These High, Green Hills (22 page)

“Where’s the Creek?” he shouted. “Do we fly over the Creek?”

“If you want to, we do!” Omer shouted back. The rector thought he could count thirty-two piano keys in his pilot’s grin. “But it ain’t scenic.”

“I’m not looking for scenic!”

Omer veered to the right and dipped, only slightly ahead of the rector’s stomach.

“Over yonder, see that power station?”

“I see it!”

“Th‘ Creek’s on th’ other side. Comin‘ up!”

After roaring over the power station and a patch of woods, he saw a ribbon of water gleaming in the sunlight. Then he saw the open sore on the breast of the creek bank—ramshackle, unpainted houses, tin-roofed sheds, houses that had burned and stood in their rubble, rusted trailers and vehicles abandoned in the weeds or sitting on blocks. A few hens pecked at the ground, which appeared to be hard, baked clay.

Dogs ran out and barked at the sky. A few people stood, shading their eyes, looking up. Near the woods, piles of abandoned stoves, refrigerators, tires, and other debris flowed down the bank to the water’s edge.

“It ain’t Dollywood!” shouted Omer, as they roared over the tree-tops and gained altitude.

“I’m buzzin‘ Lew’s place first!”

Man alive, he thought, seeing the station sign come closer.
EXYON.
Coot Hendrick stood at the gas pumps, gawking and waving.

“OK! Here comes your house!”

The trees were so close, he might have stripped the leaves off a maple.

“Isn’t this against the law?” he yelled.

“I cain’t hear you!” shouted Omer.

“I don’t see the rectory!”

“Yank up y‘r floor mat and I’ll spot ’er for you!”

He peeled back the mat, revealing a sizable hole, as Omer careened to the left and dipped.

He recognized the monument, then the school and First Baptist—and, by George, there was the Grill! Somebody stepped out to the sidewalk and looked up, but Omer roared on before he could tell who it was.

“There you go!” hollered his pilot.

Just below, tucked beside the little yellow house with the tile roof, was the place where a hundred and twenty women had devoured as many lemon squares this very day. He could see the pink and white trilliums blooming in the backyard. He could number the slates on his roof.

If he looked through that hole another minute, he would deposit his calling card all over Wisteria Lane. He slapped the mat back in place.

“What else you want t‘ see?” hollered Omer, nosing them straight up. Omer was getting a second wind.

“That’ll do it!” he shouted. “Just take me to my car!”

Please
!

He drove to Mitford with Omer.

“What do I owe you?” he asked Mayor Cunningham’s brother-in-law.

“Oh, about three or four hundred! But seein‘ as I owe
you
for th’ pleasure of doin‘ it, you can give me fifty.”

“Fifty? Surely—”

“I ain’t licensed to charge commercial. I can only charge gas, and that’s fifty on th‘ button. Besides, you’re clergy.”

He peeled off two twenties and a ten. Here he was, a small-town priest flying around in a chartered plane, shelling out bucks like an oil field executive.

His legs were still wobbly, but he managed to give Omer Cunningham an invigorating slap on the back, as Omer put the money in his pocket and grinned hugely.

“That was a ride I won’t forget,” said the rector, meaning it.

Cynthia was in bed, her face mashed into the pillow.

“I never thought I’d see the day.”

“H‘lo, dearest,” she murmured. “What day?”.

“The day my wife would hit the hay while it’s still daylight.” It was, in fact, only a little after seven o‘clock.

She moaned.

“That bad, huh?”

“They had a wonderful time. I’m a heroine, Timothy. Your good name is untarnished. But I can’t move.”

“The house looks wonderful. I can’t tell anybody’s been here. How did the food hold out?”

“You’d think they hadn’t eaten in days. There’s nothing left but a couple of hazelnuts, which rolled under the primroses.”

“Off the hook for another year, are you?”

She moaned again.

“Speak,” he said, sitting on the bed and rubbing her back.

“They thought the tea was so fabulous, they asked me to do the bishop’s brunch in June.”

“No rest for the wicked, and th‘ righteous don’t need none,”, he quoted Uncle Billy.

“You’ll be glad to know I flatly refused.”

“Well done!”

“Now it’s your turn. Tell me everything about our Dools.” She rolled over and looked at him. “Why, Timothy! You’re beaming like a light tower! An eight-hour drive and up before dawn, and you look positively ... wonderful!”

“Dooley’s the one who was wonderful. The whole choral presentation was outstanding. You would have been proud. He missed you.”

She took his hand. “I miss him every day. Is he going to make it?”

“He’s going to make it,” he said.

“I knew he would.”

“Well ... we both have lots to tell.”

She leaned up and kissed him. “I want to hear everything. There’s supper in the oven.”

“Thanks, maybe later.”

“Then take your shower, why don’t you? I’ll be here waiting, and we can have our prayers.”

She was there waiting, all right, but dead asleep doing it.

He snuggled up to her back, conforming to her soft contours. “Spoons” is what this marital position was called in their part of the South.

He lay there, comforted by his bed and his room and his house and his wife, and thanked God silently.

He didn’t realize it until after he prayed, but blast if he hadn’t had a good time today in that little yellow tail dragger.

CHAPTER EIGHT

J.C. HAD BEEN to the dentist and was sucking tea through a straw. “That crazy Omer Cunningham was flyin‘ so low yesterday, he could have picked my pocket.”

“No kidding?” said the rector.

Mule whistled. “I wouldn’t go up in that plane for a million bucks before taxes. What is it but a bed sheet wrapped around a bale of chicken wire?”

J.C. sucked his tea to the bottom of the glass. “I’ve personally never met the fool who’d fly with Omer Cunningham.”

“What’re you grinnin‘ about?” Mule asked the rector.

“Grinning?” he said. “I didn’t know I was grinning.”

He was in Wesley buying a new shaving kit, when he happened to glance out the shop window into the mall. He saw J.C. walking with a police officer. When they stopped for a moment, the rector threw up his hand and waved, but J.C. didn’t see him. It appeared that J.C. glanced around to see if anybody was looking, then he hugged the police officer and the officer hugged him back.

He fogged his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief and looked again. The two parted and went in opposite directions.

Aha. That was no police officer J.C. had hugged. It was a woman.

He pressed his nose to the shop window.

Actually, it was a woman police officer.

After Omer Cunningham told Lew Boyd at the Esso on North Main, word spread to the end of South Main with the speed of a brush fire.

The rector noticed that people dropped what they were doing and nodded respectfully when he walked by. The postmaster pitched in a nickel when he ran out of change for a stamp. Uncle Billy gave him a strawberry-flavored sucker as a token of admiration. The following Sunday, his congregation proffered their rapt and undivided attention throughout the sermon.

Four hours in an airplane had given him more credibility than thirty-six years in the pulpit.