Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (37 page)

‘Curtains in the police chief’s office?’

‘They’re not
tie
backs.’

‘Anyway, Esther cannot have this potato salad.’

‘Who says?’

‘Her doctor. It contains mayonnaise and bacon. Esther is on a diet of glazed carrots.’

Puny was thunderstruck. ‘Glazed carrots?’

‘Have you ever glazed a carrot?’

‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’

‘Puny, Puny. Would I kid you?’

•   •   •

S
INCE
HE
WASN
’
T
RUNNING
these days, he was determined to walk to the Cunninghams’. His wife wanted to drive him up, but no, he could do this.

‘Well, then, I’m slipping something in your jacket pocket, okay? My editor sent chocolate truffles today; I’m sharing two with Esther. Try not to mash them.’

And there he went, a pack mule in a fleece hoodie, into the winter gloom.

•   •   •

H
E
ARRIVED
AT
THE
C
UNNINGHAMS
’ at six-thirty, feeling grumpy. Kavanagh’s Schlep and Haul. Ray was overjoyed with the provender, though the entire delivery was a no-no in the new diet plan.

‘We’re happy to have you home,’ he told Esther, who was sitting in a wing chair in the Cunningham den.

‘The girls took my recliner and stuck it in the fur . . . r . . . nace room, can you believe it? They said a new study shows older people spend too . . . o . . . . o much time in their recliners and lose th’ use of their legs! Too . . . o . . . k it right out from under me, and Ray Cunnin’ham did nothin’ to stop it.’

‘I’m tryin’ to look after you, Sugar.’

She gave her husband a dark look. ‘Just wa . . . ait’ll they haul yours out of here!’

He removed his jacket, made himself at home. ‘Did you see the piece in the
Muse
about your homecoming?’

‘I’m too doped up to read. What else is goin’ on?’

He felt like a schoolboy reporting to the principal. ‘We got the bag down!’

‘What bag?’

‘The plastic bag that drove you nuts. On the awning at the Woolen Shop.’

‘Why’d you bother yourself with such aggravation? Don’t you have more important things to do . . . o . . . o?’

‘Esther, you asked me to do it.’

‘I was pre-stroke, Father, pre-stroke. I don’t care if th’ blo . . . o . . . oomin’ thing hangs there ’til th’ cows come home.’

‘Really!’

‘A nuisance, all of it. Let this town run itself. I always thought I was runnin’ it, but it was r . . . r . . . runnin’ me. I’m done.’

‘I’ve heard that before.’

Esther gave him one of her rare smiles, she was practically beaming. ‘This time I mean it. If I ever say I’m goin’ to run for office again, you can have me committed. Send me straight to Br . . . r . . . oughton.’

‘So, would you ride with me in the parade next July?’

‘Is th’ Pope Ca . . . a . . . ath’lic?’ she said.

•   •   •

H
IS
WIFE
ENCOURAGED
HIM
to wear the ribbon thing, which he did. ‘The
dignitaries
will be there!’ she said, pinning it on his lapel. She took a picture with her cell phone, thoroughly amusing herself.

It was a spread fit for a tent meeting.

Ray Cunningham indicated the two tables, fully loaded. ‘Right there is what fuels this town. Premium high-test octane.’

He eyed the vast bowl of Snickers bars. There was hardly a bite in view that he could put on his blue-for-MPD paper plate. Given his morning blood sugar reading, he couldn’t drink the sweet tea or the hot cider or have even a forkful of his wife’s lemon squares. He took a cheese wafer and a bottled water.

‘Lord help,’ said Avette Harris, scornful of such meager refreshment.

He considered the swarm of notables.

Chief Hamp Floyd of the Mitford Fire Department, known also as the Worm. Mayor Gregory and his gorgeous Italian wife who not-so-vaguely resembled the actress whose name he couldn’t remember, the one who said she owed it all to pasta.

Lew Boyd and his Tennessee bride, Earlene, who allowed that the swearing-in was, as her grandmother would have said, ‘more fun than a corn-shuckin’.’

His buddy Bill Sprouse, of First Baptist. Percy and Velma Mosely, former proprietors of the Main Street Grill, wearing natural tans with no walnut extract called for.

Two stray dogs foraged through the crowd.

Chief Guthrie’s mother, Marcie, in a mother-of-the-bride lace dress with corsage, attended on every side by Guthrie and Cunningham kin as numerous as Abraham’s stars. And over there was Abe Edelman with his wife, Sylvia, and here was his old friend Buck . . .

‘Buck!’ He loved this big guy who, in a drunken rage, had once thrown a couple of chairs at him but was now as peaceable as the proverbial lamb.

‘Lord bless you, Father. And congratulations.’

An embrace, hard and warm, from the man married to Dooley’s mother. He and Buck had gone down the mountain a couple of years ago, following an elusive trail that led to Sammy.

‘Feeling better?’

‘A whole lot, but now Pauline has whatever it was. How’s Sammy?’

‘He’s . . . all right.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Maybe take him to the construction site with you one day. He has a curious mind, and is pretty savvy about the way things work.’

‘I’d like to do that. An’ Kenny?’

‘A wonderful young man. We’ll miss him greatly when he leaves in January.’ A Barlowe gained, only to be lost—though not for good, as it once seemed.

Buck nodded, sobered by the way of things.

‘Time,’ he said to Buck. ‘It does heal.’

And there was Doc Wilson in his running gear, and J.C. with his Nikon and fancy photographer’s jacket, and Olivia Harper talking with Cynthia, who was decked out in a dress the color of cornflowers.

Across the room, Tad Sherrill, Betty Craig, Puny brushing something off the lapel of the chief’s new uniform, the rowdy crew from the waterworks, Ron Malcolm, Mule and Fancy, Coot in what appeared to be overalls ironed with a crease in the pant legs . . .

Captain Hogan tucked her thumbs in her gun belt and surveyed
the room. ‘It’d be a great time for somebody to come in an’ rob th’ town.’

And there went Sissy and Sassy pushing Timmy and Tommy in an all-terrain vehicle resembling a double stroller, and here was Shirlene in a caftan picturing indigenous tribes in a rain forest, with parrots.

It was as good as a coronation.

•   •   •

O
N
S
UNDAY
AFTERNOON
, he glanced out to the deck to see whether he’d put the cover back on the gas grill.

Sammy was sitting on the top step, holding Truman. Sammy’s back was to the door, but he could see the boy’s face in partial profile. Sam was talking to the black-and-white kitten and stroking its head and saying something.

He went to the study, where Cynthia was lying on the sofa, eyes closed.

‘Are you awake, Kav’na?’

‘Just resting my eyes.’

‘Let’s invite Sammy and Kenny and Harley over for burgers and pool this evening. What do you think?’

She smiled, eyes still closed.

‘So amazing. Puny was going to make chili tomorrow, so we have two pounds of Avis’s best. And I just bought a head of cabbage for coleslaw.’

The little miracles. Those were the ones to watch for in this life.

‘I’ll chop!’ he said.

•   •   •

‘I
AIN
’
T
NEVER
F
-
FIRED
UP
A
GRILL
,’ said Sammy, who proceeded to fire up the grill, as demonstrated.

‘What if I burn th’ burgers?’

‘Not allowed. Besides, I’ll be standing right here; I won’t let it happen.’

‘Okay, what next?’

‘Next we wash our hands.’

They shared the deep sink in the garage, one of the relics installed by Cynthia’s deceased Uncle Joe Hadleigh. Very handy for a man who changed his own motor oil, which yours truly never did.

‘You might want to use more soap,’ he said.

This would be 101 all the way. He was pretty excited.

They went to the kitchen, where the goods were laid out—spatula, room-temperature ground beef on a platter, salt grinder, pepper grinder, sliced cheddar, et al.

‘Number one,’ he said, ‘is to start with beef that’s eighty-five percent lean. Any leaner than that, the burgers are dry. Avis grinds it coarse for us, not fine. A fine grind can get a little soft and fall apart on the grill. So, eighty-five percent lean, coarse grind. Next thing is, we’re not going to handle the meat too much.’

He ground salt and pepper, lightly worked it into the meat, scooped a handful, and slapped it into shape. ‘Give it a try.’

His sous chef stood transfixed for a moment, took a deep breath, and deftly shaped a thick burger.

‘Perfect.’

Sammy exhaled.

And there was Dooley, albeit above the mantel, seeming nearly present in the flesh.

They carried the platter to the deck. A biting cold. The grill was their fire pit in the heart of the cave.

For him, this was the hard part—when raw meat hits the grate, it sticks. The trick was to flip the burger the moment it released from the grate, and not before.

‘By the way, no pressing down with the spatula. The juices run out,
the burger gets dry.’ He was Julia Child in her heyday, he was the entire Food Network.

‘Man.’ Sammy shook his head.

‘Not to worry. It gets easier every time you do it.’ Maybe that wasn’t completely true, but . . . somewhat.

•   •   •

H
E
HEARD
THE
CUE
strike the ball, the sound sharp and clean to the ear. He heard Sammy whoop, heard Kenny and Harley laugh. Sam was doing what he loved, in a house with people he could almost trust.

He didn’t need to be in there pretending to learn the game. He was doing something he loved, too—cleaning up the kitchen with his wife.

•   •   •

C
YNTHIA
TURNED
OFF
her bedside lamp. ‘Your Burger Boot Camp was a hit.’

He lay with eyes closed, grinning.

‘A very happy party,’ she said. ‘I’m glad we invited Hélène.’

‘He did a good job, Sam.’

He didn’t want to think beyond that simple and wondrous fact.

•   •   •

I
N
THE
M
URPHYS
’
SMALL
COTTAGE
three blocks away, Hope sat in bed with a book from Happy Endings.

‘Catherine,’ she said.

‘Umm,’ said Scott.

‘Hannah.’

‘Close.’

‘Rebecca?’

‘Ah.’

‘You have a try.’

A long silence, the small wind at the shutters.

‘Laurel!’ said Scott.

‘Pretty.’

Another long silence.

‘This is hard,’ said Scott.

After the long lying-in with fear, a certain joy had come, was a whole new presence in the room. They were praying about the name, of course, so no hurry, it was ready and waiting to be found. And yet she felt the mounting pressure to know their daughter’s name. They were yearning for it, really.

‘Elizabeth is always good,’ he said.

‘True.’

Naming was a peculiar exercise. One headed off in so many directions at once. In some cultures, the child wasn’t named right away, and certainly not before it was born. She spread her hands over the globe of her belly—felt the pulse of her heart beating in the waters of the gulf beneath.

The gift of this child was so miraculous, so out of proportion to human understanding, that . . . who could label such profound mystery with a
name?

T
hey all felt the reward of having made great advances on the rose garden job.

Not the least of their satisfaction was the maple. Breaking new ground, even with the snow melt loosening the soil, brought the sweat, but he and Harley and Sammy got it in and tamped down the earth and spread the mulch and edged the ring and looked at each other in a way that to him seemed oddly parental.

Even so, it was time to halt their efforts ’til spring; it was too frigid to work productively. Sometime in the next few months, they would choose the stone and have it hauled to the site in May.

Harley and Sammy would have to do in winter what others did in these parts—hunker down and be glad for slim pickings. He noodled his noggin, as Uncle Billy would say, for a project that might give them income.

He pondered this on Thursday morning, as he went upstairs to Happy Endings’ second floor, to the rooms where Hope had made a home when she bought the business.

She had hung curtains at the windows facing the street and set a
lamp there. When walking Barnabas to the monument in the evenings, he had relished seeing the glow above the store, had felt a certain gladness.
We are
not alone in this world; there is a light in the window
.

And at Christmas, there was Hope’s shining tree where the lamp had been. It was nothing more than a lighted tree in a window—but in a window long dark. That had been the joy of it.

He found the printer paper and tucked it under his arm and went to the stairs. The upper floor smelled of peppermint oil, a good thing.

•   •   •

H
E
WENT
ALONE
to the Feel Good for a quick lunch, hoping to connect with Omer while he was at it.

‘Any thoughts?’ he asked Wanda.

‘I’m still thinkin’,’ she said, filling his tea glass.

She was wearing the cowboy hat again—not a good sign as far as her disposition for the day was concerned.

‘How could something so simple require so much thought?’ he said. ‘Six or seven people come in, behave decently, sit in a corner with relative privacy, and order breakfast. At an average cost of, say, seven bucks, that’s roughly fifty dollars’ worth of business, plus tips.’

The arched eyebrow. ‘Mighty few preachers leave tips.’

‘We’re a thrifty lot, all right.’

‘Cheap,’ she said.

‘Okay, okay.’

‘Why don’t you use a church for your prayer breakfast?’

‘There is a serious problem with using a church for a prayer breakfast.’

‘What?’

‘Churches do not serve breakfast.’

There was her lopsided look that passed for a grin. ‘All right. But no shoutin’, Bible-thumpin’, or altar calls.’

‘Not from me.’

‘And thanks for th’ business. While you’re at it, maybe you can pray for this place to keep runnin’ a black bottom line. Everything’s goin’ sky-high and nobody wants to do a day’s work.’

‘I will pray for that.’

‘So it’s okay to pray for a bottom line?’

‘Absolutely. God allowed this business to come into your hands. He gave you the gumption to work hard and give your customers honest value. He wants you to succeed.

‘So, there’s every reason to ask,’ he said, ‘and—to give thanks for his continued good favor.’

Wanda’s spirits appeared to brighten.

In breezed Omer, with his piano-key grin lighting up the place.

‘Flyboy!’ someone called. Omer threw up his hand, removed his cap, and turned to greet the proprietor. ‘The usual, please, ma’am.’

Wanda brightened a good deal more.

Why tarry? As soon as Wanda brought Omer’s glass of tea, he launched.

‘Omer. You’ve been single for a while?’ He was nonchalant as anything, eating his salad with grilled chicken.

‘Twelve, thirteen years.’

‘Any children? I can’t recall.’

‘No kids. Just a couple of ragwings.’

‘Would you be interested in meeting someone who plays Scrabble?’

Omer gave him an uncharacteristically dark look. ‘Who?’

He realized he should have talked to Omer before he said anything to Shirlene. What if Omer had enough Scrabble in his life and wasn’t interested?

‘Fancy Skinner’s sister, Shirlene. From Bristol.’ He was suddenly, mortally, uncomfortable.

‘Bristol,’ said Omer, staring at his tea glass. ‘Th’ woman with th’ spray gun who moved here?’

‘Right. There’s a story in last week’s
Muse
.’

‘I don’t know. I’m not handy at women.’

He hadn’t been handy at women, either, and look at him now. An old married guy trying to fix people up.

‘Guess it’s been too long. I’m just a gnarly ’Nam vet livin’ on four acres with a patch of potatoes and a dog. Not much goin’ on with me—a few yard sales, a little Scrabble online.’

The perfect demographic! Nailed! How often does that happen in life?

‘Pretty dull,’ said Omer.

‘Dull? Not in the least. How about your halfway house ministry? I wouldn’t call that dull. So maybe we could have lunch. With my wife. And Shirlene.’

‘Lunch,’ said Omer. ‘I don’t think so, Father.’

‘Coffee?’

‘I don’t drink coffee.’

This was a nut to crack.

‘What kind of dog?’

‘Mutt. Named Patsy.’ And there was Omer’s smile again.

‘I believe Shirlene is currently looking for a dog.’

‘Good for the head. By the way, I’ve been meaning to bring you some potatoes. I’ll drop ’em by th’ bookstore, guaranteed. Yukon Gold or russet?’

‘Either way. We like both. And thanks.’

This wasn’t going terribly well. He would have to ask Cynthia to give a hand here.

•   •   •

‘I
DID
IT
BACKWARDS
,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how I get myself into these things.’

‘Meddling, sweetheart, that’s how. You have a special knack for it.’

‘What to do?’ he said.

‘Leave it alone for a while. You didn’t name a time for lunch. You were vague, right?’

‘Vague. Yes. Which reminds me, I never told Shirlene that he’s over her maximum age limit.’

‘By how much?’

‘I don’t know. Five or six years. Maybe more.’

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘You trump me by six years and I don’t think any damage has been done. Not yet, anyway.’

‘It’s not over ’til it’s over, Kav’na.’

They were lying in bed, his favorite tryst for plain talk.

‘Your book. Is it ever going to end?’

‘I just began it in September. Really, sweetheart, it’s only November. This is what I do.’

‘Will you ever . . . retire?’ A disgraceful word, but there it was. ‘It is very consuming, your work.’

‘True. But why have work that isn’t consuming?’

He had no idea what to say to this. ‘You’re definitely worse than I am.’

‘In which of many ways?’

‘You never want to go anywhere,’ he said, ‘yet I’m the one with the reputation for never wanting to go anywhere.’

‘I told you I would love to take the RV trip. When everything is done here.’

‘What is everything? And what do you mean by done?’

She couldn’t answer this; she simply didn’t know; she would have to play it by ear, she said.

He switched off his bedside lamp and held her hand, and prayed something best suited, in his opinion, for early morning, though indeed it was never too late in the day for these ardent petitions.

‘Almighty and eternal God, so draw our hearts to you, so guide our
minds, so fill our imaginations, so control our wills, that we may be wholly yours, utterly dedicated unto you, and then use us, we pray, as you will, and always to your glory and the welfare of your people, through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.’

‘Amen!’ said his wife.

•   •   •

W
INTER
COULD
GET
plenty long up here. In a few short months, they usually saw all of Mark Twain’s storied hundred and forty-nine weather modes.

After Christmas, the bookstore would be ‘quiet’ according to Hope and ‘dead’ according to Marcie. And he was at a standstill on the rose garden.

He didn’t want to ‘snuggle in’ for the winter. He wanted to do something that got his blood up and skip the depression he sometimes suffered when ‘earth stood hard as iron.’

There was the trail behind the hospital. Though he expected to be done at the bookstore when Hope’s sister came on in January, it could be May before weather was good to work outdoors. As for the planning and organizing of a project like this, he could work on that anytime—preferably right away.

He had swung into the trail when he was running on Tuesday. One had to be especially adroit to run back there. The many exposed tree roots and general wear and tear were dangerous for walkers and runners alike. Those were issues the town crew could work on. As for the trash, it wasn’t conveniently confined to the perimeter of the trail, but meandered far into the woods. He would crew that job himself.

He had made it to the turnaround, which seemed a popular spot for trash disposal, then got out of there. Was he nuts? Maybe, but he still wanted to see the place redeemed.

The town wouldn’t spring for amenities; he would need to provide
appropriate trash bins and signage. Signage was important. A few hardy shrubs, topsoil, mulch. And later, way later, a couple of iron benches.

He and Sammy and Harley could walk the trail together, then spend a few evenings by the fire, thinking it through. Hadn’t Sammy’s woodland shade garden, which he saw the day he first met the boy, been something to marvel at?

Philosophy wasn’t his long suit. But in the scheme of things, of what real importance was a ruined walking trail or a neglected rose garden? Yesterday, he had selected a book at random and discovered this by Abraham Verghese in
Cutting for Stone
:

‘We are all fixing what is broken. It is the task of a lifetime.’

Only one problem. He was running out of money. There were a few CDs lying about and earning a drop in the bucket, but nothing was due to roll over anytime soon.

•   •   •

T
RUMAN
HAD
DONE
all in his power to move the imperial heart of Violet Number Four—or was it Five? Violet was having none of it. She was still offended, and still using the top of the refrigerator to remove herself from the rabble below.

The Old Gentleman was another matter. He had adopted the black-and-white stray after a considerable trial period, and life was good.

However—and there was always the however—Truman enjoyed getting out and about. Soon after the adoption, he and Cynthia had driven the little guy to Meadowgate, where Hal put an end to any future patrimony. The thorn of venturing through their neighborhood had been removed.

‘Toys,’ said his wife. ‘Something to do with all that energy. Maybe a windup mouse.’

‘We don’t have time to wind up a mouse,’ he said.

‘A cat door,’ said Sammy.

‘How would we get one?’ she said.

‘Me an’ him could m-make you one.’

He had never been anything at all to Sammy. Not ‘this guy’ or ‘that man,’ and certainly not Dooley’s ‘dad.’ Now, at least, he was ‘him.’

•   •   •

A
T
A
LITTLE
PAST
FIVE
, he was rummaging around at his desk, still hoping to find the missing love letter. Talk about a complete and aggravating mystery . . .

He answered the knock at the side door.

‘In you come!’ he said to his French-born neighbor. ‘A cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you, Father. I smelled something cooking and knew you were home.’

‘Cynthia is painting with a friend and won’t be here ’til six. Will you sit at the counter while I stir the pot?’

‘The aroma drifted all the way to my porch—I pursued it through the hedge!’ She popped herself onto a stool.

‘Soup,’ he said. ‘Full of scraps, as soup must be. I’m using chicken, lamb, and beef bones for flavor.’

‘Very wartime,’ she said. ‘My grandmother fled Paris when it fell to the Germans. She went to Vichy, where she learned to cook like a
paysan
, the bone being always the chief ingredient of good soup.’

She watched him stir in the rice, positively mesmerized. If her news was bad, he wished she would get along with it.

‘Congratulations, Father, on being voted our leading citizen. A designation of great merit!’

‘Thank you,’ he said. His wife had advised him not to rattle on with self-conscious modesties.

‘You remember how I said I wished to help someone.’

‘I do remember.’

‘Thus I am going to the bookstore on Tuesdays and for my small effort, I have been revitalized, quite
nouveau-née
. Now I wish to do something more.’

He put the lid on the pot, and went around and sat at the counter with her.

‘Your Dooley brought me a bouquet.
Trés chamant
, Father! I suspect it was your idea, and a very lovely one. But that did
not
influence what I have to tell you.’

The other shoe was being dropped.

‘Sammy may stay, Father.’

‘Ah!’

‘But only as long as he minds the rules that must be laid down.’

‘Thank you, Hélène. You’ve been more than generous as it is. What are the rules?’

‘He may not smoke in the house at any time; he may smoke only at the rear of the house in the old garage—and he may
not
burn it down.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘He must keep current with his
loyer
.’

‘That’s rent, I believe?’

‘
Oui
. He may not leave any clutter of any kind on my porches.’ She took a deep breath. ‘
Finis!
But what if I have forgotten something he must not do and wish to add it later?’

‘Always good to have rules known beforehand. I’ll help you think.’

‘Perhaps I am acting too quickly in this decision, perhaps I should wait for further proof of good intentions. But Mr. Welch and Kenny seem to think there is . . .’ She sought words. ‘. . .
un
changement véritable en lui
.’

‘He might easily have been killed when the car went down the
bank. The police have seen people walk away from such accidents, but rarely. Perhaps, in some way, it waked him up.’