Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (41 page)

‘I cannot abide facial hair,’ said Winnie. ‘I’m makin’ donut holes for th’ big day, an’ that’s it for me.’

The word blew along Main like a paper napkin from a fast-food takeout. On Saturdays, starting next week, Abe would be offering hot cider. The Woolen Shop would set out ginger snaps. Winnie and Thomas were giving away donut holes, two to a customer. And the bookstore would be putting on some kind of a show.

•   •   •

C
OOT
HAD
GONE
to their house and cleaned up the Nativity scene.

The figures would be placed in the window right away, in an order suggesting the coming birth of the the Bright and Morning Star.

First, the Virgin Mary and Joseph at the empty manger, seven
sheep, a donkey, a cow, two members of the heavenly host, and a stable which someone had given anonymously the year he restored the figures.

After a few days, the wise men would be introduced into the fringes of the scene, looking none the worse for having tossed around for a couple of years on the humps of camels.

What a lot of rubble it had all been when he’d found the twentysomething pieces at Andrew’s antique shop. Orange had been the operative color—skin, robes, even the camel. Andrew wondered why he’d bought the conglomeration, which took up costly container space on its way across the Pond from England. ‘A reckless purchase!’ said Andrew.

In buying it from Andrew, he had been uncharacteristically reckless, himself. Did he know how to restore plaster fingers and noses? No. Or how to paint realistic skin tones? No. Or what color anything should be, especially the wings of angels? Not a clue. He had solved this by consulting old Christmas cards and books showing crèche figures. As for the wings of angels, obviously they could be any color the artist chose to make them.

He had been intoxicated by the act of bringing each figure to life, thanks to help from Andrew and Fred. Dooley had painted the camel and its saddle blankets, and was also caught up in the thrill. It had been a huge challenge, but joy had overwhelmed fear, and the miracle had been accomplished.

On Friday night, he and Harley transported the whole caboodle in the truck bed, and Cynthia came along to give a hand. They rolled the bookcases into the Poetry section, brought up the chairs, restationed the rubber plant.

Fiercely cold tonight. Not a soul on the street. They worked quickly. Harley toted in a bale of straw and let it loose in the window. The lighting, seldom used in this area and acting as the star, was pretty good.

They moved the figures around. That some of them were nearly two feet tall was useful in the large space.

The Virgin Mother to the left of the empty manger, Joseph to the right. Three sheep standing, four lying in the straw, along with the old shepherd he had learned to love as he’d painted the solemn face.

They stepped outside and looked in.

‘Goose bumps,’ said Cynthia.

‘Where’s th’ baby Jesus at?’ said Harley.

‘He arrives on Christmas morning. Advent is a time of waiting.’

‘People’ll be lookin’ f’r th’ baby Jesus.’

‘And there,’ he said, happy, ‘is the whole point.’

•   •   •

O
N
S
ATURDAY
, there were more than a few noses pressed to the Nativity window, and more than a few of the curious came in to buy a book or two or three.

Marcie and Hélène convened at eleven, Winnie included.

‘How’s your mother?’ he asked Marcie.

‘Drivin’ me crazy.’

Shirlene stopped by for a quick coffee. Maybe there was a Caftan-of-the-Month Club . . .

‘How’s business?’ he asked Shirlene.

‘On a scale of one to ten, a six. You would not believe who just walked out with a Boca.’

‘Who?’

‘I’ll let it be a surprise!’ said Shirlene. ‘When do I get to meet Homer?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I don’t know how I’m ever goin’ to meet somebody. I guess he’ll just have to fall out of th’ sky.’

He had noted over the years that a good many single women
counted on this very phenomenon, possibly influenced by what the Lord himself allowed through his servant James, ‘All good and perfect gifts come down from the Father above
.’

‘The way you find a husband,’ said Winnie, ‘is you’ve got to get out there.’

‘Winnie met Thomas on a cruise,’ he said.

‘I’ve always heard you can’t meet men on a cruise,’ said Shirlene. ‘Single men do not go on cruises.’

Winnie beamed. ‘Thomas wasn’t a passenger, he was in th’ kitchen, bakin’. Which I would consider totally out of th’ sky.’

‘Hey, people, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got work to do.’ Marcie, like her mother, did not like to fool around.

‘The department store in Wesley!’ said Hélène. ‘They would have a beard,
pensez-vous pas
?’

‘Hélène,’ he said. ‘If you were a department store at this time of year, would you lend your beard?’

‘I heard y’all are lookin’ for a beard,’ said Shirlene. ‘I have a great idea. Forget rentin’ a beard and rent a Santa Claus! Gosh, I’d do it myself if I had time.’

‘We don’t want a Santa Claus,’ said Hélène.

‘We don’t?’ said Winnie. ‘I thought that’s what we’d been talkin’ about all along!’

Hélène appeared fraught. ‘We are talking about Saint
Nicholas
, the third-century precursor of the Victorian Santa, who had no basis whatever in real life, though their beards were similar.’

‘Really,’ said Winnie.

‘I hear you went down the mountain,’ he said.

‘It was a gruesome business. Pirate beards, Viking beards, and a Gandalf beard, which was very stringy.’

Shirlene was busy with her cell phone. ‘Ta-da! Santa beard! Just twenty-four ninety-five an’ two-day shipping! “So real,”’ she read
aloud, ‘“you can convince even your own kids that you are Santa.” Oops, wait. Out of stock.’

He retired to the back of the store, popped in a little Bach, turned it up pretty loud, ate a few raisins.

Five million. The thought came to mind, uninvited. A car dealership in Holding would donate a new van. The pizza parlor in Wesley would donate a pizza, fully loaded, each month for a year. And so on. The auction committee was out there at every opportunity, hoping to bring something to the table when the campaign launched next spring. Abe was keeping a low profile—he heard they were coming after him for a pair of Michael Jordan high-tops.

As for himself, he remembered what Nanny Howard said when she wasn’t up to the job at hand: ‘I feel like I was sent for and couldn’t go.’

He slogged to the front. Hélène was on the phone, the meeting was winding down.

‘The important thing,’ said Marcie, ‘is to find th’ guy who’ll be Saint Nick. I mean, we’re puttin’ th’ cart before th’ horse here.’

‘How about J. C. Hogan?’ said Shirlene. ‘He’s portly.’

‘Too sour,’ said Winnie.

‘How about your daddy?’ Winnie asked Marcie. ‘He would be perfect.’

‘Too wrung out takin’ care of Mama.’

‘Hamp Floyd,’ said Abe, who had popped over for a coffee. ‘I notice he’s gettin’ a little paunch.’

‘Too short,’ said Winnie. ‘How about Mr. Abe Edelman here?’

‘Too Jewish,’ said Abe.

Heads turned as one; they were looking at him.

‘Too busy,’ he said. ‘Go find a Saint Nick and let’s get on with it.’

Running a bookstore or dealing with a vestry? Which was worse?

‘I’m out of here,’ said Winnie. ‘But first—I just had a great idea. Put a sign on the door.’

‘For what?’ he said.

‘Santa beard wanted. Gotta go.’

After lunch, he rounded up another author poster. He was scribing the suggested proclamation on the back when the phone rang.

‘Father,
l’école est finis
! We are not a cooked goose! Polly just called, she will run up the costume out of remnants and I will contribute Mother’s old fur for the trim! You will look wonderful in it, I assure you. You will not be disappointed in the least!’

Had Hélène Pringle gone deaf? How many times could he refuse to be part of this scheme?

It had spiraled out of control. It was a loose cannon.

•   •   •

‘O
H
,
MY
GOSH
,’ said Vanita, ‘your window is gorgeous. I love th’ way th’ afternoon light shines on th’ straw an’ that old man kneelin’ down, he is so sweet. But where’s th’ baby Jesus?’

‘He comes on Christmas Eve, around midnight.’

‘Really? In my family, we pop him in his little basket right after Thanksgivin’.’

‘Some do that,’ he said.

‘I brought you somethin’.’ She dug in her enormous shoulder bag, pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘A book quote.’

‘You’re a reader!’ he said.

‘Not really. I am way too busy to read a whole book, sometimes I just read th’ first page an’ scoot over to th’ end. My cousin is th’ reader, she said give you this.’

All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened [Ernest Hemingway]

‘A gem. I’ll post it right away.’

‘You’re not wearin’ your ribbon.’

‘Not today, but I’ve worn it a lot. Ask anybody.’

‘You should wear it,’ she said. ‘So where’s your tree? Everybody on th’ street has a tree.’

‘A little early for a tree.’

‘We always pop ours in right after Thanksgivin’.’

‘Some do that,’ he said.

‘So what’s goin’ on in the other window, with th’ sign that says “Watch This Chair”?’

‘Someone will be sitting in it the next two Saturdays.’

‘Really! Who?’

‘It’s a surprise.’ The gospel truth if he ever told it.

‘I love surprises!’ She wrangled a notebook from her shoulder bag, pulled out her point-and-shoot. ‘I’m doin’ a story on this, okay?’

‘Okay,’ he said.

‘But I don’t know about a front page, I can’t guarantee a front page. It’s Christmas, you know.’

•   •   •

D
RIVING
DOWN
M
AIN
AFTER
CHURCH
, they noticed a plastic bag hanging on the knob of the front door at Happy Endings. He parked at the post office and went across to check it out.

‘Good Lord!’ he said. It was frightening.

A bag full of white beards.

He unloaded the bag in the garage. Three of the blasted things, one with eyebrows. Dusty. He had a sneezing fit.

A note read: Oh thank you forevermore for taking these off my hands. I would sign my name but you might try to give them back. Merry Christmas!

He stuffed them in the bag and trotted through the hedge to Hélène’s. No answer to his knock on the rear door. He hung the bag on her doorknob, anonymous note included, and fled down the steps.

‘Father Tim!’

Kenny was putting a bag of garbage in the can by Miss Pringle’s driveway.

‘How are you, Kenny?’

‘Tryin’ to get my head around leavin’ in a couple of weeks. I’ve decided to take off the day after Christmas.’

‘We’ll miss you. You’ve been a fine influence on Sammy.’

‘My grandparents are to thank for that. I was goin’ wild like Sam, but they didn’t give up on me, they kept prayin’. And my girl back in Eugene, she’s been a huge help, she really understands why I had to come out here and find my brothers and little sister and stay awhile—not just find everybody and run back to Eugene. It’s been hard to be away this long.’

‘You’ve made your brothers and sister into a family again.’

‘I’m tryin’ to forgive my mother, but I don’t know . . .’

He nodded, took Kenny’s hand. ‘If you need anything—anything at all, anytime at all—will you call?’

‘I will.’

‘I’m glad we’ll be together for Christmas. Thanks for making that happen. We wish you a lot of success in school. You’ve saved some money, Dooley says . . .’

‘Five thousand. Not easy in my pay range, but the rent was low.’ Kenny smiled—he voted Kenny the best smiler in the family. ‘Harley’s a great guy, a really good influence. Sammy’s pretty connected to Harley, but Harley needs to do a little butt-kickin.’

He laughed. ‘Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen.’

‘Thanks for puttin’ up with Sammy and helpin’ him. He really likes you, he’s probably never trusted an older guy before, especially somebody who lays down the law to him.’

‘We all need the law laid down to us now and again, it was sure laid down to me.’

Nanny Howard had taken no prisoners when it came to making
him toe the line. His mother and Peggy hadn’t slacked in that department, either.

‘We’ll talk more before you leave,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to make sure you know you can call anytime. We all need to keep in touch, we can’t afford to lose one of you—one of us—again.’

Kenny gave him a determined look.

‘We’re done bein’ lost.’

•   •   •

O
N
S
UNDAY
EVENING
, he took the Eucharist and a baked pasta dish to the Murphys’. They offered a prayer of thanks for the donor of the carriage house, and for Hope’s sister, Louise, who was coming on board after Christmas.

‘Louise once said that to be an aunt, she would give anything,’ Hope told him. ‘By not going to Denver and moving here, she’s actually giving everything.’

‘Starting a new life again in Mitford,’ he said. ‘A very good place to start a new life.’ That’s what he had done, and Cynthia, and Scott, and Hope, and Winnie’s Thomas, and Abe, and Shirlene . . .

Hope looked at him, happy. ‘Scott has something to tell you, Father.’

The chaplain sat on the side of the bed and took Hope’s hand. There was a kind of radiance in Scott that he’d never seen before.

‘Pretty soon, someone else will be starting a new life in Mitford. Her name is
Grace.’