These High, Green Hills (55 page)

He nodded.

“A while back, I said a prayer ... with old Preacher Greer ... ”

He waited.

“When I done that, I seen what a mess I’d made of my life ... an‘ th’ pain was ... so big, so terrible.”

She swallowed and looked at him. “But for the first time ... ”

“Yes?”

“I had the strength to bear it.”

“It often happens that way.”

“Th‘ reason I used to drink whiskey and anything I could lay my hands on was because ... I couldn’t bear it.”

He nodded.

“I lost my ear,” she whispered.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” He realized he’d been whispering, too.

“I’ve asked God to help me forgive Lester Marshall. I knowed it was wrong to go on livin‘ with him, but ... ” She moved her right hand toward the rector. “Pray for me,” she implored, “to get my children back.”

He stood there, frozen, and saw her hand move toward his as if in slow motion.

Pray for her to take Dooley? Ask God to let the unthinkable happen?

The recent events of his life had forced more than one truth to the surface, and now another came.

Dooley did not belong to Pauline Barlowe. Nor did he belong to him. Dooley belonged to God. Period. Dooley was not his to give back.

“I been drivin‘ Harley Welch’s ol’ truck since I was twelve. I can haul butt.”

Lacey sat on a high stool in the small office, swinging her leg and chewing gum. She was wearing the hat, and her clothes were caked with engine oil and mud.

“So when I heard Pauline hollerin‘, I run down there and th’ son of a-” She stopped and looked at the rector. “Th‘ son of a gun was tryin’ to burn ‘er up. He run out of th’ house, and I th‘owed a blanket around ’er and hauled ‘er out to th’ porch. I went an‘ got Harley’s truck and we put ’er in it, and I took ‘er to th’ hospital. I left th‘ hospital before they knowed anything, ’cause I heard police was lookin‘ for me.”

“Where’s Poobaw?” asked the rector.

“I ain’t tellin‘ that.”

“No harm will come to him or you, Lace.”

“I still ain’t tellin‘.”

“His mother would like to know. Is he safe?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, how do I know? I was th‘ one lookin’ out for ‘im. Now y’ll done mint that.”

“We’re going to be placing you in foster care,” said Doug Wyeth. “We’ll just need—”

She jumped off the stool. “You ain’t doin‘ any such thing!” she shouted. “I thought you brung me in here ’cause of drivin‘ without a license.”

Cursing, she made a run for the door. It took two social workers to stop her and hold her.

If Olivia Harper could handle this, he thought, she could become a canonized saint.

They lay in bed, looking at the ceiling. Rain had pounded the village all day, and shadows cast by the tossing leaves danced above them.

“It’s not a question of if, but when,” he said.

“I feel we should let him see her right away. He can handle it. Surely she can’t take him out of school or even away from Meadowgate, because she has no place to live. Also, she’s facing months of physical therapy.”

“I’ll call him. What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty. Good heavens, don’t ever tell anybody we’re in bed this early. We’d be the laughingstock.”

“If you only knew how many people are sawing wood in this town, even as we speak.”

“I’ve become a rustic,” she sighed.

“And no help for it.”

Why think about it and ponder it and try to make up the right thing to say? He’d just say it simply, and go on, believing the best. He was reaching for the phone when it rang.

“Hey,” said Dooley.

“Hey, yourself, buddy.”

“Miz Shuford asked me to name them calves.”

“That’s terrific. And what did you name them?”

“Jessie and Kenny.”

“Ah. Good. That’s good.” The names of his little sister and younger brother.

“I was going to name them Lillie and Willie.”

“I like Jessie and Kenny.”

“How’s ol‘ Cynthia?”

“Couldn’t be better. Want to say hello?”

“Yeah.”

“Dooley, you big lug. How are you?”

“I named the calves Jessie and Kenny.”

“Dr. Dooley Barlowe, full-service vet. I heal, I deliver, I name. You’re great!”

“You coming out Sunday?”

“Yes, we want to see Jessie and Kenny.”

“Good. They’re real healthy. You’ll like ‘em.”

“I like you!”

“I like you back.”

She reached across him and hung up the phone.

“I couldn’t do it,” she said.

“I couldn’t, either.”

“We’re letting him have two more days of innocent boyhood,” she said. “We can tell him on Sunday.”

“Right. I’ll tell Pauline he’s coming to see her.”

They were silent for a long time, holding hands.

“Are you ever sorry you married a parson?”

“Why should I be?”

“I can’t leave my work at the office.”

“Of course you can’t. Your job isn’t nine to five, it’s noon to noon. I knew that, dearest. Besides, I love your work, too. Remember, I’m your deacon.”

He rolled over and kissed her and felt the softness of her body against his. “Such a deal,” he murmured. “Every clergyman in the nation would be wildly jealous.”

It was ponytail time again, if he didn’t act soon.

Hadn’t he just had his hair cut? What a blasted aggravation that, while no hair ever grew on top, the rest of his head appeared to be fertilized with Miracle-Gro.

Another aggravation was whether to slip around behind Joe Ivey’s back and see Fancy, or be loyal, as was his bent, and force himself up the stairs to Joe’s chair, where, according to Fancy, those chipmunk puffs over his ears were made to prosper and flourish.

Dadgum it, it seemed a man should at least be able to get a haircut without a hassle.

“Six hundred and thirty-two,” said Emma, keying in the previous week’s collections. “No, six hundred and seventy-five. You need a haircut.”

“Where should I get it?” he asked, thrilled to pass on the responsibility of a decision.

“Go to Fancy. Joe makes you look like a chipmunk,” she said without looking away from the computer screen.

He was liking Emma Newland better every day. “Has your raise come through yet?” he asked.

“Not unless Harold’s goat ate it out of th‘ mailbox.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, glad to be of service.

“We’re bringing Dooley to see you,” he said. “Either Sunday evening or Monday.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“God’s grace isn’t about deserving,” he said, taking her hand.

She smiled. It was the first time he had seen her smile.

“May I ... call you Father?”

“Please. And would you like to see your own father? He’s well and well cared for. It will give him joy.”

She nodded yes.

“I’ve been ... thinking, Father.”

“Tell me.”

“You should keep Dooley ‘til he’s out of school. School is a good thing—my mother tried to tell me that. Then he can do whatever God wants him to do. I won’t try ... to take him back.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s best.”

“But my other kids...”

“Where are they?”

“After I prayed that prayer, I tried to find them.”

He was used to her tears. They were a kind of language that needed expression.

“Kenny, I gave him to ...”

He sat in the chair by her bed and waited.

“To...”

“It’s all right.”

“... somebody for a gallon of whiskey an‘ ... a hundred dollars.”

He really didn’t know if he could deal with this. He was only human, after all. Being clergy didn’t equip him with some shield and suit of armor. No, this was too blasted much. He needed reinforcement. He didn’t even want to hear any more.

“It hurts me to hear it,” he said. Why beat around the bush?

She looked at him, imploring.

“Can we find Kenny?” he asked.

“He was in Oregon th‘ last time I knowed.”

There was a long silence, which he didn’t try to break.

“Poobaw,” she said. “We call him that because he liked to tote around a pool ball I brought home, an‘ that’s what he called it. He’s ten, he’s such a good boy, Father, always happy....”

“And Jessie?”

“She’s four. So ... little. So ... pretty.” She sobbed brokenly, and he wanted to turn away, to run out the door and not come back.

“Father ... I want so much ... to start over. Do you think God ... will let me start over?”

“That,” he said, meaning it, “is what God is all about.”

Nurse Gilbert’s uniform rustled cripsly as she walked in with a needle. “This will help,” she said, going to Pauline.

If only it could, he thought.

“Lord help! Look at this! Are you practicin‘ to be John the Baptist in a church play? Remember what happened to him, honey, his hair was so bad-lookin’, they cut his head off.