Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Along streets mottled by the shade of pin oaks, he told her everything.

‘What do you think?’ he said, swigging from a bottle of water.

‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’ll know,’ she said.

He couldn’t see her eyes. ‘What about you? What do you want?’

‘I would hate sharing you again with so many people.’

She had never gotten used to that, but she had been generous and patient, and he had been grateful.

‘Your exhaustion would be hard to watch,’ she said.

‘But I’ve been doing better.’

Except for Ireland. He had exhausted himself in Sligo with what she called his ‘household parish,’ but it had been a wonderful time, really; he would never forget the joy that came forth in the end.

‘You will lose families in this fallout, you will try to mend broken hearts; you will try to fix everything.’

Of course he would try to fix everything. What was a priest for, if not to get into people’s business and, with God’s help, do a little fixing? To operate otherwise cut the parson out of a very big piece of the pie.

She drove into the parking lot of a small restaurant, turned off the ignition, and gave him a steady look. ‘But if you decide to do it, Timothy, I’ll do it with you. All the way.’

Her eyes were blue, with nothing more said there.

He patted her knee.

Two weeks. He felt the rock in his stomach and doubted that breakfast could fix that.

•   •   •

ON THE WAY HOME, they avoided further discussion of the matter, and spent themselves on foolishness.

‘When was the War of 1812 fought?’ he said, and she laughed, though it wasn’t funny.

They were giddy, a little haywire.

‘So, on a cruise ship,’ he said, ‘what time is the midnight buffet?’

Chapter Nine

There was something to be said for the invitation being dropped into their lives like a grenade.

One, it demanded that he concentrate every power on making the right decision. If he could focus so obsessively, so completely as this on his relationship with God . . .

Two, there was no room to agonize over what to do about Sammy.

Restless beside his wife, who had fallen asleep at once, he sought peace in the familiar. Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, and awaken hope, that we may know thee as thou art revealed in Scripture and the breaking of bread. Grant this for the sake of thy love, amen.

For the sake of thy love, he thought. For the sake of thy love.

Ardent for sleep of any kind or duration, he decided he needed a cutoff date, a personal deadline for calling in his answer. He wished for an easy way out—the parting of waters, the audible voice.

•   •   •

IT WAS FREEZING OUT THERE, with a stern wind to boot. Barnabas had done his morning business and made for the door in under sixty seconds.

On his knees, he brushed back the ashes of last evening’s fire and kindled a small one for Morning Prayer—two splits of oak and one of maple, atop kindling that would bring the fire quickly. Flames licked up; he was an acolyte at the tapers.

In any decision making, he’d learned to wait for the peace; it was heedless to make a move without it. There was no time for waiting, and yet waiting was imperative.

He remained on his knees, prayed aloud. ‘Heavenly Father, in whom we live and move and have our being: We humbly pray thee so to guide and govern us by thy Holy Spirit, that in all the cares and occupations of our life we may not forget thee, but may remember that we are ever walking in thy sight . . .’

He moved directly then to the abridged version. ‘Help me, Jesus.’

•   •   •

IN THE WILDS OF NEW JERSEY, Walter was usually stirring by five a.m.

As he dialed, he could see his first cousin, semi-retired from the law firm and a little stooped, in a bathrobe of considerable antiquity. He would be fetching the WSJ from the hallway, taking Katherine a cup of tea in bed, then rooting in beside her to read and argue aloud with the editorials.

‘Are you out of your mind, Timothy?’

‘I feel I should do it,’ he said. ‘For the parish. It will be a hard time.’

‘Should do it? Why should? I’m not party to all God has to say about such matters, but I do know this—the business of killing yourself for other people is a lot of hogwash. Take this on and you’ll be up to all the tricks you pulled in Ireland, saving souls right and left with hardly a minute to draw your breath.’

‘It isn’t the parson who saves souls—you know that.’

‘I know, I know, but somebody has to be hands and feet, and you’ve done that nobly for forty-plus years. Give yourself a break, cousin, refresh yourself, learn how to live before you die. And face it—you haven’t even begun to retire. Two years in two different parishes, plus a good years’ worth of supply up hill and down dale, not to mention being the very backbone of the Children’s Hospital. A question—how many vacations have you had in your adult life? By my count, four, and they were all working vacations. Right? Am I right?’

A sermon from a lawyer. There were few things worse.

•   •   •

HE CALLED HIS FORMER DOCTOR at home and told him of the bishop’s offer, then, and walked north toward Hoppy’s house.

He would talk with Sammy, posing no threats, avoiding blame, speaking the truth in love.

Sammy was not hopeless. Look at Dooley, how he’d been born into neglect and violence only to become a young man set on bettering himself, sharing his wealth but also conserving it in the right places. It seemed too good to be true.

•   •   •

HOPPY WAS A WEEK AWAY from his first trip to the Upper Nile and a leap into the unknown. Here a leap, there a leap—it was a frog pond.

They sat at the table in the Harpers’ kitchen, where for years Hoppy had worked an early morning crossword. His old friend and parishioner was looking terrific, better than ever. Retirement in the early stages.

‘What do you know about Hope Murphy?’ he said. He felt reluctant, somehow, to go directly to the issue at hand. ‘Are you at liberty to talk about it?’

‘Wilson mentioned that she trusts you, says you already know something of what’s going on. I feel comfortable telling you more—but in strict confidence. She’s a private person, as you’re aware. The medical term is placenta previa.

‘The placenta, or afterbirth, is a temporary organ that transfers oxygen and nutrients from the mother to the fetus. In Hope’s case, the placenta has attached itself to the lower segment of the uterus and is covering the cervical canal. Two problems: the baby has no way to exit, and as the cervix dilates, bleeding can be excessive.’

‘The bleeding . . .’

‘Increases the risk for preterm rupture of the membranes, which can lead to premature labor. This can be life-threatening—for mother and infant.’

‘The outcome as you see it?’

‘Wilson says the bleeding has been fairly minor so far, but he’s taking no chances. Bed rest will control it to some extent. She’ll be under the care of a specialist in Charlotte, with Wilson doing the day-to-day stuff here. They’ll want her in Charlotte at thirty-two weeks.’

‘A month early?’

‘Taking no chances. If anything goes off track up here, there’s no safety net, she could bleed to death.

‘We’re looking at a Cesarean, of course, and with God’s help, a healthy baby. Depending on circumstances, there could be a hysterectomy at the time of delivery.’

Hoppy removed his glasses. ‘If the delivery isn’t successful, needless to say it will be devastating to the Murphys. A hysterectomy would add another kind of death sentence. When you’re back at Lord’s Chapel, I know you’ll encourage prayer for this.’

When he was back at Lord’s Chapel . . . everyone would assume he’d go back.

‘As to your own predicament . . .’ Hoppy gave him an ironic smile. ‘. . . if you stick to your exercise regimen and keep your weight down, I believe you could manage it physically. So the issue is how you would manage it . . .’ Hoppy tapped his forehead with a pencil. ‘. . . up here.’

‘Did you know about Talbot?’

‘Nothing specific, just that clergy have their struggles; I thought his disconnect might eventually turn around. Olivia has had real concerns about him, but frankly, I’ve been too caught up in the Sudan business to pay much attention. How are you feeling?’

He had no words for how he was feeling. ‘What if I take it on and can’t go the distance? That would be twice for the parish. You know they resented my retirement.’

‘Yes, but not everyone. Most people understood. What they resented was you swigging down that Coke and eating the bloody cake. My guess is, they’ll kiss your ring.’

‘Come on.’

‘Trust me. As for your medical aptitude, Wilson says your cholesterol is good and the diabetes is under control. But you know how fast that can go off the cliff.

‘If you move forward with picking up Talbot’s pieces, you’ll need help. You’re prone to try doing it all, which took you out of full-time in the first place. To do it all and deprive others of doing is . . .’ Hoppy studied the puzzle. ‘. . . a misguided notion.’

‘And how many years were you burning the candle at both ends and calling for more wax?’

Hoppy laughed. ‘Touché, Father. In any case, whatever happens, Wilson is up to handling it. Your job is to avoid giving him anything to handle.’

Hoppy turned to a bank of drawers beneath the window seat, pulled one out, removed an open bag of jelly beans, and offered a sampling. ‘Have a green, they’re the best.’

He did as prescribed. ‘I thought you were on the wagon.’

His former doctor laughed, popped a jelly bean. ‘I was, and will be again. No jelly beans in Yida.’

Hoppy adjusted his reading glasses, bent over the puzzle. ‘Ecclesiastical setback. Blank, p, blank, blank.’

‘Apse,’ he said.

•   •   •

HE CHECKED HIS COMMITMENTS FOR TODAY.

Lunch @ Feel Good.

Mustang diagnostic

Another big day on the calendar.

How would he like going from zero to a hundred and sixty mph? Why couldn’t there be some reasonable in-between? He loathed zero and despised a hundred and sixty. Why couldn’t he ever find a cruising speed?

The pressure of the open-ended timetable was too much; he had to have a cutoff date. ‘Jesus,’ he said under his breath.

Barnabas looked up from his bed at the hearth. Good! His dog had not lost his hearing. It was he, Timothy, who had lost his, for he was getting no feedback. Zero.

What about Thursday? Maybe he could take a week to make the decision, but he couldn’t bear the pressure of it for a week. He wanted, needed it to happen quickly, as quickly as God would permit. Thursday would be extremely fair to all. ‘But late Thursday,’ he declared to his dog.

He consulted his calendar.

Written with a kind of slapdash joy in the slot for Thursday:

Happy Endings 9 a.m.

The Happy Endings stint had completely slipped his mind. He had planned to go in early, take his own beans, and learn to operate a coffee maker that also did the grinding. But how could he think about stuffing a full day’s commitment at the bookstore into Thursday’s need for an urgent decision?

Friday was open, a total blank; he could call the bishop on Friday. For that matter, he could do the bookstore on Friday—Friday was payday in these parts, a good day for buying books; he would notify Hope, who, he felt certain, would be just as grateful for help on Friday.

Barnabas came over, lay at his feet, looked up.

No. Thursday was the day he would call the bishop. And Thursday was the day he would work at the bookstore—no way would he disappoint Hope, and no way would he disappoint his dog, who, he believed, was definitely up for sooner rather than later.

•   •   •

‘IT’S YOUR CARBURETOR,’ said Jeb Adderholt.

Jeb paused to allow for shocked silence or possibly an enjoyable stream of strong language, but he could not bestow this small pleasure upon Jeb Adderholt.

The phone line between Mitford and Wesley enjoyed its characteristic crackle and hum. Something about a throttle shaft . . .

‘Plus your radiator’s rotted out pretty bad.’

‘Ah.’

‘An’ your heater, you know that heater’s never worked right. Th’ old folks say this’ll be th’ worst winter in a decade.’

‘They say that every year.’ He was now old folks, himself, and as far as he was concerned, the winter could do whatever it pleased.

Jeb cleared his throat, moving in for the kill. ‘Have you noticed your clutch is slippin’?’

‘How would I notice that?’

‘When you’re goin’ uphill,’ said Jeb as if speaking to someone from a foreign country.

‘Right. Yes, I’ve noticed that. Anything else?’

‘It’s gon’ cost more to fix than it’s worth.’ Jeb named a price, but given the hum, it was muffled and indistinct.

He would pick it up tomorrow and pay Jeb for the diagnostic. So much for his sharp little ride.

Having driven previously used vehicles all his life, he had no idea how to buy a new car. Before the vintage Mustang, there was the motor scooter, and before that, eight years of foot travel, and before that, the antiquated Buick, and prior to the Buick, he could scarcely remember. He would subscribe to Consumer Reports or Lew would probably know, or Dooley. Dooley! Of course. Dooley would go nuts over helping him buy a new vehicle.

He left Dooley a voice message, feeling better already.

•   •   •

‘ARE YOU HAVING LUNCH with the turkeys?’ His wife was whipped from yesterday, and so was he. But would they give in and lie down or whatever people do when they’re whipped?

‘I don’t feel I should have lunch. Things are too . . .’ He shrugged.

‘But it’s the day the sign goes up, sweetheart.’ She dumped coffee grounds into the kitchen compost bin. ‘I think you should have lunch.’

‘All that boondoggling . . .’ he said, vague.

‘Boondoggling beats sitting around trying to figure out what God is up to. He’s given you a target date, which I think you should let Bishop Martin know.’

‘Why let the bishop know that I don’t know?’

‘You’d be letting him know that you’ll know by Thursday. He could relax a little. But what do I know about bishops? Maybe they don’t need to relax. We, however, need to keep praying and trusting God, and moving ahead to things like lunch and dry-cleaning and a dozen eggs at the Local.’

She was right, of course, but still . . .

‘Puny’s coming in today instead of tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and bringing the boys.’ She rubbed her eyes, something she did more often these days. ‘As for me, I’m having lunch in Wesley with Irene McGraw, she’s just back from Georgia.’

‘Tell her I enjoyed breaking into her house. Nice artwork.’

‘The capital campaign meeting is after lunch. I’ll have a report. In the meantime, you and I need to plan something fun—like dinner and a movie. All we ever do is dinner. What was the last movie we saw?’

‘Babe, I think. Do we have a VCR player?’

‘VCRs went out of style ages ago. It’s DVDs now. Just a disc. Like a CD.’

‘Do we have any?’ he said.

‘No. We would have to order a movie that comes in through our TV.’

‘Do you know how to do that?’

‘I’ve never done it,’ she said. ‘All I know how to do is watch 60 Minutes and PBS.’

‘Puny knows technology. Get her to show you,’ he said.

‘Get her to show you, and I’ll make dinner.’

He was supposed to know this stuff, but he had never, not once, known this stuff. He was pretty good at softball and handy with a hammer and paintbrush, which should be enough for anybody.

‘What do other people do in the evenings?’

‘Shirlene Hatfield plays Scrabble online. J. C. Hogan once confessed he cleans Adele’s Glock .45. Let’s see—Mule and Fancy watch reality TV.’

‘How do you know these things?’

‘People talk,’ he said. ‘Then there’s Esther Bolick. She sleeps in her recliner for a couple of hours after dinner, then goes to bed and watches Johnny Carson reruns.’

‘Maybe we just need to get out more.’

‘We got out all day yesterday.’ She wasn’t listening. ‘From dawn to dusk.’

She peered at her reflection in the chrome of the toaster, and did something with her hair. ‘That was yesterday. Let’s go and be as—’

‘Don’t even say it,’ he said.

•   •   •

‘I HAVE GOOD NEWS!’ Puny announced as he came downstairs.

She was ‘lit up like a Christmas tree,’ as Nanny Howard used to say. His mind flew to the good news Puny had handed him twice before in recent years—twins. He couldn’t take another set of twins, he just couldn’t.

‘Joe Joe’s our new police chief, he’ll be officially installed th’ first week of November.’

‘Congratulations!’ One more frog off the bank. ‘Tell Joe Joe I’m proud as the dickens.’ He gave her a hug.

‘It’s goin’ to be in th’ paper real soon,’ she said. ‘There’ll be a reception at Town Hall, we want y’all to come.’

‘Consider it done!’ he said.

She looked abashed. ‘I guess I should have told you about Joe Joe last, an’ told you th’ bad news first.’

‘What bad news?’

‘Your cue stick’s missin’.’

‘My cue stick?’

‘I dust in there ever’ week, cue rack an’ all, an’ th’ one in your slot’s not there this mornin’.’

He walked up the hall to see for himself, fighting the anger rising like bile. Among other things, that was a pretty nice cue stick.

The empty slot was a slap in the face. He took a deep breath. If he ran this to ground, there would be consequences. He could not do that now, he could not fly off in any direction other than the one he was currently navigating. Unless something forced his hand, he would pretend not to notice.

Puny was peeling apples at the sink. ‘Don’t mention this to Cynthia,’ he said.

•   •   •

IT WAS YES AND THEN IT WAS NO, it was up and then it was down.

He thought of calling Stuart, his former bishop, oldest friend, and fellow seminarian, but a kind of torpor prevailed. Why?

To relieve the constriction in his chest, he prayed for Henry Talbot and Henry Winchester, two Henrys needy in matters more desperate than his own.

And why couldn’t he firmly grasp the idea of returning to Lord’s Chapel and logically examine it? The notion seemed a wisp, a snowflake disappearing on the upturned palm.

He needed the solemn confines of a monk’s cell; he needed air and open space.

•   •   •

‘. . . AND UNDER THE SHADOW of your wings I will rejoice,’ he prayed from the psalm. ‘My soul clings to you, / Your right hand holds me fast . . .’

Perhaps more than the decision itself, he wanted light in his darkened mind, something luminous to see by.

While shaving, he had an impulse toward the ridiculous. He scarcely ever did anything ridiculous.

Puny’s ten-month-old twin boys were in the kitchen in their bouncing chairs, each with a pacifier. He was not a fan of the pacifier but it would be politically incorrect to express that opinion in his own household.

‘Tommy,’ he said, standing near the door while Puny swept the side porch. ‘What do you think?’

Tommy burst into tears, the pacifier fell to the floor; Violet pounced and skittered it to the corner of the room.

Puny opened the door a crack. ‘What’s goin’ on in there?’

‘I asked Tommy a question and he started crying. Sorry.’

‘Could you please pick ’im up? I got to get these steps cleaned off, you wouldn’ believe th’ raccoon poop out here.’ She closed the door.

He picked up Tommy, all eighteen pounds, jiggled him as he had jiggled Puny’s first set of twins, Sissy and Sassy. Jiggling was good—Tommy stopped crying.

Puny opened the door again. ‘What did you ask ’im?’

‘Oh, nothing much. He’s fine now.’

She closed the door; he put Tommy in the chair, went after the pacifier, washed it under the hot water tap, and stuck it back where it belonged.

Timmy, his very own namesake, looked up at him with Carolina-blue eyes.

‘What do you think, Timmy?’

Timmy took the pacifier from his mouth, laughed, and handed it over.

‘Thanks for sharing,’ he said. ‘Maybe later.’

Out of the mouths of babes, so to speak. He kissed both boys on the tops of their heads.

•   •   •

THE WIND WAS UP, and bitter; the twelve o’clock news had called this the coldest September since 1972.

He was the Michelin man in long-sleeve knit shirt, clerical collar, crew-neck sweater, vest, wool scarf, flannel-lined jacket, long socks, corduroys, and gloves.

On his way to lunch, he peered through the window at Happy Endings. The dark interior gave him a sinking feeling. He noticed the wind hammering a sign on the door.

Open Wednesday and Thursday

Ten to six

Until further notice

Thank you for your patience

Beneath the text, someone had written in red ink: Pray for Hope!

•   •   •

‘WANDA’S FEEL GOOD CAFÉ’ was rendered in dark green paint on a white background; the whatchamacallit over the E in CAFÉ was a bold slash of red.

He recognized the men on the scaffolding, one without a jacket. ‘Hey, Luke, you’ll be a popsicle. What are you doing up there in this cold?’

‘Need th’ money, Father. Pizza, beer, and a month’s rent.’

‘No beer, no pizza,’ hollered Jeff, ‘but a whole bunch of baby diapers and a tank of oil. We’re just gettin’ it screwed into th’ brick and we’re out of here.’

‘You turned it around mighty fast,’ he called up.

‘Gotta do what it takes. My baby’s sick. Pray for us.’

‘Consider it done.’

Luke spit off the side of the scaffolding. ‘Don’t leave me out, Preacher.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re in. God be with you.’

And there was Hessie Mayhew with a point-and-shoot, a notebook protruding from her coat pocket.

‘Hessie! How are you?’

She leaned back, shooting skyward at the sign. ‘Whoever came up with this wacko name . . .’

‘Your boss came up with it.’

‘How was Ireland?’

‘Green,’ he said.

‘Well, stand over there under th’ sign and let me get a shot. Th’ sign’s so high up, I have to either shoot from across the street to get you both in, or stand here and get th’ sign and just your head.’

‘Get Wanda to stand out here, it’s her sign.’

‘She already stood out here for about two seconds. She was nothing but a blur, the lunch crowd was coming in.’

‘So get J.C. to stand under the sign, he likes to get his picture in the paper.’

‘He already stood under the sign. But the painters got in front of the F an’ th’ G, so I told ’em to move and they ended up in front of the W an’ th’ L.’

‘I’d keep it simple and just shoot the sign,’ he said, making for the door. ‘Tell the guys to squat down.’

•   •   •

WANDA’S FEEL GOOD felt plenty good. Smelled good, too. Glad to be here, he peeled off gloves, scarf, jacket.

The place was packed. He stashed his gear on top of other gear on the coat rack and headed for their table.

‘Mule?’

Mule grinned. ‘Th’ Miami look.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m tryin’ to help Shirlene and Fancy get a little action goin’.’

He pulled out his chair, dumbfounded. Though Mule looked ridiculous in a short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt, he also looked ten years younger, albeit a funny color.

J.C. took a swig of coffee. ‘Real estate’s so slow he’s gone to freezin’ his ass as a sandwich board for a beauty shop.’

‘Y’all are pasty,’ said Mule, giving them the eye. ‘Why be pasty when you could look like you’ve been somewhere and seen a little sunshine?’

‘I have been somewhere,’ he said, though he hadn’t seen much sunshine.

J.C. ripped a paper napkin from the metal holder. ‘Wait’ll you hear what it costs to get yourself sprayed.’

‘It’s not about money,’ said Mule, ‘it’s about lookin’ good. When you look good, you feel good, and when you feel good, you, ah, look good.’

‘Where’s he getting this stuff?’ he asked J.C.

‘From literature that comes with th’ spray tan deal.’

Wanda whipped around with the coffeepot.

‘Is that you, Mr. Skinner?’

‘It’s me, all right.’

‘Just back from the Sunshine State?’

‘Just back from A Cut Above,’ said Mule, ‘where they have the amazing, not to mention revolutionary, spray tan technology. Why be pasty when you can be tan?’

‘It is not the season yet for people to be tan,’ said Wanda. ‘We get tan in summer when we garden and play golf. If this weather keeps up, we will have snow in here before the leaves turn.’

‘So you garden?’ said Mule. ‘And play golf?’

‘I kill plants and can’t hit a ball. I was usin’ a general example.’

‘So,’ said Mule, ‘are you goin’ to do a little something to, you know, live up to your new name? To, like, make people feel good?’

‘How people feel is their business, not mine. If they like to feel good, fine. If they don’t, fine. I’m here to give you a decent cup of joe and a great hamburger.’

He raised his hand. ‘I’ll have the hamburger.’

‘Same here,’ said J.C.

‘Okay, that’s what I’m havin’,’ said Mule. ‘All th’ way, but hold th’ onions.’

‘All the way comes with onions,’ said Wanda.

‘Right, but hold ’em.’

Wanda rolled her eyes. ‘I was warned.’

‘Who warned you?’ asked J.C.

‘The poor woman who owned th’ place before I bought it. She said th’ turkeys will make you crazy.’

‘Double fries on th’ side,’ said J.C. ‘And double aioli.’

‘And you, Father?’

‘Pickle. No fries.’

‘Lovely,’ said Wanda. ‘One more thing, Mr. Skinner. We’re supposed to be pasty in autumn, that’s what autumn is for, to rest our faces from the harmful rays of the sun.’

Wanda moved on.

‘She has not rested her face in a coon’s age, I can tell you that,’ said Mule.

J.C. stared into his empty coffee mug. ‘What ever happened to the waitress with a heart of gold?’

‘Lunch is on me,’ said Mule, waving the chit.

•   •   •

‘GO HOME and get some clothes on, buddyroe.’ He slapped Mule on the back as they left the café.

‘And wash that stuff off!’ said J.C.

‘Won’t wash off, that’s how you get your money’s worth. It has to wear off.’ Mule zipped his fleece-lined jacket, grinned, headed to his vehicle. ‘I don’t care what you turkeys say,’ he hollered from the curb. ‘I’m tan, you’re pasty.’

‘You’re goin’ to like Thursday’s main feature,’ said J.C.

Wind rattled the scaffolding, hammered them as they walked across Main.

‘Don’t count on it.’

‘You’re goin’ to like it big time. It was Vanita’s idea. She’s a sharp little writer. Adele’s making news next week. Front page, four-color. Don’t miss it.’

‘Great. Can you talk about it?’

‘I could, but then it wouldn’t be news.’

He was impressed that the Muse editor never scooped himself.

‘So,’ said J.C., stopping off at the bank, ‘you still don’t want to hear what’s goin’ on at Lord’s Chapel?’

‘Out of my precinct.’

‘Talbot has a habit, you know. Women. Paid.’

‘Enough,’ he said, meaning it.

Since he’d sat in a car most of yesterday and running today was not going to happen, he would compromise with a power walk up Lilac, and around the block to home.

Abe Edelman, owner of Village Shoes, peered out the window and threw up his hand.

The marching band . . .

‘Hey, buddy.’ He kept going, breathing hard.

‘What’s with the Mustang?’ said Dooley.

‘Carburetor, heater, radiator, clutch.’

‘Don’t get another old car.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get a new one. What do you think?’

‘BMW X1.’

‘You’re lookin’ for something hot to drive when you come home.’

Dooley’s cackling laugh.

‘What else do you have in mind?’

‘You’d like a Jeep.’

‘I don’t need to go off-road or splash through mud puddles.’

‘What are you doing? Running?’

‘Walking.’

‘So you want a boring vehicle?’

No, he didn’t want boring; life was short and getting shorter.

‘What’s the least boring vehicle to get me to Wesley, and down the mountain on the rare occasion, and over town in bad weather?’

‘A Mini Cooper, Dad. Clubman hatchback. Plenty of room for Barnabas. Twenty-seven miles per gallon around town, thirty-five on the highway when you come to see me in Athens. Cynthia would love it.’

‘Very small,’ he said, thinking of eighteen-wheelers, propane tankers . . .

‘You don’t need big to run to Wesley.’

‘What about emissions? Maybe a Prius . . .’ He wouldn’t mention the meeting with the bishop, not now.

‘Mini Cooper, Dad. I’ll go online and shoot you some info.’

‘I don’t know.’ His head was spinning, he was freezing.

‘Trust me,’ said Dooley.

Someone had stopped by Happy Endings since he’d passed earlier. Strips of paper were taped to the window. Where no tape secured the paper, the wind passed beneath; hand-printed words shuddered and danced.

We read to know we are not alone. CS Lewis

Children are made readers on the laps of their parents. Emilie Buchwald

Everywhere I have sought peace and not found it, except in a corner with a book. Thos à Kempis

Pray for Hope!

•   •   •

HE WANTED TO BE A SHEPHERD; he wanted to serve others. He was hardwired for that—that would never change—and here was his opportunity. Why was he wrestling with it?

Timmy had laughed and handed over the pacifier—a sacrifice, the gift of himself to the stressed-out bald guy with the worried look on his face.

He needed to do that—hand it all over. Right away. Now.

How long had it been since he’d sat on the stone wall above the valley and prayed through a sunset? It seemed years.

•   •   •

‘AN AMAZING THING HAPPENED,’ said his wife, putting eggs in the fridge.

‘Tell me.’

‘Irene McGraw wants to give us those wonderful portraits, all five, for the hospital auction in June. She says they make her sad, she needs to let them go.’

‘This is hardly an art-buying community,’ he said.

‘We’ll have to depend on the Florida crowd, bless their hearts.’

The Florida crowd had bailed them out more than once—a new furnace for Lord’s Chapel being one example. As for donating the Mustang, he didn’t know how that would fly in view of the diagnostic. ‘Are those self-portraits of her as a child?’

‘She says the self-portraits are in the eyes of the subject.’

‘Who’s the subject?’

‘She didn’t say, she didn’t seem eager to talk about it. If I were a dealer, I’d put quite a price on them, but of course she doesn’t have a name in the art world.’

She poured two glasses of juice, passed one to him. ‘She really shouldn’t donate them, they seem so personal to her.’

‘A great start for the auction,’ he said. ‘Well done. What’s the plan for the campaign?’

‘A new wing.’

‘Wow.’

‘We’re going for a new wing with twenty more beds, which will make forty-five.’

His wife was beaming. ‘I’m believing we can auction Irene’s paintings for big money, plus raise enough to meet the goal.’

Should he pitch in and give a hand? He’d been a donor for twenty years, had even been asked to serve as the director at one time. It was his favorite charity, hands down, but his mother’s money was running out and his gifts in the future would be comparatively modest. After years of giving, he was, in effect, spent. He couldn’t think about it now.

She was talking hospital business while searching his face for some clue to his thinking about yesterday. But he had no thinking to speak of.