Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (16 page)

‘Amen. Thank you.’

‘Whatever you decide, Father, I’d like you to be there on the seventh.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘To return to your wife for a moment—she’s well liked, as you know, a woman of considerable character and, it’s said, strong opinion.’

‘
Alis volat propriis
,’ he said.

‘Flies with her own wings.’ Jack Martin smiled. ‘I have such a one, myself, thank God. In any case, I’m sure Mrs. Kavanagh would be a great help to you, and we’ll help her however we can. If she’d like someone to talk with about this, have her call me.’

They stood and walked to the office door together and shook hands, each holding the gaze of the other.

‘Say nothing to anyone but close family. If you decide to step in, you’d begin October eighth. It will be a kind of holocaust for a time—I’ll look after you and send help when needed. You realize that the length of your stay at Lord’s Chapel could be six months, a year, possibly longer.’

‘Indefinite,’ he said. ‘Like everything else in life.’

‘The Lord be with you,’ said Jack Martin.

‘And also with you.’

They embraced, and he turned and walked down the hall and went into the nave, where he knelt at the silent rail.

His mind was clamor itself, a hectic marketplace with hawking on every side. They were coming up on the Feast Day of Saint Matthew, who quoted Christ’s injunction to forgive ‘seventy times seven.’ For some of the parish, that would not be enough. He envisioned himself standing once more in the Lord’s Chapel pulpit and felt a terrible thirst, not so much for water as for—what?

‘Jesus,’ he said, unable to form a further petition. He pressed his forehead against the railing. He would take any wisdom right now—not the big decision, that would be asking too much too soon; the smallest scrap would do. He remained at the railing for a time, then stood and bowed to the cross, and walked out a side door into the sublime mountain air.

•   •   •

T
HE
SIGHT
OF
HER
CAR
coming up the hill was a benediction. ‘Good timing,’ he said, climbing in.

She handed him the box of raisins. ‘Did your six o’clock oatmeal see you through?’

‘Barely,’ he said, buckling up.

‘We’re off to the most divine spot for a real breakfast. I’ll take the scenic route.’

Along streets mottled by the shade of pin oaks, he told her everything.

‘What do you think?’ he said, swigging from a bottle of water.

‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’ll know,’ she said.

He couldn’t see her eyes. ‘What about you? What do you want?’

‘I would hate sharing you again with so many people.’

She had never gotten used to that, but she had been generous and patient, and he had been grateful.

‘Your exhaustion would be hard to watch,’ she said.

‘But I’ve been doing better.’

Except for Ireland. He had exhausted himself in Sligo with what she called his ‘household parish,’ but it had been a wonderful time, really; he would never forget the joy that came forth in the end.

‘You will lose families in this fallout, you will try to mend broken hearts; you will try to fix everything.’

Of course he would try to fix everything. What was a priest for, if not to get into people’s business and, with God’s help, do a little fixing? To operate otherwise cut the parson out of a very big piece of the pie.

She drove into the parking lot of a small restaurant, turned off the ignition, and gave him a steady look. ‘But if you decide to do it, Timothy, I’ll do it with you. All the way.’

Her eyes were blue, with nothing more said there.

He patted her knee.

Two weeks. He felt the rock in his stomach and doubted that breakfast could fix that.

•   •   •

O
N
THE
WAY
HOME
, they avoided further discussion of the matter, and spent themselves on foolishness.

‘When was the War of 1812 fought?’ he said, and she laughed, though it wasn’t funny.

They were giddy, a little haywire.

‘So, on a cruise ship,’ he said, ‘what time is the midnight buffet?’

T
here was something to be said for the invitation being dropped into their lives like a grenade.

One, it demanded that he concentrate every power on making the right decision. If he could focus so obsessively, so completely as this on his relationship with God . . .

Two, there was no room to agonize over what to do about Sammy.

Restless beside his wife, who had fallen asleep at once, he sought peace in the familiar.
Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, and awaken hope, that we may know thee as thou art revealed in Scripture and the breaking of bread. Grant this for the sake of thy love, amen.

For the sake of thy love, he thought. For the sake of thy love.

Ardent for sleep of any kind or duration, he decided he needed a cutoff date, a personal deadline for calling in his answer. He wished for an easy way out—the parting of waters, the audible voice.

•   •   •

I
T
WAS
FREEZING
OUT
THERE
, with a stern wind to boot. Barnabas had done his morning business and made for the door in under sixty seconds.

On his knees, he brushed back the ashes of last evening’s fire and kindled a small one for Morning Prayer—two splits of oak and one of maple, atop kindling that would bring the fire quickly. Flames licked up; he was an acolyte at the tapers.

In any decision making, he’d learned to wait for the peace; it was heedless to make a move without it. There was no time for waiting, and yet waiting was imperative.

He remained on his knees, prayed aloud. ‘Heavenly Father, in whom we live and move and have our being: We humbly pray thee so to guide and govern us by thy Holy Spirit, that in all the cares and occupations of our life we may not forget thee, but may remember that we are ever walking in thy sight . . .’

He moved directly then to the abridged version. ‘Help me, Jesus.’

•   •   •

I
N
THE
WILDS
OF
N
EW
J
ERSEY
, Walter was usually stirring by five a.m.

As he dialed, he could see his first cousin, semi-retired from the law firm and a little stooped, in a bathrobe of considerable antiquity. He would be fetching the
WSJ
from the hallway, taking Katherine a cup of tea in bed, then rooting in beside her to read and argue aloud with the editorials.

‘Are you out of your mind
,
Timothy?’

‘I feel I should do it,’ he said. ‘For the parish. It will be a hard time.’

‘Should do it? Why should? I’m not party to all God has to say about such matters, but I do know this—the business of killing yourself for other people is a lot of hogwash. Take this on and you’ll be up to all the tricks you pulled in Ireland, saving souls right and left with hardly a minute to draw your breath.’

‘It isn’t the parson who saves souls—you know that.’

‘I know, I know, but somebody has to be hands and feet, and you’ve done that nobly for forty-plus years. Give yourself a break, cousin, refresh yourself, learn how to live before you die. And face it—you
haven’t even begun to retire. Two years in two different parishes, plus a good years’ worth of supply up hill and down dale, not to mention being the very backbone of the Children’s Hospital. A question—how many vacations have you had in your adult life? By my count, four, and they were all working vacations. Right? Am I right?’

A sermon from a lawyer. There were few things worse.

•   •   •

H
E
CALLED
HIS
FORMER
DOCTOR
at home and told him of the bishop’s offer, then, and walked north toward Hoppy’s house.

He would talk with Sammy, posing no threats, avoiding blame, speaking the truth in love.

Sammy was not hopeless. Look at Dooley, how he’d been born into neglect and violence only to become a young man set on bettering himself, sharing his wealth but also conserving it in the right places. It seemed too good to be true.

•   •   •

H
OPPY
WAS
A
WEEK
AWAY
from his first trip to the Upper Nile and a leap into the unknown. Here a leap, there a leap—it was a frog pond.

They sat at the table in the Harpers’ kitchen, where for years Hoppy had worked an early morning crossword. His old friend and parishioner was looking terrific, better than ever. Retirement in the early stages.

‘What do you know about Hope Murphy?’ he said. He felt reluctant, somehow, to go directly to the issue at hand. ‘Are you at liberty to talk about it?’

‘Wilson mentioned that she trusts you, says you already know something of what’s going on. I feel comfortable telling you more—but in strict confidence. She’s a private person, as you’re aware. The medical term is placenta previa.

‘The placenta, or afterbirth, is a temporary organ that transfers
oxygen and nutrients from the mother to the fetus. In Hope’s case, the placenta has attached itself to the lower segment of the uterus and is covering the cervical canal. Two problems: the baby has no way to exit, and as the cervix dilates, bleeding can be excessive.’

‘The bleeding . . .’

‘Increases the risk for preterm rupture of the membranes, which can lead to premature labor. This can be life-threatening—for mother and infant.’

‘The outcome as you see it?’

‘Wilson says the bleeding has been fairly minor so far, but he’s taking no chances. Bed rest will control it to some extent. She’ll be under the care of a specialist in Charlotte, with Wilson doing the day-to-day stuff here. They’ll want her in Charlotte at thirty-two weeks.’

‘A month early?’

‘Taking no chances. If anything goes off track up here, there’s no safety net, she could bleed to death.

‘We’re looking at a Cesarean, of course, and with God’s help, a healthy baby. Depending on circumstances, there could be a hysterectomy at the time of delivery.’

Hoppy removed his glasses. ‘If the delivery isn’t successful, needless to say it will be devastating to the Murphys. A hysterectomy would add another kind of death sentence. When you’re back at Lord’s Chapel, I know you’ll encourage prayer for this.’

When he was back at Lord’s Chapel . . . everyone would assume he’d go back.

‘As to your own predicament . . .’ Hoppy gave him an ironic smile. ‘. . . if you stick to your exercise regimen and keep your weight down, I believe you could manage it physically. So the issue is how you would manage it . . .’ Hoppy tapped his forehead with a pencil. ‘. . . up here.’

‘Did you know about Talbot?’

‘Nothing specific, just that clergy have their struggles; I thought his disconnect might eventually turn around. Olivia has had real concerns about him, but frankly, I’ve been too caught up in the Sudan business to pay much attention. How are you feeling?’

He had no words for how he was feeling. ‘What if I take it on and can’t go the distance? That would be twice for the parish. You know they resented my retirement.’

‘Yes, but not everyone. Most people understood. What they resented was you swigging down that Coke and eating the bloody cake. My guess is, they’ll kiss your ring.’

‘Come on.’

‘Trust me. As for your medical aptitude, Wilson says your cholesterol is good and the diabetes is under control. But you know how fast that can go off the cliff.

‘If you move forward with picking up Talbot’s pieces, you’ll need help. You’re prone to try doing it all, which took you out of full-time in the first place. To do it all and deprive others of doing is . . .’ Hoppy studied the puzzle. ‘. . . a misguided notion.’

‘And how many years were you burning the candle at both ends and calling for more wax?’

Hoppy laughed. ‘Touché, Father. In any case, whatever happens, Wilson is up to handling it. Your job is to avoid giving him anything to handle.’

Hoppy turned to a bank of drawers beneath the window seat, pulled one out, removed an open bag of jelly beans, and offered a sampling. ‘Have a green, they’re the best.’

He did as prescribed. ‘I thought you were on the wagon.’

His former doctor laughed, popped a jelly bean. ‘I was, and will be again. No jelly beans in Yida.’

Hoppy adjusted his reading glasses, bent over the puzzle. ‘Ecclesiastical setback. Blank,
p
, blank, blank.’

‘Apse,’ he said.

•   •   •

H
E
CHECKED
HIS
COMMITMENTS
FOR
TODAY
.

Lunch @ Feel Good.

Mustang diagnostic

Another big day on the calendar.

How would he like going from zero to a hundred and sixty mph? Why couldn’t there be some reasonable in-between? He loathed zero and despised a hundred and sixty. Why couldn’t he ever find a cruising speed?

The pressure of the open-ended timetable was too much; he had to have a cutoff date. ‘Jesus,’ he said under his breath.

Barnabas looked up from his bed at the hearth. Good! His dog had not lost his hearing. It was he, Timothy, who had lost his, for he was getting no feedback. Zero.

What about Thursday? Maybe he could take a week to make the decision, but he couldn’t bear the pressure of it for a week. He wanted, needed it to happen quickly, as quickly as God would permit. Thursday would be extremely fair to all. ‘But
late
Thursday,’ he declared to his dog.

He consulted his calendar.

Written with a kind of slapdash joy in the slot for Thursday:

Happy Endings 9 a.m.

The Happy Endings stint had completely slipped his mind. He had planned to go in early, take his own beans, and learn to operate a coffee maker that also did the grinding. But how could he think about stuffing a full day’s commitment at the bookstore into Thursday’s need for an urgent decision?

Friday was open, a total blank; he could call the bishop on Friday. For that matter, he could do the bookstore on Friday—Friday was payday in these parts, a good day for buying books; he would notify Hope, who, he felt certain, would be just as grateful for help on Friday.

Barnabas came over, lay at his feet, looked up.

No. Thursday was the day he would call the bishop. And Thursday was the day he would work at the bookstore—no way would he disappoint Hope, and no way would he disappoint his dog, who, he believed, was definitely up for sooner rather than later.

•   •   •

‘I
T
’
S
YOUR
CARBURETOR
,’ said Jeb Adderholt.

Jeb paused to allow for shocked silence or possibly an enjoyable stream of strong language, but he could not bestow this small pleasure upon Jeb Adderholt.

The phone line between Mitford and Wesley enjoyed its characteristic crackle and hum. Something about a throttle shaft . . .

‘Plus your radiator’s rotted out pretty bad.’

‘Ah.’

‘An’ your heater, you know that heater’s never worked right. Th’ old folks say this’ll be th’ worst winter in a decade.’

‘They say that every year.’ He was now old folks, himself, and as far as he was concerned, the winter could do whatever it pleased.

Jeb cleared his throat, moving in for the kill. ‘Have you noticed your clutch is slippin’?’

‘How would I notice that?’

‘When you’re goin’
uphill
,’ said Jeb as if speaking to someone from a foreign country.

‘Right. Yes, I’ve noticed that. Anything else?’

‘It’s gon’ cost more to fix than it’s worth.’ Jeb named a price, but given the hum, it was muffled and indistinct.

He would pick it up tomorrow and pay Jeb for the diagnostic. So much for his sharp little ride.

Having driven previously used vehicles all his life, he had no idea how to buy a new car. Before the vintage Mustang, there was the motor scooter, and before that, eight years of foot travel, and before that, the antiquated Buick, and prior to the Buick, he could scarcely remember. He would subscribe to
Consumer Reports
or Lew would probably know, or Dooley. Dooley! Of course. Dooley would go nuts over helping him buy a new vehicle.

He left Dooley a voice message, feeling better already.

•   •   •

‘A
RE
YOU
HAVING
LUNCH
with the turkeys?’ His wife was whipped from yesterday, and so was he. But would they give in and lie down or whatever people do when they’re whipped?

‘I don’t feel I should have lunch. Things are too . . .’ He shrugged.

‘But it’s the day the sign goes up, sweetheart.’ She dumped coffee grounds into the kitchen compost bin. ‘I think you should have lunch.’

‘All that boondoggling . . .’ he said, vague.

‘Boondoggling beats sitting around trying to figure out what God is up to. He’s given you a target date, which I think you should let Bishop Martin know.’

‘Why let the bishop know that I don’t know?’

‘You’d be letting him know that you’ll know by Thursday. He could relax a little. But what do I know about bishops? Maybe they don’t need to relax. We, however, need to keep praying and trusting God, and moving ahead to things like lunch and dry-cleaning and a dozen eggs at the Local.’

She was right, of course, but still . . .

‘Puny’s coming in today instead of tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and
bringing the boys.’ She rubbed her eyes, something she did more often these days. ‘As for me, I’m having lunch in Wesley with Irene McGraw, she’s just back from Georgia.’

‘Tell her I enjoyed breaking into her house. Nice artwork.’

‘The capital campaign meeting is after lunch. I’ll have a report. In the meantime, you and I need to plan something fun—like dinner and a movie. All we ever do is dinner. What was the last movie we saw?’

‘
Babe
, I think. Do we have a VCR player?’

‘VCRs went out of style ages ago. It’s DVDs now. Just a disc. Like a CD.’

‘Do we have any?’ he said.

‘No. We would have to order a movie that comes in through our TV.’