Authors: Jan Karon

Light From Heaven (67 page)

BOOK: Light From Heaven

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“Thus we worked on, year after year. My father died and left his estate to me, though I can’t say I deserved a penny of it. And then one day, Clarence and I began to pray that He would send someone to lead us, to draw us together again on the ridge-as a family.

“Many believe that seclusion of our sort is an offense, that we are to go out boldly, and serve Him in the great fray of the world. But these coves and hollows are a world, too, Father. And we’re honored that He chose us to keep His church from falling to ruin-for such a time as this.

“That is my story.” Agnes drew a long breath, and sighed with relief. “I know you must be grateful to have it end, but not so grateful as I to you, for having listened. You’re the only one who has ever heard it through.”

“He blessed with you a good-hearted and wonderful son. Out of what you experienced as wrong, He made right—as He always does.”

“I suppose I should tell you who ...”

“No,” he said. “I know only that you attended the funeral of Cleveland Prichard.”

She looked at him directly, with courage; her eyes were very blue.

“And that,” he assured her, “is all we need ever say.”

Jubal had stripped the winter tarpaulin from his derelict sofa and was sitting on the porch as Father Tim wheeled into the yard.

He parked the truck under a shade tree and gave Barnabas a leather chew for entertainment, then hopped down and collected a jar of tea and carton of eggs from behind the driver’s seat.

Jubal threw up his hand. “Leave y’r animal in y’r vehicle!”

Father Tim heaved the lamp from the truck bed and set off for the porch. Even from a distance, he perceived an odd movement beneath Jubal’s beard.

He thumped his plunder onto a bench. “Top of the day, Jubal!”

“What in th’ nation ... ?”

Jubal eyed the lamp with suspicion, if not downright disgust.

“It’s a lamp! From the horn of a rhinoceros! I know how you like things from nature.”

“Th’ horn of a what?”

“A rhinoceros.”

“I never seed nothin’ like it; hit’s ugly as homemade sin.”

“Most sin is homemade, I’ll grant you that, but this will give a cheering light in your place. Shall we step inside and plug it in?” He was personally pretty excited about his gift, albeit pass-along.

“Plug it in? I hain’t got but two or three places f’r pluggin’ in. M’ hot plate’s in one, m’ shaver’s in another’n ...”

“Your shaver? But you don’t shave.”

“Hit’s ready t’ go if ever I git th’ notion. Where’s Miss Agnes at?”

“She sends her best wishes, and a jar of tea.”

“She’s done f‘rgot me.” Jubal looked bereft. “I hain’t seed ’er in a coon’s age.”

“If you were in church on Sunday, you’d see her every week.”

Jubal glared from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Looky there! I knowed ye’d be a-tryin’ t’ hornswoggle me; I knowed it th’ minute I laid eyes on ye!”

“I’m not trying any such thing, just stating fact. And here’s the Brown Betties I promised.”

Jubal opened the carton, looking suddenly pleased. “Well, set down, why don’t ye? Don’t keep a-standin’ up, I declare, ye’d wear a man out.”

The vicar sat on the other end of a Naugahyde sofa that had been generously patched with duct tape. “Jubal, what on earth is under your shirt?” Something was definitely moving around in there.

“Hit’s m’ whistlepig.”

Whoa. He forced himself to remain seated.

Jubal pulled up his beard, put his hand inside his shirt, and withdrew a plump, brown groundhog with beady eyes and fossorial feet.

“I done took it in f’r a house pet; hit’s a orphan.”

“Does it bite?”

“Dern right; hit’s wild, hain’t it? A fox or coyote must’ve broke up its den. I been out a-lookin’ f’r clover an’ dandelion all mornin’. Livin’ by y’rself hain’t all roses ... but it don’t have t’ be all thorns, neither.” Jubal scratched the creature’s head.

“He’s a mighty lucky little fellow.”

“Hit’s a female.”

“Aha. What’s her name?”

“I been thinkin’ I might call ’er Miss Agnes.”

The vicar had a good laugh. “I’m sure she’d be honored.”

“Who? M’ pig or Miss Agnes?”

“Both, I’d say. So, Jubal, what was in the bag I brought over here?”

“Trotters. They was pretty good, if ye like ‘at type of rations. I hain’t eat trotters since I worked at th’ sawmill.”

He scratched his head. “I brought you ...
trotters?”

“You give ’em t’ me out’n y’r own hand!”

“But what, exactly,
are
trotters?”

“Pigs’ feet!” Jubal was plainly aggravated by such ignorance. “Lord he’p a monkey!”

Lord help a monkey, indeed. “Well, need to get moving pretty soon. Just wanted to say we’re growing pretty fast up at Holy Trinity, and planning a homecoming at the end of October. Everybody’s welcome. And maybe we can round up descendants of the people who went to church there in the early days. You’ll have plenty of time to think about it, but we sure hope you’ll join us.”

“I cain’t be settin’ aroun’ in a church house not believin’ in Almighty God! Lightnin’d strike me dead as a doornail.”

“You don’t believe in God?”

“Nossir, I don’t, an’ if ’e ever comes messin’ aroun’ here, ‘e’ll be lookin’ down th’ barrel of m’ pump gun.

“Well, then, I doubt you’ll have any trouble from Him.”

“An’ don’t ye f’rgit it,” the old man warned.

He creaked up from the sofa. “Hope you’ll enjoy the eggs, Jubal. I know how you like to stir up something on that fine stove of yours.”

“I didn’ cook a bite last e’enin’. Hank Triplett sent a plate from ’is mama; hit was loin of deer meat, with sweet taters an’ a chunk of cornbread big as a man’s hand.”

“When you finished that good supper, did you believe there was a cook?”

Jubal studied the question for a moment, and put his groundhog back in his shirt. “You ain’t tryin’ t’ trick me, are ye?”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t ye be tryin’ t’ trick me, or I’ll set Miss Agnes on ye.”

Father Tim laughed. “Which one?”

The groundhog poked its head through Jubal’s white beard.

“This ’un!” said Jubal.

Sissie was helping Cynthia in the kitchen, and he had stolen into the library for a breather. Dooley should be leaving anytime to fetch Lace from Mitford.

He was standing at the bookcase when he heard his boy coming along the hall at a clip, probably to pick up the car keys.

Dooley stood before him as if frozen.

“What happened?You’re white as a sheet.”

“I called him a bad name. A really bad name.

“Who?”

“Blake.”

“Why?”

“He argues about everything; I couldn’t stand it any longer. I let him have it.”

“Unbelievable.” This was not good news.

“He’s an arrogant, self-righteous ...”

“That may be. But that’s no excuse.” He was disappointed in Dooley. Miss Sadie, dadgummit, don’t look at me; he knows better.

“But I shouldn’t have called him what I did. Actually, I wanted to punch ’im; I had to really hold back. But no matter how blind he is to the truth, I shouldn’t have said what I said. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to him, and I apologize to you, too. I know you hate this kind of stuff.”

There. The boy had made a mistake and was apologizing to all concerned. Dooley was human, for heaven’s sake, what was he waiting for? For his son to be canonized? It was time.

He let his breath out, like the long, slow release of air from a tire gone wrong.

“Let’s sit down, son. Take the wing chair.”

“That’s yours.

“Not really. Right now, it’s yours.”

“You want me to sit down now or go and do what I have to do with Blake?”

“Do what you have to do with Blake, and get back here fast, I have something important to tell you.” He could hardly wait another minute; the waiting was over. But where to start? He’d had this conversation a hundred times in his imagination ...

He sat and prayed and stared out the window and scratched his dog behind the ears.

Dooley came back, looking relieved. “He took it pretty well; he knows he’s hard to get along with. If he’d just listen ...”

“How would you like to have your own practice when you finish school?”

Dooley sat down and glanced at his watch. “Unless somebody leaves me a million bucks ...”

Dooley eyed him, grinning.

“Don’t look at me, buddyroe. I am definitely not your man on that deal. How would you like to have the Meadowgate practice? Hal’s retiring in five years, just one year short of when you get your degree.”

“Meadowgate would be, like, a dream. It’s perfect, it’s everything I could ever want, but it’ll take years to make enough money to ...”

“What if you had the money to buy it?” Why was he asking these questions? Why couldn’t he get on with it? He’d held on to his secret for so long, he was having trouble letting it go.

“Well, yes,” said Dooley, “but I don’t even know what Hal would sell it for. Probably, what do you think, half a million? I’ve done a little reading on that kind of thing, but ...” Dooley looked suspicious, even anxious. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Since he’s not planning to include the house and land, I’d guess less than half a million. Maybe three or four hundred thousand for the business and five acres. And if you wanted, Hal could be a consultant. But only if you wanted.”

“Yeah, and I could fire Blake. Anyway, nice dream.” Dooley checked his watch.

“Let me tell you about a dream Miss Sadie had. It was her dream to see one Dooley Barlowe be all he can be, to be all God made him to be. She believed in you.”

Dooley’s scalp prickled; the vicar’s heart pounded.

“She left you what will soon be two million dollars.” He had wondered for years how the words would feel in his mouth.

There was a long silence. Dooley appeared to have lost his breath; Father Tim thought the boy might faint.

“Excuse me.” Dooley stood and bolted from the library.

“You don’t look so good,” Father Tim said when Dooley returned. “What happened?”

“I puked.”

“Understandable.”

Dooley thumped into the wing chair, stupefied.

“What do you think?” asked Father Tim.

“I can’t think. There’s no way I can think. You aren’t kidding me, are you?”

“I wouldn’t kid about these numbers.”

“It makes me sad that I can’t thank her. I mean, why did she do it? I was just a scrawny little kid who cleaned out her attic and hauled her ashes. Why would she
do
it?”

“I can’t make it any simpler. She believed in you. »

“But why?”

“Maybe because the man she loved had been a boy like you—from the country, trying to make it on his own; smart, very smart, but without any resources whatsoever. It so happens that Willard Porter made it anyway, as you would, also. But she wanted you to have resources.”

Tears brimmed in Dooley’s eyes. “Man.”

“You want to go out in the yard and holler—or anything?”

“I feel ...” Dooley turned his gaze away.

“You feel?”

“Like I want to bust out cryin’.”

“You can do that,” he said. “I’ll cry with you.”