Two amiable-looking camels rolled from the heavy wrapping paper and into her lap.

  “They’re wondrous,” she said. “Wondrous!”

  Unable to resist, he opened a bundle himself. “Geese, by George!”

  “No, by Abner!” exclaimed his jubilant wife.

  They were children for an hour, unwrapping a buck and a doe, two pigs, two bears, and two mules. They examined each creature, looking at the way the knife had shaped the wood, at the sleepy eyes of the pigs, the erect ears of the horses, the movement of the wood grain.

  “If this is any indication,” she said, “Backyard is helping God do something wonderful in Tennessee.”

  “Absolutely!”

  “I have a great idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It isn’t a new idea, of course, Father Roland thought of it ages ago.”

  “Speak.”

  “Let’s send him some money,” she said. “A really generous amount.”

  “What, and deny him the thrill of hammering us on the head?”

  “I’ll just go upstairs and get the checkbook.”

  “And I’ll take the envelope straight to the post office,” he said.

  “I need a joke.”

  “What for?” asked Mule.

  “I’m going to see Uncle Billy, he’s back at home and could probably use a laugh.”

  “I can’t remember jokes. They go in one ear an’ out th’ other.”

  “Maybe Percy has a joke.”

  “Come on. Have you ever heard that ol’ sourpuss tell a joke?”

  “Now that you mention it, no.”

  “I’ve heard Coot tell a joke a time or two, but you wouldn’t want to repeat it.”

  “Maybe Harley,” said Father Tim. “Once in a while, Harley has a good joke.”

  J.C. slung his briefcase into the booth and thumped down. “You need a joke?”

  “Clean,” said Father Tim.

  “Here you go. Th’ doctor asks the nurse, says, ‘How’s that little boy doin’, the one who swallowed all those quarters?’ Th’ nurse says, ‘No change yet.’”

  J.C. looked across the table, raising his eyebrows.

  “I don’t get it,” said Mule.

  “Got anything else?” asked Father Tim.

  Only a moment ago, in the simple act of walking across her kitchen floor, Hélène Pringle was startled to recognize that God had, in fact, revealed Himself to her.

  He had revealed Himself by allowing her to help find Sammy Barlowe, and had arranged for her to stand on the landing while George Gaynor repeated the prayer on the phone.

  It was an intimate revelation that gave her a deep gladness, and she thought again of the other evening, the night marked by that terrible fire, when her life had been altered for all time.

  She had known it was discourteous to eavesdrop, but apparently God had been willing to overlook this small indiscretion to gain something of far greater importance.

  Indeed, her heart had pounded into her throat as she repeated the lines of that simple prayer. She felt as if she’d been electrified.

  Afterward, she wanted desperately to go to her room and kneel by her bed and speak to the other side of the curtain. She had instead gone downstairs to turn off the light, for she could not afford the extravagance of a lamp burning unnecessarily.

  At the time, she had no idea what might come of the prayer she had uttered silently—perhaps nothing. Yet, she’d known she had to repeat it after George Gaynor; not to have done so would have been unthinkable.

  By the time she’d gone up the stairs and into her room, she realized that the curtain so long imagined in her mind had vanished. And though she hadn’t actually seen Him sitting on what was once the other side, she hadn’t been surprised at all to realize He was there.

  Hope Winchester was once again watching George Gaynor leave Mitford.

  This time, he wasn’t leaving in a car with dark windows, driven by an FBI agent, he was riding with Father Tim and his dog in a red Mustang convertible with the top down.

  She stood with Scott Murphy on the sidewalk, in the precise spot she’d occupied more than eight years ago, and waved goodbye as the car moved toward them from Wisteria Lane.

  George had been standing at the bookstore this morning, bearing two cups of coffee from the Grill, when she arrived to open up. They had sat in his office, drinking coffee and saying goodbye, and he told her he was honored that she’d imagined herself in love with him, however briefly. They had laughed a little then, and he thanked her once more and said he would write and she said she would, too.

  Then Scott had joined them in the office, where he stood with one hand on George’s shoulder and the other on hers, and prayed—for the power, consolation, and guidance of the Holy Spirit in George’s future, and in the life of Hope Winchester.

  The men had embraced then, unashamed and oddly happy, and her own heart had been moved as George left, walking down to the yellow house to meet his ride to the Asheville airport.

  As the Mustang drove by now, Father Tim beeped the horn twice and George threw up his hand and looked their way, beaming. Barnabas sat upright on the backseat, gazing straight ahead.

  They watched until the red convertible drove around the monument and passed from view.

  Scott cleared his throat and turned to her. “I need to pick up a book.”

  She smiled. “You’ve come to the right place.”

  He was paying for the book when he felt a sudden inspirat
ion.

  “Hope…”

  “Yes!” She loved the sound of her name.

  “I don’t suppose you would…”—he paused, looking for just the right word—“consider going to Wesley for dinner and a movie. Sometime.”

  He knit his brow as if he expected to hear the worst.

  “Why, yes, I…would enjoy considering it.”

  She could count on one hand the times she’d been out for dinner and a movie—twice with her mother and sister, and once on a blind date.

  “Good!” he said. “Great!”

  He’d never before asked anyone out for dinner and a movie. When he was just nine years old, three of his grandparents had been killed in a car accident on their way home from dinner and a movie. Miraculously, his mother’s mother had survived, and was still living and active and always eager to hear what was happening in her grandson’s life.

  He knew that he would call his grandmother tonight.

  Although he’d heard the news, he was eager to see it in print, in black and white.

  When the September seventh edition of the Muse hit their front lawn on Monday morning, Father Tim went out, barefoot, and carried the paper inside to the kitchen, where the coffee was brewing.

  He read the headline, set in the largest type he’d ever seen in their hometown journal, and was moved to cross himself.

  Portion of Mallory Land to Be Deeded to Town

  According to Ed Coffey, employee and official spokesman for longtime Mitford resident, Ms. Edith Mallory, two acres of land at Ms. Mallory’s fire-ravaged home site on the ridge above Mitford will be given to the town.

  Mr. Coffey states that Ms. Mallory had made legal arrangements to deed this plot of land to the town several days before fire destroyed her 8,000-square foot home in the early morning hours Saturday before last.

  “Ms. Mallory has had the plot of land inspected by a team of archaeologists who found positive evidence of five grave sites.”