These High, Green Hills (46 page)

Authors: Jan Karon

BOOK: These High, Green Hills

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Sometimes, being elated drained him more than feeling despondent. His high at Miss Sadie’s turnaround left him limp on Wednesday night.

His wife was propped up in bed, scribbling in a sketchbook, while he examined himself in the dresser mirror.

“You’re tired, dearest?” she asked.

“A dash.”

“More than a dash, I think. You know you can’t shine if you don’t fill your lamp.”

“Where did you dig up that old platitude, Kavanagh?”

“Ummm. I can’t remember.”

He peered into the mirror, lamenting the new gray in what was left of his hair.

“Darling,” she said, “I think your gray hair is wonderful. Very distinguished, in fact!”

He gave her a wicked sidelong glance. “Yes, and just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there’s no fire in the furnace.”

She went into gales of laughter. “Timothy! I can’t believe you said such a thing.”

“That may be only the first of the things you can’t believe I said.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean ... what do I mean? I mean, let’s drive to Holding for dinner tomorrow evening, for starters. There’s a new place, and it’s foolishly expensive.”

“I can’t believe it!”

“You see? And another thing: Let’s take in a movie. You can eat all my Milk Duds.”

“Timothy! What is happening to you? If you don’t watch out, you’re going to be positively
fun
.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, grinning.

“I’d love to do all of that! And now that Miss Sadie is feeling better, I can talk to you about something I’ve been thinking.”

“And what’s that?” he asked, coming to sit on the side of the bed.

“Having my will made last week reminded me ... if I keel over before I get my roots touched up, don’t let Fancy Skinner lay a hand on me, do you hear?”

He stared at her, blankly.

“You must send for a hairdresser in Charlotte, and I definitely want foil, not a cap. Understand?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Foil! Not a cap! Oh, phoo, I’ll write it down and put it in the envelope with the will. I did tell you where I put the will, didn’t I?”

“I don’t recall that you did.” Good Lord, she sounded as if it were all coming down the pike tomorrow.

“In the top drawer of your desk in the study. Under the ledger.”

“Right. So why are you concerned about your hair if you’re going to be cremated?” Episcopalians were historically fond of ending up in an urn, which surely didn’t require getting their roots touched up, much less by out-of-towners.

“I’m not going to be cremated! Just plopped in the old-fashioned casket that takes up all that room underground and is now politically incorrect from here to the Azores.”

“Aha.”

“I’ll leave you a note about what I’m going to wear. I think it should be that plum-colored suit you like so much.” She stopped and pondered. “Unless, of course, I keel over in the summer, which means that little piqué dress with the blue piping.”

“Could we talk about something else?” he asked. When it came to discussing the future, he was far and away better at it than his wife, and he’d only recently begun.

Sunday was all the perfection of June rolled into one fragile span of time, a golden day that no one would have end.

They feasted on Marge’s chicken pie and raved over the flaky crust, and drank an entire pitcher of iced tea. Dooley rode Goosedown Owen around the barnyard, holding tightly to Rebecca Jane, who shared the saddle. Barnabas caroused with several of the Meadowgate dogs, and returned with a coat full of burrs, twigs, dead leaves, and other cast-offs of nature.

The rector headed for the woods with his wife and her sketchbook, where they found a cushion of moss along the sunlit path.

“Dearest,” she said, opening her box of colored pencils, “maybe we should buy a farm when you retire.”

“That’s a thought.”

“I’d love to pick wildflowers and put them in Mason jars on a windowsill!” She peered at a grove of Indian pipes that had pushed through a layer of leaf mold, and sketched quickly. “And I’d love making deep-dish blackberry pies. Would you do the picking?”

“No way,” he said.

“Why not?”

“The last time I picked blackberries, I was so covered with chigger bites, I was nearly unrecognizable.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, when I was ten or eleven.”

“And it put you off blackberry picking for life?”

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe we’d better not buy a farm.”

“Maybe not,” he said laughing.

Dooley and Barnabas came crashing along the wooded path, followed by Bonemeal, one of Meadowgate’s numerous canine residents.

“Hey!” said Dooley.

“Hey, yourself!” they replied in unison.

“I’m through watering the horses.”

“Great. Come and sit while Cynthia draws.”

Dooley thumped down on the moss as Barnabas sprawled on the Indian pipes.

“Get up, you big oaf!” cried Cynthia.

“Barnabas, old fellow, over here!” Barnabas lumbered over and lay next to his master, panting.

“Mashed pipes,” said Cynthia. “Oh, well, Dooley, I’ll draw you.”

“Don’t draw me,” he said. “I ain’t ... I’m not ... my hair’s not combed and all.”

“Perfect! It’ll be a candid portrait.”

Dooley covered his face with his hands.

“Uncover your funny face this minute!” said Cynthia, charcoal pencil at the ready.

Dooley kept his face covered, cackling with laughter.

“Nobody minds me,” she sighed. “Timothy won’t pick blackberries, Barnabas squashes my subject matter, and you hide your face. Rats, I’ll just take a nap.” She crashed back onto the moss.

“No, don’t take a nap!” said Dooley. “You can draw me.”

“Great!” she said springing up. “OK, hold still and look this way. Actually ... look that way. Now, drop your chin. I love your freckles. Don’t squint your eyes. Is that a cut on your forehead? What happened?” She sketched hurriedly. “Don’t, mash down your hair, it looks wonderful that way. Ummm, raise your chin a little. Just a tish. No, that’s too much—”

“I hate this,” said Dooley, as the rector shook with laughter.

“Why,” asked Father Tim, “should you do all the drawing in the family, anyway? We’ll draw you.”

“No, no, a thousand times no, you will make my nose look like a squash.”

“Tough,” said Dooley.

“Yeah!” said the rector.

“Have a go, then,” she said, finishing the drawing and giving Dooley her pencil and sketchbook.

“Look this way!” urged the rector.

“No, look that way!” said Dooley. “And get your hair out of your face!”

“Amazing!” said Father Tim, peering at the hastily completed sketch. “Your nose doesn’t look like a squash at all. It looks like a gourd.”

Dooley and the rector rolled with laughter, as Cynthia peered at them with stunning disdain.

“It certainly doesn’t take much for you turkeys.”

Dooley picked up the sketch she’d done of him and examined it carefully. “Man!” he said. “That’s me all right.”

The rector looked into the boy’s eager eyes. “You like it out here, buddy?”

“Yep.”

“I’m glad you were such a big help with the calf.”

“That calf is jumping around like new. Doc Owen said he couldn’t have done it without me.”

There were a few things that he, too, couldn’t have done without Dooley Barlowe.

Smiling, he made a fist and scrubbed the top of Dooley’s head. “We love you, big guy.”

Dooley looked away, and said something. It was barely audible, but they heard it clearly. He said, “I love you back.”

“Where are Sissy and Sassy?” he asked, popping home for a meatloaf sandwich and a couple of books from his study shelves.

“Shhh,” said Puny. “They’re asleep in your study. You ought to see ‘em, they’ve growed a foot!”

“I have to get a couple of books out of there,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“I’ll git ‘em for you. You’d wake ’em up and oh, law, they didn’t sleep five minutes straight last night. What d‘you need?”

He scratched his head, trying to imagine the books on their particular shelves. “I need
Pilgrim’s Progress
—I’m referring to it in a sermon—and a book called
In the Wake of Recovery.”

“Where’re they at?” she whispered.

“Let’s see.
Pilgrim’s Progress
should be on the third or fourth shelf down, right-hand side, blue leather cover. The other one should be on the left-hand side, maybe the bottom shelf, I don’t know what color the cover is.”

“Third or fourth shelf, right side, blue cover, and left side, bottom shelf—what’s th‘ name again?”

“In the Wake of Recovery.
”

“Shhh. OK, I’ll be right back. Try not to rattle anything.”

He opened the refrigerator door quietly, removed the meatloaf, and carefully pushed the door shut. He took the bread from the bread-box, and nearly jumped out of his skin when the round box lid crashed onto the floor, rolled under the table, and came to a window-rattling stop.

Crawling under the table after it, he decided to go next door to the little yellow house, where he could occasionally find crackers and cheese.

Puny returned to the kitchen, closing the door behind her. “Lord help!” she whispered. “What did you drop in here, your teeth? I cain’t find nothin‘ with any pilgrims on th’ cover. And this ... is this what you were talkin‘ about on the bottom shelf?”

“It is, thank you. Well done! But I have to have
Pilgrim’s Progress,
too.”

“Does the cover have pilgrims with black hats and those funny shoe buckles and all?”

“No, there’s no drawing or anything, just a plain blue cover and the title and the author’s name, John Bunyan.”

“That huge man that cut down trees? What do you need him for in a sermon? Or was that Davy Crockett?”

“Let me go in. I won’t wake them up, I’ll tiptoe.”

“Men don’t know how to tiptoe. You should hear Joe Joe tiptoeing—clunkety, clunk, slam, bam—”

“Pun ...”

“Oh, all right,” she said, reluctant.

He took off his shoes and eased into the study like a burglar, dodging the floorboards that usually groaned when he passed. At the bookcase, he searched the right-hand shelves.... Where in blast was it, anyway?

He heard a squeal behind him and turned to look at the twins, who were bedded down in tandem on his sofa. One of them slept peacefully, while one gazed at him with wide, solemn eyes.

He made another frantic search of the shelf and fled the room, empty-handed.

Sliding into his loafers, he whispered to Puny, “One of the girls is awake, I saw her eyes—and trust me, I didn’t do it!”

“Which one is awake?” inquired the concerned mother.

“Sassy!” he said, gambling. A great howl issued from the study.

He snatched the recovery book from the table and made a run for it.