A Light in the Window (56 page)

“Tit for tat,” replied the rector, covering him with the afghan.

“Timothy, I am not a charity organization.” Edith’s brown cigarette lay smoldering in the ashtray on the table.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Edith.”

“Priests are so idealistic—they’re like children, really. They know nothing about business.”

“I do realize your need to make investments lucrative, to be a wise steward of what you ...”

“Then do stop nagging me to do what you’re asking. A twenty-percent rent increase is not worth bothering about.” She stirred sweetener into a glass of tea, while lunch progressed into his digestive system like so much gall.

“The mayor has done everything in her power to stop progress in this town, and while you may think those tacky shops on Main Street are charming, they’re an economic liability of the worst sort. Look at that hideous awning on the Grill and that peeling paint.”

“May I remind you that hideous awnings and peeling paint are a responsibility of the property owner and not the tenant?”

“Don’t mince my words. A fine dress shop from Florida, where people know how to
do,
Timothy, will bring in more shops like it. It will raise rents all along the street. It will ...”

“It will destroy the character it has taken more than half a century to create. It will erase something central to the core and spirit of the town and demolish a sense of connectedness that is disappearing throughout the country—something we’re desperately longing to return to, though in most places it’s far too late ...”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, “stop preaching to me. Save that for the pulpit! I always knew you were old-fashioned, but I never dreamed you were so set in your ways.”

“That may be. I’m also saying that doubling the rent is unfair and is clearly a strategy to get the Grill off the street. Another thing. How carefully have you considered the cost of leasing this space to a fine dress shop and the amount of upfitting they’ll require of the owner?”

“It has all been considered, and it is all decided. Unless your people can pay the rent I’m asking, which is perfectly legitimate for Main Street, the dress shop will occupy the property on May 16. And no, I can’t wait until your people find a new location, if there is such a thing, because the shop owners must occupy on the sixteenth or go elsewhere. Believe me, I’m going to see they don’t go elsewhere.”

“Waiter,” he said, “would you bring the check?”

She crushed out her cigarette. “And don’t expect me to pay it, like so many clergy do.”

There was one thing he could say for her, but only one:

She hadn’t strung him along.

Percy had better be ready to pack up and not look back.

He couldn’t separate the anger from the sorrow. “Vent your anger,” the bishop had said a few times, “or it turns into depression—then you’re down in the mire with half your parish.”

He didn’t feel up to racing his motor scooter out to Absalom Greer’s country store, though the weather was certainly good for it. He was not yet well enough to jog, and smashing glasses into the fireplace was too theatrical.

Instead, he put on a pot of soup, gave Dooley his medicine, read to him from a veterinary book, and brushed Barnabas. Then, while the soup boiled over on the stove, he fell asleep on the sofa, exhausted.

“Are you well, Cousin?” she called through the three-inch opening.

He let out a racking cough and shoved his handkerchief to his face. Then he blew his nose as loudly as he could.

She shut the door.

There, he thought. That ought to hold her for another day or two.

“She’s set on it, Percy. I did my best.”

Percy looked thinner, and there were dark circles under his eyes. “Thank you, Father. I know you did. I ain’t worried about it.”

“Percy’s cookin’ is starting to reflect his mood,” said J.C. “Lookit this sausage.” To make his point he tried to puncture it with a knife, only to have it skid across his plate.

Mule scowled at Percy. “You got to keep up, buddyroe. You can’t let down, especially not here at th’ last.”

“Depression,” said J.C. “That’s what it is. That and denial.”

“Depression comes from anger,” said the rector. “You need to let off steam.”

“We could all go to Wesley and get drunk,” said Mule.

“Fine,” said J.C., “except nobody drinks—besides th’ father, that is, who knocks back a little sherry now and then.”

“I forgot,” said Mule, “that J.C. goes to A.A., I don’t drink anything stronger than well water, and Percy was raised Baptist and never touched a drop.”

J.C. raked the last of the buttered grits onto his toast. “Bein’ raised Baptist can drive you to drink, if you want my opinion.”

“So how could Percy let off some steam?” asked the rector. “We need to brainstorm this.”

“I’ll tell you how,’ said J.C. ”Let Omer Cunningham fly you around in that old airplane, upside down and backwards. That’ll do it. You’ll be so glad to get on th’ ground, they could take this place and turn it into a hubcap museum, for all you care.”

“Let Fancy give you a face mask,” said Mule. “No charge. On the house.”

“A what?” asked Percy, looking done in.

“A face mask. It cleans out your pores.”

Percy got up and went to the men’s room.

“We’re makin’ him sick,” said J.C.

“We’ve only got eight days to the fifteenth.” The rector took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “So, what’s the answer?”

“There isn’t one,” said Mule, sounding oddly philosophical.

He had never seen Dooley Barlowe look so haggard and pale. He opened a can of ginger ale and went upstairs and sat on the side of his bed.

“I got you another week of KitKats,” he said, holding up the bag. “Thanks for using them as we agreed.”

“One every other day, and no cheating,” said Dooley, looking feverish. “Leave ‘em in here or that woman’ll git ’em.”

The rector pushed the bag under the bed. “There. Completely out of sight. So how are you feeling?”

“I’d as soon be dead.”

“I know the feeling. We’ll have a talk when you’re better.”

“Who’s lookin’ after ol’ Cynthia?”

“I am. The torch has passed to me.”

“How’s she doin’?”

“Still a bit down.”

“Are you goin’ to marry her?”

“Well ...” he said, as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Are you or ain’t you? I would, if I was you.”

“You’re not me.”

“I’m dern glad of that.”

“Why are you glad of that?”

“You ain’t no fun.”

“Aren’t no fun. Come to think of it, you’re not exactly a million laughs, yourself. Why would you marry Cynthia if you were me?”

“Because she’s neat. She’s fun.”

“What’s so fun about her?”

“She picked ‘at ol’ mouse up by th’ ear and th’ow’d it at me when I laughed at ’er.”

“Throwing around a dead mouse is fun?”

“It is if you don’t have nothin’ else to do,” said Dooley.

Dooley’s flu hung on longer than his own had done, but then, he had pushed himself. Cynthia was still moping around in her bathrobe and curlers, with scarcely enough energy to bring in the mail.

“It’s all right to take your time getting well,” he said, having a cup of tea in her workroom. “You’ve worn yourself out on the book. Allow time to rest. Don’t push yourself.” He had never been able to take his own advice.

He picked flowers and left them on her kitchen cabinet and brought her a book of quotations from Happy Endings. He stopped by Winnie Ivey’s for a napoleon, which he was tempted to step into the bushes and devour on the way home, but delivered it straight to her door.

He sat and read to her one evening while she put her feet on the ottoman and looked pale, and he also endured her infernal sighing.

He even opened some foul-smelling concoction and fed it to Violet, who scratched him on the ankle for his trouble.