Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

‘It is very hard to die. Or if I have died, I confess I expected more.’ A deep tremor in Henry’s body, his whole frame agitated, the breath ragged. ‘Perhaps this is purgatory, or I have passed directly to Sheol. But the people . . . the people . . .’

‘Tell me.’

‘They had grown fat on honey and I gave them bitter root. Tell them I learned to love them. Lying here, it came to me that I love them and deeply repent of my cold disfavor toward them and our Lord. I was unable, I was coaching then. Ask them to forgive my manifold sins against God and this parish. It was winter, you see, and I was but ten years old; my sled had come apart against a tree . . .’

He placed his hand on Henry’s head and prayed aloud. ‘Nothing can separate us from your love, O Lord. Thank you for releasing us from the bondage of believing we are worthless and rejected . . .’

‘Up there . . .’ Henry’s voice coarse from the heaving.

The moon had escaped cloud cover and silvered the canopy of branches. ‘Up there, the heavenly realm, and here, O Lord, am I, a worm awaiting your claim. Will you have me?’

‘He will have you, Henry.’

‘“Living darkly, with no ray . . .”’

Their voices mingled on the night air.

‘For you, Lord,’ he prayed, ‘have not given us the spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind . . .’

‘“. . . and quickly killing every trace of light,”’ Henry whispered, ‘“I burn myself away.”’

•   •   •

‘HARD TO ASSESS,’ said Wilson. ‘No way to know how much or when he took it, he’s too confused to tell us anything.’

‘What was it?’ said Dooley.

‘Acetaminophen and diphenhydramine. The empty bottles were in the pocket of the jacket you brought in. It’s a common mix for the suicide demographic who prefer ingestion.’

‘He left the house at six,’ he said. ‘There were empty water bottles with him on the trail. Let’s say he got the stuff down right away. We found him at one-thirty, one-forty . . .’

‘It’s three forty-five now,’ said Dooley, ‘so around ten hours.’

‘The tests show thickened blood,’ said Wilson, ‘some liver damage, and the kidney function is off. We hung a couple liters of saline on him, gave him an antidote, and the chopper will have him to Winston in forty-five minutes—before five, say, or about eleven hours from the overdose. Twelve hours out and he’s in big trouble. So by a hair, by a hair.’

The doctor he’d recently thought a cub looked pretty old right now.

‘What about ID?’ asked Dooley.

‘On his wrist. A band.’

‘Dad notified his wife.’

‘She’ll have to get here fast.’

‘She won’t be coming,’ he said.

‘Not even the children know what’s happening,’ she’d told him on the phone. ‘I’ve lived the last thirty-four years putting a good face on things for Henry. It’s useless for me to come, for there’s no longer a good face to be put. I love Henry more than life, Father, but I will go through with the divorce. I declare the agony ended forever on this terrible night. I’m sorry—for everything. Thank you for all you’ve done.’

‘I hope we can keep this quiet,’ he told Wilson.

‘Nobody will hear it from me, but I can’t make promises for anyone else. You know the Mitford grapevine.’

They waited in the hall for Talbot’s gurney. ‘My son’s going to be a doctor,’ he said, proud.

Wilson eyed Dooley with approval. ‘You’ll make a good one, I’m sure. Your speciality?’

‘Animals,’ said Dooley. ‘Not people.’

The doctor volunteered a grin. ‘Animals are people, too.’

•   •   •

THE CHOPPER USED TO LAND in Baxter Park; now there was a helipad on the roof of the hospital. He read again the bronze plaque at the door of the elevator to the pad: A GIFT OF THE IRENE AND CHESTER MCGRAW FAMILY. He remembered that Chester had been flown to Charlotte from the pad he funded, and died en route.

Cutcutcutcutcutcut . . .

At 4:10, the machine lifted off the roof of Mitford Hospital and, in the starless night, burned itself away.

Chapter Fourteen

He had called the bishop at seven-thirty to brief him on the harrowing circumstances of last night.

‘This changes everything,’ Jack Martin had said. ‘I’ll meet you in the vestry a little earlier, say ten-fifteen, we’ll celebrate together. The Lord be with you.’

According to Bill Swanson, Bishop Martin was not only never late, but known to arrive early. Now he was late by more than forty minutes. In alb and stole, he paced the confines of the minuscule room where the choir changed, the priest vested, offerings were counted, and, occasionally, an anxious bridegroom waited.

Bill Swanson’s face was beet-red as he rushed into the vestry and closed the door. ‘Bishop Martin can’t make it, Father. He just got cell phone service. A rockslide on the mountain, quite a few people badly injured. Very serious. No cars getting through, he says.’

He stared as if the senior warden had spoken in another tongue. On every side, wreckage. Debris hurtling into the air and then falling, falling . . .

Bill Swanson’s left eyelid twitched. ‘Bishop says tell you to carry on. What can I do?’

‘Pray.’

‘Say as little as you can, would be my thinking, Father, and let the vestry handle the rest at the parish meeting. All hell will break loose when they get the details. No need for it to break loose in the eleven o’clock.’

The congregation wouldn’t know what to make of seeing Tim Kavanagh in the pulpit; they would be heartily up for the flamboyance of the bishop’s mitre and crozier, and for learning what Talbot had in mind for the bishop’s unexplained visit. They would have the momentary shock of the old priest to work through, which would, perhaps, condition them for the blow to follow.

He could go head down into the wind and make the announcement before the opening hymn. But no, the opening hymn would give them all a chance to settle in and connect with whatever familiar words had been selected. It was a packed house, with people sitting on chairs in the aisle and standing at the rear, the usual case with a visit by the bishop. Something was up, everybody knew that much.

‘I’m ready,’ he said to Bill. Exhausted, strung out, wired, and ready.

Bill Swanson was reeling from this, but thumping him on the back with good cheer. ‘When th’ bishop can’t make it, Father, God himself shows up.’

He embraced Bill and walked from the vestry into the nave and bowed to the cross and ascended the steps to the altar and the organ played and he turned to the people and lifted his hands for them to stand. They rose with a great swoosh, as a single body, and he opened his mouth and the words learned as a child came forth with sweet accord.

When morning gilds the skies

My heart awaking cries

May Jesus Christ be praised!

When evening shadows fall

This rings my curfew call

May Jesus Christ be praised . . .

‘Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,’ he said.

‘And blessed be his kingdom,’ the people said, ‘now and forever.

‘Amen.’

‘Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid: cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee, and worthily magnify thy holy Name; through Christ our Lord.’

‘Amen.’

He felt his heart pierced through; the terrible constriction in his throat. His wife knew something had gone wrong. From the second row, gospel side, she gave the sign that she was praying—a slight raising of the forefinger of her right hand held against her cheek. And there was his dazed and sleep-deprived son sitting next to her, and thank God for his support.

‘Bishop Martin is unable to join us this morning. He sends his profound regret from a scene of unthinkable tragedy on the mountain—a rockslide gravely injuring many people. The bishop is unhurt, but traffic will be delayed for some time.

‘We must remember Bishop Martin in our prayers and those who, though unknown to us, are yet brother and sister in this mortal flesh. We ask God for his great mercy upon all whose lives were changed this morning on the mountain . . . and for each of us gathered here today.’

The word mercy struck a chord among the congregants. Why would they need God’s mercy in the same measure as those poor souls in the rockslide?

‘I am grieved to say there is more to tell you this morning. But before it is spoken, I bid you listen carefully to what our Lord Jesus Christ saith:

‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself . . .

‘Our neighbor and your priest, Father Henry Talbot . . .’ He looked to Cynthia. Help me.

‘. . . is in urgent need of your love, your forgiveness, and your prayers. Bishop Martin asks me to tell you that Father Talbot’s duties as priest of this parish are officially ended.’

No gasping or seeming mortifications. Only stunned silence.

‘Father Talbot has charged me to tell you that he is deeply repentant for not serving you as God appointed him to do, and as you hoped and needed him to do.

‘He wished very much to bring you this message himself, but he could not. He bids you goodbye with a love he confesses he never felt toward you . . . until this day. He asks—and I quote him—that you might find it in your hearts to forgive him his manifold sins against God and this parish.’

He felt the tears on his face before he knew he was weeping, and realized instinctively that he would have no control over the display. He could not effectively carry on, nor even turn his face away or flee the pulpit. He was in the grip of a wild grief that paralyzed everything but itself.

He wept face forward, then, into the gale of those aghast at what was happening, wept for the wounds of any clergy gone out into a darkness of self-loathing and beguilement; for the loss and sorrow of those who could not believe, or who had once believed but lost all sense of shield and buckler and any notion of God’s radical tenderness, for the ceaseless besettings of the flesh, for the worthless idols of his own and of others; for those sidetracked, stumped, frozen, flung away, for those both false and true, the just and the unjust, the quick and the dead.

He wept for himself, for the pain of the long years and the exquisite satisfactions of the faith, for the holiness of the mundane, for the thrashing exhaustions and the endless dyings and resurrectings that malign the soul incarnate.

It had come to this, a thing he had subtly feared for more than forty years—that he would weep before the many—and he saw that his wife would not try to talk him down from this precipice, she would trust him to come down himself without falling or leaping.

And people wept with him, most of them. Some turned away, and a few got up and left in a hurry, fearful of the swift and astounding movement of the Holy Spirit among them, and he, too, was afraid—of crying aloud in a kind of ancient howl and humiliating himself still further. But the cry burned out somewhere inside and he swallowed down what remained and the organ began to play, softly, piously. He wished it to be loud and gregarious, at the top of its lungs—Bach or Beethoven, and not the saccharine pipe that summoned the vagabond sins of thought, word, and deed to the altar, though come to think of it, the rail was the very place to be right now, at once, as he, they, all were desperate for the salve of the cup, the Bread of Heaven.

And then it was over. He reached into the pocket of his alb and wondered again how so many manage to make it in this world without carrying a handkerchief. And he drew it out and wiped his eyes and blew his nose as he might at home, and said, ‘Amen.’

And the people said, ‘Amen.’

•   •   •

AT THE CHURCH DOOR, Buck Leeper gave him a crushing embrace.

A fellow who introduced himself as a visitor nodded and said, ‘Right on.’

The soldier in Army uniform with his family from Wesley waited until others had gone through the line. He embraced the boy—so sober, so young, younger than Dooley.

‘Where are you serving?’ he asked.

‘Armageddon,’ said the boy.

Eileen Douglas threw up her hands and shook her head with wonder and said nothing.

Which, God knows, was saying a lot.

Chapter Fifteen

On Monday, several of the parish communicated their thoughts as they had when he’d served at Lord’s Chapel. Skipping the amenities of the USPS, they posted their envelopes directly into the mail slot of the front door.

Dear Father Tim.

It was so nice to cry in church yesterday. There is so much to cry about in this world, thank you for the opportunity.

Your friend,

Dottie Holzclaw

Father,

I have heard about the laughing thing that breaks out in churches but this is the first I ever knew of the crying thing. Wish I could have been there and wish we could have you back if only for the innovations! (What next, ha ha!)

Sincerely,

Zack Clemmons

(I played first base on our Mitford Reds team—those were the days)

GREEN FAMILY PLUMBING & ELECTRICAL

Dear Father Tim,

Maybe it’s because we used to be Baptists but we have never liked Fr Talbot AT ALL, though now we do because we cried for him and we forgive him and will try to stick with it.

God bless you.

Connie and Elton Green

Charles Dickens said, It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens the temper—so cry away.

Love in Jesus

Beth and Jim Chandler

Father Tim

TEARS ARE OUR HOLY WATER

He stayed in his pajamas on Monday, occupying the hours by listing supplies for Tuesday, talking with Bishop Martin and Bill Swanson, praying, napping, and generally recovering his wits. He had called Harley and was assured that his neighbor was well enough to work tomorrow, if all he did was step and fetch for a couple of days.

After lunch, which was delivered by his wife, he mustered the courage to cut his own hair. Did he want help? No; there was no hair savvy in this house. Cynthia, Puny, Dooley—all had tried cutting his hair at one time or another and it was a worse disaster than he might foist upon himself.

Holding the hand mirror, he backed up to the bathroom mirror and squinted at the job to be done. It drove him crazy trying to hold the mirror with one hand and manipulate the scissors with the other; it was a bloody logistical nightmare that deposited hair in the sink, on the floor, and, as he lacked foresight to use a towel around his neck, inside the collar of his bathrobe.

When he went to retrieve a book from the shelves along the hall, Puny was leaving Dooley’s room with an armload of sheets.

‘Lord help! What have you done to yourself?’

‘What do you mean, done to myself?’

‘Your hair.’

‘I cut it,’ he said, daring further comment.

‘You shouldn’t have messed with th’ sides, I can tell you that.’ And down the stairs she went.

He was fatigued in every part and clearly in denial. All that had happened was too distressing to think about; he held it away from himself.

In the late afternoon, his wife delivered her local gazette: she had been walking in the neighborhood when she saw the moving van headed north. Slowly plowing between the rows of low buildings on Main, the van appeared monstrous, out of place. She had crawled into bed with him, fully clothed, and gone to sleep in her own grieving.

As for the proposed car deal yesterday afternoon, there had been none, of course.

They had come home from church at twelve forty-five, turned off the ringer on the house phone, and after downing two bowls of chicken soup, he’d gone straight to bed. Dooley slept for three and a half hours and headed out with a truckload of clean laundry and a container of egg salad on ice. Three and a half hours’ sleep for a five-and-a-half-hour drive was clearly insufficient, but what could be done? He surrendered his parental concerns to an All-Sufficient God and waited for the marching band.

The woodwinds, brass, and percussion kicked in at ten-thirty p.m.—Dooley was safely in Athens.

On Monday evening, they turned on the ringer; the phone bleated at once. His wife lifted the receiver as if handling a snake.

‘That was Emma. All sorts of rumors have leaked out.’ His wife looked older, exhausted. ‘She says our voice-mail box is full.’

‘Good,’ he said.

The mailbox was full because people wanted answers. Just one more reason former clergy were exhorted to clear out, thereby avoiding involvement in sticky issues of the old parish.

Whatever the leaks may be, he would be hounded by questions—this one in particular:

Why didn’t he, Father Tim, go back to Lord’s Chapel and straighten things out down there?

After getting into bed on Monday night, he realized he had pulled the covers over his head.

•   •   •

FIRST LIGHT. The sun would be up a little before seven-thirty.

He walked south on Main, dressed in layers—a scarf and cap to take off, a jacket to remove, a vest to be shed when the temperature rose to the predicted upper sixties.

Nobody would find him where he was going, not for a while, anyway. Their work would be uninterrupted, deprived of the gruesome details of Sunday afternoon’s meeting.

It was morning rush hour in Mitford, largely composed of pickup trucks at urgent speed. Some flying down the mountain to greener job pastures, others flying up the mountain to glean whatever pickings the southbound left behind.

He quickened his step. This was the week that fall color would be at its peak. And the week he was finally to become what he’d so long hankered to be:

Full-time.

‘Hallelujah!’ he exclaimed over the backfire of Ned Colby’s gravel truck.

•   •   •

SHE CAME AWAKE, but only enough to realize she had survived the night; that the kiss on her cheek acknowledged her as alive and sentient.

More than anything, she wanted to see the face of her husband, but she could not or would not open her eyes. There was something inside that needed to be tended first; something remote—she would have to travel to get there.

Scott was praying for her. His voice resonated in her blood as plucked strings in the sound box of a lute.

‘Amen,’ he said.

Still, she could not open her eyes; the membrane of her lids had come down like a shade, leaving the tears to find an exit on their own.

‘Everything is going to be all right,’ he said, sitting on the side of the bed. ‘Hold on to that, Hope. Everything is going to be all right. I promise.’

God had promised, her husband had promised, Father Tim had promised when they spoke on the phone yesterday. What more could she possibly want or need? ‘Live up to your name!’ her mother had liked to command.

She felt a type of shame. Her body was growing something she had no wish to grow. It could not be surgically removed, nor could she wish or pray it away. She was without power to do anything at all, though she knew with terrible urgency that something must be done.

•   •   •

‘YOU AIN’T TH’ B-BOSS OF ME.’

‘True. God is the boss of you, with Harley a close second.’

‘Ain’t nobody th’ b-boss of me.’

‘Here are your pruners. When Harley gets back with supplies, we need to be ready for new topsoil. You take that bed, I’ll take this bed, as previously explained. We must cut back the vines, pull ’em off the building, dig out the rootstock, and remove the old debris.’

‘Ain’t nobody gon’ mess around back here, so why’re we b-bustin’ ass to fix it?’

‘If we fix it, people will mess around back here.’

Church suppers. ECW events. Cake sales. And perfect for small weddings. A bench there, or perhaps under the old serviceberry, and maybe next spring a stone walkway from the side entrance of the church to the door of the moderately refurbished Sunday school. It was thrilling.

He shared this vision with Sammy, who stared into the middle distance throughout the dissertation.

‘I’m just going to love him,’ he had said to Cynthia. Famous last words.

•   •   •

THE MORNING WARMED UP QUICKLY.

They had off-loaded the contents of Harley’s truck into the Sunday school building. Rakes, tarps, a mower, two ladders, and other tools of lawn care and home improvement. The supplies Harley was shopping for this morning would also be stored in the building. Good deal.

‘Looks like there might be a hole in th’ roof.’ Sammy spit into a bare bed. ‘I stood on that rock over yonder and seen it!’

‘Where’s the hole?’

‘Up by th’ bell on top.’

He followed Sammy inside, burrowing beyond the rakes and other gear, into the realm of disabled school furniture and musty banners.

Sammy was using Red Man, he saw the package sticking out of his jeans pocket. A better thing, maybe, than the cigarette, but with its own calamities.

They moved about, looking up to the rafters. No light filtered through the roof decking.

‘No hole,’ he said.

‘There’s water c-comin’ in somewhere, I can tell y’ that.’

‘We can’t see light through the decking.’

‘It smells damp in here, ’at’s enough for me.’

‘First things first. Let’s get the job done outside and we’ll come back to this.’

In the dim light, Sammy turned to him, sneered. ‘You ain’t G-God, you know.’

•   •   •

HE LEANED ON THE HANDLE of his shovel, feeling decrepit. His upper body had enjoyed no useful benefit from running. He took the hat off his sweat-drenched head and hung it on the doorknob of the school.

Sammy looked at him with disdain. ‘Somebody must’ve used a r-rusty s-saw blade on you.’

It might be a bad haircut, but he felt the heat in his face. Sammy Barlowe was absolutely, totally committed to getting his goat. He would need to be careful where he stepped with this.

He stood his shovel against the wall. He had no idea what he would say. He gave Sammy a steady gaze, prayed, and opened his mouth. Out sailed a quote from Absalom Greer.

‘I’m not goin’ to preach long,’ he said in a remarkably even tone. ‘Just ’til we get done.’

‘Yo, Rev’rend!’

A grinning, toothless Harley flapped his arm out the window of the truck as he scratched into the drive behind the school building.

Harley Welch had saved Sammy Barlowe’s hide.

‘Where are your teeth?’ he asked Harley as they unloaded a bag of organic fertilizer.

‘I don’t wear ’em to work. I save ’em for dress-up.’

‘They’re history,’ said Sammy. ‘He lost ’em.’

‘They ain’t lost, I jis’ don’t know where they’re at.’

‘If they ain’t on th’ windowsill in th’ kitchen, they might be in th’ g-glove compartment with th’ ice scraper, an’ if they ain’t r-rollin’ around with th’ ice scraper, they might be in th’ m-mulch pile over at Miz Baker’s house—’

‘Whoa,’ said Harley. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, dadgummit.’

‘How ’bout on top of th’ toilet tank—’

‘I don’t care if they never turn up,’ said Harley. ‘They’s way too many of ’em, anyhow.’

‘So send them back to Kentucky and ask your dentist to remove a couple.’

‘They costed me too much to be givin’ any back.’

‘Lunch?’ he asked Harley. ‘Did you pick up lunch in Wesley?’

‘Lord help! I plumb forgot.’

‘Go up the street to Feel Good around eleven-thirty. We’ll buy local.’

‘Let me go,’ said Sammy.

‘I need you here.’

Sammy spit into the grass. ‘You don’t need me, you got Harley. I’ll go up th’ street.’

The punitive didn’t come naturally to him, but really—he could punch this kid in the mouth and not think twice about it.

•   •   •

THE CAFTAN OF THE DAY was decorated with images of hot air balloons. Red, yellow, orange, green. A blue sky full. Definitely a stand-out in the produce section of the Local.

‘I levitate toward bright colors,’ said Shirlene, noting his interest in her garb. ‘I’m in here buyin’ supper; I’m way too tired to cook anything fancy.’

‘I hear you. How’s business?’

‘Pickin’ up a teensy bit!’

‘Great! Glad to hear it.’

‘I’ve decided to give ten percent of all spray tan sales to th’ Children’s Hospital in Wesley. They say you’re a real good customer—or whatever you call it.’

‘We’ll be donors together. That’s wonderful, Shirlene. Thank you.’

‘Plus—I’ve decided to do it whether business is good or not.’

‘That’s the ticket! You’ll be richly blessed.’ He seldom encountered this especially insightful style of philanthropy.

‘An’ since y’all won’t give me any help to meet a nice man, I have taken on th’ job myself.’

‘It’s come to that!’

‘I went online.’

He put a gentle squeeze on an avocado.

‘They give you five free samples to lure you in, but listen to this—they all looked like my granpaw! Th’ first one could have been on th’ ground at Iwo Jima, but still very jaunty according to his bio, which I think his great-great-granddaughter wrote. I could pay respects for his service to our country, but as far as—’

The price of lemons these days . . . unbelievable. ‘How were the other four?’

‘You should have seen th’ next one, he was from Memphis. His guitar was in the shape of a crocodile plus all his fingers were tattooed and he had more wrinkles than a Georgia road map. Then one had this huge dog—in the picture he was bundled up with that thing, it was big as a house. His bio said it was th’ light of his life.’ She shivered. ‘Think about that.’

Oh, for a homegrown tomato, but their prime had come and gone. He squinted at the offering of beets.

‘Then there was one with facial hair, I cannot stand facial hair. For one thing, way too much upkeep.’

He passed on to the limes. ‘What about the other fellow?’

‘They wouldn’t give me a picture of him.’

‘Not a good sign.’

‘Delete, delete, delete, that’s today’s courtin’ for you. So they gave me this bonus offer to keep me on th’ hook. One last chance to make up my mind and put thirty-four ninety-five on my card. This one had a motorcycle with a sidecar—they showed his picture and he wasn’t too bad. But—and here’s th’ kicker—eighty-five years old! What do you think is goin’ on?

‘When I was fillin’ in th’ application, I clearly remember typin’ in fifty-eight as th’ max age.’ She paused, startled, smacked her forehead. ‘Oh, please! I just realized—I’m dyslexic! I prob’ly typed in eighty-five!’

‘That’ll do it.’

‘All this is happenin’ ’cause y’all won’t give me any help.’

‘Shirlene, Shirlene, there is no help to give. This is Mitford.’ He liked nothing better than offering help to one and all, but the Cupid business was totally out of his precinct. He felt mildly guilty. ‘Thanks again for what you’re doing for Children’s Hospital. Ride over sometime with my wife and me and see your generosity at work.’

‘Great. Okay. Will do. So I better get out of here. I’m playin’ Scrabble tonight online, an’ whippin’ up a few Brussels sprouts. Do y’all ever do that?’

‘Not terribly often,’ he said.

•   •   •

AS HE HEADED SOUTH toward home, J.C. was hoofing north.

‘I’ve been lookin’ all over for you. Nobody answers the phone at your place, nobody comes to the door. What’s th’ deal?’

The bag of groceries was heavier than he intended. ‘Have to keep moving. Perishables.’

‘I hear you saved Henry Talbot’s life.’

‘I have nothing to say.’ He walked on.

‘There’s a rumor you checked him into ER Saturday night.’

He took the Fifth.

‘I’ll talk to Wilson.’

‘Wilson will have nothing to say.’

‘Adele and I just got back in town; I’ve got to put this thing to bed for Thursday. You may as well cooperate—I’m headed to the MPD.’

‘There was no police report, so the MPD will have nothing to say.’

‘The night shift at the hospital, they’ll tell me plenty.’

‘As you know, hospital staff can’t speak on private health matters, except anonymously. Which reduces any possible story to hearsay, gossip, and rumor.’

‘You could help me out here, dadgummit—did Talbot try to kill himself?’

‘What he did or didn’t do is nobody’s business but the Talbots’. The only news here is that he left Lord’s Chapel under whatever circumstances the vestry cares to disclose.’

‘People love to talk in this town. One way or th’ other, I can get a story.’

He stopped for a moment, shifted the bag to the other arm. ‘I read a line in the Muse recently. It stated, with some pride: We print good news. Enough damage has been done, J.C. Leave it alone.’

He walked on.

Debris hurtling into the air and falling, falling.

•   •   •

‘MELITA, DOMI ADSUM!’ he shouted as he came in the side door. Cynthia waved from the kitchen.

‘Or, to translate: Honey, I’m home.’

‘How was it on the job site?’ she said.

He set the bag on the counter, gave his good dog a scratch on the head. ‘I didn’t kill him.’

‘Good. What’s this?’

‘Among other things, fresh pasta. Free sample. Avis says let him know how we like it. He’s setting up a pasta station on Wednesdays and Fridays. Homemade on the spot.’

‘Proof that Mitford takes care of its own.’

‘Cook five to six minutes, toss with olive oil, grate a little parmesan, and we’re done.’

‘I’ll cook, toss, grate, serve, and try to make interesting conversation.’

‘And I’ll wash up,’ he said.

She gave him a hug. ‘How does it look so far?’

‘It’ll be beautiful, I think, though more work than I had in mind. If nobody else enjoys it, you and I will. We can walk down there on summer evenings—sit on a bench, make out . . .’

‘My favorite.’

‘How did your work go?’

‘Still hard.’ She rubbed her eyes in that way grown too familiar. ‘I would love this book to be more than a book, somehow. Flaps and pop-ups and sounds, things going on. But maybe just being a book is enough. You look exhausted.’

‘Mostly mental.’ He climbed onto a stool at the kitchen island. ‘I’m trying not to censure or chastise, just walk out something he needs, just stand with him as best I can. I don’t want to go the tough-love route or any of the other stuff that probably makes more sense.’

‘Drink some water,’ she said, handing him a glass.

‘In the end, grace may not be something the fallible human can extend. We can make each other happy for a minute or two, but I don’t know about grace, maybe all we can deliver is mock grace.’

‘I would take mock grace over no grace at all,’ she said. ‘Consider mock turtle soup. Not half bad, really. Then there’s mock apple pie.’

‘How can you mock an apple?’

‘With Ritz crackers.’

‘Surely not.’

‘It’s true. You can Google it. We had a call from Lace. She says don’t do anything fancy. No picnic in Baxter Park, just my grilled pimiento cheese for lunch in the kitchen. She says she wants nothing more than to be with us. She misses us.’

‘We miss her.’

‘She and Olivia are staying put in the evenings and Skyping Hoppy.’

‘A good plan,’ he said, heading upstairs.

•   •   •

WEDNESDAY MORNING was one for the books. He was so stiff and sore he could hardly get out of bed and sincerely wished he didn’t have to. He borrowed her keys and drove to the church.