A Light in the Window (11 page)

She had asked him to pose for a wise man in
The Mouse in the Manger,
yet he’d never inquired about the finished book. Worse, he had never once read anything she had written.

He had treated her, he realized, as if she didn’t really exist.

That realization was overwhelming to him. He’d believed what his parishioners had told him, that he was caring and nurturing. Yet, it was a lie. He wasn’t really either of those things. The truth was, he was unutterably selfish and self-seeking, going his own way, doing his own pious thing. It was disgusting to him.

How had he come this far without seeing himself for what he really was? How had God let him get away with this loathsome deception for so long?

Barnabas lifted his leg against a tulip poplar.

He believed he had never married because he was married to his calling. The truth was, he had a complete lack of the equipment demanded for truly loving.

Perhaps he was like his father, after all, though he’d believed all these years that he had his mother’s disposition. He had believed the friends and relatives and old Bishop Slade who had said, “Kind like his mother! Patient like his mother! Easygoing like his mother!”

Yet, underneath all that show of sop and decency was a man utterly fixed on himself, on his own concerns. And underneath some shallow layer of seeming warmth and caring was a cold stratum of granite.

The very last place he wanted to be day after tomorrow was in the pulpit. It was all a joke, and the joke was on him.

You ought to let fancy give you a haircut,” said Mule Skinner over breakfast at the Grill. ”Get you somethin’ new goin’.”

“I’ve got enough going, thank you,” said the rector, who was scheduled for two meetings, a noon invocation at the Rotary Club, a livermush delivery to Russell Jacks, and a visit to the construction site with Ron Malcolm.

“You could take a little more off the sides, if you ask me,” said Mule.

“They ain’t anybody askin’ you,” said Percy, handing a plate of toast to J.C.

J.C. grabbed the toast and sopped his egg yolk. “If you promoted your real-estate business like you’re promotin’ your wife’s beauty shop, you’d be a millionaire.”

“Besides,” said the rector, “I’ve been with Joe for thirteen going on fourteen years.”

“Well, that’s the trouble,” said Mule. “A man needs a change.” Percy poured another round of coffee. “I hope you can look Joe Ivey in th’ eye, th’ way you’re tryin’ to rob ’im of his business.”

“Anyway,” said J.C., “why would a man want to get a haircut from a woman?”

“I guess you never heard of unisex,” said Mule. “Fancy runs a unisex shop. That means she cuts anybody’s hair, one sex as well as the other. You ought to let ’er have a go at you, in the meantime.”

“Where is she set up?” the rector inquired.

“In th’ basement where we had that big blow-out for our twenty-fifth. You ought to see it now—completely redecorated wall to wall, new pink carpet, you name it. Put in two sinks, in case she adds on a stylist.”

“Your neighbor still got that dog tied up next door?” Percy called from the grill.

“That dog’ll never let anybody near your basement,” said J.C.

“When it starts lungin’ at somebody gettin’ out of their car, that’ll be enough right there to curl their hair.”

“That dog died,” said Mule, scowling.

“They’ll probably get another one just like it,” said J.C. “That’s what usually happens.”

The rector checked his wristwatch. “Tell Fancy I wish her well. If Joe goes down with the flu this winter, I might consider it. I’ve got to get out of here. Catch you tomorrow.”

“I declare,” said Mule as the local priest went out the door, “a little excitement starin’ him right in the face, and he won’t even spring for it.”

“You won’t believe this,” said Ron Malcolm, “but they’ve hit rock on the hill. Twelve feet of rock.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Buck Leeper is calling in a dynamite man. This’ll set us back. They’ll have to drill into the rock and set the dynamite at intervals. It’ll be a series of explosions—blam, blam, blam—probably going on for more than a week.”

“Not good.”

“Once the rock is busted up, they’ll have to excavate it out of there with a back hoe and a grab bucket. That’s more time.”

“And more money.”

“By the way,” said Ron, as if reading his mind, “Buck is in Wesley today. I guess you won’t be brokenhearted.”

He had decided not to tell Ron that the superintendent had shoved him around the other day; it was hardly worth repeating.

The architect met them in the trailer. “I’ve been rethinking a couple of things, Father. I feel the chapel ceiling is too bland, to ... uninspired. With your blessing, I’d like to enrich the vault. Here’s what could happen.”

He unrolled a drawing and spread it out on a metal table.

“What if we come in here with a herringbone pattern using V-joint tongue-and-groove fir? Fir is native to these mountains, and the pattern would add to the overall beauty without being a visual distraction. Then we’d come in with a deep fir molding around the base of the vault. What do you think?”

“I like it,” said the rector.

“Ditto,” said Ron. “And we know a man and his son who could do an outstanding job of it, real native artisans.”

“Great! Native workmanship can add a lot of aesthetic value. Terrific.”

The architect was clearly excited about the new plan and shook hands gratefully with both men.

“How’s Buck working out for you?”

“Couldn’t be better,” said Ron, eyeing the rector.

“Tough break about striking rock. Well, I’m going to walk over the job and see what’s happened since last week. Want to come?”

“You go,” said Father Tim. “I’ve got to make a call.”

The two men went out, letting a blast of stinging air into the trailer. He shivered as he sat down at the desk in Buck Leeper’s ravaged swivel chair.

“Hello, Avis? I’m running late. Could you put together a few things for me to pick up before you close? A pound of ground sirloin. Right. A gallon of milk. A pack of buns. No, not the whole wheat. Dooley won’t eat anything brown.” He still felt the blast of cold air along his shoulders.

“While I’m at it, do you know where I can get a load of wood for the winter? Sure, I’ll hold.”

While Avis laid the receiver down to help a customer, his eyes wandered to the desk blotter that contained a large calendar. He blinked.

In each square that represented the day until today, October the nineteenth, was an exquisite pen-and-ink drawing. Each was intensely thoughtful and rendered with infinite detail. There was a mollusk, an owl, a brick wall, a mountain, a bridge, a chambered nautilus, an ornate staircase, whorls, spirals, hieroglyphs, a pyramid. All so intricate and perfect they might have been mechanically printed.

Nothing was written in any of the squares, no appointments, no schedules, no reminders. The heavy pressure of the pen made each line appear engraved.

There was something jarring about the perfection and precise control, as if these characteristics combined to speak through the drawings with one loud voice. But what was the voice saying?

The thought came to him instantly and clearly. It was saying, Help.

“Right this way,” said Mrs. Kershaw. “Miss Olivia has cleared a great big spot in her dressing room.”

He could barely see over the stack of hatboxes he was carrying. Trooping behind him like a string of ducks were Miss Sadie, clutching the ribbons of a hatbox in each hand, and Louella, with a hatbox in the crook of each arm.

“Oh, my, I hope that’s all,” said the housekeeper.

“It certainly is not all,” Miss Sadie said. “We’ll have to make two more trips to the car!”

They went down the hall to Olivia’s bed and dressing room, where she came in from the terrace to greet them. The rector thought she had never looked more beautifully eager and alive, yet only months ago, they had carried her from this room, near death.

“Just put them here for now,” she said, rushing to kiss every cheek. “I’m so excited! After lunch, we’ll have a hat show. Hoppy is coming over, and we’re all going to model!”

“I pass,” said Father Tim.

She laughed, giving him a fervent hug. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you all. What a blessing.”

“We’ll have to make two more trips to the car,” Miss Sadie said proudly.

“We’ll all help,” Olivia insisted. “Lunch is on the terrace, but it’s covered, so no bumblebees will land in the salad.”

“Ladies, I’m taking charge here. Go sit on the terrace and soak up this unexpected sunshine. I’ll fetch the hats.”

“But ...” said Olivia.

“Mind your priest, dear,” said Miss Sadie, looking at the large, sunny room with appreciation.

Lunch under an umbrella, in the warm sunshine, surrounded by autumn color and a lawn splashed with the first of the fallen leaves. He was so removed from his daily rounds he felt as if he might be in a foreign country.

Hoppy arrived precisely as Mrs. Kershaw set the dessert tray on the skirted table.

“Wonderful timing, old fellow!” The rector loved the sight of his doctor and friend, who had put on weight and improved in color. Only the wild tangle of his graying hair seemed unchanged. It was a different man who, only a year ago, was still grieving over his dead wife and cursing God.

Hoppy embraced each guest with warmth, saving Olivia until last. He went and stood by her side, his arm around her slender waist. Their happiness was palpable; like the pulsing shimmer of a humming-bird, it seemed to radiate the very air.

He felt an odd piercing of his heart. “My friend, who’s your doctor these days? You look positively remade.”

“Doctor Davenport is attending me,” Hoppy said, grinning. “She’s a heart specialist, you know.”

When the women went in to get ready for the hat show, Hoppy peered at him intently. “You look a little peaked.”