Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

‘You’re in buyer’s mode, for sure. I’ll take care of that. A little touch-up with a paint stick.’

He opened the door, looked inside. Pretty clean, all things considered.

‘Take it around the block,’ said Dooley.

‘Why the straw bales in the bed?’

‘Goin’ to Meadowgate this afternoon, they’re fresh out of straw. I picked it up at th’ feed store in Wesley.’

He remembered bouncing around in the wagon with Louis in Holly Springs. The rutted farm roads, the smell of hay and horse sweat, the creek flashing in a hard summer sun . . .

‘Okay, I’ll do a quick test drive. How about Barnabas rides shotgun, and you and your crowd ride with Coot on the straw bales?’

‘Cool,’ said Dooley.

Coot was upstairs stuffing mouse holes with rags soaked in peppermint oil, a trick recommended in a Hint. He called up the stairs. ‘Coot! Let’s go have some fun that is funny!’

He had never used the sign so commonly employed by fellow merchants for a quick dash up the block. He turned it around to face the street.

Back in Fifteen Minutes

He was ready for a little wild liberty of his own.

•   •   •

HONKING. Playing country music—loud. Laughing. Waving. It was his early run-up to the Independence Day parade.

‘Country come to town!’ he hollered, rolling through the gas pump aisle at Lew’s.

They saw J.C. hoofing by the fire station, blew the horn. J.C. raised his camera, fired off a couple of shots. Avis threw up his hand. In the rearview mirror, he could see Coot, as excited as any country boy.

It felt good to make people happy, himself included, simply by tooling around in a truck full of kids and dogs.

•   •   •

BACK AT THE STORE, they hammered out the details. He would wire the money into Dooley’s account on Monday. Dooley would use the truck until tomorrow when the deal in Wesley was done.

‘Are you goin’ to buy it?’ asked Jessie.

‘You should buy it,’ said Pooh.

He put his arm around Sammy’s shoulder, not an easy thing to do with this tall kid.

‘Done deal,’ he said. ‘Sammy and I need a truck to get our rose garden finished. We’re going to build a stone wall.’ One way or another, come hell or high water.

‘Yay-y-y,’ said Jessie.

•   •   •

HE CALLED HOPE; Scott answered.

‘Bleeding again,’ said Scott. ‘Wilson’s coming over.’

‘What may I do?’

‘What you do best. Please.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘There’s good news,’ said Scott. ‘Hope’s sister, Louise, is moving back to Mitford in December. Her company is moving to Denver, so she’ll be running the store starting January first. I know you’re glad to hear it; you’ve had a long go at Happy Endings.’

‘I needed a long go. Louise is a lovely woman. I’m happy for all.’

‘There’s something more. We wanted to tell you earlier, Father . . . we’ve known since the first ultrasound, but . . . somehow, we were afraid to . . .’

The chaplain paused, cleared his throat. ‘It’s a girl!’

•   •   •

HE BUSIED HIMSELF WITH LOCATING the N for November banner and cleaning the coffee apparatus. He didn’t always know what to do when joy comingled with dread.

He tied a fresh bandanna around the neck of the Old Gentleman, as a kind of flag to heaven.

•   •   •

MOZART JOINED VOICES with Coot and Miss Mooney, hard at their task in the Poetry section.

The store phone. ‘Happy Endings! Good afternoon.’

‘Father Kavanagh?’

‘It is.’

‘Professor McCurdy was in to see you recently.’

A very professional-sounding woman.

‘Yes. And I hear the professor’s son, Hastings, is not well.’

‘He was admitted to Children’s Hospital at one o’clock today, his fever is a hundred and three.’ The caller’s voice wavered, she drew in her breath. ‘He’s very confused. Hastings is never confused. They say this is not a good thing.’

‘Is there a diagnosis?’

‘They believe it’s meningitis. Whether viral or bacterial, they don’t know. They’ve given him antibiotics and will go forward with a spinal tap.’ The hospital paging system sounding in the background. ‘This is all very serious, yet he’s on a gurney in the hallway. It’s a wonderful hospital, but the conditions . . .’

‘We hope to rectify this soon.’ What consolation was that? He disliked the sound of it.

‘Can you do something, please? I’m told you’re a longtime donor, could you get him into a room?’

‘I very much doubt it. I know the staff and trust them to do all they can for Hastings. There’s a shortage of beds . . .’

‘I don’t know any people of the cloth. I’ve read about you in the Muse. Would you . . . pray for Hastings?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘The professor is away. Do you think you might come to the hospital?’ He heard the urgency; the cool professionalism had gone.

‘I’m tied up until five. But I’ll come straight there.’

‘Should you see the professor again, please—don’t mention that we’ve spoken.’

‘You are Professor McCurdy’s . . . ?’

‘Wife.’

•   •   •

THE SLEEPING BOY APPEARED SMALLER still in the confines of the bed. The delicacy of the human eyelid had always astonished him—its silky thinness over such a vital organ; its bluish hue as pale as watercolor.

Hastings, it’s the one who lent you the Wordsworth, he might say when the boy woke up. But the Wordsworth had been a thorn. He sat by the bed and prayed.

Sharon McCurdy stood with her back to the wall, looking shocked and somewhat fierce. She was clearly uncomfortable with the priest, but wanted him there, nonetheless.

‘He’s a sweetie,’ said Nurse Robin. ‘We’re all thankful it’s not bacterial.’

Twice he’d been around the block with meningitis in young parishioners, both bacterial and far more serious.

He prayed from the heart for Hastings McCurdy, a boy who might have been himself at this age—reading in advance of his learning level, interested in the classics, and smaller in stature than other boys in his class. As for the outcome, he would most likely be released tomorrow or the next day.

‘Please sit,’ he said. Sharon McCurdy had earlier refused the chair and insisted he keep the closer watch.

‘I cannot,’ she said.

‘Does your husband know?’

‘I try not to trouble him. He’s at an important gathering of scholars.’

‘There’s an important scholar lying right here,’ he said.

She tossed her head. ‘There must be a room somewhere. All this rushing about in the hallway . . .’

‘I’ve watched them work many times over the years. All we’re missing here is three walls.’

‘I thought it was flu,’ she said, blaming herself. ‘And then the vomiting . . .’

‘Many similarities to flu when it presents.’

‘The spinal tap was hideously painful.’

‘Yes, but they know from the tap what to do.’

‘What can you do, Father?’ She was testy.

‘I’m praying.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘That’s a very good question. I often asked that in the early years of my calling. But yes, I believe it is fully enough. My common experience each and every day shows prayer to be fully enough.’

‘He could have some memory loss, they say. He knows so many wonderful things by heart. One of the poems in the book you lent, he was learning by memory.’

‘Which one, may I ask?’

She was close to tears. ‘“By the Seaside.” He asked me to define bemocked.’

She covered her face with her hands and turned to the wall.

The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest,

And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest . . .

•   •   •

THREE EMERGENCY ROOM ADMISSIONS and a funeral, all within a couple of weeks. While the stuff of life came in big batches for the full-time priest, the retiree was generally given the smaller batch. He certainly couldn’t complain of his modest handful, though a wedding in the mix would be a pleasant distraction.

He scrolled his emails.

Even communiqués from former parishioners occasionally arrived in batches. A kindhearted message from Sam and Marion Fieldwalker in Whitecap. Agnes from Holy Trinity had come online, albeit dial-up; wonders never ceasing! And there was Liam, though not a parishioner in the strict sense, sounding in from Sligo to say Bella had won an impressive award for her fiddling. There was no gathering of his parish under one roof—his flock was scattered from mountain to shore, and beyond to an emerald isle.

At the end, a message for which he had not waited with bated breath.

At the unheard of old rate

He took Barnabas out, then checked the stove (a habit said to be a sign of old age). As he was turning off the lamps in the study, he heard the message arrive in his computer in-box.

He had thought it would never end, and yet—it had ended.

He sat down in his desk chair, oddly bereft.

•   •   •

SHE UNDERSTOOD AT LAST why she had felt distant from the child beneath her heart. She had lived with an image of the trap her body was laying, and felt the guilt of it—all this shadowed by the sense of entrapment she’d once known, herself. In fearing the worst, she had missed months of happiness and intimations of joy.

Not days, not hours, but minutes, they had said. But not for everyone, only a few. She had been claiming as her own the tragedy of the certain few.

She turned her head on the pillow and searched the face of her sleeping husband. It was charted territory, this face she had been granted before the beginning of time. Their daughter must come into the world and know the benediction of her father’s deep tenderness—it was that simple.

She would choose happiness and, in the mysterious way of blood, share it with their daughter, beginning now.

Chapter Twenty-three

A cold rain began at first light on Monday, and showed no sign of abating. The heaters weren’t much help; they were painting with gloves on.

He and Sammy would work only a half-day, after which he’d run to the bookstore and put finishing touches on the N Sale.

They took a break and sat on opposite sides of a pew missing its end pieces. Sammy was digging into a bag of Cheetos; he was finishing a pack of raisins.

‘Thanks,’ said Sammy, not looking up.

It took a moment for this to sink in. ‘What for?’

‘Everything.’

Sammy rose abruptly, stuffed the bag in his pocket, and returned to putting a second coat of paint on the trellis.

•   •   •

‘OH, MY, not a soul stirring up here,’ said Hélène Pringle of her Tuesday vigil. ‘It’s the dismal weather, vous ne pensez pas? But Christmas is coming, Father, and things will pick up, I’m sure of it. I’ve a grand idea for December’s display window.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘I believe you do not have a D for December Sale?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So the window would be quite free for a live Saint Nicholas! Sitting in that wing chair, reading a book! Très charmant, oui?’

‘Live?’

‘Yes, people would stop and peer in to see if he’s real and then they would come in and—don’t you see?—buy books!’

‘Hélène, you’re a marketing genius. Can you get home safely this evening?’ He heard what he thought to be Grieg in the background.

‘Oui. I walked up in my good boots; I shall be warm as toast. And I did have a sale this morning. Mrs. McGraw ordered three books by phone, to be mailed to her grandson in Germany, it’s his birthday. I’ve sent them across to the post with Mr. Hendrick—he is very handy.’

‘So you’re happy selling books? The honeymoon isn’t over?’

‘Oh, no, and I’m listening to Peer Gynt. Do you care for Grieg? I always found him very agreeable.’

‘Good,’ he said, not caring for Grieg.

‘He died peacefully in his sleep,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad for him, he deserved that.’

If he were a better person, he might have asked how things were going with Sammy. But no—as far as that was concerned, he was staying in the tall grass.

•   •   •

BEFORE DARK, he was sent on an errand by his wife.

‘Mac and cheese,’ he said to an astonished Coot Hendrick, who came to the door.

The dish was still hot.

He loved flinging carbs around.

•   •   •

‘I’M PAINTING WITH IRENE tomorrow and Friday,’ Cynthia said over dinner. ‘The auction will be here before we know it.’

Each time the auction was mentioned, he felt the guilt he’d already thoroughly wallowed in. Quite likely there was some ego involved here—he had been a donor for nearly twenty years. Nothing extravagant, merely steady; they counted on him. But now he had nothing significant to give, nor any contribution to make to the auction.

He had gone about the house looking for a desirable donation, but there was nothing he could part with. He considered the elaborate needlepoint of a verse from Proverbs, worked by Nanny Howard, Blessed be the Lord who daily loadeth us with benefits. That would fetch a good sum from a needlework collector, but no, he had nothing to give, selfish man that he was. Perhaps Dooley and Lace would want it when . . . if . . .

Edith Mallory was the only person he knew with a serious profile for philanthropy. Why couldn’t he call her? He couldn’t, that’s all. Given their history and the crucifying injury to her brain—even considering that she was now a believer—he could not do it, though he occasionally stared at the phone with good intentions.

On the upside, Hastings was home; Nurse Robin had passed along a favorable report. He needed to come up with the perfect book for Hastings, but nothing from his own shelves, of course. All Creatures Great and Small would be commendable, or perhaps The Chronicles of Narnia. He must give his selection a good deal of thought and consult with Miss Mooney.

Petronius woke only about midday, and as usual, greatly wearied. The evening before he had been at one of Nero’s feasts, which was prolonged till late at night. For some time his health had been failing. He said himself that he woke up benumbed, as it were, and without power of collecting his thoughts . . .

At last, he was a bookseller reading a book. He would take it with him tomorrow to Happy Endings.

Cynthia busied herself with two trays of lemon squares for the swearing-in. Barnabas snored and their cats slept, as he settled into his chair by the fire and let the visceral power of Quo Vadis flow into a second reading of Henryk Sienkiewicz’s novel set during the reign of Nero.

•   •   •

THERE THEY WERE on the front page, a bunch of hillbillies out for a joyride in a pickup truck—Barnabas hanging his head out the window after the fashion of dogs in trucks, and a number of arms wagging from the truck bed. Photo credit: J. C. Hogan.

Can you Spot Our Leading Citizen In This Picture??

Yes, that is Father Tim, our Leading Citizen, driving his new pickup truck (an older model, but new to him)! Riding upfront is Barnabas, his Irish wolfhound/Bouvier (JCH check splng) mix, and Dooley Kavanagh, Sammy Barlowe, Pooh Leeper, Jessie Leeper, Coot Hendrick (a Leading Citizen semi-finalist!) and Bouncer, a sort of corgi like the Queen is crazy about or maybe a dachshund >>

‘We were just having fun,’ said Father Tim Kavanagh, who received 236 votes!

Are you having fun? We hope so. Life is short, right?

cONGRATUlations to Father Tim Kavanagh!!!

Following this journalistic debacle, in which he was quoted as saying something he had never said, was a twenty-year-old photo taken soon after he came to Mitford, in which he had no wrinkles, no wattle, no bifocals, and considerably more hair. This piece named him the winner of what was to be an annual contest, herein called ‘an election by the People and for the People.’ He learned that he was to claim his prize of a free top-of-the-line spray tan treatment by December 15, or forfeit the prize.

A Revolution On Mitford’s Main Street!!

He scanned the piece.

“. . . cost between ‘$100k and $200k.” The tanning solution “made from beet juice and walnut extract.” Amazing. Blah, blah.

“You could watch a video except they lost the video in the move from Bristol. “You do NOT need to watch a video to have a successful spray tan experience,” says Fancy Skinner, who is wearing Tan Number 74 or the Palm Beach. Number 74 is somewhat darker than the West Palm Beach but . . . blah, blah, blah . . . a total revolution . . .

Interviews with spray tan customers. “You just go in and take your clothes off and press the green button,” says Ms. Esther Bolick, “and after you get sprayed,, a machine blows you dry.”

“When asked how the experience made her feel, Ms. Bolick said, “It made me want to go shopping.”

Esther Cunningham Returns Home Yayyyy!

Here was a photo, obviously vintage, of Esther with a beehive hairdo and an astonishing resemblance to Carol Burnett back in the day.

Former Mitford mayor Esther Cunningham returns home this afternoon from Charlotte where she was outfitted with not one but TWO stenTs!^&

She is also recovering from pneumonia and will need a lot of rest so back off, people and let her GET WELL SOOn.

If you send flowers remember Ms Cunningham CANNOT tolerate lilies unless you cut the stamens off. BTW stamens can be harmful to cats did you know that? So cut them off no matter what OK? It is actually the anthers not the stamens but the anthers are ON the stamens. Use scissors or take a vacuum cleaner upholstery brush and suck up the anthers. This is hard to describe so call me if you have to,—7615, Ext. #3.

‘Hello, Vanita?’

‘Hey! Congratulations, Father! People are so glad you won! I’ll bring you a ribbon kind of thing to wear. I hope you’ll wear it proudly!’

‘I see I was quoted as saying we were out having fun—in the truck. Did I say that?’

‘Mr. Hogan said that if he was you, which he isn’t, that’s what he would say.’

‘So Mr. Hogan spoke for me, correct?’

‘Yessir, he did.’

‘Aha. Well. And nice job, Vanita.’

‘Oh, thanks. I really appreciate that, comin’ from you.’

‘Keep up the good work,’ he said.

Then there was the Hint, titled ‘Deodorizing Woolens.’ He tried to read it, but couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

•   •   •

‘IT’S NOT TRANSFERABLE,’ said Shirlene. ‘But if Homer is really cute, like you say, it might be transferable.’

‘Blackmail, Shirlene.’

‘Okay, okay, it’s transferable. Who do you want to transfer it to?’

‘Let me get back to you on that.’

•   •   •

RAY CUNNINGHAM, the very personification of hail-fellow-well-met, was looking frayed.

‘I’m meetin’ two of my girls here in a little bit an’ drivin’ to Charlotte to bring Esther home.’

‘Great, wonderful. I hear she’s doing well.’

‘I was down there with her a few days. It was tough.’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘We nearly lost her.’ Ray looked away, cleared his throat. ‘Pneumonia, stroke, blocked artery—a cluster, is what they called it. She’s not herself, Father. Nossir, it’s not Esther talkin’. She said tell you she’s not runnin’ again.’

‘Doctor’s orders?’

‘Just says she’s over that mess. Wants to go on th’ trip out West, like we planned. Says she looks forward to smokin’ that peace pipe with th’ Indians.’

‘A change of heart!’

‘She won’t inhale, though.’

‘No.’

‘Says it’s very generous that they’d sit down with us, much less pass th’ pipe.’

‘I’ll drop by as soon as she’s up to it. What’s the prognosis?’

‘Doctors say she’ll be fine. Built like th’ Titanic, one said; which would’ve been okay if wadn’t for th’ iceberg.’ Ray looked dazed. ‘I was gon’ make baby backs for her homecomin’ but the doc says glazed carrots, green peas, like that—no more baby backs. Glazed carrots. I don’t know nothin’ ’bout glazin’ a carrot.’

•   •   •

VANITA DELIVERED THE RIBBON KIND OF THING. A discreet navy blue with a metal medallion inscribed MLC.

‘Mitford’s Leading Citizen,’ she said. ‘You will pass it on next year to your successor.’

She begged him to wear it. He said he would, but not twenty-four/seven.

•   •   •

ABE POPPED HIS HEAD IN. ‘Mazel tov!’

On his way to a real estate closing, Mule dropped by to offer felicitations. ‘I voted for you,’ said Mule. ‘And I think Shirlene did, but I don’t know about Fancy.’

The Collar Button man stopped in for a handshake, perfuming the place with pipe smoke, not a bad thing.

His wife sent flowers from Mitford Blossoms. Calla lilies, anthers and all, which gave the sales counter a certain distinction.

At four-thirty, Esther Bolick plopped her cake carrier on the counter.

‘Congratulations,’ she said, sour as a pickle.

‘Thank you.’

‘Sick people are workin’ me to death, two of my book club members are sick as cats, not to mention Miz Hendrick’s funeral.’

‘Why, Esther Bolick. Baking this impossibly difficult and extraordinary cake is your passion. This is your life’s mission. Think about it—the merest sight of you with this cake carrier lifts the human spirit.’

‘At forty-five bucks a pop, I could be a lot happier doin’ somethin’ else for th’ human spirit.’

He looked her in the eye. ‘You can’t fool me.’

Esther burst into laughter. ‘I never could. Gene used to say to me, You can’t fool th’ father.’

‘Does that mean you tried?’

They had a laugh.

‘So Ray’s gone to Charlotte with two of his girls to fetch Esther,’ he said. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

‘Deliver it to th’ Cunninghams this evenin’, if you don’t mind.’

‘Can’t you deliver it to the Cunninghams?’

‘I cannot. I’m goin’ down th’ mountain here in a minute to spend the night with a friend, and tomorrow I am finally goin’ shoppin’. I am truly goin’ to shop ’til I drop, I have not bought a stitch since Gene passed. Two dresses, if I can find a dress in this pagan world. New shoes, one pair with two-inch heels to be worn only when sittin’ down. And a hat.’

‘You don’t wear hats. I have never seen you in a hat.’

‘You most certainly have seen me in a hat,’ she said. ‘I wore a hat to your wedding, don’t you remember? Besides, times change, Father; people change. Not everybody is stuck in their ways. Don’t you know that?’

•   •   •

‘CONGRATULATIONS,’ said Puny, who dropped by soon after he arrived home. ‘I voted for you three times an’ th’ girls voted for you six times.’

‘People could vote more than once?’

‘There weren’t any rules in that contest, which is my kind of contest. An’ take this with you, if you don’t mind.’

She handed him a large bowl with a snap-on lid of a smiley face.

‘What is it?’

‘Potato salad for Mamaw Cunningham.’

‘How did you know I was going over there?’

‘I saw Esther Bolick pumpin’ gas at Lew’s, she said you were takin’ her OMC over this evenin’.’

‘What am I, the new food service in town? Why can’t you take it over?’

‘I’m goin’ to a PTA meetin’ that will last ’til eight o’clock. Then I have to finish bakin’ for th’ swearin’-in. Plus I’d like to run up a set of curtains for Joe Joe’s new office.’

‘Curtains in the police chief’s office?’

‘They’re not tiebacks.’

‘Anyway, Esther cannot have this potato salad.’

‘Who says?’

‘Her doctor. It contains mayonnaise and bacon. Esther is on a diet of glazed carrots.’

Puny was thunderstruck. ‘Glazed carrots?’

‘Have you ever glazed a carrot?’

‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’

‘Puny, Puny. Would I kid you?’

•   •   •

SINCE HE WASN’T RUNNING these days, he was determined to walk to the Cunninghams’. His wife wanted to drive him up, but no, he could do this.

‘Well, then, I’m slipping something in your jacket pocket, okay? My editor sent chocolate truffles today; I’m sharing two with Esther. Try not to mash them.’

And there he went, a pack mule in a fleece hoodie, into the winter gloom.

•   •   •

HE ARRIVED AT THE CUNNINGHAMS’ at six-thirty, feeling grumpy. Kavanagh’s Schlep and Haul. Ray was overjoyed with the provender, though the entire delivery was a no-no in the new diet plan.

‘We’re happy to have you home,’ he told Esther, who was sitting in a wing chair in the Cunningham den.

‘The girls took my recliner and stuck it in the fur . . . r . . . nace room, can you believe it? They said a new study shows older people spend too . . . o . . . . o much time in their recliners and lose th’ use of their legs! Too . . . o . . . k it right out from under me, and Ray Cunnin’ham did nothin’ to stop it.’

‘I’m tryin’ to look after you, Sugar.’

She gave her husband a dark look. ‘Just wa . . . ait’ll they haul yours out of here!’

He removed his jacket, made himself at home. ‘Did you see the piece in the Muse about your homecoming?’

‘I’m too doped up to read. What else is goin’ on?’

He felt like a schoolboy reporting to the principal. ‘We got the bag down!’

‘What bag?’

‘The plastic bag that drove you nuts. On the awning at the Woolen Shop.’

‘Why’d you bother yourself with such aggravation? Don’t you have more important things to do . . . o . . . o?’

‘Esther, you asked me to do it.’

‘I was pre-stroke, Father, pre-stroke. I don’t care if th’ blo . . . o . . . oomin’ thing hangs there ’til th’ cows come home.’

‘Really!’

‘A nuisance, all of it. Let this town run itself. I always thought I was runnin’ it, but it was r . . . r . . . runnin’ me. I’m done.’

‘I’ve heard that before.’

Esther gave him one of her rare smiles, she was practically beaming. ‘This time I mean it. If I ever say I’m goin’ to run for office again, you can have me committed. Send me straight to Br . . . r . . . oughton.’

‘So, would you ride with me in the parade next July?’

‘Is th’ Pope Ca . . . a . . . ath’lic?’ she said.

•   •   •

HIS WIFE ENCOURAGED HIM to wear the ribbon thing, which he did. ‘The dignitaries will be there!’ she said, pinning it on his lapel. She took a picture with her cell phone, thoroughly amusing herself.

It was a spread fit for a tent meeting.

Ray Cunningham indicated the two tables, fully loaded. ‘Right there is what fuels this town. Premium high-test octane.’

He eyed the vast bowl of Snickers bars. There was hardly a bite in view that he could put on his blue-for-MPD paper plate. Given his morning blood sugar reading, he couldn’t drink the sweet tea or the hot cider or have even a forkful of his wife’s lemon squares. He took a cheese wafer and a bottled water.

‘Lord help,’ said Avette Harris, scornful of such meager refreshment.

He considered the swarm of notables.

Chief Hamp Floyd of the Mitford Fire Department, known also as the Worm. Mayor Gregory and his gorgeous Italian wife who not-so-vaguely resembled the actress whose name he couldn’t remember, the one who said she owed it all to pasta.

Lew Boyd and his Tennessee bride, Earlene, who allowed that the swearing-in was, as her grandmother would have said, ‘more fun than a corn-shuckin’.’

His buddy Bill Sprouse, of First Baptist. Percy and Velma Mosely, former proprietors of the Main Street Grill, wearing natural tans with no walnut extract called for.

Two stray dogs foraged through the crowd.

Chief Guthrie’s mother, Marcie, in a mother-of-the-bride lace dress with corsage, attended on every side by Guthrie and Cunningham kin as numerous as Abraham’s stars. And over there was Abe Edelman with his wife, Sylvia, and here was his old friend Buck . . .

‘Buck!’ He loved this big guy who, in a drunken rage, had once thrown a couple of chairs at him but was now as peaceable as the proverbial lamb.

‘Lord bless you, Father. And congratulations.’

An embrace, hard and warm, from the man married to Dooley’s mother. He and Buck had gone down the mountain a couple of years ago, following an elusive trail that led to Sammy.

‘Feeling better?’

‘A whole lot, but now Pauline has whatever it was. How’s Sammy?’

‘He’s . . . all right.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Maybe take him to the construction site with you one day. He has a curious mind, and is pretty savvy about the way things work.’

‘I’d like to do that. An’ Kenny?’

‘A wonderful young man. We’ll miss him greatly when he leaves in January.’ A Barlowe gained, only to be lost—though not for good, as it once seemed.

Buck nodded, sobered by the way of things.

‘Time,’ he said to Buck. ‘It does heal.’

And there was Doc Wilson in his running gear, and J.C. with his Nikon and fancy photographer’s jacket, and Olivia Harper talking with Cynthia, who was decked out in a dress the color of cornflowers.

Across the room, Tad Sherrill, Betty Craig, Puny brushing something off the lapel of the chief’s new uniform, the rowdy crew from the waterworks, Ron Malcolm, Mule and Fancy, Coot in what appeared to be overalls ironed with a crease in the pant legs . . .

Captain Hogan tucked her thumbs in her gun belt and surveyed the room. ‘It’d be a great time for somebody to come in an’ rob th’ town.’

And there went Sissy and Sassy pushing Timmy and Tommy in an all-terrain vehicle resembling a double stroller, and here was Shirlene in a caftan picturing indigenous tribes in a rain forest, with parrots.

It was as good as a coronation.

•   •   •

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, he glanced out to the deck to see whether he’d put the cover back on the gas grill.

Sammy was sitting on the top step, holding Truman. Sammy’s back was to the door, but he could see the boy’s face in partial profile. Sam was talking to the black-and-white kitten and stroking its head and saying something.

He went to the study, where Cynthia was lying on the sofa, eyes closed.

‘Are you awake, Kav’na?’

‘Just resting my eyes.’

‘Let’s invite Sammy and Kenny and Harley over for burgers and pool this evening. What do you think?’

She smiled, eyes still closed.

‘So amazing. Puny was going to make chili tomorrow, so we have two pounds of Avis’s best. And I just bought a head of cabbage for coleslaw.’

The little miracles. Those were the ones to watch for in this life.

‘I’ll chop!’ he said.

•   •   •

‘I AIN’T NEVER F-FIRED UP A GRILL,’ said Sammy, who proceeded to fire up the grill, as demonstrated.

‘What if I burn th’ burgers?’

‘Not allowed. Besides, I’ll be standing right here; I won’t let it happen.’

‘Okay, what next?’

‘Next we wash our hands.’

They shared the deep sink in the garage, one of the relics installed by Cynthia’s deceased Uncle Joe Hadleigh. Very handy for a man who changed his own motor oil, which yours truly never did.

‘You might want to use more soap,’ he said.

This would be 101 all the way. He was pretty excited.

They went to the kitchen, where the goods were laid out—spatula, room-temperature ground beef on a platter, salt grinder, pepper grinder, sliced cheddar, et al.

‘Number one,’ he said, ‘is to start with beef that’s eighty-five percent lean. Any leaner than that, the burgers are dry. Avis grinds it coarse for us, not fine. A fine grind can get a little soft and fall apart on the grill. So, eighty-five percent lean, coarse grind. Next thing is, we’re not going to handle the meat too much.’

He ground salt and pepper, lightly worked it into the meat, scooped a handful, and slapped it into shape. ‘Give it a try.’

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