These High, Green Hills (37 page)

He glanced at Louella.

“Don‘ look at me, honey, I didn’ say nothin‘.”

“Esther Cunningham slipped and told me without meaning to.” Miss Sadie looked disgusted. “She went red as a turkey gobbler, and said she ought to slap her own face for doing that.”

“Th‘ mayor done blabbed it,” Louella said, in case he hadn’t heard right.

“I thought you liked parties,” he said. There it was again, the feeling that he was twelve years old.

“I do like parties.”

“Well, then?”

“I don’t want a party on an even year. It’s bad luck, and everybody in creation knows it.”

“I never heard that in my whole life,” he said, and he hadn’t. He yearned to light into his cornbread, but waited for Miss Sadie to pick up her fork.

“You should have had a party last year when I was eighty-nine,” his hostess told him, as if he didn’t possess enough sense to get in out of the rain. “Now it’s too late.”

“Too late?” he said, offended. “Miss Sadie, need I remind you that it’s never too late?” He didn’t have time to stand on ceremony. He buttered his cornbread and broke it and took a bite. Man alive! Crunchy on the outside, soft and steaming on the inside. Had he died on the way up Old Church Lane and gone to heaven?

Miss Sadie forked a bean and looked at it.

“You didn‘ say nothin’ to th‘ Lord ’bout my beans,” Louella reminded him.

“I didn’t?”

“Jus’ th‘ cornbread,” she said darkly.

What was the matter with people around here, anyway? Fernbank had been a place where the sun shone, birds sang, and flowers bloomed in the dead of winter. And now look. Louella once told him that if Miss Sadie cried, she cried, and if Miss Sadie laughed, she laughed. She said her joints ached when Miss Sadie’s did, and their necks got stiff at the same time. There you have it, he thought. Miss Sadie was the culprit, and he was going to fix the problem or bust.

“Miss Sadie, I think you owe it to everybody to let them give you a surprise birthday party.”

“Who is everybody?”

“Why, the entire parish! One hundred and twenty families! People who know you and care about you.”

That got her, he could tell. But he’d have to step on it if he wanted to build any kind of momentum. “Besides, Sunday after next, you won’t even
be
ninery.”

“I won’t?”

“Certainly not. Your birthday falls on Saturday, so guess what?”

“What?”

“On Sunday, you’ll already be in your ninety-first year.” Smoke that over, he thought, pleased with himself.

“Thass right,” said Louella, crumbling the cornbread and dumping it in her milk.

Two against one, he observed. He helped himself to another piece of cornbread and laid on the butter. If his wife knew he was doing this ...

“I’m too old to be jumping around at a birthday party,” his hostess declared.

“Nonsense!” he said, with feeling. “Nonsense!”

He had never spoken to Sadie Baxter like that in his life. Lightning might strike at any moment. He was ready to duck.

“You’ve certainly gotten cheeky in your old age, Father!” She sat back in her chair and looked at him imperiously.

Louella tried to suppress a laugh, but failed, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

Miss Sadie glared at her and then at him. He was ready to duck, all right.

Then she began to laugh. She laughed and laughed some more. So did he. So did Louella. They roared, they rocked in their chairs, they slapped the table.

He hauled out his handkerchief, Miss Sadie used her napkin, and Louella fetched a paper towel from over the sink.

They wiped their eyes. They blew their noses.

“Two o‘clock in the parish hall, Sunday the fourteenth!” he announced. “Be there or be square!”

A little depression, he mused, as he drove toward the rectory. That’s what had gotten into Sadie Baxter. Too much sitting around. Not enough hurtling through the streets in her green 1958 Plymouth. And no rummaging through the attic at Fernbank, which had been one of her favorite pastimes.

He’d had a call or two from prospective chaplains for Hope House, and needed to respond to at least five letters of inquiry. As soon as the search process was seriously under way, he’d ask Miss Sadie to look over the applications with him. That might help her spirits. In the meantime ...

He had received a letter this morning from social services. The letter, which he suspected of being a form letter, said they were continuing the investigation and would advise him further.

He glanced at the copy of the New Testament on the front seat of his car as he parked in the garage. How he wished he had given it to Lacey Turner. Could she read? He thought he might call the social worker again, in case they had learned something....

Barnabas leaped up as he came into the kitchen, barking to beat thunder. He didn’t bother to haul forth a Scripture verse; he took the lavish licking on both ears and was darned glad to get it. Today was the day! Today, Dooley Barlowe was coming home.

“Where’s your wife at?”

He turned and saw Lacey Turner on the other side of the screen door.

“Lace!” She was filthy. The sight of her pierced his heart. Blond hair spilled from under the old hat she’d left behind in the fern grove.

“Come in!” He held the door open as she stared at his dog.

“Not ‘til you put that dog som’ers else.”

“This dog,” he said, holding Barnabas by the collar and propping the door open with his foot, “is harmless. Look.” He stroked his dog’s head to prove his point.

“I don’t trust dogs.”

“Barnabas would protect you, not hurt you.”

“My back’s itchin‘ s’ bad I cain’t hardly stand it. I cain’t reach back there, an’ Pauline ain’t home an‘ my mama cain’t do nothin’. Where’s your wife at?”

“She’s next door. I’ll get her. Look, come in. Barnabas will lie down right there, don’t worry.” He instructed his dog to lie on the rug by his water bowl, which he did at once. “We’ll get your bandages changed. Sounds like the itching means you’re healing up.”

“Pap tried t‘ git me agin las’ night, but I dodged ’im an‘ hid under th’ house. Some ol‘ car oil was under there.” Frowning, she brushed at her shirtsleeve as if to remove the dark stain.

“Sit here,” he said, pulling out a kitchen chair. “And look, how about a glass of milk and”—of course!—“a bologna sandwich?” This household was ready for Dooley Barlowe, all right. They’d bought a deluxe family pack of his favorite lunch meat only yesterday.

“Don‘ put nothin’ on it, I like t‘ died from eatin’ mayonnaise onc’t.”

The rector dialed the little yellow house as Barnabas lay with his head on his paws, blinking at the girl.

“Lace is here. Yes. She’s going to eat a bite. Her back is itching, and she’s asking for you. Right.”

“She’s on her way,” he said. What a good thing to have a wife to call at a time like this. He put two slices of bologna between two slices of bread and added chips to the plate.

“I cain’t eat no pickles,” she said, watching him take the jar from the refrigerator. “They sour m‘ stomach.”

He looked at her hands. Not a pretty sight. “Want to wash up?”

“I done washed.”

He set the sandwich before her and turned to pour a glass of milk. When he turned again, the sandwich had vanished.

“I’ll fix you another one,” he said, oddly happy.

“No more bread, jis’ meat.” The hat sat so low on her head, he could barely see her hazel eyes.

He was putting slices of bologna on her plate when he heard the front door open, and voices in the hallway.

“Lovely!” said a woman. “So old and charming! My grandfather was a minister.”

“He gets his house from the church,” said a man’s voice. But it wasn’t a man’s voice, it was ...

His heart pounded for joy. Dooley Barlowe was home!

He handed the plate to Lace. “I’ll be back!” he said, and bounded down the hall with Barnabas, who made a beeline for the woman and backed her into a corner by the door.

“Take no thought for the morrow!” the rector quoted loudly from Matthew. “For the morrow will take thought for the things of itself! Sufficient unto the day ...”

Barnabas collapsed obediently, as Dooley Barlowe came toward him, grinning. It was a sight he wanted never to forget. “Dooley!” he said, hugging the boy in the school blazer.

“Hey,” said Dooley.

“Hey, yourself!”

Dooley stooped to scratch Barnabas under a floppy ear. “How’s this ol‘ dog?”

“Father? Vince Barnhardt. I’m afraid we’re a bit early.” A portly man extended a hand.

“And I’m Susan Barnhardt,” announced the smartly dressed woman, grabbing his hand and shaking it.

“Sorry about my dog,” he said, shaking back.

Another hand came his way. “Joseph, sir. How do you do?”

He felt enough energy pumping through the rectory to light up downtown Wesley.

“Hello!” said Cynthia, coming along the hall and embracing Dooley. “Why, you big lug, look how you’ve grown, I can’t bear it. Squeeze down a couple of inches this minute!” She gave Dooley a resounding kiss on the cheek, which caused his face to turn red.

“Isn’t it amazing how they grow in school?” asked Susan, who was now shaking Cynthia’s hand.

“Amazing! Come into the dining room,” said his wife. “I’ve set out lemonade and cookies, and cheese and crackers, and I’m just popping back to the kitchen a moment. Please excuse me.”

Cynthia slid away, leaving him with what seemed a swarm of people, who were noting everything from his grandmother’s silver service to the “unusual” color of the dining room walls to the size of his dog and the generous platter of walnut cookies.

He had entertained to a fare-thee-well as a bachelor, but now, let his wife leave it up to him for five minutes, and he was dashed if he could remember how to pull it off.

“How was your drive down?” he asked, pouring lemonade into glasses.

“Wonderful!” said Susan Barnhardt. “Dooley kept us entertained the whole way.”

Dooley? Kept them entertained? A new thought.

“I want some milk,” said Dooley, going off to the kitchen.

“I can’t eat nuts,” announced Joseph, peering at the cookies. “I have braces.”

“I can eat nuts,” said his father. After piling several cookies on a plate, he turned to the rector. “I’ve always wondered—what’s it like to be a preacher?”

“Have a seat in the living room,” said the rector, “and I’ll try to answer that.”

When everyone was seated with glasses and coasters and cookies and cheese and crackers and napkins, he sat on the piano bench and tried to address the question. How did he know what it was like to be a preacher? He never considered what it was like. He just did it, and that was that.

“Well,” he said, wishing for his wife. “Let’s see ...”

“It must be interesting,” said Vince.

“Oh, it is.”

“Busy?”

“Absolutely. Keeps me hopping.”

“Has its stresses, I suppose.”

“Definitely. Definitely. What’s your calling, Vince?”

“Prosthetics,” said Vince.

“Aha. And what’s it like to be in prosthetics?” By George ...

Dooley walked in with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. “Cynthia said she’ll be here in a minute. Who’s that in the kitchen?”

“That’s Lacey Turner.”

“Gross,” said Dooley, with obvious distaste.

“Don’t go to your room yet,” he told Dooley. He had left the new spread on the backseat of his car and wanted to put it on the bed before Dooley saw his renovated room.

“I already went,” said Dooley. “I took Joseph up there while you all talked about artificial legs.”

“Arms. I bought you a new bedspread. It looks like an Indian blanket.”

“Neat. I like my remote. But you still get the same old three channels. At school, we get fifry-four.”

“Fifty-four? Amazing.”