Light From Heaven (18 page)

Willie Mullis presented the contents of his hat.

“Nine.”

“Nine! How wonderful!” He took the egg bowl from the shelf above the coatrack. “Won’t you step inside?”

“Nossir.”

“I suppose the laying will pick up to—what do you think?”

He plucked the eggs from the hat and put them in the bowl. Four brown, five white. “To maybe a dozen a day?”

“Nineteen.”

“Nineteen?”

“Yessir.”

“A
day
?”

“Yessir.”

“We have quite a few left from yesterday; would you like these back?”

“Nossir.”

“Ah, well, then. Won’t you help us out and take some all along?”

“Eggs gives me gas.”

“I see. Care to come in for a cup of hot cocoa?”

“Nossir.” Willie’s eyes lowered to his boots, which had attracted a considerable bit of straw on the soles. “Been muckin’ out th’ stalls this mornin’”.

“I see. Well, if you need help, let me know. And thank you, Willie, thank you.”

“Yessir.”

“I don’t think he likes me,” he told Cynthia.

“Phoo, darling. Everyone likes you.”

“Now, now, Kavanagh. So, tell me—what are we to do with nineteen eggs a day?”

She sighed. “I have no idea. Quiches. Omelets. Egg salad.What did
Marge
do, for heaven’s sake? She never said. I refuse to bake a cake, by the way, I have no time to bake a cake, so don’t even
mention
baking a cake!”

“A cake? I would never mention such a thing.”

His wife looked oddly pale and distraught.

“What is it, my girl?” He put his arm around her as she stood at the kitchen sink.

“For one thing, it’s laundry! Where does it all come from? It multiplies like coat hangers in a closet! And then there’s dusting and sweeping and cooking and shaking out the dog beds and emptying the dishwasher and working on the calendar and...”

“How’s February coming?”

“Ugh. Not well. Not well at all. I got off light with January and I’m paying my dues with February.”

“How can I help?”

“This house was so cozy and snug and even sort of
small
when Joyce was here, and now it’s positively
huge.
That vacuum cleaner, whoever invented the thing should be put in
stocks.”

“Come and sit down,” he pled, tugging her away from the sink. “I’ll do the laundry, leave it for me. And how about this, I’ll start wearing my shirts three days instead of two. Plus, I’ll make dinner tonight! How about omelets? Or a quiche, I could do a quiche ...”

“And the fireplace,” she said, thumping into the wing chair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but every time there’s a
breath
of wind, it starts blowing ashes all over the floor.”

He couldn’t bear to see his usually cheerful wife so frazzled and worn. Worse still, why hadn’t he noticed before? Was he as blind as a bat or merely as dense as a rock?

Or both?

“I’ll be in Holding a couple of days checkin’ the job we’re doin’ with th’ bank,” said Buck. “I’ll look up Lon Burtie, and see what’s goin’ on at Clyde Barlowe’s trailer.”

“Good.You’re sure you don’t need me?”

“Don’t see why I would.”

“How’s business?”

“We’re slammed,” said Buck. “But no way am I complainin’.”

A few years ago, Dooley’s stepfather had asked God to turn his life around, and since then, he and Buck had worked together more than once to search for the missing siblings. In truth, a deep bond had grown between the vicar and the uncompromising job supervisor who’d overseen the construction of Hope House.

“Pauline said you called. Anything wrong?”

“Dooley wants to take the Kavanagh name.” He felt mildly uncomfortable saying it. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me speak with Pauline before you mention it. I plan to be at Hope House on Thursday”

“Cat’s got m’ tongue.”

“Do you think she... how do you think she’ll receive this?”

“Don’t know. Could make ’er feel she’s losin’ one of ’er kids all over again. I’ve kept quiet about Sammy bein’ missin’. Course, we don’t know if he’s missin’.”

“True.” He only knew he didn’t feel encouraged about Sammy. His heart was heavy when he thought of the boy who looked enough like Dooley to be a twin, and who had a gift for turning rude wilderness into the miracle of a garden.

“How long does it
take
to get a cup of coffee at Starbucks?”

“For Pete’s sake, I wasn’t at Starbucks; I was in Atlanta for four days.”

“Aha.”

“I have the answering service from the netherworld,” said Walter. “What’s up, Cousin?”

“Dooley turned twenty-one in February. After what I hope is soulful consideration, he wants to take the Kavanagh name.”

Walter laughed. “I like it when an English-man opts for an Irish name. Probably happens at least once or twice a millennium. In any case, that’s great news; I believe there’s enough melancholy in your boy to make an admirably authentic Irishman. And hey, you’ll be a dad! At the tender age of what—seventy?”

“Sixty-nine, if the legal stuff happens before June twenty-eighth.”

“This is not my specialty, but I think it’s going to be pretty simple, given that he’s the age of majority. Let me look into it and get back to you.”

“Soon, do you think?”

“A day or two, let’s say no later than next Wednesday, max. How’s your ravishing bride?”

“Wanting you and Katherine to join us on the farm this summer.”

“And muck about with the sheep and cows? We’ll talk about it, sounds great. So, what are you up to in your dotage?”

Dotage!
He realized he absolutely loathed this word; he refused to be in a dotage—in any way, shape, or form.

He should never, ever, have gotten himself into this mess with Emma, he’d known better.

He hit “reply,” and typed.

Someone was definitely sitting at the foot of their bed, on his side. He raised his head from the pillow.

Miss Sadie was barefoot and wearing a long, white nightdress.

Miss Sadie! His heart was in his throat. I
thought...
I thought you
were
...

Crossed
over?
I
am!

She giggled like a girl. Too late!

He thought it strange that she didn’t look old at all, but extraordinarily young.Where had she been, and what had she been
doing
all this time?

He felt definitely cross with her. Why had she pretended to be dead, which had saddened them all so grievously, and broken Louella’s heart? And had she stopped even once to think how homesick he’d been for her over the years? He was furious that he’d allowed himself to be so profoundly deceived.

“When the time is right,” he said, grumpy as a bear.

Cynthia rolled toward him and slung her arm across his chest. “What did you say?” she murmured.

Miss Sadie had been
right there,
as real as life! She’d been sitting there in the very
flesh—
after a fashion.

“Miss Sadie!” he said, thunderstruck.

“Oh,” replied Cynthia, and resumed her whiffling, albeit companionable, snore.

Agnes hung on to the strap as the truck jounced through a hole the size of a washtub.

“This was once a Cherokee trading path!”

“A trading path would have been a distinct improvement!” Indeed, the availability of the farm truck was providential; the Mustang would be chopped liver in his new parish.

Throughout the morning he’d been praying for Sammy, as he knew Cynthia would be. “Agnes, will you add another name to your prayers?”

“With pleasure.”

“Sammy.” He was surprised that his voice broke as he said the name.

“Clarence will pray, too.”

“You know better than anyone that Clarence is clearly exceptional.”

Her eyes brightened.

“How can I learn to speak with him?”

“I can teach you.”

“Wonderful!”

“Clarence and I use American sign language, as we’ve done since he was a child. This includes finger spelling, or the ABCs, body movement—often referred to as gestural—signing, and facial expression. There’s great dynamism in facial expression, which of course everyone uses; though in my opinion, the deaf employ it in more pronounced and interesting ways. The face of a deaf person can be very alive with expression.”

He geared down for the steep decline. “Aren’t there simple hand signs that express whole thoughts or sentences? Even complex concepts? I’m looking to begin with Sign Language 101.”