In This Mountain (15 page)

He’d put off returning the calls of two priests who wanted to give him communion.

He’d also put off calling Dr. Wilson, but his wife had not.

Her end of the conversation could be heard through the open door of her workroom—obviously she didn’t mind being overheard, though he missed some of it.

“It’s dreadful…and he never laughs, which is so unlike him. Yes, possibly. Well, almost certainly…. little appetite, though I’ve been…favorite things…quite thin. Thank you, Doctor. What a blessing that you’ll come. Yes, hardly enough energy to get out of the chair….”

She came into the study and announced that Dr. Wilson would be dropping by after five o’clock.

“And since tomorrow is your birthday, dearest, I thought we might have a little party.”

“No,” he said. “Please. I don’t want a party.”

“I understand. But you’ll love it, Timothy. Trust me.”

He wanted to trust her.

“Depression,” said Dr. Wilson. “And please don’t think it’s unusual after what you’ve been through.”

Depression.
The word impacted him like a ton of bricks. He loathed the very thought of such a thing snaring him. Depression was everyone else’s problem; he was clergy, he was…

“Depression usually stems from anger turned inward. I’m no psychologist, but I suggest you look at what the anger is about—getting to the root of it could help.”

His blood surged in a kind of fury.

“We’re going to change your medication, but more important, I want you to start seeing people—perhaps you could have a few friends in to visit.”

“I don’t want to see anyone,” he snapped.

“That’s all well and good, Father, but it’s doctor’s orders for you to have a bit of company.”

That was the trouble with Wilson, he acted like he ran things when Hoppy was out of town. “Before Hoppy went tooting off to heaven knows where, it was doctor’s orders that I
not
have company.”

Wilson grinned. “That was then, Father. This is now.”

He smelled coffee and opened his eyes.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” His wife put the tray on the bedside table and kissed his face: his nose, his chin, the tender spot where he’d banged his head….

He didn’t sit up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry that I can’t be more…that I can’t be…everything you need.”

“But you are everything I need,” she said. “This will pass away, Timothy, this difficult time is not for all eternity. Remember our good verse from Jeremiah, ‘I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for good and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.’”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand Him, Timothy; if I did, would He be God? I believe that everything that happens must pass God’s muster, and that somehow He permitted this. He is very present—and working in our lives.”

“Yes.”

“But sometimes you forget it?” She handed him a steaming mug.

He nodded.

“I’m praying that He will use this hard thing for good. I mean, after all, darling, look what He did for the Israelites!”

“Right.” But he didn’t have forty years….

“You’re going to have fun today!”

“Do I have to?” He couldn’t believe the whine he heard in his voice; it was nauseating.

“Preacher…”

Bill Watson shuffled into the study. Though obviously nervous, he revealed his gold tooth in a broad smile.

“Don’t git up, now.” He came and stood before his former priest, bowed slightly, and shook his hand. “Happy birthday, don’t you know.”

“Thank you, Uncle Billy.” Bill Watson’s hand was as dry as a corn shuck in winter. “Sit down, my friend.”

His onetime parishioner sat opposite him in the leather wing chair. Early afternoon light from the long bay of windows dappled the old man’s face.

“Rose couldn’t come, she was peelin’ taters f’r supper.”

“Aha. How are you faring these days?”

“Fair to middlin’. I was settin’ in my chair this mornin’ when all of a sudden I felt somethin’, don’t you know.”

“Like what?”

“Itchin’. Th’ worst kind. What it was, I had broke out in whelks.”

“Somethin you ate.”

“Nossir, it’s workin’ a garden that done it.”

“You’re working a garden?” He wanted to lie down on the floor and expire. How many people had Cynthia invited? He was already exhausted.

“Mostly I’m breakin’ new ground, I ain’t started plantin’ yet.”

He racked his brain for small talk, but found nothing. He heard his wife in the kitchen, and the sound of the doorbell. Another shift coming on.

Uncle Billy cleared his throat. “I’ve come t’ tell a joke f’r y’r birthday.”

“Is that right?”

“Yessir, I’ve studied out two f’r you.” To keep his legs from trembling with the excitement of what he was about to do, Uncle Billy clasped his knees.

“I appreciate it,” said Father Tim. He would have given anything to have squirmed out of this social event. In cahoots with Wilson, Cynthia had arranged to have a few people drop by to deliver birthday greetings; they were to be shown into the study one at a time so he wouldn’t be overstimulated. He felt like a clinical experiment, they might have dolled him up in a white jacket; and all the while, Hoppy Harper was tooling along the Oregon Trail in ostrich-hide boots and couldn’t care less about his patients in Mitford.

Uncle Billy straightened his tie and coughed, then got down to business.

“Wellsir! They was two fellers a-workin’ on th’ sawmill, don’t you know, an’ th’ first ’un got too close to th’ saw an’ cut ’is ear off. Well, it fell in th’ sawdust pit an’ he was down there a-tryin’ t’ find it, don’t you know. Th’ other feller said, ‘What’re you a-doin’ down there?’ First ’un said, ‘I cut m’ ear off an’ I’m a-lookin’ f’r it!’

“Th’ other feller jumped in th’ pit, said, ‘I’ll he’p you!’ Got down on ’is hands an’ knees, went to lookin’ aroun’, hollered, ‘Here it is, I done found it!’

“First feller, he took it an’ give it th’ once-over, don’t you know, said, ‘Keep a-lookin’, mine had a pencil behind it!’”

Father Tim tried to laugh. A sound like the creaking of a gate on a rusty hinge escaped before he could choke it back. He saw the pained look on the old man’s face.

“Didn’ go over too good, did it?”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Billy, it’s a good joke, really it is.”

“No, it ain’t,” said Uncle Billy, obviously stricken.

Father Tim burned with shame. He knew what a desperate task Uncle Billy faced in coming up with jokes that guaranteed a laugh so as to uplift the hearer and not humiliate the teller. But what could he do? There was no laughter in him to be summoned.

“Wellsir, let me tell th’ other ’un, seein’ as it’s studied out.”

Father Tim nodded. If he could just lie down…

“Three preachers was settin’ around talkin’, don’t you know. First ’un said, ‘You’uns ought t’ see th’ bats I’ve got a-flyin’ around in m’ church attic. I’ve tried about ever’thing, but nothin’ scares ’em off.’

“Next ’un said, ‘Law, we’ve got hundreds of ’em livin’ in our belfry. I’ve done had th’ whole place fumigated, but cain’t git rid of ’em a’tall.’

“Last ’un said, ‘Shoot, I baptized ever’ one of mine, made ’em members of th’ church, an’ ain’t seen nary one since.’”

Father Tim shook his head. It was hopeless. He wanted to crawl in a hole, go out in the garden and eat worms, whatever; it was useless, he was useless. Tears sprang to his eyes.

The old man appeared mortified. “Lord help, I’ve done went an’ made you bawl….”

“No, no, that’s fine, Uncle Billy, I don’t know…. I’ll make it up to you somehow…. I’m just not…”

“I ain’t goin’ t’ take it personal, Preacher. Nossir! We’re goin’ t’ try ag’in is what we’re goin’ t’ do.” Here was a challenge and he was determined to meet it. “You’uns jis’ set right there a day or two an’ I’ll be back, don’t you know.”

Uncle Billy rose stiffly and shuffled toward the door. “I’m through with my turn, Miz Kavanagh!”

Cynthia came into the room, clearly pleased with the way things were going so far. “Uncle Billy, there’s cake and ice cream in the kitchen. We’d like you to celebrate with us.”

“I’ll jis’ carry mine home f’r Rose, an’ much obliged.”

“I don’t know,” she said, “it’s awfully warm to be carrying ice cream home.”

Uncle Billy pondered the import of toting ice cream from here to the town museum in ninety-degree heat. Here was another challenge and he was determined to meet it. “I’ll have t’ trot t’ do it,” he said, “but fix it up f’r me, if you don’t object, Rose’ll be expectin’ it.”

“Timothy, Emma’s here to see you. Would you like another glass of water?”

Water. There was cake and ice cream in the kitchen and he was offered water. Water and Emma Newland. No wonder he’d never been much on birthdays.

“Happy Birthday!”

Emma, it seemed, had grown larger, much larger, than she’d been only a few weeks ago. Or perhaps he had grown smaller. He had a terrible urge to rise and somehow defend himself, but he sat like a rock. His dog went to Emma and sniffed her bare legs.

“He smells Snickers,” she said, thumping into the leather chair and rustling a sheaf of papers. “I’ve been on th’ Internet….”

“And?” He felt interested in something for the first time today. If he couldn’t have cake and ice cream, he would have e-mail.

She held up one of the papers and squinted at it. “Listen to this, this is a good one.
‘Read the Bible, it’ll scare the hell out of you.’”

There was a dull silence.

“You’re not laughing,” she said, accusing.

“It’s not funny.”

“
I
laughed,” she said archly.

“Yes, well, what you just read is a very serious statement. And true, I might add. Wish I’d said it.”

She shrugged. “Listen to this one.
‘War Dims Hope for Peace.’
”

He stared at her.

“That’s
funny
,” she said, huffed.

“What is this stuff, anyway?”

“Blooper headlines. The kind J. C. Hogan writes, only better.”

He sighed.

“I’ll just read the whole list, maybe you’ll find one you like,” she said, pursing her lips. He felt oddly threatened. Why didn’t his wife come in here and help him out?

“‘Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers.’”

He leaned over and scratched his dog behind the ears.

“‘Drunks Get Nine Months in Violin Case.’”

“Umm.”

“‘Stolen Painting Found by Tree.’”

“I don’t get it.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said, clearly miffed.
“‘Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead.’

“‘Miners Refuse to Work After Death.’

“‘If Strike Isn’t Settled Quickly, It May Last Awhile.’”

She stuffed the papers in her pocketbook and glared at him as if he were a beetle on a pin.

“So how’s Harold?” he asked.

Scott Murphy came in quietly, squatted before his chair, took Father Tim’s hands in his, and said, “Let me pray for you, Father.”

Someone to pray for the priest!

His head was pounding, but he wouldn’t say a word about it. He would ride this mule….

“Who else?” he asked Cynthia.

“Just George and Harley, I’m letting them both in at once, they’ll be good medicine.”

“Yes,” he said, brightening.

“Everyone wants to see you, they’re clamoring for a visit.”

“I miss the girls,” he said, referring to Puny and the twins.

“So do I. They’ll come on Sunday, how’s that?”

He thought she looked worn, pale around the gills. It was all this messing with him, of course, day after day.

“Do you feel like seeing J. C. Hogan?”

“No.” Absolutely
not
!

“I told him I’d call if you felt up to it, but he’ll understand. Percy and Mule wanted to come, too, but I thought it best to wait ’til another time.”

“Another time?” he snapped. “How many of these little galas are you and Wilson drumming up? I expect to be on the street any day now, I’ll go see Percy myself.”

“Timothy, don’t be peevish.” Cynthia bounded from the sofa and trotted to the kitchen, his dog behind her.

And another thing—why was everybody trying to make him laugh?

And why couldn’t he just give them a good, rollicking chortle and get this ridiculous business behind him? It would put an end to their torment, for heaven’s sake! He thought of the pressure they must be under, trudging in with the awful responsibility of trying to make the preacher laugh. He could see them huddled in the yard, inquiring of the poor souls leaving the house,
Did you make him laugh? No, but we’ll be back with more ammunition! He can’t hold out forever!

He was ashamed that he couldn’t attain to the high summit of their hopes and affections.

George and Harley didn’t appear to want anything from him. They weren’t trying to make him do something he didn’t want to do, or couldn’t.

“Thank you,” he said, as they looked through the study window to an unobstructed view of Baxter Park. “I don’t know when I’ve ever received such a marvelous gift.”

“If I’d knowed you wanted it done,” said Harley, “hit’d been done a long time ago.”

“
I
never knew I wanted it done ’til the other day. How’s the Mustang coming?”

“Lookin’ brand-new. Showroom!” Father Tim thought Harley’s grin might wrap clear around his head. “George is helpin’ with th’ front fender, I done th’ grille m’self.”

“George, it seems like we’re working you pretty hard right out of the box.”

“Good, Father. I need it.”

“How’re your quarters? Is Harley’s snoring too loud?”

George Gaynor smiled. “No, sir, I’m afraid I’m the one rattling the windows.”

“We’ve got a lot to talk about. Let’s have a visit soon.”

“Yes, sir, I’d like that.”

“What about your new job at the bookstore?”

“I’m getting the hang of it. Prison offered a lot of opportunities—one was a chance to learn the computer. I think we’ll be able to move quite a few rare books via the Internet.”

“If you run across a first edition of Wilberforce, keep me in mind. Let’s sit, why don’t we?” Was he shuffling like Uncle Billy? His legs were dead weight.