A Light in the Window Read online

  "I'll wear it! If you'll wear that bluejacket."

  "Deal," he said, excited as a boy.

  "I think the world of Dooley!" said Miss Pearson, his music teacher. He had crept into her little house like a sneak thief, thinking he'd rather be horsewhipped than spotted by Myra Hayes, who lived only a block away.

  "Yes, but he's gotten in a lot of trouble, lately."

  "I know," she said, looking forlorn. "But he's working so hard and he's so talented. I believe in him, you see. It would be grand if he could go away to a fine school and have all the privileges."

  "Mitford School is itself a privilege, but if we can...it will be for the best. Would you write a letter to whom it may concern?"

  "Without question," she said, immediately picking up her pen. "I'll do it this minute.'And Father...?"

  "Yes?"

  "Please don't tell Miss Hayes I did this."

  "Mum's the word," he said.

  Louise Appleshaw would appear at the rectory the first Wednesday after school closed, and tutoring would begin at once.

  He had talked with her on the phone, and though she certainly lived up to her reputation for being stern, he put his head down and pushed along.

  She was the best, they all said, and he'd better snap her up at once or make do with leftovers.

  He wrote a check covering the first three afternoons of tutelage and the books she required, mailed it, and put the whole thing out of his mind, greatly relieved.

  Ever since he returned from Ireland, he'd been tripping over the sack of family records in his walkin closet.

  Who else would trip over a sack for better than nine months? The habit of procrastination was something he roundly despised, yet he was, as Coot Hendrick might say, "eat up" with it.

  He dragged the sack to the foot of his bed and sat on the floor and opened it.

  Postcards, old family letters trustingly lent by Erin Donovan, photographs given him by that dear old neighbor of Erin's whose grandfather had known his...

  He pored over the dim image of his grandfather as a young man, standing upright and unsmiling in the midst of a field, with a hunting dog at his heels. Was his own face forecast in the face that looked out at him?

  He set it aside to show Dooley and Cynthia.

  He rifled through the bag, glad to be in touch with all that he'd felt and learned in Sligo, the love that had poured in, and the kindnesses he'd been shown. He caught himself wondering if he'd done the right thing by Meg Patrick, but refused to wonder. Of course he had.

  Who had she stayed with in Massachusetts? Riley Kavanagh? He'd always wanted to call Riley, who once sent him a book at Christmas.

  Where was the bound document with the family names and addresses in it? At the bottom, of course. He pulled it out and looked up Kavanagh, then looked at his watch. The rates were just going down. Perfect.

  He sat on the side of the bed and dialed.

  "Hullo?"

  "Hello, is this Riley Kavanagh?"

  "Speaking."

  He introduced himself and reminded his cousin of the Christmas book, and they set off talking at a pace. He gave him the full details of the tea at Erin Donovan's, trying to recall as many names as he could to satisfy Riley's excited curiosity.

  "And then of course, Cousin Meg has been here for...an extended visit."

  Riley let out a whoop of laughter that nearly deafened him, then shouted: "He's got Cousin Meg! He's got Cousin Meg!"

  Hysterical laughter erupted in the background. He had never heard such uncontrolled hooting.

  "Riley!" he yelled into the phone.

  "Oh, heaven help us!" said Riley, gasping for breath. "You do mean the Cousin Meg who eats like a trencherman?"

  "The same."

  "Room like a pigsty? Eyes like a barn owl?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "How long have you had her?"

  "Well, I...she's just left. Two months."

  "Two months!" Riley shouted into the background. "He's had 'er for two months!"

  More raucous, kneeslapping laughter, then he heard someone say, "Poor soul. How's 'is blood pressure?"

  "Riley..."

  "Forgive us, Tim. If laughter heals as they say it does, I'm a well man for life. You don't know about Cousin Meg?" Riley blew his nose roundly.

  "What's to know?"

  "What's to know, he wants to know!" A veritable throng of eavesdroppers broke into convulsions. No wonder Cynthia Coppersmith had developed the habit of hanging up on people. They could be a blasted nuisance.

  "God help us!" Riley said, returning at last to the conversation. "Where shall I begin?"

  "At the beginning," he said, tersely.

  "Cousin Meg is a bloody fraud! She's not even a cousin."

  "No!"

  "Yes, indeed. Has a hookup with somebody in Sligo who lets her know which poor cousins have been stumbling around the local graveyards looking for their roots, and from all I can gather, she goes from socalled cousin to cousin without a bloody dime in her pocket. She's a professional Irish cousin, you might say. But that's not the worst."

  He was afraid to ask. "What's the worst?"

  "He wants to know what's the worst!" Riley exploded with laughter yet again, which set off another earsplitting clamor in the background.

  He tapped his foot, waiting, his face growing redder and his collar growing tighter. What the deuce...

  "The worst of it," said Riley, "is she's not even Irish!"

  "Not even Irish?"

  Something began to bubble up in him. It was the strangest mixture of feelings. What in heaven's name was it? It finally emerged and revealed itself.

  It was laughter.

  "Never set foot in Ireland, as far as we can learn," said Riley. "Her hookup in Sligo mails those letters that say she's coming, from over the pond. She made the rounds with four of us for seven months. You got off light."

  Once he started laughing, he couldn't stop. In fact, he was rolling on the fioor, clasping the telephone to his ear, and trying to find the breath to apologize—though, come to think of it, why should he?

  •CHAPTER TWENTY•

  JUNE

  When he turned the page of the desk calendar and saw that fourletter word emblazoned across the top of the overleaf, he took a deep breath.

  Hold on to your hat, he warned himself.

  "Jis' say yes," said Puny, beaming.

  "Yes," he said, beaming back. "I'll be honored to do it. But must I give you away entirely?"

  "I keep tellin' you I'm comin' back!"

  "I keep needing reassurance."

  "You're a big baby." He supposed she was right, as usual.

  He took the brooch to Wesley for cleaning and repairs.

  He waited until the rates went down and called Tiffany's, ordering two wedding gifts and taking the news of the total cost like a man.

  He bought a rubber mask of a duck and hid it in his bureau drawer. As soon as Tommy's headaches subsided, he had every intention of making him laugh like a hyena.

  He tried to correct his tendency to procrastinate by jotting down a dinner menu for the bishop and Martha on the evening of the fourteenth, which would follow Puny's afternoon wedding and precede the confirmation service and the bishops brunch—for which he'd recklessly promised to bake a ham.

  He searched for free dates among the jumble of entries on his calendar, then called two schools and arranged visits. It was putting the cart before the horse, since Dooley hadn't done the SATs, but there was no time to waste. He knew the boy could make the cut in math and had to believe the tutoring would bring him around in verbal skills. Getting him in the right school by fall was a seat-of-the-pants, wing-and-a-prayer deal, no two ways about it.

  Finally, he apprised Dooley of some social obligations.

  "We'll be going to Puny and Joe Joe's wedding and also to the Harper wedding and reception."

  "Mush."

  "In fact, we're buying you a new jacket this very day. A navy blazer!" he said with pride.
"You'll look..." He recalled the word the Collar Button man had used to sell him last year's sport coat, "...stunning."

  "Double mush!" said Dooley.

  He was on his way to the Grill for lunch when he remembered there was no Grill.

  He fled his office anyway.

  At the door of the Oxford Antique Shop, Andrew Gregory was sitting on an early eighteenthcentury bench next to a late nineteenthcentury urn from Sussex.

  "Father! Turn in and visit."

  "And add another antique to the jumble?"

  The handsome Andrew threw back his head and laughed. "I've been waiting for you to come along. I have a glorious art book you'd like to see."

  "I'd do well to replace lunch with a feast for the eyes."

  "You're looking terrific, actually. In fact, I hear that..." Andrew paused discreetly.

  "Yes?"

  "...you and your neighbor may be getting married."

  "I've heard that very rumor myself. You know how small towns are."

  "I'm afraid I do. In any case, if it were true, I wanted to say you're a very lucky man."

  He. smiled and nodded. "If it were true, I'd have to agree."

  "Have a cup of minestrone with me. I fumbled around and made it from a family recipe. You can sit by the window at my prize Georgian dining table and have a go at the book."

  How could he refuse?

  As the warm June sunlight streamed through the windows of the Oxford, he sat at the mahogany table, contentedly turning the pages of a book on early religious art, unmindful of time.

  It was another volume, however, that captured his attention. In a stack of books on one of the dining chairs, he found it.

  It was a glorious celebration of the chambered nautilus, from medieval times to the turn of the century. Brilliant scientific drawings and artists' renderings sought to capture the mysterious beauty of the handsomest denizen of the mollusk kingdom.

  Excited, he paid Andrew and went on his way, refreshed.

  Sixty dollars for lunch! Ah well, he thought, tempo i denaro, whatever that meant.

  Tommy would be home from the hospital around the time Louise Appleshaw began her afternoon tutoring sessions. That would relieve them of the drive to Wesley and allow Dooley a quick visit to Tommy's house between Miss Appleshaw and dinner.

  Dooley felt called to minister to his friend, cheer him on, and tough it out by his side. He was even giving a hand with some light schoolwork. Seeing Tommy's alarming brush with death and feeling the guilt of helping it happen had made Dooley more reflective, less hostile. Clearly, Tommy's leg was good for Dooley's heart.

  He had to miss Louise Appleshaw's first visit because of a three o'clock funeral. Thankfully, her first visit did not stipulate dinner.

  When he came home, he found the boy sitting at the study desk, facing a tangle of books and papers and looking disconsolate.

  "How'd it go?"

  "I'm about t' gag," said Dooley.

  "Well, hang in there."

  "Have you seen 'er?"

  "Who?"

  "That ol' teacher that come in here t'day and messed up my mind."

  "I have not seen her. We spoke on the phone."

  "Here's her picture," said Dooley, who grabbed a felt-tipped pen and angrily drew a long face, a pointed nose, a furrowed brow, and a slash for a mouth.

  "That looks like a witch," he said, laughing.

  "You got that right."

  "Dooley, for Pete's sake, loosen up and learn something new. If you're going to get ahead in this world, you've got to speak and write the King's English. It's that simple." Blast it, he'd already fought this battle.

  "I don't want t' go t' that ol' school, no way."

  "Anyway! And stop making up your mind ahead of the facts. We're going next week to visit Elmhurst, right after Puny's wedding."

  "I don't want t' go t' no mushy weddin', either."

  "Go see Tommy," he snapped, "and get back in time for dinner. While you're at it, work on your attitude."

  He watched Dooley walk across the backyard and through the hedge to Baxter Park. The little creep, he thought. I love him better every day.

  It was amazing. Louise Appleshaw looked exactly like Dooley's drawing. He would have recognized her anywhere.

  She looked so stern he thought he'd warm up the introduction. "Louise..." he said, extending his hand.

  "I don't believe you should call me by my Christian name."

  "Of course..."

  "We wouldn't want your parishioners to talk, since we're both unmarried and thrown together in the intimacy of the home environment."

  He felt a positive wrench in his stomach. What was worse, he had to make dinner for this person.

  "I got a stomach cramp," said Dooley, whose eyes looked bloodshot.

  "Me, too," said the rector. They were still sitting in the kitchen, unable to move since Louise Appleshaw had risen from the table and insisted on seeing herself to the door.

  "I hate 'at ol bat."

  "Let me ask you something," he said wearily. "Can you say 'I hate that old bat? Try it, just like I said it."

  "I hate that old bat."

  "Well done. Who needs a tutor?"

  Dooley looked mournful.

  "Tell me you're not going to the hardware store."

  "I ain't goin' to th' hardware store."

  "Wrong."

  "I'm not going to the hardware store," said Dooley.

  "Right."

  "Why don't you teach me?"

  "You don't need teaching as much as you need to shape up and get conscious of the problem. Think before you speak, and you can improve yourself."

  "Lots of people say ain't."

  "Never mind." He was exhausted. And since Louise Appleshaw was allergic to anything with barley, oats, raisins, nuts, pineapple, white flour, sugar, cow's milk, carob, chocolate, dates, leeks, cabbage, lima beans, beef, pork, and tomatoes, what in the name of heaven was he going to do about dinner on Friday?

  He had a word of wisdom so full of meaning that he called the boy on the phone.

  "Think of it this way. If you put your head down and give it all you've got, it'll be over before you know it. If you let it get to you, you'll suffer, I'll suffer, Barnabas will suffer. What's the point?"

  Dooley was silent, thinking. He had learned when his silences were thoughtful, when they were hostile, and when they were mindless.

  "This hurts me worse than it hurts you, pal. I've got to do the cooking. What should we feed her tonight?"

  "Rat tonsils, snake bellies, and frog puke."

  "OK, that's her menu. What about ours?"

  Dooley laughed. Bingo! "Hamburgers all the way and french fries."

  "Deal," he said.

  No, there was not another English tutor around, except for a student at Wesley college, who, according to one report, was tattooed all over. He might as well swallow his own advice: Put your head down, Timothy, and give it all you've got.

  The wedding gifts arrived, wrapped in the signature blue paper and simple white ribbon. One detail down and two hundred to go, he thought, taking his dark suit from the closet. He'd lost so much weight since those heedless days before the big D...

  He tried the suit on and stood before the mirror. Not bad. Slap a boutonniere on the lapel, and it would look good as new.

  He went to the alcove window and saw the glow of her bedroom lamp under the eaves.

  He wished she were here, sitting in the wing chair. She would know whether the suit needed taking in or whether it would get by with a pressing. Besides, he wanted to show her the picture of his grandfather and ask if she saw any resemblance.

  It meant something to him to resemble somebody. He hadn't looked like his mother, who was beautiful, or his father, who was handsome. "Wood-pile kid," some unkind neighbor had once been heard to say.

  In any case, why did he suddenly need someone to help him make, the sort of simple decision he'd made quite alone all his life?

  The truth was, he didn't
need someone to do it; he wanted someone do it.

  He received that truth as a minor revelation.

  "Dooley!" He stood at his bedroom door and called across the hall. The guest room door stood open, thanks be to God, and was not only empty of his fraudulent cousin but clean as a pin. He hoped Puny Bradshaw was not lying in the emergency room at Wesley Hospital from having tackled the nastiest job since the Boer War. He had given her an extra twenty-five dollars, which had made her eyes light up, but only feebly.

  "What?" said Dooley, coming into the hall.

  "Please step in here a minute. I'd like your advice."

  Dooley walked in, glowering.

  "What the dickens are you glowering about?"

  "You ought t' see th' homework she give me."

  "She what you?"

  "Gave me!" said Dooley, raising his voice.

  "You don't need to raise your voice to speak proper English," he said grumpily. "What about this suit? Is it too baggy?"

  Dooley walked around him as if he were the Willard Porter statue on the lawn of the town museum. "You look huge."

  "Huge? Are you sure?"

  "You look huge in the waist."

  Rats! The last place anyone wanted to look huge. "All right, I'll take it in for alterations. Let me see you again in your blazer."

  Dooley didn't waste a minute stepping across the hall to put the new blazer over his striped pajamas.

  "Cool," said the rector. "Here's the tie I'm giving you to go with it."

  "Tie? I have to wear a tie?"

  "You have to wear a tie."

  "Gag."

  "Gag all you want. You're wearing a tie."

  "Puke."

  "Gag and puke. What a vocabulary."

  "I'm going to bed," said Dooley.

  "Good riddance," said the rector, "and say your prayers."

  Homeless greeted him at the door.

  "Come in! Come in! You must have a nose like a beagle—th' coffees just perked."

  Barnabas bounded into the small room on the red leash, his own nose to the floor. "He's looking for Barkless!" said the rector.