by Jan Karon
‘My double-great-grandma said, “Was that late August a year ago, by any chance?” And he said, “Yes, ma’am, I believe it was.” And she said, “Around about Harrisburg?” An’ he said “Yes, ma’am, it sure was.” An’ she said, “You got off a good deal better than th’ bear.”’
They laughed at this every time, out of respect.
‘Sometime before Christmas of 1837’—his grandpa liked to handle what he called the finale—‘Miss Mary Jane Bush, who by then had turned eighteen, gave Mr. Adam Pinckney Howard a gift crafted by her own hand. It was a fine, brand-new silk hat to make up for the damage she’d done—silk was startin’ to come in fashion and beaver was startin’ to go out—and he wore it, don’t you know…’—his grandpa held on to the last words of the story—‘to his nuptials.’
They always clapped at this, and whooped a little. A dog barked in the distance.
‘And…’ He nudged his grandpa with his elbow and wiggled his eyebrows.
‘And here we are!’ they shouted.
‘You’ve got this story down pat, son. When you come out again, we’ll start on the next installment. There’s a whole passel of fascinatin’ ancestors in that round, includin’ one who freed all his slaves. Then, on th’ next pass or two, we’ll include a young fella named Timothy Andrew Kavanagh. How would you like that?’
‘I’d like it.’
‘One of the verses your great-great-grandmother scribed in the back of her Bible was Deuteronomy, chapter four, verse nine.
‘“Be careful not to forget the things you have seen God do for you. Keep reminding yourself and tell your children and grandchildren, too.” Because she left us a record, one day you can do th’ tellin’ to your children and grandchildren.’
He couldn’t see how he would ever have children, much less grandchildren. Mostly because he would never get married in a hundred years.
A cloud covered the moon, his grandfather vanished. A match scraped across the surface of the step, flamed up, was carried to the bowl of the pipe—and there again was his grandfather’s face. ‘I’ll have one more sneak of tobacco, then we best fly up to roost.’
He realized that something had gnawed at him all through the story. As the wagon came down the Trace, the gnawing had hidden beneath the rumble of wheels and bed boards; it had hidden between the lines his double-great-grandmother was scribing in the Bible; he had recognized it again in the eyes of the bear.
‘What did my other grandpa do to my father?’
He hadn’t known he was going to ask the question that had exploded in his head for weeks. His sudden trembling was hard and uncontrollable, his teeth chattered.
Grandpa Yancey’s arm went around his shoulders and held him tight for a long time until some of the trembling stopped.
‘When your daddy was sixteen years old, his father gave him a beating, what you might call a horsewhippin’. It was…brutal. I’m sorry to say it, son, it’s hard to tell you this. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ His teeth chattered like windup joke teeth.
‘It happened at a cattle auction in Jackson. The way your mother tells it, your grandpa got mad at a little colored boy who was hangin’ around the place and told your daddy to shut the boy up in a hot truck—th’ temperature was boilin’—an’ give him no water. I don’t know if your daddy handled it the best way, but I believe he did th’ right thing—he refused to obey those orders.
‘It was your grandpa’s auction at one of his barns, and he was up on a kind of a platform, don’t you know, with the auctioneer—an’ your daddy was up there, too. When Matthew wouldn’t do what he was told, your grandpa took a horsewhip that was hangin’ on the wall of the barn, an’ grabbed your daddy and told th’ auctioneer to hold ’im while…’
Grandpa Yancey cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, son, I’m sorry. Your mother told me I should tell you if you ever asked. She could never do it, because it hurts her and she knew it would hurt you. Best to hear it from someone who loves you before you hear it someplace else.’
He had never before suffered like this. As clearly as if he’d been there, he saw his young father on the platform, and the look on his face while the auctioneer held him.
‘That terrible whippin’ was bad enough. But the next worst thing is, it happened in public, in front of a whole crowd of people. Think how that kind of humiliation made him feel, I’m sure people remembered that awful sight for years to come. That’s a lot for a young person to handle.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tears and snot were all over the place.
‘You can blow your nose on your shirttail, I won’t tell anybody.’
The trembling continued to come in waves he couldn’t control. Is there a next worst thing? he wanted to ask. Please don’t let there be a next worst thing.
‘Grandpa Kavanagh’s rage was what I’d call unquenchable. After that vicious sideshow he put on for Satan himself, he shoved your daddy off the platform, and his leg was broken in several places. It’s a low-down shame about th’ doctor they took him to—some quack who, as far as I can tell, didn’t know a bloomin’ thing about settin’ bones.’
In the black wood, the whippoorwill called and called, but he knew that counting didn’t matter anymore. He stood up suddenly, wanting to run and never stop running, but he had lost his breath and was suffocating.
‘Come on, son, let’s walk. We’ll go to the stump and back. Everything will be all right, it’s all gon’ be all right.’
His grandfather was practically dragging him across the yard, but he flung off his hand and ran as hard as he could across the moonlit field. He would run ’til he dropped somewhere, he didn’t care where. But what he really wanted to do was get in Louis’s truck and drive to Jackson and stab his other grandpa a hundred million times—in the eyes, in the heart, in his hideous face.
He would never tell his mother about this conversation. It was time he knew something secret and terrible like everyone else, it gave him power he wouldn’t otherwise have had. If anyone knew that he knew, they would realize that power belonged also to him, and try to take it from him.
Later, he asked his grandpa two questions.
‘Grandpa, did you tell Mama you told me?’
‘Not yet. Should I?’
‘Nossir. And Grandpa, when we get to th’ part of th’ story that has me in it, do we have to tell th’ part about what happened to my father?’
Grandpa Yancey’s eyes looked misty. ‘Only if you want to, son. Only if you want to.’
ELEVEN
“Come get you some breakfast.”
“The coffee sure smells good.”
“Ol’ T was a Sanka fien’ when we started out. I said, ‘Man, you can’t be drinkin’ no powdered coffee on this high-class job, we doin’ this gig with whole beans an’ a grinder.’ Cream an’ sugar right there.”
“Just black, thanks.” He took the steaming mug from Ray and eyed the breakfast buffet: sardines in a tin, saltines, and a saucer of cheddar cheese cut into cubes. “Believe I’ll catch something over town. How ’bout that rain?”
“Good rain. An’ how ’bout that Tater an’Tot?”
They laughed. Last night’s unexpected arrival had been easier than he imagined. Tater and Tot, whose breed mix was arcane, to say the least, sniffed Barnabas; Barnabas sniffed Tater and Tot. No baring of teeth, no flying of fur. After a decent meal and a dried beef tendon, all three had claimed a spot and lapsed into a drugged sleep.
“We’ll be waitin’ to hear how things go wit’ th’ phone call,” said Ray.
“Haven’t called him yet. Don’t know exactly when I’ll get back here, but I’ll pick up something for us at Frank’s.”
“Don’t do it. I’m itchin’ to cook t’night. You won’t be around much longer, I’m gon’ give you Mississippi Catfish Magic with Sauce Jacques.”
“Whoa.”
“Chef invented that down at th’ mansion fo’ th’ Southern Gov’nors’ Association. Had th’ first lady of Virginia, first lad
y of Tennessee, first lady of Arkansas, governor of South Ca’lina, you name it. Out in th’ mansion’s historic garden.”
“I’d be honored. But isn’t this the night you’re picking up your dentures?”
“I’ll pick ’em up after supper.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Won’t heat th’ skillet ’til I see you comin’. T says we gave you catfish las’ time—doin’ it t’night might be too much. I said ain’t no such thing as too much catfish.”
“Amen. What can I bring?”
“A stick of butter.”
“Consider it done.”
“Unsalted,” said Ray.
“Got it.”
He walked out to the front porch, where T stirred a can of stain. “Goin’ after th’ basement steps today. You sleep all right in your old room?”
“Can’t complain. I appreciate it more than you know.”
“Hope everything goes okay with your phone call. We’ll keep an eye on ’im so he don’t ramble with our boys.”
He’d fed and walked his dog, who would be spending the day at Whitefield. “I appreciate it,” he said again. “I appreciate everything.”
“Don’t mention it. You hear tonight’s menu?”
“Sauce Jacques?”
T laughed. “High-rollin’ out here in th’ piney woods.”
“Hope I’m not interfering too much with your kudzu project.”
T flipped his cigarette into the wheelbarrow. “Can’t hardly figure out what t’ do next. I’m lookin’ for interference.”
He braked the Mustang at the end of the driveway and checked his watch. Seven-forty. He fiddled with the radio dial. Noise and babblement.
George Macdonald had said what he needed to heed: You have a disagreeable duty to do at twelve o’clock. Do not blacken nine and ten and eleven, and all between, with the color of twelve.
He looked at the note and punched in the numbers.
“Hello?”
His heart pounded. “Is this Henry Winchester?”
“This is he.”
“Tim Kavanagh. I received your note asking me to call. Hope I’m not calling too early.”
“Not at all. Thank you, Reverend. I was hoping we could meet today.” Winchester’s voice was quiet, restrained. “It’s a matter of extreme importance.”
“Can you tell me more?”
“There’s someone who would like very much to see you. I don’t believe I should say more at this time.”
“You wrote to me in Mitford a few weeks ago?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“The message was certainly brief.”
“I wrote it just as it was dictated.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, sir. You don’t.”
“This is all quite peculiar, to say the least. You sent a total stranger an unsigned message of just two words, but what’s even more peculiar is, I let it talk me into driving more than six hundred miles.”
“Please be assured that great prayer was lifted over the contents of that simple message. We didn’t know whether you would come, but we fully believed you would. We’re deeply grateful, Reverend.”
“I believe you can understand, Mr. Winchester, why I feel uncertain.”
“If you’re certain of nothing else, Reverend Kavanagh, you can be certain that the Lord is in this.”
Parish counseling had given him some insight, after all, into character. The man sounded well-meaning, and fish or cut bait, it had to be done.
“Then I’m in it, too.”
“Thank you.” The relief in Winchester’s voice was obvious. “I heard you would be in Holly Springs only a short time, which is another reason for our urgency. If it would suit, we could meet at Frank King’s place today at one o’clock, and drive from there. I wish we could meet earlier, but I have…something important to take care of in Memphis.”
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Out to the country about fifteen miles.”
“Well, then. One o’clock. Frank’s place.”
“I’ll be driving a blue Buick,” said Henry.
He pondered the conversation as he drove into town. His stomach was in an uproar—not enough sleep, no breakfast, too much caffeine, and a blasted long wait ’til he met Henry Winchester at Frank’s. On the upside, his sugar was stable.
He wheeled into a parking space near Tyson’s, and sat looking at the steeple of Christ Church. Now? No. Tomorrow.
A newspaper, that was the ticket. Just holding one of the blasted things in his hands offered an odd comfort. Then he had to take nourishment.
He walked to the courthouse and looked around until Tyson’s opened.
“How’s the new medication doing?” he asked Amy. “Any word yet?”
“It’ll take a while to work, but when I stopped by this mornin’, she was sleepin’ like a baby. Just layin’ there with her hands folded across her chest like she was in a coffin, it like to scared me to death. But I wish you could have seen her, she was so peaceful.”
“She was breathing?”
“Oh, yessir, I made sure to look an’ see if her chest was goin’ up an’ down. I decided not to wake her up, I mean, she’s been through an awful lot lately an’ I’m sure you know how hard it is to sleep good when you’re old.
“I should prob’ly call an’ make sure she’s awake—if she sleeps half th’ day she’ll never sleep a wink tonight. Stand right there, don’t move, I won’t be a sec.” She punched in a number and listened.
“It’s ringin’.”
Amy looked at him. “Still ringin’. I bet she’s not wearin’ her hearin’ aids. I don’t blame her, they make an awful screechin’ sound.
“Still ringin’. I wonder if I should go over there an’ check.” She punched the off button.
“I’m curious about something. Why do you care so much about Mrs. Lewis?”
Amy looked surprised. “I don’t know. I guess because she cares about me.”
“Aha.”
“I know she’s an awful pill, but speakin’ of pills, she’s been takin’ fourteen a day. Fourteen! But since th’ doctor changed things around yesterday, she’s only takin’ ten, that is such a blessin’. Richard says she’s practically kept th’ roof on this place.”
“Amy.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re a wonderful person.”
“Really?” Amy blushed. “I mean, thanks. I don’t think so, necessarily.”
The phone rang.
“Tyson’s Drug, this is Amy. Yes, ma’am, it was me. What were you doin’, I was worried to death.”
Amy gave him a wide-eyed look. “Goin’ through boxes? What in th’ world…Yes, ma’am, I’ve seen him. He’s standin’ right here lookin’ at me.
“I don’t know if he could do that. I mean, do you want him to come to your house?”
Amy put her hand over the mouthpiece. “She has somethin’ to show you. Can you go over there?”
The very thought made his heart fibrillate. “What could she possibly have to show me?”
“What could you possibly have to show him? he says. Really? That is truly amazing. It is such a small world!”
“What?” he said.
“She found some pictures of your mother.”
“Put your hand over the mouthpiece,” he whispered. “Does she still think I’m Father Crowley?” He had no need of pictures of the elder Mrs. Crowley.
“When she asked if I’d seen you, she said Madelaine Kavanagh’s boy.”
“Oh.”
“She thinks you should come.”
“Could she just give them to you and you could give them to me? I don’t want to go over there, I really don’t.” He heard the miserable whine in his voice. How could he walk into that woman’s house alone and unprotected, much less engage in civil conversation? End of discussion, he wasn’t going.
“She really thinks you should come.”
It was obvious that Amy thought so, too.
> “He’s thinkin’ about it,” said Amy.
He motioned for her to put her hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ll do it. But only if you’ll go with me.”
“I’d better not, Father, but I’ll ask her to stick ’em in the door.”
“Brilliant.”
“Miz Lewis, could you stick th’ pictures in th’ door? Yes, ma’am, I think he must have a lot to do, bein’ here only a short time.
“She says you have to be sure an’ return the pictures. They’re promised to the historical society.”
“I’ll return them tomorrow morning, first thing.”
“They’re really valuable, she says. They’re goin’ to maybe do a display.”
“Got it.”
“She says you can not lose a single one.”
“Of course.”
A couple of blocks from Nanny Howard’s, he pulled into the driveway of a galleried brick house that had seen better times, and walked to the porch along an allée of boxwood troubled by mites.
The sight of Luola Dabney Randolph Lewis clutching a manila envelope and filling the doorway jamb to jamb literally took his breath. Dressed in a wrapper and gown, and wearing on her feet what appeared to be the hides of two enormous pink rabbits, she was the definitive “sight for sore eyes.”
“I saw you pull in. Don’t mind my looks, I was up half th’ night goin’ through boxes to find these prints of Madelaine’s gardens.”
“Thank you, that was more than good of you.”
“From 1940 to 1952, I covered th’ Pilgrimage with nothin’ but a Kodak. Twelve years of buyin’ film an’ orderin’ prints, all out of my own pocket an’ no thanks from anybody far as I recall. I took these in 1941—it was th’ only year I ordered eight-by-tens, which was a high compliment to what Madelaine scratched out of th’ dirt down at Whitefield.” She wagged her cane at him. “You have to promise to wash your hands before you look, so you don’t leave fingerprints.”