Light From Heaven (54 page)

Thankfully, the fries weren’t mentioned. They’d tasted like cardboard, he thought, through no fault of the cook.

“He says he hates this place.”

Cynthia sighed, rolled toward him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Poor Sammy. I guess you could say we’re in over our heads.”

“Way over,” he said, disconsolate.

“Father Tim? Lew Boyd.

“I been meanin’ to tell you that some rough-neck come by th’ station lookin’ for you. I told ‘im you were livin’ in th’ boonies. Don’t know who it was, ’e looked mighty low on th’ food chain t’ me. I give ‘im directions t’ where you’re at.

“Let’s see. I guess it was two, three weeks ago when he come by, maybe more, I don’t know—time flies when you’re balancin’ front ends.”
Beep
.

The call must have arrived in the library answering machine yesterday; he’d been too distracted to notice the blinking light when he talked with Sammy.

For years he’d had an odd fantasy that his childhood best friend, Tommy Noles, would come searching for him. He devoutly hoped, however, that Tommy, who’d vanished after college as into ether, wouldn’t turn up looking “low on the food chain.”

The character who showed up at Lew’s was probably one of the several who’d passed through Mitford over the years, seeking a handout from the priest at Lord’s Chapel. He’d kept a special cash fund labeled D&O, which only he and Emma knew to be Down and Out.

He hit the “message” button again.

“Father Tim? This is Betty Craig. I hate t’ bother you, but pretty soon, there’ll be nothin’ left of me t’ bother you
with
. Miss Rose throwed a pot lid at me, an’ that’s not th’ half of it. Let me know if you’ve come up with anything, an’ I hope t’ hear back real quick.”
Beep
.

He had no earthly idea what to do. If Esther Cunningham weren’t out riding the range, she’d have this thing in the can. After sixteen years in office, Esther had thrown in the towel, otherwise he’d have voted for her ’til the cows came home. The only thing to do was stall for time; he’d call Betty and give her a pep talk, and next week, he’d bear down on this ...

He glanced at the clock on the library mantel and noted that he was pacing the floor. This was no way to get his heart rate up. He felt oddly lost, anxious.

It was way too early for Sammy to be stirring. Cynthia was sleeping in ’til seven, having had a restless night. He’d already taken the dogs out and downed his toast and coffee. And, of course, he’d read the Morning Office and talked with the Lord, albeit in a dispirited sort of way, for his mind had dashed about like a terrier.

He continued pacing, pulling at his chin.

Sammy couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old when Pauline deserted her children, taking Poo with her. Clyde Barlowe had made off with Sammy; Kenny had been traded by his mother for a gallon of whiskey to a stranger named Ed Sikes; Jessie, the baby, had been abducted by a dysfunctional cousin of Pauline’s.

It was during this terrible upheaval that the eleven-year-old Dooley had come to live at the rectory. How he and Dooley had gotten through those early years was more than a mystery, it was a miracle. And now, Sammy ...

He realized that Sammy probably had little or no memory of ever sitting down at a table for a family meal. Almost everything he was doing at Meadowgate would be, in one way or another, new to him.

With one possible exception. Truth be told, Sammy had been reasonably deft at keeping his room in a semblance of order, which had amazed both Cynthia and the Flower Girls. Very likely, this sense of order came naturally to him; plus, he’d been father to his father for years, and therefore seriously acquainted with responsibility. Lon Burtie once said Sammy’s gambling in the pool hall helped put food on the table when Clyde drank up his disability check.

First thing this morning, he’d praise Sammy for the good job of keeping his room straight. He’d been meaning to mention that ...

The wind was picking up, he could smell the noxious odor of creosote throughout the house. Cynthia sneezed; he sneezed ... same old, same old. The chimney fiasco was a lesson in patience if ever there was one ...

At precisely seven-thirty, Lloyd and Buster trooped in with buckets of wet mortar, looking apologetic.

“We’ll try not to spill nothin’ on y’r floors.”

Buster nodded. “We’ll try not to.”

Willie trotted in their wake.

“Dozen,” said Willie, who had bypassed the frills of a carton and used his hat.

Father Tim plucked the brown eggs from the hat and deposited them in the blue bowl. “So we’re holding our own?”

“Yessir. Holdin’ steady.”

Maybe he’d been wrong, maybe the lowlife who’d robbed their henhouse had moved on, after all. A set of beat-up lowers and a can of beans were hardly an indication of serious housekeeping.

“It’s Del!”

He positively shouted as he saw the blue van with the American flag decal wheel into the backyard. A Confederate flag waved from the antenna.

His wife’s face lit up big-time. “I never dreamed I’d be thrilled to see Del—especially when I was expecting Lily.”

“Full of surprises, those girls.”

“Only one problem. Del doesn’t cook or bake, and we need a cake for Sunday. Sissie’s expecting it, and Roy Dale and Gladys ...”

“Won’t Lily be coming tomorrow?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you, we’re on our own tomorrow; Lily’s doing a birthday party at the mayor’s office in Wesley.”

He considered this. “I don’t suppose baking a cake would get my heart rate up?”

“Probably not. But it would be lovely of you to try it and see.”

There he went again, opening his big mouth.

By eight-fifteen, they were en route to the attic, schlepping a vacuum cleaner, a broom, a dustpan, two easels, four boxes of art supplies, a box of art books, a stool, a basket of cleaning rags, an upholstered chair, a cat bed, two cat bowls, a ten-pound bag of cat food, a jug of drinking water, and a cat.

They bumped and thumped along the hall like so many Conestogas across Kansas.

He’d pitch in and haul one more load, then knock on Sammy’s door. Maybe he’d run to Mitford today and take Sammy and his siblings to Sweet Stuff, and pick up cake ingredients while he was at it.

Chances were, Sammy was already awake. Even a teenager would have trouble sleeping through the move from hell to heaven.

The bed was loosely spread, there was an empty package of Camels in the trash basket, unfolded laundry sat in the chair...

From a cursory look in the closet, Sammy was wearing the black jeans, blue sweatshirt, and threadbare tennis shoes he’d arrived in.

Maybe Sammy had gotten up early, and walked out to the garden, or even to the barn, and all that was needed was to go and find him. He stood looking out the window, unseeing, then turned and went downstairs.

He and Willie searched the place, but to no avail.

Sammy was gone. His heart told him so.

“I saw his potatoes yesterday. They were so healthy and beautiful. And the lettuce ...” His wife sat at her easel by the attic window, looking bereft.

“He’ll be back,” he said, trying to convince them both. “Gardeners always want to see their potatoes come in.”

He sat in the upholstered chair they’d dragged up from the lower hall. He didn’t want to ask this; he knew he wouldn’t like the sound of it in the room. “Should we call the police?”

“I think we should give him a chance to come home,” she said. “What if he just went to the woods to think things over? Or maybe he walked to Kirby’s Store. The police seem a very serious piece of business at this point.”

“I guess we shouldn’t call Dooley ...”

“Heavens, no!”

“Pray that we don’t have to.”

“I’m praying,” she said.

“Want another cup of coffee?”

“It’s a long trip to the kitchen.”