Light From Heaven (59 page)
Authors: Jan Karon
“Cynthy, she said a seed’s got t’ git light... an’ what else?”
“Water,” said Cynthia. “And food.”
“She said Jesus is all them things, an’ when He lives in us, He makes us grow.”
“Well done, Sissie. Have you ever watched a seed grow?”
“No.”
“You will when you get to our house,” said Cynthia. “Can you believe that the little seed we gave everyone this morning is really a very tall sunflower, as high as this truck?”
Sissie shook her head. “No.”
“Me, neither,” said the vicar.
“Sho-o-o!” Sissie looked around their desecrated kitchen and wrinkled her nose. “Hit stinks in you’uns’ house.”
“M-might be y’r upper 1—lip,” said Sammy.
Father Tim crawled into bed and punched up his pillow. As all beds were taken, Sissie sprawled on the loveseat in their bedroom, snoring beneath a quilt.
“A full house,” he said, feeling both the weight and the providence of such a circumstance.
His wife heaved a sigh. “I always wanted children. But I never dreamed they’d all belong to other people.”
As he was leaving the house at a little after six on Monday, he saw Willie trotting to the porch in the dusky first light. He was toting his hat and looking defeated.
“Took ’em out of th’ nest yesterday evenin’. Eleven.”
“You counted the chickens?”
“Eleven.”
“Blast. We lost one, then.”
“Yessir. But didn’t hear nothin’ in th’ night.”
Willie shook his head. He was totally mystified, and plenty disgusted into the bargain. The whole thing was a dadgum aggravation.
He did all he could to assure Dovey, and promised to visit again on Tuesday. Afterward, he scooted to Dora Pugh’s Hardware, jingling the bell above the door.
“I been lookin’ for you in th’ obituaries!” said Dora.
“Don’t look there yet!”
“Have you heard about Coot Hendrick’s new job?”
“Coot’s
working?
” As far as he knew, Coot hadn’t struck a lick at a snake in at least two decades.
working?
” As far as he knew, Coot hadn’t struck a lick at a snake in at least two decades.
“Has a hundred and seventy people under him.”
“What?”
“Weed—eats th’town graveyard.”
He laughed. “Ah, Dora, you’re a sly one.”
“I hear Bill Sprouse up at First Baptist cut his chin pretty bad while shavin’, said he had his mind on his sermon.”
“I’ll be darned. Sorry to hear it.”
“They say he should’ve kep‘his mind on his chin and cut ’is sermon.”
“You got me twice in a row!”
Dora cackled.
“What’s your best deal on a garden spade?”
“You want a good garden spade or a sorry garden spade?”
“Better give me a good garden spade.”
“Thirty-four ninety—five.”
“Done,” he said, reaching into his hip pocket.
He noted that Dora was smoking him over. “You’ve sure let your hair get long.”
“Only around the collar,” he said. “Nothing much happening on top.”
It was definitely that time again.
He raced up Main Street and crossed to The Local, carrying the shovel.
“Avis, how’s business?”
“Can’t complain. How’s yours?”
“Growing,” he said, pulling out the grocery list. “We’ve got a crowd at the house—two strapping boys and a five-year-old. If you could put this together for me, I’ll pick it up in a cou—ple of hours.”
“You need a U-Haul,” said Avis, looking at the list. “I see Ol’ Dooley’s home—steak and p’tatoes.” He scanned the list. “Nothin‘on here for a little kid; better get you some peanut butter an’jelly.”
“Brilliant! And while I’m thinking of it, add a couple of cake mixes. Chocolate.”
“You heard th‘one about th’guy who broke into th’dress store three nights in a row?”
“Haven’t heard it.”
“Told th‘judge he picked out a dress for his wife an’ had to exchange it two times.”
Father Tim burst out laughing. He’d never known the poker-faced Avis Packard to tell a joke in the twenty years he’d known him. Miracles, he was glad to be reminded, happen all the time.
He had a few minutes to fill the tank and shoot the breeze, but no time for lunch.
Wheeling into Lew’s, he realized he dreaded seeing J. C.
It wasn’t his place to report what he’d stumbled upon, and yet, shouldn’t J.C. know that his worst fear had come to pass? On the other hand, J. C. would find out soon enough—someone would surely spill the beans; carrying on in a patrol car wouldn’t go unnoticed in Mitford, not by a long shot.
He thought the
Muse
editor looked... what? Tan? Slimmer?
Muse
editor looked... what? Tan? Slimmer?
And Percy, he observed, was definitely looking younger. “It’s layin’ up in bed ’til six o’clock,” said Percy, who’d risen before five for more than forty years.
Mule, on the other hand, looked like he’d always looked which, in a world of change, was sort of comforting, thought Father Tim.
“You know how th’ Presbyterians don’t pay their preacher anything to speak of,” said Mule.
That news had been on the street for years.
“Th’ other night, somebody broke in through his bedroom window, and held a gun on ’im.”
“Good grief!” said Father Tim.
“Told ol’ Henry not to move; said he was huntin’ for his money. Henry said, ‘Let me get up an’ turn on th’ light, an’ I’ll hunt with you.’”
Father Tim hooted with laughter, as did the rest of the Turkey Club.
Percy unzipped his lunch bag. “I guess you heard about th’ carrier pigeon that rolled in twelve hours late.”
Nobody had heard it.
“Said it was such a nice day, it decided to walk.”
J.C. rolled his eyes.
“What’s going on?” asked Father Tim. “All of a sudden, Mitford is Joke City. I get jokes from Dora Pugh, a joke from Avis, of all people ...”
“It’s an Uncle Billy kind of thing,” said Mule. “Holdin’ on to th’ tradition.”
“Yeah,” said Percy.
J.C. hauled a foil-wrapped lump from his briefcase. “Eat more fiber, tell more jokes. It’s sort of a health deal that’s goin’ around.”
“Speaking of health, looks like you’re dropping a little weight.”
“I blew off six pounds.” J.C. peeled away the foil.
“And what’s with the tan?”
“Yard work, buddyroe, yard work.”
The fumes from J.C.’s lunch were killer. The vicar glanced at his watch.
“You heard about th’ guy who was so short you could see his feet on his driver’s license?” asked J.C.
Mule groaned.
“Th’ same guy had his appendix out, it left a scar on his neck.”
What an amazing outbreak, thought Father Tim, something like measles...
“You heard th’ one about two guys who rented a boat to go fishin’ on th’ lake?” asked J.C.
“Haven’t heard it,” said Father Tim.
“Th’ first day, they caught thirty fish.”
“That’s a joke right there,” said Mule, who never caught anything to speak of.
“When they started back to shore, one said ...”—J.C. took an enormous bite of his sandwich—“ ‘Bettermarkisspotsowecancomebackt’ morrow.’”
“What’d he say?” asked Percy.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, for Pete’s sake.” This was definitely one of Mule’s personal peeves.
J.C. gulped. “So, next day when they were goin’ to rent a boat, the guy said, ‘Did you mark our spot?’ Other one says, ‘Yeah, I put a big X on the bottom of th’ boat.’ His buddy says, ‘That was pretty stupid; what if we don’t get the same boat this time?ʼ”
J.C. burst into laughter, a sound something like ham sizzling in lard.
“Oh,
man
.” Another of Mule’s personal peeves was people who laughed at their own jokes.
man
.” Another of Mule’s personal peeves was people who laughed at their own jokes.
Watching J.C. hoot his head off, Father Tim felt a stab of pity. Innocence was always bliss. “Any news of Edith?”
“I hear she keeps sayinʼ th’ same thing over anʼ over. God is, God is, like that.”
He’d been right, thought the vicar. Edith was making a complete and full confession of His Being. There were miracles everywhere.
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