Light From Heaven (22 page)

“Yes,” she whispered.

He sat in the chair beside her. “Dear God and loving Father, Creator of all that is, seen and unseen, we thank You for Your presence in this home, at this bedside, and in the heart of Your child, Dovey. Give us eyes to see Your goodness in her suffering, give us faith to thank You for her healing, give us love to strengthen us as we wait. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

“Amen,” said Agnes.

“Amen,” whispered Dovey.

When he looked up, he saw Donny Luster standing at the foot of the bed. “Amen,” said Donny. “Miss Agnes, how you?”

“Very well, Donny, thank you. Please meet Father Timothy Kavanagh.” The thin, blond young man leaned toward him and they shook hands.

“Very pleased to meet you, Donny. I’ve been called to be the vicar at Holy Trinity.”

“That’s good. We was startin’ to get shed of all our churches around here, what our’n burnin’ down an’ your’n closed up.”

“What is Dovey’s illness?”

“We don’t know, ain’t found nobody that knows. I’ve took ’er to Wesley and Holdin’ both. They’re treatin’ ’er for depression, but they’s some as thinks it was a tick bite.”

“How long ... ?”

“She’s been down th’ last four, five months, an’ wadn’t feelin’ too good way b’fore that.”

“She cain’t do nothin’,” said Sissie. “Sometime she cain’t git up, she pees in th’ bed.”

Donny gave Sissie a sharp look. “You hush up, little miss.”

Father Tim continued to hold Dovey’s hand. “I saw some fine-looking cows on the hill. They’re yours, Donny?”

“Yeah, I run a few head now an’ then.”

“Very nice place you have here. Slick as a whistle. May I ask what do you do?”

“He does
ever’thing!”
said Sissie.

“Is that right?”

“Cookin’...”

“That’s a good thing to do.”

“... washin’ dishes, cleanin’ up th’ whole place.”

“Ah.”

“Takin’ care of me an’ Mama.”

“The best of things to do!”

“I got a loggin’ b’iness,” said Donny “I do a little drywall on th’ side, an’ cut hay in th’ valley.”

“An’ he plays th’ fiddle an’ all them things hangin’ on th’ wall.” Sissie looked proud.

Only now did he see that the wall leading into the next room was hung with musical instruments.

That ’n’s a guitar.” Sissie pointed. “That ’n’s a banjer. That ’n ... what’s that ’n, Donny? I f’rgit.”

“Dulcimore. But he don’t want t’ hear that mess.”

“Yes, I do. You play all those instruments?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you learn?”

“Come natural,” Dovey whispered.

“He plays th’ jaw harp, too,” said Sissie.

“Sissie,” said her mother, “please hush.”

“I’m jis’
talkin’,
Mama.”

Donny sat on the foot of the bed. “Mine an’ Dovey’s granpaw was a picker, he was th’ best in this county an’ ever’ where else; he taught me t’ play anything with a string on it. I started out when I was nine year old, playin’ ‘at ol’ washtub base settin’ yonder.”

“Where do you play?”

Sissie clambered onto the bed. “He plays at churches an’ camp meetin’s, ain’t that right, Donny?” Sissie crawled over and patted her mother’s cheek. “Donny, he preaches, too.”

“Preaches?”

Donny’s face colored. “Don’t worry, I ain’t no competition for a real preacher!”

“This beats all. Logging, cooking, cleaning, making hay, playing music, preaching...”

“A Renaissance man!” said Agnes, looking pleased.

Dovey lifted her head from the pillow. “Sissie, bring m’ pitcher, m’ cup’s right here.”

Sissie scrambled off the bed and went to the sink and fetched a pitcher. “It ain’t got much in it.”

“Fill it up,” said Dovey. “I got t’ take m’ medicine.”

Sissie trotted back with the pitcher and set it on the bed table. “’At pitcher was her mama’s. Mamaw Ruby give Mama a whole set of dishes when she was little. She uses ’em ever’ day, won’t use nothin’ else.”

“All cracked an’ chipped,” said Donny, disapproving. “They need t’ be thowed out.”

“They was
Mama’s,”
Dovey said fiercely.

Sissie bounced on the bed. “Turn on y’r record player, Donny!”

“They don’t want t’ hear that; now, hush up.”

“Hit’ll play anything,” Sissie informed the vicar. “Donny he likes th’ Monroe Brothers. He tries t’ sing like ’em.”

“See that switch over yonder? You’re lookin’ t’ git wore out, an’ I don’t mean maybe.”

“Would you play something for us?” asked Father Tim. “Would you mind?”

“He don’t mind,” said Sissie.

Donny looked at his sister. “If Dovey’ll sing with me.”

“I cain’t, Donny, I cain’t sing now.”

“Yes, you can, Dovey; you know you can. Come on an’ try.”

Donny went to the wall and studied it a moment, then took down a guitar.

“‘What Would You Give,’ Dovey.” He pulled a stool to the foot of the bed and propped his foot on a rung.

“I don’ know if I can, Donny...”

“Sure you can.” He turned the pegs, tuning. “Come on, now. Jis’ a little on th’ chorus, I’ll do th’ verses.”

Donny Luster strummed the guitar and began to sing. His voice was clear, and plaintive.

Still holding the vicar’s hand, Dovey sang, her voice trembling, “In exchange...”

“What would you give...”

“In exchange,” she sang again.

“Oh, if today God should call you away...”

The brother and sister finished the refrain together. “... What would give in exchange for your soul?”

“That’s good, Dovey. One more time.”

Waiting for Dovey to respond, Donny sang the line again. “What would you give...”

“I cain’t, Donny.”

Father Tim turned to Dovey and saw the tears on her cheeks.

Sissie patted her mother’s arm. “It’s OK, Mama. Donny, stop makin’ Mama sing if she don’t want to!”

“I’m sorry,” said Father Tim. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It ain’t your fault,” said Donny. He turned from the bed, angry, and hung the guitar on the wall, then looked at Dovey as he pulled on his jacket. “I come in t’ tell you Granny’ll be here in a little bit; I won’t git home ’til after dark. You ‘n’ Sissie have y’r dinner, I done eat.”

“I’ll walk out with you,” said Father Tim, as Donny headed for the door.

Donny went to his truck, ignoring the vicar.

“Donny...” Preaching and meddling were often accused of being one and the same, thought Father Tim, but so be it.

Donny turned around, tears swimming in his eyes. “She could git well if she tried.”

“I can see she has no strength to sing; I’m sure she’d sing if she could.”

Donny covered his face with his hands. “Oh, God!” he said, sobbing.

Though she’d never received the Eucharist, Dovey, who’d been baptized at the age of eleven, had been pleased to take it. As vicar of Holy Trinity, he determined never to make a home visit without his communion kit.

On their way back to the ridge, he told Agnes how the strain had affected Donny Luster.

“He’s convinced it’s depression and thinks she can get over it at will. When she doesn’t feel like singing, he’s angry and discouraged. And needless to say, he’s working himself to death. Is there a husband?”

“He left three years ago; Donny moved Dovey and Sissie to his place when she became so ill. Granny comes some days when Rooter is in school, and Clarence occasionally drops me off when he goes to Wesley.”

He felt a weight on his heart.

“How does Granny help?”

“Mainly, she keeps Dovey and Sissie company, and helps Dovey eat her midday meal.”

“Thank God for Granny.”

“Granny’s a gem. Her grandfather came here when the government would give a man all the property he could walk around in a day—if he built a house on it. The old house is still standing, but just barely. Lloyd Goodnight and a few others have done what they can, but it’s a mere bandage on the critically wounded.”

They drove for a time, silent.

“Did Donny tell you their mother is in prison?” asked Agnes.

“What for?”

“Killing their father.”

“No,” he said, stricken. “When did it happen?”

“Dovey was sixteen; Donny was going on ten.”

“How old is he now?” Twenty-five or twenty-six would be his guess, though in a way he looked older.

“Seventeen.”

He had no words. Words would not suffice.

As he walked Agnes to her door, he stopped and struck his forehead.

“I can’t believe my forgetfulness! We’ve visited around the livelong day, and failed to give out a single flyer.”

“Perhaps...”

“Perhaps?”

Agnes looked resolved. “Perhaps it’s just as well.”

“Why is that?”

“Is it possible that the flyer announced the wrong date, Father? I’ve prayed mightily about this, and here is what I propose. Let’s not wait until May. So many need what God is eager to give at Holy Trinity. Let’s open our doors to one and to all ... on Easter morning.”

“Easter morning? But that’s only three days away.”

Though worn from their trot over hill and dale, her eyes sparkled with feeling. “‘Every noble work is at first impossible.’”

“Thomas Carlyle,” he said, suddenly grumpy.

Flowers, music, communion wine, kneelers—he mentally ticked off the items on his list, which was, in his opinion, on the huge side, not to mention a homily with meat on the bone.... An Easter service couldn’t be thrown together like some hilltop picnic, for heaven’s sake ...

“For heaven’s sake!” he blurted.

“Your lovely flyers won’t be wasted at all. We’ll mark through the old date and put in the new, and Clarence will deliver them around.”

He took a deep breath.

“Shall we do it, Father?”

She had waited forty years; who was he to wait ’til May?

“Yes,” he said, suddenly beaming at his deaconess. “Yes! Absolutely!”

He felt as if he’d left Meadowgate days, even weeks, ago. It had been a long trek, and somewhere in his mortal frame, he felt every pothole.

Yet when he saw Cynthia at her drawing board by the window, he saw her, somehow, with new eyes. She turned and looked at him, smiling, and his weariness vanished. He went to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m happy to be home,” he said, nuzzling the top of her head with his cheek. “Get dressed, we’re going out to dinner. At Lucera!”