A New Song (44 page)

“You must be Ava!” said Father Tim, walking over and shaking her hand.

“And you must be Father Tim,” she said, smiling. “Betty will be here in a minute, Betty’s my sister, she’s next door in the ladies room.” Ava caught her breath and looked as if she might change her mind and run out the way she’d come in.

“And this is Junior. Junior Bryson.” As the only one still able to function around here, he guessed the social stuff was up to him.

Junior rose slowly from the table and walked toward Ava as if in a trance. Father Tim wished to heaven that Junior would close his mouth.

“How’re you?” asked Junior.

Ava extended her hand. “I’m just fine. How’re you?”

“Just fine, an’ how ’bout you?”

“And this,” he said, pushing on, “is Roanoke Clark. He’s a friend of Junior’s.”

Roanoke grinned and touched his forehead, a remnant gesture, Father Tim supposed, from the days men tipped their hats to women. “Pleasure.”

“That’s Roger Templeton....”

“How do you do?” said Roger, standing respectfully.

“And I’m Ernie,” said Ernie, recovering his speech and bounding over to shake Ava’s hand. “We’re glad to have you, nice to see you, come and sit down! We know you’re goin’ next door for coffee, but I could pour you a little somethin’ in a cup, like a Cheerwine or a Dr Pepper, but you probably drink Coke, I could open you a Coke, how’s that? On th’ house!” Ernie was still shaking Ava’s hand.

“Oh, no,” said Ava, “I don’t need a thing. But thanks a lot.”

Father Tim figured somebody better make a move or Ava was out of here. “Ava, we’re sorry we’re a roomful of men. My wife would have come to meet you this morning, but we have a sick boy at home.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, appearing to mean it.

“Come and sit with us a minute,” he said. “Roger, show Ava your duck.”

Roger shyly held up his green-winged teal.

“Isn’t that a marvel?” asked Father Tim, who was beginning to feel like the Perle Mesta of the Outer Banks.

Ava glanced at the door, looking for Betty. “Really nice! Really pretty!”

“We’d like you to feel welcome on Whitecap,” said Father Tim. “Have you been here before?”

“No, sir, I never have. But my friend who lives on Tern Avenue—we’ve been meaning to get together for a long time.”

Junior was currently grinning from ear to ear. He expanded his chest and adjusted his jacket sleeves, which Father Tim judged to be a mite on the short side.

“Oh, law!” said Betty, barging through the screen door. “Are we runnin’ late, my watch has stopped, hey, y’all, I’m Ava’s sister, her much
old
er sister, who’re you?”

“I’m Tim Kavanagh. Glad to see you, Betty.” The Lord had sent an icebreaker, and not a moment too soon.

“Hey, Tim, how’re you, I hope I don’t have lipstick on my teeth, do I have lipstick on my teeth? I dropped my compact in th’ ladies room and busted my mirror, but since I already
had
seven years of bad luck, I hope I’m off th’ hook!”

She fastened her gaze on Ernie. “An’ you must be th’ bigwig of this place, you
look
like you’re th’ bigwig.”

“Why, yes, ma’am, I’m Ernie Fulcher, one an’ the same. Have a seat and meet everybody. We’re glad to have you.”

“I don’t suppose ya’ll’d have a little drop of diet Pepsi or somethin,’ I’m dry as a
bone
! I did th’ drivin,’ since Ava was busy doin’ her nails and takin’ her rollers out, an’ drivin’ always makes me thirsty, does it
you
?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said Roanoke, glad to be asked. “When I was haulin’ lumber, I sometimes drank a whole case of Cheerwine between Asheville an’ Wilmington.”

“And you’re Junior! I declare, you’re better-lookin’ than your pictures, don’t you think so, Ava? A
whole
lot better-lookin’ if you ask me, which nobody did!” Betty whooped with laughter and thumped down at a table, hanging the strap of a large shoulder bag over the chair back.

Betty patted the tabletop. “Come on, honey,” she said to her sister, “sit down a minute and meet all these nice fellas who’ve been dyin’ to see you, then we’ll go next door and have a bite to eat, right, Junior?”

“Now, that’s what I call a good-lookin’ woman . . . ,” said Ernie, dazed and staring at the door.

Without glancing up from his duck, Roger nodded in agreement.

“But seems like she might be too much for Junior.”

Roanoke ground his cigarette out in a bottle cap. “You ain’t tellin’ us nothin’ we don’t know.”

Roger burned a feather. Lucas yawned. The Dr Pepper clock ticked over the cash register.

“Well,” said Father Tim, pushing back from the table, “you all can sit here ’til Judgment Day, but I’ve got fish to fry.”

Ernie looked at him, anxious. “D’you think Junior stands a chance?”

“God only knows,” he said, meaning it.

 

The lowering overcast continued—across the bridge, up the coast, and over the causeway to Dorchester. As he hit the island, the rain began.

He turned the heater on, pondering the fact that he could never think rationally when Morris yelled, but at last he understood that the harsh, repetitive command had little to do with him; in his opinion, it meant something else entirely—out of this body, out of this prison, out of this terrible exile. . . .

There . . . a stop sign, and Little Shell Beach Road. He looked at his watch, checked his odometer, and turned right. One and a half miles to Old Cemetery Road . . .

The lawsuit. It swam into his mind relentlessly.
The Lord is my strength and my shield. . . .

He’d hold off on saying anything to the Hope House Board of Trustees until he talked again with Walter. The irony, he thought, of a stranger moving into his own house to set up shop to sue him. And why had she moved to Mitford to sue, when she might have done it just as well from Boston? It was the most mind-boggling turn of events imaginable.

He prayed as he slowly moved south on the small island of Dorchester—for Junior, Misty Summers, Cynthia, Jonathan, Janette, Morris Love, Buck and Pauline . . .

Old Cemetery Road. He hooked a right, hearing his tires crunch on gravel.

. . . for Dooley’s missing brothers, Dooley’s appearance before the judge, Busy Fingers’ ability to complete the Lord’s Supper needlepoint on time . . .

. . . and Jeffrey Tolson. He didn’t want to pray for Jeffrey Tolson, but drew a deep breath and did it anyway. Could he personally forgive Janette’s husband, even if the man wasn’t repentant for the pain he’d caused?

He wanted to, he was required to, and, yes, he would keep trying to—with God’s help.

 

Ella was looking for him. The moment he hit the porch, she opened the door and he blew into her living room with a gust of rain.

“Oh, mercy,” she said, shaking his hand, “you’re soaked! But come and stand by the piano. I’ve got the hair dryer ready.”

“The hair dryer?”

“To dry you off!” she said, pleased to be helpful.

 

He had heard of time warps, and was utterly delighted to be in one. Ella Bridgewater’s cottage was as pleasant as anything he’d seen in years. He felt instantly at home. In truth, it appeared as if his own mother might have placed Ella’s turn-of-the-century furniture and the numerous family photographs in polished silver frames.

Small flames licked up from a single log in the fireplace, and a stack of wood lay by the hearth, ready for anything.

He inhaled deeply of the glorious aroma in the house, which seemed largely composed of salt air, wood smoke, and sea bass with lemon butter. Sitting by the fire as Ella prepared lunch, the clock ticking on the mantel, he felt as contented as a country squire.

This, he presumed, was the place where antimacassars went when they died—they were in evidence everywhere, and starched to beat the band. His mother had used sugar water to starch her own; as a child he’d had an awful desire to eat the one on the piecrust table; it made his mouth fairly water to see it.

Ella brought a small etched glass and a decanter. “There you are!” she said, clearly delighted to have his company. “That’s my plum wine, I hope you like it, it won a blue ribbon in 1978! Lunch in ten minutes. And now you’re settled, I’ll send Louise in.”

She went briskly to an adjoining room, out of which a canary momentarily flew. It made a beeline for the piano, where it perched on the bench and cocked its head at him.

“Louise, do sing for Father Timothy, he’s come all the way from Whitecap.”

To his astonishment, Louise began to warble with great charm and enthusiasm, and finished her rendition perched on an antimacassar atop the piano.

“Amazing!” he said. “Bring her to St. John’s for a solo!” They could do worse than sit and listen to one of God’s creatures sing from the depths of an unfettered heart.

 

The rain increased to gusting, wind-driven sheets that made the small house shudder as they sat at the table.

“Minor and I made plans to marry, and then, two weeks before the ceremony was to take place in our little church down the road, he was ballooning over Nova Scotia, and . . . well . . .”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Ella lifted her glass in a salute, and soldiered on as hostess. “Plums are very hard to find nowadays, unless you buy them in a store, and I’m hardly ever tempted to do that. You know what the problem is?”

“I confess I don’t.”

“Everyone works away from home these days, they don’t keep their fruit trees sprayed or pruned, and the poor things simply fall down in the pasture or the yard or wherever, and that’s the end of it.”

“ ‘The world is too much with us; late and soon,’ ” he said, quoting Wordsworth. “ ‘Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;/ little we see in Nature that is ours;/ we have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!’ ”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “Amen!”

He was feeling anxious as they finished their dessert. “Do you have a TV we could watch for weather news?”

Ella sighed. “There hasn’t been a TV in this house for years! Do you remember when the Dallas Cowboys beat the Denver Broncos in the Super Bowl?”

“I don’t believe I do,” he said.

“Mother and I were watching the game, sitting right over there, when the screen went black as pitch. I remember to this day what Mother said, she said, ‘Ella, do you think this happened because I bet two dollars on the Cowboys with Joe?’ Joe was our postmaster. We tried to have it fixed, but it was dead as a doornail, and we never replaced it.”

A clap of thunder broke above them so loudly that he started from his chair. “Just . . . looking for a phone!” he said.

He dialed Dove Cottage as Ella stood by, peering at him anxiously. Her mother had taught her never to use a phone in a storm. She was, in fact, eager to unplug everything electrical, including the lamps, though she supposed that wouldn’t be proper during a visit by clergy.

Cynthia reported that things were fine at home, and she was praying for him. While his wife implored him to do nothing reckless in such bad weather, he should, nonetheless, hurry home.

He was wanting out of here fast, though he felt compelled by common courtesy to look at a couple of photographs before leaving. There was Minor standing by a hot-air balloon, quite fit and handsome in a flight suit. Glaring from an oval frame, Mrs. Bridgewater appeared sufficiently formidable to wither the hollyhocks that served as background.

“I just hate this storm. I walked down to church last night and raked Mother’s grave and dusted the pews . . . but you’ll see it all another day.” Ella’s rouge was two perfectly circular spots. “And I wanted to show you our live oak. It’s the oldest on the island as far as anybody knows. Maybe you can get a peep at it as you leave. It’s just a few yards from that side of the porch.”

“We’ll do the full tour another day. I look forward to it.”

“Well, then,” she said, slipping a parcel into his hand. “This is a smidgen of my plum wine, and a few morsels of sea bass for your Violet. I’d so love to have a c-a-t, but I
can’t
have a c-a-t, you know, as long as Louise is with me.”

“Aha. Well, I’m off, and can’t thank you enough. I’ve been happy in your home, Ella, and very much like your idea for next Sunday’s anthem.”

“Thank you for coming, Father, it was an honor. Now, left out of the driveway and two blocks on the right in the old white two-story, that’s Captain Larkin. Remember to look for the blue truck in front and beware the dog, they say he bites.”

She opened the door and was struck forcibly by a blast of cold wind and rain.

“I’ll pray for you!” she called, as he dashed into the deluge.

 

He’d been out in a few storms, but this one worried him. As soon as they got back from Mitford, he’d have the blasted car radio fixed so he could find a little weather news when he needed it.

Driving at ten miles an hour, he managed to spot what he presumed to be the captain’s house, and pulled up behind the blue truck. Any dog that would take the trouble to bite in weather like this was welcome to try, he thought, as he grabbed the wet umbrella and a leather box containing the home communion set.

He slogged to the concrete steps in a driving wind that threatened to invert the umbrella, and opened the screen door to the porch. A scowling face peered through the glass panels of the front door and quickly vanished.

Lord, bless this time,
he prayed as he knocked,
and keep us safe from any harm in this storm. . . .

He nearly leaped from his sodden loafers as a violent clap of thunder rolled overhead and the door opened. An elderly man with the countenance of an angel peered out.

“Hurry in, Father, hurry in!” said Captain Larkin.