These High, Green Hills (20 page)

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Authors: Jan Karon

BOOK: These High, Green Hills
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“Big doin’s comin‘ up at your place,” said J.C. “A real front-pager.” He slid into the rear booth, protecting a bandaged hand.
“Why don’t you run your story
after
the fact?” queried the rector. “You know, one of those good-time-was-had-by-all deals.”
“We’re running a story before
and
after,” said the editor, looking as if he owned the world.
“Aha.”
Mule stirred cream into his coffee. “Your wife’s tea party is sure rackin‘ up business for Fancy. She’s booked solid through the morning of the fifteenth for perms and color, not to mention acrylic nails.”
He had never thought that a rectory tea might boost the local economy. “What happened to your hand?” he asked the editor.
“Jabbed a knife in it.”
“How come?”
“Tryin‘ to punch another hole in my belt. The knife slipped and I punched a hole in myself.”
“That’s a mighty neat-looking bandage. Did you do that?”
“Not exactly,” said J.C.
“You better get some nourishment. You look like you’ve been sent for and couldn’t go,” Mule told him.
“Ten more pounds and I’m home free.”
“You’ll need a whole new set of clothes. That’ll hit you up for a bundle.”
J.C. mopped his face with his handkerchief. “I’ll shop yard sales like some people I know, and dress myself with pocket change.”
“Who’s shakin‘ the sheets to find you of a mornin’?” Velma asked the editor as she poured coffee.
J.C. grinned hugely. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. And by the way, I’ll take the check for this booth.”
“My hearin‘ just went bad,” said Mule. “What’d you say?”
“I said I’m pickin‘ up the check.”
“Why?” asked the rector.
“It’s spring!” said J.C., still grinning.
“Miss Sadie’s sleepin‘,” Louella whispered, answering his knock on the door. “Come in an’ drink a glass of tea. I ain’t put th‘ sugar in yet.”
Louella led him into the kitchen on tiptoe and closed the door. “Now!” she said. “You can talk yo‘ head off and Miss Sadie can’t hear nothin’!”
“How’s your knee doing?”
“Stiff, honey, but perkin‘.”
“Are you cooking?”
“One time a day. I said Miss Sadie, pick yo‘ time, she said lunch! So, I cooks lunch, then we put them dishes in th’ dishwasher and set back and listen to it go. It’s a treat an‘ a half to have a dishwasher!”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’ve never had one.”
“Father, you ought t‘ get more modern, now you’re a married man.”
“Right. How’s Miss Sadie’s wrist?”
“Oh, law. Law, law, law!” Louella shook her head. “Gittin‘ better.”
“That’s not good?”
“Soon’s that little bone git strong, Miss Sadie goan be drivin‘ that car hard as she can go! You see this pore ol’ gray head? Thass not ol‘ age, honey, thass Miss Sadie’s drivin’.”
“Ummm.”
“When she break her wrist, I said, ‘Thank you, Jesus, now we both goan live longer!’ I hate to cross over Jordan meetin‘ head-on with a truck. I’d ’preciate crossin‘ in my sleep with a smile on my face!”
“She’ll be ninety in June. Won’t she have to take another test?”
“She don’t have t‘ test again ’til she hit ninety-two. And Miss Sadie, she test good. She test real good.”
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their tea.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, meaning it. “But I’ll do something.”
Why was he always offering to do something he had no earthly idea how to do? Was his ego so twisted that he had to seize control over outcomes? No, it was almost worse than that. He was driven to console people, to bind them up, to protect them from the worst—an ambition that often got in the way of the Holy Spirit’s ministrations.
“This boy,” the old bishop of Mississippi had said to Tim’s mother, “will make the sort of priest God can use around His house. Timothy will pay attention to his flock in the small particulars, and most of all ... he’ll love them.”
He didn’t know if it was so loving to protect people. Perhaps really loving meant not protecting them.
He certainly hadn’t protected Dooley Barlowe. Sending him off to school with those fancy rich kids was like throwing red meat to wolves. But hadn’t the boy turned up in Paris, France, singing in a cathedral?
“I never thought I’d live to see the day ...” said Cynthia, lying prostrate in bed.
“Which day?”
“The day I’d be in bed at eight-thirty.”
“You’ve become a true Mitfordian. The mountain air has finally gotten the best of your big-city habits.”
“Did I clean my face? I forgot. Could you look? I hope I did, because I can’t get up, I’m sore all over.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask ... why are you giving one colossal, backbreaking tea when you might, say, give a couple of medium-size teas?”
“Medium-size does not hack it in today’s world, dearest. Medium, tedium. The idea is to kill yourself once a year and keep them talking, and then I don’t have to be president or chairman of anything, and everybody still speaks to me and respects my husband.”
“Aha.”
“Do you really like the dining room?”
“I really do. Very much. It’s wonderful. But I was wondering ...”
“Ummm ...”
“What happened to the drapes.”
“I unhooked them from the rod and Puny wore a mask and caught them in a laundry basket and took them to the Dumpster. We would have burned them in the backyard, but there’s a law.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Historic.”
He looked at the ceiling. No wind or breezes tonight. “Sorry I messed up that batch of lemon squares.”
She yawned hugely. “It’s OK. Puny and I are baking all day tomorrow. I know I could have accepted help or called on the ECW, but those women already work like slaves, and I want to give everyone a lovely break. I want them to feel honored and special.
“I don’t mind all this work, really I don’t. It’s my own fault that I decided to redecorate, but it had to be done, you know, it was like a cave down there. Next year will be a breeze. Oh. Can you help me with the vegetable sandwiches Wednesday morning, and melt the chocolate and dip the strawberries?”
“My pleasure,” he said, meaning it.
“I need your moral support more than you imagine. To tell the truth, it will mean everything. It’s the first time out for the rector’s new wife, you know.”
He took her hand. “Mark my words, it’s going to be the grandest event since the unveiling of the statue at the town museum.”
“Just one more day to go,” she said, “and then boom, a hundred and twenty women all talking at once! I have a feeling Uncle Billy will come with Miss Rose, don’t you?”
“I’d be surprised if he doesn’t.”
“I hope he does. It will add an air of intrigue.”
Uncle Billy? Intrigue?
“Do you really like the kitchen, Timothy?”
“Greatly. I think it’s ... interesting ... that you knocked the plaster off the wall in forty-seven places.”
“It’s that wonderful ruined look. Are you laughing?”
“I am not.”
“I see your stomach jiggling.”
“The kitchen might go over a few heads on Wednesday.”
“When we leave, I’ll replaster,” she said.
There was a long silence.
She looked at him. “We never talk about when you—we—might ... leave.”
“That’s because I don’t have the faintest idea,” he snapped.
Why had he snapped at her? Because Stuart Cullen was always pushing him to consider his retirement—what he was going to do and when he was going to do it. He wouldn’t know until he did it, and that should be enough for anybody.
The phone by the bed gave a sharp blast.
“Father? Richard Fleming.”
“Yes?” he said cautiously.
“I’m very embarrassed about something. Do you have a moment?”
“I do.” He sat straight up.
“Nearly four weeks ago, we sent a hand-addressed mailing to all parents, an invitation to a special choral concert here at the school. I walked over to the office tonight and saw that yours has just come back. Where it has languished for so long, I can’t say, but it was marked Return to Sender.”
“Aha.”
“We’d made the regrettable mistake of addressing it to Milford, a slip of the pen, as it were, though you’re in our computer correctly.
“What I’m getting around to is, this concert is the most ambitious thing we’ve done all year. Very important. I wondered why you hadn’t responded, and Dooley was very concerned that we had no reply from you.
“I must tell you this means a great deal to him. The parents are turning out in enthusiastic numbers, and, well, I’m dreadfully sorry about the mix-up....”
“Quite all right,” said the rector. “I’m sure we can make arrangements. Whatever it takes, I’ll be there. You have my word.”
“Excellent! A great relief!”
“When is it ... exactly?”
“Wednesday morning—the day after tomorrow—at eleven o‘clock. It’s followed by a luncheon at one. We had a conflict at the weekend and were forced to schedule a weekday, but the parents have been very accommodating. Well, then, this is lovely. Shall I jot you down for two Kavanaghs?”
He looked at his wife, feeling stricken. He had given Richard Fleming his word.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “Just one.”
To be there at eleven, he would have to leave Mitford no later than six a.m., maybe six-fifteen, after melting the chocolate and dipping a hundred and fifty strawberries. Puny had agreed to come early and do the vegetable sandwiches.
Cynthia had been gravely disappointed, but tried hard not to show it. His wife, however, had the complete inability to hide her feelings. They were right out there for all to see, as accurate as a top-of-the-line wall barometer.
“Of course you must go,” she said. “Dooley would be heartbroken if you didn’t. I’ll pack him a box of treats, and you don’t have to do the strawberries, it’s too much—”
“It’s no such thing. I’ll do them and that’s that.”
She sighed. “Puny will be here all day, and Hessie Mayhew is collecting primroses from every garden and insists on helping clean up, and Marge Owen wants to help, too, so—”
“So I’ll be back around six-thirty, and anything that’s left to clean up, I’ll do it.”
“I love you madly,” she said, looking brave.
He finished setting out squares of chocolate and a double boiler for the morning. Then he turned and drew her to him and took her face in his hands. “In truth,” he said, “it’s the other way around.”

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