In This Mountain Read online

  “I mean, really—today’s liberated woman? And who are these insiders? And this spelling! The lowliest school computer has spellcheck!”

  His wife was hot, and no two ways about it.

  “Not to mention this picture of me. Where on earth did he dig it up? It’s older than dirt, I’m wearing a beehive!”

  “Here,” he said, taking the newspaper from her, “why rile yourself?”

  “Does he ever talk to the subject of his little butcher jobs? Or is all his reportage done by hearsay and rumor? I never wrote a book about a doodle bug!”

  “What was it about?”

  “A ladybug!” she said, thoroughly disgusted.

  He patted her hand. “Now, now, Kavanagh.”

  She looked at him a moment, then fell back against the sofa cushions, hooting with laughter.

  They walked to the garden bench and sat watching the moon rise over Baxter Park.

  “My dear John…,” she said, fingering his silver tresses.

  “Who’s John?”

  “You know, sweetheart, John the Baptist!”

  He sighed. “Maybe I’ll cut it myself.”

  “I’ll do it as soon as I come home! How’s that?”

  “No way. I’ve witnessed your tonsorial skills.”

  “I don’t want to leave you, Timothy.”

  “But of course you must. It’s the only thing to do.”

  “Thank you, darling.”

  “I’ll be fine. I am fine. There’s nothing at all to worry about.”

  “Puny will be here every day, and the girls will come straight from day care in the afternoons. Dooley and I will call you in the morning, and of course we’ll call you after the awards dinner. Then we’ll call you the next morning and after lunch and after the play and before we leave for the airport—you’ll be sick of hearing from us.”

  “Never!”

  “Thank you for buying the theater tickets, dearest, for taking care of everything. Dooley is so excited, you’d think we’re going to the moon.”

  “It’s time we did something special for that boy. Besides, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather send you off with.” His heart was heavy, but he made certain his voice was light. Nearly forty years in the pulpit taught a man how to hide his personal feelings.

  “Please don’t be sad,” she said, putting her head on his shoulder.

  “Sad? How could I be sad?” He kissed her forehead. “You’re the first author ever to win the Davant Medal twice!”

  He wanted his wife to have a life apart from nursing him like some hothouse orchid. He really did.

  “Give her your arm when you cross the street. Like this.” He demonstrated.

  “Why?” asked Dooley.

  “Because there’s a lot of traffic in New York and it’s dangerous up there. Because she’s a woman. And because, as a man, it’s your job.”

  “I never heard of that job.”

  “You heard it here first.”

  Dooley grinned. “I’ll take care of her, I promise.”

  “You’ve got my card. Pick a good restaurant, ask someone at the awards dinner to recommend a good place, she likes French or Italian. Call ahead and make a reservation, they’re big on reservations in New York.”

  “OK. Cool.”

  “Take taxis, do whatever you need to do. Here’s a hundred bucks. And be sure and tip the bellman who carries your luggage to your rooms.”

  “I can carry our luggage.”

  “They won’t let you.”

  “But it’s our luggage!”

  “Yes, well, don’t ask me to explain. And when the tab comes at the restaurant, tip twenty percent.”

  “Man!”

  “Just put it on the card. And while we’re on the subject, hold on to your wallet. And help Cynthia watch her pocketbook, she’s been known to set it on a counter while she shops. Do you need to write any of this down?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. On second thought…” He dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here’s another hundred, just in case. And twenty for you.”

  “Wow,” said Dooley, taking the bills. “I always wanted to carry this stuff around.”

  “One more thing. Buy flowers somewhere, they usually have flowers on the street. Give them to Cynthia.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever you pass a flower stall. Pink roses only, no red. Or white tulips if they don’t have roses.”

  “OK.”

  “A dozen. Tell her they’re from me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well done!”

  He’d never felt so proud in his life. He could send this young man on a mission and trust him to complete it. He felt his chest literally expand as he embraced the boy who’d come into his life and changed it forever.

  He stood at the garage door and watched Dooley back the Mazda onto Wisteria Lane.

  “We love you!” Cynthia called.

  “Love you back!”

  He waved until the car disappeared from view beyond the hedge, then hurried to the edge of the yard, where he could watch them turn left on Main Street.

  He had hoped to feel better about being alone—this way, he could be as grumpy as he liked and no one would notice or care. But he felt bereft.

  He opened the refrigerator door and stared inside, then shut the door without remembering what he’d seen. He walked into the study and turned on the lamp by his chair and gazed out the window to Baxter Park, noting the lowering sky. A book! Of course. That was the ticket….

  He took a volume from the shelf and sat in his armchair and was thankful for his good dog snoring at his feet. Then he opened the book to a random page and gazed at it for some time.

  There was nothing in the book but words.

  The storm reached Mitford shortly after dark. He’d taken Barnabas to the backyard as the rain began—fat, pelting drops that smarted when they hit his shirt. At ten o’clock, a full-bore electrical storm was up and running, dousing power in the village and waking him from a deep sleep.

  A dazzling flash of platinum lit the room. He turned on his side and listened to the pounding of rain on the roof, and the great flume of water flushing through the downspouts.

  He hadn’t taken his medication for depression; he would leave it off for a few days and see what happened. It was humiliating to be taking such a thing. The only consolation was that millions of others were in the same boat; depression was common, run-of-the-mill stuff. But he’d never aspired to being run-of-the-mill; he was certain that in a few days, his energy would increase—his spirits would be stronger, his outlook brighter, and this whole miserable experience would be over.

  He was clinging to the Rock, trusting it to cleft for him.

  The vacuum cleaner was going full throttle, as were the washing machine, dryer, and pressure cooker. He liked to stay as far away as possible from pressure cookers; a neighbor in Holly Springs had scrubbed green beans off every surface, including the ceiling, for two weeks. But today’s rumbling, hissing, churning, and roaring created a welcome cacophony in the yellow house, and he was grateful.

  “…to reach the port of heaven…” he inscribed in his quote journal, “we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it—but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.” Oliver Wendell Holmes had hit the nail on the head. He closed the book from which he’d gleaned the quote and gazed into the park.

  He could kid himself into believing he was drifting. The truth was, he was lying at anchor.

  He’d tried more than once to get back to his essays, yet had drawn a blank over and over again. He was spending time looking at the maple tree rather than pursuing the progress of what he’d titled The Future Hour.

  As open and bright as their house might be, it was feeling like a prison. He wanted out of here….

  He rose suddenly and went to the back door and opened it wide. He would take the girls to Sweet Stuff
as soon as they arrived. He not only needed the fresh mountain air, he needed to see people face-to-face, so that he might look into their eyes and read their judgments, if any. He had dreaded his excursion onto the street; now he was ready to get it behind him.

  “Don’t overdo it,” Wilson had said. “Whatever energy is there will burn off quickly.”

  Yes, but he couldn’t go on living to himself, in himself; it was sickening.

  He snatched the cordless from the hook before the answering machine kicked in.

  He’d hardly picked up the phone in weeks; his wife was on orders from the doctor to keep such stimulants at a minimum. However, if he was well enough to push along on his own, he was certainly entitled to answer the blasted phone….

  “I can’t believe it!” huffed Emma.

  “What can’t you believe?”

  “That I’m talkin’ to you. I was beginnin’ to wonder if you were dead or alive…”

  “All of the above,” he said.

  “…and your e-mail stackin’ up over here like…like…”

  Emma had never been good at analogy. “Like planes over Atlanta.”

  “Right! You’ll never guess what’s goin’ on in Whitecap!”

  “How fast can you get over here?” he said.

  As he hung up, he was distinctly aware that he was grinning. E-mail!

  Dear Father, it has been ages since your friends at Whitecap have heard a peep out of you, your good secretary e-mailed us to say you haven’t been up to par.

  How distressing to hear this, and please take care of yourself. Hardly a day passes that we don’t speak of you at the library, where I am serving my last season as head. How quickly time passes, it has been more years than I care to remember, I think they are plotting to give me a first edition of Agatha Christie’s autobiography, still in its dust jacket!

  Be warned that I have not gotten the knack of writing those short e-mail messages that seem so popular with one and all. I hope you are still interested in news from our little island, as there seems to be quite a lot of it these days!

  We hear a wall has been erected on the yellow line between the bait & tackle shop and Mona’s. We don’t know what this portends, we are hoping it is not a forecast of any more drastic action such as divorce! Do pray, as I know how much Ernie means to you.

  Morris is still playing the organ each Sunday, but we haven’t been able to get him to stay for the Coffee Minute afterward, Jean Ballenger has taken it upon herself to work on this. I’m not sure she’s the one for the job, she may scare him off completely. I do believe that playing each Sunday has given him a kind of happiness, you should hear the praise heaped upon his head before he manages to get away in the truck with Junior and Misty, who always fetch him back and forth. Have you heard that Jr and Misty are going to have a baby? Jr is very proud, you should see how tenderly he cares for his young bride!

  Jeffrey Tolson struggles with himself, I think, but is being faithful to his dear family. Janette looks wonderful. She has become a truly beautiful girl with the flowering of her marriage. Certainly she isn’t forced to work so hard now that J has a steady income. Your Jonathan is full of mischief, and has stolen every heart in the parish.

  Otis and Marlene have two new grandchildren and have closed up the pool at their house. Marlene says it is just

  until the grandchildren get older, Otis says it is for forever and a day, as a pool is nothing but nuisance and expense. He intends to have his construction people fill it with topsoil and plant palm trees therein, though I can’t imagine that palms will flourish this far north—I think palmettos might be a better choice.

  The Duncans have got a new rooster, which makes the neighbors complain. I think the world has gone wrong when one cannot enjoy the sound of a rooster crowing!

  Fr Conklin means well, and heaven knows, he tries, but I’m not sure how he will do in the long run, if there is one.

  I wish all news were good news. Sam is again going into the hospital, this time for a kidney operation. Everyone says it is nothing, not to worry, but of course I do, shame on me.

  It has never been the same since you left, we would have kept you and Cynthia until the cows come home.

  Give her my love and thank you for keeping us in your prayers, as we hold you faithfully in ours. I shall not rest until I hear you are feeling hale again.

  Timothy, for heaven’s sake, can you not give a man WORD OF YOUR CIRCUMSTANCES?

  Are you dead as a door nail, or only on the downward spiral toward last rites—which I shall be happy to come and administer if only you will ask.

  We are pushing along up here in the wilderness, though frightfully short-handed. I’m wearing out a PERFECTLY GOOD pair of boots going up hill and down dale, all the while observing the most heartbreaking conditions imaginable. But we are making progress. The good Lord has brought a veritable drove of youngsters to our door, and one or two grim parents. They come out of curiosity and stay for cookies and tea and Bible stories. The flood is a particular favorite. Abner comes daily, I hope you are praying for him as I requested.

  Well, brother, have you cast us utterly away? If you cannot write, for heaven’s sake do the next best thing…

  SEND MONEY!!!

  Sissy unrolled the watercolor and held it before him. “See, Granpaw? This is the church, will you put it on your ‘frigerator?”

  “Absolutely! Well done!”

  “An’ this,” said Sassy, “is Barnabas. I used the biggest piece of paper in th’ whole school !”

  “Terrific!” he said, admiring the watercolor of a black hulk on a red rug. “However, like your subject matter, your painting is bigger than the refrigerator.”

  “You could…umm…you could put it on the wall!”

  “Ah, the wall.”

  “You have tape in your desk drawer, we saw it when we used your colored pencils.”

  “Let me think….”

  Sassy ran to the wall by his desk. “Right here, Granpaw! It would look great! You can take this other stuff down.”

  “I want mine on the wall, too,” said Sissy, “not on th’ ’frigerator.”

  Life was short.

  He went to the desk drawer and got out the tape. “Consider it done!” he said.

  Amazing. He’d gone from a hopeless bachelor who lived alone to a man with a dog, a son, a wife, and two grandchildren. Thinking thus, he marched down Main Street, a red-haired twin on either side, glad to be alive.

  He was standing at the bakery case with the girls when he heard the door open and the tick, tick, tick of heels on the tile floor. Knowing he was nailed to the wall, he turned to face the onslaught.

  Fancy Skinner, in her signature uniform of hot-pink T-shirt and capri pants, arched one eyebrow and gave him a withering look. “Long time no see!”

  “Fancy, how are you?”

  She was smoking over his hair pretty good, he thought, ducking his head to peer into the bottom shelf of the case.

  “Choc’late éclair!” said Sassy.

  “Choc’late chip cookie!” crowed Sissy.

  “I’m havin’ a sugar-free fruit tart,” Fancy informed him. “That’s my favorite, it sends me over the moon, all that custard and those little slices of kiwi, I hope they have kiwi today, some days they don’t have kiwi, sometimes it’s just raspberries an’ whatnot, thank th’ Lord Winnie never uses blueberries, which I can’t stand to put in my mouth, I don’t know why, prob’ly ’cause they turn your tongue blue, even your teeth, an’ bananas, you take bananas, I have never liked th’ texture of bananas, I don’t care if they do have potassium, they make me feel fat, don’t bananas make you feel fat?—but you take kiwi, now, kiwi is very tropical, very light an’ refreshin’…”

  Actually, he hadn’t thought he could have anything. But a sugar-free fruit tart was another matter entirely. He brightened.

  Winnie blew through the curtains that separated the kitchen from the bake shop. “Father! I’m so glad to see you, I could hug your neck!”
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  “Come and do it, then!”

  Dear, good-hearted Winnie, smelling literally of sugar, spice, and everything nice, trotted from behind the bake case. “How’s business?” he asked, relishing her vigorous hug.

  “Booming, now that your crowd is here!”

  After the girls piped their orders, he gave his. “Sugar-free fruit tart!” he said with immeasurable anticipation.

  “Just one?”

  “Just one.”

  “Good! Because that’s all that’s left!”

  He had no intention of making eye contact with Fancy Skinner. He devoutly hoped there would never again be a necessity so dire as to force him into her chair.

  “For here or to go?” asked Winnie.

  “For here!” he chorused with the twins.

  On her way out with a low-fat doughnut, Fancy gave his hair a final look of professional scorn. Or was it downright disgust?

  “Do you think Granpaw needs a haircut?” he inquired of his counsel.

  “Yessir,” said Sassy. “You really do.”

  Sissy nodded, her mouth full.

  “Well, then,” he said, making short work of the tart, which had come fully loaded with kiwi.

  They’d left the house less than an hour ago, and already his small spring of energy had run utterly dry. As the girls drank soda pop at Sweet Stuff, he sat in Joe Ivey’s barber chair feeling raw, exposed.

  “I prob’ly oughtn’t t’ tell y’ this…”

  Snip, snip. Joe began his labors with the hair that had grown over his customer’s collar.

  “So don’t,” suggested Father Tim.

  “…but somebody said if you was goin’ to run over a preacher, you should’ve aimed for that clown over at Wesley Chapel.”

  He stiffened.

  “Wadn’t too funny, was it? I oughtn’t to have said that.”

  Snip, snip.

  “You’re lookin’ sort of down an’ out. I guess this has hit you pretty hard.”