To Be Where You Are by Jan Karon
Exhausted, they slogged up the hill and through the open gate to the barn. My God, what a nightmare. He felt sorry for himself, and even worse for her, for the serious pain she was in and the time they’d wasted.
‘You’re bleeding . . .’ said Joanna. ‘Let me . . . ’
‘This patient was here first,’ he said, handing over the rope. ‘I’ve got to get home.’
‘I’ll get you some dry shoes,’ she said. ‘Boots, I only have boots that would fit.’
No thanks. He was feeling around beneath his sopping jacket for his cell phone which he always carried in his shirt pocket, so he guessed it was in the truck and he was freezing his tail trying to collect the stuff he’d bought and Joanna was apologizing and the heifer’s owner was holding the rope with his mouth still hanging open and then he was running to the truck in sodden gym shoes that weighed like concrete and feeling the wrench in his back.
As soon as he hit the highway he reached for his phone. He felt around in the console tray, but hello, it wasn’t there. He felt around in the passenger seat. No.
So, okay, it was somewhere along the route of the blind chase led by Myrtle the Hellion. Maybe nestled between a couple of friendly boulders in the creek, iTunes leaking downstream.
And Lace with her eye on the clock, freaking out.
His phone had everything in it—it was his life, what could he say. All his contacts, notes, vet suppliers; Kenny’s, Sammy’s, Tommy’s cells, he didn’t memorize that stuff, it had been right there for years, one phone number after another, one school after another. And his notes, his lists, the works.
He’d never lost a phone in water, but if that’s where it landed, it would be history. The phone store could maybe recover contacts and photos, he wasn’t sure. If lost in the pasture, who had time to come back to Joanna’s, a good hour-and-a-half round trip, and search for it?
He hadn’t been this out of touch with Lace in a couple of years. The whole scenario was beyond. But here was the takeaway—he’d done what had to be done; he was a vet, these things happen. Just not the phone lying in the creek, please, God, engorging water. He did not have money for a new phone.
He was driving like he stole this truck. If his dad knew his miles per hour on a stretch famous for its sharp curves, he’d have a stroke. And if there was a patrol car out here, as sometimes happened, he was dead meat. But so what? He was dead meat either way.
• • •
The hot shower on his beat-up bones; the sting of iodine, the smell of bandages. The crazy little pug snoring in its crate.
He traced her chin with his finger, her skin light as air. ‘So you never want me out of your sight again?’
‘Never. Not for a minute.’
‘That’s why I work next door,’ he said.
9
MITFORD
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8
I’m keeping up with the laundry,’ said Cynthia. ‘And we’ve changed the bed twice and mopped the kitchen and vacuumed.’
‘I’m keeping the garage swept out,’ he said. ‘And we organized the freezer and did some dusting.’
Puny had stopped by from a PTA meeting, and they were updating her on the condition of the household. They had fared well enough during her long-deserved housekeeping sabbatical, but there was another week to go before she came to work again. Being pretty much spoiled, they were flagging.
‘I miss y’all,’ said Puny.
‘We miss you back!’ he said, meaning it.
‘Th’ twins miss you, too. They want you to see th’ chickens.’
‘We’ll see them on Sunday,’ promised his wife.
Puny’s two sets of twins, aka their unofficial grans, were doing a 4-H project he helped jump-start with the purchase of four Rhode Island Reds.
They steered her down the hall to Cynthia’s old workroom, now the ironing room, where they had hung pictures of Sissy and Sassy and Tommy and Timmy. They had also installed a floor lamp, a philodendron, a rug, and a new ironing board topped by a pile of ironing. A big pile.
‘Lord help!’ Puny stood at the door, aghast. ‘I never realized y’all had that many clothes.’
‘It’s just what happens when you wash something,’ he said, apologetic.
‘Do you like your new room?’ said Cynthia.
‘Oh, I do, I truly do. But th’ ironin’!’
They had never seen Puny daunted by anything at all.
He drew his wife aside.
‘She’ll be fine. It’s what vacations do to people.’
As a working priest, he’d taken exactly two real vacations in forty-some years. And when he returned to the church office after time off?
Whoa. A pile.
That had cured him, for decades, of vacations.
• • •
It was their first hearth fire of the season, an event to be celebrated. But how?
Number one, by sipping an evening cup of hot cocoa, which would keep him awake until Advent. And two, by reading today’s edition of the Muse to his wife who was a bona fide cheap date.
‘Musing on Main by Vanita Bentley,’ he read aloud. ‘Will wonders never cease? That is the question being asked up and down Main Street these crisp October days.’
He looked at his wife, who was already grinning; she loved this stuff. ‘Have you been asking will wonders never cease?’
‘Not even once,’ she said.
‘Nor have I. Let’s see . . . Wanda’s Feel Good Café has installed umbrellas and tables on the sidewalk!!! When asked why now with cold weather approaching, she said, “I am rehearsing for SPRING!!!” Don’t you love that???
‘Speaking of, there’s a prediction for a really hard winter. Dora Pugh at the Hardware has done up her left window with leaf rakes and her right window with snow shovels. BUMMER, Dora!!!
‘Just a friendly reminder. Today will probably be your LAST CHANCE to take pictures of the town hall maples at their BEST!!! This wonder will definitely cease, so GET OUT THERE!!!’
‘We missed taking pictures this year,’ he said. ‘Maybe on our walk tomorrow.’
‘Maybe I won’t walk tomorrow. I’ll paint.’
‘Now, now, Kav’na, none of that. Painting does not increase the heart rate.’
‘Not unless it’s a very good painting. What is Mr. Hogan saying about his huge flub?’
‘When it comes to apologies, he sides with Churchill, who said never complain and never explain. Below her front-page photo, very large and in color, he offers but two lines.’ He squinted at the type size. ‘He says he sincerely regrets the failure to run Esther Bolick’s photo with her obituary, and calls her a lovely and generous woman who will be missed by all.’
Truman leaped into his lap, a feline behavior he had once disliked but now enjoyed. ‘And . . . he’s smoothing the feathers of our old mayor by giving thanks that she’s still among us and looking—here’s a word I’ve never known him to use—fabulous.’
‘A silver tongue, that one!’ She had taken up a book and was poring over it. ‘Shall we move along to the classifieds where people are looking for mates? That’s my favorite.’
‘Patience, Kav’na. We’re headed there.’
The fire crackled and spit. How many of humankind could make an evening’s amusement from a cup of cocoa and a fifty-cent newspaper with no funnies?
He was only a page away from Vanita Bentley’s weekly Helpful Hints and felt a dash of anticipation.
He had been embarrassed to offer her his hint. Being retired was one thing, but writing Helpful Hints was another. He confided that he had a great hint if she was interested.
‘How exciting!’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a credit.’
‘Oh no, no, I don’t need a credit.’
‘Of course you do. Everybody needs a credit.’
‘Here’s the deal. If you use it, you mus
‘Okay.’
He told her the hint.
‘Great!’ she said. ‘How about the headline “Poaching a Successful Egg”?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Eggs are not by their nature successful or unsuccessful. How about “Poaching an Egg Successfully”?’
Ah, yes, and here it was. Vanita had pulled it off without a single typo. He would not mention his media exposure, albeit anonymous, to his wife.
He continued with Vanita’s musings.
‘Welcome to the tourists! We hope you will love our town. Here is the week’s Lucky License Plate Bonanza—if you have a plate from Mississippi, drop by our town hall and get your free I’d Rather Be in Mitford T-shirt and maybe a coffee mug if there’s one left from the Georgia license plate bonanza last week when we had three GA license plates in our picturesk town!!! Have fun and come back soon!!!
And here was the announcement so many would be searching for. Long story short: New trees, no; mulch beds, no; pansies yes.
‘Birthday coverage coming up!’ he said. ‘But you’re not listening.’
‘I’m multitasking. Listening to you and looking at this maddening knitting book.’
‘Why are you looking at a knitting book?’
‘I’m rehearsing for spring, sweetheart.’
‘Whoa. J.C. got the name of the lieutenant governor’s girlfriend wrong—I met the lieutenant governor on a previous visit; this is the name of his first wife. And girlfriend is spelled girlfiend. Oh, boy.’
‘His goose is cooked in Raleigh,’ she said.
‘How about needlepoint?’ His mother and Nanny Howard had done needlepoint. Piano bench seats, samplers, throw pillows.
‘No needlepoint,’ she said. ‘I make pictures all day.’
‘I always liked the pictures,’ he said, wistful as any dowager. Nanny Howard’s piano bench cover was of sheep in a glen. His mother’s dining chair covers, roses in a Chinese vase.
‘I’ve spent most of my life doing pictures. I’m looking for something useful, like an afghan. Or a sock.’
‘Or maybe you don’t need to be taxing your eyes with needlework. Look at the scenery while I drive. We’ll play cow poker! We’ll sing!’
‘You know I can’t sing.’
‘Of course you can sing! Everybody can sing.’
Where would they park at night? In a church lot? RV parking could prove to be very interdenominational. How would they dispose of kitchen waste? Other? What if they ran out of gas? A monster vehicle would require more than a backup five-gallon can. Stranded on a road in the middle of nowhere, completely defenseless . . .
He turned to the classifieds.
• • •
Adele and J. C. Hogan were lying on their leather loveseat after an early supper, watching the local news. They half sat, toe to head, somewhat constrained by the limited space.
‘My feet are cold,’ she said.
‘I’ll get your socks.’
He slid off the leather, which was finally warmed by body heat, and headed toward their bedroom.
‘No!’ she said. ‘Wait!’
He had never seen her leap off the sofa.
‘What?’
‘I’ll get my socks,’ she said, running ahead of him.
‘One little thing I try to do for you who says I don’t do much, and you want to jump up and get your socks?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, standing in front of the chest of drawers. ‘Honey. Darlin’.’
‘Honey darlin’?’ J.C. was wearing sweat pants and a I’d Rather Be in Mitford T-shirt. ‘What’s this honey darlin’?’ He winked at the MPD captain. Maybe this was his big night.
‘About you bein’ sweet to want to get my socks.’ She gave him a little shove. ‘Now hurry back and turn on Antiques Roadshow.’
• • •
Avis carried home a chunk of grass-fed beef from the Local and set it on the kitchen counter. Maybe he’d fire up the grill tonight. Or maybe not.
He went to the bedroom and changed into his yard clothes. It would be pitch-dark in forty-five minutes.
He wasn’t much on groomin’ a lawn, but he had to do something fast or the town council would be over here with a warrant or whatever, as if this wadn’t America.
‘Are your blades sharp?’ Omer Cunningham asked this morning. ‘I can bring you a video.’
Don’t bring me a video, he wanted to say. I will not look at a video of mower blades. So, okay, my blades chew th’ grass—a mowed yard at my house looks trampled by cattle. But don’t bring me a video.
He would make one last pass with rusted blades and next spring, hire th’ job done. He would have hired out this evening’s mow, but he needed the exercise, according to Omer. It was amazing what he could learn from his customers. They were up for managing his love life, ha-ha, his health, his finances, his marketing ploys, you name it, even his shoes. ‘Clogs!’ said Omer’s wife, Shirlene. ‘Good for posture and awesome for back support. You’ll feel less tired from bein’ on your feet all day, plus they promote circulation. I can send you a link.’
Don’t send me a link, he thought. I do not need a link.
‘I found a wonderful recipe for venison, really simple,’ Adelaide Bush said today. ‘I’ll text you.’
He had literally felt his eyes glaze over.
He stepped out the back door and wrangled the mower off the porch and felt the squeezing around his heart, like his chest was stopped up with glue.
He coughed—what his daddy had called a rackin’ cough—and couldn’t seem to stop. He leaned on the handle of the mower and caught his breath. He was sweating. He’d gone to the doctor a year or two ago before the coughing set in, and tried to describe the same feelin’ he just had in his chest. The doc wrote him a scrip for hypertension. He had taken the scrip home and put it in a drawer and never saw it again.
He looked up and ho! There was th’ little dog.
Leaves thrashed.
‘Well,’ he said, hoarse as a frog. He stood for a long moment, stirred by something he couldn’t name, and wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve.
The little dog sat by the privet bush. The steak sat on the kitchen counter.
Timing, he thought, is everything. He didn’t know much, but he knew that much.
• • •
Coot Hendrick enjoyed reading at night; he had a fine lamp in his upstairs apartment over th’ bookstore and a pretty good wing chair from th’ Bane an’ Blessin’ at Lord’s Chapel. Since he sold his mama’s place with all th’ furnishings, Hope and Scott and Grace had made him a ‘nest,’ as they liked to say, where he was as warm as a mouse in a churn.
After he washed th’ supper dishes, he’d finish readin’ Green Eggs and Ham. Next he would read How the Grinch Stole Christmas!
How could anybody steal Christmas? It could not be done; it was a trick notion by th’ writer to make you read th’ book. Grace wanted to tell him th’ story, but he didn’t want to know. He wanted to be surprised on every page.
Fact is, he’d nearabout outgrown books with pictures and was now ready to read what they call chapter books. This would be a big jump, an’ he would always thank Dr. Seuss for helpin’ him learn to read an’ for teachin’ him it was okay to laugh out loud when you wanted to. Th’ Grinch would be his last picture book.
After that, he aimed to tackle Charlotte’s Web.
It will make you cry, said Grace. He did not mind cryin’. It was magic that a book could make a person laugh an’ cry an’ feel things they never felt before.
He’d come a long way from bein’ a man with no job who couldn’t read a lick—what they call illiterate—to a workin’man with books to read anytime he got a notion. To top it off, he was even helpin’ somebody write a book.
These days, he didn’t want for nothin’—exc
• • •
Eight-thirty. Cynthia had gone upstairs for the nightly bath; he was switching off the lights. And there was Harley’s truck backing out of Miss Pringle’s driveway.
‘Living proof,’ he said to Truman, ‘that wonders never cease.’
Their house phone, which seldom rang in the evening, was hammering away on his desk.
Caller ID: Connecticut. He didn’t know a soul from Connecticut, but like the rest of the common horde, he couldn’t resist a ringing phone.
‘Good evening. Tim Kavanagh here.’
‘Tim Kavanagh?’ There was a pause of several beats. ‘You aren’t Jeffrey Simon, the journalist?’
‘No, ma’am. Timothy Kavanagh, the Episcopal priest.’
‘You’re southern.’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Southerners say ma’am. We don’t say that in Connecticut.’
‘Is there something . . . ?’
‘This is Brooke Logan in Stamford. You called me earlier, I believe. I thought it might be Mr. Simon . . . ’
‘No, I didn’t call you. No.’
‘I had a message from this phone number asking me to call.’
‘I can promise it wasn’t me.’
‘I wrote the number down very carefully. I believe this is a North Carolina area code?’
‘Yes; my wife and I are in the mountains. The Blue Ridge.’
‘My grandmother was from Asheville; I went there as a child, on a train. There was a very long tunnel. I thought I’d gone blind.’