Light From Heaven Read online

  Hoppy packed the blood pressure cuff and zipped the bag. “It’s our secret, Dovey. Father Tim will be in touch; we’ll let you know what’s what. God bless you, stay strong. And God bless you, Granny.”

  “Hit was good of y’ t’ come, Doc.” Granny grinned, revealing pink gums. “Hit was good medicine f’r Dovey.”

  “Where in the world did you learn that song?” asked Father Tim, as they walked to their vehicles.

  “I was a hippie for about fifteen minutes; everybody sang ‘Shady Grove.’ ”

  “You should get out more often,” said the vicar.

  Dear Paster Kavanagah,

  Thank you for the nice letter you wrote to me. It was a comfort to hear about Dovey and Donny and little Sissie and to know the dog-woods was blooming good this year.

  I done a terribul thing to my loved ones the way they have sufferd. I will never get over the shame of it but God has let me know I am forgiven even for this terribul crime. Jesus feels near to me every day. There are times when he helps me with my Bible study lesson in knowing how to catch the meaning. Yes sir thank you we could use more Bibles. Ten or eleven would be about right.

  Thank you for caring about me and my family. I hope to see you one day. Pray for my children and little gran.

  Ruby Luster

  #10765L

  He showed the letter to Cynthia. “Paul and Moses were murderers, Rahab was a prostitute, David was an adulterer. The list goes on.”

  “Which only proves, darling, what you’re so fond of saying.”

  “Every saint has a past ...” he said.

  “And every sinner has a future.”

  He was taking a bag of greens to the chickens when he heard Sammy and his visiting brother and sister talking behind the smokehouse.

  “You better not say ‘ain’t’ aroun’ Dooley,” Poo warned.

  “Why not?” asked Sammy.

  “’Cause ’e don’t like it, ’at’s why. He says it makes people sound country.”

  “He says it makes people sound stupid,” corrected Jessie.

  “Whatever,” said Poo. “I don’ never say it around ’im n’more.

  “Yeah,” said Jessie, “but when he leaves, you jump up an’ down an’ holler, ain’t, ain’t, ain’t, ain’t!”

  “I like t’ say ’ain’t,’” Poo confessed.

  “If you don’ say ’ain’t,’ what d’you say?” asked Sammy.

  “‘Is not,’ ’are not.’ Right, Jess?”

  “Right,” said Jessie.

  Father Tim tossed the greens through the top wire. By the grace of God, he’d kept his mouth shut on this particular subject. Out of the mouths of babes ...

  “Dooley, he says ‘yes, sir,’ ‘thank y’,’ ‘please,’ an’ all ’at ol’ stuff.” Poo sounded affronted. “He learned it at school.”

  “Mama an’ Buck makes me an’ Poo say ’yes, sir’ and ’yes, ma’am’; when you come t’ live with us, you’ll have t’ say it, too.”

  “I ain’t comin’ t’ live with you.”

  “Why ain’t you?” asked Poo.

  “’Cause I ain’t.”

  “Don’t then!” Jessie’s voice was shrill. “We don’t care if you do or not!”

  Father Tim saw her round the corner of the smokehouse, head down. He tossed in the last of the greens and caught up as she stomped toward the porch.

  “BLTs, lemonade, and apple pie with ice cream ... coming up!” he said. “What do you think?”

  “I think Sammy’s a big, dumb creep.”

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  < And—because of the hyphen, tax-deductible is charged as one word, it’s your lucky day!!!

 
 
  “But who’ll play it?” asked his wife.

  “Cynthia, Cynthia! If we provide it, somebody will come along who plays it. Mark my word.”

  “Consider it marked,” she said.

  “Sammy!” He knocked on the bedroom door. “What’s going on?”

  “Watchin’ TV.”

  “I can’t find anything to watch. What did you find?”

  “Pool.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They have pool on TV?”

  “Yeah.”

  He stood and gazed at the screen. Pool on TV!

  “She’s got to make a 1-long sh-shot,” said Sammy.

  Women shooting pool! Amazing.

  “May I watch with you?”

  “Yeah.” Sammy got up and removed a pile of unfolded laundry from the other chair.

  “Thanks,” said Father Tim, making himself comfortable.

  Sammy’s eyes were glued to the screen. “No problem.”

  Cynthia was beaming as she undressed for bed. “Sammy and I talked today.”

  “And?”

  “And the Holy Spirit gave us a wonderful Sunday School lesson. I’m thrilled! We’ll go over it with you later.”

  “No clues now?”

  “We’re still polishing.”

  “How did he feel about doing it?”

  “I think he likes the idea.”

  A certain hope kindled in him.

  “The kitchen was dreadful today,” she said. “Maybe we should walk out to the barn after supper tomorrow. I can’t imagine working there, really; it sounds romantic, but surely it wouldn’t be. Aren’t there mice in barns?”

  “You could take Violet with you; let that girl do an honest day’s work for a change!”

  She turned back the spread and gave their down pillows a good wallop. “In any case, we’re having my new and revised fries tomorrow night. Dooley comes home in four days, and with this one further experiment, I’m sure they’ll be fabulous.”

  “If it ain’t broke, Kavanagh ...”

  She ignored his wisdom, and crawled into bed. “Burgers with blue cheese ... and cole slaw, Puny’s recipe.”

  “Count me in,” he said, sitting on the side of the bed to remove his socks. “I’ll be home in time to grate the cabbage.”

  The time had arrived to stop “drumming up business,” as Lloyd called it, and get down to the fine particulars of ministering to their flock. Thus, today’s round of Wilson’s Ridge and environs would be the last for a while.

  “Want to come?” he asked Barnabas.

  Was the pope Catholic?

  He and Barnabas were trotting to the truck when Lloyd hailed him.

  “You asked me t’ keep a’ eye out for y’r boy.”

  “I did.”

  “He’s been smokin’ in th’ barn. Thought you ought t’ know that, bein’ that’s one way to lose a barn.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “I seen ‘im light up a couple of times when he was walkin’ over there. Then, too, I got a nose for it. Since I give it up twenty years ago, I can smell t‘bacco smoke far as th’ wind’ll carry it.”

  “Thanks, Lloyd.”

&
nbsp; “I know smokin’s off-limits around here; Buster sets in th’ truck to smoke. It’s awful hard to get good help, so I don’t say nothin’. I hope that’s all right.”

  What to do? Find Sammy and deal with it now? Or get up to Wilson’s Ridge and talk to Sammy this evening? George Macdonald had put a fine point on it:

  “You have a disagreeable duty to do at twelve o’clock. Do not blacken nine and ten and eleven, and all between, with the color of twelve ...”

  “Have you seen him this morning?”

  “He’s grubbin’ manure out of th’ henhouse. For y’r okra patch.”

  He was struck by this comment. How could he do what he had to do with a boy who was mucking chicken manure to satisfy a culinary whim of Timothy Kavanagh’s?

  “He’s lucky to have you to kick ’is butt,” said Lloyd. “I wish my daddy’d kicked mine; might of saved me a whole lot of grief.”

  Tough love is what they called it these days. But tough for who?

  For both parties, it seemed to him.

  He stopped on the path to the chicken house.

  If he nailed Sammy for smoking, Sammy would know he’d been spied on. Who was doing the spying—Willie? Cynthia? Lloyd? Buster? He wouldn’t be able to trust anyone at Meadowgate.

  He’d give to Sammy Barlowe what God had given time and time again to Tim Kavanagh: grace.

  He’d also ask God to keep the barn from burning down in the process.

  He screeched into Jubal’s yard and turned off the ignition.

  “Stay,” he said to Barnabas.

  Jubal had seen him coming; as he walked toward the porch, the door opened.

  “Jubal? It’s Father Tim.”

  Suddenly, he heard his dog lumbering up behind him.

  “No, Barnabas! Go back!” A scripture, a scripture! His mind was a blank.

  “Lord God A’mighty!” Jubal Adderholt was brandishing a pistol and yelling at the top of his lungs.

  “Don’t shoot, Jubal! Don’t shoot!”

  Barnabas hit the porch with such force as to rattle the windows. Standing on his hind legs and wagging his tail, he slammed his front paws onto Jubal’s shoulders.

  “Lord he’p me an’ save me!” shouted the old man, staggering back.

  “I am crucified with Christ!” pronounced the vicar. “Nevertheless I live! Yet not I, but Christ liveth in me ...”

  His dog sank slowly to all fours.

  “And the life which I now live in the flesh, I live by the grace of the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me!” Father Tim’s heart was pounding as he polished off the verse from Galatians 2:22.

  Barnabas lay sprawled on the porch floor.

  “I’m sorry, Jubal, please forgive us. My goodness, he hasn’t done such a thing in years. It must be the squirrel tails. Are you all right? I think he likes you.”

  “Likes me? Hit’s a good thing he didn’ git ’is head blowed off.”

  “He’s harmless, I promise. Just overly friendly.”

  “I was jis’ startin’ t’ clean m’ snake pistol when I seen ye drive up. What in th’ nation do ye want with me, now? I cain’t hardly git a minute’s peace since you‘uns opened up y’r church.”

  “Just stopping by to say hello, see how things are going.”

  “Set down.” Jubal wagged his gun at the sofa, newly delivered from its winter tarpaulin.

  He sat.

  “Where’s Miss Agnes at?”

  “She’s got a stiff knee.”

  Jubal looked petulant. “I reckon she’s done f’rgot about me.”

  “Oh, no, she wouldn’t forget about you, not by a long shot. How’s th’ squirrel business?”

  “May’s m’ cut-off date, but hit’s been s’ cold, I’ll be a-shootin’ squirrel f’r another week or two.”

  “Your gun ...”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s, ah, pointing at me.”

  “They ain’t nothin’ in it, far as I know.” Jubal aimed the pistol above his head and pulled the trigger. Click. “That’s one empty chamber f’r ye.”

  The vicar bolted to his feet. “We’ve caused enough trouble for one day, we’ll just be pushing on.”

  “Ye ain’t got ary eggs, are ye?”

  “No eggs today. Next time. I promise.” That gun was waving around in his face for a fare-thee-well; he was out of here.

  “Ye wouldn’ be goin’ by Miss Martha, would ye?”

  “I would, I would. Directly by.”

  “I shot two squirrel this mornin’ b’fore th’ dew was off; they’re done skinned out, nice an’ meaty. I could send ’em with ye ...”

  “I’m sure Miss Martha wouldn’t want to take food off your table.”

  “They’s more where them come from.”

  “Well, then, I’ll be glad to make a delivery!” Father Tim had suspected all along that a big heart beat beneath Jubal Adderholt’s beard.

  “Course ye know I’ll be expectin’ somethin’ from Miss Martha.”

  “Aha.”

  “An’ I’d be obliged if ye’d drop it off on y’r way back.”

  How he got himself in this mess, he couldn’t figure. He had to haul out of there securing a poke of squirrels between his feet, with his dog going nuts in the passenger seat.

  And, of course, Miss Martha wasn’t at home.

  He couldn’t leave this particular offering stuck in the screen door like a morning newspaper. Indeed, today’s high was predicted to be in the seventies, and what if the sisters didn’t come home ’til the afternoon?

  “Lord have mercy!” he said aloud, quoting Granny.

  “I hate that y’ found out about m’ drinkin’. Sissie says she tol’ you.

  “Tells ever’thing, that young’un. I’d ‘preciate it if you wouldn’t preach me a sermon, I’ve done preached m’self half t’ hell an’ back.

  “Ever’thing’ll go along good for a while, then somethin’ happens, I cain’t even tell y’ what it is. It’s like goin’ down th’ road and all at once th’ road jis’ drops off a cliff. I see th’ drop comin’ but like a fool I keep walkin’.

  “I want t’ quit, I’ve prayed t’ quit, I’ve tried t’ quit, but I keep fallin’ off th’ cliff. An’ besides th’ worser thing of lettin’ th’ Lord down, I don’ have time t’ mess with alcohol, I got a b’iness t’ run. Th’ way things is goin’ with havin’ t’ take care of Dovey an’ Sissie, it’s root hog or die.”

  Donny leaned his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands.

  “My daddy was th’ worst sot you ever seen, an’ you know what th’ Ol’Testament says about th’ sins of th’ fathers. But I believe God t’ be a merciful God, otherwise he wouldn’ve sent Jesus. I b’lieve th’ sins of th’ fathers runs in us like poison, but we’re not bound. He was willin’ t’ die f’r us on th’ cross so we wouldn’t be bound, but set free.”

  Indeed, Donny had preached him a sermon; one that Madelaine Kavanagh, his mother, would have called the gospel truth.

  “Can I go on y’r rounds? Can I?” She stood on her tiptoes and held her arms out to him.

  “Not today, Sissie.” He bent down and picked her up. “Whoa, you’re growing!”

  “I ain’t a baby n’more, that’s why.”

  “I’m glad your mother’s sleeping. How’s she feeling?”

  “She don’t hardly sleep at night, she sleeps mostly in th’ day.”

  His heart felt heavy against the child in his arms, against the things of the world in general.

  “We’ll look for at you at church on Sunday. We’re having our first Sunday School, you know.”

  Sissie furrowed her brow. “Are they cake at Sunday School?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He set her down, and squatted beside her. “May I pray for you, Sissie?”

  She bowed her head; he placed his hand upon it.

  “Father, I thank You for the marvel of Sissie Gleason. For her bright spirit, her inquisitive mind, her tender heart. Thank You for blessing her l
ife above anything I could ask or think. Prepare a way for her, Lord, that she might become all You made her to be. In Jesus’ name ...”

  Sissie squeezed her eyes shut. “An’ Lord, please make Mama better, make Donny quit drinkin’, bring Mamaw Ruby home, an’ give us cheese dogs f’r supper t’night.”

  “Amen!” they said in unison.

  He was feeling suddenly brighter.

  While at the trailer, he’d parked in the shade, set the bag of squirrels under the truck, and made sure the windows were rolled high enough to contain his dog.

  He looked at his watch as he pulled out of Donny’s yard. He had no idea how long his cargo had sat in Jubal’s kitchen before he picked it up forty-five minutes ago.

  He applied his lead foot to the accelerator and hauled to Hank Triplett’s store at the crossroads.

  “Do you have a freezer I could put this bag in, and maybe pick it up later in the day?”

  “What’s in y’r bag?”

  “Two squirrels. Dressed.”

  Hank pondered this. “Don’t think that’d be too good. I mean they’s ice cream san‘wiches an’ all in there.”

  “Right. Well.” He smoked over the shelves and bought pretzels, chips, Snickers, assorted crackers, and a lump of what country stores call rat cheese. He also exchanged the paper bag for a plastic bag and dumped ice in on the contents, managing not to look.

  “See you and Sally on Sunday, I hope.”

  “We’ll be there,” said Hank, looking pleased about it.

  He knocked on five doors, only one of which was slammed in his face, but lacked courage to approach the sixth, which sat in the midst of a private junkyard. He also stuffed seven mailboxes, and posted flyers on nine telephone poles. On the way to the schoolhouse, he stopped to offer a ride to an elderly man who was walking along the right-hand side of the road in a pair of overalls and a battered hat.