by Jan Karon
“Sho as you born, I did. How you do that?”
“There was a piano in Miss Lula’s parlor.”
“This some kind of magic trick?”
“I busted the vase an’ you took th’ whippin’ for it.”
“La-a-a-w have mercy. You th’ little white boy I minded that time.”
“It’s me.” They both guffawed. He pounded Willie on the back, Willie pounded him on the back.
“How many years?” asked Willie.
“A hundred,” he said.
“This beat all.”
“I’ve prayed ever since for the chance to thank you for what you did for me. It must have been a terrible whipping they gave you.”
Willie grinned. “No whippin’ a’tall. None a’tall. Miz Lula, she didn’ let nobody whip me. If they was any whippin’ t’ do, she done it her ownself. My mama, she could put you in th’ bed from a whippin’, so one time Miz Lula said, From now on, I gon’ be th’ boss of whippin’ this chile.
“Nossir, all I done was tell Miz Lula you didn’t go t’ do it. I said you was a good boy, an’ yo’ daddy was gon’ tear yo’ head off, I could see it in ’is face. So th’ Lord give me th’ notion t’ say I done it.”
“Thank you, Willie. Thank you.” He was jubilant. “Thank you more than I can say. I’ve never forgotten that time; I was miserable about it. I went back to Miz Lula’s after she died, trying to find out what happened to you.”
“They sent me up here to my gran’maw, she lived in that ol’ house in th’ woods over yonder. She lef’ me twelve acres of good land. I work a acre or two of melon an’ cantaloupe every year, with a few squash an’ tomatoes. Where you live at?”
“North Carolina. In the mountains.”
“You get back to Holly Springs much?”
“First time in over thirty-eight years.”
“How is it bein’ back? I was fixin’ t’ leave a time or two, but never got aroun’ to it.”
“It’s good,” he said. “It’s good to be back. And now it’s even better.”
“You ought t’ go on an’ eat that melon right here. Jus’ set down at th’ table, I’ll cut it fo’ you—an’ there’s th’ salt.”
“I’ll have to go through it pretty quick, I’m meeting a good-lookin’ woman in Memphis.” He pulled a five from his wallet. “Can’t let you give it to me, I cheated.”
“Nossir, I’m givin’ you that melon; it got yo’ name on it.”
“I’d like to pay.”
“No way you gon’ pay.”
He sat down at the picnic table, enthralled.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said to Willie. “Let’s eat it together.”
A few miles up the road, his hat blew off into a cornfield. Maybe he should stop and retrieve it; it was a perfectly good hat. But what was a hat when he’d found Willie after sixty-plus years? What was a hat when his wife and son were waiting? What was a hat when he had a brother whose life was on the line? The small things in his life were getting smaller by the minute.
He thought he heard a siren and glanced in the rearview mirror, then realized the sound was coming from the car.
He’d never been intimate with the inner workings of an automobile. He knew only that he didn’t like the sound, which was like something winding up to fly apart.
He pulled off the road and sat for a moment, then checked his watch. Cynthia was expecting him at nine o’clock, a little more than an hour away.
He was innocent as a babe about what to do; he’d once given up automobiles for Lent, and for eight years had used his two feet, which had worked just fine.
Where was Lew Boyd’s Exxon when he needed it? He had no idea what Lew’s number was in Mitford, and lacked the patience to get it. Sweat stung his eyes. Barnabas looked doleful.
He took out his wallet, found Jim Houck’s card, and punched the digits. Houck was a Ford man, he should know these things.
“What’s it soundin’ like?”
Feeling foolish, he duplicated the sound as best he could.
“Fan belt,” said Jim.
“Or maybe it’s more like this.” He had another embarrassing go at vocalizing the problem.
“Could be your alternator or your water pump. Is your red light on?”
“No red light.”
“What’s th’ temperature gauge read?”
“Let’s see.” He squinted at the dash. “Somewhere between one-eighty and two hundred.”
“That’s normal. Now start your engine. Hold th’ phone to it an’ let me listen.”
He started the engine and popped the hood. Right there was the full extent of his skill with a car.
The sound was earsplitting. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s your fan belt. If it’s your alternator, it’ll run for a little while on th’ juice in your battery. If it’s your water pump, it’ll start throwin’ steam an’ you’re not goin’ anywhere t’ speak of. On th’ other hand, if it’s your fan belt an’ it breaks, th’ amp gauge will drop back an’ th’ temperature will shoot up.”
He got in the car and switched off the engine. “Can I get to Memphis?”
“How important is it to get there?”
“Urgent. Critical. Do or die.”
“You might make it. Keep your eye on th’ gauges—amp an’ temperature. If it looks like trouble, I’m givin’ you th’ number of a dealership this side of Memphis. They’re open Saturday mornin’, they could bring you a belt or haul you in, whatever you need. I’ll give ’em a jingle, say you’ll be callin’ or comin’ in.”
“Thanks, Jim. Thanks.”
“I’d come ride with you, but I got a customer and he’s got cash.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“This guy’s either gon’ roll out of here in a loaded Crown Victoria or I’ll never lay eyes on ’im again. Here’s th’ number of th’ dealership if you need t’ call. They’re on your right about five miles south of town, next to a burger place. An’, Tim, call me and let me know how it’s goin’—I’ll run up there if you need me.”
Dooley was a college student, he’d still be dead to the world after the long haul from Mitford to Memphis. What could Dooley do, anyway? And why alarm Cynthia?
He looked at his dog, started the engine, and, over the clamor, shouted a petition. Given its focus and brevity, the prayer of his double-great-grandmother definitely had merits.
TWENTY-FOUR
He’d come up the road on a wing and a prayer, drenched with sweat and clenching his jaws ’til his molars ached.
Leon, the assistant service manager, gave him a thumbs-up. “All you need is a new fan belt. It’ll take Eddie about forty-five minutes to slap it on, you’ll be good to go.”
“That’s great, Leon. Terrific.” He’d meet Cynthia in front of the hotel and they’d drive straight to the doctor’s office.
Forty-five minutes later, he was paying the bill and marveling. He had no memory of any service to any of his cars ever being accomplished in the time predicted. This was history in the making.
He turned on the a/c and sat in the Mustang looking at a map of Memphis and the route to the hotel. He undid another shirt button and held his hand in front of the vent. Warm air. He’d fiddle with it later.
He was pulling out of the lot when the grinding and squealing began. He drove two blocks, firm in his belief that the noise would stop. It didn’t. He recalled being mildly suspicious of “slapping on” a fan belt.
At a traffic light, the driver in the next car gave him a rude stare. The volume was deafening; his dog escaped from the front seat to the back.
He turned around and drove to the dealership, pulled into the service garage, and stood by his car until someone, anyone, made an appearance.
He called Cynthia’s hotel room and told her to sit tight, then tried the cell phone number written on the back of the doctor’s card and got a series of beeps. He vaguely remembered this as some kind of paging technology, and, feeling awkward, hung up.
> Leon was clearly disappointed to see him.
“There’s a new noise, something I never heard before. It started,” he said with emphasis, “after you installed the fan belt.” He reached in and switched on the ignition to demonstrate, then switched it off out of respect for his dog.
Leon looked mournful. “Eddie’s stepped out for a sausage biscuit.”
“Can’t somebody else take a look?”
“Don’t have anybody else. This is Saturday. We’re open ’til noon as a courtesy to our customers—it’s a new promotion deal we’re tryin’.”
“You’re open as a courtesy to your customers, but there’s nobody here to provide service?”
Leon pondered this.
“When is Eddie coming back?”
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Dependin’ on traffic.”
There was no balm in Gilead. None.
“Any idea what it could be?”
“Sounds to me like th’ clutch on your air compressor.”
“Can you look under the hood?”
“I’m not allowed t’ do diagnostic.”
“Can I drive it?”
“I wouldn’t if I was you.”
“If it’s the compressor, what kind of time will it take to fix it?”
“Can’t say ’til we look at it. It’s an ’84, we’ll have to order the parts. I’d say two, maybe three days minimum to get you rollin’.”
Two or three days minimum. If he was ever going to have a stroke, this would be the time.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “Period.”
“Come back Monday mornin’ first thing, I’ll work you in.”
“You said I shouldn’t drive it.”
“You can leave it, we’ll lock it up for you.”
He studied the metal rafters, choosing his words. “This new promotional deal you’re trying out?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not working.”
He called Dooley’s cell phone, got no answer, and left a message that he needed to be picked up and delivered to the doctor’s office, ASAP. He sat in the Mustang, mopping his face with the tissues from Amy’s travel pack. Thank heaven for Dooley’s crew cab, there would be room for Barnabas. He rang Cynthia’s room. Busy. He left a message
He dialed the doctor’s number.
“Tim Kavanagh?”
“Yes, Doctor, I regret that I’ll be late for our appointment this morning, I’ve had car trouble and I’m waiting for a ride to your office. My sincere apologies, I know how important this is.”
“Don’t think about it. I’ve got some catching up to do; I’ll be here ’til noon. Ring the bell at the door, I’ll give you the buzzer, straight down the hall.”
He hadn’t really looked at the doctor’s card and didn’t remember if Henry had mentioned him by name. He flipped the card over.
Jack R. Sutton, M.D.
Director, Stem Cell Transplant Program
He found Leon. “Where’s Eddie?”
“Called in a minute ago. He’s stuck in traffic.”
“I need a taxi.”
Leon removed his ball cap and scratched his head. “Guess I could give you our courtesy car service, if it’s jus’ one-way.”
“It’s just one-way.”
“Car service is part of our new promotional deal,” said Leon.
He kept his mouth shut, gave his dog water, counted the time.
Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. When the black town car glided up, he and Barnabas clambered in. “Peabody Hotel,” he said to the driver.
He had been perfectly happy sitting on the porch at Whitefield shooting the breeze. And now this piece of insanity, which made a busted compressor look trifling: The doctor who may be siphoning his bone marrow was the guy who once hated his guts for cruising around in a Thunderbird convertible with Peggy Cramer.
Jack Sutton, of all people. It was incredible. More than that, it was comedic. But he wasn’t laughing.
“That’s a dog and a half,” said the driver.
“True.” He heard this comment all the time; why couldn’t people come up with something new, for crying out loud? The air in the car was flash-freezing the sweat on his forehead. Odd that Sutton had called him by name but clearly hadn’t recognized or remembered who he was.
He fiddled with the vent.
“Too warm?” asked the driver. “Too cold?”
“Too cold.” His whole system felt out of order, scrambled.
“I’ll turn the temp up a couple of notches, how’s that?”
He spoke to the rearview mirror, in which he could see the driver’s eyes. “Good. Great.” Blue. Squinty.
He tapped his foot, impatient. Nervous as a cat, his grandmother would have said. He kept forgetting that ardent, unrelenting prayer had brought him out here. He kept forgetting that God was in this.
“Car trouble?”
“First a fan belt, now maybe the clutch on the air compressor.”
“That was your Mustang ragtop?”
“Yes.”
“Sharp little ride.”
“Thanks. My wife bought it for me.”
“What year?”
“Eighty-four.” He suddenly remembered the cooler sitting on the backseat. Two days in a locked car at ninety-five degrees and rising. What next?
The phone rang in his pocket. In the dark interior of the town car, he could read the lighted I.D.
“Hey, buddy.”
“Hey, Dad. Got your message, I’m on my way.”
“Have you left the hotel?”
“In the parking lot.”
“Had to leave the car in the shop, they gave me a car service. I’m headed to the Peabody. I’ll be there in…”
“Twenty minutes,” said the driver.
“Twenty minutes. Cynthia’s line was busy; ask her to meet me out front. Can you give us a lift to the doctor’s office? Barnabas can ride in your crew cab.”
There was awkward pause. “Sure.”
“Thanks, son.”
“See you in twenty.”
“First time in Memphis?” asked the driver.
“First time in thirty-eight years.” He had seen his father’s Memphis lawyer about an issue in his mother’s will before heading back to his parish duties.
“Memphis isn’t the same town I knew as a kid,” said the driver.
“How’s the barbecue these days?”
“I’ll write a couple of names down when we get to the hotel. Still the best, no contest. You been to Graceland?”
“Never.”
“Ought to go.”
“That’s what I hear.”
He thought about Dooley’s hesitation to drive them to the doctor’s office. Maybe he’d had something else to do.
“Nice dog.”
“The best, no contest.” He was talking to the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“We have an old lab, she’s a real sweetheart. She sticks with me an’ th’ cat sticks with my wife. Uppity creature; I never could get the hang of cats.”
“A fellow named Robert Heinlein said, ‘Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.’ Are you a Memphis native?”
“Holly Springs. Right down the road.”
“Small world. Me, too.”
“I’ve been back to Holly Springs a few times. When I was in Vietnam, I didn’t know if I’d ever get back there or anywhere else. Die young an’ make a good-lookin’ corpse was my plan, but God had other plans.”
As the driver braked for a traffic light, he sat forward to see more of the driver’s face in the rearview mirror.
In what felt like slow motion, the driver turned around to look at his passenger. They stared at each other, wordless. The driver raised his right hand, and he raised his.
They pressed their thumbs together twice.
Hooked their little fingers for two beats.
Slapped their palms together two times.
Knocked their r
ight fists together twice.
Spoke the secret word.
TWENTY-FIVE
A very brisk walk, he thought as the doctor came along the hall.
In fact, it looked as if Jack Sutton hadn’t aged at all. Had the clock stood still for Jack Sutton, while racing ahead for Tim Kavanagh? Sutton must have had work done—a lot of work. As for himself, his jowls sagged, his chin bagged; he felt a hundred and two in the shade.
They were greeted with a handshake. “Jack Sutton, Father.”
“My wife, Cynthia.”
“Thank you,” she said, “for taking time from your weekend.”
“Glad to do it. Henry’s one of my favorite patients. What’s with the moon boot?”
“I missed a porch step,” said Cynthia. “Two, actually.”
“Did that myself once. In my case, however, I missed the entire porch, but it’s a long story.”
No way was this the Jack Sutton he’d known, who would be seventy if he was a day.
Holding hands, he and Cynthia followed Sutton along the hall to his office.
“Are you by any chance from Holly Springs?” he asked.
“My dad is from Holly Springs, I was born in Memphis.”
“A junior, then.”
“We have different middle names, actually. Dad’s an Edward, I’m a Randolph.”
Oncology had afforded the young Sutton an impressive view of downtown Memphis.
“I knew your dad,” he said, “we were in high school together. How is he?” Somewhere, the elder Sutton’s jowls were sagging like his own. A comforting thought.
“Not good. Cancer of the prostate.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. He practiced here for more than thirty years. Retired only a few months ago. Please sit down.”
“I remember your dad as the handsomest fellow at Holly High. You’re his spittin’ image, as they say.”
“I take that as a compliment.” The doctor sat in a chair opposite them and gazed at him intently. “So how does it feel to have a brother?”
He hadn’t yet been able to put words to it. “It’s a lot to take in. I…always wanted a brother.”
“I always wanted a sister. Got two brothers instead. Good guys; a nephrologist and an architect. In any case, if you had to have a half brother come at you out of the blue, Henry would definitely get my vote.”