Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (34 page)

Coot appeared thoughtful again.

‘Do you think when we’re workin’ an’ all, that maybe we could . . . have some fun that is funny?’

‘I can just about guarantee it,’ he said.

•   •   •

T
WENTY
-
SEVEN
PEOPLE
GATHERED
,
frozen as popsicles, beneath a small tent whipped by the wind. In the old days, they couldn’t bury until spring when the ground thawed. Thank heaven for the backhoe, which got the job done.

‘The Lord be with you!’

‘And also with you.’

The tent shuddered, creaked on its poles.

‘Oh, God, whose mercies cannot be numbered: Accept our prayers on behalf of your servant Beulah Mae, and grant her an entrance into the land of light and joy, the fellowship of your saints; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.’

‘Amen.’

He’d been pretty amazed to see Esther Cunningham and Ray out in this cold, and Esther dressed for what looked like a summer garden party.

‘She’s campaignin’,’ somebody said.

‘Startin’ mighty early. The election idn’t ’til next November.’

‘You have to start early these days.’

‘Esther isn’t
startin
g to campaign,’ said Bill Sprouse. ‘Esther has never
stopped
campaigning.’

‘Well, there you go,’ he said.

•   •   •

C
OOT
HAD
HOPED
people could come to the preacher’s house afterward instead of to Route 4. Thus relieved of carting the whole
business to the boondocks, they trekked to Wisteria Lane and did a mighty bit of damage to the offerings.

When their party of twenty-seven gathered in the kitchen and held hands for the blessing, he was surprised by his tears. Not for the dead, no, but for the living, and for how good it was to be alive and together, and to laugh and give
thanks.

Make it a rule never to give a child a book you would not read yourself.—George Bernard Shaw

He pinned the quote to the corkboard, thinking of Irene McGraw’s wise and charming habit. Irene would be driving Cynthia to Winston-Salem today, for lunch and the eye doctor.

He pinned one contributed by his wife.

There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.—Marcel Proust

The corkboard was literally bristling with quotes from customers of every ilk. He stood back and reviewed their dispatches with satisfaction.

•   •   •

‘V
ANITA
?’

‘Don’t tease me,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s teasin’ me. It’s th’ Palm
Beach, I did it in th’ line of duty. You can’t write journalism on a subject you don’t know anything about.’

‘Really,’ he said. Talk about hot off the press. He could smell the ink as Vanita thumped the new edition on the counter.

‘One more week and we’re wrappin’ up your big story! Total votes for Father Tim Kavanagh as of today’s edition—one hundred and ninety-four! Yay-y-y! You’re definitely goin’ to be the town’s leading citizen.’

‘You know, of course, that I’m not the town’s leading citizen, nor do I wish to be.’

‘But why not? There’s no responsibility that comes with th’ recognition, it’s not like it’s a payin’ job an’ you have to clock in every mornin’.’

‘It just feels . . . it’s . . . I don’t deserve the title.’

‘But a hundred and ninety-four people think you do. Plus th’ winner will get a free spray tan treatment! For you, I think Fancy and Shirlene would definitely do th’ Palm Beach, which is their top of th’ line!’

‘So. I’ve been wondering,’ he said, ‘is there any way I can pass the torch to somebody else? I mean, give it to me if you must, but I’ll hand it over to someone more worthy. That would be a story right there.’

‘Who would you hand it to?’

‘I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.’

‘Don’t waste your time, there’s not anybody.’

‘Why not the mayor? That’s about as leading as you can get.’

‘Way too easy. Are you just bein’ humble?’

‘I’m not terribly humble, really. Let’s figure this thing out. I mean, it took off without me being . . . in the saddle, so to speak.’

‘You don’t have to go through a big ceremony or anything. I mean, it’s not like we have a big weenie roast on th’ lawn at Town Hall.’

‘So what will you do to make it . . . official?’

‘Like there’s not a
crown
or anything. We’ll just run your picture in the paper and I’ll write something really, you know . . .’

‘Embarrassing,’ he said.

She looked bewildered. ‘So you don’t like my idea that united our little town and gave us somethin’ positive to focus on? An’ a way to interact by writin’ in our votes? An’ a way to show respect and admiration for others?’

Vanita was blinking back tears.

‘So, yay,’ she said.

She turned and walked to the door and didn’t look back.

Good Lord. He stood rooted to the spot, then sprinted out the door and down the sidewalk and caught up with her at Sweet Stuff.

‘Vanita! I’m so sorry. I am really, really sorry. I was ungrateful. I hope you’ll forgive me. Please. I’d be honored to, you know . . .’

Vanita beamed—the sun broke forth, birds sang. She gave him a hug.

After five years of so-called retirement, he was once again prey to the stresses of public life.

•   •   •

H
E
CALLED
HIS
WIFE
, told her everything.

‘Lighten
up
,’ she said. ‘
Be
the leading citizen, for heaven’s sake.
Ride
in the parade and wave to the crowd. You only live
once
.’

Fine. Okay. Done. End of sermon.

•   •   •

T
O
THE
ROAR
OF
THE
VACUUM
CLEANER
, he read Beulah Mae Hendrick’s obit.

Diligent to honor the deceased, Hessie had included lyrics to the Hendrick family ballad about a Mitford ancestor who shot and buried five AWOL Yankees during the Civil War. There was a brief mention
of Tuesday’s graveside service and the ‘wind-tossed’ tent beneath which Beulah Mae ‘lay in eternal rest.’

Dear Vanita

I am sooo glad to share what I do to take care of our own! I have given a good and loving home to sixteen cats and here they are. Have you ever tried to get sixteen cats to stay still for a picture?? That is Elvis in front see his white jumpsuit and I added the rhinestone collar!! Anyways, sorry about all the red eyes my camera is old as dirt%^

He couldn’t do this anymore. He just couldn’t. As for the Hint, it was three home remedies for headaches, but he never had headaches. What they needed around here was some real news. Or maybe not, since that could be pretty frightening stuff.

On Monday, he would call the
Charlotte Observer
and sign up for a year, an act which would not only illuminate world events, but add serious volume to his stash of fire-starters.

•   •   •

M
ARCIE
WAS
SUBBING
FOR
HIM
from eleven to twelve so he could have an early bite at Feel Good and a private chat with the boss.

‘Don’t stay too long,’ said Marcie, one of Esther Cunningham’s five good-looking daughters and mother of seven. ‘I’ve got to run home and start bakin’ and freezin’ for th’ swearin’-in, then get back to Avis and finish th’ payroll. I’m leavin’ you a note about th’ mice.’

He didn’t question this remark.

‘A prayer breakfast?’ said Wanda. ‘How many?’

‘To begin, five or six. Starting early January. I expect the numbers will grow.’

So far, he’d come up with Bill Sprouse at First Baptist, Bill Swanson from Lord’s Chapel, the new Methodist hire, and Reverend
Browing at First Presbyterian. He hoped Father Brad would join them, and anyone else who took a notion.

‘You’re goin’ to pray?’

‘And talk and have breakfast, of course. And yes, pray.’

‘Right out in front of everybody?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, we don’t have a back room where you can, like, go pray.’

‘We wouldn’t need a back room. Just wondered if we could start off with the table in the corner? Every other Saturday, eight o’clock sharp.’

‘But so you’re goin’ to pray where people can see you prayin’?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so, that’s the usual way of the prayer breakfast.’

Wanda had a concerned look. He needed Mule in on this.

‘It happens all over the country, all the time,’ he said. ‘Wendy’s, McDonald’s.’

‘We’re not fast-food, Father.’

‘I was just giving you an example of how widespread the prayer breakfast is. If it’s a problem . . .’

‘I don’t know squat about your particular religion,’ she said. ‘I was raised Holy Roller. Y’all don’t by any chance fall back in th’ Spirit, do you?’

‘Not usually,’ he said.

‘Hey!’ said Omer. ‘Any room for me?’

‘I’ll get back to you,’ said Wanda. ‘What’s for th’ flyboy today?’

‘The usual,’ said Omer. ‘An’ thank you, ma’am.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ she said.

‘What’s goin’ on in town?’ asked Omer.

He slid his copy of the
Muse
across the table. ‘All yours. More than you ever wanted to know. How was your potato crop this year?’

‘Awesome. I’ll bring a bag by th’ bookstore.’

‘We’ll sure appreciate it. Nice shirt.’ He was a longtime fan of the flannel shirt.

‘Thanks. Yard sale. Two bucks.’

‘Mule likes a good yard sale.’

Omer grinned. ‘He’s beat me out of a few items over the years.’

‘You flying today?’

‘Not today. I’ve got a project goin’ at th’ house.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘A Scrabble game. Online. Playing with somebody who’s pretty good.’

‘You play Scrabble? Online?’

‘I’m stuck with some crazy letters, but I think I’ve got it figured out. Just need to get back to my dictionary.’ And there were the piano keys, and maybe the intro to a little Irving Berlin.

•   •   •

H
EADING
ACROSS
TO
THE
BOOKSTORE
, he realized he was doing something he almost never did, even though he very much enjoyed doing it.

He was whistling.

Fr Tim,

MICE UPSTAIRS!!! 3 and maybe more!!! I beg u 2 do what needs 2 B done B4 next Wed. and know u wl B HUMANE. I owe u a donut. Hugs Marcie

The note was decorated with a smiley face.

‘Dora,’ he said, calling down to the hardware. ‘I need a humane mousetrap.’

‘Sorry. When it comes to mice, we don’t do humane.’

‘What do you have against mice?’

‘They get in th’ feed sacks, eat th’ birdseed, poop on th’ counters, you name it. An’ since you’re runnin’ the bookstore, I guess you know they eat books.’

‘Eat books?’

‘Plus chew electrical cords, gnaw through wires, climb pipes . . .’

‘Okay, so . . .’

‘I can give you pellets or th’ old-fashioned wood trap. Or you can go th’ five-gallon-bucket route. That’s popular.’

‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said.

For some reason, he could not engage with this project, donut or no.

‘Coot,’ he said. ‘Could you step here a minute?’

•   •   •

T
HE
OLD
PEOPLE
HAD
SAID
it would be a hard winter, and weren’t they usually right? Four inches of snow they’d had, with leaves still clingin’ to the trees, and she couldn’t get warm to save her life.

Esther Cunningham backed out of the garage and headed to town. Ever since the Hendrick funeral, she had been cold as a corpse, herself. Her brother had invited her to Florida to sit in the sun on a bench in his retirement community, but no way. The sun would come back around soon enough and she had never enjoyed sitting on a bench, period, much less with old people.

Mama, you need to slow down! She had not liked hearing that from Marcie Guthrie before eight o’clock this morning. And look who was talkin’. Her daughter was a chicken with its head cut off—down at the Woolen Shop to do the books, over to the Local to get out the payroll, up to Village Shoes to do Abe’s inventory, over to Lew Boyd’s to help with his taxes which were a rat’s nest, and now volunteerin’ at Happy Endings every Wednesday, which had for years been Marcie’s only day off—except Sunday, when she went to church, taught Sunday school, and cooked a big dinner for her kids and grans.

As for Joe Joe’s swearin’-in next Saturday, who but the chief’s
own mother
had signed up to bake three hundred cookies and two sheet cakes? Marcie Guthrie was th’ pot callin’ th’ kettle black.

And there was that bloomin’ plastic bag still flappin’ around
on the awning of the Wool Shop. She guessed she’d have to climb up there herself and yank it down. She despised plastic bags. Wasn’t there a gazillion of the dern things out in the ocean with flip-flops and milk jugs whirlin’ around in a gigantic cesspool?

When she was mayor again, plastic bags would be outlawed. The merchants would have to use recycled paper and they would not like it. What is this, a socialist state? For crap’s sake, Esther, this is America. Nossir, they would fight her tooth an’ nail on that little ord’nance.

‘Bring it on!’ she shouted.

She bent over the steering wheel, coughing. Lord help, she was gettin’ a cough like nobody’s business. A wrackin’ cough, is what her mother used to call it. It had been so bad last night that Ray got up and slept in the guest room.

She pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror.

Blotches. Big time. And her heart bangin’ around everywhichaway.

She had never paid much attention to her heart or any of her other organs, she just let ’em do whatever they had in mind, and what business was it of hers?

Lord help, it was kickin’ around in there. She pulled into a parking lot and rolled the window down. She was hot as a firecracker, and where was she anyway? Was this Wesley or Mitford? She turned on the radio, maybe they would know.

•   •   •

‘I
FOUND
HER
PULLED
OVER
in front of Shoe Barn. Motor runnin’, radio goin’.’

Hamp Floyd, Mitford’s fire chief, had gone to buy boots for rabbit hunting.

‘She was slumped over the steerin’ wheel; been listenin’ to Rush Limbaugh. He was talkin’ about the government gettin’ rid of Social Security.’

That’ll do it, he thought.

‘I got the ambulance to take her to ER; I’m up at the hospital ’til somebody can get here. Her preacher’s out of town. One of the nurses said call you, you’d come.’

‘Is she . . . ?’ Was this last rites? Good Lord!

‘They’re puttin’ her in ICU, is all I know.’

‘Where’s Ray?’

‘Somewhere in Wesley, he don’t carry a cell phone.’

‘I’ll be right there,’ he said.

Who would sub? Not his wife, who was at the eye doctor in Winston-Salem.

‘Coot,’ he said, ‘can you step here a minute?’

•   •   •

‘F
ATHER
. Do . . . o . . . o me a favor.’

‘Anything,’ he said. Heaven knows, a big chunk of Mitford history was lying right here, hooked to two IVs, a heart monitor, and a tank of oxygen.

‘Climb up on that awnin’ at th’ Wo . . . o . . . ol . . . en Shop . . .’

There was a long pause, the monitor beeping.

‘. . . an’ get that da-a-adgum plastic bag down.’

‘Consider it done,’ he said.

•   •   •

C
YNTHIA
’
S
DIAGNOSIS
:
MACULAR
HOLE
.

Neither had ever heard of it.

She explained the fairly rare condition as best she could. ‘They’ll remove fluid from my right eye and replace it with a bubble of gas. I’ll have to lie facedown for two weeks.’

Facedown? Two weeks? Unbelievable!