Light From Heaven Page 21

  Against you only have I sinned ... ”

  Above the gorge, the clouds began to lift; a shaft of sunlight shone upon the ridge.

  “For behold, you look for truth deep within me,

  And will make me understand wisdom secretly.

  Purge me from my sin, and I shall be pure; Wash me, and I shall be clean indeed.

  Make me hear of joy and gladness,

  That the body you have broken may rejoice.

  Hide your face from my sins

  And blot out my iniquities.

  Create in me a clean heart, O God.

  And renew a right spirit within me ... ”

  “During that long Lenten season,” she said, “those words were ever on my lips. What I couldn’t know then, is that He did all that I implored Him to do. But much time would pass before I could accept His love and forgiveness.

  “My father knew how happy I’d been here. And when the diocese closed this and so many other church properties, he insisted on buying the schoolhouse for me, and the attached hundred acres.

  “This posed yet another bitter conflict. I didn’t wish to remain on the ridge; I wished to flee this place forever.Yet I couldn’t refuse such a generous gift. I supposed that I might one day sell it, and be given the grace to forget all that had happened here.

  “Jessie took Little Bertie and went back to her family. She was given a mission church in the west. The parting was almost unbearable—Jessie’s coldness toward me, and Little Bertie clinging to me as to life itself.”

  He prayed for her silently as she paused, waiting to go on.

  “I remembered hearing of a woman in Chicago who took in young women who ...

  “Grace Monroe was willing to take me in. I locked up the schoolhouse and asked Quint to watch over it. The truck was sold. I never spoke of my condition to ... the father, and certainly not to my own father.

  “I arrived in Chicago with three hundred and seventy-four dollars and a box of clothing.

  “Grace was elderly and I was the last to enjoy the privilege of her wonderful compassion. I cooked for her and dusted her antique porcelains, and made myself as useful as I knew how.

  “When Clarence was born, she asked us to stay. She loved Clarence very tenderly; when he was yet a tot, she taught him to be gentle with all that he touched.

  “She began this patient instruction by giving him a rare piece of early Staffordshire, a milkmaid with a brown cow. She taught him to lift the piece with great care and dust beneath it.

  “Over and over again, he did this under her watchful eye, with never a chip or a crack, Father, and he was but a toddler!

  “All that love pouring into him is today poured out into his beautiful bowls and animals and walking canes.”

  “Cynthia and I look forward to seeing his work on Sunday.”

  “Have I worn you thin?” she asked, looking worn herself.

  “Never. But perhaps we should save the rest of your story for another time. I feel this has taxed you.”

  “It taxes me still further to withhold it. Yes, there is more. Much more. But now we must talk about our teaching on Sunday! Thank you, Father, for hearing me. Your compassion is a great gift.”

  He signed the three words he’d signed to Cynthia that morning.

  Her eyes brimmed with tears of relief as she signed them back.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Covered Dish

  The contributions of early arrivals had been placed on the rose-colored cloth.

  In the center of the table, Miss Martha’s German chocolate cake was displayed on a footed stand next to Lily’s three-layer triumph. Also present were Lloyd’s foil-covered baked beans, Cynthia’s potato salad made from Puny’s recipe, Father Tim’s scandal to the Baptists—a baked ham with bourbon sauce, Agnes’s macaroni and cheese, and Granny’s stuffed eggs.

  “Granny,” said the vicar, “how are stuffed eggs different from deviled?”

  “Th’ diff’rence is, I don’t call ’em deviled,” Granny declared. “They’s enough devilment in this world.”

  “Amen!” he said.

  At the far end of the folding table, the vicar’s surprise gift stood tall and gleaming, perking into the air an aroma fondly cherished in church halls everywhere.

  “French roast,” he told Lloyd, tapping the percolator. “Freshly ground. Full bore.”

  “Hallelujah!” said Lloyd, who didn’t think much of church coffee, generally speaking.

  Sammy had cut an armload of budding branches from the surrounding woods, and delivered them to Cynthia for a table arrangement. Removing himself from the fray, the vicar trooped into the churchyard to greet new arrivals and contemplate the view with Granny. A chill wind had followed the long rain; the ocean of mountains shone clear, bright, and greening.

  “Robert! Good morning to you!”

  Robert wiped his right hand on his pant leg before shaking.

  “Thank y’ f’r th’ eggs, I didn’ bring nothin’ f’r th’ dinner.”

  “No need, we have plenty. Can you sing, Robert?”

  “Ain’t never tried.”

  “Try today! We’ve got to crank up the singing around here, to help keep us warm. Just get in behind me and go for it. I’m not much to listen to, but I can keep us on key at any rate.

  “Sparkle! You’re the very breath of spring.”

  “Yeller, blue, green, purple, an’ pink, topped off by a fleece jacket! If anybody’s havin’ a tacky party today, I want to be th’ winner!”

  “Where’s Wayne?”

  “Down on his back, rollin’ around under a piece of junk he calls a car.”

  “Tell him to get up here, we need his fine baritone.”

  “If Wayne Foster ever shows ‘is face up here ag’in, I’ll drop over. He didn’ know doodleysquat about what was goin’ on last Sunday. He thought your kneelers was somethin’ to prop his feet up on.”

  “A good many Episcopalians think the same! What is that heavenly aroma?”

  Sparkle held forth her foil-covered contribution. “Meat loaf!” she declared. “My mama’s recipe.You will flat out die when you taste it.”

  “A terrible price to pay, but count me in.”

  As Agnes stepped outside to deposit a daddy longlegs on a patch of moss, they saw Rooter coming at a trot from the laurels.

  “Which reminds me,” Agnes told the vicar. “The schoolhouse facilities are open; you may wish to make an announcement.”

  “Looky here, Miss Agnes.”

  Rooter signed to Agnes, the first and second fingers of his right hand gesturing toward his eyes.

  “Why, Rooter Hicks!” she said, clearly pleased.

  “Y’ know what I jis’ said?” he asked the vicar.

  “Not a clue.”

  “I said, ‘See y’ later, man.’”

  “How did you learn that?” asked Agnes.

  “I seen it in a book.”

  “A book!”

  “At th’ lib’ary at school.They got a whole lot of books on hand talkin’. With pictures. Looky here ag’in,” he said, slightly curling four fingers, extending his thumb, and making a motion at his chin. “You know what ‘at’s sayin’?” he asked Agnes.

  “You’re saying ‘Watch!’”

  “Yeah. I’m goin‘t’ use ‘at ’un when I want t’ watch Clarence work on ’is bowls an’ all.”

  “You’re smart as a whip!”

  “I ain’t smart,” said Rooter, offended.

  “Quick, then,” she declared. “You’re very quick. And in any case,” Agnes signed her words as she spoke, “I’m tickled pink.”

  “I’m goin’ t’ learn s’more of ’at stuff. I brung one of them books home.”

  “He don’t like t’ bring books home,” said Granny. “Seein’ as it must be special, I looked in it m’self.”

  “Well done!” said the vicar.

  “But I couldn’ make hide n’r hair of it.”

  Rooter’s eyes brightened. “I’ll teach y’!”

&
nbsp; Father Tim sat down on the wall. “I’ve got an idea, Rooter. What if we put you in charge of teaching the congregation one simple hand sign every Sunday? Something everyone can do. That way, we’ll all learn how to talk with Clarence.”

  Rooter looked astounded. “Y’ mean stand up in front of all ’em people an’ do what I jis’ done?”

  “Yes. Don’t you think so, Agnes?”

  “I do!”

  “Next Sunday, you could teach ‘How are you doing, man’—which you already know.”

  “Yep.” Rooter signed what the vicar had said.

  “The following Sunday, you could teach ‘See you later, man.’ And so on.Would that work for you?”

  “I ain’t standin’ up in front of no people. No way.”

  “Why not?” asked Father Tim.

  “‘Cause ...”—Rooter made a face—“’Cause they’d look at me.”

  “Right. Looking at you is the way they’d learn to talk to Clarence. Right now, the only people who talk to Clarence are his mother ... and you. And maybe me ... but only a little. Three people.”

  Rooter pondered this, then looked up at Agnes.

  “You’d have t’ do it with me.”

  “I’d be honored,” she said. “Come now, it’s time for worship.”

  The vicar saw his patient and affable crucifer waiting for him with the hand-carved cross. He signed the three words to Clarence, who grinned broadly and signed back. To Lloyd, standing by to ring the bell, he gave a thumbs-up.

  Bong ...

  Bong ...

  Bong ...

  The sound shimmered out from the tower, across the gorge and dappled ridges.

  Processing behind the cross to the altar, he realized he was missing Sissie.

  “Thirty minutes,” he said, checking his watch, “and you re on your way.

  “Thanks to everyone who prepared nourishment for today’s table of fellowship. I’ve had more than my share of such holy meals, and must tell you that today’s offering was as good as it gets.

  “I’d also like to thank those who enjoyed what was prepared and said so—that’s an important contribution in itself, as any cook can tell you.

  “Agnes informs me that this was Holy Trinity’s first official dinner on the grounds in ... how many years do you think, Rooter?”

  “A hundred!”

  “Good guess, Rooter. Miss Martha?”

  “Forty-three years!”

  “Forty-three years! And isn’t it wondrous, that at the time of His blessed resurrection, Holy Trinity should also rise out of death into new life? Alleluia! Or, as Granny might say, hallelujah!”

  Startled by unexpected recognition, Granny involuntarily lifted her hand and waved at the vicar.

  “I grew up, primarily, in the Baptist Church, and love that pronunciation as well. However you say it—and both ways are correct—it feels good to again utter that glorious word of praise. And speaking of words ...

  “This morning, the Baptists, Methodists, Lutherans, and Presbyterians worshipped in a sanctuary. You worshipped this morning in a nave, and you entered the nave through a narthex.

  “I see that Lloyd and Robert are sitting on the gospel side. And Agnes and the rest of you are sitting on the epistle side.

  “These and other unique words—and traditions—make us a little different at Holy Trinity. Before Agnes and I talk next Sunday about our prayer book and, for example, the great help you’ll find in the rubrics, we’ll talk today about this building, God’s house—which I believe we’ll all come to love as a true home ...”

  “This is his treasure, Father.”

  In the dark, cool interior of the woodworking shop, Clarence reverently lifted the lid of the burnished mahogany chest, and revealed the contents of early handmade tools.The vicar caught his breath.

  “W-wow,” said Sammy.

  “Ditto!” said Cynthia.

  Clarence signed to them as Agnes spoke the interpretation.

  “When Mama and I lived in Chicago, I went to a school for the deaf. I took a woodworking class and that’s when I knew I wanted to work wood for the rest of my life.”

  Father Tim noted the unmistakable joy on the face of his crucifer.

  “A really old man used to come and teach us special skills, like hand-carving a bowl instead of turning it on a lathe. He was ninety-four, and had this tool chest which he would bring to the shop for the students to look at. We couldn’t touch any of the tools. But I really wanted to.”

  Clarence removed a tool from the chest and handed it to Sammy. He handed another to Cynthia and one to Father Tim.

  “The man’s name was George Monk, and the chest had come down in his family of woodworkers from Sheffield, England. Somehow Mr. Monk thought I was pretty good at woodworking, and one day after everybody had left the shop, he let me take all the tools from the box and handle them. He talked about how they were used, and told me he thought I was ...”

  Clarence dropped his eyes to the chest, awkward.

  “Gifted!” Agnes explained. “He said Clarence was gifted.”

  His face flushed, Clarence signed again. “Mr. Monk didn’t have any children,” Agnes interpreted, “and when he died, the lawyer came over with the chest. I was eleven years old, it was the most important thing that ever happened to me.”

  Clarence appeared moved by this memory.

  “Mr. Monk said it was better than any tool chest he’d seen in museums,” explained Agnes. “We were deeply touched by his gesture of love and trust. Clarence says you’re holding a gouge, Father. Cynthia, that is a socket chisel ... do you see the maker’s mark, John Green, just there? Sammy, that’s a brad awl.”

  Clarence signed to Sammy.

  “It was used to bore pilot holes for nails. The handle is mahogany, the ferrule is beech. The handle feels really nice in the hand; it was probably used by four different woodworkers before Mr. Monk inherited it.”

  Sammy pointed. “W-what’s ’at?”

  Agnes’s fingers flew as she signed both questions and answers.

  “A homemade brace or bitstock, it’s for drilling holes.”

  “Do you use all ’is s-stuff when you work?”

  “I used a lot of these tools on the pulpit, and on Mama’s walking stick.”

  Father Tim was struck by the experience of Clarence’s woodworking shop; it was like nothing he’d never seen. Every tool hung in its place with others of its kind, including an assortment of bench planes, braces, hollows, and rounds; wooden shelves held bread trays and dough bowls of buckeye and poplar. A broom stood propped against a caned chair on a swept pine floor. In the corner, afternoon light slanted onto a mysterious wooden contraption with a grave and solemn dignity.

  Agnes leaned on her cane. “And over there is some of the lovely work inspired by Mr. Monk’s influence.”

  They turned to the rear wall where walking canes with carved handles hung in rows. Beneath the canes, a menagerie of carved animals was crowded onto a trestle table.

  The vicar picked up a black bear and held it in a shaft of light. He turned it this way and that, entranced. In truth, he’d never seen a bear—until now.

  “Clarence has made a gift for each of you,” said Agnes.

  Clarence began handing the gifts around.

  “For you, Father, a Gee-haw Whimmy Diddle. The Cherokee used it as a lie detector; Clarence will show you how to work it. For you, Cynthia, a Flipper Dinger, one tries to get the ball in the basket—and for you, Sammy, a Limber Jack who’ll dance on his board ’til the cows come home.We hope these old mountain toys will be a great lot of fun.”

  Cynthia was beaming. “I’m having fun just hearing the names!”

  As he left the churchyard, Father Tim took Agnes’s hand, his heart infused with a kind of joy he hadn’t known in years.

  “You and Rooter teaching sign language, the pair of us teaching the prayer book ... why, we’ll be a regular university up here!”

  “‘And now in age I bud again,’” she said, quo
ting their mutually well-favored poet.

  “‘I once more smell the dew and rain!’” he responded. “By the way, what was thirty-eight across? Baloney was the clue, as I recall.”

  “Utter nonsense!”

  “That would be a good clue for what the church is sometimes known to advocate.”

  Agnes’s ironic smile couldn’t be suppressed. “Surely you don’t dwell on that bitter subject.”

  “Certainly not!” he said, grinning.

  “Shall we take Sissie her Magic Markers and Violet books?” asked Cynthia as they clambered into the truck.

  He looked at Sammy, who was wedged between Cynthia and the passenger door. “Will your seeds sprout without you, buddy?”

  “Yeah. N-no problem.”

  Soon, he’d have to do with Sammy what he’d done with Dooley: begin the long and arduous trial of changing yeah into yes, sir and yes, ma’am and no into no, sir and no, ma’am. Such instruction had led to a battle royal with Dooley Barlowe, but for all the pain and aggravation on both their parts, the seed had sprouted and come to flower. Truth was, he should have discussed this with Sammy at the beginning ...

  “Consider it done!” he told his wife, turning left instead of right off the church lane.

  “Did you talk Sparkle out of her grandmother’s recipe?”

  “Right here,” he said, patting his jacket pocket. He would never put oatmeal in meat loaf again. No, indeed. Life was way too short.

  Sissie answered the door in a T-shirt, pajama bottoms, and her yellow shoes. Her eyes were reddened and puffy.

  “Mama’s sleepin’,” she said. “Granny’s here t’ make ‘er eat, but she won’t eat nothin’.”

  “You remember Cynthia.” His wife didn’t like formal titles; she was Cynthia to one and all.

  “Hey,” said Sissie, looking miserable.

  “Hey, yourself. I brought you the books I promised.” She handed Sissie copies of Violet Comes to Stay and Violet Goes to the Country.

  Sissie studied the covers, silent.

  “And here’s your Magic Markers.”

  Sissie took the box, fretful. “I don’ know what is Magi Markers.”