Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (38 page)

‘You have reminded me of another rule,’ she said. ‘He may not be arrested or have anything at all to do with violating the law.’

‘Yes. Good.’

‘If,’ she said, gripping her hands together, ‘he defies any one of these rules, Father, he will be . . . he will be . . .’ She looked to him.

‘Dismissed.’

‘At once,’ she said.

They were both relieved to have done with it.

‘I’m pleased for you that he’s doing better.’

‘Quite a bit, yes. He took it upon himself to go to the old garage for his tobacco doings, and removed his clutter from the porches. Kenny is a sensible influence, of course, so mature and wise. And Mr. Welch has done his utmost. Only yesterday, Sammy thanked me for the roast
poulet
I made for their supper.’

‘Highly deserving of thanks.’

‘If he is merely buttering me up, as they say, and such courtesy is soon to be ended, then—pardon me for repeating—he is
poof
!’

‘Understood.’

‘I always felt I owed you something because I stole your angel.’

‘You owe me nothing, Hélène. Please never think that again.’

‘You gave me a second chance, and I wish to do that for Sammy.’

‘Thank you. God bless you.’

‘Well, I must be going.’ She got down from the stool and made her way to the side door. ‘Please give my fondest greetings to Cynthia.’

‘It’s dark out there, Hélène. Let me walk you through the hedge.’

‘
Non, non, merci
. I left my flashlight on your stoop. Oh, and Father . . .’

Hélène had a particular gift for looking as if the sky might fall.

‘Could you loan us another roll of . . .’ She blushed.

‘Out again?’

‘When I send Mr. Hendrick to shop, we buy but one roll at a time—for the sake of frugality.’

‘No, no,’ he said, amused. ‘You must buy the large economy-size packs. We are operating a business for the public!’

•   •   •

H
E
WAS
AWAKE
AT
FIRST
LIGHT
.

Hearing the patter of rain, he remained in bed, drowsing, dozing, a rare gift. He didn’t need to be early at the bookstore this morning, he would arrive a little before ten. Coot would be sitting in his truck around the corner, eager to begin.

At eight, he raised himself on one elbow and watched her sleep. He loved this woman.

She opened her eyes, smiled. ‘Hey. Was I snoring?’

‘Never. I’m here in an official capacity.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘I’m making a cold call.’

‘On who?’

‘You.’

‘What for?’

‘We’re going to need money for trash bins, signage, a few shrubs—and greasy fast-food for the crew.’

‘How much?’

‘Maybe two thousand.’

‘Two thousand?’

‘Trash bins have to be heavy-duty. Signage has to be on metal. With lag bolts.’

‘Lag bolts.’

‘Then there are the gutter guys at the Sunday school.’

‘The gutter guys. How much total?’

Probably three thousand. Then again, nothing ever came in on budget. ‘Thirty-five hundred.’

Like everybody else who was hammered for money, she looked grim.

‘All deductible!’ Just a reminder.

‘Four thousand,’ she said, ‘and not a penny more.’

More than he asked for. He had just experienced every development director’s dream.

I
n the second week of November, here was weather so ardently wished for in October—Carolina-blue skies, the intoxicating dose of clear, keen air, and, though the planet had tilted some weeks ago, finally the slanting golden light and plangent cries of geese along Mitford Creek.

After long rains and snow muck, it was a delayed harvest of pure pleasure. Yet there were a number of people not inclined to enjoy the moment, preferring instead to noodle their noggins with the prospect of snow for Christmas.

Local fire chief and weather guru Hamp Floyd was number one of the above number. Amazingly, Hamp was generally more accurate than the woolly bear caterpillar so fondly celebrated in local folklore, albeit for different reasons. While the width of the woolly worm’s stripes were believed to forecast winter weather in general, Hamp’s predictions were for Christmas snows in particular.

Indeed, he had nailed three out of five Christmas snow forecasts in recent years, including one forecast of ‘no snow, zero,’ and had become known simply as the Worm—a distinction quite apart from
the woolly worm itself, or the good fellow called Mr. Woolly Worm, a zealous aficionado of the aforesaid actual
vermis
.

Though Hamp’s Christmas forecast was usually announced around Thanksgiving, he said he felt ‘led’ to declare early this year.

On Saturday, his soothsaying was recorded on a chalkboard at Lew Boyd’s, next to a display of locally crafted deer jerky.

Get Out Your Shovels!

The Worm’s

Christmas Forecast

Is In!

~~

Snow Start Dec 24

End 26

12 3/4 inches

You heard it here first!

As was the custom when Hamp’s forecast hit the street, there was a mild flurry of bets placed around town, though nothing so serious as to alarm authorities.

Generally speaking, there was a good bit of aggravation at the prediction, as most people preferred two or three inches, max, just for the seasonal look. A foot-plus would stall traffic, force everybody out with shovels, and generally make a mess.

Apprised of this news while filling up with regular, J. C. Hogan could not believe that a gas station had scooped his newspaper. He would talk to Hamp—would he ever. In the meantime, he gave Lew a look that would kill and scratched off from the pump in his 1997 Toyota hatchback with the rusted rear fender.

The Worm had never revealed his method of forecasting—it was as secret as Esther Bolick’s OMC recipe had been in days of yore. Did it come to him in dreams? Was he ripping off the
Farmer’s Almanac
and claiming such wisdom as his own? Did his joints ache that far in advance of a snow event six weeks out?

He had been asked these questions for years, and for a fact could not tell anybody his method because he didn’t have one.

In his particular case, weather forecasting had begun a few years ago while getting a haircut in Wesley.

As he recalled, they had been talking baseball—he rooted for the Yankees—which was common even in football season. He was just getting a dose of his barber’s rant on the Red Sox when in walked some character in a woolly worm costume, promoting the annual Woolly Worm Festival everybody was nuts about.

‘Just a little off th’ sides,’ said a muffled voice from within the costume.

Everybody wanted to know would it be a long winter, a warm winter, a hard winter—how would the woolly worm describe what was coming?

‘A long winter with plenty of snow,’ was the best the guy could do.

‘Yeah, buddyroe, but when?’ said the barber. ‘
When
’
s
th’ snow comin’? That’s th’ trick.’

Whoever was in the costume did not have a clue.

Just to hear his head roar, Hamp rattled off a couple of dates and precipitation levels specifically for Christmas, the only time anybody in their right mind, except ski slope owners, wanted snow. And boom, two and a half months later the weather did what he said it was going to do.

This scared him to death. The
Muse
had credited him with an 84.5 percent accuracy rate, which was two points ahead of the actual woolly worm.

Who Needs The Woolly Worm When We Have Hamp?

The headline had run on the front page of the
Muse
, along with a picture of the fire chief standing by the department’s new yellow truck. His wife, Jeanette, had the page blown up to ridiculous proportions, mounted, and screwed into the wall of their den for his sixtieth birthday. When he passed, it was his wish that it be installed in the engine room of the fire station, though God knows, everybody there hoped that such an installation would be a long time coming.

•   •   •

‘T
HIRTEEN
INCHES
!’
SAID
A
BE
,
WHO
refused to own a snow shovel. ‘Oy!’

‘Somebody said fourteen or fifteen inches!’ Winnie looked positively distraught when he dropped by on Saturday for a loaf of whole wheat.

‘Only a foot and three-quarters,’ he said, pacifying. No matter—Winnie and Thomas had a very steep driveway; this was not a good thing.

The news swept along Main like a brush fire, picking up several inches along the way. By the time it reached the Oxford Antique Shop, the forecast was for a couple of feet.

More than a few were ticked at Chief Floyd. Lew Boyd, to name one. ‘Anything over two inches,’ said Lew, ‘an’ th’ only business through here is snowplows.’

‘It’s only a
prediction
,’ he said to those, Cynthia included, who appeared to take the emanation as gospel truth.

•   •   •

H
E
WALKED
HIS
DOG
around Baxter Park, threshing it out.

Did he really want to do this? Nobody had asked him to do it, or even hinted that he should.

It would make sense for everyone else, but did it make sense for him? He wasn’t accustomed to considering things in this way.

Bottom line, he had only so much get-up-and-go left in this life. How best to spend the remains, as it were? More to the point—if he didn’t do this, what would he do? Sit in his chair by the fire reading
Quo Vadis
? Books had to be read, and since when could reading a classic be considered an unwise use of time?

In the end, three questions:

What time of year was best for bookstore sales? Christmas—which started before Thanksgiving these days.

What day of the week historically showed the best sales numbers?

Saturday.

How could they afford to miss the biggest hurrah of the year?

They couldn’t.

•   •   •

‘I
WANT
YOU
TO
BE
HAPPY
,’ she said. ‘If you’re happy, I’m happy.’

‘That simple?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘You’re absolutely certain?’

‘Cross my heart.’

Maybe he wasn’t absolutely certain. But since she was certain, well, okay, he felt more certain.

On Sunday evening, he walked the three blocks to the Murphy cottage to deliver the news. He gave the prescribed loud knock so it could be heard all the way to the bedroom.

•   •   •

‘M
Y
DEAR
M
ISS
P
RINGLE
. Lest you forget, I am Sales, not Marketing and Promotion.’

On Thursday, Hélène had come by to say hello, and was saying more than he cared to hear.

‘But Father, being the good Saint Nicholas
is
Sales. Don’t you see? With you sitting in the window in that novel costume, people will flock inside!’

He studied the cash drawer.

‘Saint Nicholas was a very lovely person,’ she said. ‘His family was wealthy and left him everything, and what did he do? He gave it all away. Do you think those poor, malnourished children would have had a single nut or sweet if it hadn’t been for this godly man? He was no
poulet de l’anée
, and yet there he was, a lowly bishop journeying about in the snow with his heavy sack . . .’

She was looking at him intently.

‘. . .
all
for the happiness of others.’

He tried to appear absorbed in opening a roll of quarters. She pressed on.

‘He is, you understand, the
patron saint
of
children
! And I
know
 . . . how you
care
 . . . for
children
.’

He felt his pulpit voice coming on, but had no idea what to say. Leave off, Hélène!
Arrête!

Pushy Frenchwomen!

•   •   •

H
E
HAD
NO
EAGER
DESIRE
for a helpful hint, no curiosity as to how J.C. handled Hamp’s crossover to the enemy. He was in agreement with Esther Cunningham—he was tired of this town running him, albeit via the
Muse
. He was a free agent.

‘Take that,’ he said, tossing today’s edition into the wastebasket.

Barnabas looked up, blinked.

•   •   •

B
UT
WHAT
TO
READ
TO
C
OOT
? He had failed to ask; Miss Mooney had failed to say.

He sat with her eager pupil at the coffee station.

‘“
Tom!”
’ he read.

‘No answer.

‘“Tom!
”
’ No answer.

‘“What’s gone with that boy, I wonder? You, Tom!
”
’

•   •   •

O
NE
NEVER
KNEW
who was coming through the door in the afternoon, for the light from the west was behind . . .

Talbot.

Or was it Talbot?

He stood, and remembered to close his mouth. It was Talbot. Without hair, without much flesh on his bones. The shock of seeing him sent blood pounding in his temples.

Talbot walked to the counter with a kind of frailty he’d never seen in the man. ‘Greetings, Father. I’m on the street for the afternoon. Running the gauntlet, you might say.’

‘Henry . . .’

‘I’ve been spat at twice, called a name that shows no favor to my mother, and shunned by all the rest. It was the stoning I came for, though lacking in the zeal I feared.’

The beating pulse in Henry’s hand as he clasped it in both of his . . . He was thoroughly startled.

‘I just emptied my warehouse—I’m about to depart Mitford for the last time.’

‘Come,’ he said. They walked into the refuge of verse, and sat in the wing chairs, one of them added recently by a customer. Henry Talbot seemed somehow distilled, as if flesh had been exchanged for sinew. ‘I parked the U-Haul on Church Hill to force myself to walk here.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m all right enough to take off the rug, the wig, the piece, the sham. My head is bare. And there you have it.’ Talbot gave him something like a smile. ‘How are you liking your bookstore parish?’

‘Small, but rewarding.’

‘How did you know where to find me that night?’

‘It was a hunch. You once said you ran back there.’

‘It’s no fit place for running, of course. I more often used the school track for running, and used the trail to hide. Why do you think God allowed it all?’

‘Why did you allow it?’

‘I wanted to do what I wanted to do and figured it was his job to stop me.’

‘He was the policeman.’

‘And I was the truant who demanded no rebuke, nor any disgrace.’

‘Some weeks ago, he stopped you. What now?’

‘I wish he had taken me, and yet here it is, a life to be lived. I have no answer to what now. He spoke to me on the trail that night and said quite plainly, You’re mine.

‘It made me angry. Why would he speak to vermin? It didn’t make me feel chosen; it made me feel he would speak directly to anybody, a cheap thing. And if I were his, for what was I his? What use could I possibly be?’

‘Give yourself time, let him show you.’

‘That night was a foxhole. One might suppose I’d gotten, at the very least, a religion out of it, but I did not. There were all the bells and whistles, and yet I was not transported beyond my sense of ruin.

‘I’m thinking that I missed something, that when he said I was his, I failed to respond in an acceptable way, I blew it. Because now I feel I might really wish to belong to him. But I don’t know how, and even so, maybe it’s too late.’

‘It’s never too late. Watch and wait.’

‘You know how to cut through the bull, Father, and I have a lot to cut through. On the walk over here, I stepped behind the school gym and wept for myself, that I could summon the courage to expose my worthlessness to all eyes. I’ve always felt worthless. Perhaps I became a priest to veil that notion of myself, but it didn’t work. I was all the more aware of my little value.

‘On the street just now, I was grateful for the spittle and cold looks. Grateful, because in facing their scorn, I felt a certain worth, after all.’

‘Thank you for coming to see me, Henry. It means a great deal.’

‘I came to thank you. But for you and your son, I was gone from this world. You were part of what forced me to this.’ He touched his bald pate. ‘Some actually call it fashion, I call it penance . . . though in the end, maybe that’s just more bull. Who knows?’

‘Mary?’

‘Gone from me completely. The wonder is that she stuck it out so long. I feel utterly naked, she was my shield and defender. If I’m to have any shield now, it must be God himself. There’s no one for me and everyone against me.’

‘I’m for you.’

‘I guess I believe it or I couldn’t be here. I’ve been sick, and I’m not well yet. I don’t know if I was ever quite well or ever can be.’

‘I remember,’ he said, ‘not knowing if I was ever well or ever could be. I was ordained, and yet all the seasons were Lenten; there was no relationship with him. I was a soul in prison, bound to stick it out and go on with the show of being his man.’

‘What changed?’

‘I think you could say I came to the end of myself. I really did want a show all my own, and he had to hammer me pretty hard to make me see that it was all his. We don’t like relinquishing the power we never had anyway, even though running the show ourselves never works.