Light From Heaven (62 page)

“Pretty funny.”

“You ain’t exactly bustin’ a gut laughin’. I guess you heard about Miss Pattie ...”

Miss Pattie was a legend in her own time. She’d been known to take a bath with her hat on, plant violets in her shoes, and once crawled out a window to the roof of her front porch, “stark,” as Hessie Mayhew reported to one and all.

“What’s Miss Pattie done now?”

“She died.”

He grabbed his change and nearly knocked over the display of Red Man chewing tobacco as he blew out the door. He jumped in the truck, scratched off without meaning to, turned right on Main Street, hung a left on Lilac, and shot up the hill to Hope House.

Puny jiggled Timmy on one hip, and Tommy on the other. “Me an’ Joe Joe thinks Timmy looks like ’is granpaw.”

“Certainly not!”

“He does! Look at ’im. Little bald head, no offense. An’ look at ’is little nose. Ain’t it jis’ like yours?”

He felt his own nose while he peered at Timmy’s. “Some resemblance.”

“An’ Tommy, he looks like ’is Granmaw Esther.”

That was a fact. Put a pair of glasses and a wig on Tommy, and he’d be elected in a heartbeat. Mitford still hadn’t gotten over losing Esther Cunningham as mayor.

“I’ve brought everyone a little something!” He began unpacking the shopping bag. “For you, Puny, a dozen eggs, fresh from the nest!”

“Great! Joe Joe eats two ever’ mornin’.”

“For these fine boys, a couple of books ...”

“What kind of books’re
those
?”

“This one’s for Tommy, it’s the writings of Mr. George Herbert, and this is for Timmy—Mr. William Wordsworth!”

“Are they any pictures in ’em?”

“No pictures.”

“Jis’
words
?”

“Well, of course, they aren’t to be enjoyed for several years yet. Sherlock Holmes said it’s a great thing to start life with a small number of really good books that are your very own; I’ve inscribed each one on the flyleaf. And here’s a couple of softballs ...”

Puny looked mighty disappointed that her children’s granpaw was so out of it where presents were concerned.

“Listen,” he said, shaking one of the softballs. Something chimed inside; Timmy reached for it at once but couldn’t grasp it; he batted it to the floor where it rolled under the sofa. The vicar dropped to his hands and knees, and searched it out.

“Oh, law, don’t go pokin’ around under there, I ain’t dust-mopped in a month of Sundays.”

“Not a problem!” he said, pulling himself up by a chair arm. “And of course, there’s something for Sissy and Sassy ...”

“You ought t’ set down an’ catch y’r breath.”

Indeed, he felt as if he’d been spinning in a whirlwind since early morning. “Can’t sit down; have to scurry. I know how the girls love books, here are the first four in the Boxcar Children series, I hope they don’t have them already.”

She studied the covers. “They don’t! They’ll be so glad t’ git books from their granpaw; they read all you gave ’em f’r Christmas three or four times.”

“Why don’t you and Joe Joe pack up the whole brood and come out for supper one Friday?”

“When we go off from here, you never seen th’ like of what we have t’ haul—bottles, formula, diapers, sacks of this an’ that, a change of clothes, books for th’ girls, they read all th’ time, Sissy’s stuffed alligator ...”

“Maybe in the fall, then—when they’re older. We miss you.”

“We miss you back. I hope Cynthy has some help out there on th’ farm.”

“My dear girl,” he said, “it’s taken three people to replace you.”

“Maybe I’ll come back t’ work when th’ kids have left home.”

“Yes, but by then, there won’t be anything left of
us
.”

“Oh, phoo, you’re goin’ t’ live t’ be a hundred!”

“Not at the rate I’m going,” he said.

He dumped the grocery bags on the pine table and went straight to the library phone.

“Betty? Father Tim. I have good news ...”

“Thank th’ Lord!”

“... and some bad news.”

“Oh, no. Give me th’ bad first.”

“Miss Pattie died.”

“But I
loved
Miss Pattie!” wailed Betty. “I nursed her at home for a whole month one time, and she’s th’ only patient I ever had who was actually
fun
!”

“Cynthia found her fun, as well. I hear she enjoyed taking a bath with her hat on.”

“No, sir, that story is all wrong. She never wore a hat; but she did take a bath holdin’ an
um
brella.”

“Aha.”

“Because the shower head dripped! I thought that made perfect good sense.”

“Absolutely Now, the good news. Miss Rose has a room at Hope House.”

“Hallelu ... oops, sorry. Since I know how she got it, I’d better watch my tongue.”

“Good thinking,” he said.

“Hey, Father, this is Connie at Hope House. Miss Louella sent for me this mornin’ an’ asked me to call you. She was in a strut; said you won’t listen to her, but you’d listen to me. Why she picked me, I have no clue! I suppose it’s because I work in the office, which always seems more, I don’t know,
official
.

“Anyway, she wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but she wanted me to ask you ... where is that note, oh, here it is, you should see my desk, it’s like a bomb went off.... ‘
What are
you
doin’ about you
-
know
-
who’s money
?’

“I said in case he don’t know who you-know-who is, maybe she should be more specific. But she wadn’t. Well, ’bye.”

“Teds and Cynthia! You must be out milking the sheep! It’s your Yankee cousin, Katherine. Walter and I have done our darnedest to figure out when we might visit Meadowgate, but we’re stumped!

“I’ve gone double duty at the nursing home; I love my dearlings, and then I’ve let the mayor’s henchwoman talk me into chairing the big event in August for children with AIDS. Will you forgive us? You know we’d love to see you—but imagine the weeks we’ll spend together in Ireland next year; you’ll be sick of us all too soon!

“Which reminds me—Teds, what would you think of boarding with the lovely lady who made that luscious rhubarb tart? Or shall we go as the wind carries us? Loads to talk about!

“For now—hugs and kisses! And God bless!”

Beep
.

“Father? Andrew Gregory.

“I’ve found someone to take on the job of restoring the Plymouth—for a very reasonable sum, it turns out! Thought I’d have the work done, and give the car to the town. We can use it in parades, and to add a touch of pomp to official mayoral activities. Long story short, I’m sending it down to Charleston in four or five days, the fellow has time to start the work now.

“Any interest in taking a final look?

“I’ll wait to hear back. All best to you and Cynthia; oh, yes, and to Dooley. I have word he’s become a Kavanagh. Congratulations to all.”

Beep
.

In faraway New Jersey, Walter took a sip of his after-dinner espresso. “Forget it, Cousin.”

“Forget it?”

“Absolutely. Once a conviction has been obtained, the laws are very strict about overthrowing it. Further, there was never any evi- dence that pointed to Fred, and even if you pursued your hunch and something came of it, he’d be mentally incompetent to stand trial. No DA in his right mind would touch it.”

He sighed. “I’ve always believed it’s never too late.”

“You’re a priest, it’s your job to believe that.”

“You’re a lawyer. I thought that was your job, as well.”

Walter laughed. “Not this lawyer.”

“You’re right, of course. Well, sorry to hear you won’t make it down this summer, but we understand; we have a house full, in any case. Dooley, his brother Sammy, and, temporarily, a five-year-old with the stamina of a freight train.”

“Timothy, you are ever and a day taking in stray children. What a good fellow!”

“Can’t help myself.”

“To wrap up, Cousin, leave the poor, demented soul to his own devices. Unless there’s something I don’t know, you don’t have the energy or years to chase a wild goose.”

In truth, he was already chasing a wild goose, though of a far less serious nature—it was that blasted stack of hundred-dollar bills ostensibly buried in the deeps of a ’58 Plymouth Belvedere.

“I c-could’ve c-c-cut y’r hair,” Sammy said as he wolfed his lasagna.

“You could?”

“Yeah.You n-need a little more t-took off of th’ sides.”

Father Tim felt around up there; it seemed perfectly fine to him. “I do?”

“Yes, sir,” said Dooley. “You do.”

His wife was enjoying this way too much.

He’d like to shave his head as slick as a cue ball, and be done with the whole miserable business.