. .
“Miss Betty, what if I was t’ walk aroun’ in th’ yard?”
“The doctor said you can, Uncle Billy, but only when spring comes. It’s too cold now.”
He peered over her shoulder and into the cook pot. Collards! His all-time favorite. An’ a big, fat hen a-roastin’ in th’ oven! Maybe he’d died in th’ hospital a few months back an’ went to heaven.
“If I was t’ dress warm, how’d that be?”
“I don’t think so, Uncle Billy. Wait ’til May when th’ flowers start to bloom, that’d be a good time.”
May?
A man oughtn’t to have t’ wait ’til May t’ leave ’is house! He had important things t’ do. Besides, he could be dead an’ gone by May.
“What would you like best of anything?” Father Tim asked Sissy and Sassy, who flanked him on the study sofa.
“Books!” they exclaimed as one.
His order was waiting by Hope’s cash register, gift-wrapped and ready to go. “What else?”
“Goldfish!” said Sissy, who looked at him with the inquisitive green eyes he loved.
“Ice skates!” said Sassy, whose infectious smile had always done him in.
Why had he asked such a question? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone, and make do with books? The answer was simple—these were his grandchildren!
“Consider it done,” he said, patting a bony knee on either side.
Sassy poked his arm. “What would you like best of anything, Granpaw?”
“Ah. A fine question. Let me see.” He dropped his head and put his hand over his eyes.
“He’s thinking,” said Sissy, nodding with approval.
Peace on earth, that’s what he wanted.
“Healthy siblings for you two!” he said, naming another front-runner.
“What is siblings?” asked Sassy.
“A sibling is a brother or sister.”
“One of each,” said Sissy. “That’s what I prayed for.”
“So how about a trip down the street?”
“Sweet Stuff!” they chorused.
He had just delivered the girls home from Sweet Stuff and was on his way to the Oxford when the phone rang.
“Father Tim?”
“The same!”
“Lew Boyd, Father, I need somebody to talk to.”
“My time is yours.”
“Is there any way you could drop by the station?”
“Ah. Well . . . let’s see. Sure thing! I’ve got to get gas, anyway. How about—thirty minutes?” Afterward, he’d pop down to the Oxford and work for a couple of hours. . . .
“I ’preciate it. I’ll sweep you out good and give you a car fresh’ner—Ripe Peach, it’s called. On th’ house.”
“Thanks, Lew. I’ll pass on the Ripe Peach, but I’ll see you in a half hour.”
. . . and after the Oxford, he’d zoom to the Wesley mall and pick up a couple of goldfish and a pair of skates. Make that two pair. Then home again with the stuff to bake the chocolate pie for tomorrow—it was better if it sat overnight—and back to the Oxford for a final hour before making dinner with his good wife.
He was fairly giddy with all that had to be done, not to mention the blasted haircut he was forced to get somewhere, somehow. . . .
He had no intention of answering the phone when it rang again, but his hand shot forth like an arrow, and there he stood, saying, “Hello!”
“Father Tim?”
“Is that you, Esther?”
“It is. Father Talbot’s a busy man, you know.”
“Ah, yes. Packing for Australia as we speak, is my guess.”
“So could you give me some advice?”
“If I can. Be glad to.” He checked his watch.
“I’m only human.”
“True enough.”
“I hate to admit this.”
“You can admit it to me.”
“You know Ol’ Man Mueller?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Every Christmas, I take him an orange marmalade.”
“That’s very good of you, Esther.”
“Scripture tells us to visit the poor. But I don’t want to do it anymore.”
“Aha.”
“I was crossin’ Main Street the other day, an’ the old goat nearly ran over me—he didn’t even slow down.”
“Don’t take it personally, Esther.”
“After Gene and I have slogged out to his place every Christmas Eve in th’ pitch-black dark to deliver his cake!”
“I think his eyesight is going, he nearly bagged me a couple of times.”
“Would I be a hypocrite if I didn’t want to take ’im a cake but did it anyway? Or would I be worse if I just thought about doin’ it an’ didn’t do it at all?”
“In my humble opinion? Worse!”
He heard her sigh. “I knew you’d say that.”
Uncle Billy was zipping his jacket when his wife walked into the kitchen wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and a small black cocktail hat with a mashed veil.
“Where do you think you’re going, Bill Watson?”
“Down th’ street!” he hollered, grabbing his cane from the back of the chair.
“You sit down over yonder and be sick! If you get well, they won’t send Miss Betty to cook for us, and that’ll be a fine kettle of fish.” The mashed veil trembled.
“They ain’t no pot of collards worth bein’ tied up like a chain-gang prisoner.” He pulled an old wool hat down over his ears and searched his pockets for gloves. “I got t’ see about some lumber!”
“Mumbler? I can hear every word I say, plain as day. It’s you who’s the mumbler, Bill Watson! Where are you going down the street?”
“I’m goin’ t’ see Santy!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Santy!” exclaimed his wife.
Right there it was—all the proof a man needed that she could hear anything she dadblame wanted t’ hear.
“You tell him not to come down the chimney this year,
” she said. “It’s full of squirrels. Tell him to come in the back door, we’ll leave the screen unlatched.”
His wife’s face had lit up like a young ’un’s. As he went down the steps, one at a time, he felt mighty glad t’ have th’ Lord in on what he was about to do.
It wasn’t the first time he’d counseled in a pickup truck with the heater blasting.
“I been fixin’ t’ talk t’ you for a good while,” said Lew. “But since me an’ Earlene run off to a JP an’ didn’t let you marry us, it didn’t seem right t’ bother you.”
“It’s no bother at all, Lew. What’s on your mind?”
Lew checked his Timex. “I got t’ talk fast, we got a Honda comin’ in for brake shoes.”
“Aha.”
“Thing is, I married Earlene even if she is takin’ care of her mama ’til she passes, an’ even if she does want t’ stay at th’ flour comp’ny ’til she collects ’er retirement.”
“I see.”
“But I miss ’er. I feel lonesome as a buck, you know what I mean?”
“I know precisely what you mean.”
“But th’ deal’s done—she lives with ’er mama an’ can’t even tell ’er she’s married. Earlene’s sisters say it would kill ’er straight off, she’s way up in ’er nineties an’ has a real bad heart. So on top of it all, we’re keepin’ it a secret. I ain’t told nobody but you, ’cause if I did, th’ news would run up th’ road quick as a scalded dog.”
“That’s true.”
“An’, see, I feel like it ain’t right of me to expect anything but what we agreed on before we was married.”
“Were you willing to wait then?”
“I was then, but mostly I ain’t now.”
“Did you marry her because you love her or because you were a lonely widower?”
“I ain’t goin’ t’ lie. It was some of both. But mostly because I love ’er. She’s a fine woman, an’ that’s a fact.”
“Have you talked to God about this?”
“I go t’ church now an’ again, but I ain’t whole hog on religion.”
“Why is that?”
Lew shrugged. “Seem like he wouldn’t want t’ mess with me.”
“Why wouldn’t He?”
“I don’t know. I’ve done a good bit of wrong in my life.”
“So have I.”
“Not you!”
“Yes, me.”
“I’ll be dogged.”
“I’m a sinner saved by grace, Lew, not by works. It doesn’t matter a whit that I’m a priest. What matters is that we surrender our hearts to God and receive His forgiveness, and come into personal relationship with His Son.”
“Earlene, she’s got that kind of thing with, you know . . .” He pointed up.
“Would you like to have it?”
Lew gazed out the driver’s window, then turned and looked at Father Tim. Tears streamed down his roughly shaven face. “I don’t know, I guess I ain’t ready t’ do nothin’ like that.”
“When you are, there’s a simple prayer that will usher you into His presence and change your life for all time—if you pray it with a true heart.”
Lew wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve.
“How simple is it?”
“This simple: Dear God, thank You for loving me and for sending Your Son to die for my sins. I sincerely repent of my sins and receive Christ as my personal Savior. Now, as Your child, I turn my entire life over to You.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I don’t know about turnin’ my entire life over.”
“An entire life is a pretty hard thing to manage alone.”
“Yessir.”
There was a thoughtful silence as the heater blasted full throttle.
“Meanwhile,” said Father Tim, “why don’t we pray about what you’ve just told me?”
“Yessir. I ’preciate it.” Lew bowed his head.
“Lord, thank You for Your mercy and grace. You know the circumstances, and You’ve heard Lew’s heart on this hard thing.
“All we ask, Father, is that Your will be done.
“In the mighty name of Jesus, Your Son and our Savior, amen.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Father, but that don’t seem like much t’ ask.”
“It’s the prayer that never fails, Lew.”
“Never fails?”
“Never. I hope you’ll pray it in the days and weeks to come.”
Lew considered this. “Exactly what was it again?”
“Thy will be done.”
Lew nodded, thoughtful. “OK. All right. I can do that. I don’t see as there’s anything to lose.”
“Good thinking, my friend!”
“Here comes m’ Honda. Whoa! He don’t have no brakes left a’tall, looks like.”
Father Tim opened the passenger door and stepped down. “Nice truck,” he said, giving the right front tire an amiable kick.
Dear Emma,
Praying faithfully.
Black coat.
Yours truly,
Fr Tim
Andrew surveyed the work to date, standing before the laden shelf with his arms crossed.
“Father, you seem to have stumbled on a latent talent here.”
“Surely not!” He felt the sudden dart of happiness in hearing such a thing.
“The way you’ve put the colors together . . .”
“I’ve had a lot of help, as you recall.”
“Well, yes, but you had to do the mixing and applying. This old shepherd is particularly appealing, I think, with his simple brown robe. Well done!”
“Thank you. I confess I loved that figure, with its bowed head and earnest countenance.” He didn’t know when he’d been so thankful for a bit of praise.
“You’ve always struck me as someone who might write poetry—have a drawerful of it somewhere.” Andrew turned and smiled. “Would I be right?”
Father Tim laughed. “George Herbert wrote all my poetry for me.”
“Or an essayist, perhaps. Ever tried the essay?”
“Tried and failed!”
“Ah, well. A man has his limits. I must tell you I’ve liked having this crowd around the place, they’ve added a certain grace. I’ll miss the lot of you when Christmas comes. By the way, any more thoughts about a stable?”
“Not this year.” Father Tim surveyed the work remaining to be done. “A man has his limits,” he said, grinning.
He’d been so busy, the bald truth had hardly sunk in. But in just a few days, one of the most important institutions in Mitford would vanish in the mists of history.
As far as some people were concerned, losing the Grill was akin to losing an arm or a leg, or at least a couple of digits. No one, however, had been game to keep the Grill up and running, even if Edith Mallory had gone for it, as the limited seating didn’t make for much of a bottom line.
Indeed, the historic cooking and refrigeration apparatus was scheduled to be ripped out soon after closing and, according to rumor, hauled to the dump with hardly a fare-thee-well. Then, in would march the shoe store, nailing its shelves to the walls. . . .
He was just setting out his brushes when Mule popped his head in the door.
“Got a minute?”
Father Tim made a move to sprint to the door and distract his visitor, but it was too late. Mule trotted in, gaping at the figures lining the shelf.
“Man! What’re y’all doin’ in here? Look at this!”
“This is undercover stuff, never to be mentioned.” Andrew must have stepped out to the bank. . . .
“Ain’t that a sight,” Mule said, reverent. “That’s th’ shepherds an’ wise men an’ all!”
“Right. And don’t say a word about it to anybody!” His pulpit voice, he hoped, would underline this command.
“You’re doin’ all this?”
“With a little help from my friends.”
“How come you didn’t get me in on th’ deal? I’m your friend.”
>
“True.”
“Who’s this?”
“Joseph.”
Mule’s eyes were wide. “An’ look at th’ sheep, an’ that donkey. I always liked a donkey. This is a sight for sore eyes; you need t’ set this up in a display window someplace. Course, your camel don’t look so hot.”
“He hasn’t been painted yet.”
“You ought t’ give me a shot at it; I did our bathroom and front porch.”
“Dooley gets to paint the camel. He’ll be home tomorrow night.” Tomorrow night!
“Where’s th’ Baby Jesus at?”
Father Tim took the manger and child from the box, and cradled the piece in his hands.
Mule cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “Ain’t that somethin’? So where’s th’ stable in this deal?”
“Don’t have a stable.”
“You got to have a stable.”
“I don’t have time to build a stable—maybe next year.”
“I’ve built a thing or two in my time. You could get an orange crate from Avis, break that sucker down, hammer in a few nails, an’ you’d have a stable.”
“I’ll catch you for lunch tomorrow.”
“I been thinkin.’ Somebody ought t’ do somethin’ for Percy an’Velma, you know what I’m sayin’? Seems like somethin’ ought to happen on their last day.”
“I thought Coot Hendrik was cooking up a celebration.”
“Never got it organized, plus he’s down with walkin’ pneumonia.”
“Ah.” He took a deep breath. “There’s not much time, but . . . why don’t we give them a party?”
Mule smoked this over. “You mean you an’ me?”
“Somebody needs to get things rolling.”
“Where at?”
“At the Grill. Christmas Eve. Right after lunch when they close.”
“Who’ll do th’ food? It don’t seem right to ask Percy—”
“If it’s after lunch, nobody needs food. Or maybe we could just have, I don’t know, dessert.”