Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

•   •   •

THE CLOCK OVER THE SALES COUNTER read eleven-fifteen. His nose had been stuck in the Muse for . . . how long? A good half hour. It’s what you read when you don’t have to that determines what . . . Too late now.

•   •   •

‘I HAVE A CONFESSION to make,’ said Vanita.

He thought the tortoise frames of her eyeglasses imparted a very owlish and wide-awake look.

She leaned over the counter. ‘I’m Anonymous.’

‘You, Ms. Bentley, are anything but anonymous.’

‘No, I mean, in th’ paper I’m Anonymous. By bein’ Anonymous, I can say what I really think and don’t have to be politically whatever. Do you think that’s okay? I mean, is that just another type of media cover-up?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Like, Coot only got one vote and that was a mean joke, so anonymously I’ve given him nine more for two reasons. One, because his great-great-great-granddaddy, Hezekiah, founded this town, and two, I knew it would make him feel wonderful. Surely there idn’t anything wrong with makin’ people feel wonderful.’

‘I’m with you there,’ he said.

‘I needed to confess that to somebody besides my husband, I drive ’im crazy tellin’ ’im stuff he says he doesn’t need to know.’

‘I’m inclined to that same behavior. My wife is very patient.’

‘I just really admire you, Father.’

‘Well, thank you. Good gracious.’

‘I hear you cried in church and people cried with you.’

‘True.’

‘It is so nice when men cry.’

‘I read that according to a study of over three hundred adults, men cry an average of once a month, and women five times a month.’

‘Y’all were runnin’ way behind and caught up all at once! Like, yay-y-y!’

They had a small laugh, which he managed to enjoy.

‘I know Mr. Hogan wanted to run a story about Father Talbot an’ all, but he couldn’t find any real facts to report, just mean things people are sayin’. I’m so glad you wouldn’t tell him anything.’

‘Nothing to be told.’

‘Anyway, here’s another secret an’ I’m done. If I ever run for mayor, which I prob’ly won’t, I have my campaign slogan already picked out. I wouldn’t want anybody to steal it for their campaign, so you wouldn’t ever tell, right, because you’re clergy?’

‘Right.’

‘It’s th’ sort of thing we all have to do if we’re goin’ to keep takin’ care of our own, okay? Imagine this on a bumper sticker . . .

‘Get off your butts, people!’

Barnabas sat up, looked around.

‘That’ll work,’ he said.

‘As for the plaque you were goin’ to write . . .’

‘Nobody ever asked me.’

‘We printed it in th’ paper, that was asking,’ she said.

‘Okay, when is the deadline?’

‘Tomorrow. It takes a lot of time to get something engraved. On bronze.’

‘There is no balm in Gilead, Ms. Bentley, did you know that?’

‘I know all about that. You can email me or I can come pick it up.’

‘A very quick turnaround.’ He sighed without meaning to. ‘How about Monday?’

‘I can’t do Monday,’ she said.

•   •   •

RON MALCOLM WHEELED IN as he was having a cup of yogurt and fruit. Ron had twice been on his vestry; they’d been around the block a time or two.

‘Good job on the Talbot announcement,’ said Ron. ‘It’s been hell to pay down there. Along with everything else, I hear he was dipping into th’ till . . .’

‘I have to tell you, Ron, I can’t discuss it. I know the parish has a lot to deal with, and talking about it is one of the ways to move ahead. But I can’t participate. I hope you understand.’

He was no goody-two-shoes; he had entertained more than one morsel of babble and hearsay in his time. But this was strictly off-limits.

•   •   •

PERCUSSION. WOODWINDS. WILSON.

He felt the odd thump of his heart.

‘Sorry to be late getting back to you, Father. I’ve finally been able to talk with Talbot’s physician. Talbot’s going to make it.

‘The N-acetylcysteine worked—that’s an antidote for acetaminophen poisoning—and the liver tests have improved. They expect a full recovery, with no long-term complications.’

‘None?’

‘None.’

‘Thanks be to God.’

‘They’re sending him home in a couple of days.’

He sank onto the stool, lifted a petition, wondered where home might be.

•   •   •

‘WHAT’S AN ALB?’ SAID ABE.

‘A white vestment worn by priests.’

‘That’s what I thought. They said Talbot’s license plate was ALB1954. With a license plate like that, what priest in his right mind would park his car at a motel? Twice a week? Regular as clockwork? Monday and Saturday, to be specific.’

‘No more,’ he said, throwing up his hand.

Abe leaned against the counter. ‘So, okay, did you hear the one about the priest and the rabbi who bought a car together?’

•   •   •

BUSINESS WAS SLOW TODAY.

He pulled out his phone and sat at the sales counter. There had been no time for Dooley to finagle the ringtone, maybe he could do it himself. He knew to go to Settings, but that’s all he knew. He scrolled the list:

People Laughing. Crowd Cheering. Rooster Crowing. Baby Crying. Thrush Singing. Piano Playing.

He selected Piano Playing but somehow ended up with People Laughing. Way more hilarity than he cared for, but he couldn’t get rid of it.

He had been born in the wrong century. Worse still, he realized he would miss the cheerful woodwinds of Band Marching.

To distract himself from utter nonsense, he called Dooley and left the good news about Talbot.

Sadie Eleanor Baxter

He penned her name and remembered her small hand in his, the hand of a child willing to be led and yet completely capable of leading. He remembered dancing with her at the Fernbank reception for Hoppy and Olivia; she had floated in his arms like the seed head of a dandelion.

He entered her birth and death dates, which he knew from memory. He had gone, himself, to have the small stone engraved with these dates, her name, and the simple tribute, Beloved.

She wouldn’t wish to be venerated for her gifts, nor have them itemized like a laundry list of two shirts, one pair trousers, three handkerchiefs. There would come a time, of course, when no one would be left to remember who gave the town museum, the state-of-the-art nursing facility, and the real estate known as Baxter Park. The joy taken in these gifts would be thanks enough for Sadie Baxter.

She gave the museum in which you stand to read this plaque, so that you might learn about the town she loved. She gave us a house named Hope, so that our elders might know a blessed hope of their own. She gave us more than we can acknowledge, but here is what she gave most freely:

Herself.

Whether we be friend or stranger, let us honor Sadie Baxter for this:

She loved us well.

•   •   •

‘HEY, BA!’

‘Ba! It’s us!’

Puny’s twins jangled through the door at a trot.

‘We haven’t seen you in ever!’ Sassy thumped her backpack on the counter.

Sissy dropped hers to the floor. ‘We love th’ wooden jigsaws you brought us from Ireland.’

‘We hadn’t had a good jigsaw in ever,’ said Sassy.

Mighty like their dad, Joe Joe, but with Puny’s red hair. They had a group hug.

‘How did I come by the pleasure of your company?’

‘Miz Hicks couldn’t drive us home from school today . . .’ said Sissy.

‘. . . so Dad told us to come to th’ bookstore,’ said Sassy, ‘and he’ll pick us up when you close.’

‘Good thinking!’

Sassy grinned, revealing a small fortune in braces. ‘We like your job at the bookstore better than your job at the church.’

‘Why is that?’

‘More books!’ said Sissy, who had her own orthodontic display going on. ‘May we do our homework in the Poetry section and look at some of the books after?’

‘We’ll wash our hands first!’

‘Have at it,’ he said.

Borrowed grans who love books—an apt definition of felicity.

•   •   •

PEOPLE LAUGHING. He pulled out his cell phone and looked at the caller ID.

‘Is it time?’ he asked Scott.

‘Please, Father. A really tough day for her. She’s asking for you. If it’s possible . . .’

‘As soon as I close up and go to the bank.’

‘So sorry there’s no time for me to pitch in up there. You know how Hope House runs . . . full tilt, and then I spend every extra moment with Hope. People come and go and do what they can, but I find . . .’

‘No need to explain,’ he said. ‘And you’re doing the cooking!’

Today’s sales were small, and there was less than an hour before closing. But he felt content with the day’s offering, and Hope would be glad to have it.

The bell jangled; he was astonished all over again at the sight of Esther Bolick, who looked as if she’d just flown in from the Keys.

‘Here,’ she said, plopping it on the sales counter.

Clearly, it was a cake, he could see it through the plastic container. ‘Very, very generous of you, but you know I can’t do it, Esther. I hope you understand.’ How many times in one brief life did he have to impress this miserable reality upon Esther Bolick and people in general?

‘It’s not for you,’ she said, ‘it’s for Hope and Scott.’

‘Great! An OMC?’

‘Correct.’

‘I thought your agreement prohibited you from putting OMCs out there.’

‘I’m breakin’ th’ law,’ she said. ‘It’s th’ Wild West all over again. Turn me in, lock me up, throw away th’ key.’

What was in spray tan, anyway? People should ask for an ingredients list.

‘I just happen,’ he said, ‘to be going to the Murphys’ after I close.’

‘That’s what I heard, that’s why I’m droppin’ it off with you.’

‘How did you hear? I found out myself only two minutes ago.’

‘I saw Scott at th’ bank. He was talkin’ to you on his cell phone and said you were goin’ over to see Hope while he went to a meeting up th’ hill. I had th’ cake on th’ backseat, so I thought why not save my gas and use yours.’

‘Well, there you go,’ he said. ‘How about a book today?’

‘I don’t need to buy a book to help th’ cause. I am sendin’ a cake. Do you know what it costs me to bake an OMC?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Including my time, which should be worth something . . .’

‘Absolutely.’

‘. . . forty-five dollars. More than they’re askin’ at Sweet Stuff.’

‘Holy smoke.’

‘I hope you notice I’m not in here yammerin’ about Father Talbot like everybody else in town. I like gossip as well as th’ next one, but you asked us to forgive him, so that’s what I’m tryin’ to do.’

‘Good, Esther. Good.’

‘It’s not easy.’

‘No.’

‘I cried in church on Sunday, but not for Father Talbot. It was for Gene, who’d be heartbroken about this mess.’ She drew herself up. ‘It’s a struggle to keep my opinions private.’

‘I understand.’

Esther gave him a dark look. ‘High and mighty, stuck on himself, and God only knows what he brought home to his wife. Which is all I have to say about it.’

•   •   •

HE STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK with the cake box, looking up. There was Omer, flying like a Jack Russell. He and the twins threw up their hands as the yellow ragwing rattled south over Main.

•   •   •

‘THE BODY OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST, which was given for you, Hope, preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life. Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on him in your heart by faith, with thanksgiving.’

The throbbing purr of Margaret Ann at her side; the wafer on her tongue and the slow, sweet dissolve . . .

‘The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for you, Hope, preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s Blood was shed for you, and be thankful.’

She allowed the wine to touch her lips but did not drink. ‘Amen,’ she said. And there was the warmth, so long gone from her, and some sense, at last, of her own living presence.

He packed up the communion box, and brought the cake to her and lifted the cover.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine making something so beautiful.’

‘Esther Bolick cares about you, she’s praying for you. So many are holding you fast in prayer.’

‘It’s embarrassing, all those signs saying “Pray for Hope,” and the stir in the newspaper . . .’

‘Why is it embarrassing?’

‘It seems to ask so much of people. Why should they pray for me when they have tribulations of their own?’

‘All the more reason to pray for you—it’s a healing exercise for us as well as for you. Further, you gave us a bookstore, which should be reason enough. Here’s an idea. Why don’t we pray for those who’re praying for you? Sort of a back-atcha that has its own loveliness in God’s eyes.’

He placed the cake on the chest of drawers and sat by the bed and took her hand. ‘What do you think?’

‘I would never . . . yes, let’s do it, yes.’

‘Thank you, Father, for every soul who lifts a petition for Hope, for Scott, and for this special child you’re giving into our lives. Bless those whom you call to pray for Hope, that they would be comforted in their own hard circumstances and shielded in their joy. Thank you for the supernatural connections that prayer creates among us, for the ties it so strongly binds. In the name of Jesus who is all hope, Amen.’

She felt composed enough now to speak it, to force the words out to someone who should know it was life or death.

‘Scott and I have done extensive research, as you might know we would. The doctors could lose us both. Not in days or in hours, but in minutes.’

‘That may be true, but I choose to believe otherwise.’

She smiled a little; he saw the light in her eyes. ‘You adimpleate my spirit,’ she said.

‘That’s the first arcane word you’ve given me in many moons.’

‘I haven’t been lolling about eating bonbons,’ she said. ‘I searched for that one.’

‘I have no idea what it means.’

‘Good! It will send you to the dictionary. Or the Internet, whichever comes first.’

‘Interested in a sales report?’

‘Always,’ she said, struggling to be cheerful.

‘I’m learning the hard realities of retail. Not every day can be a five-hundred-dollar day. A hundred and seventy-two plus change.’

‘Perfect. Thank you, Father. I miss my customers.’

‘They miss you.’

‘Will you thank them for all they’re doing?’

‘I will.’

‘I was happy to see Coot get a mention in the Muse. Coot loves books, did you know that? I’ve been meaning to say you can hire him to vacuum, I’m sure we need it, and dust, and anything else you and Marcie can think of.’

‘Consider it done. And you must call me anytime. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘I have just four words to leave with you. Four words that have spoken volumes of truth into my life.’

He wanted the words to stay in the room, to remain long after he had gone. Though no one wished to hear Paul’s radical injunction, it had to be told.

‘In everything, give thanks.’

That was the lifeboat in any crisis. Over and over again, he had learned this, and over and over again, he had to be reminded.

‘In everything, Father?’

‘In everything.’

•   •   •

THE NIGHT WAS ALIVE with the scent of rain. He sniffed it like an animal as he carried the trash to the garage around ten o’clock.

He dumped it in the bin, making sure the lid was tightly closed against incursions from the wild. There were several loose boards through which raccoons made frequent calls, especially on evenings when Cynthia scented the air with roast chicken.

What was different out here?

The Mustang was missing.

•   •   •

HE RANG HARLEY.

‘Is Sammy home?’

‘Let me step in there an’ see if he’s back.’ Static, rustling. ‘Nossir, he ain’t. He went out a while ago, said he was goin’ down th’ street to Lew’s.’

It could have been anybody, the garage door had been left open for days because the remote needed a battery and he hadn’t gotten around to it. But he knew the truth and it made him sick. Literally.

‘Does he have a license?’

‘Yessir, he has.’

‘The Mustang isn’t in the garage. I’ll keep you posted.’

He walked out to the garage again and stared at the empty space beside the Mazda, as if his car might reappear, as if he’d only imagined it missing.

Should they go looking? Kenny was working tonight; he could drive around with Harley. But why? If the car was anything like the cue, the Mustang would be back in place at some point, and what would he, Tim, do then? His stomach did the churning thing it had done when, as a boy, he was faced with crisis.

Sammy had kicked it up a notch. It was the way of rage and woundedness to keep making things worse. The third-born of the Barlowe boys was clearly begging for punishment, and the whole scenario was skidding off the cliff.

He wanted to call Dooley, but wouldn’t, of course. His wife, so fond of the early bedtime, sat up with him. Kenny and Harley arrived at the side door at eleven-fifteen, in a downpour.

Alerting police about a teenager in a stolen car didn’t seem a good idea, but they were changing their minds when the doorbell buzzed at half-past eleven.

They bolted along the hall as a group.

Joe Joe.

‘He’s all right.’

‘Thanks be to God.’

‘But your Mustang’s totaled.’

Rain drummed on the porch roof.

‘Where and how?’

‘He ran it down a bank on the bypass, comin’ around th’ curve there at th’ lawn-mower repair. I’m a man short tonight and had to be on call, I happened to come around th’ curve right behind him.’

‘Where’s he at?’ said Harley.

‘In my car yonder with Officer Greene. A little banged up, a cut on his forehead. I offered to get medical assistance but he didn’t want any. He looks okay, but I have to tell you it’s a miracle. Did you let him take th’ car, Father?’

‘It was in bad shape. Transmission. Clutch. You name it. That could have been the cause . . .’

It was a blowing rain, slanting onto the porch.

‘Will you step in?’

‘No, sir, I’ll track up your floor, I’ve got to keep movin’. Did you know he was takin’ your car?’

‘He was not authorized to take it. No.’

‘Things could have been worse. We’ve lost two down that bank a little farther up. He said he didn’t care one way or th’ other if he killed himself.’

‘Lord A’mighty,’ Harley said, stricken.

‘Seat belt?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Was he speeding, what was he doing?’

‘Went around th’ curve left of center, looked like he lost control, maybe hit a slick spot. No alcohol or drugs found in th’ car. He’s clean as far as I can tell. Do you want to press charges?’

‘I don’t want to press charges. No.’

‘He’s free to go, then. But I’m givin’ him a citation.’

‘That’s th’ ticket!’ said Harley.

‘You’ll need to keep an eye on ’im, Father. That goes for you, too, Harley. I believe he lives with you.’

‘He does. Yessir.’

‘Y’all can walk out with me,’ said Joe Joe. ‘As for th’ wrecker service, we work on rotation or you can give me a name to call.’

‘Lew,’ he said, taking an umbrella from the stand. ‘Call Lew. Will you file a report?’

‘We will, but we’ll try to keep it quiet.’

They processed to the curb, soaked. Joe Joe opened the car door. Sammy climbed out, eyes down, a smeared gash on his forehead.

‘I don’t want to see you out here again doin’ anything you shouldn’t be doin’,’ said the chief. ‘Not even once. You got that?’

Sammy gave a curt nod without looking at Joe Joe.

An old liquor-runner eager to please authorities, Harley shook Joe Joe’s hand. ‘An’ congratulations on bein’ chief!’

Rain hammered the umbrella; he watched Sammy and Kenny and Harley make a run for it as the patrol car pulled away.

Curious that a boy who didn’t care if he lived or died had buckled up.