These High, Green Hills (6 page)

Percy shuffled to the back booth and poured coffee for the rector, who had come in for an early lunch. “How d‘ you like it?”

“Same as ever. Black.”

“That ain’t what I’m talkin‘ about.”

“So what are you talking about?”

“How do you like bein‘ married?”

“I like it.”

This was the first time since he’d returned from the honeymoon that any of the crowd at the Grill had really questioned his new circumstances. He had strolled in one day during Percy’s beef stew special, looking tanned and thinner, fresh from Maine, and not one word had Percy Mosely, Mule Skinner, or J. C. Hogan said about it.

All he could figure was, they were ticked off at knowing somebody for nearly fifteen years who suddenly upped and married. It required a certain change of mind, which, as Emerson had pointed out, was a blasted inconvenience.

“If I had it t‘ do over, I wonder if I’d do it,” said Percy.

“You know you would. Where else would you get those terrific grandkids?”

“Oh, yeah,” said the Grill owner, brightening.

“I’d do it over in a heartbeat,” said Mule, sliding into the booth. “Fancy’s better lookin‘ today than she was when I married her.”

J.C. slid in on the other side. “I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. You couldn’t get me to do it for a million dang dollars.”

“Before or after taxes?” Mule wanted to know.

J.C. mopped his face with what appeared to be a section of paper towel. “Once was one time too many. I’d rather be shot by a firin‘ squad.”

“Is that caf or decaf?” Mule asked Percy. “Fancy’s got me on decaf, I been stumblin‘ around for two days tryin’ to get awake. Hit me with a little shooter of both.”

J.C. held his cup out to Percy. “I tried decaf for a week, and it was all I could do to get th‘ paper printed. We whittled that sucker down to four pages, I couldn’t paste up an ad without droppin’ to the floor to take a nap.” He blew on the steaming coffee. “Nossir, I wouldn’t be married for all the tea in China, women want to run your business—they put you on fiber, take you off bacon, put you on margarine, take you off caffeine.”

“You’re mighty talkative today,” said Mule.

“I was up half the night with the fire department. Omer Cunningham’s old hay barn caught fire and the sparks jumped over and started on the shed where he stores that antique airplane. The fire engine came, and it was fish or cut bait ‘til three in the mornin’.”

“I thought I might go into newspaper work,” said Mule, “but I got over it.

“If that airplane had caught, you might’ve found a landin‘ gear on your front porch.”

“Had gas in it, did he?”

“You know Omer, he’s always ready to fly. All he needs is a corn-field that hasn’t been plowed. He said he’s moving it to a hangar at the airstrip.”

Mule stirred cream into his coffee. “Somebody told me Mack Stroupe’s going to run in the next mayor’s race.”

“Mack’s for change,” said J.C. “Development, progress, and change—that’s his platform.”

“I like the platform we’ve got,” said the rector. “ ‘Mitford takes care of its own’!” he recited in unison with Mule.

Everybody in Mitford knew Mayor Esther Cunningham’s platform, including the students at Mitford School, who had painted it on a nylon banner that was annually carried in the Independence Day parade up Main Street.

“You know how he built on to his hot-dog stand when he thought Percy was goin‘ out of business? He’s goin’ to use that side of th‘ building for his campaign headquarters.”

“Right,” said J.C. “And I’m the Pope. You couldn’t get this town to vote for anybody but Esther Cunningham if you paid ‘em cash money. They’ll carry her out of office in a coffin.”

“He’ll never run,” said the rector, “so we might as well forget it. Mack’s no genius, but he’s not stupid, either.”

Mule leaned out of the booth, searching for Velma. “Are we goin‘ to order, or did I come in here for my health?”

“You definitely didn’t come in here for your health,” said J.C.

Percy’s wife, Velma, magically appeared with her order pad. “Order th‘ special.”

“What is it?” asked the rector.

“Ground beef patty with a side of Hi-waiian pineapple.”

“How’s the‘ pineapple cut up?” Mule inquired. “I like slices, not chunks.”

Velma frowned. “It’s chunks.”

“I’ll have a grilled cheese, then. No, wait.” Mule drummed the tabletop with his fingers. “Give me bowl of soup and a hot dog all the way. Fancy’s got me off cheese.”

“I’ll take a double cheeseburger all the way, plenty of mustard and mayonnaise, and large fries.” J.C. gave his order louder than usual, to make it clear he was a free man.

“You don’t have to bust my eardrums,” said Velma.

Mule sighed. “On second thought, hold th‘ onions on my hot dog, they give me indigestion.”

Velma eyed the rector, who was inspired by the sting he felt in the late October air. “Beef stew!” he announced.

“Cup or bowl?”

“Bowl.”

“Roll or crackers?”

“Crackers.”

 

“Change my order and bring me th‘ beef stew,” said Mule. “I always like what he orders. But no crackers for me, I’ll take the roll. And skip th’ butter.”

“I never heard of a
cup
of beef stew,” said J.C.

“Crackers are for sick people,” said Mule.

“Lord!” Velma ripped the order off her pad and delivered it to Percy.

Mule turned to the rector. “One thing I’ve been wondering ...”

“What’s that?”

“How do your dog and her cat get along?”

“Violet lives in the house next door, and Barnabas keeps to himself at the rectory.”

Actually, Cynthia fed Violet her evening meal at five, then popped through the hedge to the rectory, after which Violet curled up on Cynthia’s love seat and slept until her mistress returned to work the following morning and opened one of those canned items whose odor could knock a man winding at fifty paces.

“A cat with a house,” said J.C. “That’s some deal.”

“So her cat and your dog don’t cross?”

“Not if we can help it.”

“One time you told me Barnabas slept on your bed.”

“Now he sleeps in the hall.”

There was a reflective silence.

“Anybody been up on the hill?” asked the rector.

He had just come from the site of Hope House, the five-million-dollar nursing home that Sadie Baxter had given as a memorial gift to Lord’s Chapel. By the look of things, it would be a year before it was up and running with staff.

“I shot two rolls up there Wednesday. Doin‘ a feature page next week.”

“That’s going to be some deal,” said Mule. “I wouldn’t mind movin‘ in there myself. I hear there’s goin’ to be a fountain in the lobby.”

“And an aviary in the dining room,” the rector announced proudly.

Mule scratched his head. “Did I hear it’ll have its own church?”

“A chapel. A small chapel. Local millwork, a rose window. First-rate.”

Velma carried two lunch plates on her left arm, and a third in her right hand.

Mule looked on with approval. “That’s a trick I always thought highly of.”

“Beef stew with crackers. Beef stew with roll, no butter. Double cheesburger all the way, with large fries.” Velma set the plates down in no particular order and stalked off.

The men dropped their heads as the rector asked a blessing.

“Amen,” said Mule, rubbing his hands together.

“How’s your boy?” asked J.C., who was busy pouring salt on his burger and fries.

“Great. Couldn’t be better. He’ll be home for Thanksgiving.”

“He’s not gettin‘ the big head in that fancy school, is he?”

“Nope. Dooley Barlowe might get a lot of things, but the big head won’t be one of them.”

“Did you read my story on Rodney hirin‘ a woman?” J.C. was not a pretty sight when he talked with his mouth full.

“You don’t mean it.”

“I bloomin‘ well do mean it. She starts the middle of November. A woman in a police uniform.... I can’t see it.”

“Why not? It’s the law, no pun intended.”

“Would you want a woman preachin‘ in your pulpit?” asked J.C., spilling coffee on his tie.

“Depends on the woman.”

“I can’t see a woman carrying a pistol.”

“How come you don’t like women?” asked Mule. “I like women.”

“I told you. They’re in the overhauling business.”

“Maybe you could use a little overhaulin‘.”

“I been overhauled, buddyroe. Dropped fifty pounds, quit cigarettes, gave up red meat, and quit readin‘ trashy books. Oh, yeah. I even got shots for smelly feet. Was that good enough? No way. She was outta there the year the Dallas Cowboys defeated the Denver Broncos twenty-seven to ten.”

“Big year,” said Mule. “The Yankees won the World Series.”

“Not to mention the Chicago
Daily News
went belly-up.”

None of this information gave the rector a clue as to what year they were talking about, and he had no intention of asking.

“So,” said Mule, “did the shot work, or have you still got smelly feet?”

Lunch at the Grill, thought Father Tim, was what kept life real. He had to confess, however, that he could hardly wait to get back to the office and finish the C. S. Lewis essay entitled “Thought, Imagination, Language.”

Cynthia gave him a hug as he came in the back door. “We’ve been invited to Miss Rose’s and Uncle Billy’s for banana pudding this evening.”

“Oh, no! Please, no!”

“Dearest, don’t be stuffy.”

“Stuffy? Miss Rose has been hospitalized with ptomaine poisoning twice—and nearly sent a Presbyterian parishioner to her reward. You’re the only person in town who’d put your feet under her table.”

“So, pray for protection and let’s go,” she said, looking eager.

It didn’t take much to delight Cynthia Kavanagh. No, indeed, it hardly took anything at all. What’s more, she loved flying in the face of mortal danger.

“Besides, they’ve invited us for banana pudding practically since the day I moved here, so we can’t disappoint them.”

“Of course not.”

“Next Wednesday,” she said, “Miss Sadie and Louella are having us up for supper.”

“Right.”

“Fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”

“We’ll be there.”

“And homemade coconut cake!”

“I’ve made a reservation in the emergency room,” he declared, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“Don’t worry, I’ll watch you every minute. You mustn’t have the gravy or the cake, and only the tiniest portion of potatoes, they’ll be loaded with butter and cream.”

He was glad J. C. Hogan wasn’t around to hear this.

“Then,” she said, adjusting her half-glasses to read from a list, “Ron and Wilma invited us for Friday evening.”

“Ummm.”

“Hal and Marge want us for dinner at the farm, the first Sunday of November.”

“Aha.”

“And the mayor has asked us for a family barbecue the following Sunday. What do you think?”

“Book it.”

She looked faintly worn. “So much social activity! I thought you led a quiet life.”

“I did,” he said, “until I got married.”

“Oh.”

“Everybody wants a look at you.”

“But they’ve seen me for ages!”

“Not in your new circumstances.”

She sighed. “And then there’s Thanksgiving!”

“And the All-Church Feast, which we must attend, and Dooley and Russell Jacks and Betty Craig for turkey here the day after, and ... You look all in, what’s up?”

She sighed again. “I’ve started a new book, and it has a crushing deadline.”

All or nothing at all. That’s what he liked about this new life.

They walked to the Porter place—cum—town museum, holding hands. A Canadian cold front had moved in, inspiring them to wrap like mummies.