Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (36 page)

‘How would you get around?’

‘I want to buy a truck I just saw in Wesley. Used, but it’s a better vehicle for me. For one thing, I don’t need a crew cab and a long bed right now.’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘If you don’t like it, I’ll take it back and sell it to th’ guy who does grounds maintenance at school.’

One more thing to think about felt like one more thing too much.

‘I’ll run it through the wash in Wesley. Tires already kicked.’

They went out to the curb.

‘What about that scratch on the passenger door?’

‘You’re in buyer’s mode, for sure. I’ll take care of that. A little touch-up with a paint stick.’

He opened the door, looked inside. Pretty clean, all things considered.

‘Take it around the block,’ said Dooley.

‘Why the straw bales in the bed?’

‘Goin’ to Meadowgate this afternoon, they’re fresh out of straw. I picked it up at th’ feed store in Wesley.’

He remembered bouncing around in the wagon with Louis in
Holly Springs. The rutted farm roads, the smell of hay and horse sweat, the creek flashing in a hard summer sun . . .

‘Okay, I’ll do a quick test drive. How about Barnabas rides shotgun, and you and your crowd ride with Coot on the straw bales?’

‘Cool,’ said Dooley.

Coot was upstairs stuffing mouse holes with rags soaked in peppermint oil, a trick recommended in a Hint. He called up the stairs. ‘Coot! Let’s go have some fun that is funny!’

He had never used the sign so commonly employed by fellow merchants for a quick dash up the block. He turned it around to face the street.

Back in Fifteen Minutes

He was ready for a little wild liberty of his own.

•   •   •

H
ONKING
. Playing country music—loud. Laughing. Waving. It was his early run-up to the Independence Day parade.

‘Country come to town!’ he hollered, rolling through the gas pump aisle at Lew’s.

They saw J.C. hoofing by the fire station, blew the horn. J.C. raised his camera, fired off a couple of shots. Avis threw up his hand. In the rearview mirror, he could see Coot, as excited as any country boy.

It felt good to make people happy, himself included, simply by tooling around in a truck full of kids and dogs.

•   •   •

B
ACK
AT
THE
STORE
, they hammered out the details. He would wire the money into Dooley’s account on Monday. Dooley would use the truck until tomorrow when the deal in Wesley was done.

‘Are you goin’ to buy it?’ asked Jessie.

‘You should buy it,’ said Pooh.

He put his arm around Sammy’s shoulder, not an easy thing to do with this tall kid.

‘Done deal,’ he said. ‘Sammy and I need a truck to get our rose garden finished. We’re going to build a stone wall.’ One way or another, come hell or high water.

‘Yay-y-y,’ said Jessie.

•   •   •

H
E
CALLED
H
OPE
; Scott answered.

‘Bleeding again,’ said Scott. ‘Wilson’s coming over.’

‘What may I do?’

‘What you do best. Please.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘There’s good news,’ said Scott. ‘Hope’s sister, Louise, is moving back to Mitford in December. Her company is moving to Denver, so she’ll be running the store starting January first. I know you’re glad to hear it; you’ve had a long go at Happy Endings.’

‘I needed a long go. Louise is a lovely woman. I’m happy for all.’

‘There’s something more. We wanted to tell you earlier, Father . . . we’ve known since the first ultrasound, but . . . somehow, we were afraid to . . .’

The chaplain paused, cleared his throat. ‘It’s a girl!’

•   •   •

H
E
BUSIED
HIMSELF
WITH
LOCATING
the N for November banner and cleaning the coffee apparatus. He didn’t always know what to do when joy comingled with dread.

He tied a fresh bandanna around the neck of the Old Gentleman, as a kind of flag to heaven.

•   •   •

M
OZART
JOINED
VOICES
with Coot and Miss Mooney, hard at their task in the Poetry section.

The store phone. ‘Happy Endings! Good afternoon.’

‘Father Kavanagh?’

‘It is.’

‘Professor McCurdy was in to see you recently.’

A very professional-sounding woman.

‘Yes. And I hear the professor’s son, Hastings, is not well.’

‘He was admitted to Children’s Hospital at one o’clock today, his fever is a hundred and three.’ The caller’s voice wavered, she drew in her breath. ‘He’s very confused. Hastings is never confused. They say this is not a good thing.’

‘Is there a diagnosis?’

‘They believe it’s meningitis. Whether viral or bacterial, they don’t know. They’ve given him antibiotics and will go forward with a spinal tap.’ The hospital paging system sounding in the background. ‘This is all very serious, yet he’s on a gurney in the hallway. It’s a wonderful hospital, but the conditions . . .’

‘We hope to rectify this soon.’ What consolation was that? He disliked the sound of it.

‘Can you do something, please? I’m told you’re a longtime donor, could you get him into a room?’

‘I very much doubt it. I know the staff and trust them to do all they can for Hastings. There’s a shortage of beds . . .’

‘I don’t know any people of the cloth. I’ve read about you in the
Muse
. Would you . . . pray for Hastings?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘The professor is away. Do you think you might come to the hospital?’ He heard the urgency; the cool professionalism had gone.

‘I’m tied up until five. But I’ll come straight there.’

‘Should you see the professor again, please—don’t mention that we’ve spoken.’

‘You are Professor McCurdy’s . . . ?’

‘Wife.’

•   •   •

T
HE
SLEEPING
BOY
APPEARED
SMALLER
still in the confines of the bed. The delicacy of the human eyelid had always astonished him—its silky thinness over such a vital organ; its bluish hue as pale as watercolor.

Hastings, it’s the one who lent you the Wordsworth, he might say when the boy woke up. But the Wordsworth had been a thorn. He sat by the bed and prayed.

Sharon McCurdy stood with her back to the wall, looking shocked and somewhat fierce. She was clearly uncomfortable with the priest, but wanted him there, nonetheless.

‘He’s a sweetie,’ said Nurse Robin. ‘We’re all thankful it’s not bacterial.’

Twice he’d been around the block with meningitis in young parishioners, both bacterial and far more serious.

He prayed from the heart for Hastings McCurdy, a boy who might have been himself at this age—reading in advance of his learning level, interested in the classics, and smaller in stature than other boys in his class. As for the outcome, he would most likely be released tomorrow or the next day.

‘Please sit,’ he said. Sharon McCurdy had earlier refused the chair and insisted he keep the closer watch.

‘I cannot,’ she said.

‘Does your husband know?’

‘I try not to trouble him. He’s at an important gathering of scholars.’

‘There’s an important scholar lying right here,’ he said.

She tossed her head. ‘There must be a room somewhere. All this rushing about in the hallway . . .’

‘I’ve watched them work many times over the years. All we’re missing here is three walls.’

‘I thought it was flu,’ she said, blaming herself. ‘And then the vomiting . . .’

‘Many similarities to flu when it presents.’

‘The spinal tap was hideously painful.’

‘Yes, but they know from the tap what to do.’

‘What can you do, Father?’ She was testy.

‘I’m praying.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘That’s a very good question. I often asked that in the early years of my calling. But yes, I believe it is fully enough. My common experience each and every day shows prayer to be fully enough.’

‘He could have some memory loss, they say. He knows so many wonderful things by heart. One of the poems in the book you lent, he was learning by memory.’

‘Which one, may I ask?’

She was close to tears. ‘“By the Seaside.” He asked me to define bemocked.’

She covered her face with her hands and turned to the wall.

The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest,

And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest . . .

•   •   •

T
HREE
EMERGENCY
ROOM
ADMISSIONS
and a funeral, all within a couple of weeks. While the stuff of life came in big batches for the full-time priest, the retiree was generally given the smaller batch. He certainly couldn’t complain of his modest handful, though a wedding in the mix would be a pleasant distraction.

He scrolled his emails.

Even communiqués from former parishioners occasionally arrived in batches. A kindhearted message from Sam and Marion Fieldwalker in Whitecap. Agnes from Holy Trinity had come online, albeit dial-up; wonders never ceasing! And there was Liam, though not a parishioner in the strict sense, sounding in from Sligo to say Bella had won an impressive award for her fiddling. There was no gathering of his parish under one roof—his flock was scattered from mountain to shore, and beyond to an emerald isle.

At the end, a message for which he had not waited with bated breath.

At the unheard of old rate

He took Barnabas out, then checked the stove (a habit said to be a sign of old age). As he was turning off the lamps in the study, he heard the message arrive in his computer in-box.

He had thought it would never end, and yet—it had ended.

He sat down in his desk chair, oddly bereft.

•   •   •

S
HE
UNDERSTOOD
AT
LAST
why she had felt distant from the child beneath her heart. She had lived with an image of the trap her body
was laying, and felt the guilt of it—all this shadowed by the sense of entrapment she’d once known, herself. In fearing the worst, she had missed months of happiness and intimations of joy.

Not days, not hours, but minutes, they had said. But not for everyone, only a few. She had been claiming as her own the tragedy of the certain few.

She turned her head on the pillow and searched the face of her sleeping husband. It was charted territory, this face she had been granted before the beginning of time. Their daughter must come into the world and know the benediction of her father’s deep tenderness—it was that simple.

She would choose happiness and, in the mysterious way of blood, share it with their daughter, beginning
now.

A
cold rain began at first light on Monday, and showed no sign of abating. The heaters weren’t much help; they were painting with gloves on.

He and Sammy would work only a half-day, after which he’d run to the bookstore and put finishing touches on the N Sale.

They took a break and sat on opposite sides of a pew missing its end pieces. Sammy was digging into a bag of Cheetos; he was finishing a pack of raisins.

‘Thanks,’ said Sammy, not looking up.

It took a moment for this to sink in. ‘What for?’

‘Everything.’

Sammy rose abruptly, stuffed the bag in his pocket, and returned to putting a second coat of paint on the trellis.

•   •   •

‘O
H
,
MY
, not a soul stirring up here,’ said Hélène Pringle of her Tuesday vigil. ‘It’s the dismal weather,
vous ne pensez pas
? But Christmas is coming, Father, and things will pick up, I’m sure of it. I’ve a grand idea for December’s display window.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘I believe you do not have a D for December Sale?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So the window would be quite free for a live Saint Nicholas! Sitting in that wing chair, reading a book!
Très charmant, oui?’

‘Live?’

‘Yes, people would stop and peer in to see if he’s real and then they would come in and—don’t you see?—buy books!’

‘Hélène, you’re a marketing genius. Can you get home safely this evening?’ He heard what he thought to be Grieg in the background.

‘
Oui
. I walked up in my good boots; I shall be warm as toast. And I did have a sale this morning. Mrs. McGraw ordered three books by phone, to be mailed to her grandson in Germany, it’s his birthday. I’ve sent them across to the post with Mr. Hendrick—he is very handy.’

‘So you’re happy selling books? The honeymoon isn’t over?’

‘Oh, no, and I’m listening to
Peer Gynt
. Do you care for Grieg? I always found him very agreeable.’

‘Good,’ he said, not caring for Grieg.

‘He died peacefully in his sleep,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad for him, he deserved that.’

If he were a better person, he might have asked how things were going with Sammy. But no—as far as that was concerned, he was staying in the tall grass.

•   •   •

B
EFORE
DARK
, he was sent on an errand by his wife.

‘Mac and cheese,’ he said to an astonished Coot Hendrick, who came to the door.

The dish was still hot.

He loved flinging carbs around.

•   •   •

‘I’
M
PAINTING
WITH
I
RENE
tomorrow and Friday,’ Cynthia said over dinner. ‘The auction will be here before we know it.’

Each time the auction was mentioned, he felt the guilt he’d already thoroughly wallowed in. Quite likely there was some ego involved here—he had been a donor for nearly twenty years. Nothing extravagant, merely steady; they counted on him. But now he had nothing significant to give, nor any contribution to make to the auction.

He had gone about the house looking for a desirable donation, but there was nothing he could part with. He considered the elaborate needlepoint of a verse from Proverbs, worked by Nanny Howard,
Blessed be the Lord who daily loadeth us with benefits
. That would fetch a good sum from a needlework collector, but no, he had nothing to give, selfish man that he was. Perhaps Dooley and Lace would want it when . . . if . . .

Edith Mallory was the only person he knew with a serious profile for philanthropy. Why couldn’t he call her? He couldn’t, that’s all. Given their history and the crucifying injury to her brain—even considering that she was now a believer—he could not do it, though he occasionally stared at the phone with good intentions.

On the upside, Hastings was home; Nurse Robin had passed along a favorable report. He needed to come up with the perfect book for Hastings, but nothing from his own shelves, of course.
All Creatures Great and Small
would be commendable, or perhaps
The Chronicles of Narnia
. He must give his selection a good deal of thought and consult with Miss Mooney.

Petronius woke only about
midday, and as usual, greatly wearied. The evening before he
had been at one of Nero’s feasts, which was prolonged
till late at night. For some time his health
had
been failing. He said himself that he woke up benumbed,
as it were, and without power of collecting his thoughts . . .

At last, he was a bookseller reading a book. He would take it with him tomorrow to Happy Endings.

Cynthia busied herself with two trays of lemon squares for the swearing-in. Barnabas snored and their cats slept, as he settled into his chair by the fire and let the visceral power of
Quo Vadis
flow into a second reading of Henryk Sienkiewicz’s novel set during the reign of Nero.

•   •   •

T
HERE
THEY
WERE
on the front page, a bunch of hillbillies out for a joyride in a pickup truck—Barnabas hanging his head out the window after the fashion of dogs in trucks, and a number of arms wagging from the truck bed. Photo credit: J. C. Hogan.

Can you Spot Our Leading Citizen In This Picture??

Yes, that is Father Tim, our Leading Citizen, driving his new pickup truck (an older model, but new to him)! Riding upfront is Barnabas, his Irish wolfhound/Bouvier (JCH check splng) mix, and Dooley Kavanagh, Sammy Barlowe, Pooh Leeper, Jessie Leeper, Coot Hendrick (a Leading Citizen semi-finalist!) and Bouncer, a sort of corgi like the Queen is crazy about or maybe a dachshund >>

‘We were just having fun,’ said Father Tim Kavanagh, who received 236 votes!

Are you having fun? We hope so. Life is short, right?

cONGRATUlations to Father Tim Kavanagh!!!

Following this journalistic debacle, in which he was quoted as saying something he had never said, was a twenty-year-old photo taken soon after he came to Mitford, in which he had no wrinkles, no wattle, no bifocals, and considerably more hair. This piece named him the winner of what was to be an annual contest, herein called ‘an election by the People and for the People.’ He learned that he was to claim his prize of a free top-of-the-line spray tan treatment by December 15, or forfeit the prize.

A Revolution On Mitford’s Main Street!!

He scanned the piece.

“. . . cost between ‘$100k and $200k.” The tanning solution “made from beet juice and walnut extract.”
Amazing. Blah, blah.

“You could watch a video except they lost the video in the move from Bristol. “You do NOT need to watch a video to have a successful spray tan experience,” says Fancy Skinner, who is wearing Tan Number 74 or the Palm Beach. Number 74 is somewhat darker than the West Palm Beach but
 . . . blah, blah, blah . . . a total revolution . . .

Interviews with spray tan customers.
“You just go in and take your clothes off and press the green button,” says Ms. Esther Bolick, “and after you get sprayed,, a machine blows you dry.”

“When asked how the experience made her feel, Ms. Bolick said, “It made me want to go shopping.”

Esther Cunningham Returns Home Yayyyy!

Here was a photo, obviously vintage, of Esther with a beehive hairdo and an astonishing resemblance to Carol Burnett back in the day.

Former Mitford mayor Esther Cunningham returns home this afternoon from Charlotte where she was outfitted with not one but TWO stenTs!^&

She is also recovering from pneumonia and will need a lot of rest so back off, people and let her GET WELL SOOn.

If you send flowers remember Ms Cunningham CANNOT tolerate lilies unless you cut the stamens off. BTW stamens can be harmful to cats did you know that? So cut them off no matter what OK? It is actually the anthers not the stamens but the anthers are ON the stamens. Use scissors or take a vacuum cleaner upholstery brush and suck up the anthers. This is hard to describe so call me if you have to,—7615, Ext. #3.

‘Hello, Vanita?’

‘Hey! Congratulations, Father! People are so glad you won! I’ll bring you a ribbon kind of thing to wear. I hope you’ll wear it proudly!’

‘I see I was quoted as saying we were out having fun—in the truck. Did I say that?’

‘Mr. Hogan said that if he was you, which he isn’t, that’s what he would say.’

‘So Mr. Hogan spoke for me, correct?’

‘Yessir, he did.’

‘Aha. Well. And nice job, Vanita.’

‘Oh, thanks. I really appreciate that, comin’ from you.’

‘Keep up the good work,’ he said.

Then there was the Hint, titled ‘Deodorizing Woolens.’ He tried to read it, but couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

•   •   •

‘I
T
’
S
NOT
TRANSFERABLE
,’ said Shirlene. ‘But if Homer is really cute, like you say, it might be transferable.’

‘Blackmail, Shirlene.’

‘Okay, okay, it’s transferable. Who do you want to transfer it to?’

‘Let me get back to you on that.’

•   •   •

R
AY
C
UNNINGHAM
, the very personification of hail-fellow-well-met, was looking frayed.

‘I’m meetin’ two of my girls here in a little bit an’ drivin’ to Charlotte to bring Esther home.’

‘Great, wonderful. I hear she’s doing well.’

‘I was down there with her a few days. It was tough.’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘We nearly lost her.’ Ray looked away, cleared his throat. ‘Pneumonia, stroke, blocked artery—a cluster, is what they called it. She’s not herself, Father. Nossir, it’s not Esther talkin’. She said tell you she’s not runnin’ again.’

‘Doctor’s orders?’

‘Just says she’s over that mess. Wants to go on th’ trip out West, like we planned. Says she looks forward to smokin’ that peace pipe with th’ Indians.’

‘A change of heart!’

‘She won’t inhale, though.’

‘No.’

‘Says it’s very generous that they’d sit down with us, much less pass th’ pipe.’

‘I’ll drop by as soon as she’s up to it. What’s the prognosis?’

‘Doctors say she’ll be fine. Built like th’
Titanic
, one said; which would’ve been okay if wadn’t for th’ iceberg.’ Ray looked dazed. ‘I was gon’ make baby backs for her homecomin’ but the doc says glazed carrots, green peas, like that—no more baby backs. Glazed carrots. I don’t know nothin’ ’bout glazin’ a carrot.’

•   •   •

V
ANITA
DELIVERED
THE
RIBBON
KIND
OF
THING
. A discreet navy blue with a metal medallion inscribed
MLC
.

‘Mitford’s Leading Citizen,’ she said. ‘You will pass it on next year to your successor.’

She begged him to wear it. He said he would, but not twenty-four/seven.

•   •   •

A
BE
POPPED
HIS
HEAD
IN
. ‘Mazel tov!’

On his way to a real estate closing, Mule dropped by to offer felicitations. ‘I voted for you,’ said Mule. ‘And I think Shirlene did, but I don’t know about Fancy.’

The Collar Button man stopped in for a handshake, perfuming the place with pipe smoke, not a bad thing.

His wife sent flowers from Mitford Blossoms. Calla lilies, anthers and all, which gave the sales counter a certain distinction.

At four-thirty, Esther Bolick plopped her cake carrier on the counter.

‘Congratulations,’ she said, sour as a pickle.

‘Thank you.’

‘Sick people are workin’ me to death, two of my book club members are sick as cats, not to mention Miz Hendrick’s funeral.’

‘Why, Esther Bolick. Baking this impossibly difficult and extraordinary cake is your passion. This is your life’s mission. Think about
it—the merest sight of you with this cake carrier lifts the human spirit.’

‘At forty-five bucks a pop, I could be a lot happier doin’ somethin’ else for th’ human spirit.’

He looked her in the eye. ‘You can’t fool me.’

Esther burst into laughter. ‘I never could. Gene used to say to me, You can’t fool th’ father.’

‘Does that mean you tried?’

They had a laugh.

‘So Ray’s gone to Charlotte with two of his girls to fetch Esther,’ he said. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

‘Deliver it to th’ Cunninghams this evenin’, if you don’t mind.’

‘Can’t you deliver it to the Cunninghams?’

‘I cannot. I’m goin’ down th’ mountain here in a minute to spend the night with a friend, and tomorrow I am finally goin’ shoppin’. I am truly goin’ to shop ’til I drop, I have not bought a stitch since Gene passed. Two dresses, if I can find a dress in this pagan world. New shoes, one pair with two-inch heels to be worn only when sittin’ down. And a hat.’

‘You don’t wear hats. I have never seen you in a hat.’

‘You most certainly have seen me in a hat,’ she said. ‘I wore a hat to your wedding, don’t you remember? Besides, times change, Father; people change. Not everybody is stuck in their ways. Don’t you know that?’

•   •   •

‘C
ONGRATULATIONS
,’ said Puny, who dropped by soon after he arrived home. ‘I voted for you three times an’ th’ girls voted for you six times.’

‘People could vote more than once?’

‘There weren’t any rules in that contest, which is my kind of contest. An’ take this with you, if you don’t mind.’

She handed him a large bowl with a snap-on lid of a smiley face.

‘What is it?’

‘Potato salad for Mamaw Cunningham.’

‘How did you know I was going over there?’

‘I saw Esther Bolick pumpin’ gas at Lew’s, she said you were takin’ her OMC over this evenin’.’

‘What am I, the new food service in town? Why can’t you take it over?’

‘I’m goin’ to a PTA meetin’ that will last ’til eight o’clock. Then I have to finish bakin’ for th’ swearin’-in. Plus I’d like to run up a set of curtains for Joe Joe’s new office.’