These High, Green Hills by Jan Karon
“But how do you know if you really know?” asked Mule.
The rector looked slightly dazed. “I don’t know,” he said, meaning it.
Mule sighed. “We’re kind of rusty at this.”
“How come she wants me to get off coffee and axe the fat and lower my cholesterol if she wouldn’t go out with me last night? I mean, what’s th‘ deal?”
“Maybe she had to work,” said Mule, wanting to help.
“No way. She was home cleanin‘ her gun.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I called her up and that’s what she said she was doing.”
“Where had you offered to take her?” asked the rector.
“To Brendle’s, they were having a sale on Tri-X film.”
“No wonder she stayed home to clean a gun,” said Mule.
“Have you sent her flowers?” asked Father Tim. “That’s a good thing to do.”
“Flowers? To a woman who carries a nine-millimeter?”
“Whoa, buddy,” said Mule. “You’re soundin’t mighty macho there. It’s th‘ woman’s job to carry a gun.”
“Women like flowers,” said the rector. “It’s that simple. Maybe she’s trying to look after your best interests, and you’re not looking after hers.”
J.C. scratched his head. “I don’t think that’s it. I sent my first wife flowers once, and look what happened.”
“Once won’t cut it,” said the rector.
“Right,” said Mule.
“Do you care about her?” asked Father Tim.
J.C. turned red. “Yeah. I care about her. We go out. We do stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Oh, this and that. She cooks at her place pretty often, I took pork chops once.”
Mule looked at the rector.
“Sounds like there’s a whole lot of once in the way you operate,” said Father Tim. “Once you sent flowers, once you took pork chops.”
“Yeah,” said Mule.
“There’s the problem,” said the rector.
“So? So I’m supposed to go crawling on my belly like a snake to get this woman interested in me again?”
“Sending flowers is not crawling on your belly.”
“And why take pork chops,” asked Mule, “if she’s tryin‘ to get you off fat and cholesterol? You ought to take ... let’s see ... ”
“Tofu,” said the rector.
“Man!” said J.C., mopping his face. “If I listen to you turkeys, I’ll be in up to my neck.”
Mule leaned back for Velma to set his plate down. “You’re in so deep now, you need a bloomin‘ shovel. And why not listen to us? We’ve got credentials.”
“Right,” said the rector. “We’re married.”
“By th‘ dern grace of God, if you ask me,” said J.C.
“Right again,” agreed Father Tim.
“OK, I’ll listen,” sighed the editor. “But just this once.”
He could hardly wait to leave the office and get to the hospital, where, according to Nurse Kennedy, Pauline Barlowe had been up to the bathroom and was drinking juice.
We’re still praying, Kennedy had said, pneumonia is a possibility, infection is a likelihood—we’re not out of the woods by a long shot.
He was finishing his sermon notes, which Emma, God love her, had offered to key into the computer, when he heard a knock on the door.
“Father?”
Olivia Harper stuck her head in the office and smiled. “Is this a good time?”
He got up and went to greet her. “It’s always a good time for you.”
“I just wanted to talk to you about something at Aunt Sadie’s.”
“Sit in Emma’s chair. Want some bubble gum?”
She took a piece. “What in the world are you doing with bubble gum?”
“Amy Larkin keeps me supplied.”
She laughed. “Who doesn’t love you?”
“Don’t tell me that. I’ll get the big head.”
“You know we were thrilled with Aunt Sadie’s memorial service. Thank you for talking about who she was and what she stood for.”
“It’s important to do that in a small community, important to talk about the loved one. It departs a bit from the traditional Anglican burial service, but ... ”
“But this is the South!” she said, laughing.
He grinned. “What’s up?”
“There’s a mahogany chest of drawers at Fernbank, which Louella says I should have. I just wanted to check with you before I go rifling through.”
“My dear, you don’t have to check with me. Take whatever you want, and after Louella’s gone through, Cynthia and I will go through. Miss Sadie would have wanted it that way, she just assumed we’d know that. After all, you’re blood kin.”
“I had my great-aunt for such a short time.”
“That you had her at all was supernatural.”
“You’re so right,” she said, as the phone rang.
“Lord’s Chapel, Father Kavanagh speaking.”
“Father Kavanagh, Doug Wyeth at social services in Wesley. We thought you’d like to know the DA’s office was successful.”
“They were?”
“We have Lacey.”
He felt caught off guard.
“We’re looking for a foster home, but so far nothing has worked out. We’ve established there are no other relatives, at least none that we can locate.”
“What will you do, then?” he asked.
“If we can’t work out the foster care, she’ll have to go down the mountain to an emergency shelter.”
That didn’t sound good.
“I know your interest in this case, Father. Would you be open to taking her on a temporary basis? You’re not licensed for foster care, but we could get you authorized temporarily.”
“Let me ... think about it,” he said. “I’d have to ... Let me call you back in, what, half an hour?”
“Fine. You have my number.”
“How is Lace?”
“Angry,” said Doug Wyeth.
He put the phone down and shook his head.
“Lace?” asked Olivia.
“The district attorney’s office. They found her—she’s with social services. They’re trying to get her in foster care, but haven’t been successful yet.”
Olivia sat forward in the chair. “Let us take her, Father.”
“Good Lord, Olivia! You can’t know what you’re saying.”
“But I do. Hoppy and I, we’ve talked about taking someone in. We thought it would be Louella until Hope House opens, but it worked out so beautifully for Winnie to keep Louella company. I liked Lace. We can do it.”
“But surely it would be too much....” The idea seemed wildly improbable.
“Father, God spared my life! Against impossible odds, he gave me a new heart. I believe to this day it was yours and Hoppy’s prayers that opened the gates of heaven and worked miracles with my transplant. All that for what?” she asked, her violet eyes dark with feeling.
“To be the happy wife of a wonderful man? I need to give something back. I may not do it well, but I shall give it everything I’ve got. Let us take Lace.”
Why shouldn’t he grant this request to the woman whose lifetime verse was one he’d just quoted to Pauline Barlowe?
“Besides,” she said, pressing on, “look what you’ve done with Dooley.”
Surely, as clergy, his word could help get the Harpers authorized.
“Call them back,” she urged, meaning it.
She was hoarse, still, and could only whisper. “When you looked at me ... ” she said, trying to swallow.
He waited.
“ ... and cried, I felt some of the pain leave me.”
“Really?” He was croaking like a frog. Who could tell which one of them had had a tube shoved down their trachea? “I’m glad.”
“I think I always know when you come, no matter how much morphine.”
“Yes. Good.”
“Why?” she asked.
/> “Why what?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because ... ” What could he say, after all? Because I love your son with all my heart? Because any mother of his is a friend of mine? Because you were sufferering and that was enough for me? Who knows why? The truth was, he had come because they called him, and then he started caring and couldn’t stop.
“I’ve done ... terrible things.”
“Haven’t we all?” he asked with feeling.
Her tears came freely. “Terrible,” she said again.
He stood with her and waited.
“My children. I gave ‘em away.”
He nodded, understanding that the tears would swell her eyes and cause more pain and discomfort. Pain, and endless pain, he thought.
“What ... is your name?” she asked.
“Timothy Kavanagh. Father Kavanagh.”
“You’re the one who has Dooley.”
“Yes.”
“I knew you had him. They said...”
“What did they say?” he asked gently.
“They said you sent him ... to school.”
“A friend sent him. It’s helping. He’s healing.”
“Healing.” She closed her eye, and the tears continued to flow. She was silent for a long time. “I wanted to see him.... I sat in front of your house twice, hoping to see him. But I heard you were good to him, and so ... I let him be.”
He nodded.
“A while back, I said a prayer ... with old Preacher Greer ... ”
He waited.
“When I done that, I seen what a mess I’d made of my life ... an‘ th’ pain was ... so big, so terrible.”
She swallowed and looked at him. “But for the first time ... ”
“Yes?”
“I had the strength to bear it.”
“It often happens that way.”
“Th‘ reason I used to drink whiskey and anything I could lay my hands on was because ... I couldn’t bear it.”
He nodded.
“I lost my ear,” she whispered.
“Yes. I’m sorry.” He realized he’d been whispering, too.
“I’ve asked God to help me forgive Lester Marshall. I knowed it was wrong to go on livin‘ with him, but ... ” She moved her right hand toward the rector. “Pray for me,” she implored, “to get my children back.”
He stood there, frozen, and saw her hand move toward his as if in slow motion.
Pray for her to take Dooley? Ask God to let the unthinkable happen?
The recent events of his life had forced more than one truth to the surface, and now another came.
Dooley did not belong to Pauline Barlowe. Nor did he belong to him. Dooley belonged to God. Period. Dooley was not his to give back.
“I been drivin‘ Harley Welch’s ol’ truck since I was twelve. I can haul butt.”
Lacey sat on a high stool in the small office, swinging her leg and chewing gum. She was wearing the hat, and her clothes were caked with engine oil and mud.
“So when I heard Pauline hollerin‘, I run down there and th’ son of a-” She stopped and looked at the rector. “Th‘ son of a gun was tryin’ to burn ‘er up. He run out of th’ house, and I th‘owed a blanket around ’er and hauled ‘er out to th’ porch. I went an‘ got Harley’s truck and we put ’er in it, and I took ‘er to th’ hospital. I left th‘ hospital before they knowed anything, ’cause I heard police was lookin‘ for me.”
“Where’s Poobaw?” asked the rector.
“I ain’t tellin‘ that.”
“No harm will come to him or you, Lace.”
“I still ain’t tellin‘.”
“His mother would like to know. Is he safe?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, how do I know? I was th‘ one lookin’ out for ‘im. Now y’ll done mint that.”
“We’re going to be placing you in foster care,” said Doug Wyeth. “We’ll just need—”
She jumped off the stool. “You ain’t doin‘ any such thing!” she shouted. “I thought you brung me in here ’cause of drivin‘ without a license.”
Cursing, she made a run for the door. It took two social workers to stop her and hold her.
If Olivia Harper could handle this, he thought, she could become a canonized saint.
They lay in bed, looking at the ceiling. Rain had pounded the village all day, and shadows cast by the tossing leaves danced above them.
“It’s not a question of if, but when,” he said.
“I feel we should let him see her right away. He can handle it. Surely she can’t take him out of school or even away from Meadowgate, because she has no place to live. Also, she’s facing months of physical therapy.”
“I’ll call him. What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty. Good heavens, don’t ever tell anybody we’re in bed this early. We’d be the laughingstock.”
“If you only knew how many people are sawing wood in this town, even as we speak.”
“I’ve become a rustic,” she sighed.
“And no help for it.”
Why think about it and ponder it and try to make up the right thing to say? He’d just say it simply, and go on, believing the best. He was reaching for the phone when it rang.
“Hey,” said Dooley.
“Hey, yourself, buddy.”
“Miz Shuford asked me to name them calves.”
“That’s terrific. And what did you name them?”
“Jessie and Kenny.”
“Ah. Good. That’s good.” The names of his little sister and younger brother.
“I was going to name them Lillie and Willie.”
“I like Jessie and Kenny.”
“How’s ol‘ Cynthia?”
“Couldn’t be better. Want to say hello?”
“Yeah.”
“Dooley, you big lug. How are you?”
“I named the calves Jessie and Kenny.”
“Dr. Dooley Barlowe, full-service vet. I heal, I deliver, I name. You’re great!”
“You coming out Sunday?”
“Yes, we want to see Jessie and Kenny.”
“Good. They’re real healthy. You’ll like ‘em.”
“I like you!”
“I like you back.”
She reached across him and hung up the phone.
“I couldn’t do it,” she said.
“I couldn’t, either.”
“We’re letting him have two more days of innocent boyhood,” she said. “We can tell him on Sunday.”
“Right. I’ll tell Pauline he’s coming to see her.”
They were silent for a long time, holding hands.
“Are you ever sorry you married a parson?”
“Why should I be?”
“I can’t leave my work at the office.”
“Of course you can’t. Your job isn’t nine to five, it’s noon to noon. I knew that, dearest. Besides, I love your work, too. Remember, I’m your deacon.”
He rolled over and kissed her and felt the softness of her body against his. “Such a deal,” he murmured. “Every clergyman in the nation would be wildly jealous.”
It was ponytail time again, if he didn’t act soon.
Hadn’t he just had his hair cut? What a blasted aggravation that, while no hair ever grew on top, the rest of his head appeared to be fertilized with Miracle-Gro.
Another aggravation was whether to slip around behind Joe Ivey’s back and see Fancy, or be loyal, as was his bent, and force himself up the stairs to Joe’s chair, where, according to Fancy, those chipmunk puffs over his ears were made to prosper and flourish.
Dadgum it, it seemed a man should at least be able to get a haircut without a hassle.
“Six hundred and thirty-two,” said Emma, keying in the previous week’s collections. “No, six hundred and seventy-five. You need a haircut.”
“Where should I get it?” he asked, thrilled to pass on the responsibility of a decision.
“Go to Fancy. Joe makes you look like a chipmunk,” s
he said without looking away from the computer screen.
He was liking Emma Newland better every day. “Has your raise come through yet?” he asked.
“Not unless Harold’s goat ate it out of th‘ mailbox.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, glad to be of service.
“We’re bringing Dooley to see you,” he said. “Either Sunday evening or Monday.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“God’s grace isn’t about deserving,” he said, taking her hand.
She smiled. It was the first time he had seen her smile.
“May I ... call you Father?”
“Please. And would you like to see your own father? He’s well and well cared for. It will give him joy.”
She nodded yes.
“I’ve been ... thinking, Father.”
“Tell me.”
“You should keep Dooley ‘til he’s out of school. School is a good thing—my mother tried to tell me that. Then he can do whatever God wants him to do. I won’t try ... to take him back.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s best.”
“But my other kids...”
“Where are they?”
“After I prayed that prayer, I tried to find them.”
He was used to her tears. They were a kind of language that needed expression.
“Kenny, I gave him to ...”
He sat in the chair by her bed and waited.
“To...”
“It’s all right.”
“... somebody for a gallon of whiskey an‘ ... a hundred dollars.”
He really didn’t know if he could deal with this. He was only human, after all. Being clergy didn’t equip him with some shield and suit of armor. No, this was too blasted much. He needed reinforcement. He didn’t even want to hear any more.
“It hurts me to hear it,” he said. Why beat around the bush?
She looked at him, imploring.
“Can we find Kenny?” he asked.
“He was in Oregon th‘ last time I knowed.”
There was a long silence, which he didn’t try to break.
“Poobaw,” she said. “We call him that because he liked to tote around a pool ball I brought home, an‘ that’s what he called it. He’s ten, he’s such a good boy, Father, always happy....”
“And Jessie?”
“She’s four. So ... little. So ... pretty.” She sobbed brokenly, and he wanted to turn away, to run out the door and not come back.
The rector looked slightly dazed. “I don’t know,” he said, meaning it.
Mule sighed. “We’re kind of rusty at this.”
“How come she wants me to get off coffee and axe the fat and lower my cholesterol if she wouldn’t go out with me last night? I mean, what’s th‘ deal?”
“Maybe she had to work,” said Mule, wanting to help.
“No way. She was home cleanin‘ her gun.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I called her up and that’s what she said she was doing.”
“Where had you offered to take her?” asked the rector.
“To Brendle’s, they were having a sale on Tri-X film.”
“No wonder she stayed home to clean a gun,” said Mule.
“Have you sent her flowers?” asked Father Tim. “That’s a good thing to do.”
“Flowers? To a woman who carries a nine-millimeter?”
“Whoa, buddy,” said Mule. “You’re soundin’t mighty macho there. It’s th‘ woman’s job to carry a gun.”
“Women like flowers,” said the rector. “It’s that simple. Maybe she’s trying to look after your best interests, and you’re not looking after hers.”
J.C. scratched his head. “I don’t think that’s it. I sent my first wife flowers once, and look what happened.”
“Once won’t cut it,” said the rector.
“Right,” said Mule.
“Do you care about her?” asked Father Tim.
J.C. turned red. “Yeah. I care about her. We go out. We do stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Oh, this and that. She cooks at her place pretty often, I took pork chops once.”
Mule looked at the rector.
“Sounds like there’s a whole lot of once in the way you operate,” said Father Tim. “Once you sent flowers, once you took pork chops.”
“Yeah,” said Mule.
“There’s the problem,” said the rector.
“So? So I’m supposed to go crawling on my belly like a snake to get this woman interested in me again?”
“Sending flowers is not crawling on your belly.”
“And why take pork chops,” asked Mule, “if she’s tryin‘ to get you off fat and cholesterol? You ought to take ... let’s see ... ”
“Tofu,” said the rector.
“Man!” said J.C., mopping his face. “If I listen to you turkeys, I’ll be in up to my neck.”
Mule leaned back for Velma to set his plate down. “You’re in so deep now, you need a bloomin‘ shovel. And why not listen to us? We’ve got credentials.”
“Right,” said the rector. “We’re married.”
“By th‘ dern grace of God, if you ask me,” said J.C.
“Right again,” agreed Father Tim.
“OK, I’ll listen,” sighed the editor. “But just this once.”
He could hardly wait to leave the office and get to the hospital, where, according to Nurse Kennedy, Pauline Barlowe had been up to the bathroom and was drinking juice.
We’re still praying, Kennedy had said, pneumonia is a possibility, infection is a likelihood—we’re not out of the woods by a long shot.
He was finishing his sermon notes, which Emma, God love her, had offered to key into the computer, when he heard a knock on the door.
“Father?”
Olivia Harper stuck her head in the office and smiled. “Is this a good time?”
He got up and went to greet her. “It’s always a good time for you.”
“I just wanted to talk to you about something at Aunt Sadie’s.”
“Sit in Emma’s chair. Want some bubble gum?”
She took a piece. “What in the world are you doing with bubble gum?”
“Amy Larkin keeps me supplied.”
She laughed. “Who doesn’t love you?”
“Don’t tell me that. I’ll get the big head.”
“You know we were thrilled with Aunt Sadie’s memorial service. Thank you for talking about who she was and what she stood for.”
“It’s important to do that in a small community, important to talk about the loved one. It departs a bit from the traditional Anglican burial service, but ... ”
“But this is the South!” she said, laughing.
He grinned. “What’s up?”
“There’s a mahogany chest of drawers at Fernbank, which Louella says I should have. I just wanted to check with you before I go rifling through.”
“My dear, you don’t have to check with me. Take whatever you want, and after Louella’s gone through, Cynthia and I will go through. Miss Sadie would have wanted it that way, she just assumed we’d know that. After all, you’re blood kin.”
“I had my great-aunt for such a short time.”
“That you had her at all was supernatural.”
“You’re so right,” she said, as the phone rang.
“Lord’s Chapel, Father Kavanagh speaking.”
“Father Kavanagh, Doug Wyeth at social services in Wesley. We thought you’d like to know the DA’s office was successful.”
“They were?”
“We have Lacey.”
He felt caught off guard.
“We’re looking for a foster home, but so far nothing has worked out. We’ve established there are no other relatives, at least none that we can locate.”
“What will you do, then?” he asked.
“If we can’t work out the foster care, she’ll have to go down the mountain to an emergency shelter.”
That didn’t sound good.
“I know your interest in this case, Father. Would you be open to taking her on a temporary basis? You’re not licensed for foster care, but we could get you authorized temporarily.”
“Let me ... think about it,” he said. “I’d have to ... Let me call you back in, what, half an hour?”
“Fine. You have my number.”
“How is Lace?”
“Angry,” said Doug Wyeth.
He put the phone down and shook his head.
“Lace?” asked Olivia.
“The district attorney’s office. They found her—she’s with social services. They’re trying to get her in foster care, but haven’t been successful yet.”
Olivia sat forward in the chair. “Let us take her, Father.”
“Good Lord, Olivia! You can’t know what you’re saying.”
“But I do. Hoppy and I, we’ve talked about taking someone in. We thought it would be Louella until Hope House opens, but it worked out so beautifully for Winnie to keep Louella company. I liked Lace. We can do it.”
“But surely it would be too much....” The idea seemed wildly improbable.
“Father, God spared my life! Against impossible odds, he gave me a new heart. I believe to this day it was yours and Hoppy’s prayers that opened the gates of heaven and worked miracles with my transplant. All that for what?” she asked, her violet eyes dark with feeling.
“To be the happy wife of a wonderful man? I need to give something back. I may not do it well, but I shall give it everything I’ve got. Let us take Lace.”
Why shouldn’t he grant this request to the woman whose lifetime verse was one he’d just quoted to Pauline Barlowe?
“Besides,” she said, pressing on, “look what you’ve done with Dooley.”
Surely, as clergy, his word could help get the Harpers authorized.
“Call them back,” she urged, meaning it.
She was hoarse, still, and could only whisper. “When you looked at me ... ” she said, trying to swallow.
He waited.
“ ... and cried, I felt some of the pain leave me.”
“Really?” He was croaking like a frog. Who could tell which one of them had had a tube shoved down their trachea? “I’m glad.”
“I think I always know when you come, no matter how much morphine.”
“Yes. Good.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Why do you care?”
“Because ... ” What could he say, after all? Because I love your son with all my heart? Because any mother of his is a friend of mine? Because you were sufferering and that was enough for me? Who knows why? The truth was, he had come because they called him, and then he started caring and couldn’t stop.
“I’ve done ... terrible things.”
“Haven’t we all?” he asked with feeling.
Her tears came freely. “Terrible,” she said again.
He stood with her and waited.
“My children. I gave ‘em away.”
He nodded, understanding that the tears would swell her eyes and cause more pain and discomfort. Pain, and endless pain, he thought.
“What ... is your name?” she asked.
“Timothy Kavanagh. Father Kavanagh.”
“You’re the one who has Dooley.”
“Yes.”
“I knew you had him. They said...”
“What did they say?” he asked gently.
“They said you sent him ... to school.”
“A friend sent him. It’s helping. He’s healing.”
“Healing.” She closed her eye, and the tears continued to flow. She was silent for a long time. “I wanted to see him.... I sat in front of your house twice, hoping to see him. But I heard you were good to him, and so ... I let him be.”
He nodded.
“A while back, I said a prayer ... with old Preacher Greer ... ”
He waited.
“When I done that, I seen what a mess I’d made of my life ... an‘ th’ pain was ... so big, so terrible.”
She swallowed and looked at him. “But for the first time ... ”
“Yes?”
“I had the strength to bear it.”
“It often happens that way.”
“Th‘ reason I used to drink whiskey and anything I could lay my hands on was because ... I couldn’t bear it.”
He nodded.
“I lost my ear,” she whispered.
“Yes. I’m sorry.” He realized he’d been whispering, too.
“I’ve asked God to help me forgive Lester Marshall. I knowed it was wrong to go on livin‘ with him, but ... ” She moved her right hand toward the rector. “Pray for me,” she implored, “to get my children back.”
He stood there, frozen, and saw her hand move toward his as if in slow motion.
Pray for her to take Dooley? Ask God to let the unthinkable happen?
The recent events of his life had forced more than one truth to the surface, and now another came.
Dooley did not belong to Pauline Barlowe. Nor did he belong to him. Dooley belonged to God. Period. Dooley was not his to give back.
“I been drivin‘ Harley Welch’s ol’ truck since I was twelve. I can haul butt.”
Lacey sat on a high stool in the small office, swinging her leg and chewing gum. She was wearing the hat, and her clothes were caked with engine oil and mud.
“So when I heard Pauline hollerin‘, I run down there and th’ son of a-” She stopped and looked at the rector. “Th‘ son of a gun was tryin’ to burn ‘er up. He run out of th’ house, and I th‘owed a blanket around ’er and hauled ‘er out to th’ porch. I went an‘ got Harley’s truck and we put ’er in it, and I took ‘er to th’ hospital. I left th‘ hospital before they knowed anything, ’cause I heard police was lookin‘ for me.”
“Where’s Poobaw?” asked the rector.
“I ain’t tellin‘ that.”
“No harm will come to him or you, Lace.”
“I still ain’t tellin‘.”
“His mother would like to know. Is he safe?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, how do I know? I was th‘ one lookin’ out for ‘im. Now y’ll done mint that.”
“We’re going to be placing you in foster care,” said Doug Wyeth. “We’ll just need—”
She jumped off the stool. “You ain’t doin‘ any such thing!” she shouted. “I thought you brung me in here ’cause of drivin‘ without a license.”
Cursing, she made a run for the door. It took two social workers to stop her and hold her.
If Olivia Harper could handle this, he thought, she could become a canonized saint.
They lay in bed, looking at the ceiling. Rain had pounded the village all day, and shadows cast by the tossing leaves danced above them.
“It’s not a question of if, but when,” he said.
“I feel we should let him see her right away. He can handle it. Surely she can’t take him out of school or even away from Meadowgate, because she has no place to live. Also, she’s facing months of physical therapy.”
“I’ll call him. What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty. Good heavens, don’t ever tell anybody we’re in bed this early. We’d be the laughingstock.”
“If you only knew how many people are sawing wood in this town, even as we speak.”
“I’ve become a rustic,” she sighed.
“And no help for it.”
Why think about it and ponder it and try to make up the right thing to say? He’d just say it simply, and go on, believing the best. He was reaching for the phone when it rang.
“Hey,” said Dooley.
“Hey, yourself, buddy.”
“Miz Shuford asked me to name them calves.”
“That’s terrific. And what did you name them?”
“Jessie and Kenny.”
“Ah. Good. That’s good.” The names of his little sister and younger brother.
“I was going to name them Lillie and Willie.”
“I like Jessie and Kenny.”
“How’s ol‘ Cynthia?”
“Couldn’t be better. Want to say hello?”
“Yeah.”
“Dooley, you big lug. How are you?”
“I named the calves Jessie and Kenny.”
“Dr. Dooley Barlowe, full-service vet. I heal, I deliver, I name. You’re great!”
“You coming out Sunday?”
“Yes, we want to see Jessie and Kenny.”
“Good. They’re real healthy. You’ll like ‘em.”
“I like you!”
“I like you back.”
She reached across him and hung up the phone.
“I couldn’t do it,” she said.
“I couldn’t, either.”
“We’re letting him have two more days of innocent boyhood,” she said. “We can tell him on Sunday.”
“Right. I’ll tell Pauline he’s coming to see her.”
They were silent for a long time, holding hands.
“Are you ever sorry you married a parson?”
“Why should I be?”
“I can’t leave my work at the office.”
“Of course you can’t. Your job isn’t nine to five, it’s noon to noon. I knew that, dearest. Besides, I love your work, too. Remember, I’m your deacon.”
He rolled over and kissed her and felt the softness of her body against his. “Such a deal,” he murmured. “Every clergyman in the nation would be wildly jealous.”
It was ponytail time again, if he didn’t act soon.
Hadn’t he just had his hair cut? What a blasted aggravation that, while no hair ever grew on top, the rest of his head appeared to be fertilized with Miracle-Gro.
Another aggravation was whether to slip around behind Joe Ivey’s back and see Fancy, or be loyal, as was his bent, and force himself up the stairs to Joe’s chair, where, according to Fancy, those chipmunk puffs over his ears were made to prosper and flourish.
Dadgum it, it seemed a man should at least be able to get a haircut without a hassle.
“Six hundred and thirty-two,” said Emma, keying in the previous week’s collections. “No, six hundred and seventy-five. You need a haircut.”
“Where should I get it?” he asked, thrilled to pass on the responsibility of a decision.
“Go to Fancy. Joe makes you look like a chipmunk,” s
He was liking Emma Newland better every day. “Has your raise come through yet?” he asked.
“Not unless Harold’s goat ate it out of th‘ mailbox.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, glad to be of service.
“We’re bringing Dooley to see you,” he said. “Either Sunday evening or Monday.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“God’s grace isn’t about deserving,” he said, taking her hand.
She smiled. It was the first time he had seen her smile.
“May I ... call you Father?”
“Please. And would you like to see your own father? He’s well and well cared for. It will give him joy.”
She nodded yes.
“I’ve been ... thinking, Father.”
“Tell me.”
“You should keep Dooley ‘til he’s out of school. School is a good thing—my mother tried to tell me that. Then he can do whatever God wants him to do. I won’t try ... to take him back.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s best.”
“But my other kids...”
“Where are they?”
“After I prayed that prayer, I tried to find them.”
He was used to her tears. They were a kind of language that needed expression.
“Kenny, I gave him to ...”
He sat in the chair by her bed and waited.
“To...”
“It’s all right.”
“... somebody for a gallon of whiskey an‘ ... a hundred dollars.”
He really didn’t know if he could deal with this. He was only human, after all. Being clergy didn’t equip him with some shield and suit of armor. No, this was too blasted much. He needed reinforcement. He didn’t even want to hear any more.
“It hurts me to hear it,” he said. Why beat around the bush?
She looked at him, imploring.
“Can we find Kenny?” he asked.
“He was in Oregon th‘ last time I knowed.”
There was a long silence, which he didn’t try to break.
“Poobaw,” she said. “We call him that because he liked to tote around a pool ball I brought home, an‘ that’s what he called it. He’s ten, he’s such a good boy, Father, always happy....”
“And Jessie?”
“She’s four. So ... little. So ... pretty.” She sobbed brokenly, and he wanted to turn away, to run out the door and not come back.