These High, Green Hills (35 page)

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Authors: Jan Karon

BOOK: These High, Green Hills
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“The whole blooming list,” he said, his excitement mounting.
“That’s a hundred and twenty households, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” He was pleased with the number, especially as it had risen by seven percent in two years, even with the recent loss to the Presbyterian camp.
“I suppose you realize that nobody’s ever home anymore, to
answer
the phone.”
He couldn’t argue that point. “So have cards done at QuikCopy. But you’ll have to get them in the mail no later than tomorrow. Oh. And remember to say it’s a surprise.”
“It’s certainly a surprise to me.”
“When we get our computer,” he said jauntily, “it’ll knock the labels out in no time. Until then ...”
She glared at him darkly. “I’ll have to address every blasted one by hand.”
“Every blasted one,” he said, swiveling around in his chair and dialing Esther Bolick. This was an occasion for a three-tier orange marmalade cake, and no two ways about it.
“Have you found out anything?” he asked the social worker. It had been only four days since he had filed the complaint, but it didn’t hurt to ask.
“I can’t say. I haven’t seen anything on it.”
“Have you investigated?”
“The person responsible for the investigation isn’t in today. You’ll be advised as soon as possible.”
“I’ll call back,” he said.
Cynthia agreed to buy the birthday present in Wesley when she went to get new towels and washcloths for the rectory. She thought it should be a cardigan sweater, a blend of wool and cotton, even silk.
“Spare no expense!” he said, feeling a warm largesse toward his all-time favorite parishioner.
Emma softened and bought a silver-plated letter opener, as Miss Sadie had lost hers and was using a kitchen knife with a serrated edge. “She goan cut her han‘ off jus’ openin’ th‘ ’lectric bill,” Louella said. “An‘ th’ ‘lectric company already takin’ a arm an‘ a leg.”
He called Katherine in New Jersey, thinking she might like to drop a card to the lady who’d been kind to her on a long-ago visit to Mitford.
Katherine proceeded to give yet another of her sermons on why he and Cynthia should go to Ireland with them in August, and he responded with yet another sermon on why they could not, the chief reason being that Dooley Barlowe would still be home from school, and he wanted to spend every possible moment with the boy.
“Oh, well,” said his cousin’s wife, “I’ll keep trying. In the meantime, I’ll send Miss Sadie two of the pot holders I’m making for our church bazaar.”
He didn’t mention that the pot holders she once sent him had unraveled to the size of petits fours, and faded in the wash on his underwear.
The Sweet Stuff Bakery volunteered to make vegetable sandwiches, and the ECW promised to round up trays of lemon squares, brownies, and ham biscuits, not to mention a heap of Miss Sadie’s favorite party food, which was peanut butter and jelly on triangles of white bread without crusts.
He jogged up Old Church Lane to the Hope House site to render an invitation to Buck Leeper, and marveled at the way construction was humming along. The windows, at last set in place, reflected the afternoon sun like so many squares of gold. Dazzling!
Buck would, indeed, come to the party, though the fact that it was being held in a church building did not appear to increase his eagerness.
Father Tim ordered ice cream, and plenty of it, vanilla
and
chocolate, and rummaged through drawers in the parish hall kitchen for birthday candles. He came up with fewer than twenty-one pink candles, and made a note to pick up more at the drugstore, along with a container of rouge called Wild Coral, which Miss Sadie once said she liked.
Esther Bolick would play the piano, Mayor Cunningham would deliver a speech, and Dooley Barlowe, he felt certain, would sing.
In advance of the occasion, Cynthia brushed his best dark suit and picked one of two silk squares for his jacket pocket. He shined his shoes and wrote, in longhand, a poem that he would read aloud. He rifled through his study library to find any references to “birthday” that might be funny, wise, thought-provoking, or all of the above.
He supposed he should let Louella in on it, and popped over to Lilac Road during Miss Sadie’s nap time.
“You ain’t!” said Louella. “You ain’t gone an‘ done all that!”
“I certainly have,” he said, suspicious of her frown.
“Miss Sadie don’t want no big doin’s for her birthday, she done tol‘ me that.”
“What do you mean?”
“She say, ‘Louella, don’t you let nobody be singin’ and jumpin‘ aroun’.‘ ”
“But Miss Sadie likes singing and jumping around!”
“Not this time, she don’t. She ain’t feelin‘ herself. Ever since she fell off th’ sofa and broke her wris’ bone, she been grumpy as you ever seen.” Louella shook her head. “I don‘ know. She ain’t sick, she ain’t ailin’, she jus’ ain’t th‘ same Miss Sadie.”
“Let me have a word with her.” Sadie Baxter was not a grumpy person. She was sunshine itself. Maybe he should tell her about the party, how excited people were. That would fix everything, no problem.
“Come eat with us Wednesday, after Holy Euc‘ris’,” said Louella. “I’ll have a pot of snap beans an‘ a cake of cornbread. It puts her in a good mood t’ have comp‘ny.”
“Done!” he said, feeling encouraged.
It was the last thing he needed in his life, the very last thing he needed on the whole of this earth. The prospect made a series of root canals seem nothing at all, a picnic.
“We’ll be there tomorrow,” said the computer technician.
He went to the Grill for breakfast, as Cynthia had been up since four-thirty working on an illustration due in New York, pronto.
Sliding into the booth, he felt as if breakfast were his last supper.
“Business has fell off,” said Percy, looking gloomy.
“Looks th‘ same to me,” said Mule, eyeing the room. “An empty stool or two ...”
“I cain’t afford a empty stool or two, especially with th‘ new help I’ve got on th’ breakfast shift. Th‘ doc said, ’Percy, take a load off your feet,‘ so here I set, swillin’ coffee like th‘ rest of th’ loafers.”
“You’ll catch up,” said J.C., unusually consoling.
“I cain’t see how. Th‘ price of cookin’ oil is up, th‘ price of eggs is up, even bread has went up. I need to expand my customer base.”
“You’ve got us,” said Mule. “We come in regular as clockwork. That ought to count for something.”
“I cain’t make a livin‘ off a preacher, a part-time Realtor, and a jack-leg newspaper man. I got to advertise.”
“I can’t believe you used that dirty word,” said J.C., chewing a combination mouthful of sausage, eggs, toast, and grits. “You’ve fought advertisin‘ like a chicken fights a hawk.”
“I’m not talkin‘ ordinary, run of th’ mill advertisin‘ like newspapers and such.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m talkin‘ a banner to hang over my awnin’.”
“A banner,” said J.C., obviously bored with the conversation.
“Happy Endings uses banners, th‘ Collar Button puts up two banners a year at sale time ... an’ remember how they lined up when Th‘ Local did a banner on fresh collards last October?”
“Who can keep up with such as that?” asked Velma, refilling their cups. “Lord, I hardly know where I was yesterday, much less who lined up for collards last October.”
“You was here yesterday,” Percy said helpfully. “From ten t‘ two. I needed you from eight t’ two, but you was havin‘ your hair dyed.”
“Put that on a banner,” Velma snapped. “Most people think this is my natural color.”
“What do you want the banner to say?” asked the rector.
“Dern if I know, I just this mornin‘ decided to do it.”
“How much does a banner cost?” Mule asked.
“Two hundred dollars.”
Mule blew on his coffee. “What it says better be good, then.”
“Memorable,” suggested the rector.
“Right,” said Mule.
Percy looked at Father Tim. “What do you think it ought to say? You write sermons and put those snappy little notions on your wayside pulpit. And here sets th‘ editor of th’ local paper, a scribbler and a half, to my mind. Seems like between th‘ two of you, you could come up with what to say.”
“How many words?” asked J.C.
“No more’n ten. More’n ten, th‘ price goes up and readership goes down. That’s th’ rule for billboards same as banners, is what th‘ banner man says.”
“Homeless Hobbes,” said the rector. “He’s your man. He was in advertising. Did cereal, automotive, and toothpaste.”
“I don’t have time to go stumblin‘ around th’ Creek, gettin‘ my head shot off by one of them hillbillies. I got to get right on this thing.”
“When it comes to advertising,” said J.C., “there’s always some big deadline deal. You waited this long, why can’t you give a man a day or two to come up with the copy?”
“If I call it in today, th‘ paint dries Thursday, an’ it’s delivered Friday. That way, I get drive-by recognition all weekend, and when I open th‘ door on Monday mornin’—full house!” It was a rare occasion when Percy Mosely smiled.
J.C. sopped his toast around his plate and handed the plate to Velma as she walked by. “No need to wash that.” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “So why don’t we come up with a line right now?”
“Right now?”
“Why not? I can’t be laborin‘ over a dadblame banner like I got nothing else to do.”
“I’ll throw in a free breakfast, two mornin’s,” said Percy.
“Two mornings?”
“Three.”
“With sausage?”
“Links or patties, your call.”
“Deal,” said J.C., taking a legal pad from his bulging briefcase and a pencil from his shirt pocket. “OK, what’s the occasion? Free refills on coffee? Twenty percent off for senior citizens?”
“Just general.”
“General? You can’t write great advertising about general. You got to have particular. In fact, outstanding particular. The finest pies, the cheapest breakfasts, the biggest salad bar. Like that.”

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