Out to Canaan (176 page)

Buck shrugged his shoulders, still looking out the window. “Pauline knows about God and she couldn't make it.”

“No, but she's going to. In any case, we don't come to God to attain perfection, we come to be saved.”

“You remember my grandaddy was a preacher. There's no way I could be good enough to get saved or whatever you call it. No way.”

“It isn't about being good enough.”

Buck turned to him, furious. “So what is it about, for Christ's sake?”

“It's about letting Him into our lives in a personal way. You can do that with a simple prayer you can repeat with me. When we let Him in, He guarantees that we become new creatures.”

“New creatures?” Buck laughed bitterly. “Who wants to be a new creature when you can't even get the old one to work?”

“New creatures make mistakes, too, they stumble around and fall in a ditch. But once the commitment is made with the heart, He takes it from there.”

“It always sounded like a lot of bull to me.”

Father Tim got up and stood beside his desk. “I could tell you all day what you'd gain by making that commitment—but look at it another way: What do you have to lose?”

For a time, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the bookshelf.

“Listen,” said Buck, “I'll be out of the house in a couple of days.”

He moved suddenly to the door and opened it, then went down the walk to his truck, not looking back.

“
The fields are white
 . . .”

“Buck!” said the rector. “Wait . . .”

But he didn't wait.

“They want to buy me out and let me run it,” said Winnie, looking anxious. “What do you think?”

If he ever had to mess with another real estate deal . . .

“What do
you
think?” he asked.

“It sounds like a good idea. I mean, I do the work and get a regular paycheck, and they have all th' headaches.” She sighed. “That might be refreshin'.”

“Weren't you going to wait 'til after the cruise to make a decision?”

“They want an answer right away. Soon.” She wrung her hands. “At once!”

He didn't feel he had the credentials to counsel Winnie on what amounted to the next few years of her life. “What's God saying to you about all this?”

“I still have that stuck feelin', like I don't know which way to turn.”

Definitely not a good sign, but what more could he say?

“Your hair . . .” said Emma.

“What about it?” he snapped.

“Dearest,” said Cynthia, “about your hair . . .”

“Don't touch it!” he said. So what if he had hacked on it himself? At least it wasn't draping over his collar like so much seaweed.

“Man!” exclaimed Mule, eyeing him with interest.

“You don't
like
it?” he asked. “I never say anything about
your
hair, I never even
notice
your hair, why you can't do the same for
me
is beyond all
imagining
—”

“Gee whiz,” said Mule, looking perplexed. “I was just goin' to ask where you got that blue shirt.”

When he walked into Esther's hospital room on Thursday morning, her bed was surrounded by Bane volunteers. One of them held a notepad at the ready, and he felt a definite tension in the air.

They didn't even look up as he came in.

Hessie leaned over Esther, speaking as if the patient's hearing had been severely impaired by the fall.

“Esther!” she shouted. “You've got to cooperate! The doctor said he'd give us twenty minutes and not a second more!”

“Ummaummhhhh,” said Esther, desperately trying to speak through clamped jaws.

“Why couldn't she write something?” asked Vanita Bentley. “I see two fingers sticking out of her cast.”

“Uhnuhhh,” said Esther.

“You can't write with two fingers. Have you ever tried writing with two fingers?”

“Oh, Lord,” said Vanita. “Then
you
think of something! We've got to hurry!”

“We need an alphabet board!” Hessie declared.

“Who has time to go lookin' for an alphabet board? Where would we find one, anyway?”

“Make one!” instructed the co-chair. “Write down the alphabet on your notepad and let her point 'til she spells it out.”

“Ummuhuhnuh,” said Esther.

“She can't move her arm to point!”

“So? We can move the notepad!”

Esther raised the forefinger of her right hand.

“One finger.
One!
Right, Esther? If it's yes, blink once, if it's no, blink twice.”

“She blinked once, so it's yes.
One!
One what, Esther? Cup? Teaspoon? Vanita, are you writin' this down?”

“Two blinks,” said Marge Crowder. “So, it's not a cup and it's not a teaspoon.”

“Butter!” said somebody. “Is it one stick of butter?”

“She blinked twice, that's no. Try again. One
teaspoon
? Oh, thank God! Vanita, one teaspoon.”

“Right. But one teaspoon of what? Salt?”

“Oh, please, you wouldn't use a teaspoon of
salt
in a
cake
!”

“Excuse me for living,” said Vanita.

“Maybe cinnamon? Look! One blink. One teaspoon of cinnamon!”

“
Hallelujah!
” they chorused.

Esther wagged her finger.

“One, two, three, four, five . . .” someone counted.

“Five what?” asked Vanita. “Cups? No. Teaspoons? No.
Tablespoons?
”

“One blink, it's tablespoons!
Five tablespoons!
”

“Oh, mercy, I'm glad I took my heart pill this morning,” said Hessie. “Is it of butter? I just have a feelin' it's butter. Look! One blink!”

“
Five tablespoons of butter!
” shouted the crowd, in unison.

“OK, in cakes, you'd have to have baking powder. How much baking powder, Esther?”

Esther held up one finger.

“One teaspoon?”

“Uhnuhhh,” said Esther, looking desperate.

“One
tablespoon
?” asked Vanita.

“You wouldn't use a
tablespoon
of baking powder in a cake!” sniffed Marge Crowder.

“Look,” said Vanita, “I'm helpin' y'all just to be nice. My husband personally thinks I am a great cook, but I don't do cakes, OK, so if you'd like somebody else to take these notes, just step right up and help yourself, thank you!”

“You're doin' great, honey, keep goin',” said Hessie.

“Look at that!” exclaimed Vanita. “She's got one finger out straight and the other one bent back! Is that one and a half? It
is,
she blinked once! I declare, that is the cleverest thing I ever saw. OK, one and a half teaspoons of bakin' powder!”

Everyone applauded.

“This is a killer,” said Vanita, fanning herself with the notebook. “Don't you think we could sell two-layer triple chocolates just as easy?”

“Ummunnuhhh,” said Esther, her eyes burning with disapproval.

Hessie snorted. “This could take 'til kingdom come. How much time have we got left?”

“Ten minutes, maybe eleven!”

“Eleven minutes? Are you kidding me? We'll never finish this in eleven minutes.”

“I think she told me she uses buttermilk in this recipe,” said Marge Crowder. “Esther,” she shouted, “how much buttermilk?”

Esther made the finger and a half gesture.

“One and a half cups, right? Great! Now we're cookin'!”

More applause.

“OK,” commanded the co-chair, “what have we got so far?”

Vanita, being excessively near-sighted, held the notepad up for close inspection. “One teaspoon of cinnamon, five tablespoons of butter, one and a half teaspoons of baking powder, and one and a half cups of buttermilk.”

“I've got to sit down,” said the head of the Food Committee, pressing her temples.

“It looks like Esther's droppin' off to sleep, oh, Lord, Esther, honey, don't go to sleep, you can sleep tonight!”

“Could somebody ask th' nurse for a stress tab?” wondered Vanita. “Do you think they'd mind, I've written checks to th' hospital fund for nine years, goin' on ten!”

“By the way,” asked Marge Crowder, “is this recipe for one layer or two?”

He decided to step into the hall for a breath of fresh air.

Hammer and tong. That's how one Bane worker said they went at it on Friday.

The weather was glorious, the parish hall was full to overflowing with both goods and people, the lawn was adorned with three white tents, sheltering from any possible bad weather everything from fine antiques and children's toys to hot meals and homemade desserts. Three tour buses stood parked at the curb, signaling the penultimate event of the year.

Parkers filled the two church lots first, then sent traffic up the hill
to satellite hospital parking, and down a side street to the Methodists. A stream of cars and pickups also flowed into lots behind the Collar Button, the Irish Woolen Shop, and the Sweet Stuff Bakery.