Out to Canaan (48 page)

“Forty-five thousand for twenty years' work,” he said, musing. “That's not much more than two thousand a year.”

“Oh,” she said, stricken.

He was feeling worse by the minute. Any longing for a napoleon had flown out the window.

“I'd really like your advice, Father, I trust what you say.”

He didn't like being anyone's Providence, but she'd asked for help and he'd give her his best shot. He said what he was becoming known for saying in all real estate matters these days.

“Tell them you'd like to think about it for thirty days.”

She looked alarmed. “I don't believe they'd like that.”

“They probably wouldn't. That's true.”

“And I might not get another offer.”

“That's true, too. However, consider this: You're the only game in town. There's not another business currently for sale on Main Street, and this is highly desirable property. I think you're holding the ace.”

She hugged herself, furrowing her brow and thinking. “Well, I
might
do that. But . . . it's risky.”

He wouldn't tell her that risk had a certain adrenaline.

Didn't he have a bishop? An advocate? He wasn't hanging out there in space, all alone. Stuart Cullen would go to bat for him. That's what bishops were for, wasn't it?

But Stuart wasn't in the office and wouldn't be in for two long weeks, as his wife, according to Stuart's secretary, had forced the bishop to go away to—she wasn't sure where, but she thought it was southern France, or at least someplace where they spoke another language and wore bikinis on the beach.

Dooley, whose job had ended day before yesterday, showed up at the church office with a letter in his hand.

He sat on the visitor's bench and examined his tennis shoes, whistled, jiggled his leg, and stared into space while the rector opened it and read:

My dearest husband,

I regret that I snapped at you this morning. You snapped, I snapped. And for what? As you left, looking hurt, I wanted to run after you and hold you, but I could not move. I stood upstairs on the landing and moped at the window like a schoolgirl, watching as you went along the sidewalk.

I saw you stop for a moment and look around, as if you wanted to turn back. You seemed forlorn, and I was overcome with sorrow for anything I might ever do to give you pain. My darling Timothy, who means all the world to me—forgive me.

It was the slightest thing between us, something that would hardly matter to anyone else, I think. We are both so sensitive, so alike in that region of the heart which fears rejection and resists chastisement.

As I looked down upon you, I received your hurt as my own, and so have had a double measure all these hours.

Hurry home, dearest husband!

Come and kiss me and let us hold one another in that way which God has set aside for us. You are precious to me, more than breath.

Ever thine,

Cynthia

(still your bookend?)

PS
I know it is a pitiable gesture, but I shall roast something savoury for your supper and make your favorite oven-browned potatoes.

Truce
?

Dooley looked at the ceiling, got up, peered out the window, sat down again, then found some gum on the sole of his left shoe and painstakingly peeled it off. “You an' Cynthia had a fuss?”

“Yes.”

“I understand.”

“You do?” He was thrilled to hear those words out of Dooley Barlowe.
I understand.
A mature thing for anyone, much less a fourteen-year-old boy, to utter.

“Jenny and I had a fuss. She blamed me for somethin' I didn't do.”

“Aha.”

“She said I paid too much attention to Lace Turner the other day.”

“No kidding . . . .”

“I didn't.”

“I'm sure.”

“Lace wanted to talk about American history, is all, and I talked back.” He shrugged.

“Right. What did you talk about—I mean, concerning American history?”

“About going west in a wagon train. I'd like to do that. Lace said she'd like to.” His freckles were showing. “That's all.”

“I'm amazed every day,” said the rector, “how people can misunderstand each other about the simplest things.”

“Lace is writing a story about going west on a wagon train from Springfield, Illinois, where the Donner party started out. In her story, the leader gets killed and a woman has to lead the train.”

“Wow.”

“She got A's for her stories last year.”

“Well done.”

“She quit wearin' that stupid hat.”

“I noticed.”

“So, look, I don't have all day. Are you goin' to write Cynthia back?”

“You bet.”

“I've got to go see Poo and Jessie. You goin' to type or write by hand?”

“Type. I'll hurry.”

He took the cover off the Royal manual and rolled in a sheet of paper.

Bookend
—

dooley has delivered your letter and is waiting for me to respond. ii have suffered, you have suffered.

Enough!

You are dear to me beyond measure. That God allowed us to have thiis union at all stuns me daily/

“Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—”

love, timothy—who, barely two years ago, you may recall, vowed to cherish you always, no matter what

Truce.

ps. ii will gladly wash the dishes and barnabas will dry.

He had to do something for Esther.

More billboards on the highway wouldn't cut it. Esther's campaign needed one-on-one, it needed looking into people's eyes and talking about her record. It needed . . . a coffee in someone's home.

But not in his home. No, indeed. For a priest to dip his spoon into mayoral coffee was not politically correct. He would have to talk someone else into doing it.

Esther Bolick laughed in his face. “Are you kidding me?” she said. He should have known better than to call Esther. What a dumb notion; he felt like an idiot. So why did he pick up the phone and call Hessie?

“You must have the wrong number,” said Hessie Mayhew, and hung up.

He called the president of ECW, thinking she might be interested in having the mayor do a program at the next monthly meeting.

“She did a program last year,” said Erlene Douglas, “and we never repeat a speaker unless it's the bishop or a bigwig.”

“Put a sign in your window,” he implored Percy, “one of those that says, ‘We're stickin' with Esther.' ”

“No way,” said Percy. “I run a business. I'm not campaignin' for anybody. Let 'em tough it out whichever way they can.”

“Olivia,” he said in his best pulpit voice, “I was wondering if . . .”

But Olivia, Hoppy, and Lace were going to the coast for the last couple of days before school started, which, except for their honeymoon, would be the first vacation her husband had had in ten years.

He sat staring at his office bookshelves, drumming his fingers on the desk. Maybe Esther could visit the police station and hand around donuts one morning. Better still, what about giving out balloons at Hattie Cloer's market on the highway? He was running on fumes with this thing.

He called Esther's office, noting that she sounded depressed.

“I don't know,” she said, sighing heavily. “Who needs this aggravation? Th' low-down egg sucker has been campaignin' practically since Easter, it's more politics than I can stomach.”

“But you can't give up now!”

“Who says I can't?” demanded the mayor.

“Mr. Tim!”

On his livermush delivery to Betty Craig's, Jessie met him at the door, carrying a coloring book. “Look!” she said, holding it up for his close inspection.

“Outstanding!” he said squatting down.

“Them's camels. Camels stores water in their humps.”

“Right. Amazing!”

“Can I sit on your lap?”

“Absolutely.”

He set the bag of livermush down and sought out the slipcovered armchair in the living room. Jessie crawled into his lap and clung to him, sucking her thumb.

“I thought you were going to try and quit sucking your thumb,” he said, cradling her in his arm.

“Betty put pepper on it, but I washed it off.”

He didn't know much about thumb-sucking, but he knew the cure. It was the thing that cured every other ill in this world, and of which there was far too little in general supply.