A New Song (37 page)

“That should of done it right there!”

“I said I’m pretty sharp at Scrabble and could prob’ly give her a good run for th’ money.”

“An’ what’d he say?”

“He said she beats th’ stuffin’ out of him all th’ time, not to mention beats her sister an’ some of th’ neighbors.”

Ernie whistled through his teeth.

“I told him about my job, how I was Employee of th’ Month back in April an’ all. . . .”

“What else?”

“I told him I own my own house an’ keep my truck washed an’ waxed, that I change th’ oil myself an’ just put on a new set of Michelins.” Junior looked exhausted.

“That’s all your cards right there,” said Ernie. “You laid ’em on th’ table, that’s all a man can do. So what’d he say?”

Junior looked at his hands. “He said I sounded pretty decent an’ responsible.”

Ernie beamed. “Then what?”

“So then I told him I hadn’t heard back from Ava, an’ wondered if he’d be willin’ to give his permission for me to take ’er out an’ all.”

Father Tim glanced around. Roanoke was cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. Roger was pondering the situation intently. Ernie looked nervous.

“So he said, ‘Well, son, I like what you’re sayin’, I really do, and I thought those snapshots showed a fine-lookin’ fella, but your letter failed to convince Ava that you’re a Christian, and that’s a requirement of hers as well as mine.’ Then he said she wrote me a note a day or two ago and he guessed I hadn’t got it yet.”

Ernie looked disgusted. “Shoot, maybe you don’t want to go out with somebody that could whip your butt at Scrabble. You thought of that?”

“Just because she whips her daddy don’t mean she can whip me.”

“So, what can we do here to move things along?” asked Roger.

It appeared that Roger’s CEO mode was kicking in.

Junior’s gaze searched every face for an answer to this probing question, and at last zeroed in on Father Tim, who knew Junior’s look very well.

“Would you like to have a talk?”

Junior nodded.

“Anytime, just let me know.”

Junior appeared suddenly hopeful. “How about right now? We could go set in my truck.”

Roger and Ernie gave the clergy an approving nod.

“Consider it done,” he said.

 

 

“If you need air-conditionin’, we can roll th’ windows up.”

Father Tim noticed Junior’s hands were trembling. A talk with the clergy sometimes did that to people.

“Not for me. But you might pull over in the shade,” he said.
Lord, give me wisdom here. May Your Holy Spirit be with us
. . . . His heart was moved for Junior Bryson.

As Junior started the motor, a shattering blast of country music erupted from speakers the size of drink crates. Junior hit the off button, embarrassed. “I’m really sorry ’bout that.”

“No problem,” said his passenger, barely able to speak for the adrenaline pumping into his system.

Junior eased the truck under the leafy branches of a nearby tree. “We could ride around if you’d rather do that,” said Junior.

“This is fine, we can sit right here. I think we’re getting a little breeze.”

Junior switched off the ignition and was silent for a moment, looking anguished. “I hate to tell you this, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“I all of a sudden have to go to th’ toilet.”

“Go right ahead. I understand.”

Junior swung down from the cab and loped across the parking lot.

Junior’s uneasiness reminded him, somehow, of himself, as he met with his first bishop all those years ago.

“Why did you decide to become a priest, Timothy?”

“I was called, sir.”

“Who called you?”

“God.”

The tall, angular Bishop Quayle sat quietly in the leather chair, holding his hands upright before him with all his fingertips touching. Father Tim remembered noting that his fingers formed a sort of steeple, which he thought becoming to a bishop.

“You will have times of doubt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which you can’t imagine now, of course.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you genuinely love Christ with all your heart?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“What is the chief reason you love Him?”

“Because He loves me.”

Their visit had been short, but rewarding. Bishop Quayle prayed with him and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. “I think you’ll do, Timothy,” he said, smiling. The young priest marked the extraordinary light shining in the bishop’s eyes; it was this light that had encouraged him most.

Junior opened the door and slid into the seat looking contrite but refreshed. “I’m sorry, Father. I’m . . . kind of nervous.”

“I understand.”

“Well,” said Junior. “I was hopin’ you could help me with what to do about Ava.”

“Aha.”

“I’ve got ’er picture right here . . .”—Junior fished it from his shirt pocket, looking proud—-“so you could remember what she looks like.” He balanced it in a standing position on the volume knob of the radio.

“Here’s what I told her in th’ letter. I said I went to church when my mama was livin’ an’ got baptized when I was fourteen. I reckon that makes me a Christian.”

He smiled. “
Did
it make you a Christian?”

“I don’t know. I mean, seem like bein’ baptized was a big deal, th’ way I remember it.”

“It is a big deal. A very big deal. But it’s what happens in our hearts, in our spirits, that’s a much bigger deal. What was going on in your heart when you were baptized, do you remember?”

“Nothin’ much. Me’n some other people went out to th’ creek, th’ preacher laid us back in th’ water, I come up and dried off, and we all went an’ ate catfish at Cap’n Willie’s.”

“When we ask Jesus to come into our hearts and save us—and if we really mean it—something always happens. Something powerful. Sometimes we sense it the moment we ask, sometimes later. But it never fails to happen.”

Junior shrugged and shifted in the seat, which caused his elbow to hit the horn. They both jumped. “ ’Scuse me,” he said. A few drops of perspiration appeared on his forehead.

“I don’t know what Ava’s thinking,” said Father Tim, indicating the photograph. “Maybe you’ll learn more from her letter. But she may be looking for someone who has a personal relationship with Christ.”

“I don’t see how’n th’ world you can have a
personal
relationship with ’im. That don’t seem possible to me. That don’t seem . . .
possible.
”

“That’s a hard one to understand, how a God so powerful can be so personal. Yet, when you ask the Son of God to come into your heart, something incredible happens.”

“What?”

“He actually comes in.”

Junior looked blank.

“He comes in and quickens our spirits so that we’re truly alive for the first time. We see with new eyes, we hear with new ears, we’re able to receive His love.” He thought it was moments like this that he lived for. “The relationship becomes deeply personal, one-on-one.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but . . . I just don’t get it.”

“That’s OK. I’ll pray for you to get it.”

Junior sighed. “What am I goin’ to do about Ava?”

“Keep being honest, just as she will be, I’m sure. Whatever happens, honesty is always the best policy.”

Junior stared into the vacant lot next door.

“God certainly loves our honesty. You can tell Him anything, Junior, anything!”

“I wouldn’t want t’ tell ’im
anything.
”

He grinned. “Might as well. He knows it anyway.”

Junior blushed.

“He not only wants to be your Savior and Lord, He wants to be your best friend. Pretty hard to imagine, but true. Anyway, I think that because you and Ava both admire honesty, everything’s going to turn out just fine.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“Thank you, Father. I really thank you.”

“Anytime you have questions, anytime you want to just sit and talk, call me or drop by St. John’s.”

“Yessir, I will. Can I carry you down to church?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Junior removed the photograph from the knob, gave it a furtive glance, and put it back in his pocket. As they wheeled out of the lot, Father Tim couldn’t help but see Roger and Ernie peering through the window.

Mother hens! he thought, waving.

 

The phone on his desk rang twice.

“St. John’s in the Grove! Father Kavanagh speaking.”

“Hey!” said Dooley.

“Hey, yourself, buddy!” He loved hearing the boy’s voice, he could even hear the grin in it. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got . . . like, you know, like a girlfriend.”

Whoa. “A girlfriend? Tell me everything.”

“Her name’s Caroline.”

His heart sank. But what business was it of his? “Where did you meet her?”

“I met her at a dance at her school, and we’ve been writing. You know. Calling each other.”

“Aha. What school?”

“It doesn’t matter, I mean . . .”

“No, I’d like to know. What school?”

Dooley sounded a little ticked at having it gouged out of him. “Mrs. Hemingway’s.”

That school where all the girls are geeks, and wear weird shoes and funny glasses?
That
school? “Smart, I suppose . . .”

“Totally smart, straight A’s. And really . . . like, you know . . .”

He knew. “Great-looking? Beautiful?”

“Umm, yeah. Yessir. Totally.”

He was thrilled that Dooley could confide in him. Who wouldn’t be? That pleasure, however, was considerably diminished by wondering what Lace Turner would think of this.

He’d never ask, of course; no, indeed, not for anything.

 

“Father?” It was Janette’s doctor, speaking in his low-country drawl. “I’ve got a little slip of paper around here somewhere. Janette asked me to give you a message. Let’s see, I can’t read my own handwriting, I suppose that’s no news. . . .”

Father Tim laughed.

“Here it is. Let’s see. ‘The cactus is beginning to bloom.’ ”

Tears misted his eyes. “She’s coming along, then?”

“Improving. Yes, definitely.”

“When do you think she might be coming home?”

“Ten days, maybe two weeks. We want to be absolutely certain the suicidal stuff is behind us.”

“Will she be able to care for the children?”

“Yes, we think so. It might help to give her a day or two to settle in, if possible. I understand her cousin is having a time of it, four children in a one-bedroom apartment. . . .”

“We’ll do whatever it takes on our end.”

“Excellent. Let’s just say two weeks, maximum.”

“Thanks be to God!” He felt a weight move off his heart. “Thank you, Doctor. Well done!”

 

“Father Tim?”

“Speaking. Is that you, Rodney?”

“All we could turn up on th’ back door an’ th’ knob was Puny’s prints. Then we dusted your mantel and your desk and so on, but didn’t find anything. She’s rubbed a good bit of lemon oil around in there.”

“Right.”

“Course we found some of your prints on th’ desk drawers, you remember we took your prints a few years ago.”

“I do.”

“Sorry to be so long gettin’ back to you.”

Ah, well. He’d done his duty, they’d done theirs, and that was that.

 

Had Emma Newland vanished from the face of the earth? Whenever she called, he fervently wished she hadn’t. When she didn’t, he wished she would. Go figure.

Maybe they were still in Atlanta. Maybe Harold had seen the phone bill and laid down the law. Maybe she didn’t care anymore what happened to her old boss—out of sight, out of mind.

He dialed her number and charged the call to Dove Cottage.

“Hello!”

“Emma?”

“Is that
you?
”

“It’s me, all right. What’s up in Mitford? Tell me everything, it’s my nickel.”

“After we went to Atlanta and saw Jean, we went to New Orleans, Harold had three weeks piled up with th’ post office. The food in New Orleans was great, it was unbelievable, you’d never in a hundred
years
believe how much we ate, I think I have gout.”

“Gout?”

“From eating all that French food, they say it’ll give you gout.”

“Does your big toe hurt?”

“My big toe? What does that have to do with anything?”

“With gout, that’s usually what’s affected. Very painful.”

“My toe is fine and dandy, so it must be somethin’ else.”

“Where did you eat?”

“Sometimes we got carry-out Cajun and ate in th’ RV, th’ rest of th’ time we ate in th’ restaurant in th’ motel. Meals came with the room, and all for only eighty-eight dollars a day. For
two
!”

“You definitely don’t have gout,” he said.

“Have they gotten you any help yet? Even
Harold
has help.”

“Everybody pitches in.” He wondered why on earth he’d called.

“I haven’t checked Ed Sikes in Oregon, if that’s why you called. We just got in a few days ago, and I’m up to my ears in laundry, plus Snickers has fleas and they’re so bad they’re jumpin’ on th’ counter, I thought I’d spilled pepper. Th’ termite man is on his way right now, you wouldn’t
believe
what it’s goin’ to cost and I have to be out of th’ house for three hours while they do it, and then come home and
vacuum
for five straight
days
, it’s all that rain we had, I’m sure Barnabas is
covered
with fleas. . . .”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Well, I don’t know why he
doesn’t
have fleas, the way th’ weather’s been, fleas
breed
in weather like we’ve had.”

His erstwhile secretary was positively hopping mad that his dog didn’t have fleas.