Out to Canaan (51 page)

“If pneumonia doesn't set in, he'll be fine, thanks for asking. It was bad. Dooley saved his life.”

“Fancy says to tell you she's sorry about what happened.”

“Adele says the same.”

“Thanks. I'll go out and see him tomorrow.”

“Fancy said to ask why you haven't been around, said to call her anytime, she'll work you in.” Mule eyed the rector's head as if searching for chicken mites. “Lookin' a little scraggly around the collar.”

So be it. He didn't care if he looked like John the Baptist on a bad day, he was never setting foot—

“Th' Randall place is empty, they moved to California to be with their kids,” said Mule, dispensing a round of late-breaking real estate news. “Winnie's buyer is breathin' on her pretty heavy, and Shoe Barn sold this week.”

“Who to?” asked J.C., spooning yogurt onto half a cling peach.

“Who else? H. Tide.”

The editor looked disgusted. “What are they tryin' to do, anyway, make Mitford a colony of Orlando?”

“I've been wondering,” said the rector, “what H. Tide stands for.”

“Beats me,” said Mule. “Maybe High Tide. Or Henry Tide, somethin' like that. Did I hear your deacons got an offer on your house?”

“They're not deacons, they're vestry. And it's not my house.”

“They'll sell it out from under you, I reckon, if they get the right price.”

“Who knows?” he asked, appearing casual.

“Lookit,” said J.C., pulling the
Muse
out of his briefcase. “Hot off th' press, get your own copy on th' street.” He turned a couple of pages, folded the paper face out, and laid it on the table.

An entire page of small-space ads . . .

 

We're stickin' with Esther. Love, Esther and Gene Bolick

 

We're stickin' with Esther. Hope you do the same.
Tucker, Ginny, and Sue

 

We're stickin with Esther. She's the best. Sophia and Liza Burton

 

We're stickin' with Esther. Vote your conscience! The Simpson family

 

We're stickin' with Esther. She does what it talks about in Psalm 72:12. A supporter

 

The rector slapped the table. “This is terrific! Terrific! How much do the ads cost?”

“Forty bucks,” said J.C., pleased with himself.

“Where did Sophia get forty bucks?”

J.C. looked uncomfortable. “Don't ask.”

“She doesn't have forty bucks.”

“So? She wanted to stick up for Esther but didn't have the money. Big deal, I gave 'er the ad free, but if you tell anybody I said that . . .”

Mule gave J.C. a thumbs-up. “I don't care what people say about you, buddyroe, you're all right.”

“Look here.” J.C. pointed to a couple of the ads.

We're stickin' with Esther. Minnie Lomax, The Irish Woolen Shop

We're stickin' with Esther. Dora Pugh, Mitford Hardware

“Two businesses that aren't afraid to show their politics in front of God an' everybody!” said the editor, approving.

The rector drew a deep breath. Maybe this cloud had a silver lining, after all. He'd certainly drop by and congratulate Minnie and Dora. “You get around town,” he said to J.C. “From where you stand, how's the election looking?”

“From where I stand?” J.C. scowled and pushed the yogurt away.
“I'd say that once this edition gets out to th' readers, it'll be runnin' about fifty-fifty.”

Something or somebody would have to tip the numbers in Esther's favor, or Edith Mallory would have her claws all over Mitford. This was September fifth, and the election would be hitting the fan less than two months hence. Surely on Sunday he could offer a special prayer, or dedicate the communion service to those who unflaggingly devote themselves to the nobler welfare of the community. And speaking of Psalms, didn't the reading for Sunday say that “the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped”?

Ah, well. He remembered that he wouldn't be in the pulpit on Sunday, he'd be sleeping 'til noon, according to his wife's plan, and waking up strong, renewed, and altogether carefree.

“Here,” he said, giving J.C. two tens and a twenty. “Run one for me next week and sign it, ‘A Friend.' ”

They stopped at The Local on their way to Meadowgate, to pick up a brisket for Marge Owen. While Cynthia paid their monthly bill, he inspected the contents of the butcher's case.

“Father!” It was Winnie Ivey, carrying a ten-pound bag of flour.

“I'm glad I ran into you, I've made a decision! I decided to go on th' cruise with Velma and not do anything about sellin' 'til I get back. I told the real estate people to wait, just like you said, and I feel like a different person!”

She flushed. “Can you believe I did that?”

“I can! Well done!”

“They didn't like it, they tried to push me, they said I might not get another chance. But then, guess what?”

“What?”

“They offered me another three thousand, but I said no, I'm goin' to wait, and that's that. Besides, thank th' Lord, I'm up seven percent over this time last year!”

“You don't mean it!”

“I do!” He thought Winnie Ivey looked ten years younger, all of which made him feel immeasurably better into the bargain.

“You know what?”

“What?” he asked.

“I'm gettin' to where I don't hardly want to go to Tennessee n'more. Joe said he thought he could get me a job at Graceland, but to tell th' truth, Father, I never cared much for rock an' roll.”

He didn't have to be George Burns to know that timing was everything.

According to Buddy Benfield, the Malcolms would be getting back to Mitford around eleven o'clock.

He was waiting in front of their house when they pulled into the driveway.

Saturday night, and he was looking at a clean slate. No services tomorrow, no arriving early to unlock the church . . . .

Thank God he could rest in the morning. Why did he never know he needed refreshment 'til somebody hit him over the head with a two-by-four?

He ached all over with a weariness he felt even in his teeth.

Yet, how could he lie here like a hog in slop, when there was so much to be thankful for? He ought to be up and shouting and clicking his heels.

“How does it feel?” asked his beaming wife, sitting in bed against a stack of pillows.

“Wonderful. Amazing.
Powerful!
”

“Exactly how I felt!”

“I should have done something like this years ago,” he said.

“Maybe. But God's timing is perfect.”

“Do you really think we should go ahead with . . . ?”

She nodded. “I think so. It's a nuisance now, but it will pay off down the road.”

“Maybe a breezeway someday.”

“Maybe. But I'd miss popping back and forth through the hedge, wouldn't you?”

“Ah, the hedge. Where I first laid eyes on my attractive new neighbor.”

She laughed happily. “Your doom was sealed.”

He sat up and took her in his arms and brushed her cheek with his. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For being the woman you are, for putting up with me, for looking after me.”

“You mean you don't think I'm a bossy dame?”

“Sometimes.”

“You know what tomorrow is,” she said.

“I do. Two years.”

“Two
long
years?”

“Not so long,” he said, kissing her ear. “But alas, I haven't had a chance to buy—”

“Don't buy me anything,” she said, leaning against him. “Don't give me anything you have to wrap.”

“You can count on it,” he said, feeling the softness of her shoulders, the blue satin gown . . . .

She pulled away, laughing. “Maybe we should try to get some sleep, darling. It's been a long day, a whole string of long days, and besides, now that you're a home owner, you need to save your strength for all those little chores that crop up—like fixing the foundation where it's crumbling, and mending the leak over Dooley's room.”

“Aha. The vestry won't be having that done anymore, will they?”

“That's right,” she said, kissing him goodnight. “It's just you and me.”

“And Harley,” he said, brightening.

She turned out the light and rolled on her side, and for a time, he listened for her light, whiffling snore.

He missed his dog and prayed for him, thankful he was mending. He wondered about Dooley, and thought they should call him at school tomorrow, though it might be a trifle soon.

What's more, he was concerned that Father Douglas would leave out The Peace—which he was known, on occasion and for no good reason, to do.

And how would he fix the foundation, anyway? He supposed Harley would know, but what if he didn't? Probably a little mortar; and some new stones where the old had crumbled and fallen out . . . .

He rolled on his back and looked at the ceiling—his ceiling, their ceiling, the first ceiling he had ever owned, as soon as the papers were signed. Now she had a house and he had a house. Bookends. After the work on hers was finished, they would live there and rent this.

“To someone with children!” Cynthia hoped.

He had liked handing Ron the check for a hundred and five thousand dollars, though it had taken his breath away to write it . . . .

“Timothy?” she said.

“Yes?”

“You're thinking.”

“Right.”

“Stop it at once, dearest.”

He chuckled. “OK,” he said.

He knew the truth, now, of what Stuart Cullen had written to him several years ago: