Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-one

Make it a rule never to give a child a book you would not read yourself.—George Bernard Shaw

He pinned the quote to the corkboard, thinking of Irene McGraw’s wise and charming habit. Irene would be driving Cynthia to Winston-Salem today, for lunch and the eye doctor.

He pinned one contributed by his wife.

There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.—Marcel Proust

The corkboard was literally bristling with quotes from customers of every ilk. He stood back and reviewed their dispatches with satisfaction.

•   •   •

‘VANITA?’

‘Don’t tease me,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s teasin’ me. It’s th’ Palm Beach, I did it in th’ line of duty. You can’t write journalism on a subject you don’t know anything about.’

‘Really,’ he said. Talk about hot off the press. He could smell the ink as Vanita thumped the new edition on the counter.

‘One more week and we’re wrappin’ up your big story! Total votes for Father Tim Kavanagh as of today’s edition—one hundred and ninety-four! Yay-y-y! You’re definitely goin’ to be the town’s leading citizen.’

‘You know, of course, that I’m not the town’s leading citizen, nor do I wish to be.’

‘But why not? There’s no responsibility that comes with th’ recognition, it’s not like it’s a payin’ job an’ you have to clock in every mornin’.’

‘It just feels . . . it’s . . . I don’t deserve the title.’

‘But a hundred and ninety-four people think you do. Plus th’ winner will get a free spray tan treatment! For you, I think Fancy and Shirlene would definitely do th’ Palm Beach, which is their top of th’ line!’

‘So. I’ve been wondering,’ he said, ‘is there any way I can pass the torch to somebody else? I mean, give it to me if you must, but I’ll hand it over to someone more worthy. That would be a story right there.’

‘Who would you hand it to?’

‘I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.’

‘Don’t waste your time, there’s not anybody.’

‘Why not the mayor? That’s about as leading as you can get.’

‘Way too easy. Are you just bein’ humble?’

‘I’m not terribly humble, really. Let’s figure this thing out. I mean, it took off without me being . . . in the saddle, so to speak.’

‘You don’t have to go through a big ceremony or anything. I mean, it’s not like we have a big weenie roast on th’ lawn at Town Hall.’

‘So what will you do to make it . . . official?’

‘Like there’s not a crown or anything. We’ll just run your picture in the paper and I’ll write something really, you know . . .’

‘Embarrassing,’ he said.

She looked bewildered. ‘So you don’t like my idea that united our little town and gave us somethin’ positive to focus on? An’ a way to interact by writin’ in our votes? An’ a way to show respect and admiration for others?’

Vanita was blinking back tears.

‘So, yay,’ she said.

She turned and walked to the door and didn’t look back.

Good Lord. He stood rooted to the spot, then sprinted out the door and down the sidewalk and caught up with her at Sweet Stuff.

‘Vanita! I’m so sorry. I am really, really sorry. I was ungrateful. I hope you’ll forgive me. Please. I’d be honored to, you know . . .’

Vanita beamed—the sun broke forth, birds sang. She gave him a hug.

After five years of so-called retirement, he was once again prey to the stresses of public life.

•   •   •

HE CALLED HIS WIFE, told her everything.

‘Lighten up,’ she said. ‘Be the leading citizen, for heaven’s sake. Ride in the parade and wave to the crowd. You only live once.’

Fine. Okay. Done. End of sermon.

•   •   •

TO THE ROAR OF THE VACUUM CLEANER, he read Beulah Mae Hendrick’s obit.

Diligent to honor the deceased, Hessie had included lyrics to the Hendrick family ballad about a Mitford ancestor who shot and buried five AWOL Yankees during the Civil War. There was a brief mention of Tuesday’s graveside service and the ‘wind-tossed’ tent beneath which Beulah Mae ‘lay in eternal rest.’

Dear Vanita

I am sooo glad to share what I do to take care of our own! I have given a good and loving home to sixteen cats and here they are. Have you ever tried to get sixteen cats to stay still for a picture?? That is Elvis in front see his white jumpsuit and I added the rhinestone collar!! Anyways, sorry about all the red eyes my camera is old as dirt%^

He couldn’t do this anymore. He just couldn’t. As for the Hint, it was three home remedies for headaches, but he never had headaches. What they needed around here was some real news. Or maybe not, since that could be pretty frightening stuff.

On Monday, he would call the Charlotte Observer and sign up for a year, an act which would not only illuminate world events, but add serious volume to his stash of fire-starters.

•   •   •

MARCIE WAS SUBBING FOR HIM from eleven to twelve so he could have an early bite at Feel Good and a private chat with the boss.

‘Don’t stay too long,’ said Marcie, one of Esther Cunningham’s five good-looking daughters and mother of seven. ‘I’ve got to run home and start bakin’ and freezin’ for th’ swearin’-in, then get back to Avis and finish th’ payroll. I’m leavin’ you a note about th’ mice.’

He didn’t question this remark.

‘A prayer breakfast?’ said Wanda. ‘How many?’

‘To begin, five or six. Starting early January. I expect the numbers will grow.’

So far, he’d come up with Bill Sprouse at First Baptist, Bill Swanson from Lord’s Chapel, the new Methodist hire, and Reverend Browing at First Presbyterian. He hoped Father Brad would join them, and anyone else who took a notion.

‘You’re goin’ to pray?’

‘And talk and have breakfast, of course. And yes, pray.’

‘Right out in front of everybody?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, we don’t have a back room where you can, like, go pray.’

‘We wouldn’t need a back room. Just wondered if we could start off with the table in the corner? Every other Saturday, eight o’clock sharp.’

‘But so you’re goin’ to pray where people can see you prayin’?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so, that’s the usual way of the prayer breakfast.’

Wanda had a concerned look. He needed Mule in on this.

‘It happens all over the country, all the time,’ he said. ‘Wendy’s, McDonald’s.’

‘We’re not fast-food, Father.’

‘I was just giving you an example of how widespread the prayer breakfast is. If it’s a problem . . .’

‘I don’t know squat about your particular religion,’ she said. ‘I was raised Holy Roller. Y’all don’t by any chance fall back in th’ Spirit, do you?’

‘Not usually,’ he said.

‘Hey!’ said Omer. ‘Any room for me?’

‘I’ll get back to you,’ said Wanda. ‘What’s for th’ flyboy today?’

‘The usual,’ said Omer. ‘An’ thank you, ma’am.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ she said.

‘What’s goin’ on in town?’ asked Omer.

He slid his copy of the Muse across the table. ‘All yours. More than you ever wanted to know. How was your potato crop this year?’

‘Awesome. I’ll bring a bag by th’ bookstore.’

‘We’ll sure appreciate it. Nice shirt.’ He was a longtime fan of the flannel shirt.

‘Thanks. Yard sale. Two bucks.’

‘Mule likes a good yard sale.’

Omer grinned. ‘He’s beat me out of a few items over the years.’

‘You flying today?’

‘Not today. I’ve got a project goin’ at th’ house.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘A Scrabble game. Online. Playing with somebody who’s pretty good.’

‘You play Scrabble? Online?’

‘I’m stuck with some crazy letters, but I think I’ve got it figured out. Just need to get back to my dictionary.’ And there were the piano keys, and maybe the intro to a little Irving Berlin.

•   •   •

HEADING ACROSS TO THE BOOKSTORE, he realized he was doing something he almost never did, even though he very much enjoyed doing it.

He was whistling.

Fr Tim,

MICE UPSTAIRS!!! 3 and maybe more!!! I beg u 2 do what needs 2 B done B4 next Wed. and know u wl B HUMANE. I owe u a donut. Hugs Marcie

The note was decorated with a smiley face.

‘Dora,’ he said, calling down to the hardware. ‘I need a humane mousetrap.’

‘Sorry. When it comes to mice, we don’t do humane.’

‘What do you have against mice?’

‘They get in th’ feed sacks, eat th’ birdseed, poop on th’ counters, you name it. An’ since you’re runnin’ the bookstore, I guess you know they eat books.’

‘Eat books?’

‘Plus chew electrical cords, gnaw through wires, climb pipes . . .’

‘Okay, so . . .’

‘I can give you pellets or th’ old-fashioned wood trap. Or you can go th’ five-gallon-bucket route. That’s popular.’

‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said.

For some reason, he could not engage with this project, donut or no.

‘Coot,’ he said. ‘Could you step here a minute?’

•   •   •

THE OLD PEOPLE HAD SAID it would be a hard winter, and weren’t they usually right? Four inches of snow they’d had, with leaves still clingin’ to the trees, and she couldn’t get warm to save her life.

Esther Cunningham backed out of the garage and headed to town. Ever since the Hendrick funeral, she had been cold as a corpse, herself. Her brother had invited her to Florida to sit in the sun on a bench in his retirement community, but no way. The sun would come back around soon enough and she had never enjoyed sitting on a bench, period, much less with old people.

Mama, you need to slow down! She had not liked hearing that from Marcie Guthrie before eight o’clock this morning. And look who was talkin’. Her daughter was a chicken with its head cut off—down at the Woolen Shop to do the books, over to the Local to get out the payroll, up to Village Shoes to do Abe’s inventory, over to Lew Boyd’s to help with his taxes which were a rat’s nest, and now volunteerin’ at Happy Endings every Wednesday, which had for years been Marcie’s only day off—except Sunday, when she went to church, taught Sunday school, and cooked a big dinner for her kids and grans.

As for Joe Joe’s swearin’-in next Saturday, who but the chief’s own mother had signed up to bake three hundred cookies and two sheet cakes? Marcie Guthrie was th’ pot callin’ th’ kettle black.

And there was that bloomin’ plastic bag still flappin’ around on the awning of the Wool Shop. She guessed she’d have to climb up there herself and yank it down. She despised plastic bags. Wasn’t there a gazillion of the dern things out in the ocean with flip-flops and milk jugs whirlin’ around in a gigantic cesspool?

When she was mayor again, plastic bags would be outlawed. The merchants would have to use recycled paper and they would not like it. What is this, a socialist state? For crap’s sake, Esther, this is America. Nossir, they would fight her tooth an’ nail on that little ord’nance.

‘Bring it on!’ she shouted.

She bent over the steering wheel, coughing. Lord help, she was gettin’ a cough like nobody’s business. A wrackin’ cough, is what her mother used to call it. It had been so bad last night that Ray got up and slept in the guest room.

She pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror.

Blotches. Big time. And her heart bangin’ around everywhichaway.

She had never paid much attention to her heart or any of her other organs, she just let ’em do whatever they had in mind, and what business was it of hers?

Lord help, it was kickin’ around in there. She pulled into a parking lot and rolled the window down. She was hot as a firecracker, and where was she anyway? Was this Wesley or Mitford? She turned on the radio, maybe they would know.

•   •   •

‘I FOUND HER PULLED OVER in front of Shoe Barn. Motor runnin’, radio goin’.’

Hamp Floyd, Mitford’s fire chief, had gone to buy boots for rabbit hunting.

‘She was slumped over the steerin’ wheel; been listenin’ to Rush Limbaugh. He was talkin’ about the government gettin’ rid of Social Security.’

That’ll do it, he thought.

‘I got the ambulance to take her to ER; I’m up at the hospital ’til somebody can get here. Her preacher’s out of town. One of the nurses said call you, you’d come.’

‘Is she . . . ?’ Was this last rites? Good Lord!

‘They’re puttin’ her in ICU, is all I know.’

‘Where’s Ray?’

‘Somewhere in Wesley, he don’t carry a cell phone.’

‘I’ll be right there,’ he said.

Who would sub? Not his wife, who was at the eye doctor in Winston-Salem.

‘Coot,’ he said, ‘can you step here a minute?’

•   •   •

‘FATHER. Do . . . o . . . o me a favor.’

‘Anything,’ he said. Heaven knows, a big chunk of Mitford history was lying right here, hooked to two IVs, a heart monitor, and a tank of oxygen.

‘Climb up on that awnin’ at th’ Wo . . . o . . . ol . . . en Shop . . .’

There was a long pause, the monitor beeping.

‘. . . an’ get that da-a-adgum plastic bag down.’

‘Consider it done,’ he said.

•   •   •

CYNTHIA’S DIAGNOSIS: MACULAR HOLE.

Neither had ever heard of it.

She explained the fairly rare condition as best she could. ‘They’ll remove fluid from my right eye and replace it with a bubble of gas. I’ll have to lie facedown for two weeks.’

Facedown? Two weeks? Unbelievable!

‘I’d like to wait ’til after Christmas. But my vision in that eye is going fast, it’s decreased from twenty/forty to twenty/one hundred. I may have to shut down the book ’til this is behind me.’

‘What will it be after the procedure? Good as new?’

‘It takes about six months to regain full vision.’

He found the whole prospect gruesome. He declined to ask how she would lie facedown on the post-op trek from Winston, much less at home.

Around seven, he laid out her new robe and ran her bath, then made a simple dinner, which he carried upstairs.

‘The good news,’ she said, ‘is that Irene isn’t going back to Florida for the winter. Except for Christmas, she’s staying here and painting.’

It was rare for any of the Florida crowd to spend a winter in these parts. To them, snow was good only for Christmas card scenes, and ice storms were good for nothing.

‘She invited me to paint with her in her studio—I’ll do several pieces for the auction.’ A small light in his wife’s eyes. ‘We can have her over for dinner and a movie!’

‘What does she hear from Kim?’

‘Irene will take several of her grandchildren out to Los Angeles in March. Kim is thrilled about having all these nieces and nephews. Okay, your turn,’ she said, ready for his gazette.

Esther had suffered a stroke which affected her left side—droopy eye, some temporary speech impairment, arm movement disabled. This hateful circumstance was accompanied by the early stages of pneumonia.

Ray had been located at Wesley’s big-box home improvement store and summoned to the hospital, where he said repeatedly to the nurses, I tried to tell her; we all tried to tell her. Wilson wrote a prescription for Ray. The daughters showed up, saying in chorus, We tried to tell her; Mama never listens.

To add to the shopping cart of health issues, Wilson suspected artery blockage, possibly valve stenosis, but these tests could not be done until tomorrow. There was a distinct possibility that Esther would be ferried to Charlotte via the copter service.

On his way off the floor, the charge nurse had caught up with him. ‘She said tell you or somebody to be sure that big bag of Snickers behind th’ TV in her den makes it to the swearin’-in. She wants th’ kids to have that candy.’ The nurse gave him a meaningful look. ‘Super important, she said.’

‘The swearing-in is more than a week away. Will she still be in the hospital?’

‘Probably not, but she said if I don’t pass that message along, I’ll get plenty of time to think about where I went wrong.’ The nurse thought this was hilarious, but also true.

Esther’s famous candy giveaway. Even on her deathbed—and he hoped this wasn’t it—Esther would be in campaign mode.

As for life closer to home, he reported that Dooley was getting in late tonight, and would visit next door before coming over around eleven. He would stay up to greet him. And here was some good news: Dooley was requesting only one family dinner, not two, hoping that tomorrow night might be good for Cynthia.

‘He’ll be spending time with Kenny and Sammy, anyway, so maybe tomorrow is a good night for Buck and Pauline and Jessie and Pooh—if that works. We’ll make it easy.’

He was accustomed to his wife being up for anything; it was unsettling to see her drained of the energy he unfairly relied upon.

‘You’ll be able to see better after the surgery,’ he said. ‘But there is a downside. You’ve always told me I’m pretty good-looking, and now you’ll know the bitter truth.’

She laughed a little.

He tucked her in with a quote from Victor Hugo.

‘“Sleep in peace, God is awake.”’

•   •   •

THE FIRE HAD DIED DOWN and he didn’t poke it up. The room was warm against the October night.

‘Can you use a snack?’ he asked Dooley.

‘What is it?’

‘Cynthia’s egg salad, made this morning, with extra mayo on whole wheat from Winnie.’

‘I could use a snack.’

He opened the container of egg salad, gave Dooley a root beer. ‘Cynthia turned your bed down.’

‘Five-star,’ said Dooley. ‘Thanks a lot. Has Sammy been nicer to you?’

‘I haven’t seen him since Saturday.’

‘He was different tonight.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He didn’t try to pick a fight. Harley and Kenny say he’s doing better.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘So something you did must have worked.’

‘Time will tell,’ he said, pouring himself a glass of water. ‘I missed my trip to see the truck because of the funeral.’

‘I’ll run you down Saturday, it’s only two hours. I’ll kick the tires for you.’

He laughed. ‘You’re a good guy.’

‘You, too, Dad. Cheers.’

Chapter Twenty-two

In all his days in ministry, he couldn’t remember fixing anybody up. Not directly, anyway. He had prayed for Puny to find a husband and she did, but he hadn’t exactly brokered the deal.

‘I suppose we could have them over for dinner and a movie,’ said his wife.

He measured out a spoonful of honey for his oatmeal. ‘What if it doesn’t work?’

‘They could just be friends.’

‘What would I say to Omer?’

‘That you’d like him to meet someone who loves Scrabble.’

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘But dinner and a movie? That’s four hours. Shouldn’t it be just coffee? I read that somewhere. Or maybe lunch at the Feel Good?’

‘Lunch. I’ll join you.’

His wife didn’t often join him for lunch. ‘Yay-y!’ he said.

•   •   •

BEFORE STRAPPING ON HIS BACKPACK, he made a call.

‘Add this to my tab, please. As soon as you can, take an extension ladder to the Woolen Shop and remove the plastic bag that’s caught on the awning thingamajig.’

‘That’d be y’r retractable lateral arm,’ said Harley.

•   •   •

IT WAS TEACHER’S WORKDAY at Mitford School; Miss Mooney arrived at Happy Endings at ten sharp.

‘I need a great audio book,’ she said. ‘I have only fifteen minutes of wild liberty.’

‘Out of Africa!’ he said, trying to give her a break on an O title.

‘Already have it; I’ll take a quick look. If its okay, I’ll be here at three o’clock sharp. Coot’s reading lesson.’

‘How are the lessons coming?’

‘He’s very eager and hardworking. I dislike asking, but you could give a hand.’

‘In what way?’

‘He needs someone to read to him on occasion, it would be a great help.’

‘I can do that,’ he said.

‘And it would be wonderful if you could ask for something in return. Something he could teach you.’

Coot’s ancestor, Hezekiah Hendrick, had founded the town. He had always wanted more understanding of that family lore.

Abe jangled in around ten-thirty.

‘I’m here to buy a book.’

‘It’s about time, buddy.’

‘But only with a free coffee.’

‘Always available.’

‘I’ve just realized my cell phone is bigger than my bookcase.’

‘Oy!’ he said.

Abe had a laugh, poured himself a cup. ‘So what’s left in the O Sale? October is toast, there should be a big markdown.’

‘We started with a big markdown.’

‘Right. But the markdown of the markdown adds a little pizzazz in the home stretch.’

He had discussed the notion with Hope, who hadn’t been averse to another five percent off a few titles at the end. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’ He scrolled their O inventory on the computer.

‘Othello. The play.’

‘No Shakespeare,’ said Abe.

‘Of Mice and Men.’

‘I have mice already.’

‘Old Man and the Sea.’

‘Not into fishing.’

‘That’s my best offer on markdowns.’

‘Great,’ said Abe. ‘I’m off the hook ’til November. I’ve been meaning to ask, why do you think gentiles were invented?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Somebody has to pay retail.’

Winnie arrived with a bakery box.

‘What are y’all laughin’ about?’

‘Not much,’ said Abe.

‘Chocolate donuts!’ Winnie lifted the box lid. ‘Two days old, but still good.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I pass.’

‘I’m in,’ said Abe. ‘Why us?’

‘Overstock,’ said Winnie. ‘It’s turned too cold for tourists, we have to get rid of ’em somehow. Where’s Coot? He likes chocolate.’

‘Buying supplies.’

The door opening, a blast of frigid air. ‘I love chocolate!’ said Shirlene, shucking out of her coat.

‘Help yourself,’ said Winnie, ‘but th’ one with sprinkles is for Coot.’

‘What brings you three doors north?’ He got an eyeful of the caftan-of-the-day: Palm trees. Monkeys. Distant islands.

‘I’m thinkin’ of gettin’ a dog and wanted your advice. I see you out with your dog all th’ time and figured you would know.’

‘Here’s my advice,’ said Abe. ‘Don’t get a dog.’

‘Why not?’

‘Vet bills through the roof.’

‘Get a cat,’ said Winnie. ‘You won’t have to walk your legs off, go out in th’ rain, or carry a poop bag in your pocket.’

‘I’m single, I think I should get a dog.’

‘What breed?’ he said.

‘I have no idea, that’s what I wanted to ask you. Not th’ breed of your dog, I can tell you that, he’s bigger than my sofa.’

‘You definitely want a barkin’ dog,’ said Winnie. ‘But not a yappin’ dog. An’ somethin’ small enough to sleep with, to keep you company.’

‘Ooh,’ said Shirlene, ‘I don’t think so. Where I come from, we don’t sleep with dogs.’

‘Me, either,’ said Abe.

‘Dogs are always after somethin’,’ said Winnie. ‘Sittin’ by th’ table, starin’ at you ’til you could keel over. I mean, dogs are so—’

‘Earnest!’ he said as his dog parked himself in front of Winnie and stared at the bakery box.

‘See?’ said Winnie. ‘Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life?’

‘That is th’ biggest dog I ever saw,’ said Shirlene, stepping back. ‘Did you adopt him?’

‘He adopted me.’

‘So what do you have?’ Shirlene asked Winnie. ‘A dog or a cat?

‘Goldfish. Two, actually.’

‘Not much good against intruders,’ said Abe.

‘A golden is a fine dog,’ he said. ‘Very noble and socially agreeable.’

‘Could I take it to th’ salon with me?’

‘You could,’ said Winnie, ‘’til it got hip dysplasia and could not climb the stairs.’

‘As for a cat,’ said Abe, ‘if it knew you wanted it to go with you to the salon, it would not go.’

‘Right,’ said Winnie. ‘You could not let it know you wanted it to go, and then maybe it would go.’

‘Somebody buy a book,’ he said. For Pete’s sake.

‘I could buy a book on dog breeds,’ said Shirlene. ‘What a fun idea!’

‘Right this way,’ he said.

‘Three great books on dog breeds.’ He placed them on the table next to the rubber plant. ‘See what you think.’

Shirlene chose a book, thumped into a wing chair. He stood on one foot, then the other.

‘Shirlene. Cynthia and I would like you to meet someone who loves Scrabble.’ He was relieved to drag his wife into this.

‘Really? Who?’

‘Just, you know, a friend. Very nice. Has a garden. Potatoes, mostly.’

‘But who?’

‘You don’t know this person.’

‘Is it a man, is it a woman? Scrabble is totally unisex.’

‘A man.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Omer.’

‘Homer?’

‘Omer. No H.’

‘Are you tryin’ to fix me up?’

‘Well . . .’

‘You are so cute to do this!’ She sat forward in the chair. ‘What does he look like?’

‘Big. Great smile.’

‘Wait a minute. Big. How big?’

‘Maybe six-two.’

‘Toned?’

‘Um. I don’t know about toned. Trim, for sure.’

‘Trim is great! Handsome?’

‘That’s a judgment you’d have to make for yourself.’

‘Okay, but I mean really—is he handsome?’

‘Shirlene, Shirlene. Are you in?’

She pondered this. ‘Big. Nice. Great smile.’

‘Trim,’ he said, to reprise. ‘Has a garden. Loves Scrabble.’

‘Wow. So, yes! Wow! I’m in!’

Lord help, he was glad to be done with it.

‘You are really cute to do this, Father. I am so excited. Maybe I don’t need to get a dog.’

‘Time will tell,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to put together a lunch before long. At the Feel Good, okay?’

‘How’s my tan?’

‘Your tan?’

‘Do I need a refresher? What do you think?’

‘Talk to your sister,’ he said.

It was sort of a cool thing to get people together, albeit a little scary. Compared, however, to the apprehension of arranging the Kim and Irene meeting, this should be a piece of cake.

•   •   •

DOOLEY, SAMMY, POOH, AND JESSIE blew in after lunch, smelling distinctly of pepperoni. Jessie’s dog, Bouncer, brought up the rear.

Jessie was a plump, rosy-cheeked thirteen-year-old with a mane of chestnut hair and a good bit of makeup. Outgoing, loud, affectionate. A few years ago, he and Cynthia and Pauline had driven to Lakeland, Florida, and rescued Jessie from a dire situation with a relative. Pooh, sometimes plain Poo, and recently turned fifteen, had been with his mother all along. Pooh was nuts for his older brothers, and for baseball, softball, most any ball—from whence sprang the original nickname, Poobaw, after the pool ball he lugged around as a toddler.

‘Buck has bronchitis,’ said Jessie. ‘He’s pitiful.’

‘So we can’t come to your house to eat,’ said Pooh. ‘Can we come another time?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘We’re goin’ out to Kenny’s restaurant tonight,’ said Dooley, ‘and a movie after.’

‘Me an’ Jess are ridin’ in th’ crew cab,’ said Pooh. ‘Mama says she’s sorry.’

‘We’ll pray for Buck,’ he said. ‘Hey, Sam.’

‘Hey. Your plastic b-bag’s down.’

‘Wonderful. Who got up there?’

‘Me,’ said Sammy.

Bouncer sniffed Barnabas; Sammy, Jessie, and Pooh vanished into the books.

‘I checked with the trust people this morning,’ said Dooley. ‘Man.’

‘What’s up?’

‘A lot. Buying out the practice, paying for college, and on top of that looking at four years of vet school. Huge. There won’t be much left.’

Growing up. No wonder so many people resisted it.

Dooley stared at the floor for a time, pensive.

‘There’s no way we should get married ’til after vet school. Sometimes I feel like you and Cynthia want us to . . . you know . . . sooner.’ Dooley’s face flushed.

‘We don’t. Not at all. We hope you’ll marry—but only if it’s the best thing for you both. We agree that you should wait for the right time. We’re completely with you on this.’

‘Lots of people get married in vet school, then split. It’s a really tough ride, a lot of work. I don’t even know if I’ll be accepted—sixty-five percent of applicants don’t make it. I mean, think about it, Dad. Six more years of school. Man.’

Laughter in the stacks—a good sound.

‘Lace and I have some stuff to work out.’

‘I understand.’

‘Did you have stuff to work out?’

‘Did I ever. I’ll tell you sometime.’

He pulled out his wallet; removed a twenty. Dooley watched him fold it as many times as the currency would allow.

As on Dooley’s birthday more than eleven years ago, he placed it in his son’s outstretched palm.

Dooley’s cackling laugh.

‘Don’t spend it all in one place,’ he said.

‘Thanks. I’ll need it. Meant to tell you, th’ thing about Sammy’s teeth is goin’ nowhere.’

‘Gunpoint. That’s our only hope.’

Sammy came to the counter, book in hand.

‘How much is this?’

‘Sammy wants to garden with cow poop,’ said Jessie.

‘It ain’t n-nothin’ but grass that’s gone through th’ digestive system.’

‘Grass and bugs,’ said Jessie. ‘Besides, where are you goin’ to get cows?’

‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘This book is twenty dollars. Less fifteen percent because the title begins with O for Organic.’

‘Seventeen dollars!’ said Jessie. ‘I’m good at math.’

He added the tax; Sammy laid several bills and change on the counter, took the book, and headed to the door.

‘Thanks for your business!’ he called after Sammy.

‘That’s a lot of money for a book,’ said Pooh.

Dooley pocketed the folded twenty; dug in his wallet and gave a twenty to Jessie. ‘For ice cream.’

‘Thanks, Dools!’

‘See y’all back here in twenty minutes, and I’m totally lookin’ for change.’

‘In one pocket and out the other,’ he said. ‘Just what you were talking about with the trust.’

‘What are you going to do, Dad?’

‘About what?’

‘About Miss Pringle. About Sammy.’

He was fed up with being asked what he was going to do about Sammy.

‘I have no idea.’

‘Could he live with . . . ?’

‘No.’ No explanation necessary. ‘But here’s what we must all do. Pray. Are you praying?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Your brother needs full-time,’ he said.

‘He’s doin’ better.’

‘Miss Pringle is looking for much better. We have her to thank that he’s still there at all. In fact, you might thank her next time you see her. Take flowers.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Remember your trip to New York with Cynthia? Remember I gave you money just for flowers?’

‘I was buyin’ flowers all over th’ place.’

‘Remember the look on her face when you gave her the flowers? Any happiness there, any delight?’

‘Really. Big time.’

‘Flowers don’t solve anything, but they can improve most everything. Whether Sammy gets to stay is up to him. Either way, Miss Pringle has been a saint.’

‘Got it.’

‘Ask Jena Ivey to tie a few stems together with a ribbon, and deliver them by your own hand. Twenty bucks and not a penny less.’

‘In one pocket and out the other.’ Dooley hoisted himself onto the counter. ‘So, Dad. I’ve been thinking. How about a truck better than the one in Hendersonville? Long bed, stick shift, leather seats, red. It has a couple of features you aren’t lookin’ for, but you can’t be too choosy with used. Local owner, no traveling to pick it up.’

‘How local?’

‘I’ll make you a really good deal.’

‘Your truck?’

‘It’s too much truck for me. I was wrong; I hate t’ say it. I don’t need that much truck right now, not ’til I get th’ practice. But you do, Dad. You need a truck to do your landscape stuff with. It’s perfect. Crew cab for Harley and Sammy, the whole deal.

‘And when I hang out my shingle, I’ll buy it back. You won’t put many miles on it, you’ll take good care of it, and it’ll be broken in for th’ practice.’

‘How would you get around?’

‘I want to buy a truck I just saw in Wesley. Used, but it’s a better vehicle for me. For one thing, I don’t need a crew cab and a long bed right now.’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘If you don’t like it, I’ll take it back and sell it to th’ guy who does grounds maintenance at school.’

One more thing to think about felt like one more thing too much.

‘I’ll run it through the wash in Wesley. Tires already kicked.’

They went out to the curb.

‘What about that scratch on the passenger door?’