Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

‘Glad to see you, Father. Going up for a haircut?’

‘Not if I can help it. Going up yourself?’ The subtle force of pipe smoke on the morning air . . . The Collar Button Man raised an eyebrow. ‘Wi-Fi? Barry White? Cheap wine? Not I.’

‘I’ve seen a black limo cruise through a couple of times,’ he said, ‘but didn’t see where it’s from.’

‘North Carolina. I’ve also heard California. Definitely a car service plate.’

‘Any idea what it’s all about?’

‘Winnie Kendall has had two sightings and is hoping for Elvis. Fancy Skinner has had one sighting and is rooting for George Clooney on a search for mountain real estate.’

The Collar Button man released a veritable plume of smoke.

He sprinted by the shoe store, formerly the Main Street Grill, where for four decades Percy Mosely had curmudgeoned his customers, local and otherwise; and where, for all Percy’s love of menu experiment, the Livers and Gizzards Special had been the great hosannah, the magnum opus of the Grill’s long history.

Before he retired from Lord’s Chapel, the rear booth had been generally known as ‘the Father’s pew.’ He always sat with his back to the front door, symbolic, perhaps, of shutting out the maelstrom for an hour.

He’d been fond of those days.

•   •   •

SITTING ON A BENCH beneath the awning of Happy Endings Bookstore, Coot Hendrick looked up to see Preacher Kavanagh balling the jack up Main Street. Out of respect, he stood and held out his hand, which the preacher stopped and shook.

‘Coot, how are you?’

‘I never growed up with people runnin’,’ said Coot. ‘Some of ’em, they run right out in traffic.’

‘How’s your mother?’

‘Mean as a rattlesnake.’ Coot grinned, baring a set of gums appointed with stubs for teeth. ‘I heered you fainted like a woman when th’ cops come on y’.’

‘Good to see you,’ the preacher said, and there he went like a shot, didn’t think that was funny a’tall.

•   •   •

THEY WOULD BE SLEEPING AGAIN tonight on the sofa—there was an odd comfort in seeing the blankets folded at one end, the pillows stacked at the other. She was squeezed in between the bedding gear, reading; he had commandeered the wing chair with Violet on his lap.

He looked at his wife over Thomas Traherne’s Poems of Felicity—her glasses had skied to the end of her nose. As always when reading, she had left these parts for an obscure outer planet.

He had a go at his own book, but his mind dipped and reeled like a swallow in summer air. He had no idea what he had just read, possibly because he had occupied himself with scratching a rash on his neck which appeared today for no good reason. Just there, under his left jaw, suddenly populating the privacy of his flesh.

‘A rash,’ he told his wife, jabbing a forefinger in its general direction.

She looked up, unmoved.

‘Can you see it?’

‘I can,’ she said. ‘These things happen.’

She was so cool, so distant from suffering, always a better man than himself. Why should he be pitiable and complaining, and she ever stalwart? He was the priest, she the mere deacon, appointed by himself without official credentials of any kind, yet ready, of course, in all situations to stand for what was right and good. Even with the ankle business throughout their Ireland trip, she was undaunted save for a single weeping spell which helped alleviate the tribulation of sitting for days with her foot elevated.

He hated this about himself, his whimpering. Churchill’s mandate to never explain and never complain was baloney. He had read the man’s letters to Clementine and was hardly surprised to learn that the old so-and-so had grumbled as bitterly as the rest of the common horde.

Here he was, seventysomething, and still whining, though God had woven like a gold thread through every chapter of every book of Holy Writ: Rejoice! Know that I am with you and for you and will never leave you; take courage that I will fight for you and be your shield and buckler and provide for you when you are old; I will supply your every need, I will give you victory over death, I have prepared a place for you in heaven . . .

Every imaginable love and consolation had been and was currently being delivered to him, and yet he had no wit or gumption to receive it. Abject, a worm, he lifted a silent petition for grace.

She turned a page.

‘Besides the rash . . .’ he said, eager to divulge the entire calamity, ‘my right eyeball is scratchy.’

The blank look.

‘Like sandpaper.’

‘What’s really the matter?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It isn’t the rash or the sandpaper. What’s really wrong?’

He opened his mouth to protest, but knew he couldn’t cover himself. What was really wrong was . . . He felt tears in there somewhere. ‘I’ve lost something,’ he said, swallowing down the knot.

‘Like?’

‘Like . . . passion.’ It was hard to use that word, which was so often overused, but there it was. ‘Like . . .’ He closed his eyes. ‘I feel useless,’ he said, humiliated to confess this, even to her.

‘Feeling useless is a good thing.’

He had no comment on such ridiculous thinking.

‘There have to be rest stops in music. There must be winter for the roots of a plant to dig down and grow strong for spring. There—’

‘Please,’ he said.

‘You do this at least once a year, ever since you retired. In fact, you just did it in Ireland! And I drag out all my homilies and metaphors and somehow we manage to push on.

‘Listen to me, sweetheart. What happened in Sligo? The woes of an entire household fell on you; souls were spared because of a meddling priest. You had just come from saving the life of a total stranger who happily turned out to be your brother. Before that, there was our year at Holy Trinity, where you restored a parish gone to ruin for forty years.’

‘You always say these things.’

‘Somebody has to say these things. You have an insatiable craving to always do more, nothing is ever enough. You want God’s job.’

‘Cynthia.’

‘It’s true. It was this very refusal to slow down and be useless once in a while that forced you to retire. You were killing yourself.’

He had no words; words were impotent, tiresome.

‘Remember the cave and how you’d been plagued with always wanting to get it right, whatever that means? Remember realizing that God and God alone is the only one who always gets it right?’

‘I know this,’ he said, angry. ‘I’m not a child.’

‘Think how you rounded up a scattered family, lost from each other for years—all Dooley’s siblings together now, and Dooley—you took a thrown-away boy into your heart and helped him become a young man of character—look at him and what he’s making of himself. Look carefully at him when you’re feeling useless, and remember Morris Love while you’re at it, and Buck Leeper and Dooley’s mother and legions of others too numerous to mention.’

It was that numbskull write-up in the Mitford Muse, it was Hoppy Harper going out there to make a difference, it was time racing by, it was his complaining in the face of God’s benevolence, it was his dog growing old, it was—it was jet lag, he didn’t care what anybody said.

He put his head in his hand. And as yet my love is weak, he prayed as did Thomas à Kempis, and my virtue imperfect and I have great need of your strength and comfort . . .

She stood and came to him and sat on the arm of the chair. ‘Honey . . .’ she said.

He liked it when she called him honey, which she almost never did. Yankees were accustomed to using the word exclusively for the produce of bees.

‘I could get started on your new studio,’ he said. He had promised it to her when they were in Sligo; he saw the light-filled space as clearly as if it were real. ‘I could call Buck and we could get estimates.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you, darling. It’s too much right now. Sawing, drilling, hammering, people in the house. I like my little room, it’s been good to me. Maybe one day. I was thinking you might raise some money for the Children’s Hospital. That always puts you in a bright mood.’

‘No, no, raising money puts me in a dark mood.’

‘Yes, but once it’s raised, you’re in a bright mood. The capital campaign will be announced soon. As the auction chair, I’ll know more next month. We’re desperate for beds, Timothy, they’re starting to turn children away. I think we’ll be going for five million.’

Five million! He was literally stunned.

She got up and went along the hall. Talk about sweeping from a room.

Violet jumped from his lap and followed. He got up and did the same as Cynthia vanished into the guest bath and closed the door.

In his years as a donor, they had never gone out for such a sum. Historically, it had been a roof repair here, a few new beds there, a van, a ‘gently used’ ambulance, a geothermal system. But five million? Where on earth would they find it in these mountains? Maybe a half million if they burned up the road, knocked on every door, and with begging cup in hand cornered the stray tourist. He felt he’d done all he could in recent years, having worked each potential donor he knew, save, of course, the fabled North Star of Donorship which was Edith Mallory. Others had tried Edith and failed, and since the fire, hardly anyone tried anymore.

There went the flush; out she came. He tagged along to her studio and sat on the minuscule love seat.

‘What?’ she said, giving him the eye.

‘You’re right. I just did this in Ireland, the whining. I had forgotten that. I’m sorry.’

‘Just because we’ve been away for three weeks doesn’t mean ’t was a grand holiday we were havin’.’

‘No picnic, I grant you.’

‘I love everything that happened in Sligo, even the ankle business for what it gave me in return—but it was exhausting.’

She came and squeezed in next to him. ‘Do us both a favor and give yourself a break. Let’s have a rest stop before the next fanfare.’

Maybe he’d thought there wouldn’t be a next fanfare, that the fanfares were over. He took her hand in his. What he’d ever done to deserve her was a complete mystery.

She rested her head on his shoulder, sighed.

‘You’re so southern,’ he said.

Chapter Five

He read the Hint, and realized it made no impression whatever on his psyche.

Why prolong the agony? He turned to the Muse’s midsection.

As was his wont on the occasional Thursday, he read aloud to his wife, who was filing her nails at the other end of the sofa:

Does Mitford Still Take Care of Its Own?

by VANITA BENTLEY, Special Correspondent to The Muse

Mitford police recently surprised a local couple in the front hall of the McGraw Residence on Bishops Lane.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘What does this have to do with Mitford taking care of its own?’

‘Read on,’ she said, ‘I’m sure there’s a connection in there somewhere.’

“At seven forty-five in the evening,” said Mitford police Captain Joe Joe Guthrie “we got a call from a neighbor on Bishops Lane who said a strange car had been parked at the McGraw residence twice that day. I made the decision to go up with Officer Lonnie Greene.

“We approached the darkened house on foot as we did not want to go rolling in there without knowing more of the situation. The moon was about full which can be very useful in Police work. We could see two people moving around in the front hall. Office Greene and I took up a position on either side of the front door.”

“Intruders usually come out the door they go in,” said Officer Greene “and we figured this was the door they went in.”

Well guess what people it was not intruders, it was . . .

‘Get this,’ he said.

. . . it was Father Time Kavanaugh and his wife Cynthia . . .

‘Father Time,’ she said. ‘I love typos.’

‘And Kavanagh with a u.’ He looked at her, disbelieving. How many years did a person have to live in a town for the local paper to get their name right?

. . . who were checking on Ms McGraw to see if she was OK!!

The Kavanaughs said they had called the McGraw Residence twice that day and gone by earlier to check on Ms McGraw when she didn’t answer her phone. They found the front door open and decided to go in and look around to see if maybe Ms McGraw had fallen down the stairs but she was not there. They left the door open, but&^ returned at sundown with the intention of closing the door if it was still open.

Unfortunately Father Time fainted when he saw Captain Guthrie’s Glock 45, but he did not hurt himself in any way thank the Lord.

He dropped the paper in his lap.

‘A miserable affair, this newspaper. A disgrace. Besides, I didn’t actually faint.’

‘Don’t stop now,’ she said. ‘This is our fifteen minutes of fame.’

He poked the miserable affair with his forefinger. ‘Right here is the trouble with living in a small town. I don’t like everybody knowing our business.’

‘But we’ve known their business for years.’

He soldiered on.

It turns out that Ms McGraw was actually in Georgia watching her grandson being born!! Michael Jason Holbrook!! Seven pounds eight ounces!!

“As for why Ms McGraw would leave her front door wide open while she went off to a whole other state, she said in a phone interview “My brain was rattled.” Well now isn’t that true of all of us at some time or other??

The point is, the Kavanaughs were taking care of their own.

This made us think about our former mayor, Esther Cunningham, who invented the famous slogan, Mitford Takes Care of Its Own, and used it as her campaign platform for many years!

Generally speaking do you believe Mitford still takes care of its own??

Here is what several townspeople said in a sidewalk survey:

“As for myself I try to take care of my friends and neighbors by offering fresh local meat and produce at a fair price. As for running around town doing good, no.” Avis Packard, The Local

“I do not see the same eagerness to address the needs of those less fortunate. That is all I have to say and don’t quote me.” Former Mayor Esther Cunningham

‘Ask the press not to quote you,’ he said, ‘and what do they do?’

‘When Esther was mayor, heads rolled for less than that.’

Oh, his wife was amused; she was over the moon about every jot and tittle of this farce.

“We are taking care of our own when we work to share our beautiful village with others, when we seek to expand our economy and quality of life by bringing in businesses that enhance the lives—and the livelihood—of all. We are taking care of our own when we raise taxes only when critical to the welfare of our community, and when we elect to have the finest fire and police departments in this county or any other.” Mayor Andrew Gregory

‘Well put,’ he said.

“Come to think of it the Girl Scouts have not tried to sell us cookies for three years, so it is hard to take care of our own if the opportunity is removed.” Lois Burton, The Woollen Shop

“I always thought Father Time was the real mayor of Mitford if you don’t mind me saying so. It seems like he takes care of everybody.”

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m done.’ He would cancel their subscription immediately, buy an iPad, read the New York Times online, and never look back. He tossed the newspaper on the coffee table. She snatched it up, found the editorial, read on.

“Remember how he was so good to Uncle Billy and Miss Rose and how he goes to the hospital every day and visits Hope House and keeps his yard looking so nice? In my opinion, he should be officially named Mitford’s Leading Citizen and the embodyment of what we should all be doing if we weren’t so busy.” Jena Ivey, Mitford Blossoms

He felt the heat in his face. He no longer went to the hospital every day, nor did he make regular calls at Hope House. Plus it had been a while since he’d done anything at all in his yard, now that Harley had the job. Blast J. C. Hogan to the moon and heaven help Vanita Bentley.

‘Listen up,’ she said.

“Father Time brings us a plate from the All-Church nearly every year and Mrs Bolick brings us a cake with orange slices on it every Christmas which is the best my mama and me has ever tasted.” Coot Hendrik

‘Where does this bloody Father Time business come from?’ he said.

‘When you type Tim it’s easy to hit the e key, I’ve done it a lot, actually. You’ll love this one.’

“Look for example at Father Time Kavanuagh who makes us all feel like his own! He retired but he didn’t quit. Maybe he’s no longer talking the talk in the pulpit, but he’s still walking the walk on the street.

“The point is, any of us can take care of our own. I am going today to deliver a hot meal to somebody old and downtrodden and so what if it’s KFC. If I can do it, anybody can do it. Get off your butts, people!!”

‘Who authored that literary gem?’

‘Anonymous,’ she said. ‘Vanita closes the piece thus.’

Are we still taking care of our own/ Who do you think is our leading citizen??? If you would like to way in on these crucial topics, please write to Vanita Vanita Bentley at the Muse or look for me on Main Street and thank you.

His wife patted him on the knee. ‘Father Time,’ she said.

He could see it coming, and oh, yes, there it came, in spades.

His wife could hurt herself laughing like this.

•   •   •

HE TOOK HIS COFFEE to the desk in the study, glanced at the calendar.

A good time to call and cancel their subscription. But no—the self-styled feature writer of all mankind would herself answer the phone, which wouldn’t be a good thing.

He chose instead to pore over the agenda he’d pored over on Tuesday. The Rotary meeting, the Kiwanis Club dinner, the cleanup day at Children’s Hospital; the call from Andrew Gregory, the subject of which he was certain; the talk to the clergy group in Holding, which meant a full day and evening down the mountain. As for the church in Hendersonville that wanted him to supply for a month next January, and the letter from the bishop which he hadn’t yet opened . . .

It was fish or cut bait.

She answered on the first ring; Snickers barked in the background.

‘Hello, Emma?’

•   •   •

DEAREST CYNTHIA was to the point—nothing wrong with that.

Darling Girl had a nice tone, she liked such terms of affection.

Ha.

He uncapped the pen and wrote.

Dear Bookend.

Good. That was it.

He had rather take a whipping than do this. Didn’t she know he loved her? What was she looking for in this exercise? It seemed a waste of time—he could be sanding the basement steps, which needed two coats and a sealer.

Nothing more came forth. He laid the pen down and sat as if turned to stone. His mind was Arctic tundra—hither a scrap of stunted moss, yon a dwarf tree.

His ankles had begun to swell when a beguiling thought pushed through, something like blood forcing passage in a heavily blocked artery, but he resisted such thinking.

Then again, why resist? And so what if it had been done before? She would love nothing better than being told the answer in scrupulous detail.

He took up the pen, ritually shook down the ink, and wrote.

How do I love thee? Let me count . . .

There was more than one way to skin a cat.

•   •   •

‘I CAME RIGHT OVER.’ Emma had let herself in through the garage, and stood at his desk looking flushed.

He glanced at his watch.

‘I know, I know.’ She thumped her purse into his out-box; he hated it when she did that. ‘It’s nine o’clock, and you said ten, I’m runnin’ early. Better an hour early than a minute late, you always said.’

‘Have a seat.’ He shuffled papers to conceal the letter. ‘How are you?’

‘I thought I’d never hear from you, I had to find out at the post office that you’d actually gotten home.’ The arched eyebrow.

‘Takes a while to get back in the swing,’ he said, dry as crust.

She removed something from her purse, took it over to Barnabas. Down the hatch it went. ‘Peanut-butter dog cookie with glucosamine,’ she said, giving his dog a perfunctory scratch behind the ear. ‘Tried one myself. Not bad.’

She sat down in front of his desk. ‘So you fainted. Dead away or just partially?’

‘Partially.’ He drummed the desktop with his fingers.

She had herself a good laugh. His relationship with Emma Newland personified what he’d heard about childbirth—one forgot the agony ’til the next time around.

‘How’s Harold?’

‘Depressed. Retirement coming up next year.’

‘Oh, that.’ That can of worms, that hoisting by one’s own petard. ‘I’d like you to make some calls for me, write a letter or two, if you’d be so kind.’

‘Excellent. I have Tuesdays free.’

‘I was thinking a couple of hours today.’

‘I could use something more permanent,’ she said. She slid her glasses down her nose, gave him a look. ‘Like we used to have.’

He opened his mouth to speak, but produced only the odd gasp.

‘Remember who rescheduled you with the airline and bailed you out of Ireland for a measly five-hundred-dollar penalty. And remember who got you into that fancy Dublin hotel at the last minute, in the middle of high season.’ She crossed her arms, satisfied, complete.

If he lost this round, he was toast. ‘And perhaps you remember,’ he said, ‘who sent you a large . . . Waterford . . . vase.’ He let the words suspend in the air.

She grinned. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’m good for a couple of hours.’

‘So make my apologies to the Rotary president for what he calls an important meeting.’ He handed her the jumble of notes he’d made; she scanned them.

‘Why do you want to skip the Rotary meeting? Rotarians do great things for people. Harold is a Rotarian.’

‘True. Great things. I need a break.’

‘Ireland wasn’t a break?’

‘I need another break.’

‘How long have you been a Rotarian?’

‘Thirty-five years and twice a club president.’

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘you can have a break. I’ll call.’

‘What will you say?’

‘That you’re taking a break.’

‘Okay, but say nothing more.’ Emma relished the elaborate excuse. ‘That will do.’

‘Same for the Kiwanis?’ she said, ticking off the list. ‘You’re taking a break?’

‘Just decline. No need to say why.’

‘Cleanup day?’

‘I’ll do it, I always do it. Ask for Jane Moreland, tell her I’ll prune and mulch the hedge.’

‘Do they have more than one hedge? They might get confused if there are several hedges. Take the old Fernbank place, for instance, there are three different hedges up there—hemlock, boxwood—’

‘The privet hedge.’ He’d worked on the Children’s Hospital hedge for eight years, but privet was privet and it still looked bedraggled.

‘So about this call from Andrew Gregory,’ she said. ‘Do you think he wants you to run for mayor next time?’

‘He seems perfectly happy doing the mayoring himself. He’ll ask me to run for council, I’m certain, but don’t say I said it.’

‘You should run for mayor.’

‘Why on earth do you think that?’

‘You’d be perfect.’

‘I would be no such thing. I have no patience for budgets and five-year plans and whatever else goes on in that office.’

‘Then you should definitely run for council. It’s your town.’

‘So? It’s your town, as well. I don’t see you serving on the council.’

‘They haven’t asked me.’

‘Call the mayor’s office, please, and say I’ll get back to him next week.’

‘Got it. What do clergy down th’ mountain want with you?’

‘They want me to tell them everything’s going to be all right.’

‘Is it?’

‘All I know is that the gates of hell shall not prevail against the church. I can’t be more specific, thus I’m not the man for the job.’

‘So I’ll tell them you’re taking a break,’ she said.

She was hitting her stride; her chest heaved with the joys of power and purpose. Not one among the many would know what hit them.

‘Hendersonville,’ she said.

‘Father Buster Baldwin, Priest in Charge,’ he dictated, handing over the address. ‘Dear Father Buster, I must decline your invitation to supply St. John for the month of January upcoming, while you and Mary are in the Keys. Thank you for your prayerful consideration and for the very generous offer of your home during that time. I will pray for the right soul to provide the needs of your growing parish. In his grace.’

‘Hendersonville in January,’ she said. ‘You dodged a bullet. So what’s with this letter from the bishop?’

‘Open it and tell me what it says.’

She slid her glasses down her nose. ‘You can’t open it and read it yourself?’

‘Read it and give me the gist of it.’ He had avoided the thing like the plague. Maybe he was still holding on to Stuart Cullen, his former bishop and oldest friend. In any case, Bishop Martin wanted something, he was sure of it. In his early days as a priest, he developed a nose, an instinct about people who wanted something. He could see it in the way they looked when approaching him, even sense it by glancing at the envelope containing a request. As for this missive, they would be after him to raise funds, he could smell it.

‘It’s dated September third. How long have you had it?’

‘Eons,’ he said.

‘“Dear Father Cavanaugh.”’ She was silent for a moment, glanced up. ‘He misspelled your name big-time.’

‘With a u, I suppose.’

‘With a c and a u.’

Call him prideful, call him contrary, he disliked it very much—very much—when someone misspelled, and in this case totally botched, his surname. What was the matter with people?

‘So much for your new bishop,’ she said.

‘Read it and tell me what he says.’

She adjusted her glasses, bent to the task, read silently, shook her head, squinted, looked up, and met his gaze.

‘He’s leaving for the airport in thirty minutes and has just been advised of a grave issue in the diocese. He tried to call but your mailbox was full. Um, he wants you to come to Asheville.’

‘And do what?’

‘Meet with him about something private.’

He felt his brow furrowing, quite of its own accord. ‘What else does it say?’

‘It says you were beloved by your former parish.’

‘That’s nice. What else?’ He did not want to go to Asheville, however appealing the land of the sky may be.

‘He says he’s going to the Bahamas . . .’

‘Bishops always go to the Bahamas.’

‘. . . to a remote property with no cell phone service, and he’d like to see you when he returns in two weeks, he’ll call as soon as he gets back—which, if it was written on the third and this is what, the seventeenth? He should be calling any minute.’

‘What else?’

‘He asks you to pray.’

‘For what, exactly?’

‘He doesn’t say.’

‘He doesn’t say?’

‘Right.’

‘Let me see the letter,’ he said.

‘It’s about time—you acted like a snake would bite you if you touched th’ thing.’

I will covet your prayers in this desperate matter which must remain unspoken until we meet.

‘You haven’t drunk a drop of water since I’ve been here,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to drink a lot of water. You may forget, but I remember these things.’

‘How’s Snickers?’ he said.

•   •   •

‘THREE HOURS EVERY TUESDAY MORNING, at the old rate, for somebody who knows how to dot every t and cross every i.’ She collected her handbag from his out-box. ‘You won’t get an offer like that every day. Think about it.’

He had already thought about it.

•   •   •

SHE HAD GONE THROUGH the garage and out to the sidewalk when he remembered and ran after her. ‘And call Vanita Bentley at the Muse,’ he shouted, ‘and give her the correct spelling of my name. Both names, for future reference.’

‘Both?’ she yelled back. ‘She can’t spell either one?’

He walked out to her at the curb. ‘Didn’t you read today’s Muse?’

‘Are you kidding me? I don’t read that rag.’

‘Who told you what you said when you came in?’

‘Ruby Greene. She called me the day after it happened.’

‘Isn’t it against the law to tell things known only to police officers?’

‘It was on the board down at th’ police station, they post reports of all their calls, don’t you remember? Anybody can go in an’ read th’ police reports.’

He walked back to the house, wondering where he and Cynthia might move. Possibly to Linville, where they had no newspaper, a loss more than generously repaid by the Thursday night seafood buffet at the lodge.

•   •   •

COOT HENDRICK WAS LATE getting home, as three people had stopped him on the street and talked his head off about the question going around town.

He heard the Wheel as soon as he walked in the house, and went to his mama’s room, hollering. ‘I got m’ name in th’ paper! I got m’ name in th’ paper!’

He had folded the Muse to show off the article just right, and held it close to her face so she could see it good.

‘What’d ye git it in there f’r?’

‘F’r answerin’ a question.’

‘What was th’ question?’ She was deaf as a doorknob, and talked loud enough to bust a man’s eardrums.

He sat in the chair with the broke seat and one arm missing, and leaned in to her good ear. He said what people on the street said the question was, and said it slow so he wouldn’t have to say it again.

‘Does . . . Mitford . . . still . . . take . . . care . . . of . . . its . . . own?’

‘What kind of question is that?’

He honestly didn’t know.

‘What did ye answer, then?’

He wasn’t sure what he answered, he’d been so rattled by the woman on the street poking a thingamajig in his face. ‘Talk right in this,’ she said.

He would give most anything to find out what he’d answered, but he couldn’t read nothing but his name. ‘Look there,’ he said, pointing to his name, which he had tirelessly searched for after picking up the paper from the street rack. ‘Can you see that?’

She lifted her head off the pillow and squinted at the two long columns of printed words. ‘What’s it sayin’? Read it out.’

She knew he couldn’t read, it was hateful to ask him to do such a thing. His daddy had run off when he was four years old and never come back, and if he’d knowed how hard it was to live with this old woman, he’d of run off with him.

‘I cain’t read over th’ dadblame TV!’ He hated her TV, it went ’til way up in the night, he had to get in bed and cover his head to keep from seein’ the light flickering on his walls from her room next to his. He would set it on the road one day, and let the town crew get out of it whatever torment they could.

‘Shut it off, then, f’r th’ Lord’s sake.’

The room seemed to tremble in the silence. He sat down again by the bed.

‘It says . . .’ He was going to make this up out of his head. ‘It says Coot Hendrick of Rural Route Four says Mitford has been good to me and my mama.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Keep goin’.’

‘We have many friends and family here and th’ weather is good except in winter when water freezes in th’ sink and we have to bust it with a hammer.’

‘That’s dead right,’ she said. ‘A good answer.’

He felt warm all over. She hardly ever spoke kindly of anything he said or did.

She turned her head on the pillow to give him a look. ‘Who’s th’ family we got here? We don’t have no family here, why’d ye say a thing like that?’