These High, Green Hills (53 page)

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Authors: Jan Karon

BOOK: These High, Green Hills
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“The people have gathered, the trumpets have sounded!” he exclaimed. “Sadie Eleanor Baxter is at home and at peace, and I charge us all to be filled with the joy of this simple, yet wondrous fact.”
How often had people heard that, for a Christian, death is but the ultimate triumph, a thing to celebrate? The hope was that it cease being a fact merely believed with the head, and become a fact to know with the heart, as he now knew it.
He looked out to the congregation who packed the nave to bursting, and saw that they knew it too. They had caught the spark. A kind of warming fire ran through the place, kindled with excitement and wonder.
When Louella sang, her voice was steady as a rock, mingling sweetly, yet powerfully, with the boy’s. Their music flooded the church with a high consolation.
Jesus, Thou art all compassion
Pure, unbounded love Thou art
Visit us with Thy salvation
Enter every trembling heart
...
Into the silence that followed the music, and true to his Baptist roots, Absalom Greer raised a heartfelt “Amen!”
The rector looked to the pew where Sadie Baxter had sat for the fifteen years he had been in this pulpit, and saw Olivia and Hoppy, Louella and Absalom holding hands. Those left behind....
“We don’t know,” he said, in closing, “who among us will be the next to go, whether the oldest or the youngest. We pray that he or she will be gently embraced by death, have a peaceful end, and a glorious resurrection in Christ.
“But for now, let us go in peace—to love and serve the Lord.”
“Thanks be to God!” said the congregation, meaning it.
The trumpets blew mightily, and the people moved to the church lawn, where Esther Bolick’s three-tiered cake sat on a fancy table, where the ECW had stationed jars of icy lemonade, and where, as any passerby could see, a grand celebration was under way.
“There,” he said, placing the small, engraved stone over the fresh earth.
Sadie Eleanor Baxter,
it read.
Beloved.
She didn’t open her eyes at all. He had no way of knowing whether she realized he had come, or even cared.
He pulled the chair close to her bed and sat down. Today, they had taken sheets of skin from the back of her neck, her buttocks, and abdomen, and done all the grafting in one long ordeal which he saw reflected in the face of every nurse he encountered in the hallway.
All of it was beyond words, but he did the best he could.
“Hey, there,” he said.
“Timothy!” It was Marge Owen.
“I thought you’d like to know that Dooley delivered twin calves this evening! Hal had gone to a Grange meeting, and Mr. Shuford called and said his prize heifer was having a bad time. I drove Dooley to his farm and ... he did it!”
He gulped.
“Maybe it wasn’t strictly ethical, but ...”
“Someone had to do it!” he said, heady with pride. “Put him on if he’s around.”
He heard Marge calling, “Dooley! Dooley?”
Dooley.
“Hey,” Dooley said in his grown-up voice.
“Hey, yourself. Tell me everything. Twins, was it?” Sissy and Sassy had started a trend.
“It was Mr. Shuford’s best heifer, and Miz Shuford was out in the barn having a fit. She said that heifer was her best friend. I never heard of such a thing, but I knew I better get it right.”
He laughed.
“The heifer was in dystocia. If somebody hadn’t been there, she could have died. I saw these feet sticking out, one front hoof and one back hoof, and when I reached in there, I could tell there was two calves. I like to died. I figured I had to match up the hooves before I started pulling or I could have strangled one of the calves or something.
“So I run my arm in there and found the front hoof that went with the back hoof that was sticking out, and started pulling, and pretty soon, we had two calves lying in the straw.”
Dooley took a deep breath. “I can’t exactly remember everything.”
“What did Mrs. Shuford say?”
“She gave me a big hug and all, and Mr. Shuford, he gave me a twenty-dollar bill and said it was mine to keep.”
“Phew! What a story. I’m proud as heck.”
“Yeah,” said Dooley. The rector could almost hear the grin spreading over the boy’s face.
“I’d like you to tell Cynthia, but she’s taking a bath. Can she call you in the morning?”
“She better call before seven. I’m going with Doc Owen to Asheville, to a vet meeting or something.”
“Big doings, pal. Well, listen—we love you.”
“I love you back!” said Dooley.
He literally jumped around the room, shouting.
“Yee hah!” he yelled. “Yee hah!”
There was no need to hurry back to Fernbank to go through her possessions. That could wait until things slowed down, when it would be a pleasure and not a burden.
He had checked the house carefully when he went for the urn. The roof was still leaking, but not enough to pose a problem as long as he left the pots where they were.
Winnie Ivey had agreed to spend her nights with Louella until Hope House opened in the fall. Winnie appreciated the extra money, but better than that, she and Louella liked each other’s company.
All he had to do was go to the law office in Wesley and sign a few papers, which he’d take care of next week.
He mused that he might drive Cynthia to Meadowgate on Sunday, and they’d all troop over to the Shufords and see the twins. It made him grin, just thinking about it.
Cynthia offered to sit with LM in the evening; in fact, she insisted on it.
“Can you handle it?” he asked. “It’s not ... easy, exactly.”
“Of course I can handle it. I’m your deacon.”
She brought his supper on a tray, and did everything but feed him with a spoon. “Now, rest,” she told him, stern as any school principal, “and I don’t mean maybe.”
Which was worse? Emma Newland or his own wife?
“Yes, ma‘am,” he said, lying on the sofa and stuffing a pillow under his head. Barnabas leaped up and crashed on top of him, sighing. What more could he ask of life, after all?
He had just fallen asleep when the phone rang.
“Timothy? She wants you.”
“Who?” he said, feeling groggy.
“LM. They say she’s looking around the room for you, and seems agitated. I wasn’t going to disturb you, no matter what, but... even I feel this desperation in her. They’re taking the breathing tube out in a little while. Can you come?”
“I’ll be right up.”
The questions he’d been storing were endless.
Who are you? Why hasn’t your family been here? How did this happen? What does LM stand for? He had thought Lillian, perhaps, for no sensible reason. How old are you? What do you do? What can I do?
When he arrived at the hospital, Cynthia went home to work on her book, which was due at the publisher in only four weeks.
“Stop at my house as soon as you get home,” she said, looking anguished. “I want to know.”
In the hallway, he met Hoppy, who grinned at him with relief. “You can come in while we take out the breathing tube. We’re so used to you, it’s like you work here.”
He waited until the thing was finished, the tube out, and went and stood by the bed. “You probably can’t say much for a day or two,” Hoppy told his patient. “This thing was inserted between your vocal cords, which means your throat will be sore, and talking won’t feel so good. Go easy.”
He knew Hoppy was also curious to know more about his patient, but respectfully let the rector have the first round while he took a much-needed break down the hall.
The doctor and the nurse closed the door as they left.
She was swathed in fresh dressings over the grafts. “You’re looking good,” he said.
She whispered something that was barely audible, and he leaned down to hear it again. “My ... kids.”
“Tell me what I can do.”
She only looked at him and shook her head slowly.
What was her name? Was it Lillian? He didn’t think he could wait any longer. “What is your name?”
She struggled to swallow.
“What does LM stand for?”
She shook her head. No. “That’s... th‘ name of ...” the tears began, “th’ man who ...”
“Who did this to you?” he said, suddenly knowing.
She nodded her head. Yes.
“Can you tell me your name?” She would like to hear her own name spoken; according to Wyatt, it would be a consolation.
The tears came freely, now, and she worked to open her mouth and speak. “Pauline,” she whispered.
“Barlowe,” he said, his heart pounding.
She looked at him for what seemed a long time, then nodded her head.
Yes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Starting Over
“POOBAW,” she whispered.
“Your son.” Dooley’s little brother, now ten years old.
“Where ... ?” She swallowed and grimaced. “How is he?”

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