“Yes?” he said cautiously.
“I’m very embarrassed about something. Do you have a moment?”
“I do.” He sat straight up.
“Nearly four weeks ago, we sent a hand-addressed mailing to all parents, an invitation to a special choral concert here at the school. I walked over to the office tonight and saw that yours has just come back. Where it has languished for so long, I can’t say, but it was marked Return to Sender.”
“Aha.”
“We’d made the regrettable mistake of addressing it to Milford, a slip of the pen, as it were, though you’re in our computer correctly.
“What I’m getting around to is, this concert is the most ambitious thing we’ve done all year. Very important. I wondered why you hadn’t responded, and Dooley was very concerned that we had no reply from you.
“I must tell you this means a great deal to him. The parents are turning out in enthusiastic numbers, and, well, I’m dreadfully sorry about the mix-up....”
“Quite all right,” said the rector. “I’m sure we can make arrangements. Whatever it takes, I’ll be there. You have my word.”
“Excellent! A great relief!”
“When is it ... exactly?”
“Wednesday morning—the day after tomorrow—at eleven o‘clock. It’s followed by a luncheon at one. We had a conflict at the weekend and were forced to schedule a weekday, but the parents have been very accommodating. Well, then, this is lovely. Shall I jot you down for two Kavanaghs?”
He looked at his wife, feeling stricken. He had given Richard Fleming his word.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “Just one.”
To be there at eleven, he would have to leave Mitford no later than six a.m., maybe six-fifteen, after melting the chocolate and dipping a hundred and fifty strawberries. Puny had agreed to come early and do the vegetable sandwiches.
Cynthia had been gravely disappointed, but tried hard not to show it. His wife, however, had the complete inability to hide her feelings. They were right out there for all to see, as accurate as a top-of-the-line wall barometer.
“Of course you must go,” she said. “Dooley would be heartbroken if you didn’t. I’ll pack him a box of treats, and you don’t have to do the strawberries, it’s too much—”
“It’s no such thing. I’ll do them and that’s that.”
She sighed. “Puny will be here all day, and Hessie Mayhew is collecting primroses from every garden and insists on helping clean up, and Marge Owen wants to help, too, so—”
“So I’ll be back around six-thirty, and anything that’s left to clean up, I’ll do it.”
“I love you madly,” she said, looking brave.
He finished setting out squares of chocolate and a double boiler for the morning. Then he turned and drew her to him and took her face in his hands. “In truth,” he said, “it’s the other way around.”
He was thirty miles out of Mitford when, without warning, his engine quit.
He managed to steer his car onto the shoulder of the road, where it sat at the edge of a ditch. He tried the ignition several times, to the sound of nothing but a click. The engine, the battery, whatever, was as dead as a doornail.
“Blast!”
Agitated, he got out of the car and looked up and down the road. He had thoroughly enjoyed the eight years he traveled by foot. Not once had he been forced to put up with the aggravation and expense of car trouble.
He saw a house situated at the end of a pasture. In the other direction, some kind of low building set back from the road, with a sign out front.
He walked toward it quickly, feeling the cold sting of the clear spring morning. Seven-fifteen. He had three and a half hours or so to drive the network of time-saving back roads that led to Dooley’s school.
The sign had rusted, but was still readable.
Beaumont Aviation
Charters and Instruction
Have a nice day
If he could get to a phone and call Lew Boyd, Lew could call and ask Cynthia to follow Lew’s tow truck. He could use her car, though he’d definitely be late.
He didn’t see anybody when he opened the door. “Hello!” he shouted.
Silence.
“Hello! Anybody here?”
He spied a phone on a table. Knowing Lew’s number by heart, he dialed it. Busy.
Dadgum it, if Lew Boyd was sitting around playing checkers this time of morning ...
He glanced out the window and saw somebody tinkering with a little plane on the grass landing strip.
He dialed Lew again. Still busy.
One problem. If Lew called Cynthia, what could she do, after all? And what a rotten thing it would be to have her drive a half hour from home on a morning when every moment was vital to her.
He’d stick it out for Lew, however.
Still busy.
Lord, show me where to step here. We’ve got a boy who looking for a familiar face in the crowd. We can’t let him down.
He paced the floor. If Mule Skinner drove out to loan him his car, how would Mule get home? He certainly couldn’t ask the man to drive all the way to Dooley’s school and back, as if he had nothing better to do.
Ron Malcolm! He didn’t know how Ron could help, but Ron had a solution for everything. Wilma’s voice on the machine said, “We’re out of town. If you’re Tommy, Rachel, or Nell, please call us in Boca Raton at—”
He hung up, took a dollar from his billfold, and laid it next to the phone.
“Mornin‘,” said a man coming in the door. He wiped his hands on a rag.
“Good morning. I just made a phone call to Mitford. I left a dollar on the table.”
“Can I help you?”
“I wish you could. My car broke down. I think the engine quit.”
“Could be a timing belt,” said the man, still wiping. “Maybe your ignition switch.”
“Could you take a look at it?”
“I’m not much good around automobiles. Coffee?”
Outside, he heard a car screech onto the gravel and park near the door.
“No, thanks. I’ve got to be at my boy’s school in Virginia at eleven o‘clock, come hell or high water.”
Omer Cunningham strode in, wearing a leather flying jacket and a grin. “Hey, Preacher, I thought I seen your car out there. You here to charter or take lessons?”
“Omer!” He felt like a man in a foreign country who sees a face from home. “My car broke down and I’ve got to get to Virginia, Dooley’s singing in a concert, and Lew Boyd won’t answer the blasted phone, and ... can you drive me into town? I could pick up my wife’s car.” This would put him at the school a little past noon. He felt sick with regret.
“Where you goin‘ in Virginia?”
“White Chapel, and running late.”
“I’ll fly you,” said Omer.
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“When you got to be there?”
“Eleven o‘clock.”
“It’s goin‘ on eight. You’ll never make it runnin’ home t‘ Mitford.”
He felt the blood drain from his face. Lord, if this is an answer to prayer, I don’t believe I can take You up on it.
“I’ve flew in and out of White Chapel many’s th‘ time. We could borrow a pickup at the airstrip and whip you over to that fancy school in ten minutes. I know where it’s at.”
“You could?”
“I’ll take you in m‘ little rag-wing tail dragger!” Omer’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Your ... what?”
“Rag-wing tail dragger. She’s a honey, a little J-3 Cub. Fabric stretched over a few tubes of steel, wheel under th‘ tail. You don’t see ’em much anymore.”
Fabric stretched over a few tubes ... ?
“Better built than anything out there today. Get your plunder, and let’s go. You’ll be there ten-thirty sharp, with time to spare.”
“Is, ah, your pilot’s license current?”
“Omer’s license is alw
ays current,” said the man, grinning.
Father Tim hobbled to his car, his knees nearly giving out. When he reached for his jacket, he saw that his hand was visibly shaking.
He couldn’t do this.
His aversion to flying had kept him stuck to Mitford like moss on a log for fourteen years—except for that witless sojourn to New York, which his heart had forced him to make, and the long-ago jaunt to write the paper on C. S. Lewis. As for the trip across the pond to Ireland, that had been his bishop’s idea. He had flown six interminable hours with his jaw set like a stone.
Lord, if this is Your answer, then You’ve got to help me do this thing. I know how You feel about fear, and I agree. But I’m scared stiff and You know it, and I‘rn needing a generous hand-out of grace.
The little yellow plane looked like a toy sitting on the green airstrip. While merely walking to it was a problem, climbing into the thing was worse. His knees were Silly Putty, his breathing labored, his palms drenched.
Omer settled in and pulled on a cap. “I don’t reckon you’d want t‘ fly with th’ doors off?”
“I don’t ... reckon so.”
“Yessir,” said Omer, displaying a mouthful of teeth the size of piano keys, “flyin‘ my little tail dragger is th’ most fun you can have with y‘r clothes on.”
“Hang tight!” yelled Omer.
He felt as if he were lashed to a jackhammer as they tore along the grass strip for what seemed an eternity.
At last the little plane nosed up, up, up into the blue. His stomach crawled under his lung cage. Perspiration dampened his forehead like summer fog. The racking vibration in the cockpit bounced his glasses on his nose.
Flying with Omer Cunningham, he suspected, was aviation’s equivalent of eating Rose Watson’s cooking. Wasn’t he the guy who, years ago, flew so low over a pasture that he soured the milk in a farmer’s cows? The farmer had sued—and won.
Omer leaned toward him and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Beautiful day for flyin‘, ain’t it?”
He ran his tongue around the inside of his teeth, to make sure he wasn’t losing any. “Yes, indeed!” he yelled back.
He regretted even the few strawberries he’d eaten for breakfast. Lord, please don’t let me make a mess of this man’s airplane.
Clearly, he was gaining a whole new perspective on St. Paul’s admonition to pray without ceasing.
“Dooley, this is Mr. Omer Cunningham, my pilot.”
“Your pilot?”
“He flew me up here.”
“You flew?”
He held his thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. “In a little yellow plane about this big.”
“Man!”
He shook Dooley’s hand. “You were great, son. Words fail me. It was a thrilling experience.”
“Real good,” said Omer, with feeling.
While Omer smoked a cigarette by the pickup truck, he and Dooley walked to the school green and sat under a tree.
“I’m glad you could come. I wish ol‘ Cynthia could’ve come.”
He handed over the samples from the First Annual Primrose Tea. “She sent you a box of stuff that will melt in your mouth.”
“I want t‘ open it now.”
“Go to it.”
Dooley opened the box, popped an entire lemon square into his mouth, and reached for a cookie.
“Chew before you swallow is my advice.”
He looked at the place where Dooley’s cowlick used to spout up like a geyser, and wondered how it had mysteriously vanished. He looked at his tennis shoes, which were size eleven, and the long legs, which had grown longer just since Thanksgiving.
It seemed only yesterday that he’d been chosen as the one to take the boy in, and already Dooley was gone—growing up, finding his own way. Why did time seem so short, so fleeting?
“How’re you doing, buddy?”
“All right.”
“Really and truly?”
“Yep.”
“No kidding?”
“Yep.”
“You going to make it up here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re sticking with it?”
“Yep.”
“That concert was as fine as anything I’ve heard anywhere. A lot of hard work in that.”
“Yes, sir.”
He put his arm around the boy. “I love you, pal.”
“Looky here,” said Omer, walking over to the tree. “Don’t you want me t‘ take th’ boy up for a little spin?”
“Well ...”
“Man!” said Dooley, jumping to his feet.
Walking to the office to get the headmaster’s permission, he reflected that there was a full lunch, two lemon squares, and three cookies in that boy. He was thrilled there was only one passenger seat in the little plane, which meant he’d be forced to stick it out on the ground during this particular joy ride.
When they dropped Dooley back at school, he hugged him, and got a good, hard hug in return.
That was worth the trip right there, he thought, choking up.
“Boneswar, Messure!” Dooley yelled after him.
They vibrated toward Mitford, having altered their return course so Omer could give his passenger an aerial view of the rectory.
“Where’s the Creek?” he shouted. “Do we fly over the Creek?”
“If you want to, we do!” Omer shouted back. The rector thought he could count thirty-two piano keys in his pilot’s grin. “But it ain’t scenic.”
“I’m not looking for scenic!”
Omer veered to the right and dipped, only slightly ahead of the rector’s stomach.
“Over yonder, see that power station?”
“I see it!”
“Th‘ Creek’s on th’ other side. Comin‘ up!”
After roaring over the power station and a patch of woods, he saw a ribbon of water gleaming in the sunlight. Then he saw the open sore on the breast of the creek bank—ramshackle, unpainted houses, tin-roofed sheds, houses that had burned and stood in their rubble, rusted trailers and vehicles abandoned in the weeds or sitting on blocks. A few hens pecked at the ground, which appeared to be hard, baked clay.
Dogs ran out and barked at the sky. A few people stood, shading their eyes, looking up. Near the woods, piles of abandoned stoves, refrigerators, tires, and other debris flowed down the bank to the water’s edge.
“It ain’t Dollywood!” shouted Omer, as they roared over the tree-tops and gained altitude.
“I’m buzzin‘ Lew’s place first!”
Man alive, he thought, seeing the station sign come closer. EXYON. Coot Hendrick stood at the gas pumps, gawking and waving.
“OK! Here comes your house!”
The trees were so close, he might have stripped the leaves off a maple.
“Isn’t this against the law?” he yelled.
“I cain’t hear you!” shouted Omer.
“I don’t see the rectory!”
“Yank up y‘r floor mat and I’ll spot ’er for you!”
He peeled back the mat, revealing a sizable hole, as Omer careened to the left and dipped.
He recognized the monument, then the school and First Baptist—and, by George, there was the Grill! Somebody stepped out to the sidewalk and looked up, but Omer roared on before he could tell who it was.
“There you go!” hollered his pilot.
Just below, tucked beside the little yellow house with the tile roof, was the place where a hundred and twenty women had devoured as many lemon squares this very day. He could see the pink and white trilliums blooming in the backyard. He could number the slates on his roof.
If he looked through that hole another minute, he would deposit his calling card all over Wisteria Lane. He slapped the mat back in place.
“What else you want t‘ see?” hollered Omer, nosing them straight up. Omer was getting a second wind.
“That’ll do it!” he shouted. “Just take me to my car!”
Please!
H
e drove to Mitford with Omer.
“What do I owe you?” he asked Mayor Cunningham’s brother-in-law.
“Oh, about three or four hundred! But seein‘ as I owe you for th’ pleasure of doin‘ it, you can give me fifty.”
“Fifty? Surely—”
“I ain’t licensed to charge commercial. I can only charge gas, and that’s fifty on th‘ button. Besides, you’re clergy.”
He peeled off two twenties and a ten. Here he was, a small-town priest flying around in a chartered plane, shelling out bucks like an oil field executive.
His legs were still wobbly, but he managed to give Omer Cunningham an invigorating slap on the back, as Omer put the money in his pocket and grinned hugely.
“That was a ride I won’t forget,” said the rector, meaning it.
Cynthia was in bed, her face mashed into the pillow.
“I never thought I’d see the day.”
“H‘lo, dearest,” she murmured. “What day?”.
“The day my wife would hit the hay while it’s still daylight.” It was, in fact, only a little after seven o‘clock.
She moaned.
“That bad, huh?”
“They had a wonderful time. I’m a heroine, Timothy. Your good name is untarnished. But I can’t move.”
“The house looks wonderful. I can’t tell anybody’s been here. How did the food hold out?”
“You’d think they hadn’t eaten in days. There’s nothing left but a couple of hazelnuts, which rolled under the primroses.”
“Off the hook for another year, are you?”
She moaned again.
“Speak,” he said, sitting on the bed and rubbing her back.
“They thought the tea was so fabulous, they asked me to do the bishop’s brunch in June.”
“No rest for the wicked, and th‘ righteous don’t need none,”, he quoted Uncle Billy.
“You’ll be glad to know I flatly refused.”
“Well done!”
“Now it’s your turn. Tell me everything about our Dools.” She rolled over and looked at him. “Why, Timothy! You’re beaming like a light tower! An eight-hour drive and up before dawn, and you look positively ... wonderful!”