A Light in the Window (32 page)

He had laughed today; he had been happy. He didn’t know why he had not counted more sunny hours in his life, but he hadn’t. God had clearly asked him to, but he was intent on having his own nature, and his own nature could be inward, even melancholy. He didn’t like it, but there it was.

At the end of this day, what he wanted more than anything else was the solace of her letters.

A new one had come this morning, and he carried it to his desk, unopened. He put the letter in the drawer, looking forward to sitting down with it after Dooley was upstairs and the little clamor of their supper together was over.

He reminded himself that he needed to have a key made for the desk drawer where he kept her letters. The worn lock was there, but he hadn’t inherited the key. Even more than not wanting anyone to discover them, he wanted to protect them for their rarity, for their ... he couldn’t find another word ... fragility.

As he turned toward the kitchen, the longing he’d felt all day welled up in him again and he went back to the desk. He would read only one line, just the opening, something to sustain him.

“There’s nothing better for the inside of a boy than the outside of a horse,” said Hal Owen when he called in the evening. “Let him come for the weekend.”

Ah, he’d grown selfish with Dooley. He liked the sound of his tennis shoes on the stairs, the look of astonishment on his face when he ate fried bologna with him for two mornings in a row. He was attached to the bright questions in his eyes, to the occasional breakthrough of a smile or one of those wacky laughs he’d developed with Tommy. He had even made a certain peace with the sound of that blasted jam box thumping above his study.

“He can bring Barnabas,” said Hal, sensing the hesitation.

“A boy shouldn’t be hanging around the house with a doddering old parson,” said the rector.

“Hanging around the house with a parson has saved the day, if you ask me. I’ll pick him up after school and you’ll get him back after church on Sunday. How’s that? I expect you’d like some time to yourself...”

No, he thought, he would not like some time to himself. He’d had time to himself for more than sixty years, which was enough for any man. He felt shocked at this odd revelation.

“Timothy? Are you all right?”

“Absolutely. Just a bit jealous of the chicken pie I hear Marge is baking this weekend.”

“You know you’re invited. It’s a standing invitation, has been for twelve years.”

“Thirteen, my friend. And thank you. But another time. The boy’s backsliding, you know, in the ‘ain’t’ department. I was after him with a stick for a while but slacked off. Marge will send him home talking like a Rhodes scholar.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything from his mother?”

“Nothing. And Russell is just recovering from the relapse after his fall in the snow.”

“What are you going to do about all that?”

“I don’t know. I can’t seem to come up with a plan that works for anybody, much less everybody. If Russell goes home, Dooley would have to go with him.”

“Have to?”

“Hoppy says Russell would need someone to monitor him. If Betty hadn’t been around, he could have lain in the snow ’til the buzzards started circling.”

“Could you hire somebody to do the monitoring?”

“Who would live in that unheated shack in the middle of a junkyard?”

“True.”

“Another thing. If Russell goes out, Miss Pattie goes in. Betty Craig would be done for. She’s begged me to protect her from Miss Pattie.”

“What about the gardens? Anybody to pitch in there?”

“Not a soul that I can think of. Fortunately, Russell’s done such a grand job over the years they won’t be that difficult to maintain. But they must be maintained.” He heard himself sigh.

“I expect it’s costing somebody to keep him at Betty’s.”

“About four hundred a month, in addition to his social security.” In his opinion, the four hundred covered a lot more than health care for Russell Jacks. Indeed, it was a small price to pay for Betty Craig’s sanity, his own peace of mind, and, last but not least, the boy’s freedom to keep his mind on his education.

“Considering the circumstances,” said the senior warden, who usually got the gist of things, “it sounds like a bargain to me.”

The thought came to him as he stopped by the rectory to change jackets for the flag-raising program.

Fun—that thing he was always thinking of having, or feebly attempting to have, or trying awkwardly to figure out how to have— well, that’s what he would have this weekend. He would lighten up and have some fun—he would do something different, something new.

He ran over the list of possibilities. He would, of course, call Cynthia, and he would call whenever the notion struck, whether the rates were down or not. He would go see Homeless who, for all he knew, still hadn’t thawed out from the blizzard. He would ...

He gazed unseeing into the mirror over his chest of drawers, straightening his tie.

“Call Cynthia and visit Homeless” was absolutely as far as he could get with this list. Wasn’t there something else he could do, something more innovative, like other people? Didn’t people always look forward to the weekend, to eating out or watching a ball game? Well, and there was no place to eat out other than the Grill, except for Mack Stroupe’s hot-dog stand next to the Esso station. He was sure it was his imagination, but Mack’s hot dogs always tasted like motor oil.

As for watching a ball game, he had never, not even once, been able to follow a game to the end. His mind would wander, he would fall asleep, or he would get up and leave the room, forgetting to come back until after the game was over.

The truth was, he didn’t know a blasted thing about having fun. Cynthia, on the other hand, not only seemed to have it, she was very good at making it. In actual fact, they hadn’t done much that one could describe as fun, yet they always seemed to have it. With Cynthia, it just naturally happened.

He pulled on his jacket, smiling. Friday afternoon and all day Saturday. That would be his allotment for fun. He would see if he could pull it off. He would call Cynthia tonight and ask her to suggest something.

Not a word had Dooley let slip, not even a hint. And though he’d seen Miss Pearson in front of the bakery the other afternoon, she, too, had kept the secret that Dooley Barlowe was going to sing a solo with the full force of the Mitford School Mixed Chorus behind him.

No wonder the boy had been jumpy as a cat, he realized later. When he wasn’t wandering in a daze, he was cussing Barnabas under his breath.

“I heard that,” the rector said at breakfast the morning of the flag-raising.

“Heard’at ol’ dog fart is all I heard.”

“Dooley ...”

“All I said was ...”

“Dooley ...”

The boy looked at him defiantly. “What are you goin’ t’ do about it?”

“Same as last time.”

Washing someone’s mouth out with soap was not a remedy he liked, but it had worked for him when he was a kid. He was sure there were newer techniques, all much smarter and written up in books with deep psychological insights. As for him, he had not asked for this job and was not interested in learning what today’s cutting-edge punishment for cussing, if any, might be.

He would, however, make one modern concession.

He let Dooley wash his mouth out himself, as he stood at the bathroom door, recalling the penalty his mother extracted for his own abominable language.

“That ain’t so bad,” Dooley said, wiping his mouth and looking him squarely in the eye. “It’s a whole lot better’n ’at ol’ soap in th’ kitchen.”

Good fellow, he wanted to say, but didn’t.

It was what came out of the boy’s mouth as the flag was being raised that caused him to catch his breath with unbidden joy. Dooley was doing this? His own Dooley? Why hadn’t he thought to invite Puny and Miss Sadie, Percy and Velma, Hal and Marge and Rebecca Jane, Emma—the whole lot? But, of course, he hadn’t known about the solo.

He was dashed if he could swallow without choking.

Miss Pearson would need someone to hold her feet on the ground, he could see, or she would float up and over the schoolhouse in a kind of rapture.

They met on the sidewalk after the program, as he and Dooley were leaving for home.

“Good heavens, Miss Pearson!” was all he could find to say.

“Father!” she exclaimed, which was all she could find to say.

There were tears in their eyes as he shook her hand again and again, unable, somehow, to let go.

Jenny passed, carrying her book bag. “You were really great,” she murmured softly.

“Mush,” said Dooley, bouncing his basketball.

“I can’t tell you how terrific that was. It was a glorious thing, hearing God’s gift pour out of you like that. And the way your chorus backed you up—strong stuff! I’m proud of you.”