Out to Canaan (38 page)

“So when are you going to give me some more names to find?” she inquired at last, trying to make up.

Waiting

“Will you do it?” he asked his wife.

“Of course I won't do it! It's not my job to do it.”

“Deacons,” he reminded her, “are supposed to do the dirty work.”

“You amaze me, Timothy. You bury the dead, counsel the raving, and heedlessly pry into people's souls, yet when it comes to this . . .”

“I can't do it,” he said.

“You have to do it.”

Of course he had to do it. He knew that all along. He was only seeing how far he could get her to bend.

Not far.

“Dooley . . .”

He picked a piece of lint from his trousers. He stared at his right loafer, which appeared to have been licked by his dog, or possibly the twins, and after he had polished it only yesterday . . . .

“Yessir?”

Barnabas collapsed at his feet and yawned hugely, indicating his extreme boredom. Not a good sign.

“Well, Dooley . . .”

Dooley looked him squarely in the eye.

“It's about Jenny. I mean, it's not about Jenny,
exactly.
It's more indirectly than directly about Jenny, although we could leave her out of it altogether, actually . . . .”

“What about Jenny?”

“Like I said, it's not exactly about Jenny. It's more about . . .”

“About what?”

Had he seen this scenario in a movie? In a cartoon? He was old, he was retiring, he was out of here. He rose from the chair, then forced himself to sit again.

“It's about sex!” Good Lord, had he shouted?

“Sex?” Dooley's eyes were perfectly innocent. They might have been discussing Egyptology.

“Sex. Yes. You know.” Hal Owen would have done this for him, Hal had raised a boy, why hadn't he thought of that before?

Dooley looked as if he might go to sleep on the footstool where he was sitting. “What about sex?”

“Well, for openers, what do you
know
about it? If you know anything at all, do you know what you
need
to know? And how do you
know
if you know what you need to know, that is to say, you can never be too
sure
that you know what you need to know, until—”

He actually felt a light spray as Dooley erupted with laughter in his very face. The boy grabbed his sides and threw back his head and hooted. Following that, he fell from the footstool onto the floor, where he rolled around in the fetal position, still clutching his sides and cackling like a hyena.

Father Tim had prayed for years to see Dooley Barlowe break down and really laugh. But this was ridiculous.

“When you're over your hysteria,” he said, “we'll continue our discussion.”

Not knowing what else to do, he examined his fingernails and tried to retain whatever dignity he'd come in here with.

“Good heavens, Timothy. You look awful! Is it done?”

“It's done.”

“What did you tell him?”

“It's more like . . . what he told me.”

“Really?” she said, amused. “And what did he tell you?”

“He knows it all.”

“Most teenagers do. Figuratively speaking.”

“And there's nothing to worry about, he's not even interested in
kissing
a girl.”

Cynthia smiled patiently. “Right, darling,” she said.

He wouldn't say a word to anybody about the two-thousand-dollar check Mack Stroupe had put in the collection plate on Sunday. He only hoped Emma would keep quiet about it.

On that score, at least, she was pretty dependable, though she'd been the one to tell him about the check. From the beginning, his instructions were, “Don't talk to me about the money, I don't need to know.” As he'd often said, he didn't want to look into the faces of his parishioners and see dollar signs.

“Harley, ever played any softball?”

“No, sir, Rev'rend, I ain't been one t' play sports.”

“Ah, well.”

“I can run as good as th' next 'un, but hittin' and catchin' ain't my call.”

The rector was peering into the tank of Harley's toilet, which had lately developed a tendency to run.

“I thank you f'r lookin' into my toilet, hit's bad t' keep me awake at night, settin' on th' other side of th' wall from m' head.”

“It's old as Methuselah, but I think I can fix it.”

“I want you t' let me fix somethin' f'r you, now, Rev'rend, I'm runnin' behind on that.”

“Can't think of anything that needs it,” he said, taking a wrench out of his tool kit.

“Maybe it's somethin' that don't need fixin', jis' tendin' to.”

“Well, now.” Wouldn't Dooley rather get his driving lesson from a bona fide race car mechanic than a preacher? He was sure Harley could make the lesson far more interesting, and even teach Dooley some professional safety tips from the track. Besides, even with the new torque in the Buick, Harley's truck would be a much more compelling vehicle to a fourteen-year-old boy.

“There is something you could do,” he said, “if you're going to be around Saturday afternoon.”

He could feel the bat in his hands. How many years had it been since he'd slammed a ball over the fence? Too many! He'd better get in shape, he thought, huffing up Old Church Lane in his running gear. Barnabas bounded along in front on the red leash.

Cooler today, but humid. Overcast skies, rain predicted. And didn't the garden need it? He'd worn a hood, just in case.

He wished he could get his wife to run with him, but no way. She was a slave to her drawing board, and lately looking the worse for it. The unofficial job of deacon, the job of organizing their jam-packed household, and the job of children's author/illustrator were wearing on her. And hadn't he helped put another portion on her already full plate by stowing Buck in the guest room?

He was frankly stumped about how to find housing for the superintendent, and with the attic job gearing up, Buck hardly had time to look around for himself. Maybe Scott Murphy would take in a boarder . . . .

He ran up to the low stone wall overlooking what he called the Land of Counterpane, and thumped down with Barnabas, panting.

There was the view that Louella and all the other residents farther along the hill could wake up and see every day of their lives. A feast for the eyes! He didn't get up here much, but when he did . . .

It was here, sitting on this wall, that he had known, at last, he
could
marry her,
must
marry her, and experienced the terrible anxiety of what it could mean to lose her. And it was here that he and Cynthia decided they both wanted to stay in Mitford when he retired.

Was he on time for the train? He looked at his watch. Another few minutes. Perhaps he would wait. Was life so all-fired urgent that he
couldn't find five minutes to see a sight that always blessed and delighted him?

He was utterly alone in this place where, for all its singular beauty, few people ever came. It was set steeply above the village, it was off the beaten path, it was . . .

He heard the car below him, on the gravel road that ran along the side of the gorge and was seldom used except by a few local families.

He peered down and saw the black car pull to the shoulder of the road and stop. A man opened the driver's door and leaned out, looking around, then closed the door again. He was wearing a hat, a cap of some kind.