A New Song (15 page)

“My wife and I just moved here.”

“Well, now!” The man extended a large hand across the counter. “Ernie Fulcher. I run this joint.”

“Tim Kavanagh.”

“What business’re you in?”

“New priest at St. John’s.”

“I never set eyes on th’ old one,” said Ernie. “I think Roanoke ran into ’im a time or two.”

Roanoke nodded, unsmiling. He thought Roanoke’s weathered, wrinkled face resembled an apple that had lain too long in the sun.

“Well, thanks. See you again.”

“Right. Stop in anytime. You fish?”

“Not much.”

“Need any shrimp, finger mullet, squid, bloodworms, chum . . . let me know.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Plus we’re th’ UPS station for th’ whole island, not to mention we rent crutches—”

“Good, good.”

“And loan out jigsaws, no charge.”

“I’d like to look at your books sometime.”

Ernie jerked his thumb toward a room with a handprinted sign over the open door:
Books, Books and More Books.
“I got a deal on right now—buy five, get one free.”

“Aha.”

“Can’t beat that.”

“Probably not. Well, see you around.”

He was unhooking the leash from the bench leg as two men walked out of Mona’s, smelling of fried fish.

“What kind of dog is that?” one asked, popping a toothpick in his mouth.

“Big,”
said his friend.

 

He loved it at once.

St. John’s in the Grove sat on a hummock in a bosk of live oaks that cast a cool, impenetrable shade over the churchyard and dappled the green front doors.

The original St. John’s had been destroyed by fire during the Revolutionary War, and rebuilt in the late nineteenth century in Carpenter Gothic style. Sam Fieldwalker said the Love family purchased the contiguous property in the forties and gave it to St. John’s, so the small building sat on a tract of thirty-five acres of virgin maritime forest, bordered on the cemetery side by the Atlantic.

Father Tim stood at the foot of the steps inhaling the new smells of his new church, set like a gem into the heart of his new parish. St. John’s winsome charm and grace made him feel right at home, expectant as a child.

He crossed himself and prayed, aloud, spontaneous in his thanksgiving.

“Thank You, Lord! What a blessing . . . and what a challenge. Give me patience, Father, for all that lies ahead, and especially I ask for Your healing grace in the body of St. John’s.”

He walked up the steps and inserted the key into the lock. It turned smoothly, which was a credit to the junior warden. Then he put his hand on the knob and opened the door.

Though heavy, it swung open easily. He liked a well-oiled church door—no creaking and groaning for him, thank you.

The fragrance of St. John’s spoke to him at once. Old wood and lemon oil . . . the living breath of last Sunday’s flowers still sitting on the altar . . . years of incense and beeswax. . . .

To his right, a flight of narrow, uncovered stairs to the choir loft and organ. To his left, an open registry on a stand with a ballpoint pen attached by a string. He turned to the first entry in the thick book, its pages rustling like dry leaves.
Myra and Lewis Phillips, Bluefield, Kentucky, July 20, 1975 . . . we love your little church!!

He looked above the stand to the framed sign, patiently hand-lettered and illumined with fading watercolors.

 

Oh, the balm, he thought, of a cool, quiet church full of years.

He walked into the center aisle, which revealed bare heart-of-pine floorboards. They were more than a handbreadth wide, and creaked pleasantly under his tread. Creaking doors, no, he thought, but floorboards are another matter. He’d never lived in a house in which at least two or three floorboards didn’t give forth a companionable creak.

On either side of the broad aisle, eight long oak pews seating . . . three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and four short pews seating four. Here and there, a cushion lay crumpled in a pew, reserving that site as someone’s rightful, possibly long-term, territory.

His eye followed the aisle to the sanctuary, where a cross made of ship’s timbers hung beneath an impressive stained glass.

In the dimly illumined glass, the figure of Christ stood alone with His hands outstretched to whoever might walk this aisle. Behind Him, a cerulean sea. Above, an azure sky and a white gull. The simplicity and earnestness of the image took his breath away.

“ ‘Come unto me . . .’ ” he read aloud from the familiar Scripture etched on the window in Old English script, “ ‘all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ ”

These were his first spoken words in his new church, words that Paul Tillich had chosen from all of Scripture to best express his personal understanding of his faith.

Suddenly feeling the weariness under the joy, he slipped into a pew on the gospel side and sank to his knees, giving thanks.

 

Barnabas strained ahead, his nose to the ground; St. John’s new priest-in-charge allowed himself to be pulled hither and yon, as free as a leaf caught in a breeze.

They walked around the church and out to the cemetery, where he pondered the headstones and gazed beyond the copse of yaupon to yet another distant patch of blue. He cupped his hand to his ear and listened, hoping to hear the sweetly distant roar, but heard only a gull instead.

Shading his eyes, he turned and searched toward the Sound, across the open breast of the hummock and into the trees, wondering whether the wild ponies were mythic or actually out there. He hoped they were out there.

Before he and Barnabas headed home, he stood for a moment by the grave site of the Redmon Love family, which was guarded by an iron fence and a tall, elaborately formed angel clothed in lichen. Redmon, his wife, Mary, and a son, Nathan, were the only occupants.

Next to the Love plot was a grave headed by a simple, engraved tablet, which he stopped to read.

 

He took a deep breath and stroked the head of his good dog who sat contentedly at his feet.

All will be well and very well, he thought. He felt it surely.

 

He couldn’t help but chuckle. If that was the worst squabbling he’d face as interim, he’d be a happy man.

His wife could be heard puttering about in bare feet, humming snatches of tunes, and boiling water to make iced tea. He sat back in his chair and sighed, deciding that he liked this room very much.

Two club chairs, slipcovered in striped duckcloth, flanked a painted green table topped by a reading lamp.

An old parson’s table stood against the facing wall, beneath framed watercolors of a country lane, a lake bordered by trees in autumn foliage, ducks on a pond, a small blue and red boat on the open sea, and an elderly man and woman at prayer over an evening meal. An oddly pleasing combination, he thought, nodding approval.

Their books would arrive on Monday, and he would go foraging for bricks and lumber straightaway. By Tuesday evening, if all went well, they would have bookcases in their sitting room, along the now-barren end wall.

The only doubt he entertained about the room was a print of the Roman Colosseum, which had faded, overall, to pale green.

He felt the weariness of recent days in his very bones. Thanks be to God, he wouldn’t be preaching in the morning; however, on the following Sunday, it would be fish or cut bait.

He eyed the other letter, propped against the base of the lamp.

 

“Here’s what you do,” said Otis Bragg, waving his fork as he spoke. “If a hurricane’s gonna hit, everybody shows up at th’ church basement. Built like a oil tanker down there. Everybody in th’ parish knows about it, we even got a little stash of canned goods and coffee.”

“Thinking ahead,” said Father Tim.

“We don’t have coffee down there anymore,” said Marjorie Lamb. “We ran out for the bishop’s brunch last spring and had to use it.”

Otis grinned. “Have t’ bring your own, then.” Otis Bragg was short, thickset, and balding, with a fondness for Cuban cigars. Father Tim noticed he didn’t light the cigars, he chewed them.

They were sitting at picnic tables in the Braggs’ backyard, behind a rambling house that looked more like a resort hotel than a residence. The water in the kidney-shaped pool danced and glinted in the sunlight.

Cynthia furrowed her brow. “Has a hurricane ever hit Whitecap?”

“You better believe it,” said Otis. “
Whop,
got one in ’72,
blam,
got a big ’un in ’84.”

“How bad?” she asked.

“Bad. Dumped my gravel trucks upside down, tore the roof off of my storage buildin’s.”

Leonard Lamb looked thoughtful. “I believe it was Hurricane Herman that took your roof off, but it was Darlene that set Sam Fieldwalker’s RV in his neighbor’s yard and creamed half the village.”

“Nobody on Whitecap’s had any kids named Herman or Darlene in a real long time,” said Otis. “By th’ way, I hear th’ Love cottage over by where you’re stayin’ has a good basement; same thing at Redmon Love’s old place. Hard to dig a good basement around here, but that part of the island’s on a ridge just like St. John’s. You have t’ have a ridge to dig a basement.”

Father Tim peered at his wife and knew it was definitely time to change the subject. “Do we get home mail delivery, by any chance?”

Otis helped his plate to more coleslaw and another slab of fresh barbecue. “You mountain people have it soft, Father, we have t’ haul to th’ post office over by QuikPik.” Otis dumped hot sauce on the barbecue. “Th’ mail usually comes in about two o’clock, just watch for th’ sign they stick in th’ window, says ‘Mail In.’ Course, if th’ bridge is out, th’ ferry runs it over.”

“Is the bridge fixed yet?”

“Prob’ly, don’t usually take long. It’s one thing or another ’til a man could puke, either the rain causes a short, or the roadbed and bridge expand in th’ heat, or the relay switch goes out. I remember th’ good old days when my business didn’t depend on anybody’s bridge, we made our livin’ right here.”