Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (20 page)

‘What’re ye doin’, gittin’ y’r name ever’where all of a sudden?’

‘I ain’t doin’ nothin’, it’s jis’ in here. Th’ preacher says always
was
in here, always gon’
be
in here.’

‘Is my name in there?’

‘It ain’t. What my name’s in here f’r is a duck. A coot is a kind of a duck I reckon you named me after.’

‘I never heard of such,’ she said. ‘Your gran’daddy on my side, they called ’im Coot, you was named after your gran’daddy. It wadn’t no duck you was named after, I can tell ye that.’

He liked being named after a duck, but he wouldn’t say a word about it, nossir, that would be his secret. He took the book and set it on the mantelpiece where he could see it from nearabout anywhere in the room.

•   •   •

A
FTER
RAW
COLD
, the air was mild and forgiving. He walked with Harley to the west side of the house and the bench beneath the maple.

‘My cue is missing. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Your cue?’ Then it dawned. ‘Lord help!’ Harley said.

‘He’s headed for trouble.’

‘I know it, I know it, Rev’ren’, I lay awake knowin’ it. They was a competition over at Bud’s ball hall in Wesley a few nights back, he prob’ly hated to go in there without a cue. I let ’im ride with Jupe from down at Lew Boyd’s. Jupe’s a good boy, he got Sammy back by eleven-thirty. He done real good in th’ competition.’

‘I’m going to try talking with him,’ he said. ‘No accusations, no guilt trip, no conflict of any kind. Just want to draw him out if I can, see if there’s something we can grab on to. Just talk.’

‘You’ll be blue in th’ face.’

Life with Sammy had been hairy at Meadowgate, but they’d worked at it and Sammy had settled down. And then came the trip to Holly Springs and Ireland, and what was gained now appeared lost.

Also lost was the chance to commandeer the Lord’s Chapel landscaping project and involve Sammy. That was his only regret in saying no to Jack Martin.

•   •   •

R
ESTLESS
, he went to his bookshelves in the study and searched among the Wordsworth volumes. There were many, both by and about the good poet whom he’d loved since boyhood. The paperback
bought while in seminary was worn but not wasted. He stuffed it into the backpack.

He wandered up the hall, Barnabas following, to the living room they’d never lived in. Then he peered into the Ball Hall, aka dining room, where they had seldom dined.

He switched on the lights, lonesome for the clattering of balls, the cries of triumph or lamentation. It was as dead in here as a funeral parlor.

The cue rack—it was full. All cue sticks were in place.

Had he and Puny been mistaken? But he’d seen the empty slot with his own eyes and now he was seeing this. He walked to the rack and removed his cue and examined it with some absorption. No marks or damage of any kind.

He replaced the cue and hurried to the study and called next door, expecting Harley to answer.

‘Yeah?’

‘Sammy?’

‘Yeah.’

He couldn’t summon whatever it took to ask for Harley.

‘Just wanted to say . . . we miss seeing you.’ That had flown out, unexpected and true.

Silence.

He didn’t know where to go with this.

‘Well. See you soon.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sammy.

•   •   •

A
BSALOM
G
REER
HAD
BEEN
a mighty encouragement. The eightysomething country evangelist had never pulled punches with the town priest. They had been two respectful equals serving from the common ground of one-God-made-known-through-Jesus-Christ, and having a pretty good time of it.

The old man often spoke of the God of the Second Chance. To roughly reassemble Kafka’s metaphor, God had sure used his axe to break the frozen sea inside Tim Kavanagh, who, as a priest in his forties, had not yet come to a living faith.

He’d been given the grace of the Second Chance over and over again. More than anything, he wanted Sammy to break the bread of grace.

He sat at his computer and brought up the search engine and typed in his search. A lot of sites. He clicked on a link, it opened on exactly what he was looking for. Yes, yes, and
yes
.

Holy smoke.

In roughly ten minutes, he hit Add to Cart.

•   •   •

W
HEN
HE
RETURNED
Friday morning from walking Barnabas to the monument, Puny was jubilant.

‘I have good news!’

‘Last time you had good news, you also had bad news.’

‘Same this time. But th’ good news is, your cue stick’s back! Jis’ like it never left!’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘You mean you found it and put it back?’

‘I just walked in the room and there it was.’

‘Oh,’ she said, knowing. ‘You want to hear th’ bad news?’

‘Not really.’

‘I really don’t want to tell you, either.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t.’

‘You’ll be mad.’

‘Puny. You’ve known me for ten years. How often have you seen me mad?’

‘Well.’

‘See there? So what’s the bad news?’

‘I had to run up to your room to get your laundry, and because Timmy was cryin’, I jis’ slung ’im on my hip an’ took ’im with me, you know how I do. An’ I laid him down a minute on your pillow, I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘You would be right.’

‘And so . . .’ Puny looked at her feet.

He waited.

‘And so he threw up all over your favorite pillow-w-w!’ A small wail and then tears—a Puny trademark. ‘I know you have trouble sleepin’ and how you looked for years for that one pillow, and now . . .’

‘Now?’

‘Now it’s really stinky.’

He flashed back to his days as a bachelor. So routine, so undisturbed by dissonance, one might have heard a pin drop in his life. Then a dog as big as a Buick started following him home, and then Dooley showed up, and then Puny came to work, and then Cynthia moved in next door, and then Puny started having twins, and that’s how he ended up with a real life. And even though he loved it and wouldn’t trade it for anything, he had no idea how he’d find another pillow as beloved as the one just gone south with upchuck on it.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said. ‘This is very bad news. On the other hand, if we consider the really bad news in the world, this news is actually pretty good.’ He was suddenly laughing and didn’t want to stop.

‘I thought you’d be mad,’ she said, looking startled.

‘I’m furious,’ he said, wiping his eyes.

•   •   •

H
E
STUCK
THE
VINEGAR
in the yellow backpack. Nine-thirty. He had to get out of here. But while he was thinking of it, he went to the basement and checked the windows. They were small, but not too small. And one was unlatched.

•   •   •

L
IGHTS
,
MUSIC
,
COFFEE
.

The high-ceilinged room was originally a drugstore built and operated by the object of Miss Sadie’s unrequited love, Willard Porter. For some reason, the space had a calming effect on him. Add the smell of old wood, the companionable creak of heart pine floorboards, the light through the display windows . . .

He flipped the sign around:
OPEN
.

He would run tomorrow and again on Monday and Wednesday. As for the Thursday/Friday bookstore schedule, he would see how things
progressed.

W
hile his first letter had sprouted on a dry stalk, now came the bush, ablaze with truth and ardor.

If he’d gone back to Lord’s Chapel, Cynthia would have let him off the letter-writing hook. As things stood, two days at the bookstore bought no acquittal. As it happened, the idea for the second letter had struck him quite forcibly; it was the lightbulb above the head of the cartoon character.

Zealous to capture every drop from this underground aquifer, he had written like the wind and now lacked only the ending.

How convenient it would be to trust the inspiration of Duff Cooper, a crackerjack writer of the love letter, but Cooper had stolen unashamedly from Jefferson. All’s fair in love, he knew that much, he could not speak for war.

He laid the pen aside and took a break, considering the many sermons he’d composed at this very hour during years of Saturdays. There had been more than a few, of course, that refused to compose—he’d gone into the pulpit on a wing and a prayer, as surprised as the congregation with what the Holy Spirit gave forth.

He was cooking tonight, and needed a few items from town, but
first he would finish the letter—and seal it, so he couldn’t meddle with it later.

He picked up the pen. It wasn’t exactly Beethoven’s address to his Immortal Beloved, but with just the right touch at the end, this would be his finest hour. He couldn’t possibly top this.

•   •   •

F
IRST
HE
SMELLED
IT
, then he saw it.

Next to the fireplace, the Old Gentleman had thrown up a fairly unrecognizable portion of . . . maybe a chipmunk.

Whatever he said caused his dog to crawl beneath the coffee table.

The miserable deed had been done, of course, when he walked Barnabas to a tried-and-true spot beyond the tulip bed. While his dog nosed around at the end of the leash, the parson had been oblivious—his mind on the afternoon light, on the chiaroscuro of the mountains, on Henry Talbot . . .

•   •   •

S
AMMY
WAS
AVOIDING
HIM
, of course. But avoiding Sammy would lead nowhere.

Before he ran out to the Local, he popped through the hedge, crunched across the gravel, and knocked on the rectory’s basement door.

‘Hey, Father Tim! Come in, an’ ’scuse th’ mess.’

Kenny was tall and muscular, a bigger fellow than Dooley and Sammy, with a wide smile and the blue-green Barlowe eyes. Hearty, this one, without Sammy’s angst or Dooley’s steel resolve.

He embraced the boy. ‘How’s my timing?’

‘Good! It’s just me an’ Miss Pringle’s cat. Harley an’ Sam’s gone to Wesley for pizza.’

Kenny muted the sports channel. The place felt good, like home.

‘You can sit right there,’ said Kenny. ‘It’s th’ only chair in th’ house not upholstered with cat hair.’

Barbizon gave him a cool eye. Maybe a few too many pizza crusts for Miss Pringle’s cat, who was one hefty feline.

‘Thought I might catch Sammy,’ he said.

Kenny sat on the sofa, a relic from the glory days of the rectory. ‘He stole your cue, Harley said.’

‘But he put it back. I wanted Harley to know.’

‘Sammy had it th’ worst of any of us. Some people think our mother swappin’ me for a gallon of whisky was a tragic thing. Well, it was, but God worked it out to be a good thing.’ Barbizon climbed into Kenny’s lap.

‘Ed Sikes did me a favor droppin’ me off on his grandparents. Mom and Pop saved my life. Sammy didn’t have anybody to save his life. Our old man’s a goon, it’s a wonder Sammy made it out of there as good as he did.’

‘I agree.’

‘You can’t knock Dooley down, he’s th’ iron man, but you can knock Sammy down with a feather. It killed him when he busted that stick you gave him. He never said it, but he grieved that stick. He feels a lot of shame over what he did.’

‘Your brother and I need to talk. When do you think would be a good time?’

‘In the evenings, right after supper. Harley gets him up pretty early an’ they’re out of here by seven-thirty. Sam goes nuts in th’ morning, he don’t like to get up. I have to work on ’im, too, before I leave for th’ restaurant in Wesley. He’s stubborn. Man, is he stubborn.

‘An’ their work’s dryin’ up; Harley’s tryin’ to get him an’ Sammy a few handyman jobs for winter—like shovelin’ snow.’ Kenny grinned. ‘We’re prayin’ for snow around here.’

‘Never too early to pray for snow.’

‘Course, Sammy’s not prayin’ for anything. He don’t know th’ truth. I wouldn’t know it, either, if it wasn’t for my grandparents. I told you I think of them as my grandparents.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll go back to Oregon,’ said Kenny. ‘I’ll go back. Mom and Pop are old, they need me.’

In October, there would be Dinner One at a table across the driveway, with Dooley and Pooh and Jessie and their mother, Pauline—with Buck, of course. A painful piece of business, but he should mention it, at least. ‘You know Dooley’s coming home soon. There’ll be a couple of get-togethers at our place. All are welcome.’

‘Our mother’s comin’?’

‘To the first one, yes.’

‘Nossir, I’m not ready for that an’ Sammy’s definitely not ready for that. I know what Jesus says about forgiveness, but . . . no way. You did us a favor when you took Dooley in. What you did for Dooley has touched us all, an’ will keep on touchin’ us. You’ve done a lot for Sammy, too. I thank you.’

He had no words, only the certainty that he hadn’t done enough.

‘So you and Sammy and Harley are invited for the second night, okay?’

‘Yessir. Thanks.’

I believe we’ll see the day, he wanted to say, when we’ll all move back and forth through the hedge . . . like family. But he said nothing.

On the screen, figures racing toward the goal line.

‘You like the restaurant business?’

‘I try to give it my best an’ I’m savin’ everything I can. I guess if somebody asked me what I’d like to do, I’d have to say build bridges. That’s it for sure. But mostly, I just want to go to school. I want to learn, I want to know.’ Kenny’s voice was thick with feeling. ‘I want to
fly
.’

•   •   •

A
VIS
HAD
BEEN
PLEASED
with the parson’s dinner menu.

Pan-seared scallops with roast potatoes and carrots. Endive in a light dressing of avocado oil and lemon juice with sea salt. A crusty bread from Sweet Stuff, and the Local’s most highly recommended chardonnay, listing to the oaky side. As always, Avis expected as full a report as the customer was willing to render.

But the letter. When he went to fetch it, he couldn’t find it. He sat at the desk and tried to remember any unusual movement he’d made or action he’d deployed.

It had simply vanished.

Where was his mind? What had happened? He remembered sealing the envelope, and yes, he’d been distracted by the chipmunk business—what a cleanup!—but how distracted could he have been? He searched all drawers and pawed through the wastebasket, experiencing a feeling akin to slipping off an ocean shelf into the fullness of the sea.

The letter had been his magnum opus. And while certain parts of it had come easily, other parts had been dredged from the deep, requiring the might of prayer and patience. He had been Michelangelo at the marble of David, if he did say so himself.

As for her letter, he read it by the flame of three candles burning on the kitchen island. He was scarcely able to see his dinner, much less her small, eccentric scribbling. But she loved him, he knew that; he had known it all along and would always know it, and wasn’t that the point?

‘Can we quit?’ he said later, drying the skillet she had washed. ‘Writing letters, I mean.’

‘Sure. Okay.’

‘That was easy.’

She laughed. ‘I just wanted to see if we were paying attention.’

He put the skillet in the drawer. ‘And are we?’

‘We are. I loved learning that you’ll always think of me as the girl next door.’

‘In this letter, I was able to say other ways I think of you.’

She looked at him, happy. ‘But don’t tell me the ways,’ she said, scrubbing the roast pan. ‘I’ll wait for the letter.’

‘If we find it,’ he said. ‘A fresh pair of eyes. Sometimes that works.’

She dried her hands and made a beeline for the study.

‘I love this,’ she said, tearing into his bookshelves.

‘I wouldn’t have put it there.’

‘But if we look only where you would have put it, which you’ve already done, how will we ever find it?’

‘Go for it,’ he said.

•   •   •

O
N
S
UNDAY
AFTERNOON
, he walked with Barnabas along the drowsing street, headed for the monument.

This time next Sunday, things would be different in Mitford. Henry Talbot would have spoken his piece, and perhaps, one hoped, made his peace. One chapter would end, another would begin—Father Brad would bring something of the young Colorado mountains to these ancient hills and life would flow on. He was dreading next Sunday, though he had no real responsibility. All he had to do was show up.

He buttoned his old flannel jacket. A few days ago it had felt like winter, then a bit like spring. Today, a genuine autumn was in the air and he savored it. The leaves would be turning soon, the maples doing their chorus line of scarlet and gold along Lilac Road . . .

He wanted to see Sammy this evening, but Harley had called to say the boy was down with a case of flu. ‘You don’t reckon ol’ Barbizon could carry th’ germs upstairs to Miss Pringle, do ye?’

‘No, no, I don’t reckon so at all,’ he said, putting a shine on things.

As he crossed Lilac at Town Hall, the air was stirred by a sweet drone. He braked his dog and looked up to a cloudless blue sky and felt a smile have its way with his face.

Omer Cunningham was out and about in his yellow
ragwing.