Shepherds Abiding Page 9

  “You’ve been a fine tenant,” she said, “and for you, I’ll forget the two weeks’ notice. Just let me know when you know.” Mrs. Havner had given her a little pan of warm gingerbread and a hug. She wanted to cling there on her landlady’s broad and cushioned shoulder, and weep like a child.

  With the exception of what she would need until she moved, everything in the apartment was packed. After all, whether she moved only a few doors down the street or home to live with Louise, the packing must be done.

  In truth, she was beginning to know it would be her mother’s old home, that this was what God must want for her. Anyone could see that if Mrs. Mallory were going to let her have the building, she would have been notified by now.

  In the short months since she prayed that prayer with George Gaynor, she hadn’t yet found how to hold on to God’s peace. Sometimes, as she prayed, it would come to her like a bird flying in at the window; it would settle on her shoulder, and she would feel transported by relief and glad expectation. Then the anxiety would flood in, and the startled bird would fly away. . . .

  But no matter what happened, Christmas sales were booming. She’d had the biggest order ever, from Olivia Harper, and knew she could count on something sizable from Father Tim and Cynthia. . . .

  The bell on the door jangled as four Mitford schoolteachers tumbled in, laughing, their cheeks glowing from the sharp, bright cold. She had opened an hour and a half early so they could shop before the last day of school began.

  “Would you like a cup of hot cider?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Miss Griggs of first grade. “We’d like that better than anything!”

  Emily Townsend of third grade unwound the candy-striped muffler from her neck. “Your tree is really special. It kind of gives me . . . goose bumps when Charlie and I ride by at night. It seems so . . . consoling, somehow. . . . I don’t know how to express it—Sharon is the one who loves English! Oh, and here are some cookies I made. I hope you like pecans, we cracked them ourselves—can you believe it, they are so hard to pick out of the shell!”

  “Oh, my!” said Hope, admiring the large cookies.

  Miss Wilson, also of third grade, removed her red earmuffs. “We all love the tree in your upstairs window, it’s very cheering.”

  “Thank you!” Hope realized she felt considerably cheered herself.

  “Is it true you’re going to have story time all summer?”

  A heavy weight came upon her heart. What could she say? “That,” she managed, “is my fondest desire.” Please, God, she thought.

  He arrived at the Oxford a few minutes before Andrew or Fred and, having his own key, let himself into the darkened room that smelled of beeswax and old wood.

  He’d always loved the scent of the Oxford, but had grown fonder still of its rich and varied odors. Even the smell of the oil-based materials used for the figures had become welcome and familiar, quickening his senses as ink must do for someone in the printing trade.

  He switched on the light and looked at the long shelf above the sink. Next to the camel, which he was saving for Dooley’s expertise, he had lined up the finished figures.

  Nine ewes, a ram, two angels, a donkey!

  Three wise men, two shepherds . . .

  They were coming up on the Holy Family.

  He was pulling off his coat and scarf when he heard Fred unlock the front door and step inside, apparently with someone else.

  “I saw th’ Father turn in here about five minutes ago. I need to see ’im!”

  “I wouldn’t go back there,” said Fred.

  Father Tim hurried from the back room to find Mule charging his way.

  “There you are!” said Mule. “I got a predicament!”

  Father Tim stood firm by a Georgian dining table, blocking further passage; Mule wasn’t much, after all, on keeping secrets.

  “J.C. wants you an’ me to have lunch at th’ tea shop today, but I been thinkin’. Ol’ Percy’s goin’ to be out of there in a few days, and seems like to eat at th’ tea shop right now would be really disrespectful.”

  “I think you’re dead right.”

  “I ate there two days last week, but I didn’t feel good about it.”

  “Tell J.C. we’ll catch him at the tea shop after the Grill closes.”

  “He’ll be sore.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “So what’re you hangin’ out down here for? Somebody said you come in here every day now.”

  “I’m working on a special project.”

  “Doin’ what?”

  “A little of this, a little of that. You know.”

  “Right,” said Mule.

  “So,” said Father Tim, “I’ve got to get cracking. See you at the Grill? The usual time?”

  Mule looked doleful. “I wish J.C. hadn’t blown up at Velma right before th’ holidays, what with Percy closin’ an’ all.”

  “Me, too.”

  When Mule was safely out the door, he trotted to the back room to grind the coffee. Fresh Antigua, six heaping scoops, four of decaf, two of the hard stuff.

  He dumped the ground coffee into the basket, ran seven cups of cold water into the pot, poured it into the coffeemaker, and turned the switch to “on.”

  At the front of the store, Fred was simultaneously cranking on the music.

  “Aha!” exclaimed Father Tim. “Vivaldi!”

  His spirits were up and running.

  He would glaze the wing, after all.

  “Here we are. . . .”

  Andrew was thumbing through a book he’d found at home. “Look at this. Vierge et enfant, it’s called . . . the Virgin Mother’s robe is black. Foreshadowing the cross, perhaps.”

  “No,” he said. “No black.” He held the angel carefully, glazing the wing with light, rapid brushstrokes. Before it dried, he’d use his little finger to insinuate the separation of the feathers.

  “Now, then,” said Andrew, “this is wonderful. Raphael’s Virgin of Loreto. Look at the scarlet of her gown—something more like a rich coral, really.”

  “Rich coral. That sounds good.”

  Andrew thumbed the pages.

  “Giovanni Battista Salvi’s Madonna and Child with Angels. Again a gown of scarlet, with an overmantle of blue. Exquisite!”

  “Let me see.” He hiked his glasses farther up his nose. “Blue. Definitely blue. And scarlet. Yes! Mark that page, if you would.”

  Fred ducked through the door. “I brought th’ walnut chest from th’ warehouse. You want it in th’ window?” he asked Andrew.

  “Where the bookcase was sitting. I’ll give you a hand after lunch. How did the color come up under the wax?”

  “As good as it gets! It’s nearly twelve, I can run out for sandwiches. . . .”

  “Not for me,” said Andrew. “I’m going up the hill to sample a pasta dish invented by my beautiful wife.”

  “And I’m off to the Grill,” said Father Tim.

  It was the way he stood up, he remembered afterward—the way his leg had somehow twisted, causing him to lose his balance.

  As he grabbed for the sink with his left hand, he saw the angel tumble from his right; it seemed to take a very long time to fall. He heard a terrible sound escape his throat, something between a shout and a moan, as the figure crashed onto the slate floor.

  Finding his balance, he looked down in horror.

  The angel was shattered. He was shattered.

  There was a long silence in which he and Andrew and Fred stood frozen, unmoving. He realized that his mouth was still open, forming the shout he’d heard himself make.

  “Good Lord,” Andrew said at last.

  He wanted to burst into tears, but steeled himself. “What a bumbling fool . . .”

  “Please.” He felt Andrew’s hand on his shoulder. “No recriminations. The head is intact, and the wing isn’t so bad. What do you think, Fred? Can it be fixed?”

  “I think it would take . . .”—Fred cleared his throat—“a mighty long time. Th’
body’s in a lot of little pieces.”

  Father Tim stooped and picked up the head, and was somehow deeply moved to see the face still so serene, and so perfectly, perfectly satisfied.

  Fred stepped away and returned with a box and a broom. “Let me sweep up. You go on to th’ Grill.”

  “Yes,” he said, hoarse with regret. “Yes.”

  “I don’t reckon you’ll be back today.”

  “Oh, yes. I will. Time is running out.”

  “I’ll just put everything in this box,” said Fred.

  Andrew drew on his overcoat and muffler, looking solemn. “We can keep it and look at it again down the road. We may want to have a try at—”

  “No,” said Father Tim, shaking his head. “Let it go.”

  The adrenaline that pumped in him so furiously these last weeks had crashed with the angel. He felt confused, and suddenly old.

  They sat on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn between them. A small fire crackled on the hearth.

  “I finished early at the fire station and came looking for you at the Oxford. . . ,” she said.

  “You did?”

  “. . . to take you to lunch, but you’d already gone. Fred said I missed you by this much.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Everybody knows where to find you.”

  “They do?”

  “Yes, darling. Remember, this is a small town! Actually, I was in The Local and asked Avis if he’d seen you, and he said when he steps outside to smoke, he often sees you ‘messing around’ at the Oxford.”

  “Aha.”

  “Avette at the library said she’d seen you turn in there several times, and, of course, the Irish Woolen Shop, which is practically next door, said the same.”

  He’d never been fond of keeping a secret, at least not one of his own. Clearly, it wasn’t his long suit, and he wished she would wipe that grin off her face.

  She leaned her head to one side, her eyes blue and expectant. “So I don’t suppose you’d like to give me a clue?”

  “No deal. None. And stay away from the Oxford, you big snoop.”

  “But, Timothy, I wasn’t snooping! We’ve both been so busy, I was missing you—I thought it would be fun to have lunch.”

  “Tell that to the judge,” he said, pleased. “By the way, I wanted to drop off a note to my favorite author this morning, but your workroom door was locked.” Her workroom door had never been locked before. “So . . . what are you up to?”

  She took a handful of popcorn. “A little of this and a little of that,” she said, obviously pleased with herself.

  “Really?”

  “You know, the usual.”

  “Can you give me a clue?”

  “No deal. None.”

  “None?”

  She hammered down on the popcorn. “None! Christmas is coming, you know.”

  Which, of course, explained everything.

  He tucked the note in the pocket of her robe as she took her morning shower.

  Someone had done a study with six- to eight-year-olds, asking them to define love, and he’d run across the results on the Internet.

  When you love somebody, your eye lashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.

  When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth.

  Taking you to dinner Wednesday eve. Yours until heaven and then forever, T

  P.S. He calls His sheep by name, and our names are safe in His mouth.

  What had, in the beginning, belonged to him had come to belong to Andrew and Fred also. He felt he’d let everyone down by dropping the angel.

  He was willing, however, to let go of this needless guilt and move on.

  It was ironic that he’d lost two angels in recent years. Though it had been a glad sacrifice, he’d given the first to his next-door neighbor and tenant, Hélène Pringle, whose life had once been formed, quite literally, around the bronze and marble figure that now sat on her mantel.

  In any case, the clock was ticking on everything, including his lists. Sitting at his desk by the window, he turned to the back of the partially blank book in which he gathered and inscribed favorite quotes, and began to write.

  Dooley, digital camera

  Sammy, cable-knit sweater, L

  Sissy/Sassy, backpacks

  He got up and hurried along the hall to Cynthia’s workroom and knocked on the locked door. “Kavanagh, what about books for the girls?”

  “Little Women!”

  “Good,” he said, scribbling.

  “Narnia. Nancy Drew.”

  “What about Wind in the Willows?”

  “We gave them that last year!”

  “What do you think about Uncle Remus?” he called through the door.

  “Brilliant! They’ll love Uncle Remus, especially if their grandpaw reads it aloud to them.”

  “I thought we could stick all the books in their backpacks! Save on wrapping.”

  “Could you give Hope a call right away? Make sure she has these on hand or can order them in time. Oh, and, dearest—add Anne of Green Gables in the eight-volume set.”

  “Consider it done!” They were certainly doing their part for Happy Endings. “What about a housecoat for Louella?”

  “Perfect! Extra large, with sleeves, and a zipper in front. Leave the list on the kitchen island, and I’ll take care of what you can’t get to. And remember your haircut for the Christmas Eve service.”

  Blast. He’d rather take a whipping. . . .

  “I hear Joe Ivey is cutting hair at home,” she informed him.

  He wasn’t fond of yelling through a door. “I’ll take care of it! And by the way, what’s that smell coming from your workroom?”

  “Curiosity killed the cat, Timothy!”

  Back he trotted to his desk. Busy signal at Happy Endings. He hoped it was an incoming book order a half mile long.

  Puny, crock pot

  Nurses @ Hope House, chocolates, 4 dzn, reserve at Local

  Children’s Hosp., as above . . .

  Andrew, my cpy early ed. Oxfd Bk Eng Verse

  Fred, Garden spade, Dora’s Hdwe

  Jonathan Tolson and siblings, ask Cyn

  He heard his good dog thump from the sofa to the floor and pad to the desk, where he gazed up with brown and solemn eyes.

  “Hey, buddyroe.”

  And what might he give the one who had brightened his days and encouraged his spirits and forgiven his shortcomings and listened to him ramble while actually appearing interested?

  He scratched behind the pair of willing ears. “When we get out to Meadowgate, you can wallow in the creek, and I won’t yell; I won’t even try to stop you from chasing squirrels. After all, life is short, carpe diem!”

  Barnabas yawned.

  “In the meantime . . .”

  He opened the drawer and gave his dog one of the treats that caused his desk and everything in it to reek of smoked bacon.

  When he completed the gift list, he began another for food shopping. The list for Dooley’s welcome-home banquet was a no-brainer: steak and the ingredients for chocolate pie.

  Aloud, he counted heads for dinner on Christmas Day.

  “Dooley, Sammy, Lon Burtie, Poo, Jessie, Harley, Hélène, Louella, Scott Murphy, the two Kavanaghs . . . eleven!” Who else?

  “Lord, we have room for one more!”

  Oysters . . .

  But how many? Chances are, his favorite thing on the menu wouldn’t be so popular with this assembly.

  Two pints, he wrote.

  Heavy cream

  10-lb ham, bone in

  . . . He would bake the ham; Cynthia would trot out her unbeatable oyster pie, a vast bowl of ambrosia, and a sweet-potato casserole; Hélène would bring the haricots verts, and Harley had promised a pan of his famous fudge brownies. What’s more, Puny was baking a cheesecake and making cranberry relish; Louella was contributing yeast rolls from the Hope House kitchen; and rum
or suggested that Esther Bolick was dropping off a two-layer orange marmalade . . .

  . . . altogether a veritable minefield for the family diabetic, but he’d gotten handy at negotiating minefields.

  He eyed the clock with anxiety, feeling pressed to quit the list and get down to the Oxford. But, no! Absolutely not. He forced himself to lean back in the chair as if he were actually relaxed.

  He was forthwith assaulted by the anxiety of moving ahead on his homily for the midnight Christmas Eve service at Lord’s Chapel, then rummaging through the basement for the Christmas-tree stand and calling The Local about the chocolates and ringing Hope to make sure she had everything on the list and checking with the Woolen Shop about Sammy’s sweater—

  Blast it! No! He would not forfeit the glad rewards of this rare, unhurried moment.

  He took a deep breath, exhaled, and closed his eyes.

  Thank you, Lord, for the grace of an untroubled spirit, and for the blessings which are ours in numbers too great to count or even recognize. . . .

  He sat for some time, giving thanks, and then, without precisely meaning to, remembering. . . .

  Sometime before Christmas, he noticed that his mother’s usually serene countenance was pale and drawn; she hardly seemed herself. Then came the terrible pain in her side.

  “Run!” commanded his father. “Get Peggy!”

  His heart pounding into his throat, he raced as fast as his legs would carry him to the small house behind the privet hedge at the end of the lane.

  It was late afternoon, and cold. He found Peggy hanging the wash on a line in front of her fireplace.

  “Somethin’s wrong with Mama! You got to come.”

  Peggy had put out the fire, thrown on her old gray coat, and hand in hand, they raced along the rutted and frozen lane.

  When they got to the big white house in the stand of oaks, the black Buick was gone.

  “Yo’ daddy done took ’er to Memphis,” said Peggy, squeezing his hand, hard.

  Memphis. Where the hospital was. He had held back his tears until now.

  For a long time, he stood at the front door to see if his father might change his mind and bring her home and let Dr. Franklin make her well with the medicine in his black bag.