A Common Life (4 page)

He typed it on his aged and finicky Royal manual and passed it to Emma, who would do whatever she did to work it into the bulletin:

Mitford Muse
editor J. C. Hogan slammed his overstuffed briefcase onto the seat in the rear booth and thumped down, huffing.

Mule Skinner, local realtor and longtime Grill regular, slid in beside Father Tim.

“So, what are you roughnecks havin’ today?” asked Velma, appearing with her order pad.

Mule jerked his thumb toward the rector. “I’m havin’ what he’s havin’.”

“And what might that be?” This was not her favorite booth; at least two of these turkeys could never make up their minds.

“Chicken salad sandwich,” said the rector, always prepared, “hold the mayo, and a side of slaw.”

“I don’t like slaw,” said Mule.

“So sue me,” said the rector.

“Make it snappy. You want what he’s havin’ or not?”

“I don’t like slaw,” Mule repeated. “I’ll have what he’s havin’, except hold the slaw and give me mayo.”

Velma pursed her lips. It was definitely time to retire. Some days, she’d rather work a canning line at the kraut factory than come in here and put up with this mess.

“I’ll have th’ special,” said J.C., wiping his perspiring face with a square of paper towel.

“What special?” asked Mule. “I didn’t know there was a special.”

“Th’ sign’s plastered all over th’ front door,” said Velma, thoroughly disgusted. How Mule Skinner ever sold anybody a house was beyond her.

“So what is it?” asked Mule.

“Raw frog’s liver on a bed of mashed turnips.”

The rector and the editor roared; the realtor did not.

“I don’t like turnips,” said Mule.

J.C. rolled his eyes. “Just bring ’im th’ frog’s liver.”

“Dadgummit, give me a BLT and get it over with.”

“You might try sayin’ please,” snapped Velma, who had to talk to some people as if they were children.

“Please,”
said Mule through clenched teeth.

“White or wheat?” Velma inquired.

“Wheat!” said Mule. “No, make it white.”

“Toasted or plain?”

“Ahhh . . .”

“Bring ’im toasted,” said J.C.

Velma stomped off and came back with the coffeepot and filled their cups, muttering under her breath.

“What’d she say?” asked Mule.

“You don’t want to know,” said Father Tim.

He stirred his coffee, though there was nothing in it to stir. Maybe he shouldn’t say anything until everyone had eaten lunch and felt . . . happier about life in general. After all, Mule was scowling, and J.C. had his nose stuck in the Wesley newspaper, checking to see if any
Muse
advertisers had defected to the
Telegram.

He hoped the ensuing discussion wouldn’t collapse into a mindless lecture on his advanced age. Age had nothing to do with it, nothing whatever. No one else had bothered to bring it up, and even if they’d thought it, they had the common decency not to mention it.

Then again, why wait to spill the beans? Maybe there was no such thing as the right time with this crowd.

“I’ve got some great news.”

J.C. glanced up and took a sip of coffee. Mule swiveled toward him and looked expectant.

“Cynthia and I are getting married.”

The coffee came spewing out of J.C.’s mouth, which was not a pretty sight.

Mule put his hand to his ear. “What’s that? I can’t always hear out of—”

J.C. wiped his shirtfront with a napkin. “He’s gettin’
married.
”

“Don’t shout, for heaven’s sake!” snapped the rector. He might as well have blared it up and down Main Street from a flatbed truck.

“Who to?” asked Mule.

“Who do you think?” asked J.C., who had apparently appointed himself the rector’s official spokesman.

“Cynthia,” said Father Tim, wishing to the Lord he’d never mentioned it. “And I have to ask your complete confidence, you’re not to tell a soul until it comes out in the pew bulletin on Sunday. I need your word on this,” he insisted.

“You want me to swear on th’ Bible?” asked Mule.

“No, just promise me. I didn’t want you to hear it on the street, I wanted to tell you in person. But I don’t want my parish to hear it on the street, either.”

“Done,” said J.C., shaking hands across the table.

“You’ve got my word,” said Mule.

“Son of a gun. Married.” J.C. shook his head. “I thought you had good sense.”

“I do have good sense. Look who I’m marrying.” His chest actually felt more expansive as he said this.

“Now, that’s a fact,” agreed J.C. “Cynthia Coppersmith is one fine lady, smart as a whip and good-lookin’ into the bargain. What she sees in you is a mystery to me.”

“You sure about this?” asked Mule. “Is it a done deal?”

“Done deal. We’ll be married in September.”

Mule scratched his head. “Seems like you’re a little . . .
old
for this, seein’ it’s the first time and all. I mean, sixty-five—”

“Sixty-two,” said the rector. “Sixty-
two
.”

J.C. looked grim. “I wouldn’t get married if somebody gave me a million bucks.
After
taxes.”

“You all are a real encouragement, I must say.” The rector heard a positive snarl in his voice.

“Hold on,” said Mule. “We’re glad for you, cross my heart an’ hope to die. It just shocked me, is all, I’ll get over it. See, I’m used to you th’ way you
are
. . . .”

“Right. Emerson said it was a bloomin’ inconvenience to have to start seeing somebody in a new light. But here’s to you, buddyroe.” The editor hoisted his coffee cup as Velma delivered their lunch.

She carried a plate in each hand and one in the crook of her right arm. “Take this offa my arm,” she said to Mule. He took it.

She set the other two plates down and stomped off.

“I didn’t order this,” said Mule.

“That’s mine,” said J.C., snatching the plate.

“If I’d known that’s what you were havin,’ I’d of had that. Country-style steak is practically my favorite.” Mule gazed with remorse at his sandwich, which featured a dill pickle on the side.

“I don’t like pickles, you want my pickle?” he asked the rector, who hadn’t felt so generally let down since the choir and the organist got the flu simultaneously and the congregation had to sing a cappella.

It was all rushing by in a blur. He didn’t want to lose this moment so quickly. He wanted to savor it, rejoice in it, be thankful in it.

He put on his pajamas and pondered what was happening.

It gladdened him that he wanted to see her at the slightest opportunity; he yearned toward his neighbor as if a magnet had been installed in him on the night of his birthday, attracted to some powerful magnet in her.

How he wished the magnet had been installed sooner. He didn’t want to think of the time he’d wasted trying to make up his mind. But no, it hadn’t been his mind that was slow to make up, it was his heart. His heart had always pulled away when he felt happiness with her; each time the joy came, he had retreated, filled with the fear of losing himself.

He remembered the dream he’d had when she was in New York, when their letters had helped thaw the frozen winter that kept them apart. He dreamed he was swimming toward her in something like a blue lagoon, when his strength failed and he began to sink, slowly, as if with the weight of stones. He felt the water roaring in and the great, bursting heaviness of his head. He had come awake then, gasping for air and crying out.

Now there was the custard feeling, which would terrify most people if they didn’t recognize it for what it was—it was love unhindered.

This, too, took his breath away, but by the grace of God, he was easy with it, not enfeebled or frightened by it.

No wonder he had counseled so many men before their walk down the aisle; the true softening of the heart and spirit toward a woman was usually an alarmingly unfamiliar feeling. How might a man wield a spear and shield, preserve his very life, if he were poured out at her feet like so much pudding?

He turned off the lamp and went to his knees by his bed, praying aloud in the darkened room.

“Father, we bless You and thank You for this miracle, for choosing us to receive it.

“May we treat the love You’ve given us with gratitude and devotion, humor and astonishment.

“May it be a river of living water to bring delight and encouragement to others, Lord, for we must never hold this rare blessing to ourselves, but pour it out like wine.

“Protect her, Lord, give her courage for whatever lies ahead, and give me, I pray, whatever is required to love her well and steadfastly all the days of our lives.”

There was something else, something else to be spoken tonight. He was quiet for a time in the still, dark room where only the sound of his dog’s snoring was heard.

Yes. There it was. The old and heavy thing he so often ignored, that needed to be said.

“Father—continue to open me and lay me bare, for I have been selfish and closed, always keeping something back, even from You. Forgive me. . . .”

The clock ticked.

The curtains blew out in a light breeze.

“Through Jesus Christ, our Lord.

“Amen.”

T
he tidal wave, the firestorm, the volcanic spew—all the things he’d dreaded had come at last, and all at once.

People were pounding him on the back, kissing him on the cheek, slapping him on the shoulder, pumping his hand. One of his older parishioners, a mite taller than himself, patted his head; another gave him a Cuban cigar, which Barnabas snatched off the kitchen table and ate in the wrapper.

Well-wishers bellowed their felicitations across the street, rang his phone off the hook at home and office, and generally made a commotion over the fact that he had feelings like the rest of the common horde.

Cynthia’s phone got a workout, as well. In approximately three days since the news had hit the street, a total of five bridal showers had been booked, not to mention a luncheon at Esther Cunningham’s and a tea at Olivia Harper’s. Emma Newland was planning a sitdown dinner with the help of Harold’s mother, and the ECW was doing a country club event.

He was stopped on the street by Mike Stovall, the Presbyterian choirmaster, who offered to throw in sixteen voices for the wedding ceremony, which, including the voices at Lord’s Chapel, would jack the total to thirty-seven. “A real tabernacle deal!” enthused the choirmaster. “And tell you what, we’ll throw in a trumpet! How’s that?”