At Home in Mitford (13 page)

The weather was making it possible for Andrew Gregory to do a thing he liked very much indeed. And that was sit inside the open double doors of the Oxford Antique Shop, on an eighteenth-century bench that was not for sale, and let the breeze drift in while he read from his rare-book collection.

When customers came in, he preferred them to sit on the matching bench as a kind of prelude to the sale, and talk about politics, golf, the gold market, the royal family, Winston Churchill, Italian old masters, and a dozen other subjects that intrigued him.

Without any formal decision to do it, Andrew had become a specialist, not only in old and rare books, but in eighteenth-century partners’ desks, English bronzes, hearth fenders, needlepoint chairs, and, for his younger trade, pine farm tables.

He presented these treasures plainly, without even a bowl of potpourri on a tabletop. Yet, the very soul of elegance pervaded the atmosphere.

The aged, heart-of-pine floors glowed under a regular coat of wax, which he applied himself. And the furnishings got a good rubbing with lemon oil every month, all of which gave the Oxford its seductive signature fragrance.

As a widower, the proprietor of the town’s finest antique shop occasioned a good deal of talk. After all, he was attractive, he was trim, he knew how to dress with some flourish, and, because of his early years in Italy, his habits betrayed a certain European gentility.

Also, it did not go unnoticed that he tanned well and was invariably kind to women.

“Five years a widower, and no interest in anybody that we can see. No hope, I’d say,” a customer told Winnie Ivey at the bakery.

“There’s always hope,” said Winnie. Though she was not personally interested, she felt that Andrew Gregory, like her day-old pastries, must not go to waste.

There had once been some talk of Andrew and Emma Garrett, but Emma dismissed it as nonsense.

“Too smart for me!” she said. “And besides, who could live with that ol’ dark furniture all over the place?” Emma, who liked sunflower decals on her patio door and kept a vase of artificial tiger lilies on her desk at the office, could not imagine a Georgian highboy in her Danish Modern dining room, or a husband who rattled on about Winston Churchill.

Since he had children in Connecticut, some wondered why he stayed on in Mitford. The truth was, he had grown increasingly happy with his life in the village, and the village was equally happy with him.

It was Andrew Gregory whom the town council sent to visit Myra of Myra’s Beauty Bar, to explain why she could not have a shop awning of bubble gum pink instead of the traditional green.

And, when the uproar started over the selling of valley produce through The Local, it was Andrew who was sent to the state capital to set the matter straight.

Still, he was the only Italian in town, and some said, you know how Italians are. They thrive on lots of hugging, kissing, big weddings, and family feasts, hardly any of which was available locally.

Yes, except for those days when he longed for the blue calm of the Mediterranean and a bold sun that made flowers bloom as big as breakfast plates, he was content.

Father Tim was feeling the confusion of too many options in his personal life. For years, he had risen at five, had morning prayer, studied for his sermon, and then made coffee and dressed.

Afterward, he visited the hospital, dropped by the Grill for breakfast, and headed to the office, walking.

It was that simple.

Now, there were decisions to make every new day.

Whether to take Barnabas running if the weather was bad, or leave him at home. Whether to take Barnabas to the office or leave him in the garage. Whether to walk to work or be bold and start riding his motor scooter.

He’d even been considering something he thought would never cross his mind: Whether to start drinking decaf in the mornings.

At his birthday party, Hoppy had reminded him of a tougher decision he needed to make:

When he was going on vacation.

“Go see Walter and Katherine,” said his doctor. But he did not want to go to New Jersey, especially in the summer.

“Come out and spend a week with us,” said Hal. But he hated to impose for an entire week, with Marge nearly six months pregnant.

He’d never relished planning his own recreation; he simply wasn’t good at it. He was prone to turn recreation into something practical, to justify the time and expense, like he’d done with his two-month sojourn in Cambridge. He had intended to make that trip for sheer pleasure, using money from his mother’s estate. But he could find no excuse whatever for pleasure alone. So, while he was there, he researched and wrote the paper on C. S. Lewis, which was received with some acclaim.

Recently, he’d heard that the bishop’s wife was trying to collect a party to walk a portion of the Appalachian Trail, but since he attracted mosquitoes in swarms, this was not an option.

When he arrived at the office earlier than usual, Uncle Billy was sitting on the single step in front of the door, wearing his deceased brother-in-law’s finest three-piece suit, and smelling strongly of mothballs.

When he saw Father Tim approaching, he removed his hat.

“Mornin’, Preacher.”

“Good morning to you, Uncle Billy. You’re out mighty early.”

“Me and Rose like to get up with the chickens,” he said, his gold tooth gleaming.

Uncle Billy looked carefully at the books that lined the office walls, as the rector made coffee.

“I always did want to git educated,” he said soberly. “But I lived down in th’ valley and couldn’t stay with my schoolin’, don’t you know. I learned to do sums, and I’ve drawed a few pictures in m’ time, but that’s about all.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Oh, dogs and th’ like. And mountains. And fields and flowers and orchards an’ all. Outdoor things, don’t you know, that’s what I like.”

“Well, sir, I’d be pleased to see some of your drawings when the notion strikes.”

“Oh, I’ve got a few here and there, hid back. I’ll bring you some, if you’re sure you want t’ see ’em. They’re not much, they’re drawed with pencil, and I’ve not showed ’em off to any but Rose.”

Father Tim poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Uncle Billy. “How is Miss Rose?”

“Oh, well, mean as ever, y’ might say.”

“Is that right?”

“Mean as all get-out, don’t you know. But that’s ’er illness. Sometimes she’s good as gold, and those’re the times I live for. When I come up from the valley and found Rose and married ’er, I thought I was one lucky man, and I still do. We been married forty-three years now, and I knowed she was sick. Right off, I knowed what I was gettin’ into. I’ve never spent a night away from ’er, don’t you know, she’s all I’ve got, and I’m thankful.”

Father Tim knew that Miss Rose was schizophrenic and on daily medication.

“I never went back to m’ people after I married Rose, I never seen ’em no more. Maybe I should have went back, but I couldn’t leave ’er. The first years, we didn’t have a car, I done my work at home, don’t you know, canin’ chairs, makin’ bird-houses, paintin’ signs. Rose, she had plenty of money comin’ in from Willard, but she always said, ‘Billy, this ain’t your’n, it’s mine, don’t touch it, you git your own.’ She kind of scorned me sometimes, but it was ’er illness.

“Some days, she’d come and set on m’ lap an’ call me ’er Sweet William. She’d laugh an’ go on, and dance to th’ radio, an’ I’d git s’ fired up thinkin’ she was well, hit was pitiful. Then she’d turn right around and be like a rattler a strikin’. It’s grieved me that she never got better, like I thought she might.”

“Is there anything we can do to help, Uncle Billy?”

“Well, sir, I don’t know what it would be. The Baptists tried, the Presbyterians tried, the Methodists did their part, don’t you know. We’ve gone around to ’em all, but ain’t nothin’ worked. I wasn’t much on comin’ over here because of all th’ kneelin’ and gettin’ up and down and all, but we like it.”

“I’m glad to hear that. And you know you don’t have to kneel. You can stand or you can sit, just as well. Jesus prayed in both those ways.”

There was silence as Uncle Billy took a grateful sip of his coffee, and considered this.

“You know, Uncle Billy, our church can’t heal Miss Rose any more than the Methodists or the Baptists can. Only God can heal. But we’ll do all we can, you have my word.”

“I thank you, Preacher.”

Father Tim turned the answering machine on, as he usually did when counseling, and sat down in his swivel chair. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

“Well, you see, all those years ago when Willard, her brother, died, he knowed his baby sister had a illness of some kind, so he left ’er that big ol’ house, don’t you know, an’ all them fine antiques. An’ th’ way he left it was, it would all go t’ the town when she passed.

“Now what’s been worryin’ me is that if Rose passes before I do, I won’t have no place t’ call home.

“Sometimes in th’ winter, she won’t run the furnace and gits awful sick in the chest, but she won’t let me git the doctor. That’s when I go to thinkin’, I’ll be on th’ state, I’ll be on th’ welfare, if she takes a bad turn.”

“I see.”

“All kind of people want to buy that place, nobody knows that the town’ll get it, except Rose’s old lawyer over in Wesley.”

“I’m not much at lawyering,” said the rector.

“But I believe the town could make a special dispensation, if they cared to. I believe there could be a way for you to go on living there, no matter what they decide to do with the property.

“Why don’t you let me look into it, and if you’ll come back next week sometime and bring me those drawings of yours, we’ll talk it over.”

“I’d hate f’r word to git out about th’ town endin’ up with th’ place. Rose never did like to talk about that, don’t you know.”

“Nobody will hear it from me.”

Uncle Billy grinned. “Well, Preacher, you’ve took a load off my mind, and that’s a fact. I’ve been wrestlin’ with this f’r a good while, and I’m just goin’ to set it down in th’ road and leave it.”

“That’s a good plan, Uncle Billy. God asks us not to worry about tomorrow.”

“That’s a hard one, Preacher.”

“It sure is. And it takes practice. Just stick with today, is what he recommends. Of course, it helps to stick with him, while we’re at it.”

“I’ve been stickin’ with him for a good many years. Not like I ought to, but I want t’ do better, don’t you know.”

“Why don’t we have a prayer?” He put his arm around Uncle Billy’s shoulders.

“Father, we thank you for Bill Watson’s faith in you, and for his willingness to let you be in control. We turn this matter over to you now, and ask for the wisdom to proceed, through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

"A-men! Y’ know, the Lord always has knowed me as Bill instead of Billy, just like you said!”

When the two men parted, he made a phone call to his cousin, Walter, who was also his attorney.

Then he got down to business with his sermon. Oddly enough, his meeting with Uncle Billy had given him just the insight he needed on a certain difficult point.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Father, but there’s bats in your belfry.” Russell Jacks pushed open the door of the office and peered in.

“Ah, well, Russell! It’s been that way since an early age. Come in, come in!”

Russell had been the sexton at the Chapel of Our Lord and Savior for nearly twenty years, but, due to a back ailment, had been living in the valley with his daughter for a year.

“I’m mighty glad to see you, my friend,” said Father Tim, wringing Russell’s gnarled hand with real feeling. “Welcome home!”

“Soon as we get them bats out of there, I’ll scrape up th’ droppin’s and work ’em in th’ flower beds.”

Russell Jacks was back and, without missing a beat, ready to get on with his work.

“When in the nation is our bells comin’ home?” he wanted to know.

“October, November, around then. All the way from England, at last! It’s been a long, dry spell with no bells chiming at Lord’s Chapel. And it’s been a long, dry spell without you, Russell. Tell me about your back. Is it in good working order?”

“I’d do that, Father, but I’ve got my little granboy standin’ outside.” Russell was clasping his hat over his heart, as he usually did in the presence of clergy.

“Let’s bring him in, then!” Father Tim stepped to the door and looked out. There, standing at the corner of the stone building, was a barefoot, freckle-faced, red-haired boy in dirty overalls.

I declare, thought the rector. Tom Sawyer!

“His mama’s poorly,” said Russell, “and cain’t half watch after ’im. She kind of looked after me when I was down and out, an’ I told her I’d look after him awhile. He’s th’ oldest of five.”

It occurred to the rector that somewhere in his office, though he couldn’t recall where, was one last box of Little Debbies. He reached behind a volume of Bonhoeffer’s
Life Together
, and pulled out the box of creme-filled cookies.

“What’s your grandboy’s name?”

“Dooley!” said Russell Jacks with evident pride.

“Dooley!” he called out the door, “Come in and let’s have a look at you!”

The boy came and stood on the sidewalk, staring at the rector. Now that he could see him up close, Father Tim was surprised by a certain look in his eyes, a look that made him appear older than his years.

“Ain’t this a church place?” the boy asked, skeptically.

“Why, yes, it’s a church office.”

“I cain’t come in, then, I ain’t washed.”

“You don’t have to wash to come in.”

"You ain’t lyin’, I reckon, bein’ a preacher an’ all.”

“No. No, I’m not lying.”

The boy bounded up the single step and through the door, searching the room with his quick gaze. “You got any place in here where I can take a dump?”