Light From Heaven (44 page)

Cleansed somehow in spirit, and feeling an unexpected sense of renewal, those assembled watched the coffin being lowered into place. It was a graveside procedure scarcely seen nowadays, and one that signaled an indisputable finality.

“Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother, William Benfield Watson, and commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ ...”

He’d always felt daunted by Rose Watson’s countenance, for it bore so clearly the marks of her illness. Indeed, it appeared as if some deep and terrible rage had surfaced, and hardened there for all to witness.

She wore a black cocktail hat of uncertain antiquity, and a black suit he remembered from their days at Lord’s Chapel. It was made memorable by its padded shoulders from the forties, and a lapel that had been largely eaten away by moths.

Betty Craig gripped Miss Rose’s arm, looking spent but encouraged, as people delivered their condolences and departed the graveside.

“Miss Rose ...”

He took the old woman’s cold hands, feeling frozen as a mullet himself. Though he believed he was somehow responsible for her well-being, he hadn’t a clue how to proceed.

She threw back her head and mowed him down with her fierce gaze. “I saved your bloomin’ neck!” she squawked.

“Yes, you did! By heaven, you did!”

He was suddenly laughing at his own miserable ineptness, and at the same time, weeping for her loss. “And God bless you for it!”

He found himself doing the unthinkable—he was hugging Rose Watson and patting her on the back for a fare-thee-well.

“Timothy, there’s a chicken at the back door!”

“Invite it in.”

“I’m serious.”

He walked to the screen door and looked out to the porch.

One of their Rhode Island Reds.

“The plot thickens,” he said.

He showed the swatch of cloth to Sammy. “Look what Barnabas brought home this morning at two-thirty.”

He thought Sammy looked oddly pale. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“W-what about it?”

“Here’s what I’m thinking. When Barnabas went out to do his business, the poacher happened to be at the hen house ...”

“What’s a poacher?”

“It’s a British term for someone who trespasses on a property to hunt or fish, or steal game. So, Barnabas starts barking, the poacher starts running, and bingo! Barnabas catches up and nabs a piece of his shirt.”

“If chickens are g-gettin’ out on their own like th’-th’-th’ one this mornin’, there p-prob’ly ain’t any poacher. Th’ chickens’re jis’ somehow ...”—Sammy shrugged—“... f-flyin’ th’ coop.”

“I believe the poacher dropped the chicken,” said the vicar.

“Whatever,” said Sammy.

Chilly tonight.

He put a match to the paper; the flame devoured it, and licked at the kindling. As Cynthia worked at the kitchen table, and Sammy watched TV in his room, he had a few calls to make.

The smell of popcorn wafted from the kitchen. An open fire and popcorn! Blessings galore, he thought ...

“I need a favor. I understand how pressured you are, and this one, frankly, is huge.”

“I know you, Father; you’d do it for me.”

“Yes,” he said.

“If you hadn’t done me the greatest of favors, I wouldn’t be the happiest of men. What do you need?”

Father Tim outlined the plan.

“I’ll come in my scrubs; I’m hardly out of them these days.”

“I’ll meet you at noon—at the crossroads of Farmer and Bentley, in the parking lot at Kirby’s Store. I’m in a red truck, considerably faded.”

“I’m considerably faded, myself, but I’ll see you then.”

“Hey, son. I’m missing you; just wanted to hear your voice.”

Dooley had never warmed to such outpourings; nonetheless, Father Tim found it best to speak these things. The loss of loved ones always made him reflect ...

“I’ll be done with finals May tenth, and home on the eleventh.”

“We’re praying about your finals; don’t worry, you can nail them. You’ll never guess what I’ve been thinking. Remember the time we walked to Mitford School together—it was your first day. You went ahead of me, then thought twice about it and asked me to walk up ahead. You didn’t want anybody to think a preacher was following you around.”

Dooley cackled. “Yeah, well, I got over it.”

At the sound of the laughter he loved, Father Tim’s spirit lifted up. He would tell him about the money this summer. Maybe they’d trek out to the sheep pasture and sit on the big rock by the pond, or maybe they’d sit in the library—Dooley could have the leather wing chair for this auspicious occasion. Shoot, they might even haul around a few dirt roads in the new truck.

In any case, nearly two million dollars would be an astounding reality to grapple with.

Lord,
he prayed,
pick the time and place for this important revelation, and thank You for so constructing his character that he might bear the responsibility with grace ...

By four-thirty in the afternoon, peas, potatoes, onions, lettuce, and chard had been planted in the fresh-turned loam. Several rows sprouted red twigs wrung from a dogwood tree by the henhouse to give new pea vines something to climb.

At ten twenty-five in the evening, the rain began. It was a soft, steady rain that pattered on the tin roof of the farmhouse, and chimed in the gutters.

Father Tim listened to the music, contented. Every gardener’s dream, he thought.

“Are you sleeping?” asked Cynthia.

“Listening to the rain.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s scary.”

“Very funny. I think we need Sunday School at Holy Trinity.”

“I agree. Just haven’t gotten there, yet.”

“I’m volunteering to teach Sissie and Rooter.”

“That’s wonderful!” He was always thrilled when his wife volunteered in a church he was serving. “You’ll be a great blessing to them, to all of us.”

“And surely others will come.”

“Surely. And even if they don’t...”

“But I wish there was something for Sammy,” she said. “He’d never stoop to attending Sunday School with a five- and a nine-year-old.”

“Unless ...” he said.

“Unless?”

“Unless he was your teaching assistant.”

“How do you mean?”

“If there was something he could do with gardening to illustrate your teaching... I don’t know ... a seed, growth, the story of new life ... new life in Jesus ...”

“I like it,” she said. “Give me a couple of weeks, let me think it all through.”

He took her warm hand and kissed it and held it to his cheek. “Lord, thank You for sending Your daughter into this white field. Thank You for showing her Your perfect way to teach the love, mercy, and grace of Your Son. And help us become children, ourselves, eager to receive Your instruction. Through Christ our Lord ...”

“Amen.”

“Thank you,” he said to his deacon.

“Thank you back.”

“For what?”

“For being willing to serve at Holy Trinity. It’s my favorite of all your churches.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s so hungry and imperfect.”

Hungry and imperfect. “Yes,” he said, smiling in the dark. “Yes!”

He’d been in a pool hall or two when he was a kid, and they didn’t look like places to cultivate desirable qualities of character. Then again, didn’t the venerable English country house always have a billiards table? It did. And wasn’t billiards a game for gentlemen? Generally speaking, it was.

Maybe if he just changed the terminology, and possibly his long-prejudiced attitude ...

“Would it be possible for me to, umm, hang with you at the pool hall?”