Out to Canaan (87 page)

“He was asking for it.”

“He did a fine job of delivering his apologies. He has character, your boy.”

“So does Lace. But character often takes time to show itself. They've both come out of violence and neglect, a matched set. How are you holding up?”

“Better, I think. We're still visiting her mother every week, but it's never a happy visit—her mother is demanding and cold, and her health is deteriorating. Hoppy looked in on her; we're not encouraged.”

“We keep you faithfully in our prayers. We're all flying by the seat of our pants.” Who would have dreamed he'd be raising a boy? The challenge of it was breathtaking.

“I've read how Lindbergh often flew with the windshield iced over. It's rather like that, don't you think?”

“Indeed. Is she making any friends?”

“Mitford's children have been warned all their lives to avoid anyone from the Creek, so that is very much against her. Then she's smart and she's pretty. Some don't like that, either. They really don't know what to make of her.”

“Lord bless you.”

“And you, Father.”

As they walked away from each other, he turned around and called, “Olivia! Philippians Four-thirteen, for Pete's sake!”

She threw up her hand, smiling at this reminder of the Scripture verse she claimed as a pivot for her life.

It was good to have a comrade in arms, he thought, trotting off to A Taste of America.

Avis Packard's booth was swamped with buyers, eager to tote home sacks of preserves, honey, pies, cakes, and bread from the valley kitchens, not to mention strawberries from California, corn from Georgia, and syrup from Vermont.

Avis stepped out of the booth for a break, while Tommy and Dooley bagged and made change. “I've about bit off more'n I can chew,” said Avis, lighting up a Salem. “I've still got a load of new potatoes comin' from Georgia, and lookin' for a crate of asparagus from Florida. Thing is, I don't hardly see how a truck can get down th' street.”

“I didn't know you smoked,” said the rector, checking his watch.

Avis inhaled deeply. “I don't. I quit two or three years ago. I bummed this offa somebody.”

The imported strawberries were selling at a pace, and Avis stepped to the booth and brought back a handful.

“Try one,” he said, as proudly as if they'd come from his own patch. “You know how some taste more like straw than berry? Well, sir, these are the finest you'll ever put in your mouth. Juicy, sweet, full of sunshine. What you'd want to do is eat 'em right off th' stem, or slice 'em, marinate in a little sugar and brandy—you don't want to use th' cheap stuff—and serve with cream from the valley, whipped with a hint of fresh ginger.”

Avis Packard was a regular poet laureate of grocery fare.

“Is that legal?” asked the rector.

He watched as Dooley passed a bag over the table to a customer. “Hope you like those strawberries!”

He was thrilled to see Dooley Barlowe excited about his work. His freckles, which he and Cynthia had earlier reported missing, seemed to be back with a vengeance.

Avis laughed. “Ain't he a deal?”

“Is he doing right by you?”

“That and then some!”

He noticed Jenny and her mother queuing up at A Taste of America, and saw Dooley glance up at them. Uh-oh. That look on Dooley's face . . .

Was this something he ought to discuss with him, man to man? The very thought made his heart pound.

Ben Sawyer hauled past, carrying a sack of tasseled corn in each arm. “That's a fine boy you got there, Preacher!”

He felt a foolish grin spread across his face, and didn't try to hold it back.

He noticed the crowd was starting to thin out, following the aroma of political barbecue.

In his mind, he saw it on the plate, thickly sliced and served with a dollop of hot sauce, nestled beside a mound of cole slaw and a half dozen hot, crisp hushpuppies . . . .

He shook himself and ate four raisins that had rolled around in his coat pocket since the last committee meeting on evangelism.

At eleven forty-five, Ray and Esther Cunningham strode up to the Lord's Chapel booth with all five of their beautiful daughters, who had populated half of Mitford with Sunday School teachers, deacons, police officers, garbage collectors, tax accountants, secretaries, retail clerks, and UPS drivers.

“Well?” said Esther. The rector thought she would have made an excellent Mafia don.

“Coming right up!” he exclaimed, checking his watch and looking pale.

Cynthia eyed him again. Mood swings, she thought. That seemed to be the key! Definitely a domestic retreat, and definitely soon.

And since the entire town seemed so demanding of her husband, definitely not in Mitford.

Nobody paid much attention to the airplane until it started smoking.

“Look!” somebody yelled. “That plane's on f'ar!”

He was sitting on the rock wall when Omer thumped down beside him. “Right on time!” said the mayor's brother-in-law. “All my flyin' buddies from here t' yonder have jumped on this.” The rector thought somebody could have played “Moonlight Sonata” on Omer's ear-to-ear grin.

“OK, that's y'r basic Steerman, got a four-fifty horsepower engine in there. Luke Teeter's flyin' 'er, he's about as good as you can get, now watch this . . .”

The blue and orange airplane roared straight up into the fathomless blue sky, leaving a plume of smoke in its wake. Then it turned sharply and pitched downward at an angle.

“Wow!” somebody said, forgetting to close his mouth.

The plane did another climb into the blue.

Omer punched him in the ribs with an elbow. “She's got a tank in there pumpin' Corvis oil th'ough 'er exhaust system . . . ain't she a sight?”

“Looks like an
N
!” said a boy whose chocolate popsicle was melting down his arm.

The plane plummeted toward the rooftops again, smoke billowing from its exhaust.

“M!”
shouted half the festivalgoers, as one.

Esther and Ray and their daughters were joined by assorted grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and in-laws, who formed an impenetrable mass in front of the church booth.

Gene Bolick limped over from the llamas as the perfect
I
appeared above them.

“M . . . I!”
shouted the crowd.

“Lookit this!” said Omer, propping his crutch against the stone wall. “Man, oh, man!”

The bolt of blue and orange gunned straight up, leaving a vertical trail, then shut off the exhaust, veered right, and thundered across the top of the trail, forming a straight and unwavering line of smoke.

“
M . . . I . . . T!
”

The
M
was fading, the
I
was lingering, the
T
was perfect against the sapphire sky.

The crowd thickened again, racing back from Mack Stroupe's campaign headquarters, which was largely overhung by trees, racing back to the grounds of the town museum where the view was open, unobscured, and breathtaking, where something more than barbecue was going on.

“They won't be goin' back to Mack's place anytime soon,” said Omer. “Ol' Mack's crowd has done eat an' run!”

“
F!
” they spelled in unison, and then, “ . . .
O . . . R . . . D!”

Even the tourists were cheering.

J. C. Hogan sank to the ground, rolled over on his back, pointed his Nikon at the sky, and fired off a roll of Tri-X. The
M
and the
I
were fading fast.

Uncle Billy hobbled up and spit into the bushes. “I bet them boys is glad this town ain't called Minneapolis.”

“Now, look,” said Omer, slapping his knee.

Slowly, but surely, the Steerman's exhaust trail wrote the next word.

T . . . A . . . K . . . E . . . S
 . . ., the smoke said.

Cheers. Hoots. Whistles.

“Lord, my neck's about give out,” said Uncle Billy.

“Mine's about broke,” said a bystander.

C . . . A . . . R . . . E
 . . .

“Mitford takes care of its own!” shouted the villagers. The sixth grade trooped around the statue, beating on tambourines, shaking maracas, and chanting something they'd been taught since first grade.

Mitford takes care of its own, its own,

Mitford takes care of its own!

Over the village rooftops, the plane spelled out the rest of the message.

 

O . . . F . . . I . . . T . . . S . . . O . . . W . . . N
 . . .

 

TAKES
soon faded into puffs of smoke that looked like stray summer clouds.
CARE OF
was on its way out, but
ITS OWN
stood proudly in the sky, seeming to linger.

“If that don't beat all!” exclaimed a woman from Tennessee, who had stood in one spot the entire time, holding a sleep-drugged baby on her hip.

Dogs barked and chickens squawked as people clapped and started drifting away.

Just then, a few festivalgoers saw them coming, the sun glinting on their wings.

They roared in from the east, in formation, two by two.

Red and yellow. Green and blue.

“Four little home-built Pitts specials,” said Omer, as proudly as if he'd built them himself. “Two of 'em's from Fayetteville, got one out of Roanoke, and the other one's from Albany, New York. Not much power in y'r little ragwings, they're nice and light, about a hundred and eighty horses, and handle like a dream.”

He looked at the sky as if it contained the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, and so did the rector.

“I was goin' to head th' formation, but a man can't fly with a busted foot.”

The crowd started lying on the grass. They lay down along the rock wall. They climbed up on the statue of Willard Porter, transfixed, and a young father set a toddler on Willard's left knee.