A Light in the Window (26 page)

All the reports were in.

Miss Sadie’s bedroom had stayed warm as toast with a kerosene stove. Louella slept on the sofa at the foot of Miss Sadie’s bed, and they had lived off Nabs, Cheerwine, white bread, Vienna sausages, and cereal. Keeping the gallon of milk cold had been easy—Louella merely raised the window and set it outside on the roof. For recreation, they had looked through Miss Sadie’s picture albums and scrap-books, read the Bible aloud, and sung Christmas carols, seeing who could remember the most words.

“The only thing missing was a hot bath!” said Miss Sadie, “but we’re making up for it.”

Miss Rose and Uncle Billy had spent a good deal of time in bed. “Th’ only trouble, don’t you know, is Rose sometimes pees in th’ bed, it bein’ too cold t’ git up an’ all. I wouldn’t want you to tell that, Preacher.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We had a big fight about a box of crackers. Rose wanted th’ whole thing. Boys howdy, that was a predicament. But I’d saved back a can of sardines, don’t you know, and pretty soon we got t’ talkin’ about it and turned out we split what we each had right down th’ middle, so I cain’t complain. You don’t want t’ git low on food with Rose around, no sir.”

“I hear you.”

“Boys, that basket you delivered over here saved th’ day. There it was, a-blowin’ like jack outside, and us settin’ in bed eatin’ honey-baked ham and soppin’ th’ sauce with yeast rolls. But I’m glad it’s over.”

“Amen. Stay warm, and don’t go out. It’s still slick as hog grease on the streets.”

“An’ bring th’ boy back, anytime. Rose likes ‘im, wants t’ bake ’im a pan of cinnamon stickies.”

Since Homeless Hobbes had no phone, he couldn’t inquire. But then, he supposed he didn’t need to. The richest man in town was probably faring better than anybody, with a wood stove that kept the place like the inside of a toaster and cooking skills that could turn a creekbed rock and a cup of snow into a banquet.

And how had Evie Adams pushed along with Miss Pattie, and Betty Craig with Russell Jacks?

According to Evie, the snow had done wonders for her mother, who bundled up in a rummage-sale ski suit and sat by the window for days counting snowflakes. “One hundred thousand and forty-three!” she announced proudly, showing Evie the totals in her dead husband’s sales ledger. “It was like a vacation,” said Evie. “I kept a fire going and got to read a detective story all the way through!”

The report on Russell Jacks was not so good. Just when he was considering whether Russell should return in the spring to his house in the junkyard, the sexton had gone out in the snow against Betty Craig’s wishes and fallen down while fetching in wood.

“He must have laid out there close to twenty minutes before I missed him!” said his distressed nurse. “I could just kill the old so-and-so!”

He felt immeasurably relieved. Keeping Russell at Betry’s was costing Ron Malcolm and himself four hundred dollars a month, but every time he thought of the old man going back to that ramshackle house on the edge of town, he knew Dooley would have to go with him. That would not be good, for more reasons than he cared to consider.

He prayed for Russell’s recovery and Betty’s sanity.

“The storm of the century,” as the media called it, had traveled along the East Coast to New York, where snow accumulation was up to five feet and still piling on. All circuits, he discovered again, were busy.

“Merry Christmas, Timothy!”

Could it be? It was Edith Mallory, sounding different somehow. “I’m sending Ed down with a little something for you and the boy tonight after the five o’clock. Two services on Christmas Eve can be exhausting, and you surely won’t want to cook.”

“Oh, no, please, we ...”

“Do let me have this little Christmas joy,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll be sending baskets around to others down your way, as well.”

“It’s too good of you, Edith. Why don’t you let someone else have ours, someone ...”

“Less fortunate? Well, perhaps next year! Actually, I’d like to talk with you about the less fortunate. I think I’m ready, Timothy, to do what you recommended!”

“And what’s that?”

“I want to help the Children’s Hospital in Wesley. I know it’s your pride and joy. But we’ll talk about it soon. Since the storm, I’ve been just deluded with calls, people wishing me happy holidays ...”

“Yes, and let me be one of them. Happy holidays, Edith!”

He felt queasy when he hung up. Was she undergoing some odd conversion? Did he sense she may be willing to back off and leave him in peace?

He had never minded a few empty pews if the people were filled with the Spirit. The faithful remnant that attended on the eve of the Christ child’s birth celebrated with joy.

The great joy commingled freely with the smaller joys. A warming trend is predicted! The sun will come back! The roof didn’t leak, the pipes didn’t burst, we made it through!

He had seldom seen such hugging and kissing, and over it all, the green wreaths adorned with white gypsophila and the candles flickering on the windowsills lent rapt hosannas of their own.

“Joy to the world, the Lord is come ...”

He prayed that the earth might truly receive her King.

Ed Coffey passed them on their way home from the five o’clock and insisted they get in. With the tire chains lashing the street, Ed drove to the rectory, then walked them to the door, carrying the basket.

As he and Dooley unpacked it on the kitchen counter, he felt compelled to say something positive. Here was a woman, after all, who had sent food still warm from the oven to feed two hungry men on a cold night.

“Mrs. Mallory is ... very thoughtful to do this,” he said, unwrapping a steaming plum pudding.

Dooley looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “She’s a dern witch.”

“Is that so?”

“I hate ’er ol’ butt.”

“Please rephrase that,” he said, meaning it.

“I don’t like ’er. She seems two-faced t’ me, sayin’ one thing, doin’ another.”

“Really?” Roast beef, done to perfection.

“Said she’d give th’ Sunday school a barbecue—ain’t done it. Said she’d send us t’ Grandfather Mountain—ain’t done it.”

“Hasn’t done it.”

“Somebody said she was after you. Said she’d like t’ git you in th’ bed.”

“Who said that?”

“I don’t know. Somebody. Is ’at right?”

“Let’s just say that I have no intention of going to bed—or anywhere else—with Mrs. Mallory.”

“Gittin’ ahold of her’d be like gittin’ ahold of a spider.”

“Please. Forget what you heard. And no matter what you think, be respectful when you see her, regardless. Understand?”

He must have understood, for he said something the rector rarely heard: “Yes, sir.”

“If this is what it’s like to go steady,” he muttered, “no wonder I waited so long to do it.”

He dialed her number again. The circuits were still busy, as the storm raged through New York state and headed out to the Atlantic.

People thronged to the midnight service, as if the manager were the last way station on earth. Though patches of ice still gleamed lethally throughout the village, Ron Malcolm’s son had doused the church walks with salt and sand, giving many the first sure footing they’d had in days.

Deprived of their pre-Christmas concert, the Youth Choir sang with such gleeful energy it fairly rocked the nave.

“ ‘Go tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere. Go tell it on the mountain, that Jesus Christ is born ...’”

“Go tell it on
this
mountain—every day, in every way,” he said at the close of the service, “and go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.”

“Amen!” said the congregation, revived and wide-awake, though it was hours past their bedtime.

Several parishioners had pressed envelopes into his hand. Others had brought cookies, cranberry bread, and a can of his known favorite, mixed nuts, so that he walked home carrying a full paper sack. Not a few had said what his parish was never too shy to say, “We love you!”