She lifted her head off the pillow and squinted at the two long columns of printed words. ‘What’s it sayin’? Read it out.’
She knew he couldn’t read, it was hateful to ask him to do such a thing. His daddy had run off when he was four years old and never come back, and if he’d knowed how hard it was to live with this old woman, he’d of run off with him.
‘I cain’t read over th’ dadblame TV!’ He hated her TV, it went ’til way up in the night, he had to get in bed and cover his head to keep from seein’ the light flickering on his walls from her room next to his. He would set it on the road one day, and let the town crew get out of it whatever torment they could.
‘Shut it off, then, f’r th’ Lord’s sake.’
The room seemed to tremble in the silence. He sat down again by the bed.
‘It says . . .’ He was going to make this up out of his head. ‘It says Coot Hendrick of Rural Route Four says Mitford has been good to me and my mama.’
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Keep goin’.’
‘We have many friends and family here and th’ weather is good except in winter when water freezes in th’ sink and we have to bust it with a hammer.’
‘That’s dead right,’ she said. ‘A good answer.’
He felt warm all over. She hardly ever spoke kindly of anything he said or did.
She turned her head on the pillow to give him a look. ‘Who’s th’ family we got here? We don’t have no family here, why’d ye say a thing like that?’
He made out like he didn’t hear, and plowed on and went to conjuring again. ‘At Christmas, Miz Bolick brings us a orange marmalade cake. It is the best cake me and my mama ever et.’
‘It is that, all right.’ Her hair was gray as fog against the pillow.
He remembered the first time Miz Bolick ever showed up at their door. It was snowing, and she was about covered up with it, as she wasn’t wearing a hat, but she was wearing red gloves and she was holding out that cake with the orange slice on top. He had busted out crying and been mighty embarrassed because her husband was standing right behind her. He hadn’t known what to do, if he should take the cake and leave them out in the snow or invite them to come in the house. He had never invited anybody to come in the house, the neighbor woman just came in whenever she took a notion, and the nurse sent by the county done the same. But Mr. and Miz Bolick had gone on home, saying Merry Christmas and waving bye-bye, and he remembered Miz Bolick’s red glove shooting up in the dark night.
It was hard to keep his eyes glued to the paper and make something up at the same time. ‘At Thanksgiving, th’ church people bring us a plate from down at th’ All-Church Feast, one f’r me and one f’r Beulah Mae Hendrick.’
She sat up and glared at him. ‘You mean to say I got my name in th’ paper?’
He hadn’t meant to say her name because she didn’t deserve to get her name in the paper. But the mule was out of the barn.
She was wagging her bony old finger like a hickory switch. ‘How come you didn’t say nothin’ ’bout my name bein’ in there?’
‘It’s a . . .’ He almost said a bad word. ‘. . . surprise!’ He’d be runnin’ for the county line if he’d of said that word.
She snatched the paper. ‘I’ll be et f’r a tater,’ she said. ‘Let me see my name. Where’s it at?’
Lord help. She could read a little bit. His finger trembled as he poked at a jumble of words in the middle of the page.
‘Well, I’ll be,’ she said, sinking back on the pillow. ‘You tear that out where my name is and put it in th’ Bible. An’ go on and keep readin’, this is mighty good.’
He felt a terrible need to pass water, but wanted to stick with this and see where it was headed; he never knowed before that he could make out like he was reading.
‘Sometimes it is a Baptist that brings our plates from th’ All-Church, and sometimes it is th’ Methodists, an’ one time it was th’ Presbyterians, but most of th’ time it’s Father Tim who used to preach down at Lord’s Chapel.’
‘That’s right,’ said Beulah Mae. ‘Most of th’ time, that’s who it is. What else did ye say?’
His mind was empty as a gourd. ‘Let me think a minute.’
He didn’t know when they dropped off to sleep, but they woke up at the same time as a clap of thunder broke directly over the house.
She sat up, hollering. ‘Let me die, I’m too old to live!’
‘Stop that now, dadgummit!’ He was sick of hearing it. His mama was going on a hundred, maybe already was a hundred, since she won’t too sure when she was born.
‘Let me die!’ she hollered again.
‘Stop eatin, then!’ he hollered as he went into the kitchen.
‘Go to meetin’ men? Are ye crazy as a bedbug?’
You’re a mama’s boy, they said in school—whenever he went to school. But he didn’t even like his mama, whose people come over from Ireland—she was mean as a wet cat.
‘What d’ye want for supper?’ he shouted.
‘Warm milk and buttered toast and you could boil me a egg if we got any.’
‘We ain’t got any eggs n’r any milk. Our checks don’t come ’til day after next.’
‘Why’d you ask, then?’
‘To hear m’ head roar!’ he hollered.
He would bake her an onion, right in the skin, then take the skin off when he put it out in the bowl and salt it a little but not much, given she had high blood pressure and fluid around her heart and he didn’t know what all. And he’d put a piece of buttered toast with that and a cup of hot tea with a spoon of sugar. Don’t say that wouldn’t be good, and he’d fix the same for hisself.
He heard the rain on the roof, coming down hard; he liked rain and snow and weather of all kinds except high wind. He fairly hummed as he took two yellow onions out of the basket and set about doing what had to be done in this life.
• • •
‘I LOVE THEE WITH the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life,’ he read aloud from the Browning model. Hard to beat. Impossible, actually. He would give cash money to be released from this torment.
He picked up the pen, wrote.
I love thee for the way you look in the morning, like the girl next door which you once were and ever shall be to me . . . for the way you forgive me even before I commit the unforgivable . . . for believing that I am all the things I thought myself never to be—
How she occasionally raved on, his heedless, imaginative wife, and how he loved her with everything in him.
. . . for being brave when I am not, for being cheerful when I am sour, for putting up with me.
Somehow, it wasn’t coming together as he hoped. Though each sentiment was supremely true, the words lacked something visceral—bells needed to chime, bands needed to march.
The rain had stopped; he had enjoyed the sound of it pecking at the window. He looked to the kitchen, to the wall clock. Nine p.m. Cynthia had gone up to bed with a book; his crowd snored by the last embers of the fire.
He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. A desperate matter, the bishop had said.
He stood and stretched, feeling newfound muscles in his back, in his legs, as headlights flashed into the rectory drive next door. Sammy, Kenny, and Harley were home from the hills of Kentucky, safe and sound as he’d prayed them to be.
He pulled on his cardigan and walked out to the stoop. He’d get a breath of air, maybe go over and welcome them home.
Truck doors slamming, the crunching of pea gravel beyond the hedge, voices.
‘Tote my grip in, somebody.’ Harley, his old buddy. ‘I got t’ find th’ door key. Leave th’ truck lights on, hit’s dark as a dungeon out here.’
‘I ain’t g-goin’ back to school, I don’t c-care what you say.’ Ah, Sammy.
‘I just said Dooley wants to talk about it when he come
s home.’ Kenny’s deep baritone. ‘Talk about it, that’s all.’
‘D-Dooley th’ king, dude of th’ earth, Mr. m-money f-freak!’
‘Chill, Sam. Dooley loves you, he’s good to you.’
‘You been mouthin’ off th’ last twenty miles,’ said Harley. ‘I’m gon’ yank a knot in y’r tail if ye don’t hush.’
‘I’d like to s-s-see that. You ain’t th’ b-boss of me.’ This followed by a stream of language.
‘Miz Pringle don’t want t’ hear such talk,’ said Harley. ‘She’ll give ye y’r walkin’ papers.’
‘She won’t g-give me n-nothin’. But she might g-g-give you somethin’, parley voo f-francay.’
‘Whoa, now, dadgummit.’
The back porch light switched on.
‘Pour l’amour de Dieu, cessez ces vilains cris tout de suite! N’avez-vous donc aucune consideration pour nos bons voisins?’
Hélène Pringle spoke French when vexed, and though he hardly understood a word she’d just said, he definitely got her meaning.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Kenny. ‘We apologize. We’re sorry.’
Harley chimed in. ‘We sure are, Miss Pringle. Real sorry.’
‘You have roast poulet waiting downstairs in your oven, though I can’t think why I did such a thing for shameless hooligans.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Kenny. ‘We thank you.’
‘It won’t happen ag’in,’ said Harley.
We’ll see about that, he thought, stepping inside.
Chapter Six
So he was a laughingstock, he thought as he gave himself the morning insulin shot. Big deal. Clergy were known to do worse than go weak in the knees. He would get out there and face the music, let the chips fall where they may. Not for him the blighted syndrome of retired-priest-who-won’t-leave-the-house.
He did his stretching in the study, tied on the bandanna Puny had laundered, made a swing through the kitchen to stuff the bakery list in his shorts pocket, and paid his respects in the studio.
‘Pray for me,’ he said, kissing his wife.
‘Go and be as the butterfly, sweetheart.’
He went out through the garage and hit the sidewalk running.
In this desperate matter . . . can’t be spoken. He learned long ago that it was useless to second-guess a bishop. Cynthia would go with him on the drive to Asheville; they would have a nice lunch, maybe put the top down and live a little.
Truth be told, he was more concerned about tonight’s pool lesson and how much a fool he’d make of himself. He’d shot a few games, of course, though he hardly had a clue what he was doing; he just tried to get a ball in a pocket—any ball, any pocket.
The morning was unseasonably warm and humid, not unlike the flatlands in late spring. He crossed Wisteria and stood for a moment on the corner, observing Main Street in motion at seven-thirty—two workmen on ladders, replacing the awning at Village Shoes, a pickup truck off-loading bushels of valley apples into the Local.
And there was the cloud of aromas sent forth by the Sweet Stuff Bakery ovens, fired six days a week at five a.m. sharp. For his money, the yeasty fragrance diffused by clean mountain air was the best thing about Mitford—where could you find another town that smelled this good every morning?
He dodged Shirlene’s sandwich board and buzzed three times at the bakery’s side entrance—he being one of the few customers allowed entry before the front doors opened at eight. The kitchen curtain parted, Winnie Kendall peered through the window. The monitor buzzed, the door swung open.
‘Good morning, good morning!’ he called out to the kitchen.
Winnie stepped into the hall, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Father! We’re just glazin’ the Danish an’ slicin’ th’ cakes. What can we do for you?’
He loved her good face, it was all smiles, all the time—the sort of face you wouldn’t mind wearing every day.
‘Just dropping off an order and I’ll get out of your way.’
He dug in his shorts pocket for the list. ‘I can swing by for it later this morning.’
Odd. It was in a small envelope. He hadn’t noticed that when he grabbed it off the kitchen counter.
‘Let’s see.’ He opened the envelope, and knew at once this wasn’t the list. Something like joy leaped in him. What to do? Put it back in his pocket and wait to read it later? But then, why wait?
‘This is not the list,’ he said. ‘I’ll just . . . sit a minute in the coffee nook.’
‘Good! Away from the window where nobody can see you, or they’ll be comin’ in through th’ air vents.’
He glanced at his watch; Winnie and her husband, Thomas, had forty-five minutes to fill the display cases. Her accelerator was definitely floored.
‘Can you remember your list, Father?’
‘Yes, yes. Let’s see.’ The mix-up had rattled him. Maybe if he recalled who would be there tonight . . . ‘There’s Sammy, he’s sixteen, no, wait, he’s seventeen. And Kenny, he’s nineteen, a strapping fellow. And Harley, he’s just driven from Kentucky, so he’ll have an appetite. And there’s Miss Pringle.’
A timer going off in the kitchen.
‘That’ll be th’ bran muffins,’ said Winnie. ‘Sounds like you need a cake. The triple-chocolate would be my recommendation.’
‘A cake! That reminds me. I need to stop by Esther Bolick’s and order a two-layer orange marmalade for Dooley’s visit home.’
Now Winnie seemed rattled.
‘What is it, Winnie?’
‘Oh, my. Well. Nothing, just . . . nothing!’
‘It wasn’t a cake we’re after,’ he said. ‘Let’s see . . .’ His mind was a complete blank.
‘Two teenagers, you said. That’s brownies for sure.’
‘Of course! That’s it. Your famous brownies. A panful, please. And two sugar-free lemon squares. And a chocolate pie. No, wait, we talked about the pie for Lace, for the weekend of the seventeenth.’
‘Of September?’
‘No, no. October.’ He was a basket case; he could handle only one social event at a time. ‘Let’s see. Yes! And a crème brûlée!’ For Harley, who had no teeth at all. ‘And a napoleon for Miss Pringle, she’s French, you know. And a pan of yeast rolls and two bags of hamburger buns.’ He was drained.
‘A pan of brownies,’ she said. ‘Two sugar-free lemon squares, a crème brûlée, a napoleon, a pan of yeast rolls, and two bags of buns. I can have it ready at nine-thirty, but that’s a long time for you to wait.’
‘No, no, I’ll be back at nine-thirty. I’ll just sit here a minute, if you don’t mind.’
‘I can’t turn th’ lights on in here ’til eight or they’ll be bangin’ on th’ door.’
‘Of course, that’s fine.’
‘How about a cup of coffee?’
‘Please, don’t trouble yourself, you have your hands full.’
‘Never too full for you, Father, you helped me hang on to this old place, remember?’
‘Well, then, black as coal, Winnie, and thank you.’
He felt eighteen years old as he withdrew the triple-folded sheet from the envelope. Her scent of wisteria . . .
She had gotten ahead of him by a mile, and with things going the way they were, he wouldn’t be able to turn his in ’til tomorrow. Sic vita est.
‘You look happy as a chigger,’ said Winnie, delivering his coffee in a real mug instead of Styrofoam.
He laid the folded letter by the coffee mug and waited. He would not be tempted to read it in haste, as her words would be wonderful and one must prepare, as best one ever can, for what is wonderful.
And maybe reading it here wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Maybe he should take it to the bench at the Methodist chapel, where there was a large bird feeder and a good bit of birdsong. He blew on the coffee to cool it down. For that matter, he would
be running right by Lord’s Chapel, where he could sit on the bench in the rose garden he’d planted himself.
He saw her as she might have looked when writing it, the way she held her mouth when she worked—and yes, she would have worked on this, for his wife, like Flaubert, minded every word. She was earnest in all she undertook, and now this tangible gift, this endearing artifact of her affections . . .
He felt a slow flood of happiness, like a tide coming in, and made the sign of the cross and lifted the fold.
My dearest husband,
As a child with parents who scarcely knew me, I remember distinctly what I yearned for—to be somewhere safe with somebody good.
When I was recovering from the clumsy attempt to end my life and just awakening to His life in me, I remember asking, Please, God, let me be somewhere safe with somebody good.
Your goodness to me has been overwhelming. How tender you are, though I am often as tough as gristle. How patiently you have loved me since you made up your mind to love me always.
By His grace, I am safe at last. But to be safe with you is grace beyond measure.
Thomas Traherne said “We are as prone to love as the sun is to shine.”
I was always prone—as prone as one could possibly be, I feel. But could I actually love? Not until I met you, Timothy, who is Love’s truest yeoman.
For everything that you are to me and to many, for your kindness of spirit and unbounded generosity, I love and cherish you with all my being, and if God choose—please forgive me for borrowing this—I shall but love thee better after death.
Bookends forever,
C
Thomas blew into the room bearing an enormous tray. Jelly donuts, cookies, Danish, crème horns, lemon squares. The still-unlighted room hummed with energy.
‘Winnie’s comin’ with th’ muffins, but we’re runnin’ behind on th’ cakes,’ said Thomas, mildly desperate.
‘I’ll pray!’ he said, and did. Retail these days needed all the help it could get.
‘Anything you’d like before you go, Father? We have sugar-free Danish, you know.’