He drove left on Old Church Lane and right on Main. Lights glowing in store windows. A wool cap at a jaunty angle on a mannequin head at the Woolen Shop.
She had turned the porch light on for him, though she knew he would come in from the garage. He liked seeing the porch light. The little things . . .
• • •
Their evening fire was embers as he shucked out of his coat.
He told her the whole story. Would he be nuts to do this?
‘You’re wonderful,’ she said.
‘It would be okay with you?’
‘Absolutely! God equipped you perfectly for this job.’
‘Come on!’ he said, ironic.
‘You know all about sautéing and frying and marinating and brining. You’re a regular font of culinary skills. Plus you’re great with people. The very sort that come into a grocery store, dazed and frantic with no earthly idea what to make for dinner. And how about people who must cook on a shoestring? There’s your famous Rector’s Meatloaf, to name but one money-saver. All these qualifications are exceptional. But, honey . . .’
He loved it when she called him honey.
‘. . . here’s the plus that puts all else to shame. You’ve been in sales for half a century. Avis is getting a pro!’
She looked pleased with her observations. ‘It’s perfect, Timothy! I’m so proud of you.’
He turned off the lamp by the sofa, laid two sticks of kindling on the grate, and added a log. He watched the kindling catch and the flames leap up, then went to the sofa and sat next to her and looked at his deacon in the firelight.
They were grinning at each other like two kids. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
He had a job again. And it had come at the very time he thought he didn’t need one.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 22
He knew it was crazy, but he’d planned to ask Father Tim to make th’ speech in place of hisself.
All those things th’ Kavanaghs said about what th’ Local does that other stores don’t do—that’s what he would’ve asked Father Tim to go to Charlotte an’ say. Now he didn’t have to ask such a fool thing. The torment he was goin’ through had got him off th’ hook.
He hoped th’ dope he was on wouldn’t fog his mind permanently; he wanted to remember always what th’ Kavanaghs said.
‘Chucky. I mean Father.’
‘Right here.’
‘You know th’ way I like to answer th’ phone every mornin’.’
‘I can’t do that, Avis. Sorry.’
‘It’s a . . . tradition,’ said Avis. He tried to raise his head, but it was a brick.
‘I’ll do my best at everything else. But I can’t do that.’ No, indeed. He had his limits.
• • •
We hope today’s session, though decidedly unofficial,’ said Father Brad, ‘will be a step toward helping you begin to discern your future.’
Pooh, dressed in a knit shirt and khakis, sat with the group in a circle of chairs borrowed from the Sunday school.
‘So we’re just going to talk, Pooh, the five of us. Lilah Bowen, my assistant, Paul Huffman, our senior warden, and Father Tim will join me in asking a few questions. Nothing life or death here. Maybe it will give you, give us all, something more to think about in our faith.
‘To begin, I often see you in the congregation with your parents. Have you had any other church experience?’
‘After my mother and stepfather became Christians, we went to the Baptist Church in Wesley. We were there about a year before we joined Lord’s Chapel.’
‘What did you think of the Baptists?’
‘The people were really nice, really glad to see us. And the food was great.’
Amused chuckles.
‘There’s only one thing I don’t like about Baptists,’ said Pooh. His face was flaming.
‘What’s that?’
‘People say they won’t speak to you in the liquor store.’
Startled, the group burst into laughter, Father Brad being the ringleader. They looked at each other, then at Pooh, whose coloring had gone from beet red to the pallor of a corpse.
‘My English instructor advised me to make you laugh, up front.’ His heart was pounding, his mouth dry. His English instructor was brilliant; he had always respected his advice. ‘Trust me,’ Joseph Kinley had said. ‘It will work and it will be good for you and for them.’
‘But this is . . . religion,’ he had said, not knowing how else to put it.
‘All the more reason,’ said Kinley.
Pooh put his hands in his jacket pocket to disguise the trembling, though he’d been somewhat encouraged by the laughter.
‘The pastor seemed to really care about us, was very knowledgeable, and usually gave an altar call. Most Sundays, a few people would go forward. I thought that was th’ highlight of the service, but somethin’ I would never do. And then one Sunday, I went forward.’
He had been terrified, but pulled as if by a cattle rope to the altar.
‘How old were you?’ asked Lilah Bowen.
‘I was ten years old.’
‘What do you think called you forward?’
‘I believe God called me forward. I wanted to make a commitment to him, to the way he had loved my mom and stepdad, the way he had brought healing to them, and a kinder way of dealing with each other and with me. The love I saw in my mom and dad is how God first showed himself to me. I see th’ way Father Tim has been an instrument of healing in my family. I see what Father Brad did for my brother Sammy. So he reveals himself to me through other people.’
There was a settling silence.
‘Would you tell us about your prayer life?’ said Father Tim.
Pooh drew a deeper breath. He had never talked like this to anyone before. Ever. He was a crater of nerves, but it was getting better.
‘I pray every morning and every night. Sometimes during the day, just when it, like, crosses my mind, I might say, Hey. Or just thanks, or maybe just please. I hope that doesn’t sound disrespectful.’
‘Not at all,’ said Father Tim. ‘God is our truest friend. Does he speak back to you in any way?’
‘Yessir. My heart gets warm, it feels full. And sometimes . . . it makes me cry.’ He had not wanted to confess that, but it came out anyway. From reading the books Joseph Kinley loaned him, he figured that was the work of the Holy Spirit.
Father Tim thought he had never seen anything like this—a seventeen-year-old boy, feeling his way with candor and humility into subjects deep enough to challenge anyone in the room.
‘What do you consider your weaknesses,’ asked Lilah, ‘for the calling you think you may pursue?’
Pooh thought a moment. ‘I can be really shy. I don’t always speak up when I should. And when I was a kid, I wanted to find my brothers, Sammy and Kenny, but I didn’t have the guts to do anything about it. I would like to have more—I guess I’d call it courage.’
Father Tim saw that Pooh was doing the nervous jiggling of his right leg that was characteristic of Dooley. Blood will tell. How very extraordinary was the Barlowe family. He hoped to see the day when Pauline could be as happily astonished as himself at what marvelous people God had wrought through her. He wished Clyde Barlowe could have recognized this.
‘Your strengths?’ said Lilah.
‘I’m a good listener.’
Father Brad nodded. ‘It takes a great man to make a good listener.’
‘And I can make a yo-yo sleep.’
They had a laugh.
‘Fine,’ said Paul Huffman, ‘but can you make it walk?’
Pooh was grinning. His natural color had returned; he sat in the chair as if he might actually be comfortable.
‘What is your hope,’ said Paul, ‘for any ministry you may undertake?’
‘To help people love God so the
y can learn to love themselves and each other.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yessir. Essentially.’
Father Brad looked pleased, even paternal.
They agreed to meet again in six months. In the meantime, they would pray for Pooh and Pooh for them.
They stood at the side door of the church as the lanky red-haired boy headed up Main Street.
‘Who is that kid, anyway?’ said Paul Huffman. ‘Seems like the genuine article to me.’
‘Deep,’ said Lilah.
‘Funny!’ said Father Brad.
‘Amazing,’ said Father Tim.
Henry ‘Pooh’ Barlowe Leeper hardly felt his feet touch the pavement. He’d never done anything so frightening, and he was still alive to talk about it.
• • •
He was walking from the hospital this evening, and taking a different route. Left on Old Church Lane, right on Church Hill Road, and left toward home. Stars blazing, the smell of woodsmoke.
The ringtone was muffled by his coat pocket.
‘I’m on my way. A long road, they think . . . I won’t be making any more night visits, I promise. Love you back.’
He was nearly home when he decided he could do it, after all. He hated to disappoint people.
His breath was a vapor on the air as he spoke aloud in the direction of the waxing moon. ‘Red potatoes ninety-seven cents a pound today only. How may I help you?’
Something like that. But not a word more.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 24
His first day at the Local had gone by in a blur of astonished faces, a confetti of coupons, trucks unloading at the rear platform, pumpkins being carved by a team of seventh graders under the store awning, and a good bit of feeling helpless.
He had, however, learned the root problem of the small-town grocery business:
Minimums.
To get free shipping and the best price, a store had to order a minimum of something or other. Say the canned-vegetables supplier wanted a minimum of $1,000—it could take a long time for a mom-and-pop operation to move that many cans and see a profit. Minimums were a rock and a hard place.
He was in and out of sleep. For some reason, learning the upgraded cash register system was a jawbreaker. Tossing, turning. Overall, the grocery business was looking like a can of worms. Think about it. Lettuce going limp. Fruit going soft. Meat going ‘off.’ Butter going rancid, milk going sour . . .
‘Timothy.’
‘What?’
‘You’re talking in your sleep.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Three o’clock.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Broccoli.’
Broccoli! He was supposed to print out his soup recipe to be given to anyone who bought broccoli today.
To its credit, Mitford was not altogether a Cheez Whiz town. There were a few accomplished cooks around, though they generally ignored the useful cannellini bean, disdained the avocado for anything but guacamole, and totally ruled out the fresh artichoke, which was considered ‘too California.’
Walking to the Local on his second day, he designed his modus operandi. Starting tomorrow, he would drive up the hill for a five-minute consult with Avis, return the car to Cynthia, walk to work, and arrive at the store by eight. Avis was pretty doped up and miserable, so it was hard to get a straight answer, but he needed every crumb or tidbit he could cobble together.
‘I told Avis about the broccoli that came in yesterday,’ he said to Otis. ‘A few stores in Wesley and Holding are asking one-ninety a pound. What do you think about Fresh broccoli one-sixty-five a pound today only for the phone ad?’
Otis adjusted his eyeglasses. ‘I think we should get one-seventy-five,’ said Otis, who had made up his mind to shoot straight. If the preacher ran this business off the rails, he and Lisa would be gluin’ on labels at the canning factory.
‘I think that’s right,’ said Lisa. ‘One-seventy-five.’
‘So be it.’ He was George Washington in counsel with his generals. ‘Make a sign for the window, please. And, Otis . . . ’
‘Yessir.’
‘Where do we keep the broom?’
‘Behind th’ door in th’ restroom.’
‘I’ll step out a few minutes,’ he said. ‘Is there a dustpan?’
‘Attached to th’ broom handle,’ said Lisa. She was what his mother would have called ‘a little bitty thing,’ well seasoned with freckles. ‘I do a good cleanup every evenin’, you don’t need to bother.’
‘There’s something I’d like to take care of on the street.’
He walked around to the side of the building where cigarette butts had made their forlorn accumulation and began sweeping them into the dustpan.
‘Esther,’ he said aloud to their former mayor, ‘this one’s for you.’
• • •
He didn’t need an hour for lunch. He hung a right and walked to Feel Good.
‘Takeout,’ he said to Wanda. ‘The usual.’
She yelled the order through to the kitchen. ‘And put legs on it!
‘I hear you’ll be runnin’ th’ Local.’
‘No, no, it will be running me, wait and see. This is my second day.’
‘Who’s helpin’ you?’
‘We have a butcher coming up next week from the Valley. There’s Lisa and Otis. And we may have some help from Otis’s family. They smoke pork.’
She gave him a dark look. ‘They smoke what?’
‘Pork.’
‘When you get through pitchin’ in for Avis, come pitch in for me. I need to get out to Oklahoma to see my daddy.’
‘I pitch in only when there’s a medical emergency. You don’t want to go there.’
‘I hear it’s gon’ be a while for Avis. If you get desperate, I can send one of my girls. They’re honest and hardworkin’. But only after th’ lunch cleanup and only for two hours. And never on Friday or Saturday.’
‘Thank you, Wanda. Very kind of you.’
‘Mitford takes care of its own, right?’
It had been a while since he’d heard that. He gave her a thumbs-up.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 26
Good morning! Sweet Vidalia onions, five-pound bag, two-ninety-five today only. How may I help you?’
‘Ahhh. Avis?’
‘Tim Kanvanagh. Avis is out for a bit.’ A few weeks? A couple of months? It was daunting not to know.
‘I’m a longtime fan of th’ Local. Hey, I need an eight-pound beef tenderloin for tonight. I’m drivin’ down from Abingdon. Is that a problem?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Can you hold?’
‘I’m ten minutes out.’
He laid the phone down, located Otis. ‘Need an eight-pound beef tenderloin.’
‘I can give you pork, but no beef, not today.’
Back to the phone, reporting his findings.
Sayonara to the customer who wanted beef and was now motoring to Holding’s Fresh Market, forty minutes south. He should have romanced what they had, shared his no-fail pork tenderloin recipe. Avis could not afford to lose a customer. He would have to do better, think faster.
As for today’s phone ad, it was good to promote what had to go out of here, but onions? He needed something to stir the imagination, lift the spirit, inspire!
Possibly something foreign. Like—Italian sausage! Store-made! There you go.
‘We don’t have any Italian sausage,’ said Otis. ‘No Italian sausage.’
‘Can you grind us some pork shoulder?’
‘Yessir. We’ve got plenty in th’ locker.’
‘Grind us ten pounds, and in an hour or two, we’ll have Italian sausage.’
Otis gave him an alarmed look. ‘Mild, I hope. We can’t sell hot.’
‘Mild, of course
,’ he said. ‘This is Mitford. And I’ll need two pounds of pork fat.’
‘I can do that. But it’s frozen.’
‘Perfect. I’ll need sugar and salt . . . ’
‘In th’ break room.’
‘And sherry. A little sherry.’
‘Wine section.’
‘I’ll need big bowls.’
‘In th’ cabinet above th’ sink. Avis ran his test kitchen back there.’ Otis was noticeably wringing his hands over any possible bad decisions by the preacher. Sherry, pork shoulder, pork fat. These were big-money ingredients.
‘How about four bucks a pound?’ he asked Otis.
‘Harris Teeter in Wesley gets four ninety-nine.’
‘Good. Another reason to make it four bucks. But only for a limited time.’ He knew something about loss leaders. Lose a little on a big item to get people in the store, right?
The only problem with this job is that he flat-out didn’t know what he was doing. But he did know how to make sausage. They had made a lot of sausage at Whitefield; Peggy taught him how when he was ten years old, just before she disappeared.
He went to the spice rack. Crossed himself.
Took down the parsley, the garlic powder, the fennel seeds, the cracked pepper . . .
• • •
And there it was in the butcher’s case. A great mound of it, garnished with sprigs of fresh sage. He looked at it each time he passed that way.
In two hours, they sold five pounds. This was not mere grocery sales, this was theater.
He was happy when the phone rang.
‘Delicious store-made Italian sausage, four dollars a pound now through Thursday only. Bellissimo! How may I help you?’ In his gleeful pulpit voice.
‘Timothy?’
‘Cynthia!’
Dead silence. But wait. The silence was not dead. His wife had put her hand over the phone, a tactic that failed to entirely conceal her hilarity.
• • •
Ray Cunningham was on his way out with a bag of collards, winter squash, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, and four bananas.
‘Potassium!’ said Ray. ‘Lowers high blood pressure, helps with your heart problems, clears up confusion, irritability, and fatigue!’
Ray was once famous for dishes said to cause confusion, irritability, and fatigue. ‘I believe you’re the fellow who was legendary for his barbecue, country-style ribs, fried chicken . . . ’