She gave the dispatcher the model, the year, the color. Her name, his name, her cell number, whatever they asked for.
Her hand was shaking when she ended the call. She had just made her fears official.
• • •
He checked the speedometer. He was flying,
The whole thing had gone down in a blur.
He didn’t know what the medical guys would call it. The word abruption came to mind. It had been dicey. But considering what it might have been . . .
In the end, mother and baby were fine.
Jack had been liberated from the truck by three curious kids. They had all shown up in the bedroom soon after Artie Johnson expertly scrubbed up his newborn daughter.
Jack had not been happy to come awake to three strangers staring in the truck window, and no dad. He wiped Jack’s tears, picked him up. ‘Look, buddy! A baby! Brand-new.’
The mother invited them to come and have a look. The young Johnsons were gathered close, exclaiming over the new arrival; the hound stood by, resting his muzzle on a pillow.
‘He smells funny,’ said Jack. ‘Can he talk?’
‘It’s a girl,’ said the mother. ‘She cain’t talk yet.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Angel.’
‘Does she got wings?’
‘They ain’t growed in yet.’
‘Where did she come from?’
‘He don’ know where Angel come from,’ whispered the dark-haired boy.
‘Your daddy made our little sister come out!’ said the middle Johnson.
‘She was stuck,’ said the youngest.
‘Gotta go,’ said Dooley. He grabbed his jacket, shook Artie’s hand.
‘I thank you more’n I can say, Doctor. Sorry about your shirt. What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing. Just the satisfaction of everything being all right. Maybe you should get them to the hospital in Mitford.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Janette. ‘We’re all right.’
‘I think I should tell you, I’m a vet doc. Right up the road.’ He was trembling. After tying off the cord with dental floss, his knees had gone weak and hadn’t fully recovered.
‘Well, I’ll be,’ said Artie. ‘Did you hear that, Janette? A vet delivered our Angel. You done good, Doc, you done real good. Thank you. God bless you. I owe you for this. I’m beholden.’
‘Artie,’ said Janette, ‘give th’ doctor a quart of my pumpkin. It’s ready to go in th’ pie shell.’
Artie and the kids had waved from the porch.
‘Bye, bye, Jack!’
‘Bye, Dr. Dooley!’
‘Thank you, Doc!’
‘Y’all come again!’
The high beams picked out a long row of cedars in the rain.
Home in fifteen minutes. Lace would be a basket case. He checked the speedometer. Eighty.
‘Your mom’s not gon’ believe this,’ he said.
He glanced up.
In the rearview mirror, the flashing, freaking blue light.
• • •
While Beth was downstairs, she put on her jacket and walked out to the porch with her cell phone.
She was going to have to learn to trust God. Completely.
Something white in the gravel.
She dashed into the rain and picked up a small envelope, and returned to the porch.
She could not go on without trusting him completely. It was so hard, so impossible, this addiction to trusting yourself to do God’s job. What could possibly have happened to Dooley and Jack? An absolute terror was upon her. Yet in all this, she was to trust God—and more than that, yes, truly more than that, she was to thank him.
Rain drumming on the roof.
She prayed the only words she was able to gather. ‘Help,’ she said. ‘And thank you.’
She went inside and put a log on the fire, then took the wet envelope from her pocket.
In the light, she could see the logo. Mitford Blossoms.
She removed the card and peered at the blurred ink.
Welcome home.
Tommy
She went to the basement door and called down, using her old term of affection. ‘Bethie! Something wonderful! Come quick!’
• • •
Willie didn’t drive at night and she didn’t trust Harley’s truck for back roads. There was no one she could send out, and no word from the county. She should go looking, she knew the route he took to Joanna’s . . .
She was torn in half; nothing in her life had been so unbearable as this unknowing.
‘Lacey, come and sit down.’
As she sat in the rocker, she saw lights bounce into the backyard. They were coming fast up the driveway.
‘They’re home,’ she whispered, and tried to rise from the chair, but she could not.
‘See you in the morning!’ Jubilant, Beth threw her a kiss and ran from the room.
And then the door flying open and energy pouring into what had felt all night like a void, and Dooley, with a long exhaustion in his voice, saying, ‘You’re not going to believe this.’
Jack running to her. ‘Mom! You’re not gon’ believe this!’
And Charley barking and wagging her entire backside and racing around Jack in a circle of joy.
She looked up at Dooley and saw that something had been taken from him and something given back. On his shirt, blood . . .
‘My God! What . . . ?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. The lines between his eyebrows, his hair damp with rain . . .
‘Dad made a baby come out! It’s a angel baby with its wings not growed in yet.’
Jack climbed into her lap. Unable to hold back the tears, she pulled him close and buried her face in his hair.
• • •
You’re my baby,’ she said as she slipped Jack’s pajama top over his head.
He had eaten a bowl of cereal and she had taken him up to bed.
‘I’m not a baby.’ He blinked, tired and solemn.
‘Just for tonight,’ she said, ‘Just for tonight, okay?’
He would do anything to make his mom go smiling. He thought about what she said, and nodded. ‘Just this tonight, okay?’
‘Okay!’
She kissed his head, his face, his neck, his belly—he shrieked. She kissed his hands, his nose, his knees—he whooped and hollered. Then his feet, his stubby toes . . .
‘No, no, no!’ he yelled, laughing. ‘No more kissin’!’
Dooley had done an amazing thing. She would visit Janette one day and perhaps be allowed to hold Angel and inspect the tiny shoulders where wings would grow.
• • •
Four hundred for a phone. A hundred and fifty for the traffic court judge. Plus the million bucks he would pay, if he had it, for sitting by the fire with Charley, wolfing down a double helping of Lil’s lasagna and hearing the laughter upstairs.
13
MITFORD
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21
He recognized the firm, rapid knock at the side door.
Helene Pringle handed him a newspaper from the town at the foot of the mountain. ‘The Holding Times, Father. I take it because of the crossword. I thought you should see this.’
The paper was folded to reveal the obituaries; she pointed to a death notice.
Clyde Henry Barlowe, 57 years old, of 7216 Wild Cat Road, died October 19.
They looked at each other.
What should he do with this information? Dooley’s biological father was dead, survived by five children whom he had abandoned to tragedy and turmoil.
Sammy may be the one most affected by this news. Clyde, known by various authorities as Jaybird, had held on to Sammy into his sixteenth year when Helene Pringle, of all people, stumbled upon a direct lead to the boy’s where
abouts. The damage done had been appalling, but not irrevocable, no. As for Dooley, Dooley had washed his hands of his biological father years ago.
He made the sign of the cross. He would go to Pauline, who, he expected, would tell Pooh and Jessie, then he would drive out to Meadowgate and tell Dooley, who would spread the news to Sammy and Kenny. This seemed as fair as he knew how to make it.
• • •
For years, Pauline had wept when she saw him.
‘All you’ve done for her kids reminds her of what she couldn’t do,’ said her husband, Buck.
Needless to say, someone tearing up at the mere sight of him was a downer, but he had no power over it. Thankfully, the tears had ceased since Dooley’s wedding, when Pauline gained courage to express her remorse to all five children. There had been no instant healing, no miracle, but something had shifted, if only a little.
He found her in the Hope House dining room, sitting at the table by the fountain, sorting meal tickets. She glanced up and smiled, glad to see him.
‘You’re looking beautiful,’ he said, meaning it.
They talked for a time; he held her hands and prayed for her as he always did.
‘Jessie,’ she whispered.
Though conflicted about his so-called rescue of several of her children, she was asking for help with her daughter. He had gone to Lakeland to find Jessie when she was five years old, but that was the extent of his involvement in Jessie’s life.
He had worked no magic with any of her children. Whatever had happened was by patience, interest, and certainly the grace of God. Jessie was out of control, and once again, Pauline was faced with her own seeming helplessness. She could not explain what she meant by uttering Jessie’s name, but he knew.
‘It’s out of my hands, Pauline. Out of my hands. Let God have her, give her to him daily, hourly. I have no magic.’
He thought she might weep, but she did not. Believe in your capacity to love, he wanted to say. Don’t give up. Believe. Trust. Oh, he could say any number of things because it was easy for him to say.
He embraced her and decided to say what Peggy used to tell him all those years ago—when he had a skinned knee or another wound from his father, or when he was about to have three teeth yanked out at one go:
‘Everything’s going to be all right. Everything . . . is going to be all right.’
• • •
Dooley met him in the driveway and told him the story of the baby delivered down the road, and the pestering news of the speeding ticket. They had a laugh about the volume of canned pumpkin circulating in this end of the county, then met in the office that smelled faintly of cats.
He showed Dooley the notice and didn’t know what to expect.
Dooley sat for a moment, expressionless, then stood abruptly and turned away and looked out the window.
As a priest, perhaps the guilt he was feeling was pastoral, not personal. But guilt is guilt. He wished he had prayed more avidly over the years for the soul of Clyde Barlowe.
• • •
At the farmhouse, Jack was napping, Lace was painting, and Beth was assessing any yard sale potential of the junk room contents. Such domestic information came from Lily, who was rinsing her mop in a bucket on the porch.
Declining to disturb the household, he emptied his pocket of change and left it on the kitchen table as a nod toward Jack’s savings for a bike helmet. A satisfying investment!
He hailed Blake, who was latching the run gate to the sound of barking, and a lot of it.
‘I have a question if you have a minute.’
‘Shoot, Father. Good to see you.’
‘Would you know of anything the business needs that would help out in some . . . I don’t know . . . some special way?’
‘Don’t even have to think about it. Sure is.’
They stepped away from the barking and sat for a few minutes on a bench by the clinic door.
‘Don’t mention that we talked about this,’ he told Blake.
‘Nossir. Not a word. Any idea when you’ll get another dog?’
‘Don’t plan to. I had the best.’
Blake watched Dooley’s dad walk to the car. That, he thought, is what everybody thinks when they lose a good dog. We’ll see.
Before pulling onto the state road, he checked his phone, which he’d left on the passenger seat.
Three messages.
J.C., Otis, Omer.
All with the same hard news.
• • •
He gleaned what he could from the charge nurse.
Mr. Packard’s immune system was compromised and perhaps completely shot.
Bacterial pneumonia. The really bad one.
Drips of heavy-duty antibiotics off and running.
No visitors allowed except Father Tim and one employee from the patient’s place of business, all required to wear a mask and wash their hands before and after each visit.
Visits limited to five minutes. Dr. Wilson had pronounced this a law, not a suggestion.
He must not touch the patient nor tire the patient.
Upcoming tests would include X-ray of the lungs for possible damage by excessive tobacco use.
Avis’s breath whistled in, whistled out as he presented his plan to the priest and concluded with an offer. ‘Ten dollars an hour.’
A convulsion of coughing that shook the bed.
‘I don’t know, Avis, I can’t say right now.’
‘Or fryers, roasters, chops, fresh produce. You name it, it’s yours. You like a good ham . . .’ Th’ pain was a blowtorch in his chest, but he had to get this deal settled. ‘Fresh pasta. All you need.’ But who would make th’ pasta? He was th’ pasta man. Otis and Lisa could not make pasta. ‘If I was to . . . maybe . . . you know.’
‘Die?’ said Father Tim. ‘I don’t think that’s where you’re headed.’
But if he did die, Avis thought, where was he headed? Up? Down? He didn’t want to get into that. ‘If I pass . . . maybe you could find where Chucky’s at . . . an’ check on him once in a while?’
‘I’ll do my best. Do you ever talk to God, Avis?’
‘Nossir. I don’t bother God.’ Wait a minute. He’d asked God for somethin’ th’ other day, but couldn’t remember what it was.
Lungs concrete; his head mostly air. He was glad the preacher was here; he saw him through some kind of cloud. His mother had eyes the color of clouds.
She was blue an’ puffed up an’ wet an’ layin’ on th’ kitchen table where she rolled out her biscuit dough, where they sat and ate their dinner.
‘Why?’ he asked his daddy.
‘Troubled,’ he said. ‘She was troubled.’
People talkin’ in low voices, spittin’ tobacco juice in her flower beds, hammerin’ in the shed, tap, tap.
‘Troubled about what?’ He was afraid of the answer.
His daddy shrugged an’ stared out to their three head of beef cattle standin’ in th’ field. ‘I don’t know nothin’ about it, boy. God only knows.’ He had wondered why God seemed to know so much an’ people didn’t know nothin’.
‘Lisa and Otis, they don’t have a way with th’ public. But they’ll give you backup. They’re hard workers. Otis’ll get his daddy to come up an’ butcher for us.’
‘We’ll figure it out.’ The rattle in Avis’s chest was unsettling. ‘You need to rest now.’
‘They can’t pay th’ bills or write checks or place orders.’
‘It’s going to work out. We’ll get Marcie Guthrie to run your books. She did some work for you a while back; she’ll know the ropes.’
‘Lisa an’ Otis know how to price an’ shelve an’ run a card an’ open th’ refrigerator . . . I mean th’ cash drawer. As for orderin’ supplies, no, an’ Thanksgivin’ comin’.’ This was a terrible thing. He could not afford to let his busin
ess go haywire with Thanksgivin’ comin’. A wave of coughing churned in his chest, exploded, cracked open the concrete.
‘If . . . anything . . . happens . . .’ Avis forced out air to shape each word. ‘. . . you’ll know . . . how to handle it.’
The five minutes were up. Father Tim crossed himself, prayed for words. The old petition came to mind like a bird to the outstretched palm.
‘Heavenly Father, watch with us over your child Avis, and grant that he may be restored to that perfect health which is yours alone to give. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’
He said amen in the way of the Baptists, with the long a, as it was pronounced when he was a boy in Holly Springs. It was a simple comfort to him, a priest who felt he had little comfort to give.
• • •
Seven-fifteen. Lights on in the town at the foot of the hill, stars on in the great bowl above.
Six days a week—Monday through Saturday—until other help could be found. Eight to four with a break for lunch. How could he possibly want to do this fool thing?
He huddled into his topcoat as he walked across the hospital parking lot to the car.
Maybe it wasn’t about wanting or not wanting. Though he was beyond serving the mission field, wasn’t his own town a mission field? No famine, no poverty, no war, thanks be to God, but a mission field, nonetheless. And didn’t charity begin at home?
He had really enjoyed pitching in at Happy Endings a few years ago. For him, the bookstore had been part confessional, part community center, and more than part pleasure—all without the woes of the financial part.
In two years plus change, he would be eighty, and people could very well stop asking him to do anything. A terrifying thought if he let himself dwell on it. For decades, he’d been asked to do nearly everything, often including the impossible.
What did he know about the food business? Only what he’d learned from growing up with two great cooks and decades of doing his own grocery shopping—that should count for something. At the end of the day, as people liked to say, did he currently have anything better to do than pitch in at the Local?