These High, Green Hills (62 page)
Read These High, Green Hills Online
Authors: Jan Karon
The Presbyterian brass band was busy rehearsing three nights a week and could be heard through half the village. The Lord’s Chapel Youth Choir was holding rehearsals in Jena Ivey’s florist shop because the Sunday School rooms were overtaken by the ECW, who had twenty-seven major floral arrangements to pull together.
“Raffia!” cried the frantic Hope House chairperson for opening day events. “We need raffia!”
“What’s raffia?” several volunteers wanted to know.
“Don’t use raffia,” said Jena Ivey. “The last I got had bugs in it.”
Someone said Buck Leeper had bought a suit at the Collar Button that wasn’t even on sale, and J. C. Hogan was seen leaving the Collar Button with a box the size of a small garage. He was reported to have been with Officer Lynwood, who was out of uniform and looking good in a pants suit.
Percy Mosely was running a special on a vegetable plate: collards, black-eyed peas, candied yams, cornbread, and banana pudding for two-fifty, during the week of the Hope House grand opening, only. After that, three bucks.
Happy Endings Bookstore was giving twenty percent off every title starting with H. “Does that include th‘ Holy Bible?” asked Uncle Billy Watson, who, when assured that it did, shelled out fourteen dollars on the spot, plus three-fifty for a magnifying glass.
Hardly anyone in the village was untouched by the excitement of the great glass and brick building at the crest of the hill, which stood where the town’s first Episcopal church had burned to the ground in a tragic fire. Only one living person knew the full truth about that fire, thought the rector, and he was the one.
Sadie Baxter’s attempt to right a wrong was a better thing than he could now imagine. Good things would come of Hope House; he could feel it in his bones.
“I’m here,” said Scott Murphy, “because God brought me here. And so are you.”
Clearly, the chaplain’s message was directed at the forty new residents of Hope House, most of whom were present, and all of whom were in unfamiliar circumstances.
“Because God has brought us here, we’re going to honor Him by having fun, and enjoying this wonderful and remarkable place.
“You need to know that I do not now, nor will I ever, consider this a nursing home, though some of you will need nursing. Good nursing care is vital, but it isn’t everything.”
The mayor looked at the rector and nodded.
Ron Malcolm sat back and relaxed.
A muscle jumped in Buck Leeper’s jaw.
“We’re going to sing here,” said Scott Murphy, stepping from behind the pulpit and walking into the aisle. “We’re going to dance here. We’re going to pray here. We’re going to laugh here, and love here. And we’re going to do all that by sustaining the powerful, eternal, and life-giving spirit of hope through Jesus, the Christ.
“As your chaplain, I will not be working alone. That’s because I come to you not as an individual, but as part of a team.
“Luke!”
A Jack Russell terrier trotted out from the behind the pulpit, wagged its tail, and sat down.
The audience laughed with surprise.
“Lizzie!”
Another Jack Russell, nearly identical, shyly poked its head around the side of the pulpit, then walked out and sat down next to Luke.
The audience applauded wildly, glad for laughter after the formality of a ribbon-cutting in a whipping October wind, a lengthy dedication with choral music, and a bombastic mayoral speech.
“You hit a home run with the chaplain,” whispered the mayor to the rector.
“I wasn’t the one who hit it,” whispered the rector to the mayor.
After the grand reception, held around the splashing fountain in the atrium, forty residents, many in wheelchairs, took occupancy of their new quarters.
Louella Baxter Marshall was escorted to Room Number One by Olivia and Hoppy Harper, Lacey Turner, Cynthia and Timothy Kavanagh, and Dooley Barlowe. Miss Pattie was led to Room Thirty-four by Evie Adams, who was weeping with gratitude and relief.
Up and down the corridors, families helped loved ones settle in, meeting nurses, talking with doctors, and admiring the lavish display of flowers that filled rooms and nursing stations.
“I’m movin‘ in here as soon as Gene kicks,” said Esther Bolick.
“But you’re not sick!” said Fancy Skinner.
“No, but I’m workin‘ on it,” declared Esther, looking around at the rose-colored carpet, Palladian windows, and crystal chandeliers.
“Buck,” said the rector, shaking the superintendent’s rough hand, “this is as fine a job as I’ve ever seen done. Personally, I can’t thank you enough, nor can Lord’s Chapel.”
Buck nodded, and the rector was suddenly moved by the reality of thousands of hours of labor, and a promise that, at great personal sacrifice, had been kept. He threw his arms around the man and hugged him. “May God bless you for this, Buck.”
“No problem,” said Buck Leeper, turning to walk away.
“Wait! When are you leaving?”
“I’ll be pulling out tomorrow.” The nerve twitched in his jaw.
He didn’t want to see Buck Leeper go. No, he didn’t want that at all.
“The church attic—all that space Miss Sadie’s father wanted to turn into Sunday School rooms—is that job big enough for you? Could we get you back for that?”
Buck shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Could you—would you come over for supper tonight? We’d love to have you.”
“I’ve got a lot to pull together,” said Buck Leeper, looking awkward.
The rector tried to smile. “Maybe another time.”
He felt deflated as he and Cynthia drove home with Dooley. He was glad they’d had the plaque made, honoring Buck.
“What is it?” she asked, always knowing his heart.
He couldn’t find the words, exactly. Tomorrow he’d start looking into the attic project, and how they might initiate fund-raising; he would call Buck’s boss, whom he’d met at the country club, and put in a special request for his star superintendent.
Something told him very clearly that Buck Leeper was not finished in Mitford.
Not by a long shot.
“Well, buddy.”
Fall break was over and they had delivered Dooley back to school, taking Poobaw along for the ride.
“You know we love you,” said the rector, giving the boy a hug. With the obvious exception of Miss Sadie, he couldn’t remember ever hugging a millionaire before.
Cynthia kissed him on the cheek. “Yes, you big lug, we love you.”
“I love you back,” Dooley said, meeting their gaze.
Dooley squatted on one knee and put his hands on Poobaw’s shoulders. “Stay cool, Poo.”
“I will,” said Poobaw, nodding and smiling. “I’ll see y‘uns later.”
“Don’t say y‘uns,” his brother admonished.
“What should I say?”
“Get them to tell you what to say.” Dooley stood up and smiled, then turned around and was gone along the hallway.
“Today’s the day!” announced his wife, looking infernally pleased with herself.
“Today,” he murmured, trying to accept the inevitable.
“It will be over in no time!” she said, beaming.
“Over in no time. Of course.”
“So, let’s roll up our sleeves and begin!”
He began rolling. “ ‘He has half the deed done who has made a beginning.’ ”
“Plato!” crowed his wife.
“Horace!” he snapped.
Cynthia brushed her hair from her eyes and peered at him with cool disdain. “My escort to the junior prom, as I recall. I didn’t realize you’d met.”
They emptied everything onto the floor in a pile that, he surmised, was altogether large enough to fill an eighteen-wheeler.
After removing the drawers and roping the doors shut, they muscled the thing down the stairs and through the hallway, out to the stoop and down the steps, then across the side yard and through the hedge, where they set it on the flagstones.
He mopped his face.
She panted and moaned.
He squatted on his heels and looked at the ground.
She leaned against a tree and stared at the sky.
A bird called. An airplane roared over.
“Ready?” she inquired.
“Ready,” he replied.
“Didn’t I tell you we could do it?”
“You did.”
“OK,” she shouted, “one, two, three, lift!”
Off they bolted like two pack mules, across the side yard of the rectory, up the steps, and over the threshold, where the door was propped open with a broom handle.
Safely inside, they set their cargo down and fell exhausted into chairs at the table.
“Lemonade?” she asked after a labored pause.
“And step on it,” he said, mopping again.
He looked at the alien thing sitting in his kitchen. A three-bedroom condo, at the very least. A shipping crate for a Canadian moose....
“There!” she said, handing him the lemonade and gulping hers.
If this wasn’t the last blasted piece of decorating business on his wife’s agenda, he was going to build a brick wall across the path through the hedge and be done with it.
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