They were racing toward the holidays, into the time when Dooley would be home from the University of Georgia, and Dooley’s long-lost younger brother, Sammy, would join them at the yellow house for Thanksgiving dinner. He sat back and closed his eyes, and warmed both hands on the mug.
He remembered the first time he ever saw Dooley Barlowe—barefoot, unwashed, and looking for a place to “take a dump.” He chuckled. How could he ever have guessed that this thrown-away boy, then eleven years old and now twenty, would change his heart, his life, for all time? But Dooley wasn’t the only thrown-away Barlowe—three brothers and a sister had been let go by their mother, and it had long been his personal mission to find them all, to see the sundered nest made whole.
On Thanksgiving Day, four of the five siblings would break bread together at the Kavanagh board. Only Kenny remained lost to them, and only God knew where he might be found.
Uncle Billy Watson shuffled to the chair by the kitchen window and peered out to his yard at the north end of Main Street.
The boys from town hall had come by to cut grass, but had jumped in their truck and roared off before he could holler at them to come hear his new joke. He’d found it in a periodical that Betty Craig brought, and had studied it out in the night when his wife’s snoring had kept him awake.
He squinted through the panes of the upper sash.
Th’ dern jacklegs had come through th’ yard a-flyin,’ an’ left th’ grass a-layin’ in rows ever’whichaway. Triflin’ is what it was, th’ way th’ town let th’ weeks go by between mowin’s, then was too shif’less t’ rake th’ leavin’s!
He wouldn’t’ve told ’em ’is new joke, nohow.
He clutched at his heart. There it was, flipping around like a catfish on a riverbank. “Lord, I’ve give up on them boys, don’t You know, but You ain’t. I hope You won’t give up on me, amen.”
He fiddled with the window sash and finally raised it about a foot, then thumped into his chair and propped his cane against the wall. He figured if he sat here long enough, somebody would walk by on the street, and he’d call them over an’ fire off his joke.
Trouble was, they didn’t nobody walk n’more; seem like every dadjing one of ’em had a vehicle, which they drove aroun’ th’ monument like they was goin’ to a Democrat barbecue. These days, about th’ only people a man could see a-walkin’ was preachers—Preacher Kavanagh with ’is big black dog, an’ Preacher Sprouse with ’is new dog that trotted sideways like a crab.
Either more people needed t’ git ’em a dog—or more people needed t’ go into preachin’.
Here it was October, an’ th’ trees was colorin’ up good since th’ rain. Pretty soon, Thanksgivin’ would be along, then hit’d be Christmas, don’t you know.
He recollected th’ stockin’s him and Maisie used to git. He wished that one more time he’d git a stockin’ with a orange an’ a hard candy an’ maybe a little horse whittled out of a pine knot. Yessir, that’d be a treat.
This year, he didn’t have no idea a’tall what to give Rose f’r Christmas. Ever’ year ’bout this time, he already had it studied out, which give him more’n two months to hand-make ’is present.
For a good while, he’d built ’er a birdhouse, seein’ as she was tenderhearted about birds. They was sixteen or seventeen birdhouses he’d nailed around the yard over th’ years, but th’ town had tore ever’ one of ’em down when they fixed their two front rooms to be th’ museum.
“Rotted!” was what the town boys had said.
A man went down th’ street to Dora Pugh’s an’ got ’im a mite of lumber an’ nails an’ what all, an’ toted it home and built a fine birdhouse an’ painted th’ roof an’ all, an’ put a little peg under th’ hole so th’ bird would have a place to set an’ all, and what happens? Hit rots! They was no use to th’ whole dadjing business.
It was queer th’ way Rose was s’ mean about ever’thing a man could think of, and then, come Christmas, she was google-eyed as a young ’un.
More’n once she’d come over an’ hugged ’is neck.
“What’s ’at f’r?” he’d ask.
“For being Bill Watson!” she’d say, grinnin’ to beat th’ band.
Of course, she’d also said, “Don’t you make me any more birdhouses, Bill Watson, do you hear?” Unlike hisself, Rose was educated. When she laid down the’ law, he always listened and tried to mind. That’s why he might as well git his mind off of birdhouses an’ onto somethin’ like . . . like what?
B’fore ’is arthur had got s’ bad, he’d one year caned th’ bottom of ’er kitchen chair, an’ another year he’d made a little bread box with a knob he’d whittled in th’ shape of a squirrel.
He searched around in his mind for something to do this year.
But nossir, they wasn’t a single notion in ’is noggin. He shook his head to see if anything rattled; maybe his brain had rotted.
He’d figure it out, somehow; he’d come up with somethin’. Hit would make ’is ol’ heart happy t’ have Rose huggin”is neck ag’in.
In a little bit, he’d git up an’ peel hisself a Rusty Coat—it had growed on th’ gnarly ol’ tree he’d planted out back when they was married. Hit’d keep th’ doc away, is what his mama always said. An’ if they was anything he wanted f’r Christmas more’n a stockin’ an’ a hug from Rose, hit was t’ keep th’ doc away.
Hope thought at first it might be the hot jasmine tea, or even the letter from Scott. Then she realized the true identity of the warm, almost breathless feeling. Though similar to the emotion she had when she prayed that prayer with George Gaynor on the phone, this was by no means so powerful or disarming. Still, her head felt slightly dizzy. . . .
She set the cup in the saucer and stared out the window, unseeing. There was a growing certainty that the flushed feeling was, in fact, an idea . . . an idea that was forming not just in her head but in her heart, and perhaps, it seemed, in the very depths of her soul.
He’d thought it all through, and, yes, he wanted to begin the Advent season by setting the shepherds on his own sideboard—something he figured he could do without giving away the entire surprise.
“What about starting with the shepherds?” he asked Fred, who, though younger than himself, had suddenly become a wise elder, a veritable sage on the mount.
Fred pulled at his chin, thoughtful. “I wouldn’t tackle that straight off.” He pointed to the figures lined up along the rear wall. “One of your fellas is missin’ part of a hand, th’ other one’s stubbed his toe, an’ th’ way they’re painted, both of ’em has a mean look.”
“Yes, of course. You’re right.” How would he ever form a hand from plaster? He supposed he would profit by using the other hand as a model—but all those fingers—and how would he change mean looks? He’d never painted anything before.
His heart sank; he felt a kind of suffocation in his chest. Why was he so infernally inclined to jump off cliffs with nothing to break his fall? “Is there anything I could do today in, say, an hour or so? I have a dental appointment in Wesley.”
“I think a good washin’ up would be in order. Your paint’ll get a better purchase on a clean surface. Which reminds me, Mr. Gregory says your paints an’ all should be in tomorrow, along with that English fella’s advice on how to get th’ job done.”
Advice on how to get the job done! He distinctly felt some of the pressure lift off his chest. He would set aside the entire day tomorrow; enough, already, with the business of an hour here, an hour there.
They heard the bell jangle on the front door.
“Th’ soap’s under the sink,” said Fred, hurrying from the room.
He squatted down and found the soap, a foul-smelling block with the heft of a brick and the color of peat. Where to begin? At the beginning, of course.
He walked over and hoisted the donkey from the front of the lineup and was coming back to the sink when a head poked around the door. “Father?”
He froze, caught in the act. He’d
failed to tell Fred this was a covert enterprise.
“Hope!”
“I just saw Mr. Skinner, and he said you’d gone down to the Oxford, so I took a quick break to deliver your book.”
She clutched it to her heart in a mailing wrapper. “I hope it’s what you wanted.”
“I’m sure it will be. Umm, look, Hope . . .”
“What an interesting Nativity group! My goodness, how many pieces?”
“Please, Hope, what I’m doing is a secret. That is, I don’t want anyone to know. . . . I’m going to try to restore the whole caboodle. . . . It’s a surprise for my wife . . . a surprise.”
“Oh, no, I would never say a word, I promise.” Secrets were nothing new to a bookseller. . . .“Are you going to restore all this?” “Yes,” he said. “By the grace of God.”
“Would you like me to open your book? I can see why you need it!”
“Well, yes, thank you, and I’ll just go on with my work.” He let out his breath; he could trust Hope.
As she tore into the book wrapping, he set the donkey in the sink and turned on the warm water and dunked the rag and scoured it over the soap and went to work on the grimy figure.
“Here we are!” she said, looking happy. “I’ll hold it up for you and turn the pages.”
“Good idea! Many hands make light work!” He scrubbed away, the water turning black.
“You were interested in angels’ robes, as I recall. This angel is lovely, don’t you think? Its robe appears to be painted with several shades of blue, and look, there’s this wonderful rose-colored undergarment. . . .”
“It’s sporting white wings into the bargain. I think I like white wings best.” His particular crowd appeared grimly earthbound with their saffron-colored appendages.
She turned the page. “Here’s an angel with gold wings. I agree, Father. Definitely white! One would be hard-pressed to fly with all that gold on one’s wings.”
He peered at his bookseller, smiling. “I must say you’re looking angelic yourself. Radiant would be the word.” He rinsed the donkey; dirty water gurgled down the drain.
She flushed. “Thank you, Father. I have a secret, too.”
“Aha.”
“But I can’t tell you what it is.”
“Of course you can’t, because then it wouldn’t be a secret.”
“I need you to pray.”
He finished drying the donkey with a paper towel. “Consider it done.”
“God has just given me the most wonderful idea.”
“He does that sort of thing.”
“But it’s frightening. I mean, it’s frightening and then it’s . . . it’s so exciting that I can hardly sleep. It seems such a huge thing, and I’ve never done a huge thing before.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve always done . . . small things.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yes.”
“It seems nearly impossible.” “Ah.”
“Would you ask God to give me wisdom? Would you ask Him to . . . guide and direct me in this?”
“I must say, for a brand-new believer, you have a clear understanding of what to ask for. And, yes, I will pray.”
“I don’t know if I can do it,” she said, looking anxious. “All I know is that I want to do it . . . very much.”
He stood at the sink, holding the donkey. “Don’t worry about anything, Hope, but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, make your requests known unto God, and the peace that passes all understanding will fill your heart and mind through Christ Jesus.”
“Brilliant,” she said. “Thank you!”
“Not my words. St. Paul’s. Philippians four, verses six and seven.”
“Four, six and seven,” she repeated. “I’ll remember.” She looked around the room and then at him. “I like your secret.”
He grinned. “I have a feeling I’m going to like yours, as well.”
“I must hurry back, Father. Do come up to our sale!” She laid his book on the chair. “It’s twenty percent off any title beginning with O.”
“The Old Man and the Sea?” He’d never read it, shame on him. “Or does the The count against me?”
“No, sir, the The doesn’t count against you. But it’s sold out! The college, you know. I can order it, though.”
“No, no. Let’s see, then . . . The Original Christmas Gift?”
“Albert Lawrence Jr.?”
“The same!”
“I have one copy.”
“Well done!” he said. “And remember: Worry about nothing, pray about everything.” He’d gotten this message from a wayside pulpit somewhere—a sermon and a half in a half dozen words, and a splendid exegesis of the Philippians passage.
When she left, he discovered a lighter feeling in the province of his heart.
He trotted to the lineup, set down the donkey, and snatched up a shepherd.
He walked from the garage, whistling.
Rolling up his sleeves and giving that crowd a bath had helped endow him with the confidence he’d lacked. As he handled the figures, one by one, they seemed to grow familiar and less intimidating.
He quoted Horace aloud as he opened the door. “ ‘He who has begun is half done.’ ”
Risotto! He smelled it at once.
It was currently his favorite comfort food, though decidedly one notch below a cake of hot, golden-crusted cornbread with plenty of butter.
He could eat risotto only occasionally and, alas, only sparingly. As diabetics had learned the hard way, rice, pasta, or potatoes turned at once to sugar when they hit the bloodstream.
Barnabas followed him along the hall to the kitchen, where Cynthia looked up in mid-stir. “Timothy!”
Seeing his blond wife at the stove never failed to inspire him—not only was she a leading children’s book author and illustrator, she was a dab hand at cookery and plenty good-looking into the bargain. And to think that the urbane Andrew Gregory had pursued her while he, a country parson and rustic rube, had won her. . . .
“Marry me!” he said, standing behind her and nuzzling her hair.
She peered into the pot and, satisfied, replaced the lid. “It’s lovely of you to ask, sir, but you’re entirely too late. I’m happily wed to a retired priest.”
“Must be dull as dishwater living with the old so-and-so.”
“Never dull,” she murmured, turning to kiss him on the cheek.
“What, then?”
“Peaceful! You see, he’s gone much of the time, or working away in his study. Always up to something, that fellow.”
“Speaking of being up to something, how’s the angel-tree project shaping up?”
“It’s Mitford’s first ecumenical angel tree, and the first to collect nothing but food for Christmas dinner. Families will each get two bags of groceries, including a turkey. Everything will be stockpiled at the fire station and distributed from there.”
“Good thinking.”
“Hundreds of families in this part of the county will be guaranteed a wonderful meal, but heaven knows . . .” She rolled her eyes.
“Heaven knows what?”
“It will take a monumental effort to scrape all our churches together in one accord.” “Better you than me!”
“Besides, we should have started last year. We’ll be working like mad for weeks.”
“I’m proud of you,” he said, giving her his best hug.
Risotto!
“Ugh, you smell like some dreadful soap. What have you been doing?”
“A little of this and a little of that. The usual.”
She peered at him, raising an eyebrow. “The usual?”
She would nail him if he didn’t watch out. All right, then, he would give her a clue, but only one, and not a jot nor a tittle more.
“Christmas is coming, you know.”
She laughed. “Which, of course, explains everything!”
When the phone rang, he made an effort to get to it quickly
—the caller could, after all, be his boy, who sometimes checked in between morning classes.
Good grief, it was eight o’clock; it wouldn’t be Dooley at all. And why in heaven’s name was he lolling about in bed at eight in the morning? And where was his wife?
“Hello!” he said, feeling unsteady on his feet.
“Father, it’s Andrew.”
“Andrew, what is it?” The mayor sounded as if he were speaking from a deep hole.
“I know you wanted to work at the shop today, and I certainly wanted to help you. But I’m down with what is indelicately referred to as . . .”
“Not the Mitford Crud?”
“One and the same. So let’s reschedule, shall we? I’ll give you a ring when I’m out and about; Fred will have his hands full.”
Andrew sneezed.
“Bless you,” said Father Tim.
He made straight for his wing chair, and thumped into it. He had only just noticed that his head felt clogged, rather like a drainpipe that had taken on a sock. There was also a sort of gurgling going on in his stomach.
No! Absolutely not.
He would have none of it, none of it! He shook a feeble fist into the air.
He leaned back to catch his breath from the rude awakening, then bolted suddenly from the chair and lurched toward their bathroom. The door was locked.
“I can’t come out, Timothy, I’m feeling terrible!”
He raced downstairs and tilted into the powder room, and not a moment too soon.
“Hey, sugar!” said Lew.
“Oh, hey, baby, I’m glad it’s you, I was just takin’ Mama’s supper up. Let me call you back, I want her to have it while it’s hot—it’s Miz Paul’s fish sticks, her favorite, an’ a little applesauce, not too sweet.”
“Fine.”
He didn’t even say “I love you,” which is what he usually said to his wife before hanging up. He just hung up, period. He was shot from a day of pumping gas and jiving around with everybody and his brother, and coming home to nothing but a broken-down TV that only got three channels. And not that he was having a big pity party or anything, but her mama was getting hot fish sticks while he was firing up a can of Bush’s baked beans on a stove with only two working burners.