A Common Life (3 page)

“Is Katherine there?”

“Just blew in from the nursing home, she’s teaching them to finger paint. What’s up, old fellow?”

“Tell her to get on the phone in the study.”

“Katherine!” bellowed Walter. “Pick up in the study! It’s clergy!”

“ ’Lo, Teds, darling, is that really you?” He could see the tall, thin-as-a-stick Katherine draped over the plaid chaise, with the cordless in one hand and her eternal glass of ginger ale in the other.

“Katherine, Walter,” he said. “Are you sitting down?”

“Good heavens, what is it?” asked Walter, clearly alarmed.

“Teds . . . those tests you were going to have weeks ago . . . is it . . . ?”

“Dooley, is it Dooley?” asked Walter. “Or Barnabas? We know how you feel about—”

“I’m getting married,” he said.

There! Twice in a row, and already it was getting easier.

The other end of the line erupted into a deafening whoop that could have filled Yankee Stadium. He held the receiver away from his ear, laughing for the first time this morning, as Barnabas leapt from the rug and stood barking furiously at the clamor pouring forth from New Jersey.

When Stuart hadn’t called back in twenty minutes, he phoned again and was put through to the bishop’s office.

“Stuart? Tim Kavanagh here. Are you sitting down?” He was truly concerned that no one go crashing to the floor in a faint.

“For the first time today, actually! What’s up?”

“Remember the woman I once brought to visit you and Martha?” That wasn’t what he wanted to say. “When we, ah, gave you the bushel of corn?
Cynthia!
You remember. . . .”

“I remember very well, indeed!”

“Well, you see, it’s like this. . . .” He swallowed.

He heard his bishop chuckling. “Like what, Timothy?”

“Like . . .”

He was momentarily frozen again, then the custard triumphed.

“. . . we’re getting married!”

“Alleluia!” shouted his bishop.
“Alleluia!”

Tears sprang suddenly to his eyes. He had been friends with his bishop since seminary, had confided his heart to him for years. And now came this greatest confidence, this best and most extraordinary of tidings.

“Martha will be thrilled!” said Stuart, sounding as youthful as a curate. “We’ll have you for dinner, we’ll have you for tea . . . we’ll do it up right! This is the best news I’ve heard in an eon. Good heavens, man, I thought you’d never screw up your courage. How on earth did it happen?”

“It just came to me that . . . well . . .”

“What came to you?”

“That I didn’t want to go on without her, that I couldn’t.”

“Bingo!”
said his bishop.

“I, ah, went down on one knee, couldn’t help myself.”

“You should have done the full kneel, Timothy, she’s a prize, a gem, a pearl above price! You dog, you don’t deserve such a one!”

“Amen!” He said it the old Baptist way, with a long
a,
the way he was raised to say it.

“Well, now, thanks be to God, what about a date?” asked Stuart.

“We’re thinking September, I know that’s a busy month for you, but . . .”

“Let’s see, I have my calendar right here.” Deep sigh, pondering. “Alas, alack.” Stuart’s fingers drumming on his desktop. “Good heavens, I’d forgotten about that. Hmmm. Ahh.” Tuneless, unconscious humming. “No, certainly not then.”

If Stuart couldn’t do it, they’d get it done somehow, they were definitely not waiting ’til October....

“Oh, yes, look here! I’ve got September seventh, how’s that? Otherwise, I can squeeze you in on—”

“I’m not much on being squeezed in,” said the rector.

“Of course not! Will the seventh work for you, then?”

“We’re willing to take whatever you have open.”

“Then it’s done!”

“Perfect!” said the rector.

“Now,” said Stuart, “hang up so I can call Martha.”

Y
ou goin’ to have babies?” asked Dooley. “Not if I can help it,” said Cynthia.

Searching the boy’s face, Father Tim felt sure their news was a go, but wanted to hear Dooley declare it. He put his arm around Dooley’s shoulders. “So, buddyroe, what do you think about all this?”

“Cool!” said Dooley.

Hallelujah! Dooley Barlowe had been buffeted by every violent wind imaginable before he came to live at the rectory over two years ago. Abandoned by his father and given by his alcoholic mother to his disabled grandfather, the boy had known only upheaval and change.

“Nothing will change,” the rector promised. “You’ll keep your same room, everything will flow on as usual. The only difference is, Cynthia will live here . . . instead of there.” He gestured toward the little yellow house next door.

“I like her hamburgers better’n yours, anyway.”

“Yes, but she doesn’t have a clue how to fry baloney the way you like it. That’s my little secret.” He loved the look of this red-haired, earnest boy he’d come to cherish as a son, loved the rare surprise and delight shining in his eyes. Dooley and Cynthia had gotten on famously from the beginning, and Dooley’s stamp of approval was more important than that of any bishop.

Not wishing to waste time gaining ground, Dooley gave Cynthia his most soulful look. “Since I’m goin’ off t’ ’at ol’ school pretty soon, I bet
you’ll
let me stay up ’til midnight.”

Ah, politics! thought the rector, happily observing the two. They’re everywhere.

Both Dooley and Emma had promised to keep mum, but truth be told, they were only human.

Before there was a leak, however unintentional, the news must go in Sunday’s pew bulletin, thereby giving his parish the dignity of hearing it in church instead of on the street. As this was Friday, he supposed he should tell the guys at the Grill before they heard it from a parishioner. But would they keep it quiet until Lord’s Chapel got the news on Sunday?

Then there was Miss Sadie. She definitely wouldn’t like reading it in a pew bulletin.

He went home at eleven, changed hurriedly into his running clothes, and jogged up Old Church Lane with Barnabas.

He had just run down this hill to do the thing that resulted in why he was now running up it. Life was a mystery.

Huffing, he zigged to the left on Church Hill Road. Then he zagged to the right and ran up the driveway instead of cutting through the orchard like a common poacher.

Miss Sadie and Louella were sitting on the porch, fanning and rocking.

Each time he came to Fernbank’s front porch, the years automatically rolled away. With these two old friends, he felt twelve, or possibly ten. Fernbank was his fountain of youth.

His heart pounding, he sat on the top step and panted. Barnabas lay beside him, doing the same.

“Father,” said Miss Sadie, “aren’t you too old for this running business?”

“Not by a long shot. I do it to keep young, as a matter of fact.”

“Pshaw! Too much is made of running up hill and down dale. I’ve never done such a thing in my life, and I’m coming up on ninety and healthy as a horse.”

Louella rocked. “That’s right.”

“Is that lemonade?” asked Father Tim, eyeing the pitcher on the wicker table.

“Louella, what’s happened to our manners?” asked Miss Sadie.

“I don’t know, Miss Sadie. I ’spec’ we don’ get enough comp’ny t’ hardly need manners.”

Louella put ice in a glass and handed it to Fernbank’s mistress, who, ever conserving, poured the glass half full.

He got up and fetched the lemonade from her, wondering what on earth they would think about his announcement. He’d envisioned them as happy about it, but now he wasn’t so sure. He drank the lemonade in two gulps and stood on one foot, then the other.

“You itchy,” said Louella.

They could read him like a book.

“Miss Sadie, Louella, are you sitting down?”

The two women looked at each other, puzzled.

Of course they were sitting down, how stupid of him to ask such a thing, it had flown out of his mouth. “Joke!” he said feebly.

“Father, why don’t
you
sit down? Get in this chair next to me and start rocking!”

He did as he was told. “Yes, ma’am.” Eight years old.

“Louella and I like to rock in harmony, you pay a penny if you get off track.”

“Who’s leading?”

Miss Sadie looked at him as if he were dumb as a gourd.

“Honey, Miss Sadie always lead.”

“Here we go,” said Miss Sadie, looking bright and expectant. Since her feet barely touched the floor, this would be no small accomplishment.

After a ragged start, they nailed their synchronization, then worked on building momentum. Miss Sadie was flying in that rocker....

Lord knows he couldn’t sit around on porches all day like some jackleg priest, he had things to do, people to see, and besides, he was getting married....

“Miss Sadie, Louella, I have great news.”

The two women looked at him eagerly, never missing a beat.

“I’m getting married!”
he shouted over the roar of six wooden rockers whipping along on aged white pine.

Miss Sadie’s feet hit the floor, Louella’s feet hit the floor. Their rockers came to a dead stop. His was still going.

“To Miss Cynthia?” asked Louella, who was generally suspicious of good news.

“The very one!” he said, feeling a stab of happiness and pride.

Louella whooped and clapped her hands. “Thank you, Jesus! Thank you,
thank
you, Jesus!”

Miss Sadie dug a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and pressed it to her eyes. “This is a happy day, Father. I can’t tell you how happy we are for you. Cynthia is the loveliest imaginable lady, so bright and positive, just what you need. I hope you’ve been on your knees thanking the Lord!”

He had, actually.

Louella was beaming. “Miss Sadie, I’m goin’ t’ cut us all some pie.” As she opened the screen door to go inside, she turned and said, “An’ remember you owe me five dollars!”

They heard Miss Sadie’s longtime companion shuffling down the hall in her slippers. “Why, may I ask, do you owe Louella five dollars?”

She looked at him, barely able to conceal her mirth. “Because, Father, I bet five dollars you didn’t have it in you to marry that lovely woman!”

Knowing how dear five dollars was to Sadie Baxter, he smiled at his favorite parishioner and said, “I suppose I could say I’m sorry you lost.”

She patted his arm fondly. “Actually, Father, your good news declares that we’ve all won.”