Light From Heaven (19 page)

“Here’s one that’s known universally; you can sign this tonight to your beautiful Cynthia.”

She raised her right hand and, bending her middle fingers toward the palm, extended her little finger, forefinger, and thumb, and told him the meaning.

He’d once known this sign, but had quite forgotten it; it was lost knowledge come home to him when he needed it. He repeated her gesture with his left hand, feeling a piercing of happiness.

“Very good!” said Agnes. “It’s a lovely bit of hand language to know if you never learn any other.”

“What about signs for words only?”

He slowed the truck to a crawl as she held her hands, palms down, above her head, then opened them upward.

“Steeple!”

“Close. Heaven.”

“Aha!”

“And this?”

She touched her shoulders lightly and moved her hands outward.

“Umm ...” He wished to be clever, but couldn’t.

“Angel.”

“A very ecclesiastical language!”

“A very full and exciting and immediate lan- guage!” she said. “One more for today. It’s what you are to us at Holy Trinity.”

She formed a letter with her right hand, brushed her left arm twice, and placed her arms alongside her body.

“Beats me,” he said.

“Shepherd!”

“This is hard.”

“It is, in the beginning. And then, like any spoken language, you realize one day that your new language is coming together at last. One sign flows naturally into another; and suddenly, you’re
communicating.

“I remember the agony of learning that Clarence was deaf, and the hopelessness I felt; he was fourteen months old. Very little was known in those days about the deaf among us. I found several books in the library; every free moment was devoted to studying them—I signed to him without ceasing.

“It took time, Father. I came to think that perhaps sign language was all a lie, and my efforts would be utterly in vain.Then came a day I shall never forget, when my son began speaking to me, expressing his heart with his hands. He was four years old—I was filled with joy at the marvel of it.”

Tears stood in her eyes; she looked out at the branches of trees swaying in the wind, then turned to him, smiling. “Now! Let’s run through the alphabet as a sort of limbering-up exercise.”

“I’d like that.”

“You may not remember a whit of it afterward, but we can practice each time we meet. Here, then, is A . ”

“Good old A!”

She closed the fingers of her hand into a fist and rested her thumb against the forefinger.

He returned the gesture, excited as ever to be learning.

“Perfect! And this is
B.”
She held the fingers of her hand straight up, and bent the thumb inward, against her palm.

“The earnest and forthcoming B!” he said, forming the gesture with his left hand.

She smiled. “You’re a willing pupil for this old teacher.”

“Agnes ...” Dare he ask this? “I’m a southerner, born and bred, and let me say that I know better than to ask such a thing. If I offend, I plead your forgiveness in advance ...”

She appeared dubious.

“Would you mind very much ... that is ... what is your age?”

“I will be eighty-seven in September.”

“Extraordinary! You appear years younger!” In truth, he was dumbfounded. “Michelangelo was eighty-seven when he wrote
‘Ancora imparo, ’
or ‘I am still learning.’”

“Learning has always been intoxicating to me, and to Clarence, I’m happy to say.”

“Is it OK that you’re ... so far away from medical help?”

She laughed. “I’ve concluded that one can’t get too far away from medical help! Clarence’s best medicine is working with wood; my own reliable remedies are our garden and our books. However...”

She looked at him—somewhat mischievously, he thought. “... I must confess the use of yet another nostrum.”

“Confess away!”

“I am utterly devoted to the crossword puzzle.”

He laughed.

“Doing a crossword delays, I hope, the petrifaction of my poor brain, and also induces a peaceful slumber... if hoeing the garden hasn’t already done the trick! But to answer your question, Father—I have a checkup and flu shot in Wesley every spring, and I trust God to continue His mercy and grace in our lives. And you, may I ask? How many years have you graced this earth?”

“I’ll be seventy at the end of June. Seventy! It boggles the imagination.”

“I’m reminded of something George Herbert wrote, that lovely man. ‘And now in age I bud again...’ I sense that God has set you on a wonderful new course, that you’re entering a kind of golden passage.”

“A golden passage,” he mused. “Thank you for that thought.”

“As I continue to tell my story, I must plead your forgiveness in advance.”

“I can’t imagine what forgiveness you might want or need from me. But consider it done.”

They bumped along the windswept road, finishing off their finger-spelling session with G.

“Do you sing, Agnes?”

“I can carry a tune, Father, but only in a bucket.”

“I know it’s a Christmas song, but I’m in the mood for ‘Go Tell It on the Mountain.’”

“Written by Mr. John Work!”

“I must say you have a very wide-ranging mind.”

“I was a librarian for a number of years.”

“Here?”

“In Chicago.”

“Then you left the mountains!”

“Yes. I can’t say I remember all the verses; there are three, I believe.”

“I can’t remember them, either. What the heck, we’ll sing the refrain twice. But don’t make me sing alone, you’ll regret it.”

With the exception of his best friend who, fortunately, was also his wife, he found he was more comfortable with Agnes Merton than nearly anyone he’d ever known. God had sent this woman to him as surely as the angel was sent to Daniel in the lion’s den.

“You lead and I’ll follow,” she said.

He threw back his head and hammered down.

“By heaven, that felt good! Did I hear a little harmony there, Miss Agnes?”

The lines around her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Only a little,” she said.

A rising wind struck them a blow as they pulled into the yard of a cabin.

“Jubal Adderholt will not warm to us immediately.”

He set a wooden stool, which he’d fetched from the Meadowgate barn, by the passenger door. “Grab on,” he said, offering his hand. Agnes grasped his hand, carefully put one foot on the stool, then stepped to the ground with her cane, relieved.

“I
see
you’uns a-comin’ on m’ property! This here’s
private
property!”

Their long-bearded, barefoot host had opened the door of his two-room cabin and peered across the yard at his visitors. Smoke puffed from the chimney and was snatched away by the wind.

“Mr. Adderholt! Good morning! We’ve brought you hot tea.”

“Is that Miss Agnes?”

“It is!” she said, establishing a firm grip on her cane.

“I done run ye off I don’ know how many times, an’ ye keep a-comin’ back!”

“And I will continue to do so, Mr. Adderholt.”

“I never seed th’ beat, a man can’t have a minute to hisself. Who’s that with ye? Are ye settin’ th’ law on me?”

“This is Father Timothy Kavanagh, our new vicar at Holy Trinity.”

“Don’t ye bring no God people in m’ place, you’re all th’ God people I can swaller.”

“We won’t visit long, Mr. Adderholt.”

“Keep advancing,” she whispered to Father Tim.

“I’ll set m’ dogs on ye!”

“The tea is nice and hot for a chilly spring morning!”

“Dogs?”
Father Tim whispered.

As they climbed the steps to the porch, Jubal’s bearded face vanished from the doorway.

“He hasn’t a dog to his name! It would be a desperate mongrel, indeed, who’d take up with Jubal Adderholt.”

He thought Agnes looked positively delighted with the reception they were getting.

They stood a moment on the creaking floorboards of the porch, which was stacked with split firewood. A profuse assemblage of squirrel tails had been nailed to the log walls, and even to the front door. The wind ruffled the hair of the tails.

“His collection extends around the cabin,” Agnes said in a low voice. “It is, you might say, a fur-covered cabin.”

“Good insulation for winter!”

Through the open door, appetizing cooking smells escaped into the air.

“We’re coming in now, Mr. Adderholt!”

“I hain’t here, I done jumped out th’ winder.”

She pushed the door open with her cane. “Good!” she said. “That’s more tea for Father Kavanagh and myself.”

“I’m naked as a jaybird!” Jubal threatened from the other room.

“Don’t mind us, Mr. Adderholt; we’ve seen worse, I’m sure.”

The cabin was close with heat; something simmered on the woodstove in an iron pot.

Agnes was removing the mugs and thermos from the basket when Jubal came into the room, wearing a thermal undershirt and pants held up by braces. He was stooped, with dark, bushy eyebrows and a mane of white hair that flowed into his long beard.

The old man peered angrily at Father Tim.

“Don’t ye be a-tryin’ t’ save this ol’ sinner, ye hear? An’ don’t be a-tryin’ t’ warsh m’ feet, I warsh m’ own dern feet, thank ye.”

“That was the Baptist preacher who wanted to wash your feet, Mr. Adderholt.” Agnes poured a mug of tea and handed it to Jubal.

“An’ look what happened t’ their church hall—hit burnt down.” He took the steaming mug and sniffed its spicy aroma. “I done drunk up th’ dried ’frass ye brought,” he said, looking accusingly at Agnes.

“You know full well where to find more like it in your own woods.”

“A man my age can’t be hobblin’ aroun’ th’ piney woods by hisself.”

“Miss Martha is nearly ten years your senior, and still tilling up her garden every spring.”

“Ye come t’ pester me ag’in, did ye?”

“I did,” said Agnes, half smiling at Jubal. “Pestering you keeps me young.”

“How’d you git hooked up with that ’un?” Jubal shot a piercing look at Father Tim.

“I rang the bell up at Holy Trinity, and there she was.”

“God he‘p ye.” Jubal took a long swallow of his hot tea, then another. Tears suddenly spilled down his cheeks. “Jis’ like my ol’ mam used t’ make.”

Uncertain how to respond to Jubal’s show of feeling, the vicar looked around the room. Several pictures, cut from magazines, hung on the log walls; a spider had spun her web in a ceiling corner. “A comfortable place you have here.”

Jubal wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “Hain’t room enough t’ cuss a cat without gittin’ fur in y’r teeth, but hit’ll do. Long as you‘uns’re pushin’ in on me like this, ye might as well set down.”

Taking his cue from Agnes, Father Tim thumped onto the ancient sofa, from which a cloud of dust arose. Agnes sat in a caned chair by the woodstove, and Jubal lowered himself onto the sofa with the vicar, who consequently sneezed three times.

“Bless you!” said Agnes.

“Thank you,” said Father Tim, whipping out his handkerchief. A thunderous blow of wind roared down the stove chimney, fanning the fire. “And how was your winter, Mr. Adderholt?”

“Call me Jubal. Only one as calls me mister is that ‘un there. Winter was too dadblame long; hit was too dadblame cold; hit snowed too dadblame deep; an’ I’m dern glad t’ see it over with.

“Only good thing about winter was th’ squirrels, don’t ye know; they was nice and meaty. A while b’fore dinnertime, I like t’ set on m’ porch with m’ twenty-two pump, hit’s easy as takin’ candy from a little young ’un. Blam! Square behin’ th’ front leg is where I git ’em at. I don’t never shoot ’em in th’ head; I like t’ stew ’em whole an’ suck out th’ brains th’ way m’ granddaddy done.”

Jubal settled back on the sofa and looked at the vicar. “I reckon ye knowed ye can’t eat squirrel when th’ weather turns hot.”

“I don’t believe I knowed—knew—that,” said Father Tim.

“Hot weather, they git worms as burrows right down in th’ skin. Hit’s cold weather as makes squirrel good eatin’; I’ll be cookin’ squirrel on up into May. If you’uns’d like to stay an’ eat a bite, I’m stewin’ me one right now; goin’ t’ make me a few dumplin’s with this ’un.”

“Thank you,” said the vicar, “but we’ll be pushing on soon.”

“Now you take turkeys, you got t’ shoot a turkey in th’
head,
an’ ye have t’ be a mighty sharp shooter, ’cause they ain’t much head
on
a turkey.”

Father Tim glanced at Agnes to see how this information was going down. She was apparently unfazed.