Authors: Jan Karon

Light From Heaven (49 page)

BOOK: Light From Heaven

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“Short!” she said.

He shrugged; a light smile played at his mouth. “Won’t have t’ do it ag’in ’til th’t-taters come in.”

Accompanied by his fourteen-year-old daughter, Sally, Hank Triplett thumped down on the epistle side, as did nine Millwrights. Though recovered from the worst, the Millwrights produced a veritable symphony of coughing for everyone’s listening pleasure.

Lloyd Goodnight arrived with Buster, who, much against his will, had cleaned up considerably.

Miss Mary and Miss Martha brought a neighbor, Edna Swanson, who devoutly hoped that word of her visit to the Episcopalians wouldn’t get around to the Methodists, where she’d been a member for thirty-odd years.

Though Miss Martha explained that the Methodists and Episcopalians had formerly been one Communion, anyway, this fact was much doubted by Edna, who knew a thing or two about local church history and had written a pamphlet on the subject that sold for fifty cents and helped support field missions.

Unaccustomed as most of the congregation was to the Anglican hymns, Sparkle Foster, who’d learned to read music in ninth grade, today felt sufficiently comfortable to sing out, loud and clear.

Father Tim pitched in with Sparkle, Lloyd gave it what-for, and Cynthia brought up the rear, doing her level best. Together with Agnes’s confident but warbly soprano and Miss Martha’s roof-raising mezzo, the melody of the opening hymn launched out upon the air above the gorge, mingling with the balmy May thermals enjoyed by fourteen Cooper’s hawks.

“Thy beautiful care
What tongue can recite?
It breathes in the air,
It shines in the night;
It streams from the hills,
It descends to the plain,
And sweetly distills
In the dew and the rain ...”

Some minutes after the service began, two young children peered through the open front doors.

As the self-appointed greeter of latecomers, Miss Martha got up from the back row and went to see what was what.

“Well?” she demanded in a loud whisper.

The boy looked terrified, but courageous. “I’m Roy Dale; she’s Gladys, th’ baby. We heered you’uns got cake.”

“Come in, come in, we’ll see what we can do!”

As she herded them to her pew, Martha McKinney thanked God that Agnes had frozen the remains of last week’s German chocolate ...

Following the service and a brief tutorial on the rubrics, the vicar introduced Rooter Hicks. Rooter, he said, would demonstrate a way to communicate a simple greeting to Holy Trinity’s crucifer, Clarence Merton, or to anyone without full hearing.

Rooter was seized by terror as he stood to make his demonstration. He was, in fact, struck dumb, and signed the greeting repeatedly before he at last recovered his voice.

“‘Is here’s how t’ say
How y’ doin’, man.
Y’all are s‘posed t’ do it, too.”

Father Tim mimicked Rooter’s signing. “How are you doing, man,” he said as he signed. “Now, if we’re going to get out of here at a reasonable hour...”—he glanced at his watch—“... let’s all pitch in and sign with Rooter.”

At this exhortation, the congregation pitched in and signed with Rooter.

“Now you’re talking!” said the vicar.

Fond of counting heads, Cynthia was pleased to report that attendance at Holy Trinity had shot to twenty-eight. Including their vicar, of course.

He was at first elated, then glum. Twenty-eight was more than half the capacity of their nave. What would they do if ... ?

“Chairs in the aisle!” said his mind-reading deacon.

“Two services!” he said, astounded by the thought.

Cynthia threw up her hands. “Wait a minute; wait a minute. We’re starting to mess around in the Lord’s business.”

He laughed, instantly relieved. “Thanks, Kavanagh. I was just cranking up to a full building program.”

“If Roy Dale and Gladys come back, Sammy and I could have twelve in our Sunday School next week. Twelve! I’m sort of... nervous, really.”

“Don’t be. Have you talked to Sammy?”

“Not yet. Timing is everything. But I think he’ll do it.”

“Have you thought the lesson through?”

She gestured toward her heart. “It’s kind of ... soaking in there.”

“And all the better for it!” he said.

He prayed for Esther Bolick, who was reeling with a hurt he could only dimly imagine.

Having known her for nearly twenty years, he came to a simple conclusion: Esther is grieving. And out of it was coming considerable good.

He hit “send.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Shady Grove

A blue plastic tent, occupying a large area around the mouth of the fireplace, had been erected to keep mortar dust and creosote from sifting into the room.

As anyone could see, it wasn’t working.

The stuff continued to leak its way into the kitchen, living room, and dining room, and then turn the corner and drift along the hall to the library. The soot had a greasy base, which meant that wiping it off a surface had to be handled with some discretion.

Adding insult to injury, the pile of wet sand next to the back porch was slowly making its way into the house on the soles of Lloyd’s and Buster’s work boots. Then there was the issue of the kitchen table, which had to be jammed cheek by jowl with the stove, making it a nuisance to get the oven door open.

“How long?” he asked Lloyd, feeling desperate.

“Well, see, we’re tearin’ out y’r fireplace surround so we can get at th’ old lintel and pull it out of there.”

“That’s so we can install y’r damper,” said Buster.

“Aha.”

“We’ll be layin’ y’r brick two wide up through th’ throat,” said Lloyd, “then pargin’ up th’ throat, which ain’t easy.”

“Rough,” said Buster, shaking his head.

Lloyd removed his ball cap, hoping to clarify things. “See, pargin’ th’ throat from outside down is fine, but pargin’ from inside up is harder, if you know what I mean...”

“How long?” His eyes were glazing over; he couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry about y’r two bushes,” said Lloyd. “We’ll sure be more careful.”

“Yeah,” said Buster.

This would be the third time of asking. “How
long
?”

Lloyd looked at Buster; Buster looked at Lloyd.They both looked at the vicar, and spoke in unison. “Three weeks?”

He couldn’t help but notice the question mark at the end of what he’d hoped would be a declarative statement.

“Have you caught him in the act?”

He’d called the district attorney, whom he’d gotten to know during Dooley’s encounter with the police a few years ago.

“Haven’t even seen him. But my dog ripped a piece from his shirt, and he left some things in another house on the property.”

“Is the property posted?”

“It is.”

“How many chickens are you missing?”

“Seven. And I found the feathers and a fire pit.”

“Did he cut down any trees for firewood?”

“Don’t think so; didn’t look for that. He probably picked up a few dead limbs around the place.”

“What else do you know?”

“He left his lower dentures behind.”

The DA laughed. “He’ll be back.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. What kind of offenses do we have here?”

“Larceny Second-degree trespassing. Cruelty to animals, which carries a class one misdemeanor. And if he cut down any trees or bushes for firewood, add a class two misdemeanor. Bottom line, if he has five or more convictions on his record, the judge could give him up to two hundred and forty days.”

“Thanks,” said Father Tim. “I’ll keep in touch.”

“Your guy’s prob‘ly over at Value Mart checkin’ out the baby food aisle; you’re OK for a while.”

Very funny, thought the vicar.