At Home in Mitford

  “A good policy. I wish I could say the same. If I’m still away when school starts, would you be able to live here and take care of Dooley ’til I get back?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Just think, Joe Joe wouldn’t have to drive all the way to Wesley to court you, he could just walk down the street.”

  She flushed.

  “Think about it. It would nearly double your salary, and all you’d need to cook for the boy would be bologna, which, if the priest is young enough, he’d probably like, too.”

  She sighed. “I wonder why th’ Lord is always dishin’ out preachers t’ me.”

  Dear Friends:

  When I left Mitford several weeks ago, you couldn’t see me, but I could see you. Thank you for coming out to wave good-bye.

  Especially, I want to thank the kids who cared and sent those wonderful drawings to the jail. I’ve been allowed to put a few of them up in my cell, and you’d be surprised to see how much they mean to the other inmates. In this grim and oppressive place, the bright colors stand out vividly, but more than anything, it’s a joy to see the freedom in your drawings. They are spontaneous and genuine, and seem to give a certain hope to people who are clearly destitute of hope.

  I’m pretty isolated from contact with the other inmates, as I work in the laundry with just five other men. The exercise yard is about the size of the grassy area around your town monument. I go every evening after supper and try to keep myself in shape. Mostly, it’s good for clearing my head, as I often feel a real panic about being here.

  They told me I’d have to keep an eye on my watch and my shaving kit, but that nobody would steal my Bible. If they could imagine the riches to be found in it, they’d all be after it, and that’s what I’m praying for.

  I don’t know what I can say in this letter, I don’t know what is being censored, but I feel pretty certainthey will let me say this:

  I found something in Mitford that I never believedexisted. After I prayed that prayer with FatherTim and my new brother, Pete Jamison, God changed my life. Then He demonstrated His love through you.

  Thanks for the shoes. The casseroles. The cakes. The pies. And your prayers. Please write me if you can.

  Sincerely, George Gaynor

  The rector lowered the latest edition of the Muse into his lap. The mail clerks at that prison had their work cut out for them.

  “It’s Mr. Gregory,” announced Puny, wiping her hands on her apron.

  He knew he should have shaved this morning. “Ask him to come in!”

  He heard Andrew’s footsteps coming briskly down the hallway. “A bachelor’s paradise!” he said, seeing the book-lined study, the view of Baxter Park, and the bright face of Puny Bradshaw. He inhaled deeply, enjoying a fragrance that clearly had its source in the kitchen.

  The rector got up and gave his favorite antiquarian a forceful embrace. “Sit down at once, my friend, and tell me everything. I haven’t seen you in . . . when have I seen you? You’d think that since we’re across the street from each other, we’d meet more often.”

  “Life, Father, life,” said Andrew, sitting down in a wing chair and unbuttoning his jacket. “It is far too hurried.”

  “Even in Mitford.”

  “Particularly in Mitford, I sometimes believe. How are you feeling? Are you going to push along all right?”

  “Oh, I think so. A bitter inconvenience, nothing more.”

  “Would y’all like a cup of coffee or a glass of tea?” asked Puny. The rector thought she looked a picture in her new apron and dress, and her red hair caught up with a green ribbon.

  “Tea!” Andrew responded eagerly. “No sugar, if you please.”

  “I’ll have the same,” said the rector. He was tenderly amused to see that Puny, who appeared to be in awe of their handsome visitor, curtsied slightly as she left the room.

  “Where on earth did you find such a gem?”

  “Sent from heaven!”

  “Speaking of heaven, I have a new shipment of books from a priory in Northamptonshire. Very rare. Exceptional. One day they won’t allow such treasures out of the country. There’s a very early Imitation of Christ. I thought you’d like to come and have a look.”

  “I shall. It’s a good thing books aren’t bad for this aggravating condition, or I’d be a dead man. Any more sales on Uncle Billy’s drawings?”

  “Why, yes. Four more, and I took him an envelope only yesterday. He likes cash, you know, not checks, and I fear he may be keeping it under his mattress.”

  “Not a bad move, considering the times.”

  Andrew laughed. “I read George Gaynor’s letter in the paper. And only yesterday, I heard that two of the three British-side dealers have been arrested in Norwich. Fascinating circumstances, really; I’ve tried to keep up with the account in the newspapers. Inspected all my table legs, but not one is worth a farthing!”

  “What can you tell me about Ireland?”

  “Ireland? Only a bit. Hopeless Anglophile, you know. Of course, there’s been a big trend to Irish antiques, but they’re not my cup of tea. Too primitive. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m going in a matter of days. Thought you might have some suggestions. We’ll be staying in Sligo.”

  “Ah! rough country. Undeveloped. But spectacularly beautiful, I’m told. Take a raincoat, mud boots, a waterproof watch . . .”

  Blast, he thought, why bother to go to such a place at all?

  “Your tea, sir,” said Puny, who had put the rectory’s best damask napkins on the tray and used their finest cut-glass water goblets.

  Andrew took a sip of tea and pressed his mouth with the starched napkin. “I haven’t seen much of your neighbor. Is she still about?”

  “Oh, very much about.”

  “Clever lady.”

  “Yes. Yes, she is.”

  “Terribly attractive.”

  “Rather pretty, yes.”

  “Funny, actually.”

  “I agree.”

  “I can’t seem to make any headway with her, however. I suspect you know her a bit, being next door. Any suggestions?”

  Tall, suave, trim, urbane Andrew Gregory was asking him?

  He thought for a moment.

  “Oh, she’d probably enjoy being invited to more of those fancy country club affairs, perhaps to play bridge, that sort of thing,” he lied. Forgive me, Lord, he prayed, I promise I won’t do it again.

  As Puny saw Andrew to the door, the phone rang.

  “Hello,” he said. He heard someone breathing. “Hello?”

  “I prayed that prayer,” said a hoarse voice, and hung up.

  “Was that by any chance Joe Joe?” Puny asked, eagerly, hurrying into the study.

  “No, it wasn’t. I’m not sure who it was.” The voice had been oddly familiar, but no . . . no, it couldn’t have been who he was thinking.

  “You don’t know who it was?”

  “I didn’t recognize the voice, exactly, and then they hung up.”

  “Wrong number!” said Puny, setting the glasses on the tray and taking it into the kitchen.

  Absalom Greer looked at him steadily. “My brother, if I step into your pulpit, some of your flock will be gone when you return.”

  “So be it.”

  They were sitting on the steps of the country store, on a day so hot that both had taken their jackets off and rolled their shirtsleeves up.

  “You know I’ll preach on sin.”

  “Preach on it, then.”

  “I’ll preach a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.”

  “I fervently hope so.”

  “And I’ll preach the cross.”

  “That’s what we all need to hear. May God bless you, my friend.”

  “And may he bless you, Timothy. I didn’t know when I quit my little churches last week to get a rest that th’ Lord would hitch me up again before he let th’ traces fall.” The old pastor laughed, happily. “I’ll see that Lottie dresses me proper, and I’ll keep my shoes shined and a
handkerchief in my pocket.”

  “That’s more than I usually manage. How thankful I am that your schedule allows this. It was a sudden inspiration in the middle of the night. I believe the Holy Spirit put it on my heart. Can you hold out for two months?”

  “When it comes to preachin’, I’d a lot rather hold out than hold it in. I’ll answer this call at your place, then I’ll quit.”

  They stood up, and Father Tim clasped the pastor’s hand with both of his. “We’ll go through the order of service until you get the hang of it, and the bishop will provide someone to celebrate.”

  “This is pretty unorthodox, you know,” Absalom said.

  “I trust the orthodoxy of it enough to trust the unorthodoxy,” replied the rector, returning his gaze and smiling.

  The trip to the airport had become a dilemma. Joe Ivey, Mule Skinner, Ron Malcolm, and Hal Owen had all volunteered to drive.

  Emma, however, had insisted, which settled that consequential matter.

  “Well, of course, you must leave Barnabas with us,” said Marge, when they talked on the phone.

  “But you’ve done—you’re doing—so much already,” he protested, sincerely.

  “Just think of all you do for us, Timothy!”

  Frankly, he couldn’t think of anything at all.

  In his last sermon, he made every effort to prepare the congregation.

  “Pastor Greer warns me that some of my flock will have leaped over the wall by the time I return. But I challenge you to remain in the fold, and to hear what he has to say, and to ponder it in your hearts. I haven’t made this decision lightly, nor has the bishop been casual in giving his blessing. There will be some awkward moments, very likely, for Pastor Greer doesn’t know our order of service, but I want you to pray for him, and give him the right hand of fellowship, and keep a strong hedge around yourselves until I return.”

  Some of his flock looked at him quizzically as he greeted them on the church lawn. No one liked change, and why in heaven’s name couldn’t he have brought in Father Douglas, whom they at least knew? What did it matter if his sermons were largely tepid? He was comfortable, they were comfortable, and surely any bishop worth his salt could have talked him into leaving his book, which probably wasn’t going to be very exciting, anyway. Or Father Randall, now there was someone who’d pep the place up and make a contribution, though there was always the question of his unfortunate preference for guitar music at the eleven o’clock. And what about this preacher being a Baptist, for heaven’s sake? They only hoped he would not raise his voice and shout, or, worse yet, issue an altar call.

  In the cool of the evening, he walked to Fernbank with Barnabas, taking his time on the hill, and found Miss Sadie and Louella sitting on the porch, fanning.

  “Ladies, what’s up?”

  “What’s up is that we’re looking for company,” Miss Sadie told him. “Louella and I were just talking about how nobody visits on Sundays like they used to. What on earth do you think people do if they don’t visit?”

  “They go to the mall,” said the rector, out of breath. He sat on the steps with Barnabas, who was glad for the cool steps on the east side of the house.

  “Surely not!”

  “However, the old customs haven’t vanished entirely. After all, here I am.”

  “Let Barnabas come up with us,” said Miss Sadie, who was still in her church clothes.

  Louella drew away from Barnabas. “Thass th’ biggest dog I ever seen. I lived in houses ain’t as big as that dog.”

  Barnabas collapsed at Miss Sadie’s feet and yawned contentedly. “There now! What a treat! Louella, do you suppose we ought to get a dog?”

  “Oh, law!” Louella was speechless.

  “Well, Father, you should know that we’re all in a dither about Absalom Greer coming to supply us while you’re gone. I think that was a very odd thing to do, but I’m excited about it.”

  “You’re right. It was a very odd thing to do. But I think the oddity of it will have its effects. Will you give me a report on how things are going now and then? I’ll leave you an itinerary, with addresses and phone numbers. And I wanted to say I’ll write you ladies every week. That’s a promise.”

  “You’ve spoiled us, Father. You really have. Nearly thirteen years and barely missing a Sunday except for special meetings of the diocese and that awful winter when the flu kept you down.”

  “You know to call Hal or Ron if you need anything, and Esther Bolick and Emma will look out for you. Why, after a day or so, you’ll be saying, ‘Father who?’ ”

  “A likely story!”

  “You know Olivia will be coming home soon,” he said. “Perhaps you’d care to call her.”

  “Oh, we bin talkin’ ’bout that!” said Louella. “Miss Sadie goan have her up to try on all those fine hats, and I’m goin’ t’ fry her some chicken that will melt in her pretty mouth, yessir.”

  “And we’ll sit at the dining table, won’t we, and use Mama’s china?”

  “Aw, let’s just set in th’ kitchen where it’s comfortable and not put on airs for Miss Olivia. Let’s just treat her like family!”

  “Why, Louella, that’s a perfect idea. What will we have with the chicken?”

  Father Tim got up and went to Miss Sadie’s rocking chair. He leaned down and kissed his eldest parishioner on the forehead, then turned and gave Louella a kiss on her warm cheek. “Keep up the good work,” he said. “Remember I’ll write you every week.”

  He hurried down the steps with Barnabas, and out into the drive, where he stopped and looked back, grinning. “Stay out of trouble!” he said.

  “Let’s have a romantic dinner by candlelight,” suggested Cynthia, who had dropped by his office on her way to The Local.

  “That sounds good. But I had another suggestion, if you’re interested.”

  “Try me!” she said, tilting her head and looking pleased with life.

  “Why don’t we take a drive in the country?”

  “I love to drive in the country!”

  “On my motor scooter.”

  “On your motor scooter? That little red thing?”

  “The very same. We can take a picnic.”

  “Where would we put it?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t thought it through.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “But I will, I will think it through. I’ll devise a plan, and you’ll be stunned by the brilliance, the wit, the . . . foolishness of it!”

  She laughed with delight. “I love it when you talk like that! The minute you devise your plan, let me know more. Anything I can pick up for you at The Local?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” he said, seeing her to the door.

  She was on the sidewalk when he called to her. “Cynthia?”

  “Yes?” She turned around and smiled.

  “I’ll miss you,” he said.

  He was dreading it, dreading it all. He had not been on an airplane in nine years, and to fly across the ocean was suddenly unthinkable. Travel always sounded wonderful when one considered the end, but to consider the means was quite another story. Walter and Katherine had gleefully reported that the farmhouse had feather beds, but as he recalled from boyhood days at his grandfather’s, feather beds contained more than feathers. He recalled hearing faint chewing sounds that lasted the livelong night.

  Then there was the issue of where the bathrooms were. They believed both rooms had baths en suite, but then again, one of the baths—and guess whose it would be?—just might be a step or two down the hall.

  He sat in his chair in the bedroom and looked at the results of his feeble packing effort. He wouldn’t leave for four days yet, but he thought it best to start working on that aggravating project now.

  “Timothy,” he said aloud, causing Barnabas to look around curiously, “you have a rotten attitude about this trip. Back up and start over! Thank you, Lord, for the opportunity to go to this wonderful part of your world, thank you for making provision through the s
acrifices of so many people, and for bringing it all together in a way that is clear evidence of your grace.

  “Thank you for a good home for Dooley and Barnabas, may you bless the Owens exceedingly for their care for us. Forgive me for being dark-spirited about what is certainly a privilege, and enable me to take care of every need before I go. And, Lord, show me what to pack.”

  “Leave this packin’ alone!” said Puny. “You are makin’ a mess. You have two pairs of underwear in here and nine handkerchiefs. You have three pairs of cuff links and no French cuff shirts.” He was alarmed to see how she was undoing what he had so carefully done.

  “You jis’ go on and let me handle this. I packed for my grandpaw all th’ time when he was travelin’ with a revival tent. He was neat as a pin. He said he got compliments all th’ time about the way he turned hisself out. What’s this?”

  “That,” he said, irritably, “is my diabetes case.”

  “Ugh,” she said, looking inside. “Needles! What’s this?”

  “Those are the strips to dip in my urine, to test blood sugar levels.”

  “Do you have something to pee in?”

  “Puny . . .”

  “Well, think about it. You might need a little jar. You could git over there in that foreign country, and you don’t know what you might have to pee in.”

  “Put in a jar, then,” he said.

  “I’m so glad you got Mr. Greer, an’ another preacher ain’t movin’ in here. I hope you don’t mind that I prayed about it.”

  They had parked the car on the dirt road, climbed through a barbed wire fence, crossed a meadow brimming with daisies, and climbed a green knoll dotted with buttercups. They spread the quilt where pines and blue spruce cast a cool shade.

  He lay down, put his hands behind his head, and looked up at a sky filled with vast cumulus clouds. He felt as if he might have been journeying to this very place for the duration of his sixty-one years. Surely, this was destination enough. Could Ireland be any greener? Its hills any nobler?