To Be Where You Are Read online

  He checked his watch. Two-fifteen in the afternoon. The fact that he’d loaded his plate today at the Cunningham party was not helping; he’d like to crawl up on his desk and saw a little wood. But no—this train was moving.

  He could see it. Single-fold, four-color process cover. Big headline, full-page story with major photo.

  Two years ago, he paid his features writer, Vanita Bentley, to do obits on all the important people in Mitford, a labor that gouged a few bucks out of his pocket, thank you very much. Plus she had gone into the Muse files and pulled photos to accompany the obits.

  They had Tim Kavanagh’s obit, of course—when he kicked, that would be a big one, and a piece on his wife, who was a famous children’s book author and illustrator, and Esther Cunningham, their former eight-term mayor, and Andrew Gregory, current mayor, plus Winnie Ivey of Sweet Stuff, MPD chief Joe Joe Guthrie, you name it.

  So the obit deal was nailed, including one for J. C. Hogan, editor of the Mitford Muse, with a backstory on his youthful days as a paper boy plus a photo with his Schwinn. There was, of course, one for his wife, Adele Hogan, Mitford’s first female police officer, now MPD captain, who, he liked to remind her, was too mean to die, just kidding. And yes, they definitely had an obit for Esther Bolick, including a shot with her famous cake, a three-layer number. All he had to add were the essentials—headline, circumstances of death, funeral home, viewing hours, the usual.

  He would like to pop this landmark edition in the mail, but by the time it arrived in a PO box, the news would be cold. So he had to strike while the iron was hot and send out the two delivery trucks. Not to his entire demographic of three counties, no; he would limit distribution to Mitford environs, where the deceased was known. His chair creaked as he swiveled. The distribution cutback would mean giving a few discounts to advertisers, so a special edition would be costly in every way. He’d have to sell major ad space, pronto.

  Okay! The inside spread would be all ads.

  They could be tribute ads like We love you, Esther, rest in peace, set in a flowery script. He could sell that to the Woolen Shop in a heartbeat. Or Condolences from your friends at Lew Boyd’s Exxon, your friendly one-stop for gas, air, snacks, tobacco, hot sandwiches, you name it. He would set that in Times Roman Bold, with a coupon for a free refill on wiper fluid. Esther had pumped her own gas at Lew Boyd’s Exxon for decades; Lew would definitely spring for a piece of the action.

  He wished he could sell the back cover as a full page. But none of the turkeys in this town would go for a full page, no way, not even at the ridiculously low rate of five hundred bucks. The full pages he had sold in this lifetime could be counted on one hand. His competition was not the Wesley Highlander or the Charlotte Observer, which Florida people mainly subscribed to, it was the old-fashioned, totally reliable WOM, word of mouth. Fancy Skinner, for one, couldn’t care less about mainstream advertising. Now retired, she had built her business via the grapevine just like her sister, Shirlene, who was making a killing off that tricked-up spray tan machine.

  He would call Mayor Gregory’s restaurant, Lucera, and speak with his Italian brother-in-law who was head chef. That crowd had big money, they just didn’t talk about it. A back page would be a great investment for a restaurant with an Italian name nobody could pronounce.

  If push came to shove, which it probably would, he’d have to wrangle eighth-pages for the back cover. Wanda’s Feel Good Café—there was somebody else who ran a business on WOM. Wanda Basinger had run one ad and one only; she was a bloody tough nut to crack. He’d remind her that he’d personally seen Esther Bolick having lunch there at least twice. Come on, show some respect for the departed.

  Village Shoes—he’d have to cut Abe a special deal, of course. Fifteen percent, given limited distribution, but not a penny more. Then there was the Local.

  Avis Packard was no fan of advertising. His idea of a strategic campaign was to tape a sheet of butcher paper to the window and print RED POTATOES $1.05 LB with a felt marker. But this was a special edition, for crap’s sake, and Esther was a primary figure in this town. The merchants needed to come together on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  He swiveled around to his console and riffled through the Rolodex, which hadn’t been organized alphabetically since 1996. That was the year he hired and fired an assistant features writer for using the s word in an interview with a construction worker about limited job opportunities in the highlands. ‘It was a quote,’ said the idiot writer. ‘I didn’t say it, don’t blame me.’

  The Local was filed under T for The; the Woolen Shop under L for Lois, the manager. He located the Feel Good Café under W for Wanda. He was accustomed to pounding the pavement to sell ads, but this time it would be phone contact all the way.

  He was feeling nauseated. The special edition had to hit the street tomorrow, period. What were the burial plans, who was the officiant—Father Brad, of course, as Esther was a member of the Frozen Chosen, though somebody at last week’s prayer breakfast said Father Brad was in Colorado running the rapids, or was it a marathon? He would get the details from Father Tim, who always seemed to know everything even though he was out to pasture.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t lean on Vanita Bentley, who was vacationing in Tennessee, during which time she would produce a lead story on Dollywood and the Great Smokies. He was planning to debut a travel section next month—‘Meandering with the Muse’—though his wife thought it was a dumb idea, since people in Mitford never went anywhere.

  He reminded her that since the Grill closed, Percy and Velma had been on not one but two cruises. Two! Never went anywhere? How about Esther and Ray Cunningham, who had traveled around the country in their RV and smoked a peace pipe with Indians? And Irene McGraw, who had been to Europe many times? She was a year-rounder now, sold off her fancy Florida mansion to live full-time in Mitford. So come on. Mitford was very much in the travel game.

  Down the street, the Lord’s Chapel bells chimed three o’clock. He didn’t enjoy being reminded of the time right now.

  He plucked further names from the Rolodex, remembering that the special edition and upcoming travel section would be his last hurrah. He was planning to retire January first, quit while he was ahead, though he hadn’t said anything to anybody, not even Adele.

  But bringing off these two ideas practically back-to-back had him pumped; it was like being in the newspaper business back in the day when editors drank a fifth of bourbon before lunch and wrote late into the night on a Smith Corona.

  And how about the lead story for next week? Full coverage of Esther Cunningham’s birthday celebration at the country club, which everybody and his brother attended, including the lieutenant governor with his girlfriend, who was of foreign extraction.

  A special edition, a travel section, and next week’s birthday-bash front page—all practically in one pop!

  He lined up the Rolodex cards.

  He couldn’t believe that just a few days ago, he’d made a decision to throw in the towel.

  Retirement?

  For sissies.

  He went to the coffee machine and brewed a little extra caffeine for the road ahead. As he set the mug on his desk, ha! There it was. The headline. It just popped out!

  Using his forefingers, he typed it into his computer document.

  Mitford . . . Says . . . Goodbye . . .

  To . . . Beloved . . . Town . . . Monument.

  He swiveled around in his chair, which pitched to the right, and put his feet up on the desk that some people unkindly referred to as the Dumpster and—first things first—speed-dialed Father Tim.

  • • •

  No, Father . . . at all, it’s . . . absolutely . . . by me.’

  Father Brad was breaking up. He was said by a Lord’s Chapel parishioner to be ‘out west in a canyon.’

  ‘It’s what by you?’

  ‘Fine, just fine. Gr
eat! Esther . . . you to do it, the attorney . . . her last will and testament.’

  ‘You’re breaking up!’ said Father Tim.

  ‘I’ll move to another rock.’ Wind blowing, voices shouting, something roaring.

  ‘What would the bishop think?’ he yelled into the phone. Bishops didn’t like a priest flapping about in the old parish like a maverick crow. Besides, the last time he’d been in the Lord’s Chapel pulpit, he had bawled like an infant. Embarrassing.

  ‘For one thing, there’s no reason . . . bish . . . to know. Remember he offered you . . . interim . . . don’t think you need . . . concerned . . . ’

  ‘You’re sure, then, that I won’t be interfering?’

  ‘I . . . owe you . . . greatly. Thank . . .’

  ‘Sure. Right. Okay. Are you having a good time, then? Out in the wild?’

  ‘Wonderful. My girls . . . husbands . . . a blessing. Mary Ellen . . . Maybe . . . Mash-up . . . December. If you know . . . would be good fodder for . . . wake-up call. This time . . . young women.’

  ‘I’ll think about it!’

  ‘Maybe you and Cynthia . . . join . . . ?’

  ‘We’ll pass on that, thanks!’

  A strong blow buffeting Father Brad’s laughter.

  ‘Safe travels, my friend. See you back here in a week.’

  ‘God . . . with you!’

  ‘And also with you!’

  Good heavens, he was practically hoarse from yelling across the better part of a continent.

  He wondered what Father Brad had been saying about Mary Ellen, the lovely Boston widow he met at Dooley and Lace’s wedding in June. He hated to lose that part of the conversation to the caprice of a canyon wind.

  As for Father Brad’s famous Snow Camp Mash-up for troubled teens, he had been there, done that, and upon arriving home, caked with mud, half starved and exhausted, completely agreed with his wife in what the raven had so judiciously quoted.

  • • •

  Grace Murphy felt really guilty for doing it, but she could not help it.

  While her teacher was reading aloud to them from a storybook, she was writing her own story on a sheet of paper in her lap.

  Her story just kept coming, she never knew when it would happen. ‘It breaks out like a rash!’ said her mom, who was happy she was writing a book, and her dad, too. But she wished it would not break out at school for two reasons. One, she loved school and loved to learn something new. And two, she could get caught by the teacher.

  ‘Grace,’ said the teacher. ‘Are you listening?’

  She looked up, speechless.

  The thing she had dreaded was happening. She hadn’t been listening, not at all. If she told a lie, she was pretty sure she would be forgiven, like at home when she did something bad. But she did not want to tell a lie. She wondered if everybody could hear her heart pounding.

  She opened her mouth to speak, not exactly knowing what she would say, and burst into tears.

  • • •

  At four-thirty on Thursday afternoon, an email with a subject line reading E. Bolick FYI chimed into the inboxes of eleven Mitford women. It was from the Lord’s Chapel church office.

  Esther Bolick’s burial service would be held on Monday in the town cemetery (take left lane upon entering gates) at one o’clock, followed by a funeral service at two in the nave of Lord’s Chapel and a reception in the parish hall; Father Timothy Kavanagh would officiate; no flowers; memorial gifts would go to Children’s Hospital. It was noted that the viewing would be held Sunday evening at six P.M. at the Wesley Funeral Home.

  All committee members were impressed by the speed with which this information had been gathered and circulated.

  While there was some distinction in being the first to know particulars, there was also dismay. Their committee would of course be responsible for overseeing the reception—namely food, drink, tablecloths, setups, flowers, the works—all this on top of next Sunday’s scramble to do a reception after the eleven o’clock for a fancy supply priest with a British accent. As Esther did not have family, bless her heart, there wasn’t anybody in that line to help organize, fetch, and carry, which was a signal to advise their husbands, ASAP, that they had been volunteered for duty.

  As for why their old priest, Father Tim, was officiating, they had no clue. All they knew was, their regular priest, Father Brad, was on vacation in Colorado, living off the land or some such.

  By six-thirty in the evening, thirty-two emails, text messages, and phone calls had been exchanged among committee members.

  How could they make this solemn event special? That was the question. Someone suggested they ask congregants to bake OMCs, strictly following Esther’s famous recipe, and bring them to the reception.

  ‘Brilliant!’ one member wrote, and hit Reply All. It was estimated that ten two-layers at eighteen slices per cake would get the job done, with leftovers they could freeze for choir practice. They would supplement with mints and mixed nuts.

  This plan would involve the parish in a wonderful and heartfelt way. And there was a fabulous bonus—it would just be coffee, tea, and cake and not the usual folderol with finger sandwiches and shrimp salad or, thank heaven, deviled eggs and fried chicken like the Baptists.

  One or two wondered why they had ever volunteered for an Episcopal Church Women, aka ECW, subgroup, which Father Brad once suggested they call the Life and Death Committee. Father Brad thought the fact of death needed to be faced as a part of life. Death was not a bad word to be avoided, he said, it was a word to be embraced.

  ‘Where is your priest from?’ a new member had asked. ‘Colorado,’ was the answer. ‘That explains it,’ replied the person who was from Michigan. In Michigan, people were properly frightened to death of death and didn’t fling the word around.

  • • •

  On Thursday evening, he received the first of many phone calls.

  No, his wife would not be able to bake an OMC. But he would certainly bake a ham.

  ‘That would be great,’ said Lilah, the committee head, ‘but we’re only having cake.’

  No ham at a funeral? What was wrong with people?

  ‘I always bring a ham to funerals.’ That should settle the matter.

  But it didn’t. His offer was declined.

  ‘Would you bake an OMC instead?’

  He had been very fond of Esther Bolick, but this was beyond the pale.

  ‘That would be a terrifying experience,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to tell this, but we’re going to showcase an OMC in the fellowship hall. On a pedestal! In a footed cake plate! With a dome!’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘Compliments of Winnie Ivey!’

  ‘Good job,’ he said.

  ‘Three-layer!’ she said, a mite breathless.

  • • •

  He was switching off the lights, securing the flap of the cat door to prevent any misguided notion of egress, shutting down the PC . . .

  >Fr Tim, I guess you heard about Esther Bolick. I never know if people who are retired really know things anymore. Harold is still in the throws of retirement—it is the good, the bad, and the ugly. I hope you are not too out of touch with people as that can lead to depression. Here come the Peppers any day now. Remember to do your shopping ahead of the crowd!

  >Yrs,

  Emma Newland

  Typing, organization, and general office work

  Tuesdays only, 9–2

  The Peppers? Who . . . ah, yes, another of his former church secretary’s exquisite typos. The Peepers! As in leaf. She was right, of course, the parking spots were already being snapped up; he’d better get over to Avis ASAP.

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2

  Emma and Harold Newland had not expected the Muse truck to roar by on a Friday morning. It was a total surprise when they heard something hit
the door, though it was a lighter-sounding thud than the Thursday thud.

  ‘Not much to it,’ said Harold, handing the parcel over to his wife. He was glad to be retired and not out there delivering mail and dodging dogs and Muse trucks while the dew was still on. He climbed into his recliner and cranked it back a notch and looked at the ceiling fan, which needed a new motor.

  She peeled off the wrapper and unrolled the contents. ‘Goodbye to th’ Town Monument?’ she said in disbelief. ‘Why would anybody want to get rid of th’ town monument?’

  As this was a moot question, her husband did not reply.

  She remembered the fool thing they’d done down in Holding—just picked up their monument and set it over in front of th’ bank like so much leftover grits. ‘Why?’ she said, distraught.

  ‘Beats me,’ said Harold, who had never cared much for municipal behavior.

  ‘Maybe they just want to root it out an’ store it somewhere. But th’ headline says Goodbye, so . . . Come here, Snickers, what’s that in your mouth?’

  Their aging spaniel ambled over and bared its teeth in a grin. ‘Good grief! A carpet tack! Give it here, give it!’ The carpet tack dinged into a saucer.

  ‘This used to be a nice town,’ she said. ‘Nobody messed with you. But th’ council’s gone too far this time. Take down perfectly nice trees, throw a handful of mulch in th’ hole, and now? Haul off th’ monument!’

  ‘Montana,’ said Harold.

  ‘What about Montana?’

  ‘That might be the place to live. Good fishing, they say. Private. Wild horses an’ such. They don’t have town monuments out there. They don’t even have towns, most likely.’ He had been there once when he was in the army; he was proud to know about other parts of the world.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said, slipping the glasses down her nose. ‘This is about Esther Bolick, who was a town monument, bless ’er heart. Oh, for Pete’s sake. But what . . . what in th’ world?’