Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

$3,000,000 Kim and Irene

500,000 Edith

100.00 rubber plant

Including the spray tan certificate, which might go for twenty bucks:

$3,500,120.00

Not bad for openers.

•   •   •

IT WAS HARD TO SETTLE DOWN; he was flying, and it wasn’t caffeine. This was a Christmas unlike any he’d ever known. So many gifts, a shower of gifts.

God was near, and he was all fingers. Still, he would wrap this one himself. When he started in the bookstore, Scott had paid for a book to be given away. He had prayed about that.

He scribed a greeting on one of the few remaining gift labels.

Merry Christmas To

Coot

From Your Friends

At Happy Endings

•   •   •

TO GET THE TRAIL PROJECT MOVING, he would need help with the details. Who would make the signs? They would want three estimates. What did they have to do to get council approval? There would be a good bit of bureaucratic hemming and hawing about the project. Where would they source litter bins and benches? There would be work to do on the Internet . . .

He had talked to Cynthia about his idea.

‘Be specific,’ was her advice.

He called from the store. ‘Emma! Merry Christmas!’ He was certifiably crazy.

‘Merry Christmas! Who’s this?’

‘How quickly you forget.’

‘Father Tim! I’ll be et f’r a tater,’ she said, quoting Uncle Billy. ‘I’ve been checkin’ th’ obits to see if you’re in there. I can’t believe th’ story in th’ paper, you must be over th’ moon.’

‘And then some. Can hardly believe it myself. How’s your Tuesday going?’

‘South,’ she said. ‘My employer is movin’ to Florida.’

‘I’m gearing up for a project. How about four hours, eight to twelve on Tuesdays, starting the second week of January, with a possible cutoff at the end of March?’

Did he deserve her numerous skills? Should she play hard to get and show him what’s what? He could hear her wheels turning.

‘I thought you’d never ask!’ she said. ‘Are you at th’ store?’

‘I am.’

‘Are you wearin’ boots?’

‘I am.’

‘Good. It’s comin’ down out there. Do you have a hat?’

‘Of course.’

‘When you walk home, wear th’ hat, th’ temperature’s droppin’.’

•   •   •

‘I HAD SOMETHING to pick up at the Local. I should be on my way home, but I couldn’t go without thanking you. There’s just no time to say what I need to say. Our driveway is terrible in bad weather.’ Sharon McCurdy was mildly breathless, distraught.

‘You prayed and Hastings is completely fine. Is that a coincidence? I need to know this.’

‘I can’t say that I have any confidence in coincidence. I have confidence that God is with us in all things, both tender and tough.’

She glanced out to the street. ‘I must hurry. It drives me crazy that God, if there is one, doesn’t allow himself to be seen. It seems all smoke and mirrors, a fabrication of the silliest sort. How are we supposed to believe?’

‘“All that I have seen,” Mr. Emerson said and I say with him, “teaches me to trust the Creator for all that I have not seen.”’

‘I don’t know. All these years and I don’t know. How does one pray? If I don’t believe in God, why would I pray? And yet I feel a great need to pray. About . . . something. Many things. Would God hear me? Must I believe to be heard? What would I say?’

‘You would say whatever is in your heart.’

‘I can’t imagine that. It’s frightening to even think it. You’re saying, just . . . whatever?’

‘When Hastings cries out to you, the door of your heart opens, just as prayer opens God’s heart to us. There’s a sense in which the questions you’re asking are themselves a kind of prayer.’

‘I cannot speak to God, it seems a sham. Why would he respond to what is shallow and forced?’

‘God answers all our heartfelt petitions. He may answer no, or yes, or wait, or maybe. Yet there’s one prayer for which he has only one answer, and the answer is yes.’

‘Tell me,’ she said, sharp.

‘Thy will be done.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it. There is a caveat.’

‘There is always a caveat,’ she said, bitter.

‘One must pray it with a surrendered heart.’

She turned away from him, covered her face with her hand. ‘My God.’

He was concerned for her, for the snow coming hard on their mountain roads . . .

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea and see you on your way.’

‘There’s no time to think, to ask the right questions,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There’s never enough time for anything, ever.’

He went at once to the coffee station and she followed.

‘I’ll pray for you,’ he said.

‘Pray for me now,’ she said. ‘Now! No one has ever prayed for me. Pray for Hastings, pray for my husband, who has Parkinson’s. My God, pray for this crazy world, for the mess we’re making of it.’

He switched on the kettle, and they went to the Poetry section and stood by a bookcase and he held forth his hands and she let him clasp her own.

‘Lord, for the longing of Sharon McCurdy’s heart and for her safety on these roads, for Professor McCurdy and the longings of his own heart, for the well-being of the bright and gifted Hastings and his rich curiosity, and yes, Lord, for the mess we’re making of your inexpressible beauty, we ask one thing: Thy will be done. Thank you for your boundless grace, for your unconditional love, for your mighty power to heal. And thank you for making yourself present to Sharon in a way she is fully able to receive with joy. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

She was weeping.

‘When I speak of God’s will, it helps to know that he wants the best for us. If you can’t believe he’s there, pray anyway. If you feel he’s cheap and withholding, thank him anyway. There will come a time when you’ll thank him even for the hard places.’

‘Perhaps somewhere I have the smallest bit of faith,’ she said, ‘something left over from my childhood. But it’s almost nothing, not enough . . .’

‘If you yield it up, God will make it enough.’

He put the tea bag in a to-go cup and poured hot water from the kettle.

She wiped her eyes with a paper napkin and composed herself. ‘Two sugars,’ she said.

•   •   •

HE WALKED HOME, the snow falling thickly. Louise had stopped in for a quick tutorial and he had done a mite of housekeeping, thus the bank had closed before he could get there. He would make the deposit after Christmas.

‘You’re our miracle on Main Street,’ Hope had said. ‘We’re up twenty-seven percent over last year.’

Twenty-seven percent. Above all they could ask or think, a dream more than fulfilled. Indeed, the whole experience seemed a dream.

Another chapter had already begun. He wanted to see this present moment as clearly as possible—the procession of lighted angels wearing crowns of snow, an old Jeep moving along the street, slow as a dirge, the gnashing sounds of machinery plowing along Main.

He was grateful for his fleece-lined jacket with the hood, and the warmth of his mortal flesh. He walked faster, head bowed into the flurry.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you . . .’ he whispered into the gathered dark. His breath was vapor on the mountain air.

Chapter Thirty

Mark my words,’ said the weatherman on the six o’clock news. ‘It’ll be over around seven.’

Viewers marked his words but it wasn’t over. By the end of the newscast, the precip had piled up to seven-plus inches, and was still coming down.

He and Cynthia would not attend midnight mass in Wesley. And very likely wouldn’t make it out to Meadowgate tomorrow.

Because he had for years celebrated a mass, and often two, on Christmas Eve, he was never able to figure the best time to open gifts. Exhausted both on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning by the second-busiest season of the church calendar, he considered it a toss-up. Christmas Eve was certainly Nanny Howard’s preferred time. ‘While the house is still warm!’ she always said.

This year, they decided to do a little of both—open one present each tonight, and in the morning, all the rest. He was plenty curious about Sammy’s gift in its simple wrap of newspaper and recycled ribbon, and eager to open his first Christmas present from his brother, to whom he’d sent a rare edition of the work of Henry’s first poet hero, Dunbar.

In the meantime, there was the big box from Cynthia with his name on it, and the gifts from Dooley and Lace . . .

He pulled on his snow boots. He would blaze a trail for his dog to the bed where their tulip bulbs lay dreaming. ‘Deep in their roots,’ Roethke had said, ‘all flowers keep the light.’

When he stepped out with Barnabas, he stuck in a yardstick. A little over eight inches. Definitely above his ankles and still coming down.

He imagined Hamp Floyd, hunkered behind his house with his own yardstick. This was serious business for the Worm.

‘It’s plenty deep,’ he said, stomping snow onto the mat inside the door.

‘We’re going,’ she said.

‘You’re sure about this?’

‘We’re going. How could we not?’

How could they not?

Harley rang. ‘Don’t you worry, Rev’ren’. We gon’ have you shoveled out to th’ street in plenty of time. You sure you don’t want to take y’r truck?’

‘Nossir,’ he said, ‘we’re traveling up by camel.’

•   •   •

SHE HAD SET a small table in the study, where they could have dinner and see the tree strung with colored lights and ornaments of mixed vintage.

They were leaving the sign, DO NOT OPEN TIL CHRISTMAS, on the cat door. If Truman went out in this, they might not find him ’til the spring thaw.

Before dinner, she took the box from under the tree and presented it to him.

‘It was going to arrive in January, but here it is by some miracle I won’t even attempt to understand. Please try it on, I’m dying to see you in it.’

‘Is this what I was measured for?’ He was mildly dubious.

‘It is,’ she said. ‘Please, honey.’

He tried it on.

A perfect fit. Already hemmed and ready to roll. He was vainer than he imagined. He stood looking in the mirror in their bedroom with a kind of delicious astonishment. He wasn’t so fat. He wasn’t so abbreviated in height. He even appeared to have more hair.

He wore the tuxedo, cummerbund, bow tie, the works, as they sat by the fire having a glass of champagne. She was in what she called her New Darling, the rather grand replacement robe for the one left behind in Ireland for cleaning rags.

‘You’re gorgeous,’ she said.

He believed her. He couldn’t help himself.

Then he read aloud the letter Puny had found, and they agreed that the timing couldn’t have been better:

I once dreamed, but never truly imagined, that I would one day salute someone as “wife.” It is a designation of the greatest virtue, and though a simple word, has deep and complex meaning.

As for the complex, you are nearly an entire family to me. Wife, mother, sister, child, and that bewildering cousin, daughter of Aunt Lily, who astounded us with her brains and ingenuity. She was after doing more than climbing a tree, she wanted a watchtower built among its topmost branches. This task she assigned to Louis and me and we were gravely honored to do it, though at risk of life and limb. Like you, Nealey could whistle loud enough to pierce the eardrums and was actually the first female I ever perceived to be truly sexy. You are the second.

It is surely a tough go being almost an entire family to someone who has but one living cousin, a son, and a brother six hundred miles distant. I congratulate you. The astonishing thing is, you make this superhuman feat appear effortless.

I have searched for a more profound way to speak my admiration for your courage in spending the rest of your life with me. I will continue the search and get back to you.

In the meantime, beloved, just this—

You are the very best—to say the very least.

Bookends forever.

A viro tuo adorante

Following her traditional Christmas dinner of oyster pie, they enjoyed two treats verboten at this hour: coffee and chocolate. Tonight, caffeine had a practical virtue—it would keep them awake for their journey to the manger.

They were in the bedroom, changing into snow clothes, when the phone rang.

‘Hey, buddy! Merry Christmas!’

‘Hey, Dad.’

Dooley’s breathing seemed rapid, as if he were just in from a run.

‘Sorry to call so late.’

‘Not so late at all. We’re headed up the street in a few minutes.’

‘I have somethin’ to tell you. We were going to tell you tomorrow, but the weather . . .’

‘Right. We won’t see you tomorrow, but we’ll have Sammy and Kenny over for a good meal. I’m all ears.’

‘It’s not a friendship ring.’

There went the breath out of him.

‘I mean, it is, but it’s really . . . you know.’

‘Don’t make me say it, son. You say it.’

‘It’s an engagement ring. It’s done. I swear to God, I love her, it’s done. I couldn’t take it anymore.’ Dooley laughing. ‘Man!’

‘Let me put you on speakerphone.’

‘No, no, please. Whoa. You tell Cynthia. I’ll tell Sammy and Kenny and Harley tomorrow. Gotta go, Dad, see you later. We love y’all. Pray for us.’

He stood with the cordless in his hand.

She walked in from the bathroom. ‘Who was that?’

‘It’s not a friendship ring,’ he said.

They burst into laughter that went on for some time. They hugged, he whooped, she whistled like Nealey. Downstairs, Barnabas barked. His dog had just passed a hearing test with flying colors.

‘An engagement party!’ she said. ‘Maybe spring break. Olivia and I could do it together, what do you think?’

‘Make me a list. Will work for food.’

He wouldn’t say anything now, but he was thinking of the rose garden for the wedding. June, of course. The low stone wall. And they would need an arch. Seven Sisters would be the perfect climber. In four or five years, a sight to behold . . .

While she finished dressing, he imagined telling everyone who would listen.

‘Fill ’er up,’ he would say to Lew. ‘Dooley’s engaged.’

‘To that good-lookin’ girl of Doc Harper’s with th’ long legs? Drives th’ BMW?’

‘That very one.’

‘Ol’ Dooley, he’s th’ man,’ Lew would say.

And Mule. ‘Th’ Dooley that used to wear overalls an’ had a way of expressin’ himself?’

‘That Dooley, yes.’

High five. Mule would pass the word to J.C.

‘If Esther is still on this earth,’ Winnie might say, ‘she will definitely want to bake th’ cake. I hate that, but such is life. Congratulations, and have a brownie—just one won’t hurt.’

‘Mazel tov!’ Abe would say. ‘May you live to finance the education of your grandchildren!’ That would be a stretch, but he enjoyed the thought.

He imagined the look on Hope’s face, Hope who loved romance both in truth and fiction. ‘Life goes on in such a wonderful way!’

Esther B. would no doubt be thrilled.

‘Don’t even think of lettin’ anybody else bake th’ cake,’ she would say.

‘He has to get through vet school first, Esther. The wedding could be a few years out.’

‘I could be dead as a doornail a few years out. Let Winnie bake it, then, but tell her not so much buttermilk as th’ one she did for th’ Bradshaws’ fiftieth.’

He could hardly wait to get the news out there.

•   •   •

HE HAD THE KEY in his pocket and the box in a basket.

They were close to heading out to the sidewalk to meet Sammy when the phone rang.

Lace’s cell. He handed the phone to Cynthia and went searching in the hall closet for his warmest scarf. He fumbled around without finding the scarf, but fished out a far better hat.

‘They’re so happy!’ Cynthia came along the hall with a report. Killer blue eyes, his wife.

‘She says they’ve worked long and hard to make this important decision and they’re still a bit fragile. She says they need to get used to knowing instead of wondering. No engagement party—not anytime soon, anyway.’

‘I understand that.’ He put on the old black hat, pulled it down as far as it would ride.

‘And we don’t need to tell anyone yet.’

‘Aha.’

She buttoned her coat. ‘She said they’re thinking about a wedding after his first four years of vet school. A long time to wait for a great hurrah.’

‘I agree.’

‘That’s how long I might have waited,’ she said, ‘if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands.’

‘Say on, Kav’na.’

She squashed a knit cap on her head. ‘She said if we wanted to do something around the time of the wedding . . .’

‘Absolutely. Of course. Marching bands, elephants . . .’

‘And llamas! They hope to be raising their own flock,’ she said, brightening at the thought. ‘They have such lovely eyelashes, llamas!’

•   •   •

OVERSEEN BY THE HEAVENLY HOST, the three Magi proceeded up the plowed street and let themselves into the darkened store.

They moved the camel close to the stable, along with two angels and the wise men—one kneeling, two bowing—and at midnight, the crèche was complete.

Cynthia laid the babe on the straw in the manger. ‘“Love came down at Christmas . . .”’

‘“Love all lovely, love divine,”’ he said, quoting the lyrics of the hymn by Christina Rossetti.

‘“Love was born at Christmas . . .”’ she said.

Sammy looked at his scrap of paper. ‘“Star an’ angels g-gave th’ sign.”’

When they glanced up, they were astounded to see a young family looking in, noses to the glass, and the father giving a thumbs-up. Someone else had come, possibly from afar, to visit the manger.

They had been in the store a day or two ago, they said, and the children had begged to come back for the child to be born.

Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, he did a little of both. It wasn’t every day that a parson got payback.

•   •   •

IT WAS LATE, but not too late. The round-trip in the snow had energized him, not to mention the coffee and chocolate. He sat at his desk and wrote Henry Talbot.

Dear Henry,

A blessed Christmastide to you. Am grateful to know of your whereabouts—please keep in touch. Here are the few words I prayed with a searching and repentant heart:

Thank you, God, for loving me and for sending your Son to die for my sins. I sincerely repent of my sins and receive Christ as my personal savior. Now as your child, I turn my entire life over to you.

Everything to gain and nothing to lose, my brother.

With love in Him Who loved us first,

Timothy

•   •   •

THE SNOW CONTINUED INTO THE NIGHT.

It undid the work of the snowplows and, in the wind that kicked up, laid a sixteen-foot drift against the north side of Happy Endings. It piled itself on the benches along Main Street, and covered Baxter Park so completely that it appeared as a white lake ringed by snow-burdened trees.

Something went haywire with the loudspeaker system at Town Hall and throughout the night, music played over the meadows of snow that were streets and parking lots on other days. ‘Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars . . .’

During a number by Bing Crosby, two deer paused briefly in front of the Feel Good and moved on, plowing south. Though big cities never sleep, little towns do, and no one was out to see the brilliance of the snow blanket reflected in the eastern sky.

Four miles from town, at a spot where two major creeks converge, a light still shone in the window of a house with a fallen chicken coop at the rear and a neglected lot where a pony once grazed.

Coot Hendrick was starting to read his Christmas book all over again. It was a book he literally could not put down.

‘Mama,’ he said, ‘listen to this.’

He knew his mama wadn’t over in th’ bed, not a’tall, but he liked to think she was, for it helped to have somebody to read to.

‘“I . . . am . . . Sam.

‘“I am Sam!

‘“Sam . . . I . . . am . . .”’

In this book, he was gettin’ to be Sam and see what somebody named Sam was up to. He’d been a crazy cat in a hat, and here lately he’d been ol’ Saint Nick, hisself, with all manner of people trailin’ after him and askin’ questions, and now, just as he was ready to be Coot again, they give him this book for a present an’ he was gettin’ to be Sam. That was his favorite thing about books—they took you off to other people’s lives an’ places, but you could still set in your own chair by th’ oil heater, warm as a mouse in a churn.

•   •   •

HAMP FLOYD GOT OUT of a warm bed at four a.m., trying not to disturb his wife. He could feel it in his bones: his prediction this year was off, way off. He pulled on his socks, which he kept rolled up under the covers in case of a fire alarm, and padded into the kitchen and took his yardstick from the corner by the door. He slipped his sock feet into his old galoshes, which were cold as two trays of ice, and switched on the porch light and stepped out.

He counted the back steps. Two were missing, buried beneath the snow—he didn’t have to put the stick in to know he had predicted wrong. Plus he’d said tomorrow afternoon was the cutoff, and here the precip had already shut down, so he was off on th’ whole deal. He gazed up to the sky, which was clearing to reveal a waxing moon. He looked out to the white field behind his house which reflected light into the untroubled heavens. He listened to the muffled silence that comes only with snow, and then a dog barking somewhere.

Bein’ right was good, no two ways about it, but bein’ alive was better.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and went in the house without knowing exactly how far off his prediction had been, and crawled back in bed and put his arm around his wife and woke her up, which he figured was as fine a consolation as any man could wish for.

At six a.m., the TV weatherman admitted that he was only human. Fifteen inches of powder lay solemnly over the town and in the valley, and upon the ancient ridges to the west.

•   •   •

WHILE BUILDING THE FIRE on Christmas morning, he came across an old copy of the Muse.

Does Mitford Still Take Care of Its Own?

He tore off the cover page and folded and twisted it and struck a match and the page caught fire and he warmed the flue with its slight heat. Then he touched the blaze to the paper beneath the kindling, and the whole question of whether people are sufficiently kind to one another went up in smoke and flame. He thought they had stumbled, but not fallen; the town had answered the query in the affirmative, and Vanita was to be thanked for asking.

Truman rubbed against his leg. Violet peered down at such nonsense from the throne of Cynthia’s wing chair. Barnabas gave a small yelp in his sleep.

His wife would be late to rise, and he would be early to start the roast in the slow cooker. In the afternoon they would gather in the study for a family service with Sammy and Kenny, whose flight home was delayed, then they’d break bread together at the kitchen counter.

Their celebration would be simple but good, quiet but merry, and afterward, all the pool Sammy and Kenny and Harley could shoot.

He stood away from the fireplace and glanced up to the portrait. The wisdom of the T-shirt might well be scribed over the mantel of every household.

Love is an act of endless forgiveness

He looked into the eyes of the subject. The painter had captured something steady and resolved; something wise and believing.

Dooley was their hope—a door opening to all that could be healing and genuine.

‘Take it from here, buddy,’ he said. ‘Take it from here.

‘And God be with you.’