Light From Heaven (32 page)
Authors: Jan Karon
He’d dropped Emma’s eggs at Lew’s; left a dozen in Esther’s screen door with a note; gone by to see Uncle Billy, who was sleeping; and stopped on the highway for a sack of burger combos, which they devoured to the last fry before leaving the town limits. As for Sammy’s haircut, no cigar.
He was killed, and so was Sammy. At eight o’clock, they dragged up the stairs to bed, maxed to the gills.
“
Lily?
” he said, opening the back door.
Lily?
” he said, opening the back door.
“No, sir, it’s Delphinium, you c’n call me Del. Glad to meet you.” The tall, well-built woman gripped his hand in an iron clasp—was that one of his knuckles breaking?—and swept by him with a bucketful of cleaning rags.
Del who pulls furniture out from walls! Who upends chairs on tables! Who beats rugs . . . “But I thought Lily . . .”
“Lily’s sick as a dog. Puking!” said Del. “Want t’ show me what you’uns need done?”
He didn’t know how Del would go down with his wife; Cynthia may not like the furniture pulled out and the rugs beaten.
“I’ve got a surprise,” he told Cynthia as she came along the hall to the kitchen.
“You’re white as a sheet.”
“You may not like it.”
“Of course I’ll like it; I love surprises.”
“It was supposed to be Lily,” he whispered.
“Supposed to be Lily?”
“But it’s Del.”
“Del?”
“She pulls furniture out from the walls and can’t cook to save her life.”
“Timothy, why are you whispering? And what are you talking about?”
He threw up his hands, stricken. “I hired Lily to help you, but she’s puking and sent Del.”
“One of the Flower Girls! Is she in the kitchen?”
“She’s very tall,” he said.
He came out the backdoor at a trot, and not a minute too soon. Del had just whipped on a head rag and was ready to roll.
“Lloyd, how long do you think you’ll be with us?”
“You know we’ve got t’ tear th’ rest of y’r chimney down t’ where it goes t’ two-brick wide. We’ll be layin’ two-brick wide all th’ way to th’ top this time.”
“Right.”
“Then you’ll have t’ get y’r flue put in.” Lloyd gazed at the sky. “If th’ weather holds like this, which it won’t, prob’ly take about six weeks.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask—can all your work be done from the outside? I’m sure my wife is hoping as much.”
“‘Fraid not. Once we get goin’, there’ll be a good bit of in an’ out.”
He positively roared out of the driveway and onto the state road.
The new wayside pulpit message went by him in a blur.
“Thirty-eight across; the clue is baloney,” said Agnes. Her glasses sat near the tip of her nose as she pored over the folded newspaper with great concentration. “Thirteen letters.”
They’d had their signing lesson, and were on to the crossword as they bumped along on their visitation rounds.
“What do you have so far?”
She told him.
“Umm.” He’d never been good at the crossword, especially if he couldn’t look at the blasted thing. Nonetheless, he wanted to be helpful. “Remind me again about twenty-four down.”
“Claim on property. Four letters. Starts with
L
.”
L
.”
“Lien!” he said.
“Of course! That gives us an N in thirty-eight across! Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I’d like to stop and say hello to Jubal. What do you think?”
“Important business to tend to,” she said, tapping the crossword with her pen. “I’ll sit in the truck.”
“God people’s always a-
harryin’
me.” Though Jubal looked fierce, he opened the door wider.
harryin’
me.” Though Jubal looked fierce, he opened the door wider.
Father Tim eased across the threshold. “Brought you a dozen eggs.” There was a mighty aroma of something cooking . . .
Jubal took the carton, suspicious, and lifted the lid. “I’ll be dogged!” The old man’s eyes brightened. “Brown Betties is what we called ’em when I was comin’ up. I thank ye.”
“You’re mighty welcome.”
“Don’t be a-tryin’ t’ weasel in on me, now. Preachers are bad t’ weasel in on a man.”
“Hope you enjoy them!”
“They’ll go good with th’ ’coon I shot last e’nin’. That’s him a-cookin’.”
“Coon?” He realized he was backing over the threshold.
“A whopper.”
“Aha!”
“I once boughted a coon dog, but hit turned out a possum dog.”
“Got to scurry, Jubal.”
Jubal squinted at him. “You ain’t up here t’ git a bridge put o’er th’ creek, are ye?”
I hadn’t given it any thought.”
“We don’t want ary bridge o‘er th’ creek; they’d be people a-swarmin’ ever’ whichaway. Nossir, we don’t want no bridges an’ don’t ye be a-tryin’ t’ give us none.”
“You can count on me!”
He stepped off the porch into the yard. “I’ll drop in again if you don’t mind, bring you some more Brown Betties.”
You’re in my prayers,
he almost said, but caught himself. “By the way, anytime you have a spare squirrel or two, Miss Martha said she’d sure like to have a couple.”
You’re in my prayers,
he almost said, but caught himself. “By the way, anytime you have a spare squirrel or two, Miss Martha said she’d sure like to have a couple.”
Jubal’s eyes narrowed. “Tell ’at ol’ woman t’ shoot ’er own dadgone squirrel!”
“Come to think of it, I believe she might swap you a pie, or maybe a batch of cookies still warm from the oven.”
Jubal’s jaw dropped.
“Take care of yourself, now!”
He hastened to the truck, his face about to bust from grinning.
“Miss Agnes, we might be working this puzzle ’til Judgment Day. We only have three letters in thirty-eight across.”
“It’ll be finished tonight!” she said, confident. “But I’d covet getting at least two more letters in thirty-eight across before we part. By the way, if there’s time after church on Sunday, will you and Cynthia come and see Clarence’s work?”
“We’d be honored.”
“He’s just gotten the biggest order he’s ever had. It will require a great deal of him for many months.”
“I’ll pray for God to supply all his needs.”
“So many boys to pray for,” she said.
“And girls,” he said, turning into Donny Luster’s yard.
“You’re wearing your yellow shoes!” said Father Tim.
“Mama says I c’n wear ’em one day b’sides Sunday. I picked t’day.”
“They’re mighty nice and shiny.”
She bent low over her shoes, admiring. “I c’n near about see m’self; Donny he rubbed ’em with a biscuit.”
“With a biscuit?”
“Mama says they’s lard in a biscuit; hit makes shoes shiny.”
“I’ll remember that! That’s a very handy tip.”
“Mamaw Ruby teached Mama t’ use a biscuit.”
He sat in the chair beside the bed and took Dovey’s hand; Agnes eased herself into a rocking chair.
“How is your mother, Dovey? Do you hear from her?”
Sissie stood by the bed and patted her mother’s arm. “She’ll be a-cryin’ if you talk about Mamaw Ruby.”
“Crying can be good,” said Father Tim.
Tears ran along Dovey’s cheeks and onto the pillow. “She’s doin’ fine,” Dovey whispered. “She’s turnin’ fifty-two th’ last of May.”
“Mamaw Ruby teaches ‘bout Jesus in th’ prison house.”
“Please hush, Sissie, an’ let our comp’ny talk.”
“I’d like to write her, if you’ll give me her address.”
“Sissie, git me Mama’s address, an’ bring th’ medicine in m’ cup.”
Sissie trotted to the front of the trailer.
“Mama didn’t go t’ kill Daddy,” said Dovey. “He’d beat ’er since we was little, an’ she never done nothin’ about it. Then he went t’ beatin’ me. She’d never picked up a gun in ’er life, but she took ’is twelve-gauge an’ . . .”
She turned her head away from him. “Mama didn’t go t’ do it. He was beatin’ me so bad . . .”
“I understand,” he said. Perhaps he did; perhaps he didn’t.
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