In This Mountain (5 page)

“Are you
drinkin’
? She
is
your wife!”

Father Tim lowered his voice. “This award was not won as a pastor’s wife, it was won as a hardworking writer and illustrator who has slaved over a drawing board for more than twenty years and has earned the right to be called by
her own name.
”

“I called her by her name, dadblame it.”

“In the
headline.
” J.C. glared at him. “You’re goin’ to fall down with a stroke if you don’t watch out.”

He saw that his hands were trembling, put them behind his back, and drew a deep breath.

“I just wanted you to know,” he said, and turned around and went down the stairs and through the Grill and out to the street, where he stopped and wiped his forehead and wondered what, exactly, had just happened to him.

“Hey, Granpaw!”

“Hey, Granpaw!”

Twin girls, twin tousles of red hair, twin hugs—and yet, two thoroughly individual hearts, souls, minds, and spirits.

“Hey, yourself!” he exclaimed. “Come and tell me everything.”

Ah, but he fancied the grandchildren Puny had allowed him to adopt as his own. There was, however, no Granmaw in the household; no, indeed, Cynthia did not take to this folksy appellation, it was just plain Cynthia for all comers, regardless of age or station.

“This is for you!” said Sassy, removing something from her book sack. “It has my name on the bottom.”

He looked at the watercolor—a man sleeping in a wing chair with a huge black dog at his feet. The man possessed a large nose and was not wearing shoes.

“That’s you!” she said, looking pleased.

“Umm. Are you sure my nose is that big?”

“Miss Cynthy says it looks just like you!”

“An’ see, Granpaw, this is mine!” Sissy held up her own watercolor—a man lying on a sofa with a huge black dog sprawled beside him on the floor. “It’s you an’ Barnabas, I put Vi’let under the sofa, that’s her tail, do you like it?”

There was that turnip-size nose again. He reached up and felt the thing that extended from his face. “I couldn’t like it better. Why on earth were you painting me today?”

“Miss Hellman said do somebody,
not
your mama or your daddy, that you like really a lot.”

“Well, if that’s the case, maybe you wouldn’t mind being seen around town with me.” The twins began to jiggle on the balls of their feet, entering into an after-school game the three of them often played.

Father Tim scratched his head in mock puzzlement and inquired soberly, “But where on earth could we go?”

“Sweet Stuff !”
they shouted in unison.

“I didn’t know you had grans!” Ada Rupert, who was buying a dozen oatmeal cookies for a visit of her own grandchildren, looked suspicious.

“I don’t,” he said. “Well, not exactly. I borrow my grans, you might say.”

“Humph,” said Ada. “I guess when there’s nothin’ to do all day, borrowin’ grans helps pass th’ time. As for me, I’ve got all I can say grace over without grans comin’ this afternoon to spend two days!”

He noticed Ada was huffing and blowing as if she’d run to the bakery from the top of the hill.

“Chocolate chip cookie!” said Sassy, standing on tiptoe and placing her order with Winnie.

“Cream horn!” proclaimed Sissy, indicating her choice by touching the glass case and leaving a smudge.

“Well!” said Ada, collecting her purchases and turning to leave.

“You can borrow mine anytime! Help yourself!”

He was ashamed to realize he’d fallen victim to Ada Rupert’s notoriously sharp tongue. Nothing to do all day? Nothing to do, indeed!

His face flamed as the bell jingled on the door, and he reached into his pocket and removed his wallet. “A cream horn, a chocolate chip cookie, and…” He stared into the case, stricken.

“And?” asked Winnie, peering at him.

His heart hammered. “And a
napoleon
!” he said, surprised to hear the forbidden order issue forth in his pulpit voice.

After dinner at the yellow house, he knocked on the rectory’s basement door.

Harley opened it, looking sheepish. “Law, Rev’ren’, you done caught me fryin’ onions! Step on in, I hope you don’t mind th’ smell.”

“Smells good! Won’t take but a minute, just wanted to say a friend is coming to town. He’ll need work and a place to live, says he can restore old cars and he’s willing to learn a trade. If that rings any bells, or if you hear of anything…”

“I’ll keep m’ eye out. Can you set down an’ visit?”

“Can’t do it tonight, thanks, we’re going to take a little stroll through Baxter Park. His name is George Gaynor. He’s…a convicted felon, out on parole after eight years in prison.”

Harley looked dismayed, then dropped his gaze to the floor.

“What is it, Harley?”

“Well, Rev’ren’, they’s one thing I ain’t never tol’ you. I was meanin’ to, but…th’ reason I didn’t never tell you is ’cause you didn’t never ask me.” Harley raised his head and looked his landlord in the eye. “I served time.”

“Aha.”

“What done it is, I was runnin’ from th’
po
lice back when I was haulin’ liquor. I didn’t want t’ run, nossir, but I was s’ scared, I couldn’t think whether I wanted to keep a-goin’ and maybe git caught som’ers down th’ road, or stop an’ face th’ music.”

Harley sighed. “I kep’ a-goin’. They run me all th’ way to Cumberland County with fifty gallons of lightnin’ in m’ fender wells, an’ th’ harder they run me, th’ madder they got, ’cause I had a ’62 Chevy V-8 that went like a scalded dog.” Harley sighed again. “Pulled three years. Hit sobered me up, in a manner of speakin’.”

Father Tim nodded.

“I hate t’ tell you that, hit pains me.”

“What’s done is done.”

“When they let me out, I never hauled another drop. An’ not too long after that, I quit drinkin’ th’ lowdown stuff—just quit foolin’ with liquor all th’ way around.”

He put his hand on Harley’s shoulder. What would he do without this good man the Lord had dropped in his lap? “That hard thing had a bright side, then.”

Harley nodded, then grinned with relief, displaying pink gums entirely vacant of teeth.

“Keep your ear to the ground for George, if you will. He’ll be arriving sometime in June. You’ll like him, he’s a strong believer.”

“I’ll do it. An’ Rev’ren’…”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t want th’ boy t’ know, hit’d not be right f’r th’ boy t’ know what I tol’ you.”

“He won’t hear it from me.” He turned to go.

“Rev’ren’?” Harley swallowed hard. “I thank you f’r…lettin’ me tell you that.”

“I thank you for telling me,” he said.

He’d done everything possible to trace Dooley’s missing siblings. Sammy and Kenny had, in fact, been missing for more than nine years, and nothing, no matter what he did, seemed to result in useful clues. Dooley’s stepfather, Buck Leeper, was doing his share: He’d worked on a false lead to Kenny for a full year and it had turned into a dead end.

Locating the first two Barlowe children had been miraculously simple. Father Tim and Lace Turner had hauled Poo out of the Creek community, and Jessie, then five years old, had been traced to Florida. On the oddest of hunches, he and Cynthia had made the long trip to Lakeland with Jessie’s mother, Pauline, and now, thanks be to God, three of the five siblings were safe and accounted for. More than anything, yes, more than anything, he wanted to see the whole family reunited with their utterly transformed mother who had surrendered her life to Christ and married a believer who loved her kids.

He tried not to despair over the mounting discouragement he felt, and firmly denied the thought that occasionally came to him; the thought that, deep down, he had given up hope.

“Sit still,” he told his wife. “I’ll get it.”

He’d always rather liked a ringing doorbell. One never knew what surprise or even amazement might be waiting. It was a great deal like the mail in that regard.

He could scarcely see Jena Ivey, owing to the enormous basket of flowers she was delivering to their threshold. Jena ducked her head around the ivy that trailed profusely from one side.

“Congratulations!” she crowed, shoving the vast thing into his arms. He staggered backward from the weight of it.

“Congratulations? What did I do?”

“Nothing, as far as I know, it’s for Cynthia!” The hardworking owner of Mitford Blossoms was positively beaming.

“Of course! Yes, indeed. Good gracious….”

“It’s the most money anyone
ever
let me spend on an order,” she called after him. “I used everything but the kitchen sink!”

He trotted down the hall, peering carefully around a thicket of maidenhair fern so he wouldn’t crash into a wall, and delivered the basket to the study.

“There!” He set it on the hearth, nearly poking his eye on one of the several lengths of grapevine stuck capriciously into the moss. “I don’t know what it is; possibly a complete shire from the west of England!”

“How
wonderful
!” His wife bounded from the sofa, streaked to the thing, and buried her face in it, wreathed in smiles. “Heaven! Oh, my! What joy!”

He observed that she was now down on all fours, crawling around the basket, which was fully the size of Johnson County and loaded with everything from yellow tulips and lavender foxglove to pink roses and purple verbena.

“Umm! Oh, goodness! Look, dearest, could it be heliotrope? And there! See the tiny mushrooms growing in the moss?”

“Who’s it from?” he asked, squatting down to where the action was.

She removed the card from the French wire ribbon. “Let’s see…. Well! Have you ever?”

No, he had never. “Who?” he asked.

“Dear James!”

“Dear James?”

“You know, darling, my editor.”

“Aha.”

“‘My dear Cynthia,’” she read aloud from the card. “‘Please accept this smallest of tokens for the joy you have brought so many. Congratulations!’”

“
Dear
James,
dear
Cynthia?” This inquiry, spoken with uncharacteristic sarcasm, was out of his mouth before he knew it. His face flamed.

Just as it took very, very little to make his wife happy, it took very little, indeed, to wound her deeply. She looked as if she’d been dashed with ice water.

“I’m sorry,” he said, dumbfounded by his feelings. Where had that sudden, bitter jealousy come from?

He reached toward her, but she drew back. “I’ve never heard you…speak that way before,” she whispered.

Tears sprang to his eyes. “I don’t know, I’m sorry, please forgive me.” He felt oddly lost, bereft, as if a great chasm had opened between them.

She leaned her head to one side and looked at him for a long moment. Then she smiled. “It’s all right, dearest,” she said, taking his hand.

He settled into his chair in the study, swiveled around to the desk, and tore off several calendar pages.

May 21st, vanished!

May 22nd, defunct!

May 23rd, out of here!

Where had time gone? He hadn’t penned a word in nearly a month. But there’d be no guilt; he’d sworn to enjoy the process and not kick himself for failing to churn out a predetermined volume of work. The book would happen when it happened.

He put his mind to the thing before him.

“‘Enough, if something from our hands have power,’” he recited aloud, “‘to live and act and serve the future hour….’”

This new essay would address the couplet from Wordsworth; it put forth an issue he’d been searching in his heart, whether indeed he’d done anything in nearly forty years as a priest that would truly serve the future hour. He needed to know the answer, the honest answer. Writing to search the soul had often helped; more than once this had enabled him to arrive at a better understanding of a personal issue. He thought, too, that the whole subject might be of interest to others—didn’t everyone fervently desire to leave a mark, to make a difference? In truth, mortality had been one of mankind’s most devouring disappointments—having only a brief time to make a difference, one forever felt the pressure to get cracking.

He picked up the black pen and relished its solid heft; for years, he’d wished for a fine pen, something more than the annual Christmas ballpoint from The Local, or the sundry poor excuses in his pen cup that multiplied like wire hangers in a closet. And now, in honor of this book of essays, his good wife had given him a black roller ball with a white emblem on the cap; he couldn’t imagine what it might have cost—it had bucks written all over it. Maybe he’d use the pen today instead of his typewriter; after all, had Montaigne used a typewriter, or Proust, or Emerson?

He peered at the decrepit Royal manual that had served him well for longer than he could remember. It had gone through his sixteen-year tenure at Lord’s Chapel and was still working like a clock, except for the lowercase
i
, which often printed
ii
; he’d always meant to have that fixed and now nobody repaired typewriters anymore.

Dooley trotted down the hall to the kitchen, which opened directly to the study, and examined the contents of the refrigerator. He popped the top on a Coke and glanced at Father Tim. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” Father Tim felt the grin on his face.

“What’s going on?” Dooley asked.

He opened his mouth to answer, but Dooley didn’t wait for an answer; the question was rhetorical. He vanished down the hall, the soles of his tennis shoes squeaking on the pine floor.

Dooley.
Of course!
It was Dooley who, through whatever bumbling influence he’d had upon the boy’s life, would serve the future hour. Yes!

He felt the sting of tears in his eyes and got up and crossed the study and went to the kitchen and peered down the hall, hoping to see Dooley before he reached the front door. He wanted to tell him something, he couldn’t think what, exactly. But Dooley was gone.

His wife was gone, too, he’d forgotten just where, and his study was quiet as a tomb, the whole house seemed in a kind of repose which he should savor, but he could not. He listened to his dog snoring in the corner and observed Violet sleeping on the sofa. Violet, who was no longer a spring chicken, had lately begun to snore, as well. He stood for a moment listening to the odd cacophony, the delicate whiffle from the sofa, the bass rumble from the corner of the room near his desk. If he didn’t watch out, he’d join the throng any moment. In truth, the world was standing still until Cynthia came in the door; it was as if half of him were missing—his better half.

Better half!
He’d once found this term as quaint as
missus.
But he was wiser now, and wasn’t she indeed his better half? The half that laughed more easily? The half that didn’t take life so seriously? The half that was more spontaneous and free, more expectant of God’s blessings, more certain, at times, of His love?

He heard the tolling of the bells at Lord’s Chapel, a mere block away, and checked his watch. Three o’clock. Thirsty, he was very thirsty, but returned to his desk and sat as if asleep until he heard her come into the kitchen and set something on the counter. It was a glad sound; he wanted to rush to her, to see her face, but it was this very need that nailed him to the chair where he sat.

“What are you
doing
, dearest?”

“Thinking!” he said.

“Thinking? But you’ve been thinking for hours. You were thinking when I left!”

He picked up a piece of paper, trying to feign scholarly absorption. In truth, there was absolutely nothing on the paper; it was blank. He put it down and fumbled in his desk drawer.

“It’s a gorgeous day, Timothy!” Rustle of bags in the kitchen, a few things from The Local, he supposed. It was her night to make dinner.

“Just gorgeous!” she crowed.

His wife wanted someone to play with, he could tell—a walk around Mitford Lake, perhaps, or a drive on the Parkway with the top down. Couldn’t she see he was busy with something important? He grabbed a book off the stack by his desk and opened it. At once he felt filled with authority, as if he were knowledgeable and wise and she a child without purpose.

She came and stood by his chair and looked at him fondly. “Timothy, you think too much!”

He couldn’t believe he was hearing those words from his wife, words he’d heard since childhood—from his mother, his teachers, his first bishop, even from Stuart Cullen. What was too much? Who was to say which chalk line one should think up to and then come to a screeching halt? What if Wordsworth had never thought too much, or Shakespeare or Milton or Cranmer or Socrates? And what about Beethoven or Edison or…
Madame Curie
? Why was thinking such a crime?

“Why is thinking such a crime?” he asked, oddly angry.

“Oh, pfoo, darling!” She threw up her hands and walked back to the kitchen.

He didn’t want her to leave the room, he wanted her to stay, he wanted her to…sit on his lap and ruffle what was left of his hair. He felt suddenly small and bereft. In a fleeting moment, she had become the authority and he the child without purpose.

On his way to the Grill, a strange thing happened. Out of the blue, he had an idea that was so perfect, so right, that he couldn’t imagine why he’d never thought of it before. Of course.
Of course!
The only problem was, how would he present it to Dooley?

“I got to do somethin’ to rake in business.”

Percy slid into the booth, looking…Father Tim pondered what Percy was looking…Percy was looking old, that’s what; about like the rest of the crowd in the rear booth. He sucked up his double chin.

“Maybe I ought t’ mess around with th’ menu,” said Percy, “an’ come up with a special I could run th’ same day ever’ week.”

“Gizzards!” said Mule.

“What about gizzards?”

“I’ve told you for years that gizzards is th’ answer to linin’ your pockets.”

“Don’t talk to me about gizzards, dadgummit! They’re in th’ same category as what goes over th’ fence last. You’ll never see me sellin’ gizzards.”

“To make it in th’ restaurant business,” said Mule, “you got to set your personal preferences aside. Gizzards are a big draw.”

“He’s right,” said J.C. “You can sell gizzards in this town. This is a gizzard kind of town.”

Mule swigged his coffee. “All you got to do is put out a sign and see what happens.”

Percy looked skeptical. “What kind of sign?”

“Just a plain, ordinary sign. Write it up yourself an’ put it in th’ window, no big deal.”

“When me an’ Velma retire at th’ end of th’ year, I want to go out in th’ black, maybe send ’er to Washington to see th’ cherry blossoms, she’s never seen th’ cherry blossoms.”

“That’s what gizzards are about,” said Mule.

“What d’you mean?”

“Gizzards’ll get some cash flow in this place.”

“Seem like chicken livers would draw a better crowd,” said Percy.

“Livers tie up too much capital.” J.C. was hammering down on country ham, eggs over easy, and a side of yogurt. “Too much cost involved with livers. You want to go where the investment’s low and the profit’s high.”

Mule looked at J.C. with some admiration. “You been readin’ th’
Wall Street Journal
again.”

“What would I put on th’ sign?” asked Percy.

“Here’s what I’d put,” said Mule. “
Gizzards Today
.”

“That’s it?
Gizzards Today
?”

“That says it all right there. Like you say, run your gizzard special once a week, maybe on…” Mule drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. “Let’s see…”

“Tuesday!” said J.C. “Tuesday would be good for gizzards. You wouldn’t want to start out on Monday with gizzards, that’d be too early in th’ week. And Wednesday you’d want something…”

“More upbeat,” said Mule.

Father Tim buttered the last of his toast. “Right!”

“Wednesday could be your lasagna day,” said J.C. “I’d pay good money for some lasagna in this town.”

There was a long, pondering silence, broken only by a belch. Everyone looked at Mule. “’Scuse me,” he said.

“Do y’all eat gizzards?” Percy inquired of the table.

“Not in this lifetime,” said J.C.

“No way,” said Mule.

“I pass,” said Father Tim. “I ate a gizzard in first grade, that was enough for me.”

Percy frowned. “I don’t get it. You’re some of my best reg’lars—why should I go to sellin’ somethin’ y’all won’t eat?”

“We’re a different demographic,” said J.C.

“Oh,” said Percy. “So how many gizzards would go in a servin,’ do you think?”

“How many chicken tenders d’you put in a serving?”

“Six,” said Percy. “Which is one too many for th’ price.”

“So, OK, as gizzards are way less meat than tenders, I’d offer fifteen, sixteen gizzards, minimum.”

J.C. sopped his egg yolk with a microwave biscuit. “Be sure you batter ’em good, fry ’em crisp, an’ serve with a side of dippin’ sauce.”

Percy looked sober for a moment, then suddenly brightened. “Fifteen gizzards, two bucks. What d’you think?”

“I think Velma’s going to D.C.,” said Father Tim.

A brief silence was filled with the sound of the dishwasher running full throttle behind the rear booth. Accustomed to its gyrations, the occupants of the booth no longer noticed that the wash cycle occasioned a rhythmic tremor in the floorboards.

“So how do you think your jewel thief will go over?” asked J.C.

“He’s not
my
jewel thief,” snapped Father Tim.

“It was your church attic he hid out in,” said Percy.

“I think he’ll go over just fine. He’s paid his debt to society in full, but better than that, he’s a redeemed man with a strong faith.”

Silence.

Chewing.

Slurping.

“I hope,” said Father Tim, “that you’ll extend the hand of fellowship to him.” There. That’s all he had to say about it.

Mule nodded. “No problem. It’s th’ right thing to do.”

More chewing.

“So how come you’re not goin’ to Rwanda or someplace like that?” asked Percy.

“Hoppy wouldn’t allow it.” Hoppy would never have considered such a thing. Father Tim knew his limitations and they were numerous.

“What about th’ kids in your own backyard? You ever thought of doin’ somethin’ for them?”

The fact that he’d supported the Children’s Hospital in Wesley for twenty years was his own business; he never talked about it. “Tennessee
is
our own backyard.” How he ever ended up with this bunch of turkeys was more than he could fathom.

“We’ll miss you,” said Mule, clapping him on the shoulder. “I won’t hardly know what to order around here.”

Father Tim laughed, suddenly forgiving. He thought he might miss them, too, though the possibility seemed a tad on the remote side.