Authors: Jan Karon

Light From Heaven (40 page)

BOOK: Light From Heaven

11.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

“I was, officer. I’m sorry.” He adjusted his tab collar, to make sure the officer noticed he was clergy. “It’s Uncle Billy.” To his surprise, tears suddenly streamed down his cheeks.

“Uncle Billy?”

“One of the most important people in Mitford. He’s dying; Dr. Harper called me to come.”

“Don’t let it happen again.”

“Certainly not.”

The young turk shook his head, as if greatly mystified.

“I don’ know what it is about preachers. All y’all seem t’ have a lead foot.”

In his room at Mitford Hospital, Uncle Billy tried to recollect whichaway th’ lawyer joke started off. Was th’ lawyer a-drivin’ down th’ road when he hit a groundhog, or was he a-walkin’ down th’ road? An’ was it a groundhog or was it a sow pig?

His joke tellin’ days was givin’ out, that’s all they was to it.

He looked at the ceiling, which appeared to be thick with lowering clouds, and with something like geese flying south.

Winter must be a-comin’. Seem like winter done come a week or two ago, and here it was a-comin’ ag‘in, hit was enough t’ rattle a man’s brains th’ way things kep’ a-changin’.

He shivered suddenly and pulled the covers to his chin.

Snow clouds, that’s what they was! Hit’s goin’ t’ come a big snow or worser yet, a gulley-washin’ rain.

Bill Watson! What are you hammering about?

He hadn’t opened his trap, as far as he knowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her settin’ up in th’ bed next t’ his ’un, lookin’ like a witch on a broom.

Did you say it’s going to snow?

He lay as still as a buck in hunting season, and pressed his lips together so no words could escape.

Are you talking to yourself or to me, Bill Watson?

No, dadgummit, I ain’t a-talkin’ t’ you, I ain’t said a word t’ you! Lord knows, you’ve fretted me ’til I’m wore to a nubbin. Now,
lay down!

He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, in case they popped open and she saw that he was awake.

In a little bit, he’d try an’ git his mind back t’ th’ joke about th’ lawyer, maybe he’d stir up a laugh or two if anybody come a-knockin’ on th’ door, like maybe Preacher Kavanagh.

He breathed easier, then, and opened his eyes and gazed again at the ceiling. The geese had disappeared.

Gone south!

Hush my
mouth? squawked his wife.

He felt a chill go up his spine; he reckoned ’is wife was
a-readin’ ’is mind!

He’d never heered of such a low trick as that!

Lord have mercy, they was no end to it.

He didn’t know when he realized he was passing up through a cloud, like a feather floating upward on a mild breeze.

There was light ahead, and the cloud felt like his toaster oven set on low, just nice and warm, as it was a long time ago in his mama’s arms.

He kept his eyes squeezed shut so he wouldn’t see the ceiling coming at him, then reckoned he must have floated right through it, as easy as you please.

The light was getting stronger now. He found it odd that it didn’t hurt his eyes one bit; indeed, it felt good, like it was making his worn-out eyes brand-new ...

Uncle Billy felt a hand close over his own. It was a touch that seemed familiar somehow ...

The Almighty and merciful Lord ...

Now, he was in the topmost branches of an apple tree, throwing apples down to his little sister, Maisie, and over yonder was his mama, waiting for him ...

... grant thee pardon and remission of thy sins ...
It seemed the words came from a very great distance ...

He knew only that he was happy, very happy; his heart was about to burst. He tried to utter some word that would express the joy ...

“... and the grace and comfort of the Holy Spirit,” said Father Tim. “Amen.”

His voice sounded hollow in the empty room.

The following morning, Mitford learned that two of their own had been taken in the night.

William Benfield Watson had died in his sleep with a smile on his face, and in so doing, had attained the chief aim of every soul who desired a peaceful passing.

Less than an hour later, Gene Bolick died of the causal effects of an inoperable brain tumor. His wife, Esther, worn beyond telling, had left the hospital only a short time earlier at the insistence of the nursing staff.

It was Nurse Herman who stood at Gene’s bedside when he spoke his last words.

“Tell Esther ...”

Nurse Herman leaned down to hear his hoarse whisper.

“... to pay the power bill.”

Nurse Herman didn’t know whether to share with Esther these pragmatic sentiments; the bereft widow might have hoped for something more.

Yet her greater concern was that Esther’s power might, indeed, be shut off—not a good thing with so many family and friends dropping by.

Thus, with the blessing of Dr. Harper, she recited these last words to Esther, and was vastly relieved when the grieving and exhausted widow thanked her for the reminder.

“Are you sure that’s all he said?” Esther mopped her eyes with a wadded-up section of hospital toilet paper.

As ardently as Nurse Herman wanted to report something truly heartwarming, the truth was the truth. “Yes, ma’am, that’s all.”

Indeed, she had long kept a memorized selection of made-up last words to offer a bereaved family—but only if absolutely, positively necessary.

In this case,
Tell Esther I love her
would have been very nice, though basic.

Tell Esther I appreciate all the years she devoted herself to my happiness
would be more flowery, but not completely believable, as Mr. Bolick hadn’t been the flowery type.

Tell Esther I’ll see her in heaven
would be tricky, as it was sometimes impossible to figure who was going to heaven and who was going to the other place.

And then there was her personal favorite:
Tell Esther she was the light of my life.

She had heard of people saying amazing things as they passed. She would never forget being told in seventh grade what Thomas Edison had said: “It is very beautiful over there.”

That sort of remark was comforting to those left behind; she wished dying patients would say things like that more often.

In any case, she had told Esther the plain truth and, happy to have these odd last words off her chest, reported further that Mr. Bolick had looked peaceful, very peaceful, and had not struggled at the end.

Willie handed the carton over the threshold.

“Twelve.”

“Twelve? Pretty big drop.”

“Don’t know what’s got into ’em.”

Willie had a lot to say grace over these days. Maybe it hadn’t occurred to him to do it. So he’d do it himself.

Trekking across the yard with a plastic bag of cabbage leaves and apple peelings, he looked toward the vegetable patch. Sammy was trundling a wheelbarrow through the gate.

“Good job,
Sammy!”
he shouted, pumping his fist into the air. Sammy nodded, intent on his work. The vicar recalled that payday was right around the corner; that would bring a smile to their young gardener’s face.

He lifted the latch and let himself into the hen house. Two on the roosting poles. One on a nest. Another pecking in the mash trough.

Four.

He went out, hooked the latch, and peered into the fenced lot.

Six. Eight. Ten. Twelve, thirteen. Chickens weren’t much at holding still to be counted. Blast. Six. Eight. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Twelve.

Had he counted right?

He counted again.

Twelve.

Strange, he thought. Mystifying.

He opened the bag and tossed cabbage leaves into the lot; the hens scampered after them, gleeful. One by one, the remaining four exited by the opening in the side of the house and flew down the ramp as the shower of apple peelings fell through the wire at the top of the lot.

“Chick, chick, chick!” he called. That was how Peggy had taught him to gather the chickens when he was a boy. He remembered letting himself into the lot, unafraid of the rooster, and squatting down to look the whole caboodle in the eye.

What did chickens think? Were they stupid like some people said? They didn’t seem stupid, but they did seem nervous. Did they know about dumplings, about the things that were going to happen to them? How did God get eggs into chickens?

At the conclusion of this scientific investigation, Peggy discovered he was crawling with lice. They were in his hair, in his clothes ...

“Run to the washhouse!” said his horrified mother, “and wait for Peggy and me.”

It was, in his opinion, a bitter remedy; he could remember the smell to this day. Sulfur!

Stuffing the empty bag in his pocket, he struck out for the barn, where Willie was giving a lamb its bottle.

“I just went to the henhouse and counted. Didn’t you say we had nineteen?”

Willie looked perplexed. “Yes, sir, I counted ’em m’self on New Years Day.”

“I counted twice. We’ve got twelve.”

Willie looked shocked, then perplexed. “But that don’t make no sense. I ain’t seen any dead when I feed up.”

Father Tim squatted next to Willie. “Any way they could be getting out? Flying the coop?”

“That little house is tight as a drum. No way out, no way in. An’ I been looking aroun’ th’ fence t’ see if anything’s been diggin’ under. Ain’t nothin’ diggin’ under.”

“So it couldn’t be a mink?”

“We’d find feathers. Worser’n ’at, we’d hear th’ uproar. When a fox or mink gits in a henhouse, chickens go t’ squawkin’. They ain’t no way anything could get in there without unlatchin’ th’ door like ... like me’n you.” This thought appeared to give Willie a bad turn.

“Should I leave the farm dogs out tonight?”

“y’r farm dogs won’t sleep out, they’re inside dogs now. Miz Owen’s done ruined ’em. Anyhow, all but one of ’em’s too dadgone old t’ do much barkin’.”

“What about your dogs?”

“I don’t let m’ dogs run at night. We got coyote, y’ know.”

“So I’ve heard. Could anybody get by your kennel without stirring your dogs?”

“I guess if they was smart enough an’ quiet enough, they could. At night, it ain’t too hard f’r somebody t‘slip in on chickens without ’em squawkin’. You can lift one off of th’ roost pretty easy if you know how t’ handle it.”

“Do you know the neighbors?”

“Not t’ speak of. Once in a while, I see a neighbor or two at Kirby’s Store. But don’ look like nobody’d steal chickens this day an’ time.”

“Right,” said Father Tim, “all a man has to do is run to Wesley; he can get one already dressed for less than a buck and a half a pound.” He shook his head, pondering. “So, how’s this little fella coming along?”

Willie came as close to beaming as Father Tim had seen. “He’ll be strappin’.”

“Good. Keep your eyes peeled,” said the vicar.

BOOK: Light From Heaven

11.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads