Out to Canaan (171 page)

After talking with Pauline, he put another list, however brief, on Emma's desk.

But this time, Emma found nothing. Nothing at all.

The realtors from Orlando had made an offer. A hundred and five thousand, cash. Which was, to a penny, the asking price.

He hadn't heard of anybody meeting an asking price lately.

When he spoke to Ron about it, he felt as if his jaws were frozen, or partially wired shut. “When do they want occupancy?”

“October fifteenth.”

“Who's buying it?”

“They didn't specify. Whoever it is may be renting it.”

“I'd like you to wait on this.”

“They made it clear they don't want to drag their feet. They were ready to shell out the cash today, but I won't sign anything of course, 'til I run all this by the vestry.”

“I'm going to ask you to do something.”

“You know I want to help, Father.”

Did he know that? “I want you to wait on this for ten days. Don't do anything for ten days.” He didn't think his now-customary thirty days would wash, but he had to have some time to adjust to this. The thought of the deal being done immediately made him feel trapped, helpless.

Ron pulled at his chin. “They've already said they want me to get back to them by the end of the week. If we make them wait, they could withdraw the offer.”

“Look. If you think we feel good about being swept out of our house like this, you've got another think coming. I've got to tell you that I don't appreciate it, and if you have in mind some early retirement plan I don't know about, then let's lay the cards on the table.”

His heart wasn't pounding, his brow wasn't perspiring. He was as cool as a cucumber.

Ron tried to smile, but couldn't. “Early retirement? Father, we'd keep you forever, if you'd let us. Retirement wasn't our idea, it was yours.”

“And it's my idea to have ten days to digest all this. Sixteen years in this parish has earned me ten days.” Period.

He wasn't taking no for an answer, and Ron knew it.

“Father! Stop! Wait!”

It was Winnie Ivey in her apron, running up Main Street behind him.

“I saw you pass, but I was on th' phone. Oh, you won't believe this! You won't believe it!”

“I'll believe it!” he said, laughing at her excitement.

“I won that cruise! I won it! A cruise to a whole bunch of islands!”

“Hallelujah!” he said, taking her hands as she jumped up and down. Her bandanna slipped back from her forehead, and graying curls sprung loose.

“I've never won anything, not even a stuffed animal in a shootin' gallery!”

“First time for everything!” he said, rejoicing with her.

“Golden Band said I could go anytime, starting in October! They were the nicest people, they said my entry was just perfect, they said it hit th' nail on th' head! I thank you for helpin' me with it, Father, stop by for a napoleon anytime! Well, gosh, I better get back, I've got two customers havin' donuts and coffee.”

He watched her dash down the street, thinking he might see her leap off the pavement and fly.

In two short days, Harley had hauled away three barrows of trash from Cynthia's garage, washed and waxed her car, mowed the grass at both houses, removed the dead and dying stems of the hosta, and weeded the flower beds.

“Harley, you'd better slow down,” said the rector, taking a turn at the weeding himself.

“No, sir, I ain't goin' to, I'm glad t' be workin', it's th' best fix I've been in and I thank th' Lord 'n Master f'r it.”

Right there, he thought, was another consideration. Any interim living arrangement the vestry might provide may not accommodate Harley Welch.

Father Tim squatted by the perennial bed and watched the dappled light play over the grass. He and Cynthia had prayed the prayer that never fails, and besides that, what else could they do?

He pondered the sudden, unexpected idea he'd had this morning as he ran. It had come to him out of the blue and slowed him to a walk. Of course, he'd never done anything like that before. But was that any reason not to do it now? Cynthia would know the answer.

The rotten thing about this new development with the rectory was that every time he turned around these days, he was standing under an ax waiting to fall. Thirty days here, ten days there, it seemed endless.

There was an upside, however. Going out to Canaan didn't look so ominous anymore. It looked like a blasted good way to introduce a little peace into his life.

He thought they might have to talk about it until the wee hours. But it was coming together very quickly.

“I think we should do it,” he told his wife.

“I think we should, too,” she said, looking intrigued.

She reached out to him, put her warm palm to his cheek, and smiled. “It would solve everything,” she said.

The following morning, he reached the office earlier than usual and found a message on his machine.

“Father? Ron here. I talked with H. Tide and they want to do the deal now—or never.” Ron cleared his throat. “Ah, also, they're saying they don't want to rent to us, they'd like to take possession by October fifteenth.”

There was a moment of uneven breathing. “Don't worry about a thing, Father, we'll take care of you.”

Wilma Malcolm's voice sounded in the background. “The Randall house!”

“Wilma heard the Randall house is available, and I'm sure we could work something out. Well, listen, we're headed to see the grandkids for a couple of days, I'll get back to you.” The machine clicked, whirred, and clicked again.

He sat at his desk, frozen.

In all his years as a priest . . . .

He didn't move for what seemed a long time.

Then he got up, hit the erase button on the machine, and walked out the door.

He went home to oversee Dooley's packing for the trip to Virginia in the morning.

He didn't know how he could face anybody right now, much less Dooley Barlowe. Would he break down and bawl like a baby? Or worse, reach for some heavy object and slam it through a window?

He made an effort to remember how Ron had stood by him the night they faced down Edith Mallory. It had happened a few years ago at Clear Day.

After confronting her with the rotten floor beams that they discovered under the Grill, Edith was persuaded to repair the damage and extend Percy's lease for five years, at a fraction of the rent hike she'd originally hit him with—the rent hike that had, in fact, been designed to put the Grill out of business.

Edith Mallory hated his guts, no two ways about it. She had revealed her rage toward him that night in a way he didn't care to recall.

He and Ron had left Clear Day, triumphant and ecstatic, brothers in a victory that had less to do with winning than with maintaining something central to the core and spirit of the village. While the sense of connectedness was vanishing in small towns everywhere, he and Ron had fought for something vital, and won.

Before he let this thing with the rectory eat him alive, he'd better forgive Ron Malcolm. By God's grace, maybe he could actually do it. So what if he might have to start all over again every five minutes?

The point was to start.

“You home?” yelled Dooley from the landing.

“I'm home. Give me a half hour.” He stopped in the kitchen to drink a glass of ice water.

Cynthia was shopping in Wesley, and Lace, who was leaving for the beach tomorrow, was baking cookies in Harley's kitchen. The fragrance drifted up the stairs like a sylph.

He went to his bedroom with Barnabas at his heels and sat in the wing chair, taking a few deep breaths to quiet the turmoil that had moved from his head and invaded his heart.

He and Cynthia had already prayed the prayer that never fails regarding the rectory, but he felt the need to pray it again.

Barnabas laid his head on his master's foot.

“Ah, fella,” he sighed, nudging his good dog's neck with the toe of his loafer.

The sound came through the open bedroom windows—a terrible screeching noise, a loud thud, the high-pitched yelping of a dog. Dooley was shouting.

He bolted to the front window and looked down on Wisteria Lane.

Good God! Barnabas lay in the street with Dooley bending over him.

He didn't remember racing down the stairs, but seemed to be instantly in the street with Dooley, crouching over Barnabas, hearing the horrific sound that welled up from his own gut like a long moan.

Blood ran from his dog's chest, staining the asphalt, and he reached out . . . .

“Don't touch 'im!” shouted Dooley. “He'll bite. We got t' muzzle 'im! Git Lace! Git Lace!”

The rector was on his feet and running for the house, calling, shouting. “And git me some towels!” yelled Dooley. “He's got a flail chest, I got t' have towels!”

His heart was pounding into his throat. Dear God, don't take my dog, don't take this good creature, have mercy!

Lace flew through the door. “Help Dooley!” he said, running toward the guest bathroom, where he picked up an armload of towels, then turned and sprinted up the hall and down the steps and into the street in a nightmarish eternity of slow motion.

“Give me that thing on your head,” Dooley told Lace, “and help me hold 'im! We got to muzzle 'im or he'll bite, look, do it this way, hold 'im right here.”

Father Tim could hardly bear the look of his dog, suffering, whimpering, thrashing on the asphalt, as fresh blood poured from the wound in his chest.

Dooley tied the bandanna around the dog's nose and mouth, and
knotted it. “Okay,” he said, taking off his T-shirt. “Don't look, you can see 'is lungs workin' in there.” He pressed the balled-up shirt partially into the gaping wound; immediately, the dark stain of blood seeped into the white cotton.

“Give me a towel,” Dooley said, clenching his jaw. He took the towel and wrapped the heaving chest, making a bandage. “Another one,” said Dooley, working quickly. “And git me a blanket, we got t' git 'im to Doc Owen. He could die.”

The rector ran into the house, praying, sweat streaming from him, and opened the storage closet in the hall. No blankets. The armoire!
He could die.

Christ, have mercy. He dashed up the stairs and flung open the door of the armoire and grabbed two blankets and ran down again, breathless, swept out of himself with fear.

Cynthia, come home . . .
he could die.

“Spread 'em down right there,” Dooley told the rector. “Help 'im,” he said to Lace.

They spread the blankets, one on top of the other, next to Barnabas, as a car slowed down and stopped. “Can we help?” someone called.

“You can pray!” shouted Lace, waving the car around them.

Together, they managed to move Barnabas onto the blankets. “Careful,” said Dooley, “careful. He's in awful pain, and his leg's broke, too, but they ain't nothin' I can do about it now, we got to hurry. Where's Harley?”

“He walked t' town,” said Lace, her face white.

“Git his keys, they're hangin' on th' nail. Back 'is truck out here, we'll put Barnabas in th' back, an' you'n me'll ride with 'im.”

She raced to the house as Dooley, naked to the waist, crouched over Barnabas and put his hand on the dog's head. “It's OK, boy, it's OK, you're goin' t' be fine.”

“Thank You, Jesus, for Your presence in this,” the rector prayed. “Give us your healing hands . . . .”

They heard Lace gun the truck motor and back out of the driveway. She hauled up beside them and screeched to a stop, the motor running.

“Let down th' tailgate,” said Dooley. Lace jumped out of the truck and let it down.

“Grab this corner of th' blanket with me,” he said to Lace. “Dad, you haul up that end. Take it easy. Easy!”

The dog's weight seemed enormous as they lifted him into the truck bed. “OK, boy, we're layin' you down, now.”

Lace and Dooley climbed up with Barnabas and gently positioned the whimpering dog in the center of the bed. Then Dooley slammed the tailgate and looked at the rector.

“Hurry,” he said.

They blew past Harley, who was walking home on Main Street. He turned to look after them, bewildered.

In twenty-five minutes, Barnabas was on the table at Meadowgate, and Hal Owen and Blake Eddistoe were at work. “You'd better not come in,” said Dooley, closing the door to the surgery.

The rector sat with Lace in the small waiting room. A fan droned overhead. The front door stood open to a yard where four chickens scratched in the grass.

His legs had turned to rubber when he got out of the truck a few minutes ago. He had driven like the wind, praying without ceasing, making the half-hour run in twenty minutes. Twice, he glanced behind him, through the window of the cab, to see Dooley give him the high sign.

Lace looked firm. “I believe he's goin' to make it.”

“I believe that with you,” he said, taking her hand. “You were wonderful.”

“I like your dog,” she said.