After escorting Clyde Barlowe to the state road, he walked back to the farmhouse, now trembling, himself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wisely Measures
He told her everything.
Should he also tell the boys? She didn’t think so. Any discussion of his father always upset Dooley, just as it did Sammy.
Clyde Barlowe had come and Clyde Barlowe had gone. They decided to leave it at that.
At breakfast on Wednesday, his wife looked like the wreck of the Hesperus.
“I’ll take over tomorrow,” he promised, “if you can handle Sissie one more day.”
“But only one,” she said. “Then I’ll take her again on Friday. Howʼs that?”
He’d long considered division of labor a highlight of the marital state.
“Lily! Is that you?”
“Already got mʼ apron on, anʼ ready tʼ roll.”
“We have a couple of new faces since you were here. Sissie Gleason and our son, Dooley Kavanagh.”
She thumped her jar of sweet tea on the table. “Didn’t know you had kids.”
“Just one. Got him last week.”
“How old is ʼe?” She pulled on her plastic mask.
“Twenty-one.”
“That’s th’ way t’ git ʼ em, all right. Fully growed.”
“You don’t have to wear the mask; Violetʼs in the attic these days, working with her mistress.”
“Y’ never know what a cat’ll do; if she gits out of th’ attic, she’ll head straight f‘r me, sure as you’re born. Whatʼs on thʼ menu f’r t’day?”
“Lasagna. Mac and cheese. Lamb stew ...”
“Lamb stew? Yʼall ain’t eatin’ them innocent little things I seen in th’ pasture?”
“Heavens, no.” The very thought gave him a turn. “This is, umm, store-bought.”
“Good! What else?”
“Raisin-oatmeal cookies. And two chocolate pies, one for the freezer. If that’s not too much to ask.”
“Lord help! I hope you don’t have y’r cholesterol checked anytime soon.”
“That menu’s mostly for the young people. The old people of the house will have fruit salad and cottage cheese.”
“You want me tʼ cut up th’ fruit?”
“I’d be much obliged,” he said.
“By th’ way, I don’t have a soul to send t’morrow; you’ll have tʼ put up with me ag’in.”
“Great!” He liked having a plan; he’d never been much on surprises. “And Lily ...”
“Yes, sir?” Yes, sir?
“Thank you for coming whenever you can, and for sending your charming sisters when you canʼt.”
“You’re welcome. Arbutus says she’s ready to go back to work, so you might git her once in a while.”
“Arbutus! Lives in a brick house with two screen porches?”
“An’ married t’ Junior Bentley,” she said proudly.
He would fly up to Wilsonʼs Ridge where, he’d just learned, not a Wilson remained. Then he’d trot to the hospital and see Dovey, run by to visit Puny, and dash home to help with Sissie.
At Hankʼs store, he bought two cantaloupes for Agnes and Clarence.
“They’re from Georgia,” said Hank. “Sweet as sugar. By thʼ way, Morris Millwright come in yesterday, tol’ me they won’t be back to church.”
His heart sank. “I’m sorry to hear it. Why?”
“He heard a couple of people who go to church there killed somebody. Didn’t think ’is kids should be around that kind of thing.”
“I’ll talk with Morris.”
“I told him they wadn’t but one of thʼ congregation who’d killed somebody, an’ he’d served ’is time.”
“Robert did serve time, but we may not know the whole truth. Youʼre a good fellow, Hank. Thanks.”
What to do, Lord? Robert Prichard would be dogged by this for the rest of his life, and now Holy Trinity had taken a blow for it, as well.
To get to Holy Trinity and the Mertons required a left turn out of the parking lot.
He prayed briefly, checked his watch—ten after nine—and turned right.
Someone had said that the school bus was situated at the foot of an embankment, beyond an outcrop of rock. Roughly two miles from Hankʼs store, he saw the sign—FOGGY MOUN- TAIN ROAD—and turned onto a narrow gravel track overtaken by weeds. He drove until he spied the faded orange roof of the bus, then parked and looked for a way down the bank.
The narrow footpath was well concealed, and worn circuitously along the steep decline to the bus.
Truth be told, he wouldn’t have minded having Barnabas along on this deal.
“By y’r looks, I reckon y’re a preacher.”
“Father Kavanagh,” he said, extending his hand.
His hand was ignored.
“Yʼ donʼ want t’come in; I done cooked collards. They stink s’ bad I’ll have t’ burn th’ place down. Let’s set on m’ deck; I poured that little cement slab m’self.
“Ain’t it a nice e‘enin’? Look at th’ hawks a-wheelin’ up yonder; I could watch hawks a-wheelin’ all day if I didn’ have a job of work t’ do at th’ cannin’ fact’ry”
Fred slapped his right leg three times and hopped twice.
“Set down right here, I don’t need no chair, I’ll set on m’ fist an’ lean back on m’ thumb.”
Father Tim declined the offer.
“Git on away, Virgil, I ain’t got time t’ mess with dope heads, I got m’ mama in’ th’ house, us young ’uns cain’t fool with nobody as does dope.
“I mought as well tell y’, Preacher, Fred Lynch never kilt Cleve Prichard; hit was ’is granboy that done it.” Fred made a slashing ges- ture across his throat, and glared at his visitor.
“I never kilt nothin’ more’n a ‘coon, an’ one time a serpent, but a man’s got a right t’ kill a serpent, like it says in th’ Bible. When I was Holiness, I was bit handlin’ a serpent, see that arm, th’ whole thing turned black as tar an’ th’ swell never left it. I’ve charged cash money f’r people t’ look on it; hit’s good luck t’ look on it ...”
His host spun around three times, spit twice on the ground, and performed an odd jig.
“Onesall, twosall
Ziggesall zan
Bob tail winnepeg
Tinklum tan
Harum Scrum
Virgin Mary
Cinklum Sanklum
Wash an’ a buck!”
“Speakin’ of rabbits, see that’n settin’ in th’ weeds yonder? Hush up! Don’t say nothin’! We don’ want t’ scare ’im off. Hold it right there; don’ move ...”
Fred sidled to the open door of the bus and reached in.
“Hush up talkin’, now, I cain’t half think if people runs their mouth when I’m tryin’ t’ kill somethin’ ...”
The visit to the school bus sat on his stomach like bile.
He parked behind Holy Trinity, and made his way along the path to the schoolhouse. Beneath an overcast sky, the blue mountains had turned purple.
“Cantaloupes!” said Agnes. “We can’t grow them in our rich soil. What a fine treat.”
“From Georgia. I let Hank pick them out. And I brought the new knob and escutcheon for the sacristy door. Clarence said he’d install it for us.”
She peered at him, concerned. “You seem ill.”
“I’m all right.” Those few minutes on the broken cement had left him enfeebled, somehow. “How’s Clarence coming with his big order?”
“Very well. I do wish he had help, but of course, no one can carve for him; it would be like forging a signature.”
“Would it be all right if I stopped in for a moment?”
“He’d like that. He’s carving a family of black bear just now; it’s his first bear family.” Agnes poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot. “I’m glad you made it ahead of the rain.”
“Yes, and I’ll be glad to see it. Sammy’s certainly looking for it.”
“We all are, b
ut it will do my spinach no good; the rabbits have eaten every leaf.”
There had been no rabbit at the school bus. In his rifle scope, Fred Lynch had sighted a patch of shriveled weeds, and blasted it to kingdom come. He’d then done a frantic, arm-waving, hollering dance that sent his caller beating a retreat up the bank.
He walked to one of the many bookcases in the large, paneled room with its enormous stone fireplace, and browsed her shelves. He felt the peace of this home flow into him.
“Come,” she said, “let’s sit on the porch.”
As the rainstorm rolled east over the gorge, he drank his tea and they talked about where he’d been and what he’d seen. His visit to the school bus seemed to affect even Agnes. She sat still and pale in the porch chair, her puzzle close by on a small table.
“Enough of that!” he said, at last. The sas- safras was having its way with him; he felt stronger as he trekked to the kitchen and grabbed a towel from the drawer and toted the stool to the porch.
“The same as last time?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am, and I appreciate it.”
“You know I don’t feel equipped, Father, as I said before.”
“Indeed, you are equipped! My wife thinks very highly of your work.”
“Well, then!” she said.
Beyond the screened porch, every vernal leaf dripped with rain from the short, sudden cloudburst.
“Look!” He pointed with eagerness to the rainbow arching over the mountains. “That’s what I want for our entire flock at HolyTrinity”
“May He fulfill that desire, Father.”
“You know I feel guilty that I have but a year in this parish. Trekking off to Ireland seems selfish, if not entirely vainglorious.”
“None of that, now. It’s something you’ve promised yourself and Cynthia for a long time, and a promise is a promise. Think how often promises are made and never kept! Besides, I have a feeling you need the trip.”
She snipped the hair overgrowing his collar, her hands steady.
“I do. But you know what they’ll send you.”
“What, for goodness’ sake?”
“A callow youth, still wet behind the ears.”
She laughed. “You can’t scare me, Father.”
“When will you tell the rest of your story?”
The snipping stopped for a moment. “Next time,” she said. “Next time.”
He looked down to the porch floor. A veri- table bale of the stuff had been removed.
He found Dovey sleeping, and left a vase of three pink roses that he had picked up at Mitford Blossoms. He hurried on to The Local where he collected Cynthia’s phone order, then zoomed by Lew’s for a fill-up.
“You hear th’ one about th’ police pullin’ th’ woman f’r speedin’?” asked Lew.
“Haven’t heard it.” It was an epidemic!
“She come flyin’ by ‘im with ’er husband in th’ car, police caught up to ’er, said, ‘I’m writin’ you a ticket, did you know you’re doin’ ninety- two?’ She said, ‘Sure I know it, it says so on that sign yonder.’
“He says, ‘That’s a highway sign, for gosh sake.’ Husband’s settin’ there white as a sheet; police says, ‘What’s th’ matter with him?’
“She says, ‘We just come off of highway one-sixteen. ’”
“Pretty funny.”
“You ain’t exactly bustin’ a gut laughin’. I guess you heard about Miss Pattie ...”
Miss Pattie was a legend in her own time. She’d been known to take a bath with her hat on, plant violets in her shoes, and once crawled out a window to the roof of her front porch, “stark,” as Hessie Mayhew reported to one and all.
“What’s Miss Pattie done now?”
“She died.”
He grabbed his change and nearly knocked over the display of Red Man chewing tobacco as he blew out the door. He jumped in the truck, scratched off without meaning to, turned right on Main Street, hung a left on Lilac, and shot up the hill to Hope House.
Puny jiggled Timmy on one hip, and Tommy on the other. “Me an’ Joe Joe thinks Timmy looks like ’is granpaw.”
“Certainly not!”
“He does! Look at ’im. Little bald head, no offense. An’ look at ’is little nose. Ain’t it jis’ like yours?”
He felt his own nose while he peered at Timmy’s. “Some resemblance.”
“An’ Tommy, he looks like ’is Granmaw Esther.”
That was a fact. Put a pair of glasses and a wig on Tommy, and he’d be elected in a heartbeat. Mitford still hadn’t gotten over losing Esther Cunningham as mayor.
“I’ve brought everyone a little something!” He began unpacking the shopping bag. “For you, Puny, a dozen eggs, fresh from the nest!”
“Great! Joe Joe eats two ever’ mornin’.”
“For these fine boys, a couple of books ...”
“What kind of books’re those?”
“This one’s for Tommy, it’s the writings of Mr. George Herbert, and this is for Timmy—Mr. William Wordsworth!”
“Are they any pictures in ’em?”
“No pictures.”
“Jis’ words?”
“Well, of course, they aren’t to be enjoyed for several years yet. Sherlock Holmes said it’s a great thing to start life with a small number of really good books that are your very own; I’ve inscribed each one on the flyleaf. And here’s a couple of softballs ...”
Puny looked mighty disappointed that her children’s granpaw was so out of it where presents were concerned.
“Listen,” he said, shaking one of the softballs. Something chimed inside; Timmy reached for it at once but couldn’t grasp it; he batted it to the floor where it rolled under the sofa. The vicar dropped to his hands and knees, and searched it out.
“Oh, law, don’t go pokin’ around under there, I ain’t dust-mopped in a month of Sundays.”
“Not a problem!” he said, pulling himself up by a chair arm. “And of course, there’s something for Sissy and Sassy ...”
“You ought t’ set down an’ catch y’r breath.”
Indeed, he felt as if he’d been spinning in a whirlwind since early morning. “Can’t sit down; have to scurry. I know how the girls love books, here are the first four in the Boxcar Children series, I hope they don’t have them already.”
She studied the covers. “They don’t! They’ll be so glad t’ git books from their granpaw; they read all you gave ’em f’r Christmas three or four times.”
“Why don’t you and Joe Joe pack up the whole brood and come out for supper one Friday?”
“When we go off from here, you never seen th’ like of what we have t’ haul—bottles, formula, diapers, sacks of this an’ that, a change of clothes, books for th’ girls, they read all th’ time, Sissy’s stuffed alligator ...”
“Maybe in the fall, then—when they’re older. We miss you.”
“We miss you back. I hope Cynthy has some help out there on th’ farm.”
“My dear girl,” he said, “it’s taken three people to replace you.”
“Maybe I’ll come back t’ work when th’ kids have left home.”
“Yes, but by then, there won’t be anything left of us.”
“Oh, phoo, you’re goin’ t’ live t’ be a hundred!”
“Not at the rate I’m going,” he said.
He dumped the grocery bags on the pine table and went straight to the library phone.
“Betty? Father Tim. I have good news ...”
“Thank th’ Lord!”
“... and some bad news.”
“Oh, no. Give me th’ bad first.”
“Miss Pattie died.”
“But I loved Miss Pattie!” wailed Betty. “I nursed her at home for a whole month one time, and she’s th’ only patient I ever had who was actually fun!”
“Cynthia found her fun, as well. I hear she enjoyed taking a bath with her hat on.”
“No, sir, that story is all wrong. She never wore a hat; but she did tak
e a bath holdin’ an umbrella.”
“Aha.”
“Because the shower head dripped! I thought that made perfect good sense.”
“Absolutely Now, the good news. Miss Rose has a room at Hope House.”
“Hallelu ... oops, sorry. Since I know how she got it, I’d better watch my tongue.”
“Good thinking,” he said.
“Hey, Father, this is Connie at Hope House. Miss Louella sent for me this mornin’ an’ asked me to call you. She was in a strut; said you won’t listen to her, but you’d listen to me. Why she picked me, I have no clue! I suppose it’s because I work in the office, which always seems more, I don’t know, official.
“Anyway, she wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but she wanted me to ask you ... where is that note, oh, here it is, you should see my desk, it’s like a bomb went off.... ‘What are you doin’ about you-know-who’s money?’
“I said in case he don’t know who you-know-who is, maybe she should be more specific. But she wadn’t. Well, ’bye.”
Beep.
“Teds and Cynthia! You must be out milking the sheep! It’s your Yankee cousin, Katherine. Walter and I have done our darnedest to figure out when we might visit Meadowgate, but we’re stumped!
“I’ve gone double duty at the nursing home; I love my dearlings, and then I’ve let the mayor’s henchwoman talk me into chairing the big event in August for children with AIDS. Will you forgive us? You know we’d love to see you—but imagine the weeks we’ll spend together in Ireland next year; you’ll be sick of us all too soon!
“Which reminds me—Teds, what would you think of boarding with the lovely lady who made that luscious rhubarb tart? Or shall we go as the wind carries us? Loads to talk about!
“For now—hugs and kisses! And God bless!”
Beep.
“Father? Andrew Gregory.
“I’ve found someone to take on the job of restoring the Plymouth—for a very reasonable sum, it turns out! Thought I’d have the work done, and give the car to the town. We can use it in parades, and to add a touch of pomp to official mayoral activities. Long story short, I’m sending it down to Charleston in four or five days, the fellow has time to start the work now.