A New Song (29 page)

He sat at his desk for some time, occasionally nodding his head, speaking half sentences aloud and, in general, feeling befuddled.

 

Harley Welch sounded down and out.

“M’bunk mate’s gone, and Lace has went off to school.” He sighed deeply. “Hit’s a graveyard around here.”

“I believe it.”

“Seem like I wadn’t hardly ready f’r ’em to go off.”

“We never are.”

“You know, some of th’ stuff Lace taught me, it’s stickin’! I set here last night and wrote five pages of things that was goin’ around in m’ noggin.”

“Great! Terrific! I’m proud of you!”

“I got to thinkin’ about them great falls of th’ Missouri, five of ’em, and how ol’ Lewis an’ Clark must’ve felt when they seen such a sight as that.”

“Lace is a grand teacher. You’re a genuine help and consolation to each other.”

But Harley didn’t sound consoled. “Both of ’em gone, an’ not a soul t’ set down an’ eat a bite with, hit’s jis’ mope aroun’ an’ listen t’ y’r head roar. . . .”

“Anytime you feel lonesome, walk up to the Grill, order the special, talk to people. It’ll do you good.” Heaven knows, that had saved his own sanity a time or two.

“I’m tearin’ th’ engine out of th’ mayor’s RV in th’ mornin’, I ain’t got time t’ lollygag.”

“Puny says you haven’t seen anybody around the house, nothing suspicious. . . .”

“Nossir. Course that door bein’ unlocked an’ all, an’ that gang workin’ on th’ street . . .”

“Seems like they’d have taken something else, though. Well, listen, Harley, you hang in there. We’ll be home in October. I’m going to hold you to that pan of brownies.”

Harley cackled, sounding like himself again. “I practice on them brownies once ever’ week, I’m about t’ git it right.”

 

They sat on the porch in the gathering twilight, and watched Jonathan play with a sand bucket and shovel in their end-of-summer garden. The Louis L’Amour paperback lay on the table beside him; Barnabas sprawled at their feet.

His wife knew absolutely nothing about the angel and was as dumbfounded as he. It was bizarre, it was unreal, it was—

“I’ll get it,” Cynthia said, when the phone rang.

She dashed inside and came back with the cordless.

“Those eggs you gave us last week are wonderful, the yolks are a lovely shade of yellow!”

Covering the mouthpiece, she whispered, “Penny Duncan.”

“Oh, really?” She listened intently. “That’s wonderful! How good of you, Penny, how thoughtful.”

She gazed into the yard at Jonathan. “Oh, he’s a handful, all right, but no, thank you so much, we love having him, we’re all quite happy together. Yes, I’m sure, but thank you again, you’re very dear, Penny. Really? I’d love it if you’d help at the tea. Could you possibly make an ice mold? What a good idea, yes, fresh peppermint would be perfect. Well, then—love to Marshall. See you in church!”

She laid the phone on the arm of the rocker and smiled at him.

“You had an offer for help with Jonathan and turned it down?”

“She has ten days of vacation and offered to keep him, but . . .” She shrugged.

“But what?”

“But I declined.”

“Why?” he asked.

She shrugged again. “Because.”

 

“You won’t believe this,” said Dooley, calling from the hall phone in his dorm.

“Try me.”

“Guess what girl’s school our first dance is with.”

“Mrs. Hemingway’s.” Who else?

“Can you believe it?”

He thought he discerned a kind of . . . what? Expectation, perhaps, under Dooley’s evident disgust.

“I hope you’ll ask Lace to dance.”

“Not if she’s wearing those weird shoes an’ all.”

“Come on, what do shoes have to do with anything?”

“Plenty,” said Dooley, with feeling.

He had pulled whatever strings a clergyman can call to hand, and the court date would fall the day after Buck’s and Pauline’s wedding, after which Harley would drive Dooley back to school. He gave Dooley the scoop.

“Great! Cool.” The boy sounded relieved.

No, Dooley hadn’t been in the yellow house, he didn’t know anything about the angel, and had never once seen anybody go in or out except Puny.

“Give me a report on the dance,” he said.

 

“May I read you something?”

“I like it when you read,” Janette whispered. She sat with him in the cramped space of her semiprivate room, looking toward the wall.

 

Earlier in the visit, he’d been encouraged to see light returning to her eyes, though it was a light that sparked, then waned, like a weak flame in damp wood. Now she turned her head and looked at him and he searched for the flame, but it wasn’t there.

“Someone named Chung-Ming Kao wrote this,” he said. “From prison.”

She closed her eyes, and he felt the despair of his own helplessness. In truth, he had no solutions to offer Janette Tolson, not even a burning homily.

In the end, all he had to offer was hope.

 

“Father—Buck Leeper.”

“Buck!” He rejoiced to hear Buck’s rough baritone voice. As badly as the superintendent of the Hope House project had once treated him, he now remembered only that night in the rectory, the night Buck had knocked on his door, saying, “I’m ready to do whatever it takes.”

What it took, in Buck’s case, was a broken spirit and a willing heart. That Christmas Eve night, Buck Leeper prayed a simple prayer and asked Christ to be his Savior and Lord.

They had stood there by the fire, their arms around one another—two old boys from Mississippi, bawling like babies.

He sat forward in his office chair, doubly excited, given that he’d never had a phone call from Alaska.

“How are you, buddy?”

“Scared,” said Buck.

“I know. I’ve been there.”

“Yeah, but when you tied th’ knot, it was your first time. I’ve been there three times and messed up.”

Buck’s three marriages had all ended tragically. His first wife had died of an undiagnosed blood disease, his second wife had committed suicide, and, twelve years ago, his third wife left with his foreman and sued for divorce.

“In those three marriages, you didn’t know Him, you didn’t have a clue who He really is. St. Paul says that when we give our lives to Christ, we become new creatures. ‘If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.’”

There was a grateful silence at the other end.

“I’m praying for you and Pauline and the children. You’ll need His grace on this side of the cross as much as you needed it on the other. Pray for His grace, Buck, to carry you and Pauline from strength to strength as you build this new life together.”

He listened to static on the line as his friend in Alaska struggled to speak.

“Thanks,” said Buck, standing in a phone booth in Juneau, and feeling that a D-8 Cat had just rolled off his chest.

 

Hoppy Harper called the church office to say that Louella’s break was bad, though nothing like Miss Sadie’s had been. Louella would be down for the count for a while, but the prognosis looked good.

Gene Bolick’s medication was helping, he’d counted the stairs to bed only twice in five nights, and Esther seemed more like her old self. She had, in fact, brought an orange marmalade cake to Hoppy’s office.

Hoppy went on to say that a new priest had been called to Lord’s Chapel. The interim would finish up the end of October, and the new man, Father Talbot, would be installed on All Saints’ Day. Both agreed the call had come pretty quickly; some parishes took up to two years to replace a priest.

He hoofed along the lane toward the Baptist church and the big meeting with the Fall Fair committee.

Thank God things were on the mend in Mitford. He had fish to fry in Whitecap—not the least of which was getting his act together for his wedding anniversary, only three days ahead.

 

“Father, it’s . . . Pauline Barlowe.”

“Pauline!”

“I’ve found something.”

He understood at once; she had found some clue, some trail to Kenny and Sammy. He literally held his breath.

“I was gettin’ ready to throw out an old pocketbook I hadn’t carried in years, and for some reason I looked through it real good, and in th’ linin’ . . .”

“Yes?”

“In th’ linin’ I found this little piece of paper, it said . . . Ed Sikes.”

“Ed Sikes?”

“Yes. I must have written it down after I gave Kenny . . .” She hesitated, unable to speak the thought. “Th’ man that took ’im was named Ed Sikes, that’s all I know. I was . . . I was drunk, and didn’t ever know where he worked or lived or . . . anything.”

He felt the pain under her confession, the pain that might never heal completely, though Pauline Barlowe had come to know the Healer.

“I’d give anything if you could . . .” She didn’t finish.

“I know this man gave you alcohol, but was there any other reason you let Kenny go with him?”

“I don’t know . . . he seemed nice, I guess. It seems like I thought he could probably treat Kenny better than I did.”

“I’ll look into this and let you know if anything turns up. What about Buck? How is he?”

“He just called us, he’s doin’ real good, he’s comin’ th’ end of September. We’re all . . . real excited.”

“Dwell on that,” he told Dooley’s mother.

 

“Emma, remember when you helped find Jessie Barlowe?”

Emma liked being reminded of the role she played in bringing Dooley’s little sister home to Mitford. Emma had gone on-line and nailed the whereabouts of the woman who’d bolted to Florida with Jessie.

On a hunch, he’d piled Cynthia and Pauline into the Buick and driven sixteen hours to Lakeland, Florida, where they miraculously recovered the five-year-old Jessie, now living with her mother and older brother, Poo.

“I’d like you to get on the Internet and look for Ed Sikes. S-i-k-e-s. That could be Edward, Edmund, Edwin—”

“Edisto, even! I had an uncle Edisto we called Ed.”

“Whatever. Whatever you can think of.”

“Is this about one of Dooley’s brothers?” she asked.

“It is.”

“I’ll get right on it,” said his erstwhile secretary, “and I’ll pray. Sometimes I pray while I surf.”

 

He slid the Mustang into the gravel area by the church as the heavens burst open in a deluge.

He raced down the basement steps with the
Mitford Muse
under his arm and, sopping wet, trotted to the men’s room to dry himself off with paper towels.

“Is that you, Father?” Marion called from the sink at the end of the hall.

“It is! How are you, Marion?”

“Spry! I just made coffee, want a cup?”

“I do!”

A violent clap of thunder crashed overhead as he punched the play button on his office answering machine.

“Father Timothy? Cap’n Willie. We’ve got a bad storm warnin’ for Thursday, and we’re cancelin’ th’ trip. We’re right in th’ heart of hurricane season, so I guess it’s no surprise. I’ll make good on your trip anytime, just call to reschedule, four-oh-two-eight.” There was an awkward pause. “Thank you for your business, and good fishin’ to you.”

He took the sodden newspaper apart and draped the three double sheets over Sunday School chairs to dry. Another clap of thunder rolled above them. It was comforting, he thought, to be snug in the basement of the old church, the smell of coffee wafting along the hallway, someone nearby to call to, the rain pelting the windows. . . .

Marion bustled in with a mug in either hand.

“There’s sugar cookies left from Sunday School,” she said, “but I don’t suppose you can have any.”

“Not a crumb.”

Marion settled into the chair by his desk. “Ella Bridgewater’s all the talk,” she said, nodding her approval. “You did a fine job rounding her up.”

“I didn’t do the rounding up. Ella was heaven-sent.”

Marion smiled. “You and Cynthia were heaven-sent, is what Sam and I think.”

He felt his face grow warm. “Now, Marion . . .”

“Well, it’s true. How are you all doing, now that you’ve dug in? Are you happy in Whitecap?” Marion possessed one of his mother’s most desirable characteristics—a frank simplicity that invited the truth.

“We are. There are good people at St. John’s, we feel very blessed.”

“We’ve got our downside, but I suppose we’re no worse than the rest of the lot. You’ve helped us settle some of our petty squabbles.”

“At least the pew bulletin is no longer running classifieds,” he said, smiling.

Marion laughed. “And just think—that’s where I found my carpet sweeper for nine dollars! In any case, I hope parenting isn’t proving too much for you. Goodness, after our grandchildren used to leave, we were pooped for a month of Sundays. And that’s when they were old enough to feed and dress themselves!”

“He’s a handful, all right.”

“Janette’s not doing so well, is she? She hardly spoke on Sunday, bless her heart.”

“The doctor says the downward spiral has been going on for a long time. The upward spiral takes time, too.”