A Light in the Window (75 page)

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Authors: Jan Karon

BOOK: A Light in the Window
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There was Cynthia—trying to pin the errant peony on Miss Rose’s bomber jacket. He liked spotting her in the crowd, seeing the blond of her hair and the apple green of her dress. She was wearing tennis shoes, as high heels would only have sunk in the lawn, and looking very much like a girl.
He saw Dooley and Jenny peering at the llamas. Lovely, he thought. And there by Andrew’s garden bench was Roberto. Both men gestured happily—speaking Italian, no doubt.
“Father! You’re positively radiant!” It was Miss Pearson, Dooley’s music teacher, hand in hand with her mother.
Radiance, he was soon to learn, can be exceedingly short-lived.
“I’ve had about all the fun I can stand, ain’t you?” said Uncle Billy.
“One more event,” he said, wishing he could rent a hammock and lie down in it.
“I ain’t even heard th’ jukebox.”
“Me, either.”
Uncle Billy sighed. “They hooked it up in th’ front room. I sure hope it don’t cut on in th’ middle of th’ night and go t’ playin’.”
He happened to look toward the alley behind the Porter place and saw a red truck slowly driving through. Buck Leeper peered out the window at the throng on the lawn, at their laughter and air of anticipation.
He waved. “Buck!”
Buck threw up his hand and nodded and was gone.
“Dadgum if he didn’t wave back,” said Mule, who was passing by with lemonade for Fancy. “What’s got into him?”
The rector believed it was what had gotten out of him.
Esther was back on the porch steps. If she didn’t have laryngitis from the long day’s events, it would be a miracle.
“How many of you have ever seen anybody push a peanut down the street with their nose?”
Heads turned. People shrugged. Clearly, no one had ever seen such a thing. Some didn’t want to. A few didn’t care one way or the other.
“I’ve seen a sack race!” yelled one of Dooley’s classmates.
“That’s not the same,” snorted the mayor. “This is a hundred times better. That’s why we’re going to start the bidding high.”
The crowd groaned. Some people walked away. Two senior citizens went to sleep sitting up in folding chairs near the lilac bushes.
“To see our brand-new Baptist preacher push a peanut from th’ bookstore to th’ bakery ... the bidding will start at five hundred dollars!”
“Not again!” shouted an irate observer.
“That’s a dadgum car payment!”
“Lord have mercy, what do you
drive?
A total stranger stepped forward. As everyone could plainly see, it was a tourist. He was wearing sunglasses, a navy blazer over khakis, and no socks with his loafers.
“I would not give five hundred dollars to see only one member of your local clergy fulfill this unique fund-raising proposition ...”
Several people looked at each other. Not only was this person a tourist, he was a Yankee.
“However, I would most gladly put five hundred into your town coffers to see all your clergy do it—as a team.”
“You better jump on that,” Linder whispered to the mayor.
The rector could feel Esther, who had eyes like a hawk, boring a hole in him all the way to where he stood with Uncle Billy.
The mayor took a deep breath and bellowed. “Do I hear five hundred to see Reverend Sprouse push the peanut?”
Heads wagged furiously in the negative.
“It’s fish or cut bait,” hissed Ray.
“Where’s th’ father?” said Esther, knowing perfectly well where he was. He might have dived under a chair.
“Right here!” hollered Mule.
“Where’s Pastor Trollinger from th’ Methodists?”
“Over here!” cried the pastor’s wife, who couldn’t wait to see her husband push a peanut with his nose.
Esther’s eyes searched the throng. “That leaves Doctor Browning from over at th’ Presbyterians.”
“He’s not here,” said the band leader. “He’s doin’ a funeral today.”
“Where at?” asked Ray.
“Ash Grove.”
“Ernestine,” said the mayor, “run over there—it’s just two miles—and tell ’im to come right after he throws th’ dirt in.”
“Right,” said Ray. “Five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks.”
He dragged home at four o’clock, weary of the world.
Dooley and Cynthia trooped down Main Street behind him, laughing like hyenas all the way to the rectory.
“Now, that,” declared Cynthia, “was the spirit of ecumenism in a nutshell.”
He refused even to crack a smile, though Cynthia, of course, found her odious pun hysterical.
Dooley closed his English book. “I’m not goin’ to that school,” he said.
“Really?” He wouldn’t have uttered another word if his life depended on it. He wasn’t fighting battles tonight; he was sitting on his sofa reading his newspaper.
Total silence reigned for some time.
“That ol’ brain in that jar—whose do you reckon it is?”
“No idea.”
“Th’ head guy said they go to Washington on bus trips and all.”
“Aha.”
“He was cool.”
“Umm.”
“That groom person said I could ride ’is horse all I wanted to, if I’d help take care of it.”
“Sounds like work.”
“I wonder what th’ football uniforms look like.”
“Beats me.”
“I like th’ school colors.”
“Black and gray.”
“You got it wrong. Purple and orange.”
“Oh.”
“We could paint my room and then put posters up. Cynthia has a purple bedspread she’ll give me.”
Why was he always knocking himself out to convince the boy of something? From now on, maybe he’d keep his mouth shut and let Dooley convince himself.
When the box of monogrammed stationery rolled in from Walter, he realized the worst:
Tomorrow was his birthday.
He had just had a birthday—it seemed only weeks ago. And how old was he, anyway? He could never remember. He had once added a year to his age by mistake, which appalled his friends. Take a couple off, maybe, but
add?
He did some quick figuring on a piece of paper.
Sixty-two.
Rats.
But what was there to worry about, after all?
At the age of eighty-nine, Arthur Rubinstein had given one of his most enthralling recitals, in Carnegie Hall.
At eighty-two, Chruchill wrote
A History of the English-Speaking People
—in four volumes, no less.
And hadn’t Eamon de Valera served as president of Ireland when he was ninety-one? Not to mention Grandma Moses, who was still painting—and getting paid for it—at the age of one hundred.
He stood up from the desk and sucked in his stomach.
“Happy birthday, Father! Ron and I have to go out of town this afternoon, and we didn’t want to leave without wishing you the best year ever!”
After Wilma called, so did Evie, who had carefully rehearsed Miss Pattie to say the thing herself. He heard Evie whispering in the background, “Say it, Mama!” “What was it I was supposed to say?” “Happy birthday!” There was a pause, and Miss Pattie spoke into the phone, “I hope you win the lottery!”
He roared with laughter.
Evie grabbed the phone. “She wouldn’t say it! I declare, I worked and worked with her ...”
“Evie,” he implored, “don’t be disappointed. I loved what Miss Pattie said. It was very original—head and shoulders above the usual greeting.”
“Well ...” He heard the smile creep into her voice.
He didn’t think he would ever again have those yearnings to be a milk-truck driver. If he couldn’t say another thing about himself, he could say he loved his work.

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