Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter Twenty

Saturday.

He remembered how fraught his Saturdays had been when he was a full-time priest. Wrestling his sermon into acceptable form, trying to get over the week and rest for the morrow, hammering at his personal stuff.

Then he retired, and he remembered how he dreaded trying to fill Saturdays with something worthy, up to snuff, accountable. And now here he was, maybe for the first time, really liking this day, feeling the liberty of it, the broad possibilities. Harley had said he could borrow the truck. The roads had been scraped, they could leave after lunch and be at the nursery by three o’clock.

He opened the Old Testament at random. Ecclesiastes, aka Solomon or Ezra, God only knows, chapter three.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven . . . A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance . . . A time to be silent and a time to speak.

It was time to speak.

Would it be a waste of breath? That wasn’t for him to determine. He would speak from the heart. Let the chips fall where they may.

He looked out the study window. New snow was falling on the old, though nothing heavy.

He auto-dialed, made the sign of the cross.

‘Hey, Sam! I’ve got a little time this afternoon. Want to go buy a tree?’

•   •   •

HE ANSWERED THE DOORBELL and there was Jena Ivey, nearly hidden from view by a great bower of hydrangeas in a color he’d never seen.

‘Holy smoke!’ he said to the owner of Mitford Blossoms. ‘Come in, come in.’ He moved the candlesticks, the Delft bowl on the console. ‘Right here.’

‘Hard to get this bronze color. They would look better on the coffee table in your study, Father. Not enough light in here.’

Their voluptuous amber radiance was breathtaking against the background of falling snow.

His wife was ecstatic and, he had to confess, so was he.

Cynthia took the card from the envelope.

With grateful affection from one

who was lost and is now found

Kim

Having told Lace the backstory of the hydrangeas, they sat at the kitchen counter, Lace in the middle. Though they asked that she keep the twins’ story quiet for now, it would later be one to pass down through any family.

‘So tell us again,’ said Cynthia, ‘what you said to that pompous professor.’

‘I said, If you’uns wadn’t s’ full of yourself, you’d be a whole lot better at gettin’ people t’ pay attention.’

‘And what did the poor man have to say about that?’

‘He was completely startled, then he laughed. He thought I was joking.’

Whooping with laughter, the three of them.

‘When I get excited or happy or really, really angry, I start talkin’ like I did growin’ up. You know that Olivia hired a tutor to help me get over my old speech pattern. But when I went off to school, I guess I was still talkin’ like a hillbilly. For a long time, nobody would be my friend; people were ashamed to be with me.

‘Even now, the way I speak is just a surface thing, I can do it, but the old way is still there and I’m always trying to hold it back. Sometimes I get really tense from holding it back; it’s like trying to hold back who I am.’

‘And who are you?’ said Cynthia.

‘That is so hard. Deep down, I guess I’m the girl who grew up livin’ sometimes under a house that was fallin’ down, with a sick mama who turned her head to whatever my daddy done . . . see there?’ Lace put a hand over her face. ‘Once in a while, it just pops out.’

‘We sure love that girl,’ said Cynthia. ‘If memory serves me, which it often doesn’t, she’s that amazing person who got a scholarship to one of the finest universities in the country.’

Cynthia put her arm around Lace. ‘Don’t ever be ashamed of that lovely girl under the house who educated herself from the bookmobile. She had grit and backbone if anyone ever had, and she’ll be there for you through thick and thin.’

‘Great good is written all over those hard times,’ he said. ‘God sent Absalom Greer to tell you about the one who loved us first; he sent Harley to give you refuge when you needed it; he sent the Harpers to give you the home you wanted and never had . . .’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I do know, and I’m really thankful.’

‘You and Dooley have much in common,’ he said.

‘Sometimes too much. But if we’re patient and talk things out, we can usually say, Okay, I get it, I understand why you did that. I think you know that Olivia arranged for us to see a counselor. Two whole years and we still go when we can, we even work with him on the phone. It helps, it really helps. Would you like to have your present now?’

‘Yes!’ said his wife. It was a day of presents.

Lace went to the outsized portfolio she’d brought along, and unzipped it. ‘Don’t look. Close your eyes.’

The clock ticking. ‘Okay, you can look!’

He and Cynthia drew in their breath at the same moment. A Greek chorus.

Every remaining freckle. Every red hair. The light in his eyes. The crooked grin. The works. Lace was holding a life-sized portrait in oil of Dooley Barlowe Kavanagh, from the waist up, wearing a T-shirt that read LOVE IS AN ACT OF ENDLESS FORGIVENESS.

A surge of feeling. ‘Well done,’ he said.

‘Remember the little Baptist church on the way to Meadowgate from Holy Trinity?’ said Lace. ‘The message on the shirt was on their wayside pulpit one morning; we all liked it.’

Cynthia embraced Lace, held her tight. ‘You’re so gifted, so gifted. Hard to find the words.’

‘I had the shirt made for him,’ she said. ‘And one for me, too. It reminds us both.’

Barnabas came over to look, wagged his tail. They inspected the brushstrokes, the candor of the eyes, the facial expression which Lace found ‘a little dubious.’

‘Let’s hang it as is, no frame to distract the eye,’ said Cynthia. ‘But where?’

‘Over the mantel!’ he said.

Agreed.

He toted in the ladder and removed the mirror.

‘I think of Harley,’ he said, handing the mirror down to Lace.

‘Never a jot of formal education, but he wanted more than anything for you to have it. He was proud of every step you took, every book you read, and then you turned around and started teaching him, and it was literally life-changing. He says learning American history from you was better than going west with Lewis and Clark.’

This amused her. She handed up the canvas.

‘I went to see him before I came over,’ she said. ‘He is so adorable. He had his teeth in; I hardly knew him. I said, Harley, who was the Indian woman who traveled with Lewis and Clark? That is really an unfair question because her name just drives people crazy trying to pronounce it and it’s been years since Harley studied the expedition. He didn’t hesitate a minute. Sock-ah-ja-wee-ah, he said. So I said, What is another name for the prairie hen? and he said, Grouse—an’ they got four toes on each foot!’

They sat at the kitchen island and admired the portrait ‘forty ways from Sunday,’ as his mother would have said, and split one of Winnie’s napoleons three ways.

•   •   •

‘HE DON’T EVEN TALK LIKE Dooley n’more. It’s like he’s somebody else, like that stupid dirtbag dean’s kid over at Bud’s. What’s Dooley tryin’ to prove, anyhow, always thinkin’ he knows it all? He thinks his money makes him some kind of big shot, some kind of god? He wants a truck, he gets a truck, he wants a cue stick, he gets a cue stick.’

The snow in these mountains was a lovely thing. The heater in Harley’s truck was another lovely thing.

‘I don’t care if I live or die, it don’t matter to me, I know I don’t want to be like Dooley or you or Harley or nobody else, I want to be like myself.’

Come, Holy Spirit.

‘I believe you’re missing something here,’ he said. ‘You think all good things just fall into your brother’s lap and are there for the taking?

‘Let me tell you about Dooley. He helped raise four kids, remember? Walked you to school because there was no car to go in and no bus out that way, and nobody else to do it.

‘And how about putting food on the table? He was ten years old, but he saw it as his job, and he managed that scary responsibility as best he could. Nobody starved to death, you’re all still here.

‘And yes, Miss Sadie provided money for his education, but do you think Dooley went off to that fine, expensive school and got by on money?

‘Dooley didn’t know how he was going to get by. He wanted to run away from that school, he wanted to come home where the love was. But he toughed it out with all those guys with privileged backgrounds and fast cars, who laughed at him and called him a hillbilly. He dug down deep, where most of us have to go in this life, and he found gold. He found a way to do more than just get by, he found the guts to go against all the odds and, with God’s help, make something of himself.

‘And maybe you think school is a piece of cake for your hotshot brother, that he just breezes through and has a good time. You would be wrong. School is hard. That’s what makes it good. And because he has two more years, plus vet school, that makes it double hard—and double good. Because when he gets through, he’ll have a way to help ease some of the suffering in this world.

‘You brought us a kitten. You wanted it to have something to eat, a good home, a safe place. That’s what Dooley wants for the animals he’ll spend his life treating. A few years ago, a pony gashed its belly on a barbed-wire fence. It was dying. Dooley helped save its life. Barnabas was struck by a car and would have died, no question. But Dooley and Lace knew what to do and that good dog is still with us.

‘You said that when Dooley wants a cue, he buys a cue. And he just bought a beautiful stick for you. Is this the hotshot brother who considers himself a god? Looks to me like it’s a brother who’s thoughtful of your needs, a brother who wants the best for you because he loves you. Actually, you’ve got two brothers who fit that description. Two!’

He pulled into the parking lot of the nursery and turned off the ignition.

‘I hope you’re listening to me, Sam. You’re about to lose your place at Miss Pringle’s because you’ve openly defied the few things asked of you. You’ll be on the street, and for what?

‘Most of your life, you’ve been up against it, and it looks like that’s where you want to stay. You didn’t have a choice when you were younger, but now you do.

‘Do you want to shoot great pool or would you rather be dead?

‘Do you want to build beautiful gardens or would you rather be dead?

‘Do you want people to love you, really love you and care about you, or would you rather be dead and miss all that?

‘You can’t have it both ways.

‘If you choose life, if you choose to honor yourself and others, too, I’ll help you get on with it. Harley will help, Kenny will help, Cynthia, Miss Pringle, a lot of people will help.

‘So you’ve got help—and you’ve got talent. And better than that, you’ve got God. God is on your side, Sam, because he loves you. Why does he love you, why does he love me? We can’t fully understand it, but that’s what God does, no matter how stupid or crazy we are, God loves us anyway. He wants the best for us, anyway. You steal my car and wreck it, I love you anyway. Do something like that again, I’ll love you anyway, and I’ll also do this: I’ll press charges, and it won’t be good.

‘The party’s over, Sam.’

He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, felt the flinch.

‘But the fun is just beginning. Let’s go in and buy a tree.’

•   •   •

HIS MAMA HAD NOT EATEN a bite in three days.

‘You want a nanner?’ he’d say. ‘Hit’s ripe.’ Good as she loved ripe bananas, she’d shake her head no. ‘Read me out of that book,’ she’d say with the hoarse sound she’d picked up lately.

He’d got home before dark after going over town for a special treat. Maybe that would do the job. He stomped snow off his boots and hung up his jacket on a nail by the door.

Things was peaceful as water in a spoon. The oil heater was goin’ and the TV wadn’t blarin’ a’tall.

‘Miz Ivey sent you a jelly donut, hit’s blueberry, you want it?’

‘Nossir, you eat it y’rself. Read me out of that book.’

He took the book off the mantelpiece and showed her the cover. To keep things new every time, they played like they had not done this before.

‘C-A-T,’ he spelled out. ‘Cat! There’s th’ cat.’

‘In a hat,’ she said, beating him to it.

What he did was go by the pictures and make it up out of his head with what he remembered from his teacher Miss Mooney.

He sat down in his chair. ‘Th’ sun . . . did not . . .’ He hesitated, studied the word. ‘. . . sh-h-h . . . shine . . .’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. She crossed her arms over her sunken chest and closed her eyes. ‘Th’ sun don’t shine of a night.’

‘It was too wet . . . to plow. Wait a minute. To play!’

‘That’s right. Too wet.’

‘Hit was stormin’ pretty bad an’ we had to set in th’ house.’

‘Set in th’ house,’ she said. ‘That’s right.’

‘They won’t nothin’ to do but set.’

He held the book close so she could see the picture of two young ’uns settin’, but her eyes were shut tight as a henhouse door.

‘I remember back when Mama was livin’,’ she said.

The icy rain began. Patpatpatpat . . .

‘We would set in th’ house an’ wait for th’ rag man, he’d come by hollerin’, Rag man, rag man! We was happy as a dog with two tails to see ’im, he was a little bitty man with a black mustache. He give us money for rags an’ with nine young ’uns in the’ house we had a-plenty to sell—thirty-cent, forty-cent worth ’bout near ever’ time.’

Look like all that talkin’ had wore her out. He hurried to a page where things was goin’ on, where them big letters bunched together to make a loud word.

‘Then somethin’ went BUMP!’ He jumped when he hollered that word, he couldn’t help hisself.

‘Good gravy!’ His mama opened her eyes. ‘What was that?’

‘He’s comin’ in now! He’s steppin’ on th’ mat, he’s comin’ in th’ house!’ He had goose bumps all up his right leg.

‘Who’s comin’ in th’ house?’

‘Th’ CAT! An’ here’s what he says.’ He ’bout near remembered this word for word. ‘Says we gon’ have lots of fun that is funny.’ Yessir, he was gettin’ the hang of this.

‘Fun that is funny. I sure like that,’ she said. ‘Keep a-goin’.’

He thought she sounded tired, real tired.

‘Now here in a little bit, th’ cat is throwin’ a fish up in th’ air. Ol’ fish hollers out, says, Put me down, I do not want to fall. An’ th’ cat, he says, I ain’t gon’ let you fall!’

Patpatpatpat . . .

‘You ain’t gon’ let me fall, are ye, son?’

He was startled by this, by the way she was breathing. ‘No, ma’am, I ain’t. Not for nothin’.’

She was needin’ a little pick-me-up, he could tell. ‘You want you a dip?’ He moved her walker and got in next to her bed and looked on her night table for the snuff jar. A little dip always perked her up.

Her hands was crossed over her chest, her eyes closed, her breathing had calmed down. ‘I’ve got all I want of ever’thing. You’re a good son.’

His heart flopped around. She’d never said nothin’ like that before. He didn’t know what to answer back.

Nossir, she was not actin’ like Beulah Mae Hendrick. She had to eat a bite, even if he had to call the neighbor woman to make her do it.

He went to the kitchen and gobbled the donut in three bites and made a bowl of hot oatmeal with sugar and the last of the milk and listened to the rain chiming in the downspout. They said over town it might turn to ice by mornin’. He cocked his head to hear it better, cupped his hand about his ear. It was as good as any music on the radio.

‘Mama!’ he said, carrying the warm bowl to her bed. ‘Looky here.’

Her mouth was open but she wadn’t snoring. He passed the oatmeal close to her pillow so she could smell it and set up.

But she didn’t set up.

•   •   •

HE REMEMBERED THAT he hadn’t said anything about Sammy’s determination to be himself. That was the very thing they all wanted him to be. He wished he had made that clear.

But he’d said enough. It was time to listen.

He got up from the chair in the study and called Henry. He had the strange sense of missing his brother.

‘I talked to somebody in the doctor’s office, she had acute myelogenous lukemia,’ said Henry. ‘A relative helped with a stem cell transplant. That was five years ago. Now she’s driving a delivery truck, owns a florist business, and went on a trip to Alabama in September. That’s what I’m hoping for. But maybe not Alabama.’ Henry laughed.

‘Maybe North Carolina.’ His heart galloped when he said it.

•   •   •

THE SNOW HAD CIRCLED like a plane over Atlanta and come back to land again.

Early in the year for this much snow. It seemed only days ago that the leaves had turned, and now this. He felt the odd sense of captivity that he sometimes experienced in winter, in the mountains.

Eight-thirty. His wife was in bed, reading. He watched her squint at the page, but said nothing.

He had an appointment with the truck guy in Hendersonville on Tuesday. Harley knew something about buying trucks. All he, Timothy, knew to do was to kick the tires and walk around the vehicle, looking stern, which was his Grandfather Kavanagh’s style.

He didn’t recognize the caller ID.

‘Father, I’m the Hendricks’ neighbor, Jenny Thomas.’

‘Good evening, Jenny.’

‘Miz Hendrick passed a little while ago and Coot is asking for you. He’s devastated. I know the roads are bad, I doubt you can get here, but perhaps you could give me some pointers. I’m a caregiver for forty-two years, but consoling the bereaved is . . . I do other things much better.’

‘Let me think about this, Miss Thomas. I’ll call you back right away.’

No way was he taking his wife’s car out in this. Route 4 was three-plus miles outside the town limits. The county would be plowing that area, but not the side roads.

He rang Esther Cunningham.

‘I’ll get right on it and call you back.’ He could hear her adrenaline pumping.

Completely confident that Esther would come through, he dressed in roughly three layers, including a hooded, oiled jacket from his first Ireland trip. But it would be the boots that mattered.

•   •   •

JIMMY PRESTWOOD BRAKED A PLOW at the corner of Wisteria and Main. He clambered in. ‘Special order just for you, Reverend. From th’ gov’nor, they said.’

At the highway, they connected with a county truck.

‘Supervisor said pick you up. Where you goin’?’

‘Route 4, Brush Mountain Road, third house off the highway.’

‘I can’t take my plow down in there.’

‘I’ll walk in.’

‘This is some kind of weather for October. They already got three inches in Banner Elk and more comin’. You got a light to see by?’

He patted his jacket pocket. ‘New battery. You’re picking me up, I hope.’

‘By th’ time I head back this way, it’ll be one, two o’clock. This is gettin’ pretty bad. But I could try to make it back by one. Yeah, you bein’ clergy. I’ll get you at one.’

‘I’ll be at the highway at one. For God’s sake, don’t forget me.’

Was he nuts? That had certainly been said on more than one occasion. His wife had given him that worried look, something that usually kick-started a worry or two of his own.

He switched on the flashlight, jumped down from the plow, and headed into the night.

‘Jesus,’ he said.

•   •   •

SEMINARY DIDN’T TEACH SPECIFICALLY about consoling the bereaved; that was something that came with on-the-job training.

Coot Hendrick was indeed devastated.

‘She said I was a good son.’ Coot repeated this again and again, sobbing.

‘Yes, that’s what a lot of people say you’ve been.’

‘Maybe she ain’t gone. Seem like I seen her breathe. Did you see ’er breathe?’

They went into Coot’s bedroom while the Hendricks’ neighbor removed the garments of the deceased and did what had to be done with the body. Something was awry with the phones, the usual in bad weather, and they couldn’t contact the funeral home. In any case, his walk from the highway assured him that their vehicle wouldn’t fare well down here.

No, she didn’t know anyone who could watch with Coot tonight, but she would stay until he fell asleep and come back first thing in the morning.

‘Do you do this for all your patients?’

‘Miz Hendrick wasn’t really a patient. I just looked in on her, organized her medicine box, took a hot meal now and then. Coot did all he could, and the county sent someone, too. We managed.’

‘I believe you must be an angel,’ he said.

She shook her head no, smiled. ‘I owe God big time.’

He told Coot he was sorry, which he was, and that Beulah Mae had lived a long life, which she had. Mostly, he was simply there, a warm body in a sweater with a reindeer on the front.

He found a tea bag and made tea and added sugar and gave it to Coot. Then he sat next to him on the side of the bed and held on to his old friend and didn’t let go for a long while.

•   •   •

HE WAS THANKING GOD for the clear, frozen night and the brilliance of the stars so thickly set in the great bowl, and for the headlights of the plow coming his way, pretty much on time. He had to climb over the berm of snow kicked up by the plow at the edge of the highway.

Safely home, he emailed the news to Emma, which was as good as announcing it at a town meeting.

Two-fifteen. He was spent. Beyond spent. After a hot shower, he sat in the wing chair in their bedroom, too exhausted to get in bed.

‘I will never do that again,’ said his wife, meaning it.

‘What?’

‘Let you go off into the night in a snowplow, for Pete’s sake. I have never been and never will be the clergy-spouse poster child, but heaven knows, I have tried to let you do what you feel led to do, without interfering.’

‘I was fine,’ he said.

‘Quoth the raven,’ she said, turning off the lamp on her side.

•   •   •

THE PLANNING WENT SWIFTLY.

To give the temperature time to warm up, the funeral service would be conducted on Tuesday afternoon.

As the Hendricks had no church affiliation nor funds for funeral-home amenities, the service would be graveside.

Somehow, word got around that the yellow house on Wisteria Lane was the drop-off point for food.

Early Tuesday morning, which was cold and blustery, Esther Bolick delivered an OMC. Beneath her heavy coat, she was still in flannel robe and nightgown.

‘I look like Miss Rose on a bad day,’ she said. ‘But here you go, an’ bless ’is heart. I heard his mother sing that song about killin’ Yankees, she could’ve been in the Carter family.’

Fortunately, Puny had switched her Wednesday for Tuesday and arrived with a bowl of her famous potato salad.

‘I used red potatoes ’cause that’s what I had,’ she said, ‘but russet works better. Have a bite an’ see what you think.’

Winnie Ivey made a delivery around ten, as he was putting the ham in the oven. Another OMC.

Winnie spied the first delivery on their kitchen counter.

‘Esther?’

‘Afraid so.’

Winnie laughed. ‘She is out of control, Father! She can’t help herself. But it’s okay, she never sells one, she just does it as a love offering. What’s that wonderful smell?’

‘Esther can’t help herself, and neither can I. I’m baking a ham. Previously, I did it just for weddings, my own included, but I’ve decided to do funerals as well.’

‘Ham to die for!’ she said. ‘Baptisms?’

‘No baptisms. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Shirley Owen told me she’s bringin’ fried chicken.’

‘Shirley’s Baptist,’ he said, ‘it’ll be good fried chicken.’

‘We’ll have to heat it to crisp it up.’ Puny rattled flatware from the dishwasher into a drawer. ‘That’s an old Church of God trick when my gran’daddy was preachin’. Church of God women are all about crispy.’

‘Poor Coot,’ said Winnie, ‘his overalls will have to be let out three sizes. What time is th’ graveside?’

‘Two o’clock.’

‘I’ll see you there,’ said Winnie.

‘You’re coming? In this cold?’

‘Of course I’m coming.’

Minnie Lomax entered by the side door. ‘I couldn’t get anybody to the front.’

‘Come in!’ said Cynthia. ‘It’s a circus in here.’

‘Green bean casserole!’ Minnie set it on the counter, proud as anything. ‘And I don’t need th’ dish back.’

‘I love green bean casserole,’ said Cynthia. ‘I’ll try not to eat the whole thing.’ She went to his desk for paper and a pen. ‘Okay, I’m writing all this down so we know who did what. Where did these OMCs come from?’

‘Guess,’ he said.

‘This one is from Esther, right?’

‘And that one’s from Winnie.’

Cynthia recorded this data.

‘I would never make an OMC,’ said Minnie.

‘I’m with you,’ said his wife. ‘Puny once had to take a day off after making an OMC.’

Emma Newland came in through the garage bearing a platter covered with a tea towel. ‘Ham biscuits!’ she announced.

‘Oh, glory!’ said his wife. ‘I’m starved. I love ham biscuits.’

‘You cannot have a funeral without ham biscuits,’ said Puny. ‘I can tell y’ that.’

If he hadn’t already had diabetes for more than a decade, he would certainly have it by morning.

And there was Ray Cunningham, God love him, coming in by the side door.

‘Your specialty?’ he said, interested in the familiar container with the red lid.

‘You got it,’ said Ray. ‘Pulled pork! An’ keep your cotton-pickin’ hands offa this pot.’

He took his cell phone from the charger.

‘Who was that laughing?’ said Emma.

‘Hello, Miss Pringle!’

‘Father, this is so . . . I don’t know how to say . . . I cannot find . . . we are completely out of papier hygiénique.’

‘Ah, toilet paper. So sorry. I’ll drop some off on the way to the funeral.’

‘Merci!’ she said. ‘Beaucoup!’

Stirred by numerous crazy-making aromas, his dog came into the kitchen, followed by Truman.

He stuck the phone in his shirt pocket and looked at Violet at her roost atop the refrigerator. ‘Good idea,’ he said.

•   •   •

WHAT WOULD BE SADDER than driving alone to your mother’s funeral? He fetched Coot.

‘I hope they got ’er teeth in,’ said Coot.

‘I’m sure they did.’

‘Since we never looked in there to check.’

‘Right. They do a good job.’

‘I told ye she was a hundred but I don’t know that for a fact.’

‘I believe that’s close.’

‘She told me I was a good son.’

‘You’ve been a very good son.’

They rounded the curve where Sammy . . .

‘Hope would like you to come to work at Happy Endings as a regular.’

‘Are you tryin’ to git me t’ laugh? Is that a joke?’

‘It’s th’ gospel truth. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, four hours a day. If you’d like to do it, you may start anytime.’

There was a small light in Coot’s eyes, but his passenger didn’t say anything right away.

‘I was thinkin’ I had to talk to Mama about it.’

For a long time after his own mother’s death, he remembered thinking the same thing.

‘But I guess I can start right off.’

‘Ten to two,’ he said.

‘I’ll start next day you an’ y’r dog are there.’

‘Thursday.’

Coot appeared thoughtful again.

‘Do you think when we’re workin’ an’ all, that maybe we could . . . have some fun that is funny?’

‘I can just about guarantee it,’ he said.

•   •   •

TWENTY-SEVEN PEOPLE GATHERED, frozen as popsicles, beneath a small tent whipped by the wind. In the old days, they couldn’t bury until spring when the ground thawed. Thank heaven for the backhoe, which got the job done.

‘The Lord be with you!’

‘And also with you.’

The tent shuddered, creaked on its poles.

‘Oh, God, whose mercies cannot be numbered: Accept our prayers on behalf of your servant Beulah Mae, and grant her an entrance into the land of light and joy, the fellowship of your saints; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.’

‘Amen.’

He’d been pretty amazed to see Esther Cunningham and Ray out in this cold, and Esther dressed for what looked like a summer garden party.

‘She’s campaignin’,’ somebody said.

‘Startin’ mighty early. The election idn’t ’til next November.’

‘You have to start early these days.’

‘Esther isn’t starting to campaign,’ said Bill Sprouse. ‘Esther has never stopped campaigning.’

‘Well, there you go,’ he said.

•   •   •

COOT HAD HOPED people could come to the preacher’s house afterward instead of to Route 4. Thus relieved of carting the whole business to the boondocks, they trekked to Wisteria Lane and did a mighty bit of damage to the offerings.

When their party of twenty-seven gathered in the kitchen and held hands for the blessing, he was surprised by his tears. Not for the dead, no, but for the living, and for how good it was to be alive and together, and to laugh and give thanks.