Shepherds Abiding (11 page)

“The shepherds?”

“That went to worship the Baby Jesus. I know they didn’t walk around the barn, but . . .”

In the leaden winter sky, a star or two had already appeared, and a sliver of moon. A bird called somewhere by the rabbit pen.

“Timothy . . .”

Something in his father’s voice was suddenly different; his eyes shone with a tenderness his son had never seen before.

His father gazed at him for an instant more, then walked up the steps and into the house.

He had sat there, numb with a mixture of joy and bewilderment. In one brief and startling moment, he realized that he was, after all, seen—and perhaps even loved. His heart beat faster, and his breath nearly left him.

As dusk faded toward nightfall, he prayed again and
walked down the steps onto frozen grass that crackled beneath his shoes like dry leaves.

More stars had appeared; he looked above the ridge of the barn roof and picked a bright star that he might follow.

He had reached the barn and touched its silvery, unpainted wood when he heard footsteps behind him. He whirled around and, in the twilit gloom, saw the figure of his father.

“Timothy . . .”

His father had walked with him then, neither of them speaking. When he, Timothy, stumbled over a castaway bucket, he instinctively flung out his hand, and his father caught it and held it in his own, and, in the cold and velveteen darkness, they continued around the silent barn, toward the house in which every window gleamed with light.

“This pie’s thawed,” said Fred, sticking his forefinger into the filling.

“I’m sorry—what did you say?”

Timothy . . .
The memory of that single and astonishing connection with his father might be lost for years at a time, only to return when least expected. . . .

“Pie’s thawed. You want coffee?”

“Sure,” he said, hoarse with feeling.

He walked home along the empty sidewalk, illumined by a choir of angels. Formed by hundreds of tiny lights, the angels gleamed from every lamppost on both sides of their modest Main Street, giving it the look of a large and gracious boulevard.

Gouging funds out of the town budget for a host of angels had, in his opinion, been the finest hour of their former mayor, Esther Cunningham.

“You’ve been scarce as hens’ teeth,” said Mule.

“Busy,” said Father Tim, thumping into the rear booth.

“Big deal. Everybody’s busy this time of year. I’ve been havin’ to do breakfast and lunch solo.”

“What’s J.C. doing? Starving to death?”

“We had lunch at th’ tea shop yesterday, and breakfast th’ day before.”

“You just said you’d been eating solo.”

Mule grinned. “I said that to make you feel sorry for me.”

“It isn’t working.”

Father Tim opened the single-fold menu. He was up for something different today. Enough already with tuna on dry toast.

“Tell you what,” said Mule, “I’ll let you order for me! How’s that? You know what I like—order me whatever you want to!”

“I can’t order for you, buddyroe, you can’t even order for yourself.”

Mule shrugged. “I don’t have a clue what I want.”

“There’s the rub.” As for himself, maybe he’d try the taco salad. Or the pimiento cheese on whole wheat . . .

“I guess you heard what’s movin’ into this buildin’ when Percy leaves.”

“Nope. I’ve been out of the loop for a while.”

“A shoe store!”

“Great news!”

“That’s what I said. A man shouldn’t have to drive to another town to buy shoes.”

“You don’t drive to another town to buy shoes,” said Father Tim. “All your shoes come from yard sales in Mitford.”

“A penny saved is a penny earned. So what am I havin’?” Mule leaned forward in anticipation, as Velma swooped over like a crow from a pine tree.

“Let me tell ’im what he’s havin’!” She shot her glasses down her nose, meaning business; she didn’t have all day to yank an order out of Mule Skinner. “He’s havin’ a bowl of vegetable soup with a hot cornstick! Today’s special!”

Mule gave Velma a dark look. “What’s in th’ vegetable soup?”

“Vegetables,” she said, tight-lipped.

“Wait. Whoa.” Father Tim knew where this was headed. “Bring him a bacon cheeseburger, everything but onions, with fries on the side and a Diet Coke. And . . .” Should he do this?

“And. . . ?” Velma’s pencil was poised in the air.

“And I’ll have the same!” He exhaled.

Speechless, Velma adjusted her glasses and stumped away.

“Did you know,” said Father Tim, “that the average American eats over sixteen pounds of fries per year? As I’ve had only two or three orders in the last decade, I figure I’m due roughly a hundred and fifty-nine pounds.”

“There’s only one problem,” said Mule.

“What’s that?”

“Th’ grease Percy uses for fries is th’ same he uses for fish. I don’t much like fish.”

“So I’ve been wondering—how is J.C. getting upstairs to his pressroom since he refuses to set foot in this place?”

“He’s usin’ th’ window on th’ landin’.”

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

“Just shoots up th’ bottom sash, slips in like a house burglar, and up th’ steps he goes. By th’ way . . .”

He thought Mule looked pained. “Yes?”

“Fancy don’t like me to eat bacon.”

“I forgot to ask Percy who won the photo contest. Did you hear?”

“Lew Boyd.”

“Great. That was a good shot.”

“Plus. . . ,” said Mule.

“Plus what?”

“Plus Fancy wants me to cut out cheese. Too constipatin’.”

“So! If you could have anything you want, what would you like for Christmas?”

“Anything I want? Price no object?”

“Right.”

“A Rolodex watch!”

“Aha!” said Father Tim, as their orders arrived with more than the usual flourish.

He was glad Cynthia was out to a tea at Olivia Harper’s when Dooley called.

“Hey,” said Dooley.

“Hey, yourself, buddyroe! What’s up? When are you headed home?”

“December twentieth.”

“We can’t wait. I’ll have something to show you, but you mustn’t tell Cynthia.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“I’m working on an old Nativity scene—twenty-odd pieces! Angels, shepherds, wise men, sheep—we’ve got ten sheep, total, a whole flock!”

“You sound excited.”

“I am. It’s great. Wait ’til you see it. I’m painting shepherds now. Next come angels.”

“Sounds hard.”

“It is hard.” He realized he was grinning. “But it’s . . .” He thought a moment. “It’s
fun.
”

“So save me somethin’ to paint,” said Dooley.

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Consider it done! Have you heard from Sammy?”

“He wrote me a letter. I’ll bring it so you and Cynthia can read it. It meant a lot to him to be with everybody at Thanksgiving.”

“Buck and I are going down to see him next week.” Buck Leeper was Dooley’s stepdad, and a zealous teammate in the search for Dooley’s siblings. “We’ll take Poo and Jessie. I hope Sammy will come for Christmas.”

“That would be great.” Dooley sounded pensive. “I’ve been thinking—would you take him all the clothes in my closet except my green sweatshirt and the last pair of jeans Cynthia bought me?”

“He’s a little taller than you, but we’ll give it a try.”

“Umm, don’t take that Italian suit Cynthia made me wear in New York, or the belt that’s hanging on the door.”

“Got it.”

There was a brief silence.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think—I mean, like, really—that we’ll ever find Kenny?”

“Yes!” he said without hesitating. “Yes!”

“You haven’t given up?”

“Never! I don’t know what to do right now, but God has been faithful. Four out of five, son! Let’s keep thanking Him for His providence . . . and praying and believing He’ll lead us to Kenny. Is that a deal?”

“Yes, sir,” said Dooley. “It’s a deal.”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, taking her hand.

They lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling, at the place where the streetlamp shone in and cast its light.

“Tell me,” she said.

“All these years, I’ve remembered the hard things about my father. His indifference to my mother, his coldness toward me, his rage, his depression, the countless times he hurt us.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“When a person spends a lifetime hurting himself and others, it’s hard to remember the good things about him.”

“Yes. I know.”

“I want to start remembering the time he looked at me . . .” His voice broke, and he lay still for a time. “It was only a look, nothing more, but it said everything I’d ever hoped to know.”

There was a long silence.

“And then he walked around the barn with me.” He couldn’t stop the flow of tears, nor did he wish to.

“Tell me about it, dearest.”

He told her.

With all his heart, and with all his soul, he would attempt to put that moment, that dark yet somehow shining hour, at the front of his memories about his father. After all these years, it would be enough.