Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Then Sammy, slamming the door and storming away, headed for the highway.

Probably for the first time in his life, Sammy Barlowe had started to feel something more than his own pain.

•   •   •

HE SAT VERY STILL for what seemed a long time, trying to collect the pieces hurled into the air and falling.

Then he started the truck and drove out of the hospital lot and onto the highway.

Grace may be a no-brainer for God, but for him it was clearly impossible to deliver. If mock grace was going to bring anything to the table, the heart must be kept free of malice. But how? Yank out the bitter weed, and in a flash, back it comes, and more of it. He found there was even a type of repulsion to be rooted out of his feelings, this having to do with Sammy’s general hygiene and the way spitting was used as a nonverbal form of in-your-face loathing. And yet this was the package that had been set before him.

He didn’t know how to help Sammy make something of himself in the competitive world of pool. It was beyond his powers. All he and Sammy had was the card currently dealt: the restoration of a garden gone wild. Together, they were making a place for the human spirit to find ease, if only for a fleeting moment. He’d learned that even the fleeting moment counts for something, counts for much. In a fleeting moment, Paul was convicted on the road, Charles Wesley’s heart was strangely warmed, Lewis’s ‘land of longing’ was left behind at the moment, Lewis said, ‘when God closed in.’

Who was he, anyway, to tamper with the damage of a young life? All he knew to do, for now, was keep his mouth shut, and in the silence let the Holy Spirit do the talking.

Outside Wesley’s town limits, he pulled off the highway a few yards ahead of Sammy; left the motor running, waited. Sammy climbed back in the truck.

There was nothing to say. He drove, kept his eyes on the road.

They rounded the curve across from the lawn-mower repair.

‘God A’mighty.’ Sammy slumped forward, elbows on knees, his face hidden.

The trees a riot of color; the brilliant red of the staghorn sumac . . .

Chapter Eighteen

I’ve been wondering how to tell Irene,’ said Cynthia. ‘What do you think?’

‘I suggest you keep it simple and make sure she’s sitting down. Irene, you have a sister. Don’t hurry to the next piece of business, but don’t tarry, either. Then say, A twin sister. One piece of information at a time. Things will develop from there.’

‘Easy for you, darling. You’ve been delivering surprises to people for decades.’

‘Let’s catch our breath,’ he said, ‘and pray the prayer that never fails.’

They held each other and spoke the few and familiar words, and she drew back and looked at him and smiled. ‘That’s better.’

‘All will be well,’ he said.

‘I regret never seeing any of her films. I did a search, she’s a three-time Oscar nominee. We could be the only ones left standing who don’t know her work.’

He was busy getting out of his lace-up church shoes and into his loafers. ‘She may find that refreshing.’

‘I wouldn’t think so. This dress is so dowdy, I have no idea why I bought it. How’s my hair?’

‘Perfect.’

‘But you didn’t really look.’

‘I don’t have to. Your hair is always perfect.’

Wrong word. She liked her hair to appear ‘tossed by a breeze,’ she once said.

He went to his sock drawer, which shared space with his handkerchiefs, and took one from the pile of fresh inventory.

‘I hate to wear a coat over this dress, it will smash the collar, but it’s freezing out there.’

‘Wear a coat,’ he said.

The bookstore had tissues, a staple item that went wherever a parson set up shop—but a little backup never hurt. He took another handkerchief, this one a gift from Walter, and monogrammed; he would make sure it didn’t stray. ‘Your green coat would be good.’

‘My green coat? With this? Ugh.’

His wife was beside herself. Moving from the quiet domestic life into the private drama of a three-time Oscar nominee was disconcerting. How did they manage to have such a big life in such a small town?

•   •   •

HE WOULD HAVE ROUGHLY fifteen minutes with Kim, something she requested, before Cynthia arrived with Irene.

Because Kim could be recognized, he hurried her into Happy Endings as the limo drove away. He switched on a single lamp in the Poetry section, choosing not to use the main store lights.

She was dressed simply. Dark pants, dark sweater, gold earrings. In truth, much like Irene often dressed.

They situated their chairs so he could see the door. ‘Is your father living?’ he asked.

‘He’s in skilled nursing and doesn’t know me. Division in our family has had, if you will, a way of multiplying. Our mother divided from her children, the children divided from each other, my father now divided from his mental powers.’

‘You have no children, I believe you said.’

‘No children. And no husband after three marriages. I am by nature impulsive. I’ve often acted in haste and regretted it—another reason I’ve taken my time in following through about Irene. I’m shaking, Father. Completely undone.’

‘Let me pray for you.’

‘Please. I need help of any kind. I was raised Catholic, but somehow it never stuck. I couldn’t imagine that God would be interested in me.’

‘He’s more than interested in you. It’s a pretty radical notion, but he actually made us for himself, for his pleasure. He wants to hear from you anytime, about anything. Try to know that.’

He took her hand and prayed then, against the fear he felt throbbing in her palm.

As he looked up, he saw Cynthia and Irene walk by the display window.

‘God be with us,’ he said. He didn’t let go of her hand as they went to open the door.

He heard Kim’s sharp intake of breath, saw the incredulous expression on Irene’s face. The glass door between them became a kind of mirror in which each of the two women saw herself in the other.

•   •   •

HÉLÈNE PRINGLE. Eight o’clock in the evening. Hélène never called in the evening.

‘Hélène!’

‘Yes, Father. Are you and Cynthia well?’

‘We are. And you?’

‘Very well, thank you. I was wondering if we might arrange to have a . . . conversation privée?’

A private talk, he knew that much French. ‘Would this be a good time?’

‘Oui, if you can be spared at home.’

‘I’ll pop over now if that works.’

‘Come to the rear porch—would you mind coming in by the rear porch?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘We’ll have tea in your pleasant old kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on.’

They sat at the same table, in the same chairs he’d used all those years in another life.

There was the stove where he made dinner for his new neighbor with the great legs; where he’d fried bologna for Dooley and baked a Christmas casserole on the morning Dooley found a red bicycle beneath the tree.

This was where Miss Sadie’s letter about Dooley’s inheritance of a million-plus had been read with such grave astonishment, where his brand-new wife had travailed over the first Primrose Tea, and where Barnabas and Violet had at last made their peace and lay down together, lion and lamb. The rectory on Wisteria Lane was a museum of memories.

She filled their cups with Earl Grey and passed him a small plate of lemon slices. ‘I’ve been thinking, Father. Quite a lot.

‘Teaching piano is the only great thing I have ever done for anyone. But I’m paid to do that. I want very much to do something I’m not paid to do. I wish to do something from the heart, Father. Ever since he came out from behind the curtain . . .’

She gave him a shy look. ‘Comprenez-vous?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘A few of my pupils have grown up and moved on to other interests and I have a bit more time. Time is something that must be managed, tu vois ce que je veux dire? One must get it firmly by the neck!’

She leaned toward him, confiding. ‘I believe he has asked me to give a day to the bookstore.’

‘Formidable!’ he said in the French way.

‘I’ll take . . . Tuesday!’ she said, as if choosing a chocolate. ‘I’d like to begin right away, if that would be opportun.’

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the ropes tomorrow.’

‘I shall be the first to read the Sunday Times! After Hope and Scott, of course.’ His neighbor had a very agreeable laugh. ‘And Tuesday gives us an unbroken succession of days—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Good for business, I should think.’

‘Wonderful news. Hope will be thrilled, as am I. Thank you, Hélène.’

‘There is, however, a problem of some concern.’

He sipped his tea.

‘I have no idea how to sell a book.’

‘Books sell themselves, I’ve found.’

‘And you would have to show me how to use the . . . machine á carte de credit.’

‘I can certainly show you that. Trés simple!’ He was quickly exhausting his French. ‘There’s only one true requirement in this job. Can you make coffee?’

‘Oui, oui! Since childhood. And very strong!’

He doubted he could show her how to unlock the door, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

She fidgeted with her napkin, her chin trembled.

‘And now, Father, may I bring before you a most unpleasant subject?’

‘Please.’ The other shoe was falling.

‘I am a romantique, Father, I do not deny it. I had thought we might all live together under one roof as a type of family, each with their own strict privacy, of course. Having someone down there has been so . . . satisfaisant until . . . until things began going wrong with Sammy.

‘I teach innocent children, Father, many of them young women, and word is getting round that he lives downstairs. He has a very, shall I say, sale bouche, and some very indelicate habits. You take Mr. Welch, Father—an uneducated man, but with delicate habits—clean, a fine cook, very courteous and thoughtful always. But Sammy—he smokes, you see. He leaves the house to do it, but there he stands beneath my cherry tree, smoking like a cheminée as people go by, and throwing his . . . um, mégot de cigarette into the grass.

‘And if he isn’t smoking, he is spitting. I have never seen such a lot of spitting. We got through the business of Mr. Welch being a former . . . prisonnier . . . and then there was Mr. Gaynor, and now here’s another piece of business to go through—but I don’t wish to go through it.’

‘You’d like him to leave.’

‘It would break Mr. Welch’s heart, I’m sure of it, and with young Kenny going away the first of the year, Mr. Welch would be, how do you say, an empty nester. But I don’t know what else to do. This is my livelihood, Father, my livelihood, and I am no longer young. Mother’s estate is useful, but it does not solve the day-to-day issues of keeping body and soul together.

‘Mr. Welch assures me that he frequently speaks to Sammy about such behavior, but . . . en vain, Father, en vain.

‘I saw the authorities parked at your curb the other evening. I thought something may have gone wrong in your household, and asked Mr. Welch about it. Being an honest man, he told me the terrible truth.’

He didn’t know what to say. He had never developed a Plan B for Sammy. He didn’t remind Hélène that it was she who had found Sammy. She had seen him coming out of a drugstore in Holding and thought it was Dooley. When he heard this, he knew at once what was up. They had taken off in her aging car with the very bad brakes, and gone searching. It had been the ride of his life.

‘Would you be willing to . . . give us a bit of time to settle things?’

‘But only a bit, Father. I’m so sorry. I would do anything to please you and Cynthia, but this . . .’

She looked done in. ‘. . . this is frightful.’

Frightful.

A truer word was seldom spoken.

•   •   •

‘IT HASN’T BEEN CALLED the little yellow house for nothing,’ said Cynthia. ‘It can’t contain the very big issues of a hurting boy. I simply can’t do it, Timothy. If you feel you must, then I will comply in whatever way I can. But no, I cannot volunteer for this.

‘I’m sorry for many reasons, not the least of which is that I may look mean-spirited to others, and only you will know that I am not.’

The talk had been stressful for both. He put on a heavy jacket and a wool hat and walked with Barnabas to the bench under the maple. A nearly full moon was setting over the mountain. Its light silvered the trees, the lawn, the fence.

He sat until the chill overtook him, and walked his silvered dog back to their silvered house.

•   •   •

HE LAY ON THE SOFA in front of a fire gone to coals, Violet at his side. He was wiped, as Dooley would say. An emotionally rousing day, at the very least, albeit with happy consequences for Irene and Kim. Today’s meeting was beyond any joy he’d witnessed in years. He had bawled like a baby, as had his wife; his handkerchiefs were two too few.

He stroked Violet’s head, listening to the thrumming in her throat. ‘What a good job you’re doing. Just wanted to say thanks.’

He felt an unexpected peace but for one thing—something was nagging him, he couldn’t put his finger on it.

•   •   •

‘HEY, DAD.’

‘Hey, yourself.’

‘Just checkin’ in. I know it’s late.’

‘Never too late to hear from you.’

Dooley wanted him to do something about Sammy’s behavior, he could feel the pressure, but he would avoid that subject at all costs. Nor would he mention the talk with Hélène Pringle. Not tonight.

‘I’ve been thinking about a vehicle,’ he said.

‘Great!’

‘I don’t want a car. I want a truck. A man needs a truck.’

Dooley laughed. ‘You’re full of surprises. What kind of truck?’

‘Stick shift. Long bed. Two or three years old.’ He had never been so sure of himself in the automotive realm. ‘Red.’

‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said Dooley, who would rather turn a vehicle deal than eat when hungry. ‘But you need to consider new, really. Break it in yourself, like a pair of farm boots. You don’t want another guy’s truck, people can be hard on trucks.’

‘I don’t have time to break in a truck.’

‘Trust me—buy new. Leather seats. A really good sound system. Chrome-clad aluminum wheels . . .’

‘Those are things. Things don’t matter in the end—they wither like grass; the soul lives on.’

Dooley cackled. ‘Hey, Dad, this is a truck we’re talkin’ about.’

•   •   •

HE WOKE AT THREE. The thing that nagged him was like a barely audible movement in a room at the back of the house.

Now he knew what it was.

During his rant on Saturday, Sammy had not stuttered.

He got up and went downstairs and gave his dog a scratch behind the ears and fired up his computer and Googled what he thought may be a phenomenon.

Sudden onset of stuttering is common. A sudden end to it is rare, but it happens. Why it happens is a mystery. Maybe the blow to the forehead? No search gave credence to this. And maybe it wasn’t the end for all time, maybe Sammy had simply forgotten himself in his anguish for the boy in the hospital bed.

He went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water and drank it down, his wife would be proud.

•   •   •

MONDAY, SIX-THIRTY A.M., the phone.

‘Good morning, Harley.’

‘Yessir, good mornin’, hit’s twenty-eight degrees.’

‘Right.’

Silence on the other end.

‘You called to give me a weather report?’

Harley cleared his throat. ‘Sammy wants to come t’ work later, when it warms up. Or work tomorrow when the temperature’s more like fifty-two.’

‘He told you to say this?’

‘Yessir, he did, I cain’t git ’im up.’

‘Tell him to get himself out of bed and I’ll see you at seven-thirty sharp. Did you pick up the trellises?’

‘Yessir. Nice. Real nice.’ Harley did the throat-clearing again. ‘I cain’t git ’im up for nothin’.’ Harley Welch had rather taken a whipping than make this call.

‘We won’t be working outdoors. We’ll paint trellises in the Sunday school. Bring your sawhorses.’

Another tense silence.

‘You might mention to Sammy that I have the capability to change my mind about pressing charges.’

An intake of breath. ‘Yessir. An’ I’ll bring m’ other oil heater. You want to ride down with us? Not havin’ a vehicle . . .’

‘I’ll walk, thanks, and see you there.’

‘Yessir, Rev’rend, seven-thirty.’

‘Sharp.’

‘We’ll be there sharp.’

His tolerance for a stolen cue?

Generous.

His tolerance for a wrecked automobile?

Beyond generous.

His tolerance for not showing up for work on time?

Zero.

•   •   •

‘WHAT Y’UNS WANT FOR LUNCH?’ said Harley.

‘The usual,’ he said.

‘Reu-reuben,’ said Sammy. ‘An’ f-f-f-fries.’

Not only had the stuttering not stopped, it was worse.

He’d given the matter into God’s hands; he had other fish to fry.

With a table contrived of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood, the occasional sound of rain on the tin roof, and their heaters going at full gallop, the old Sunday school was a pretty tolerable winter headquarters. Today the trellises, tomorrow the benches—which they had decided to build themselves.

After lunch, he walked up from the church and met Hélène for a run-through. He dreaded the possible street theater with the lock business. He gave her fair warning and handed over the key.

In went the key, click went the lock.

‘C’est merveilleux!’ she said.

From: Emma Newland

To: Fr Tim Kavanagh

Tuesday, 7:15 p.m.

‘Not nearly soon enough!’

‘What did you say?’ Cynthia asked from the kitchen.

‘Just talking to myself.’

‘It’s come to that,’ she said, popping chicken in the oven.

‘What’s Olivia’s report on Hoppy?’

‘He’s been sick, but improving. It’s not malaria, as feared. Home in November, then off again to South Sudan and home for Christmas.’

He called Hélène.

‘How did it go?’

‘Trés bien, Father, trés bien! I was nervous as a cat, but can’t recall when I’ve known such enjoyment. Pur plaisir! I feel I have stood at the crossroads of the world!’

That would be one way of looking at it.

‘Two people from Canada, three from Missouri, and someone from Franklin, Tennessee. The last of the leaf peepers, says Winnie.’

‘And all went well at the bank?’

‘Oh, yes, one hundred and ninety-six dollars, I put in four of my own to make an even number.’

‘Well done, Hélène! Well done! I’ll let Hope know.’

‘Sometimes we go too long, do we not, Father, for want of refreshment of our souls? I love music, but I had forgotten how I love words. And people can be rather enjoyable, as well, vous ne pensez pas?’

•   •   •

LIGHTS. COFFEE. And the roar of the Hoover.

Coot was a regular German hausfrau. In the corners, tight to the baseboards, under chairs and tables. All this preceded by the beating of chair cushions and the dusting of a grim rubber plant from a customer relieved to be shed of it.

‘’At’s done,’ said Coot, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Now, let me show y’ somethin’.’ Coot held up a book, grinning to beat the band. ‘Looky here!’ he said, pointing to the second word in the title. ‘C-A-T. Cat!’

‘Yes! Wonderful!’

‘Now, looky here.’ Coot pointed to the fifth word in the title. ‘H-A-T. Hat!’

He whistled, gleeful.

‘But I ain’t got them in-between words yet.’

‘You’ll get ’em,’ he said. ‘You’ll get ’em.’

•   •   •

THE MUSE TRUCK WAS RUNNING LATE this morning. He stood at the window, looking for the truck with the avidity of a Christian Science Monitor subscriber. Had his brain ossified? Was he carrying around a rock up there?

When he saw the truck coming, he stepped outside and caught the delivery in midair.

Two for One: Today’s Helpful Hints

We are big into clean, happy air, how about you??

One: To make your rooms smell fa-bu-lous, try a few drops of lavender oil in a glass of really hot water and yayyy, you have destroyed unwanted cooking odors and doggie smells if you have a dog&^.

Two: to clean your bottles Cut up a raw potato and put the pieces in the bottle with a tablespoon of salt and two tablespoons of water and shake. Every stain gone in a flash! You will not believe it!