The e-mail raved on at some length. Clearly, Emma was scared out of her wits about flying across the pond, and had gone ballistic.
Willie Mullis presented the contents of his hat.
“Nine.”
“Nine! How wonderful!” He took the egg bowl from the shelf above the coatrack. “Won’t you step inside?”
“Nossir.”
“I suppose the laying will pick up to—what do you think?”
He plucked the eggs from the hat and put them in the bowl. Four brown, five white. “To maybe a dozen a day?”
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen?”
“Yessir.”
“A day?”
“Yessir.”
“We have quite a few left from yesterday; would you like these back?”
“Nossir.”
“Ah, well, then. Won’t you help us out and take some all along?”
“Eggs gives me gas.”
“I see. Care to come in for a cup of hot cocoa?”
“Nossir.” Willie’s eyes lowered to his boots, which had attracted a considerable bit of straw on the soles. “Been muckin’ out th’ stalls this mornin’”.
“I see. Well, if you need help, let me know. And thank you, Willie, thank you.”
“Yessir.”
“I don’t think he likes me,” he told Cynthia.
“Phoo, darling. Everyone likes you.”
“Now, now, Kavanagh. So, tell me—what are we to do with nineteen eggs a day?”
She sighed. “I have no idea. Quiches. Omelets. Egg salad.What did Marge do, for heaven’s sake? She never said. I refuse to bake a cake, by the way, I have no time to bake a cake, so don’t even mention baking a cake!”
“A cake? I would never mention such a thing.”
His wife looked oddly pale and distraught.
“What is it, my girl?” He put his arm around her as she stood at the kitchen sink.
“For one thing, it’s laundry! Where does it all come from? It multiplies like coat hangers in a closet! And then there’s dusting and sweeping and cooking and shaking out the dog beds and emptying the dishwasher and working on the calendar and...”
“How’s February coming?”
“Ugh. Not well. Not well at all. I got off light with January and I’m paying my dues with February.”
“How can I help?”
“This house was so cozy and snug and even sort of small when Joyce was here, and now it’s positively huge. That vacuum cleaner, whoever invented the thing should be put in stocks.”
“Come and sit down,” he pled, tugging her away from the sink. “I’ll do the laundry, leave it for me. And how about this, I’ll start wearing my shirts three days instead of two. Plus, I’ll make dinner tonight! How about omelets? Or a quiche, I could do a quiche ...”
“And the fireplace,” she said, thumping into the wing chair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but every time there’s a breath of wind, it starts blowing ashes all over the floor.”
He couldn’t bear to see his usually cheerful wife so frazzled and worn. Worse still, why hadn’t he noticed before? Was he as blind as a bat or merely as dense as a rock?
Or both?
“I’ll be in Holding a couple of days checkin’ the job we’re doin’ with th’ bank,” said Buck. “I’ll look up Lon Burtie, and see what’s goin’ on at Clyde Barlowe’s trailer.”
“Good.You’re sure you don’t need me?”
“Don’t see why I would.”
“How’s business?”
“We’re slammed,” said Buck. “But no way am I complainin’.”
A few years ago, Dooley’s stepfather had asked God to turn his life around, and since then, he and Buck had worked together more than once to search for the missing siblings. In truth, a deep bond had grown between the vicar and the uncompromising job supervisor who’d overseen the construction of Hope House.
“Pauline said you called. Anything wrong?”
“Dooley wants to take the Kavanagh name.” He felt mildly uncomfortable saying it. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me speak with Pauline before you mention it. I plan to be at Hope House on Thursday”
“Cat’s got m’ tongue.”
“Do you think she... how do you think she’ll receive this?”
“Don’t know. Could make ’er feel she’s losin’ one of ’er kids all over again. I’ve kept quiet about Sammy bein’ missin’. Course, we don’t know if he’s missin’.”
“True.” He only knew he didn’t feel encouraged about Sammy. His heart was heavy when he thought of the boy who looked enough like Dooley to be a twin, and who had a gift for turning rude wilderness into the miracle of a garden.
“How long does it take to get a cup of coffee at Starbucks?”
“For Pete’s sake, I wasn’t at Starbucks; I was in Atlanta for four days.”
“Aha.”
“I have the answering service from the netherworld,” said Walter. “What’s up, Cousin?”
“Dooley turned twenty-one in February. After what I hope is soulful consideration, he wants to take the Kavanagh name.”
Walter laughed. “I like it when an English-man opts for an Irish name. Probably happens at least once or twice a millennium. In any case, that’s great news; I believe there’s enough melancholy in your boy to make an admirably authentic Irishman. And hey, you’ll be a dad! At the tender age of what—seventy?”
“Sixty-nine, if the legal stuff happens before June twenty-eighth.”
“This is not my specialty, but I think it’s going to be pretty simple, given that he’s the age of majority. Let me look into it and get back to you.”
“Soon, do you think?”
“A day or two, let’s say no later than next Wednesday, max. How’s your ravishing bride?”
“Wanting you and Katherine to join us on the farm this summer.”
“And muck about with the sheep and cows? We’ll talk about it, sounds great. So, what are you up to in your dotage?”
Dotage! He realized he absolutely loathed this word; he refused to be in a dotage—in any way, shape, or form.
He should never, ever, have gotten himself into this mess with Emma, he’d known better.
He hit “reply,” and typed.
Someone was definitely sitting at the foot of their bed, on his side. He raised his head from the pillow.
Miss Sadie was barefoot and wearing a long, white nightdress.
Miss Sadie! His heart was in his throat. I thought... I thought you were ...
Crossed over? I am!
Where are your shoes? You’ll catch your death!
She giggled like a girl. Too late!
He thought it strange that she didn’t look old at all, but extraordinarily young.Where had she been, and what had she been doing all this time?
He felt definitely cross with her. Why had she pretended to be dead, which had saddened them all so grievously, and broken Louella’s heart? And had she stopped even once to think how homesick he’d been for her over the years? He was furious that he’d allowed himself to be so profoundly deceived.
When are you going to tell him, Father?
“When the time is right,” he said, grumpy as a bear.
Cynthia rolled toward him and slung her arm across his chest. “What did you say?” she murmured.
Miss Sadie had been right there, as real as life! She’d been sitting there in the very flesh—after a fashion.
“Miss Sadie!” he said, thunderstruck.
“Oh,” replied Cynthia, and resumed her whiffling, albeit companionable, snore.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Go Tell It
Agnes hung on to the strap as the truck jounced through a hole the size of a washtub.
“This was once a Cherokee trading path!”
“A trading path would have been a distinct improvement!” Indeed, the availability of the farm truck was providential; the Mustang would be chopped liver in his new parish.
Throughout the morning he’d been praying for Sammy, as he knew Cynthia would be. “Agnes, will you add another name to your prayers?”
“With pleasure.”
“Sammy.” He was surprised that his voice broke as he said the name.
“Clarence will pray, too.”
“You know better than anyone that Clarence is clearly exceptional.”
Her eyes brightened.
“How can I learn to speak with him?”
“I can teach you.”
“Wonderful!”
“Clarence and I use American sign language, as we’ve done since he was a child. This includes finger spelling, or the ABCs, body movement—often referred to as gestural—signing, and facial expression. There’s great dynamism in facial expression, which of course everyone uses; though in my opinion, the deaf employ it in more pronounced and interesting ways. The face of a deaf person can be very alive with expression.”
He geared down for the steep decline. “Aren’t there simple hand signs that express whole thoughts or sentences? Even complex concepts? I’m looking to begin with Sign Language 101.”
“Here’s one that’s known universally; you can sign this tonight to your beautiful Cynthia.”
She raised her right hand and, bending her middle fingers toward the palm, extended her little finger, forefinger, and thumb, and told him the meaning.
He’d once known this sign, but had quite forgotten it; it was lost knowledge come home to him when he needed it. He repeated her gesture with his left hand, feeling a piercing of happiness.
“Very good!” said Agnes. “It’s a lovely bit of hand language to know if you never learn any other.”
“What about signs for words only?”
He slowed the truck to a crawl as she held her hands, palms down, above her head, then opened them upward.
“Steeple!”
“Close. Heaven.”
“Aha!”
“And this?”
She touched her shoulders lightly and moved her hands outward.
“Umm ...” He wished to be clever, but couldn’t.
“Angel.”
“A very ecclesiastical language!”
“A very full and exciting and immediate lan- guage!” she said. “One more for today. It’s what you are to us at Holy Trinity.”
She formed a letter with her right hand, brushed her left arm twice, and placed her arms alongside her body.
“Beats me,” he said.
“Shepherd!”
“This is hard.”
“It is, in the beginning. And then, like any spoken language, you realize one day that your new language is coming together at last. One sign flows naturally into another; and suddenly, you’re communicating.
“I remember the agony of learning that Clarence was deaf, and the hopelessness I felt; he was fourteen months old. Very little was known in those days about the deaf among us. I found several books in the library; every free moment was devoted to studying them—I signed to him without ceasing.
“It took time, Father. I came to think that perhaps sign language was all a lie, and my efforts would be utterly in vain.Then came a day I shall never forget, when my son began speaking to me, expressing his heart with his hands. He was four years old—I was filled with joy at the marvel of it.”
Tears stood in her eyes; she looked out at the branches of trees swaying in the wind, then turned to him, smiling. “Now! Let’s run through the alphabet as a sort of limbering-up exercise.”
“I’d like that.”
“You may not remember a whit of it afterward, but we can practice each time we meet. Here, then, is A . ”
“Good old A!”
She closed the fingers of her hand into a fist and rested her thumb against the forefinger.
He returned the gesture, excited as ever to be learning.
“Perfect! And this is B.” She held the fingers of her hand straight up, and bent the thumb inward, against her palm.
“The earnest and forthcoming B!” he said, forming the gesture with his left hand.
She smiled. “You’re a willing pupil for this old teacher.”
“Agnes ...” Dare he ask this? “I’m a southerner, born and bred, and let me say that I know better than to ask such a thing. If I offend, I plead your forgiveness in advance ...”
She appeared dubious.
“Would you mind very much ... that is ... what is your age?”
“I will be eighty-seven in September.”
“Extraordinary! You appear years younger!” In truth, he was dumbfounded. “Michelangelo was eighty-seven when he wrote ‘Ancora imparo, ’ or ‘I am still learning.’”
“Learning has always been intoxicating to me, and to Clarence, I’m happy to say.”
“Is it OK that you’re ... so far away from medical help?”
She laughed. “I’ve concluded that one can’t get too far away from medical help! Clarence’s best medicine is working with wood; my own reliable remedies are our garden and our books. However...”
She looked at him—somewhat mischievously, he thought. “... I must confess the use of yet another nostrum.”
“Confess away!”
“I am utterly devoted to the crossword puzzle.”
He laughed.
“Doing a crossword delays, I hope, the petrifaction of my poor brain, and also induces a peaceful slumber... if hoeing the garden hasn’t already done the trick! But to answer your question, Father—I have a checkup and flu shot in Wesley every spring, and I trust God to continue His mercy and grace in our lives. And you, may I ask? How many years have you graced this earth?”
“I’ll be seventy at the end of June. Seventy! It boggles the imagination.”
“I’m reminded of something George Herbert wrote, that lovely man. ‘And now in age I bud again...’ I sense that God has set you on a wonderful new course, that you’re entering a kind of golden passage.”
“A golden passage,” he mused. “Thank you for that thought.”
“As I continue to tell my story, I must plead your forgiveness in advance.”
“I can’t imagine what forgiveness you might want or need from me. But consider it done.”
They bumped along the windswept road, finishing off their finger-spelling session with G.
“Do you sing, Agnes?”
“I can carry a tune, Father, but only in a bucket.”
“I know it’s a Christmas song, but I’m in the mood for ‘Go Tell It on the Mountain.’”
“Written by Mr. John Work!”
“I must say you have a very wide-ranging mind.”
“I was a librarian for a number of years.”
“Here?”
“In Chicago.”
“Then you left the mountains!”
“Yes. I can’t say I remember all the verses; there are three, I believe.”
“I can’t remember them, either. What the heck, we’ll sing the refrain twice. But don’t make me sing alone, you’ll regret it.”
With the exception of his best friend who, fortunately, was also his wife, he found he was more comfortable with Agnes Merton than nearly anyone he’d ever known. God had sent this woman to him as surely as the angel was sent to Daniel in the lion’s den.
“You lead and I’ll follow,” she said.
He threw back his head and hammered do
wn.
“Go tell it on the mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere
Go tell it on the mountain
That Jesus Christ is born...
... Go tell it on the mountain
That Jesus Christ is born. ”
“By heaven, that felt good! Did I hear a little harmony there, Miss Agnes?”
The lines around her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Only a little,” she said.
A rising wind struck them a blow as they pulled into the yard of a cabin.
“Jubal Adderholt will not warm to us immediately.”
He set a wooden stool, which he’d fetched from the Meadowgate barn, by the passenger door. “Grab on,” he said, offering his hand. Agnes grasped his hand, carefully put one foot on the stool, then stepped to the ground with her cane, relieved.
“I see you’uns a-comin’ on m’ property! This here’s private property!”
Their long-bearded, barefoot host had opened the door of his two-room cabin and peered across the yard at his visitors. Smoke puffed from the chimney and was snatched away by the wind.
“Mr. Adderholt! Good morning! We’ve brought you hot tea.”
“Is that Miss Agnes?”
“It is!” she said, establishing a firm grip on her cane.
“I done run ye off I don’ know how many times, an’ ye keep a-comin’ back!”
“And I will continue to do so, Mr. Adderholt.”
“I never seed th’ beat, a man can’t have a minute to hisself. Who’s that with ye? Are ye settin’ th’ law on me?”
“This is Father Timothy Kavanagh, our new vicar at Holy Trinity.”
“Don’t ye bring no God people in m’ place, you’re all th’ God people I can swaller.”
“We won’t visit long, Mr. Adderholt.”
“Keep advancing,” she whispered to Father Tim.