Out to Canaan (82 page)

“I'll trim it up for you,” said Dooley, “if you'll let me drive your car Saturday.”

“Dooley . . .”

“You can drive as far as Farmer, and I can take over at the cutoff.”

“This is no time—”

“Anyway, you better let me fix your hair. I know how to do it.”

“You're kidding me.”

“I'm not kidding you. I've cut Tommy's hair bunches of times.”

“A likely story.”

“I swear on a stack of Bibles.”

“I wouldn't do that. The Bibles you so casually stacked up ask us not to swear.”

“That V is hanging down over your collar.”

He would drive to Memphis next week, it was only nine or ten hours one way, and see Joe. While he was there, maybe Joe would give him a tour of Graceland . . . .

He sighed deeply. For the third time that day, he got his scissors out of his dresser drawer and handed them over. This time, however, he had the good sense to pray about it.

The showy pudding cake had been reduced to crumbs, the fruit bowl ransacked, the cookies demolished. All that remained in the glass pitcher were two circles of lemon and a few seeds.

In the freshly painted sitting room, Harley opened the last of his housewarming presents.

“Oh, law!” he said, holding up the framed picture of Jesus carrying a sheep. “Hit's th' Lord an' Master, ain't it?”

“Bingo!” said Cynthia, who had given him the print to go over his bed.

“That sheep was lost,” Dooley announced. “Tell about it,” he said, looking at the rector.

“Why don't you tell about it?”

Dooley scratched his head. “Well, see, it's like . . . if you had a hundred sheep and one of 'em ran off and got lost, you'd go after it, you'd go to the mountains and all, looking for it. And like, when you found it, it would make you feel really good, I mean better than you even feel about the ninety-nine that didn't run off.”

“By jing!” said Harley.

Lace sat forward in the chair. “What th' story's about,” she said, “is when somebody's lost and Jesus finds 'em an' they give their heart to 'im, it makes 'im feel happier than He feels about all them other'ns that wadn't lost.”

Dooley looked at her coldly.

“I reckon that's what th' Lord done with me,” said Harley. “Searched through th' mountains lookin' t' find me, an' brought me here.” He grinned. “And I ain't lost n'more.”

The rector was captivated by an odd confidence—a new maturity, perhaps—in Lace Turner.

“Well, now, I want t' thank ever' one of you'ns,” said Harley, tears coming to his eyes. “I ain't never had a Bible with m' name on it, I ain't never had a 'lectric fan that moves to th' left an' right . . .”

He took a paper napkin from his pocket and blew his nose.

“ . . . I ain't never had a picture t' hang on m' wall 'cept of m' mama as a little young 'un . . . an' Lord
knows,
I ain't never had a . . .” Harley patted Scott's gift, which lay beside him on the sofa. “What d'you call this what you give me?”

“That's an afghan,” said the chaplain, grinning. “One of our residents crochets those. They're a big hit on the hill.”

“What exactly is it f'r, did you say?”

“It's to keep you warm in winter when you lie on the sofa and watch TV.”

“I'll use it, yes, sir, I will, and I thank you, but I ain't goin' t' be layin' on no sofa watchin' TV, I'm goin' t' be workin'.”

“Harley's going to change my alternator!” announced Cynthia.

“I'd sure appreciate it if you'd take a look at my brakes,” said Scott. “They're sticking.”

“Might be y'r calibers.”

“I'll pay the going rate.”

“Th' only rate goin' for you 'uns is no rate,” Harley declared.

Scott Murphy glanced at his watch and stood. “I've got to look in on my folks before they get to sleep. Thanks for inviting me, sir . . . Mrs. Kavanagh—”

“Cynthia!” said Mrs. Kavanagh.

“Cynthia! I had a really good time. Harley, come up and see me at Hope House. And let me know when you can look at my brakes.”

Scott left by the basement door, as the rest of the party said their goodbyes to Harley, then trooped up the stairs to the rectory kitchen and along the hall to the front stoop.

“Soon as I get my stuff, I'm going to Tommy's house!” Dooley raced up the steps to his room, Barnabas at his heels. “His dad's waitin' for me, we're going to Wesley to rent a video.”

The rector stood on the front walk and talked with Cynthia and Olivia as Lace searched under the bench on the stoop. Then she came down the steps to the yard and peered into the boxwoods near the steps.

“Lace—what is it?” asked Olivia.

“Somebody's stoled my hat,” she said. “My hat ain't where I left it at.”

“Where did you leave it?” wondered Cynthia.

“I asked her to leave it on the bench,” Olivia confessed, looking concerned.

“I'll have a look with you,” said the rector, going to the boxwoods. “It probably fell . . .”

“It didn't fall nowhere!” Lace shouted. “It's gone!”

The screen door slammed and Dooley ran down the steps.

“It was you that stoled my hat, won't it? I ought t' bash y'r head in!”

She lunged toward Dooley, and Olivia moved almost as quickly, catching Lace's jumper. There was a ripping sound as the skirt tore from part of the bodice.

“Look what you done t' my new outfit!” Lace struggled to free herself from Olivia. “Let me go, I'm goin' t' knock his head off—”

“Lace! Don't.” Cynthia caught her wrist.

“I ought t' kill you, you sorry, redheaded son of a—”

Dooley's face was crimson. “Why would I steal your dirty, stinking, stupid, beat-up hat?”

The rector put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Easy, son.”

“Well, why would I?” he yelled.

“You better give it back and give it back now!” Lace trembled with rage, her own face ashen.

“What would anybody want with your dumb, stupid hat that makes you look so stupid everybody laughs behind your back? Who would even touch your stupid, snotty, dirty hat?”

Lace wrenched away from Cynthia and Olivia and flew at Dooley, who threw his arm in front of his face. She slammed her fist into his left rib, which sent him reeling backward toward the stoop.

Barnabas barked furiously as the rector grabbed Lace by the shoulders. “Stop it
now,
” he said.

Dooley regained his balance and stood without a word. He straightened his shirt. “I've got to go,” he said, tight-lipped. “Tommy's dad is waiting for me.”

“Go,” the rector said quietly.

“If you done it,” Lace shouted after Dooley, “I'll stomp your butt 'til you're flatter'n a cow dab.”

Cynthia and Olivia walked with Lace to the blue Volvo at the curb, as the rector sat wearily on the top step. Barnabas crashed beside him. He felt shaken by the intensity of Lace Turner's sudden and virulent outburst.

If Dooley Barlowe were, indeed, the culprit, he'd do well to hide in the piney woods 'til this thing blew over.

He sat in the chair next to Dooley's desk, reading the Thirty-seventh Psalm, the first two words of which he considered an entire sermon.

He looked up as Dooley raced into the room on the stroke of his curfew.

“Did you do it?”

Dooley stood in the doorway, panting. He hesitated for a moment, peering at his shoes, then faced the rector and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Why did you lie about it?”

“I didn't lie. I never told her I didn't do it.”

That was true. Dooley had responded to her questions with questions. “Where is it?”

“In my closet.”

“Take it to her in the morning and apologize. To Lace
and
Olivia.” He would also call Olivia in the morning.

“Do I have to?”

“What do you think?”

Dooley went to the closet and opened the door. He lifted the hat off the floor as if it were something Barnabas had deposited in the backyard. “Man, I hate this stupid hat.”

“So do I,” said the rector.

“You do?”

“I do. But that hat belongs to someone else, and you were wrong to steal it.”

“Yeah.” Dooley looked at the hat for a moment, then looked the rector in the eye.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

A genuine apology! If this is what that fancy prep school had accomplished, he should be forking over an extra twenty thousand a year, out of the mere goodness of his heart.

“You'll also apologize to Cynthia.”

“What for?”

“Helping put a bitter end to Harley's party.”

“Lace Turner makes me puke. I could've knocked her stupid head off.”

“But you didn't, and I commend you for it.”

Dooley sat on the bed, holding his left side. “She'll kill me,” he said.

“You might want to apologize to Lace while Olivia is in the room—then run for it.”

There was a long silence. A moth beat around the lamp bulb.

“Do something like this again,” the rector said, “and I'll . . .” What he needed in closing was a good, hair-raising threat, something like taking the car keys away for a couple of weeks—but Dooley didn't drive.

“And I'll . . .” he said.

Blast. He realized he couldn't come up with a decent threat if his life depended on it.

The mayor asked him to trot to her office—and be quick about it, according to the tone in her voice.

When Esther Cunningham pulled the string, he, like most
people, jumped. He hated that about himself, but why not? Esther had kept an unflagging vigil over Mitford, sacrificing years of her time and even her health to keep things on the up and up. They hadn't even had a tax hike in her long tenure. So yes, he came when she called, and glad to do it.

She leaned across the desk, the splotches on her face and neck looking redder than ever.

“Guess what th' low-down jackleg has done now.”

“I can't guess.”

“He's throwin' one of his free barbecues next Friday—th' very day of the town festival.” She looked at him darkly. “See th' strategy?”

He didn't.

“That'll siphon th' crowd down to his place and leave us sittin' under those shade trees at th' town museum like a bunch of flour sacks.”

“Aha.” The cheese was getting binding.

“Here's what I want you to do,” she said, looking at the door and lowering her voice.

He was in for it.

“Sittin' in a booth draped with th' flag won't cut it this election. Times are changin.' I want you to go home and pray about it and come up with somethin'.”