In This Mountain (16 page)

His guests took the sofa and he the chair, as his wife came in with a tray and set it on the coffee table. After serving George and Harley, she turned to him with a certain happiness. “For you, dearest.”

She handed him a plate of ice cream and cake.

“But…,” he said, dumbfounded.

“Sugar-free! Low-fat! No sodium! The whole nine yards. I wanted it to be a surprise. Happy birthday!”

He took the plate from her, deeply moved.

Barnabas leaped into his slipcovered chair. A junco called outside the open windows. George and Harley eagerly tucked into their refreshments, as did he. Peace at last, he thought, feeling suddenly uplifted.

He and Cynthia had filled the dishwasher and turned it on when the doorbell rang.

“Ugh,” she said, trooping down the hall.

“Bishop!”

“How are you, dear girl?”

Blast! He’d completely forgotten the e-mail, forgotten to tell Cynthia…. It hadn’t crossed his mind since he left the hospital. The subsiding headache cranked up again, pounding in his left temple.

He looked at the clock above the refrigerator. Four-thirty. A fine time to go knocking on people’s doors…

“Chuck Albright is with me,” said Stuart, “I dropped him at The Local, where he’s buying livermush to ship home in dry ice. Where we come from, livermush is hard to find.”

“With good reason,” said Father Tim, who never touched the stuff.

They sat in the study, which was flooded with afternoon light. Father Tim thought Stuart looked surprisingly older, frayed somehow.

“Do you feel like telling me everything?” asked the bishop.

He didn’t want to talk about it. Surely someone had given Stuart the details; everybody knew what had happened. He plunged ahead, however, dutiful.

“I blacked out at the wheel of my car and hit Bill Sprouse, who pastors First Baptist. He was walking his dog. His dog was killed instantly. Bill had several fractures and a mild concussion.” He took a deep breath. “He’s going to be all right.”

That was the first time he’d given anyone a synopsis, and he had made it through. His headache was blinding.

“Yes, I heard all that, and God knows, I’m sorry. What I’d really like to hear is how you are—in your soul.”

“Ah. My soul.” He put his hand to his forehead, speechless.

“The Eucharist, then,” said Stuart. He bolted from the chair, took his home communion kit from the kitchen island, and brought it to the coffee table.

Father Tim watched his bishop open the mahogany box to reveal the small water and wine cruets, a silver chalice and paten, a Host box, and a crisply starched fair linen.

“I was reminded the other day,” said Stuart, “that when Saint John baptized Christ, he was touching God. An awesome and extraordinary thing to consider. When we receive the bread and blood, we, also, are touching God.” Stuart poured the wine and drizzled a small amount of water into each glass. “I know you recognize that wondrous fact, dear brother, but sometimes it’s good to be reminded.”

“…Heavenly Father, Giver of life and health, comfort and hope; please visit us with such a strong sense of Your Presence that we may trust faithfully in Your mighty strength and power, in Your wisdom vastly beyond our understanding, and in Your love which surrounds us for all eternity. At this time, we ask Your grace especially upon Timothy, that he may know Your gift of a heart made joyous and strong by faith. Bless Cynthia, too, we pray, whose eager hands and heart care for him….”

As Father Tim knelt by the coffee table next to his wife, the tears began and he didn’t try to check them.

“The cathedral?” He stood at the front door with Stuart, drawing upon the very dregs of his strength to inquire about the bishop’s grand passion.

“That’s why I’m racing out of here to Charlotte. Someone’s making a gift of half a million.”

“You’re looking weary, my friend.”

“Yes. I am that.”

“You’re still afraid to take a break, to rest awhile….”

“I can’t. The cathedral.”

“Of course.”

There was irony in Stuart’s smile. “Besides, I’ll be seventy-two soon enough, and forced to rest awhile.”

The bishop kissed him on either cheek and opened the door. “You and Cynthia are ever in my prayers, Timothy. He will put things right, and don’t forget it. That’s what He’s about, after all, putting things right.”

“The Lord be with you, Stuart.”

“And also with you!”

“Give Martha our love!”

“Will do!”

He watched as Stuart walked briskly to his car and climbed in.

“Father!”

Hélène Pringle darted from the side of the house and hastened up the steps to his front stoop—apparently she’d popped through the hedge—wearing blue striped oven mitts and bearing a dish covered by a tea towel.

“For you!” She thrust her offering at him with seeming joy, but how could he take it from her if oven mitts were required to handle it?

He stepped back.

Miss Pringle stepped in.

“Roast
poulet
!” she exclaimed. “With olive oil and garlic, and stuffed with currants. I so hope you—you and Cynthia—like it.”

“Hélène!” His wife sailed down the hall. “What have you
done
? What smells so heavenly?”

“Roast
poulet
!” Miss Pringle exclaimed again, as if announcing royalty.

“Oh, my!” said Cynthia. “Let me just get a towel.” She trotted to the bathroom at the end of the hall and was back in a flash. “Thank you very much, Hélène, I’ll take it. Lovely! Won’t you come in?”

“Oh, no, no indeed, I don’t wish to interfere. I hope…that is, I heard about…” She paused, turning quite red. “
Merci
, Father, Cynthia,
bon appétit, au revoir
!”

She was gone down the walk, quick as a hare.

“I like her mitts,” said Cynthia.

“Delicious!” He spooned the thick currant sauce over a slice of tender breast meat and nudged aside the carrots Cynthia had cooked.

“Outstanding!” He ate heartily, as if starved.

He glanced up to see his wife looking at him.

“What?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen you eat like this in…quite a while.”

“Excellent flavor! I suppose it’s the currants.”

“I suppose,” she said.

The morning of his nativity might have begun last week or last month; indeed, it seemed an eternity since he waked to the kisses of his wife.

He rolled over in bed and tried again to position his head on the pillow so he could gain a bit of comfort and sleep. He looked at the clock face, glowing green in the dark room. Two o’clock.

His wife had given the party to cheer and encourage him, and surely underneath his exhaustion was a gladness of heart that he would feel tomorrow after he’d rested.

In all the uproar, he realized he’d forgotten something terribly important—not only had it been his birthday, it was also the anniversary of his proposal to Cynthia. They had a tradition of celebrating that momentous occasion with his birthday, and heretofore he had always remembered. This time he’d forgotten entirely, and now it was too late.

He wondered if he really would get his strength back in the six weeks Hoppy had mentioned, or whether he was being sucked into the same quagmire that had destroyed his father.

No matter what he did these last few weeks or how hard he tried, he failed himself and everyone else. He failed to be cheerful and quick, to rise to the occasion, to look at life with thanksgiving and approval. There was a growing coldness in him, in some deep place he’d never gone before. In truth, he often felt himself sinking, out of control.

Perhaps his father had been out of control, perhaps depression had made him unable to restrain the cold severity toward his wife and son. Perhaps there was no controlling such a thing once it took root in the spirit….

Then again, his father had claimed no God, no redeeming Christ, while he, the son, had claimed it all—mercy and forgiveness, unconditional love, and the capstone of the faith: salvation.

So what was his excuse?

Barnabas followed him downstairs and lay in the soft pool of lamplight as he opened his Bible to the second letter of Timothy.

He’d read the two epistles on almost every birthday since his twelfth year. His mother had instructed him in this habit, and, as a serious youngster, he imagined the letter to have been written across the centuries personally and directly to him, Timothy Kavanagh. He still believed this to be true in some supernatural way.

He read aloud, knowing his dog would listen.

“‘…continue in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it, and how from childhood you have known the sacred writings that are able to instruct you for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus.

“‘…always be sober, endure suffering, do the work of an evange-list, carry out your ministry fully…’”

Carry out your ministry fully.
This was the line that, every year, stopped him cold, wondering—was he carrying out his ministry fully? A few times in his priesthood he’d actually believed that he was. Now…now, of course, things were different.

He could journey no further with Paul tonight. Recently, he’d become aware, however dimly, that he was looking for something in the Scriptures. He felt desperate for a specific message from God, yet he didn’t know what it might be. He knew only that it would be direct, meant profoundly for him, and that he’d recognize it instantly when at last it was revealed.

He thumbed the Scriptures in reverse order to the voice of David, a voice that might have been his own:

He heard a sound behind him and turned, startled.

“Timothy…”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor I.”

“Forgive me for forgetting.” He made a move to rise and go to her, but she came to him.

“It’s all right.”

“It isn’t all right. I’m sorry.”

She kissed him on his forehead. “What are you reading?”

“The Hundred and Second Psalm.”

“Let me read to you, dearest. I know how you love that. May I?”

“Yes,” he said, giving her his Bible.

She glanced at the open book. “I’ll read the very next one, the Hundred and Third. Come, let’s sit on the sofa where there’s a breeze through the windows.”

She turned on the lamp and settled into her end of the sofa. He sat beside her, thankful, realizing how happy he was to see her, to have her company.

“‘Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name!’”

He put his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes. His wife had a gift for reading Scripture as if it were hot off the press.

He knew only that she covered him with the afghan, and he slept soundly until morning.

As he turned the pages of his desk calendar, he discovered the date marked for the trip to New York.

The trip was only days away. Maybe he should call the airline and cancel; maybe they could get a refund.

But Cynthia mustn’t miss this. She could go without him and he’d try and get a refund on his own ticket. There was no way under heaven that he could face a trip to New York and a high-powered social event into the bargain. But he hated that she’d have to go alone. They’d been so positive, so happy about going together….

He got up and walked to the window and stared at the maple tree, unseeing.

Who could accompany his wife and look out for her and take her to the awards dinner and see her safely to and from the hotel and the airport?

The answer came at once; and at once, he knew it was right.

He was dozing on the sofa when someone knocked at the back door. Though unshaven and in the shabbiest of his sweat suits, he went to the door and opened it, eager for company.

“I come t’ check on you,” said Harley. “Hit’s my afternoon off.”

“Come in, come in! I’m glad to see you!”

“I wanted t’ bring you a pan of brownies, but hit’d be outright first-degree homicide, so I brung you this….”

Harley withdrew his hand from behind his back and offered a fistful of Malmaison roses from a bed at the old rectory.

Father Tim looked at them with amazement. He’d quite forgotten about his roses….

“You could put ’em in a show,” said Harley.

How could he have forgotten about his roses? “Sit down, Harley, sit down. I need the company, I’ve missed you.”

He ran water into a vase he found in the cabinet and arranged the pink roses, which were just unfurling their petals. Breathtaking! He would look for the camera and take a picture….

He carried them into the study and put the vase on the mantel where he could see it from the sofa. Then he thumped into the hollow he’d made in the cushion during the last weeks.

“Tell me everything,” he said with interest. “How are you pushing along with George?”

“Real good. He ain’t much in th’ kitchen, so I cook an’ he does th’ washup. ’E puts ’is britches on a hanger an’ keeps ’is room like he was in th’ armed service. I reckon he learned that in th’ penitentiary. He’s tryin’ t’ teach me poetry, said ’e had a class in th’ pen that got ’im to likin’ poetry, said it helped ’im exercise ’is mind.”

“Have you learned a few lines?”

“Somebody’s always tryin’ t’ teach me somethin’ I ain’t in’erested in learnin’. Let’s see if I can say that’n of Mr. Longfeller’s.” Harley propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

“All right, now, I’m studyin’ on it.” There was a long pause. “OK, here goes. ‘Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime, an’ departin’, leave behind us, footprints on th’ sands of time.’”

“Well done!”

“Let’s see, they was another line or two. ‘Let us then be up an’ doin’ with a heart f’r any fate…any fate…’” Harley looked up, defeated.

“Hit’s gone out of m’ noggin.”

Father Tim grinned. “‘Still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.’”

“’At’s it!”

“I learned that poem as a youngster. Lace would be proud of you.”

“I miss that young ’un.”

“What else is going on? Tell me news of the outside world!”

“Well, let’s see. Ain’t much t’ tell. Ol’ Man Mueller brought ’is rattletrap car in t’day. I got t’ work on it t’morrow.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Says it won’t turn right. Says it won’t go in th’ direction of ’is politics.”

“Aha.”

“Hadn’t turned right in two or three weeks, ’e said.”

“How did he get around?” asked Father Tim. “A man has to turn right once in a while.”

“Well, gen’rally, if he was goin’ t’ town, he’d turn right out of ’is driveway. But since he cain’t turn right, they won’t nothin’ t’ do but put ’er in reverse, back all th’ way to th’ shed, go around behin’ that ol’ barn that fell down, an’ circle around ’til he ended up beside ’is front porch—”

“Still in reverse?”

“That’s what he said.”

“How come he couldn’t turn around in front of his house?”

“Got a cornfield right up to ’is front door an’ another’n to th’ left.”

Father Tim shook his head as if to clear it.

“So onc’t he was headed out beside ’is porch, he could turn left an’ go t’ town.”

“If I couldn’t turn right, let’s see…how would I get to town?” A man who didn’t have anything better to do than this didn’t deserve anything better to do.

Harley stared fixedly at the wall, thinking. “Well, Rev’ren’, you’d have t’ back out of y’r garage an’ turn left, that’d head you t’ Church Hill, where you’d turn left ag’in. Then you’d turn left on Lilac Road an’ hang a left on Main Street.” He grinned broadly, revealing pink gums. “There y’ go. Nothin’ but left turns in that deal.”

“Piece of cake,” said Father Tim.

He didn’t know why, exactly, but a visit from Harley always did him a world of good. In truth, he felt the courage to ask what had been on his mind daily, and what Harley would surely know.

“Harley, what are they saying on the street?”

Harley looked sober. “Sayin’ it could’ve been a whole lot worser.”

The clock ticked on the mantel.

“Nobody holds it ag’in you.”

“Nobody?”

“Nossir. An’ if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, I wisht you wouldn’t hold it ag’in y’rself.”

He sat silent for a moment. “I’ll try, Harley. I’m going to try.”

Harley nodded encouragement. “That’s all a man can do,” he said.

The more he thought about it, and he fervently hoped he’d never think about it again, he wondered why Old Man Mueller didn’t make a U-turn beside his porch when he came home from town, which would head him in the proper direction for the next go-around.

Come to think of it, why was Old Man Mueller driving at all? Wasn’t he well into his nineties? And all that backing up! Good grief. He went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door and stared blankly at the contents.

“Bill, it’s Tim. How’re you doing?”

“When th’ Lord ordains, He sustains. I’m doin’ all right, brother, and I hope you are.”

“Yes. Bill…I hope it’s OK for me to suggest this….”

“What’s that?”

It was tough to say, but he had to get it behind him. “I’ve been thinking that…” He cleared his throat and made a fresh start.

“Whenever the time seems right, I’d like to buy you a dog.”

“I ’preciate it, but I’ve never had a
bought
dog—th’ Lord always sends my dogs. Except for Hoover, I believe th’ Other Party sent Hoover! No, I appreciate it, Tim, but whenever it’s time, my dog will come along.”

He didn’t know where else to go with this. It seemed there was nothing he could do for Bill Sprouse. He wanted desperately to minister to him in some way, yet Bill never seemed to need it. In truth, Bill’s faith seemed stronger, his confidence surer, his hope brighter than his own.

He sat in the place he’d worn for himself on the sofa, wishing, if only for a moment, that Bill had been driving the car, and he’d been the one standing by the stop sign.

Uncle Billy Watson dragged a chrome dinette chair from the kitchen to the dining room, where stacks of newspaper stood higher than the heads of most men.

It took a while to climb onto the chair seat and stand up so he could reach the top of the stack. Because he didn’t do this often, he forgot now and again what he’d hidden up there. Today he was looking for a special copy of the
Farmer’s Almanac
, but hoped he might find a little cash money while he was at it. He used to hide his money under the mattress, but Rose had found out and that was the last he ever saw of two fifties and a ten he’d made from building birdhouses.

What a man had to do was feel around real gentle, because if you poked your hand in a stack too forceful, it might come down all over creation. When newspapers was stacked up, they had a way of slithering like snakes, you couldn’t trust what they might do.

The town inspector had threatened to haul off the whole shebang, but he’d never gone through with it. Uncle Billy figured it must be a low-down kind of job to have, to go into people’s houses and tell them what they could hang on to and what had to be hauled off.

He’d be willing to give the newspapers to a paper drive if they ever had such a thing anymore, but he hadn’t heard of a paper drive in a coon’s age. Nossir, now they wanted you to bundle the dadjing things up and set them on the street in a red rubber bucket. On top of that, the town give a man a blue rubber bucket for glass and a white rubber bucket for periodicals.

Red, blue, white—it was all too much to keep up with; him and Rose put everything in a grocery bag when they could think of it and set it in a garbage can he’d found in a dumpster. That ought to be enough for a man to lawfully do with his garbage, this side of digging a hole and burying it hisself.

He pawed around on top of the stack, trying desperately to locate the almanac he clearly remembered putting up here. It had been full of good jokes, about as good as any he’d seen in a while. But if he’d left it out on a table where it ought to be, Rose would have done Lord knows what with it—peeled potatoes on it, or set a cook pot on it, or cut recipes out of it. He never knew why his wife cut out recipes when she’d never made anything from a recipe in her life. Heaven knows he’d made plenty of things from recipes he remembered from his boyhood.

He had stood by his mama’s table in that little cabin in the woods and watched her roll out dough for biscuits and pies and he didn’t know what all. He’d learned to cook creasies with fatback, and make rabbit stew, and even use a woodstove oven to bake deer meat with vinegar, springwater, lard, and wild onions. You had to cover your skillet good and tight, though, or your meat would dry out and be tough as whitleather….

He stopped trying to find the almanac and wondered, as he usually did, how in the dickens he’d get down from the chair. He nearly always forgot how hard it was to climb down once he climbed up. Seem like lately his arthritis was making his limbs so stiff that when the Lord called him Home, he’d be coffin-ready.

It was a real aggravation to find a decent joke these days. Sometimes he thought he’d quit joke-telling, just put it all behind him—retire, you might say. Only thing was, he liked to hear people laugh, yes, sir, that was about as good a feeling as a man could get without it costing an arm and a leg.

Maybe he’d hid the almanac in that little pantry off of the kitchen…

He held on to the back of the chair and looked down.

“Go easy!” he cautioned himself aloud. The chair wobbled as he lifted his right foot off the seat and set it on the floor. Boys howdy, that done it, that sent a pain up his leg that would lay out a mule…

He lifted the other foot off the chair seat, set it down, and felt the solid floor beneath. That was two feet set down, and all they was to set down, thank God A’mighty!

Famed Local Arthur

To Receive Award

“Ugh,” said his wife. “Who
writes
this stuff?”

“Mostly J.C. But sometimes he hires help.”

“I mean, really—
today’s liberated woman
? And who are these
insiders
? And this
spelling
! The
lowliest
school computer has
spellcheck
!”

His wife was hot, and no two ways about it.

“Not to mention this picture of me. Where on
earth
did he dig it up? It’s older than dirt, I’m wearing a
beehive
!”

“Here,” he said, taking the newspaper from her, “why rile yourself?”

“Does he ever talk to the
subject
of his little butcher jobs? Or is all his reportage done by hearsay and rumor? I
never
wrote a book about a
doodle bug
!”

“What was it about?”

“A
lady
bug!” she said, thoroughly disgusted.

He patted her hand. “Now, now, Kavanagh.”

She looked at him a moment, then fell back against the sofa cushions, hooting with laughter.

They walked to the garden bench and sat watching the moon rise over Baxter Park.

“My dear John…,” she said, fingering his silver tresses.

“Who’s John?”

“You know, sweetheart, John the Baptist!”