‘Buck has bronchitis,’ said Jessie. ‘He’s pitiful.’
‘So we can’t come to your house to eat,’ said Pooh. ‘Can we come another time?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘We’re goin’ out to Kenny’s restaurant tonight,’ said Dooley, ‘and a movie after.’
‘Me an’ Jess are ridin’ in th’ crew cab,’ said Pooh. ‘Mama says she’s sorry.’
‘We’ll pray for Buck,’ he said. ‘Hey, Sam.’
‘Hey. Your plastic b-bag’s down.’
‘Wonderful. Who got up there?’
‘Me,’ said Sammy.
Bouncer sniffed Barnabas; Sammy, Jessie, and Pooh vanished into the books.
‘I checked with the trust people this morning,’ said Dooley. ‘Man.’
‘What’s up?’
‘A lot. Buying out the practice, paying for college, and on top of that looking at four years of vet school. Huge. There won’t be much left.’
Growing up. No wonder so many people resisted it.
Dooley stared at the floor for a time, pensive.
‘There’s no way we should get married ’til after vet school. Sometimes I feel like you and Cynthia want us to . . . you know . . . sooner.’ Dooley’s face flushed.
‘We don’t. Not at all. We hope you’ll marry—but only if it’s the best thing for you both. We agree that you should wait for the right time. We’re completely with you on this.’
‘Lots of people get married in vet school, then split. It’s a really tough ride, a lot of work. I don’t even know if I’ll be accepted—sixty-five percent of applicants don’t make it. I mean, think about it, Dad. Six more years of school. Man.’
Laughter in the stacks—a good sound.
‘Lace and I have some stuff to work out.’
‘I understand.’
‘Did you have stuff to work out?’
‘Did I ever. I’ll tell you sometime.’
He pulled out his wallet; removed a twenty. Dooley watched him fold it as many times as the currency would allow.
As on Dooley’s birthday more than eleven years ago, he placed it in his son’s outstretched palm.
Dooley’s cackling laugh.
‘Don’t spend it all in one place,’ he said.
‘Thanks. I’ll need it. Meant to tell you, th’ thing about Sammy’s teeth is goin’ nowhere.’
‘Gunpoint. That’s our only hope.’
Sammy came to the counter, book in hand.
‘How much is this?’
‘Sammy wants to garden with cow poop,’ said Jessie.
‘It ain’t n-nothin’ but grass that’s gone through th’ digestive system.’
‘Grass and bugs,’ said Jessie. ‘Besides, where are you goin’ to get cows?’
‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘This book is twenty dollars. Less fifteen percent because the title begins with O for Organic.’
‘Seventeen dollars!’ said Jessie. ‘I’m good at math.’
He added the tax; Sammy laid several bills and change on the counter, took the book, and headed to the door.
‘Thanks for your business!’ he called after Sammy.
‘That’s a lot of money for a book,’ said Pooh.
Dooley pocketed the folded twenty; dug in his wallet and gave a twenty to Jessie. ‘For ice cream.’
‘Thanks, Dools!’
‘See y’all back here in twenty minutes, and I’m totally lookin’ for change.’
‘In one pocket and out the other,’ he said. ‘Just what you were talking about with the trust.’
‘What are you going to do, Dad?’
‘About what?’
‘About Miss Pringle. About Sammy.’
He was fed up with being asked what he was going to do about Sammy.
‘I have no idea.’
‘Could he live with . . . ?’
‘No.’ No explanation necessary. ‘But here’s what we must all do. Pray. Are you praying?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Your brother needs full-time,’ he said.
‘He’s doin’ better.’
‘Miss Pringle is looking for much better. We have her to thank that he’s still there at all. In fact, you might thank her next time you see her. Take flowers.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Remember your trip to New York with Cynthia? Remember I gave you money just for flowers?’
‘I was buyin’ flowers all over th’ place.’
‘Remember the look on her face when you gave her the flowers? Any happiness there, any delight?’
‘Really. Big time.’
‘Flowers don’t solve anything, but they can improve most everything. Whether Sammy gets to stay is up to him. Either way, Miss Pringle has been a saint.’
‘Got it.’
‘Ask Jena Ivey to tie a few stems together with a ribbon, and deliver them by your own hand. Twenty bucks and not a penny less.’
‘In one pocket and out the other.’ Dooley hoisted himself onto the counter. ‘So, Dad. I’ve been thinking. How about a truck better than the one in Hendersonville? Long bed, stick shift, leather seats, red. It has a couple of features you aren’t lookin’ for, but you can’t be too choosy with used. Local owner, no traveling to pick it up.’
‘How local?’
‘I’ll make you a really good deal.’
‘Your truck?’
‘It’s too much truck for me. I was wrong; I hate t’ say it. I don’t need that much truck right now, not ’til I get th’ practice. But you do, Dad. You need a truck to do your landscape stuff with. It’s perfect. Crew cab for Harley and Sammy, the whole deal.
‘And when I hang out my shingle, I’ll buy it back. You won’t put many miles on it, you’ll take good care of it, and it’ll be broken in for th’ practice.’
‘How would you get around?’
‘I want to buy a truck I just saw in Wesley. Used, but it’s a better vehicle for me. For one thing, I don’t need a crew cab and a long bed right now.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘If you don’t like it, I’ll take it back and sell it to th’ guy who does grounds maintenance at school.’
One more thing to think about felt like one more thing too much.
‘I’ll run it through the wash in Wesley. Tires already kicked.’
They went out to the curb.
‘What about that scratch on the passenger door?’
‘You’re in buyer’s mode, for sure. I’ll take care of that. A little touch-up with a paint stick.’
He opened the door, looked inside. Pretty clean, all things considered.
‘Take it around the block,’ said Dooley.
‘Why the straw bales in the bed?’
‘Goin’ to Meadowgate this afternoon, they’re fresh out of straw. I picked it up at th’ feed store in Wesley.’
He remembered bouncing around in the wagon with Louis in Holly Springs. The rutted farm roads, the smell of hay and horse sweat, the creek flashing in a hard summer sun . . .
‘Okay, I’ll do a quick test drive. How about Barnabas rides shotgun, and you and your crowd ride with Coot on the straw bales?’
‘Cool,’ said Dooley.
Coot was upstairs stuffing mouse holes with rags soaked in peppermint oil, a trick recommended in a Hint. He called up the stairs. ‘Coot! Let’s go have some fun that is funny!’
He had never used the sign so commonly employed by fellow merchants for a quick dash up the block. He turned it around to face the street.
Back in Fifteen Minutes
He was ready for a little wild liberty of his own.
• • •
HONKING. Playing country music—loud. Laughing. Waving. It was his early run-up to the Independence Day parade.
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‘Country come to town!’ he hollered, rolling through the gas pump aisle at Lew’s.
They saw J.C. hoofing by the fire station, blew the horn. J.C. raised his camera, fired off a couple of shots. Avis threw up his hand. In the rearview mirror, he could see Coot, as excited as any country boy.
It felt good to make people happy, himself included, simply by tooling around in a truck full of kids and dogs.
• • •
BACK AT THE STORE, they hammered out the details. He would wire the money into Dooley’s account on Monday. Dooley would use the truck until tomorrow when the deal in Wesley was done.
‘Are you goin’ to buy it?’ asked Jessie.
‘You should buy it,’ said Pooh.
He put his arm around Sammy’s shoulder, not an easy thing to do with this tall kid.
‘Done deal,’ he said. ‘Sammy and I need a truck to get our rose garden finished. We’re going to build a stone wall.’ One way or another, come hell or high water.
‘Yay-y-y,’ said Jessie.
• • •
HE CALLED HOPE; Scott answered.
‘Bleeding again,’ said Scott. ‘Wilson’s coming over.’
‘What may I do?’
‘What you do best. Please.’
‘Consider it done.’
‘There’s good news,’ said Scott. ‘Hope’s sister, Louise, is moving back to Mitford in December. Her company is moving to Denver, so she’ll be running the store starting January first. I know you’re glad to hear it; you’ve had a long go at Happy Endings.’
‘I needed a long go. Louise is a lovely woman. I’m happy for all.’
‘There’s something more. We wanted to tell you earlier, Father . . . we’ve known since the first ultrasound, but . . . somehow, we were afraid to . . .’
The chaplain paused, cleared his throat. ‘It’s a girl!’
• • •
HE BUSIED HIMSELF WITH LOCATING the N for November banner and cleaning the coffee apparatus. He didn’t always know what to do when joy comingled with dread.
He tied a fresh bandanna around the neck of the Old Gentleman, as a kind of flag to heaven.
• • •
MOZART JOINED VOICES with Coot and Miss Mooney, hard at their task in the Poetry section.
The store phone. ‘Happy Endings! Good afternoon.’
‘Father Kavanagh?’
‘It is.’
‘Professor McCurdy was in to see you recently.’
A very professional-sounding woman.
‘Yes. And I hear the professor’s son, Hastings, is not well.’
‘He was admitted to Children’s Hospital at one o’clock today, his fever is a hundred and three.’ The caller’s voice wavered, she drew in her breath. ‘He’s very confused. Hastings is never confused. They say this is not a good thing.’
‘Is there a diagnosis?’
‘They believe it’s meningitis. Whether viral or bacterial, they don’t know. They’ve given him antibiotics and will go forward with a spinal tap.’ The hospital paging system sounding in the background. ‘This is all very serious, yet he’s on a gurney in the hallway. It’s a wonderful hospital, but the conditions . . .’
‘We hope to rectify this soon.’ What consolation was that? He disliked the sound of it.
‘Can you do something, please? I’m told you’re a longtime donor, could you get him into a room?’
‘I very much doubt it. I know the staff and trust them to do all they can for Hastings. There’s a shortage of beds . . .’
‘I don’t know any people of the cloth. I’ve read about you in the Muse. Would you . . . pray for Hastings?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘The professor is away. Do you think you might come to the hospital?’ He heard the urgency; the cool professionalism had gone.
‘I’m tied up until five. But I’ll come straight there.’
‘Should you see the professor again, please—don’t mention that we’ve spoken.’
‘You are Professor McCurdy’s . . . ?’
‘Wife.’
• • •
THE SLEEPING BOY APPEARED SMALLER still in the confines of the bed. The delicacy of the human eyelid had always astonished him—its silky thinness over such a vital organ; its bluish hue as pale as watercolor.
Hastings, it’s the one who lent you the Wordsworth, he might say when the boy woke up. But the Wordsworth had been a thorn. He sat by the bed and prayed.
Sharon McCurdy stood with her back to the wall, looking shocked and somewhat fierce. She was clearly uncomfortable with the priest, but wanted him there, nonetheless.
‘He’s a sweetie,’ said Nurse Robin. ‘We’re all thankful it’s not bacterial.’
Twice he’d been around the block with meningitis in young parishioners, both bacterial and far more serious.
He prayed from the heart for Hastings McCurdy, a boy who might have been himself at this age—reading in advance of his learning level, interested in the classics, and smaller in stature than other boys in his class. As for the outcome, he would most likely be released tomorrow or the next day.
‘Please sit,’ he said. Sharon McCurdy had earlier refused the chair and insisted he keep the closer watch.
‘I cannot,’ she said.
‘Does your husband know?’
‘I try not to trouble him. He’s at an important gathering of scholars.’
‘There’s an important scholar lying right here,’ he said.
She tossed her head. ‘There must be a room somewhere. All this rushing about in the hallway . . .’
‘I’ve watched them work many times over the years. All we’re missing here is three walls.’
‘I thought it was flu,’ she said, blaming herself. ‘And then the vomiting . . .’
‘Many similarities to flu when it presents.’
‘The spinal tap was hideously painful.’
‘Yes, but they know from the tap what to do.’
‘What can you do, Father?’ She was testy.
‘I’m praying.’
‘Is that enough?’
‘That’s a very good question. I often asked that in the early years of my calling. But yes, I believe it is fully enough. My common experience each and every day shows prayer to be fully enough.’
‘He could have some memory loss, they say. He knows so many wonderful things by heart. One of the poems in the book you lent, he was learning by memory.’
‘Which one, may I ask?’
She was close to tears. ‘“By the Seaside.” He asked me to define bemocked.’
She covered her face with her hands and turned to the wall.
The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest,
And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest . . .
• • •
THREE EMERGENCY ROOM ADMISSIONS and a funeral, all within a couple of weeks. While the stuff of life came in big batches for the full-time priest, the retiree was generally given the smaller batch. He certainly couldn’t complain of his modest handful, though a wedding in the mix would be a pleasant distraction.
He scrolled his emails.
Even communiqués from former parishioners occasionally arrived in batches. A kindhearted message from Sam and Marion Fieldwalker in Whitecap. Agnes from Holy Trinity had come online, albeit dial-up; wonders never ceasing! And there was Liam, though not a parishioner in the strict sense, sounding in from Sligo to say Bella had won an impressive award for her fiddling. There was no gathering of his parish under one roof—his flock was scattered from mountain to shore, and beyond to an emerald isle.
At the end, a message for which he had no
t waited with bated breath.
At the unheard of old rate
He took Barnabas out, then checked the stove (a habit said to be a sign of old age). As he was turning off the lamps in the study, he heard the message arrive in his computer in-box.
He had thought it would never end, and yet—it had ended.
He sat down in his desk chair, oddly bereft.
• • •
SHE UNDERSTOOD AT LAST why she had felt distant from the child beneath her heart. She had lived with an image of the trap her body was laying, and felt the guilt of it—all this shadowed by the sense of entrapment she’d once known, herself. In fearing the worst, she had missed months of happiness and intimations of joy.
Not days, not hours, but minutes, they had said. But not for everyone, only a few. She had been claiming as her own the tragedy of the certain few.
She turned her head on the pillow and searched the face of her sleeping husband. It was charted territory, this face she had been granted before the beginning of time. Their daughter must come into the world and know the benediction of her father’s deep tenderness—it was that simple.
She would choose happiness and, in the mysterious way of blood, share it with their daughter, beginning now.
Chapter Twenty-three
A cold rain began at first light on Monday, and showed no sign of abating. The heaters weren’t much help; they were painting with gloves on.
He and Sammy would work only a half-day, after which he’d run to the bookstore and put finishing touches on the N Sale.
They took a break and sat on opposite sides of a pew missing its end pieces. Sammy was digging into a bag of Cheetos; he was finishing a pack of raisins.
‘Thanks,’ said Sammy, not looking up.
It took a moment for this to sink in. ‘What for?’
‘Everything.’
Sammy rose abruptly, stuffed the bag in his pocket, and returned to putting a second coat of paint on the trellis.