A Common Life (7 page)

Stuart smiled.

“If you’re all that God wishes you to be in marriage, you will be one flesh. The money must belong to you equally, Timothy. In your heart you must be able to accept it, not as money you’ve worked for and earned, but as money God means you to have in stewardship with your wife.”

Cynthia leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Tears sprang instantly to his eyes and escaped to the sides of his nose before he could press them with a handkerchief.

“I think,” he said, “that I’m overwhelmed on every side. I still can’t think why God should give me this tremendous blessing—a gracious and loving soul who comprehends the depths of my own soul completely—and then to add financial resources beyond my wildest dreams . . .

“In truth, money means very little to me. I’ve lived simply all my life, and can’t imagine doing otherwise.”

“You’ve been exceedingly generous to others,” said Stuart. “For example, you’ve poured your personal revenues into the Children’s Hospital for years. Now, Timothy, you must allow someone to be generous with you, if she so chooses.”

“I so choose!” Cynthia patted the rector’s arm.

Relieved, they all had a sip of water from glasses waiting on a tray.

“Another crucial issue,” said Stuart, “is in-laws.”

“We won’t have any!” exclaimed Cynthia.

Stuart smiled paternally. “In truth, you will.”

“We will?”

“According to the Lord’s Chapel membership register, there are one hundred and eighty-three of them, which roughly translates to a mere hundred and twenty-five
active
in-laws.”

His fiancée appeared vexed, to say the least. “Yes, and there are some who can’t bear the sight of me anymore. Everything was just fine until—”

“Until they learned you were getting married,” said Stuart. “Then the jealousy flooded in. They were there first—they got his undivided attention for years—now it must be divided.”

“Ugh,” she said.

“What I hope you’ll be able to live with is that his attention to you will also be divided. Like them, you’ll have to share your priest. Unlike them, you must also share your beloved, your sweetheart.” Stuart looked fondly at Cynthia. “If anyone can do this, you’re the one.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Pray for me.”

“Martha and I have prayed for you since the day Timothy brought you to lunch. We both thought you possessed the most extraordinary light, it reflected upon our friend like a beacon. We thank you for that.”

The rector noted with a pang of tenderness that his fiancée blushed deeply, something he rarely witnessed.

“I’ve always felt it takes especially noble character to be a clergy spouse,” said Stuart. “In any case, you and they will soon grow accustomed to sharing him; it’s all a process—a matter of time and patience and love. I know you’re willing.”

“Yes!” she said. “Oh, yes!”

The bishop folded his hands across his lean midsection and gazed at his visitors.

Here it comes, thought the rector.

“Do you pray together?” asked Stuart.

“Yes!” they said in unison.

“Every evening,” volunteered Father Tim.

“Excellent! I’m reminded of what our friend Oswald Chambers said, that prayer doesn’t fit us for the greater work, prayer is the greater work. Praying together affirms you as one flesh, and, among the endless benefits it bestows, it can greatly enhance your sexual communication.”

A patch of light danced upon the worn Persian carpet, reflecting the branches of a dogwood tree outside the window.

“The highest form of prayer is one in which we don’t beg for ourselves,” said Stuart, “but seek to know what we can do for God. This delights God immensely! As you seek to know what you can do for the other, you will surely receive your own inexpressible delight.”

The rector took Cynthia’s hand.

“To put it simply, making love confirms your spiritual relationship, and your spiritual relationship will deepen your lovemaking. It all moves in a wondrous circle.”

The rector and his neighbor drew a deep breath at precisely the same moment and looked at each other, laughing.

“Now!” said Stuart.

“Now, what?” asked Father Tim.

“Conflict resolution.”

“Do we have to?” asked Cynthia.

“Have you had any conflicts?”

The two looked at each other. “His car,” she said.

“What about my car?” queried the rector.

“Don’t you remember? I said it was a gas guzzler, has rust, and the seat covers look like Puny’s dishrags.”

“And I said I’m perfectly satisfied with it.” There! The bishop wanted conflict, he got conflict. The rector felt his collar suddenly tighten.

“And so,” Cynthia told Stuart, “when we drive on the Parkway or visit our bishop, we take my car.”

“How do you feel about that?”

She wrinkled her nose. She stared briefly at the ceiling. She smiled. “I can live with it.”

Stuart chuckled. He had his own opinion of his priest’s car, but far be it from him to comment. “It’s terrific that you’re willing to name the conflict, my dear. This equips us to attack the problem instead of attacking the other person.”

Stuart sat back in his chair. “So, Timothy, how do you feel about driving her car instead of yours?”

“Good!” he said, meaning it. “I can live with it.” He pressed Cynthia’s hand and turned to look at her. She appeared to sparkle in some lovely way he’d never seen before. After his brief moment of righteous indignation, he was custard again.

On the way home in her Mazda, he noticed that she looked at him fondly more than once.

“Sweetie pie,” she murmured, patting his knee.

Sweetie pie!
As a kid, he was called Slick; Katherine called him Teds; one and all called him Father. He liked this new appellation best of all. Maybe one day—
maybe
—he’d look into trading his Buick for a new model. But certainly nothing
brand
-new, no; no, indeed.

H
e drove to the Wesley mall and looked in the jewelry store display cases.

His heart sank like a stone. There was absolutely nothing that measured up to the fire and sparkle, the snap and dazzle of his neighbor.

He would have a ring made, then, fashioned exclusively for Cynthia Coppersmith Kavanagh. He saw their initials somehow entwined inside the band—
ccktak
. But of course he had no earthly idea who to call or where to turn. When someone left a Ross-Simon catalog on the table at the post office, he snatched it up and carried it outside to his car, where he pored over the thing until consciousness returned and he realized he’d sat there with the motor running for a full half hour, steaming in his raincoat like a clam in its shell.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking at her bare ring finger. “If I’d done things right, I would have given you a ring when I proposed.”

“I don’t really want an engagement ring, dearest. Just a simple gold band would be perfect.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes!” she said. “I love simple gold bands.”

The image of his mother’s wedding band came instantly to mind. It was in his closet, in a box on the shelf, tied by a slender ribbon. He would take it to the store and have it cleaned and engraved and present it at the altar with unspeakable joy and thanksgiving.

He felt he was at last beginning to get things right.

Uncle Billy Watson brushed the leaves and twigs from last night’s storm off the seat of a rusting dinette chair and sat down in the backyard of the Porter house, a.k.a. Mitford’s town museum.

He gazed dolefully into the sea of towering grass that extended to the rear of the house and then beyond his view. The town crew was supposed to mow the grass once every twelve days; by his count, it was fourteen going on fifteen, and a man could get lost out here and not be heard from again; it was a disgrace the way the town put every kind of diddledaddle ahead of mowing something as proud and fine as their own museum. If he could do it himself, he would, but his arthritis hardly allowed him to get up and down the steps, much less scour a full acre and a quarter with a rusted push mower. He hoped that when he got to Heaven, the Lord would outfit him with a new body and give him a job that
required
something of a man.

But he hadn’t come out here to get his dander up. He’d come out to noodle his noggin about a joke to tell at the preacher’s wedding, back in that room where they’d all eat cake and ham after the ceremony. Though nobody had said a word about it, the old man knew the preacher would be expecting a joke, he’d be counting on it, and it was his responsibility, his civic duty to tell the best joke he could come up with.

He would never say this to a soul, but it seemed like the preacher getting married so late in life was sort of a joke in itself. It would be a different thing if the father had been married before and had some practice, but as far as anybody knew, he hadn’t had any practice.

But who was he to judge other people’s setups? Half the town thought he was crazy as a bedbug for living with Rose Watson; even his uncle—who’d come to see them years ago when Rose was still as pretty as a speckled pup—his uncle had said, “They ain’t no way I’m understandin’ how you put up with this mess.”

Her illness seemed to start right after they married, though he’d witnessed, and ignored, warning signs from the day they met. For years, he’d told himself that it was something he’d done wrong, that he hadn’t cherished her like the vows said, and maybe God was punishing them both for his ignorance and neglect. Then the doctors found out about the disease he couldn’t spell and could barely pronounce, schizophrenia.

On the worst days, he squeezed his eyes shut and remembered the girl he’d seen in the yard of this very house, more than—what was it?—forty-five, maybe fifty years ago. She was barefooted and had her hair tied back with a ribbon. Ragged and dirty from working in the fields since daylight, he’d come up from the valley with a wagonload of tomatoes and roasting ears, carrying a sack of biscuits and fried side meat for his dinner. He’d gone around the village looking for a spot to park his wagon and sell his produce, and saw her standing in her yard. At first he thought she was a statue. Then she moved and the light fell on her in a certain way and he called out, “Would you let a man park his wagon on your road?” And she’d walked out to him and smiled at him and nodded. “Get on down,” she said. He’d always remember her first words to him:
Get on down
. He was ashamed that he wasn’t wearing shoes, but then he saw that she wasn’t, either. She had hung around, looking at him in a way that made him feel uneasy, then happy, and he’d shared his biscuits and side meat with her and she’d gone in the house and brought out a Mason jar of tea so cold and sweet it hurt his teeth. Between times when customers came and went, she talked about herself more than a little. Her beloved brother, Willard, was dead in the war, buried across the ocean in France, and she was looked after by a woman who paid no attention to her. By early afternoon, he’d sold everything but two tomatoes, which he gave to Rose, who said she’d allow him to park his wagon there next week.