These High, Green Hills (24 page)

“Just say yes!” she implored. “Remember the first time you took me to visit Miss Pattie, and let me see into
your
work? This way, you can see into mine. That will be the most fun of all!”

To hear her tell it, this sojourn would be loaded with the very thing he’d been trying so hard to get a bead on.

“I’ll tell you how the sun rose ...” she said, zooming down the road in her Mazda.

“Tell me!” he said.

“A ribbon at a time—

The Steeples swam in Amethyst—

The news, like Squirrels, ran—

The Hills untied their Bonnets—

The Bobolinks—begun—

Then I said softly to myself—

That must have been the Sun!“

“Mark Twain!” he said recklessly, leaving all care behind.

“Timothy, you’re not trying! Guess again.”

Women wanted you to guess something every time you turned around. “Christina Rossetti?”

“No, but you’re close. One more guess. Listen—steeples, amethyst, bobolinks. Who writes like that?”

“Hessie Mayhew!”

She laughed uproariously. It didn’t take much for his agreeable wife. Give her an inch of amusement and she’d convert it to a mile’s worth.

“Emily Dickinson, for Pete’s sake. Now it’s your turn.”

“Can’t we play cow poker?” he wondered, gazing out the window for a pasture.

“I can’t be mooning into ditches counting cows while I’m driving. No, you have to do a poem or something. And not Wordsworth.”

“Blast! A man can’t take a day off ...”

She whipped around a truck. “Something from the eighteenth century would be nice.”

After yowling from Mitford to Holding, Violet had finally curled up and gone to sleep in her carrier. Now, at least, he could think straight.

“Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take

The clouds ye so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

His purposes will ripen fast

Unfolding every hour

The bud may have a bitter taste

But sweet will be the flower.“

“Are you sure that’s not Wordsworth?” she asked, slowing down for an intersection.

“Positive,” he said. “One of his friends, however.”

“Cowper, then.”

“Yes, from the hymn that opens with ‘God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.’ Most people think that line is from Scripture.”

“ ‘The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.’ ” She laughed, looking happy. “That’s our courtship and marriage he was writing about!”

It was grand to be on the road with a comfortable companion.

“And this is Miss Coppersmith’s husband, Mr. Coppersmith.”

The students applauded.

“And they’re both going to read about one of your favorite friends.”

“Violet!” shouted the class in unison.

“Let’s sit on the floor with the children,” Cynthia whispered.

He looked at the half-circle of bright faces, hoping his knees didn’t creak like a garden gate when he sat down. Could he get up? He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

“Miss Coppersmith is very, very famous. She has won a medal for one of her books. I know Mr. Coppersmith must be very proud.”

“Actually,” said Cynthia, “my husband’s name is not Coppersmith. It’s Kavanagh.”

“Oh,” said the teacher. “How modern!”

“Actually, we both have the same name. Coppersmith is my writing name. OK, everybody! This is Father Kavanagh. And this is Violet!” They sat down in front of the children, with Violet’s carrier. The kids scrambled close and peered inside.

“I never seen a cat that’s in books,” somebody said.

“Does she live in there?”

“What does she do all day?”

“Where are her kittens?”

Violet blinked imperiously from her carrier.

“I have a cat!” announced a girl. “Its name is Perry Winkle!”

“I have two dogs!” said a boy, raising his hand and flapping it. “One throws up if he eats spaghetti.”

“My mom knows somebody who has a pig!” offered another. “They let it live in the house. Yuck! A pig in the house! I wonder where it goes to the bathroom.”

The pupils guffawed.

“Children!” said the teacher.

“A pig in the house is no big deal,” said Cynthia. “When I was your age, I had an alligator that lived in my bathtub.”

“wot!”

“Neat!”

“How did you take a bath?” More hysterical laughter.

“I didn’t,” said Cynthia. “I didn’t take a bath for a whole month. Maybe two whole months!”

“Cool,” someone murmured in heartfelt awe.

“Neat-o!”

“I took showers at my friend’s house!” said Cynthia.

Groans, moans.

“How can your husband be married to you if he’s your father?” inquired the boy whose dog couldn’t tolerate spaghetti.

“Well, you see, he’s a priest. And we call a priest ‘Father.’ Now, settle down, and I don’t mean maybe, because we’re going to read a story. Anybody who doesn’t listen, or who talks or whispers, gets to come up here and read my part—in
French
.”

He thought they’d never get to the section with the palace guard, but when they did, he hoped he wouldn’t mess up.

“The palace guard,” Cynthia read at last, “looked down upon Violet and said ...”

He gave the line a wicked snarl.
“Aha, my fine feline, thought you’d pull the wool over my eyes, did you?”

“Violet was very frightened,” continued Cynthia. “She didn’t know what to do. As the palace guard’s big hand moved to catch her by the neck, she darted between his legs.

“She ran down the long corridor as fast as she could go.

“She looked behind her and saw the big, black boots of the guard. Then, other people were running behind her and shouting, ‘Stop that cat!’

“As she ran, Violet’s heart beat very fast. She could hardly get her breath. Boots and slippers and mops and brooms followed in hot pursuit.”

He jumped on his line in the nick of time.
“We must stop that cat! The Queen hates cats!”

“Violet rounded the corner at a very great speed, and skidded into a large room. It was bright and beautiful. The sun shone in on a polished marble floor. And there, sitting on a throne, was ... the
Queen
.”

He heard a gasp or two. Large eyes fixed on Cynthia.

“Violet tried to stop, but the marble floor wouldn’t let her. She slid right up to the hem of the Queen’s royal gown. And then ... she
bowed.

“That’s when she felt the fearsome hand on the scruff of her neck.

“Suddenly, she was lifted up, up, up—and then down, down, down as the palace guard bowed, also.

“What is
that
?” the Queen demanded.

“
Your Majesty
, that
is a cat
!”

“I’m supposed to hate cats!” said the Queen.

“
Yes, Your Majesty
.”

“But
why
am I supposed to hate cats?” asked the Queen.

“Hmmm,” said the Queen. “It looks soft. Let me hold it.”

“Of course you could, because I am the
Queen
!”

At that high moment, Cynthia looked up to see Violet suddenly bolt from her carrier and, leaping over laps and darting past grasping hands, race through the open classroom door to the shrieks of the entire assembly.

“Oh, no!” cried Cynthia, unbelieving.

The catch on Violet’s decrepit carrier had jiggled loose again.

Cynthia sprinted toward the door.

“Stop that cat!” she shouted.

Half the classroom emptied before the rector could get up.

He sat down again quickly, however, as both legs had gone completely to sleep.

“You were a wonderful palace guard,” she said, smiling over at him. “So fierce!”

He zoomed around an RV with a sign that read
Dollywood Or Bust
. “It was a new and different experience, all right.”

“I thought it was great fun!”

“Which part? When we read the story together, or when Violet leaped through the window and was caught in midair by the assistant principal?”

“All of it!” she said, laughing.

“I’ve always heard that truth is stranger than fiction.” He looked at Violet, who was sleeping in Cynthia’s lap, the very picture of innocence.

His wife furrowed her brow. “Maybe it is time for a new carrier,” she said.

The summer people were slowly making their annual come-back to Mitford. Attendance was building every Sunday, and the Wednesday Eucharist was definitely up in numbers.

Four buildings on Main Street installed new green awnings, including The Local, which inscribed theirs with white lettering:
Fresh Meats and Produce Since 1957, Avis Packard, Grocer.

Dora Pugh gave a sidewalk sale and moved forty-five flats of pansies in a record two hours and nine minutes. The candy tuft did not do as well. Lank Pitts drove a pickup load of rotted manure into town and parked it in front of Dora’s hardware, where he sold it by the pound in garbage bags.

“Most people give that away,” grumbled a customer, who nonetheless purchased two sacks full. “I pay f‘r th’ feed that goes in m‘ horses,” said Lank. “Seems fair t’ charge f‘r what comes out.”

Evie Adams, whose family home faced Main Street, received a check from an uncle and replaced the rusted porch glider, a longtime village eyesore, with two green rocking chairs. New window screens also went up, but only on the front of the house. Uncle Billy looped a hanging basket of geraniums over a nail beside his back door, where they’d be easy to bring in, in case of frost.

In all, the days were longer, the air warmer, and the Lord’s Chapel youth group more restless.

“You’ve promised two or three times,” said Larry Johnson, the group leader.