CHAPTER NINE

Life in the Fast Lane

“What I done was give you thirty more horses under y’r hood.”

“Did I need thirty more horses?” He had to admit that stomping his gas pedal had been about as exciting as stepping on a fried pie. However . . .

Harley gave him a philosophical look, born from experience. “Rev’rend, I’d hate f’r you t’ need ’em and not have ’em.”

What could he say?

On Monday morning, he roared to the office, screeching to a halt at the intersection of Old Church Lane, where he let northbound traffic pass, then made a left turn, virtually catapulting into the parking lot.

Holy smoke! Had Harley dropped a Jag engine in his Buick?

Filled with curiosity, he got out and looked under the hood, but realized he wouldn’t know a Jag engine from a Mazda alternator.

“Can you believe it?” asked Emma, tight-lipped.

He knew exactly what she was talking about. “Not really.”

For a while, he thought they’d lost his secretary’s vote to Esther Cunningham’s competition. Last week, however, had turned the tide; she’d heard that Mack Stroupe had bought two little houses on the edge of town and jacked up the rent on a widow and a single mother.

“Sittin’ in church like he owned th’ place, is what I hear. Why th’ roof didn’t fall in on th’ lot of you is beyond me.”

“Umm.”

“Church!” she snorted. “Is that some kind of new campaign trick, goin’ to church?”

He believed that particular strategy had been used a time or two, but he didn’t comment.

“The next thing you know, he’ll be wantin’ to join. If I were you, I’d run his hide up th’ road to th’ Presbyterians.”

He laughed. “Emma, you’re beautiful when you’re mad.”

She beamed. “Really?”

“Well . . .”

“So, what did he do, anyway? Did he kneel? Did he stand? Did he sing? Can you imagine a peckerwood like Mack Stroupe singin’ those hymns from five hundred years ago, maybe a thousand? Lord, it was all I could do to sing th’ dern things, which is one reason I went back to bein’ a Baptist.”

She booted her computer, furious.

“I heard Lucy was with him, wouldn’t you know it, but that’s the way they do, they trot their family out for all the world to see. Was she still blond? What was she wearin’? Esther Bolick said it was a sight the way the crowd ganged up at the museum watchin’ the air show, and that barbecue sittin’ down the street like so much chicken mash.”

She peered intently at her screen.

“Well,” she said, clicking her mouse, “has the cat got your tongue? Tell me somethin’, anything! Were you floored when he showed up at Lord’s Chapel, or what?”

“I was. Of course, there’s always the possibility that he wants to turn over a new leaf . . . .”

“Right,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “and Elvis is livin’ at th’ Wesley hotel.”

As much as he liked mail, and the surprise it was capable of bringing, he let the pile sit on Emma’s desk until she came back from lunch.

“No way! I can’t believe it!” She held up an envelope, grinning proudly. “Albert Wilcox!”

She opened it. “Listen to this!

“ ‘Dear one and all, it was a real treat to hear from you after so many years. My grandmother’s prayer book that gave us such pain—and delight—sits on my desk as I write to you, waiting to be handed over to the museum in Seattle, which is near my home in Oak Harbor . . . .’ ”

She read the entire letter, which also contained a great deal of information about Albert’s knee replacement, and his felicitations to the rector for having married.

“Have you ever? And all because of modern technology! OK, as soon as I open this other envelope, I’ve got a little surprise for you. Close your eyes.”

He closed his eyes.

“Face the bookcase!” she said.

He faced the bookcase.

He heard fumbling and clicking. Then he heard Beethoven.

The opening strains of the Pastorale fairly lifted him out of his chair.

“OK! You can turn around!”

He didn’t see anything unusual, but was swept away by the music, which seemed to come from nowhere, transforming the room.

“CD-ROM!” announced his resident computer expert, as if she’d just hung the moon.

He went home and jiggled Sassy and burped Sissy, as Puny collected an ocean of infant paraphernalia into something the size of a leaf bag.

After a quick trot through the hedge to say hello to his hardworking wife, he and Dooley changed into their old clothes. They were going to tear down Betty Craig’s shed and stack the wood. He felt fit for anything.

“Let’s see those muscles,” he challenged Dooley, who flexed his arm. “Well done!” He wished he had some to show, himself, but thinking and preaching had never been ways to develop muscles.

What with a good job, plenty of sun, and a reasonable amount of home cooking, Dooley Barlowe was looking good. In fact, Dooley Barlowe was getting to be downright handsome, he mused, and tall into the bargain.

Dooley stood against the doorframe as the rector made a mark, then measured. Good heavens!

“I’ll be et for a tater if you ain’t growed a foot!” he exclaimed in Uncle Billy’s vernacular.

Soon, he’d be looking up to the boy who had come to him in dirty overalls, searching for a place to “take a dump.”

They were greeted in the backyard by Russell Jacks and Dooley’s young brother.

“I’ve leaned th’ ladder ag’inst th’ shed for you,” said Russell.

“Half done, then!” The rector was happy to see his old sexton.

Poo Barlowe looked up at him. “Hey!”

“Hey, yourself!” he replied, tousling the boy’s red hair. “Where were you on Saturday? We missed you at the town festival.”

“Mama took me to buy some new clothes.” The boy glanced down at his tennis shoes, hoping the rector would notice.

“Man alive! Look at those shoes! Made for leaping tall buildings, it appears.”

Poo grinned.

“Want to help us pull that shed down?”

“It ain’t hardly worth pullin’ down,” said Poo, “bein’ ready t’ fall down.”

“Don’t say ain’t,” commanded his older brother.

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause it ain’t good English!” Realizing what he’d just said, Dooley colored furiously.

Father Tim laughed. He’d corrected Dooley’s English for three long years. “You’re sounding a lot like me, buddy. You might want to watch that.”

Betty Craig ran down the back steps.

“Father! Law, this is good of you. I’ve been standin’ at my kitchen window for years, lookin’ at that old shed lean to the south. It’s aggravated me to death.”

“A good kick might be all it takes.”

“Pauline’s late comin’ home, she called to say she’d be right here. Can I fix you and Dooley some lemonade? It’s hot as August.”

“We’ll wait ’til our work is done.”

“Let’s get going,” said Dooley.

Father Tim opened the toolbox and took out a clawhammer and put on his heavy work gloves. He’d never done this sort of thing before. He felt at once fierce and manly, and then again, completely uncertain how to begin.

“What’re we going to do?” asked Dooley, pulling on his own pair of gloves.

He looked at the shed. Blast if it wasn’t bigger than he’d thought. “We’re going to start at the top,” he said, as if he knew what he was talking about.

He had removed the rolled asphalt with a clawhammer, pulled off the roofboards, dismantled the rafters, torn off the sideboards with Dooley’s help, then pulled nails from the corners of the rotten framework, and shoved what was left into the grass.

Running with sweat, he and Dooley had taken turns driving the rusty nails back and pulling them out of every stick and board so they could be used for winter firewood.

Dooley dropped the nails into a bucket.

“Wouldn’t want t’ be steppin’ on one of them,” said Russell, who was supervising.

They paused only briefly, to sit on the porch and devour a steaming portion of chicken pie, hot from Betty’s oven, and guzzle a quart of tea that was sweet enough to send him to the emergency room.

Betty apologized. “Hot as it is, your supper ought to be somethin’ cold, like chicken salad, but you men are workin’ hard, and chicken salad won’t stick to your ribs.”

“Amen!”

“I want you to come and get your kindlin’ off that pile all winter long, you hear?”

“I’ll do it.”

After they ate, he and Dooley and Poo carried and stacked and heaved and hauled, until it was nearly nine o’clock, and dark setting in.

“You’ve about killed me,” grumbled Dooley.

“I’ve done sweated a bucket,” said Poo.

“I’m give out jis’ watchin’,” sighed Russell.

As for himself, the rector felt oddly liberated. All that pulling up and yanking off and tearing down and pushing over had been good for him, somehow, creating an exhaustion completely different from the labors surrounding his life as a cleric.

And what better reward than to sit and look across the twilit yard at the mound of wood neatly stacked along the fence, with two boys beside him who had helped make it happen?

Dooley was inspecting Poo’s new, if used, bicycle, Russell had shuffled off to bed, and Betty had gone in to watch TV. He sat alone with Pauline.

He didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush. “We need to talk about Jessie.”

There was a long silence.

“I can do it,” she said.

“I need to know everything you can possibly tell me, and the name of the cousin who took her and where you think they might be, and the names of any of your cousin’s relatives—everything.”

He heard the absolute firmness in his voice and knew this was how it would have to be.

As she talked, he took notes on a piece of paper he had folded and put in his shirt pocket. Afterward, he sat back in the rocker.

“If we find Jessie, can you take care of her?”

“Yes!” she said, and now he heard the firmness in her own voice. “I think about it all the time, how I want to rent a little house and have a tree at Christmas. We never had a tree at Christmas . . . maybe once.”

His mind went instantly to all that furniture collecting dust at Fernbank. He and Dooley would load up a truck and . . . But he was putting the cart before the horse.

“There’s something we need to look at, Pauline.”

“Is it about the drinking?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t crave it anymore.”

“Alcohol is a tough call. Very tough. Do you want help?”

“No,” she said. “I want to do this myself. With God’s help.”

“If you ever want or need help, you’ve got to have the guts to ask for it. For your sake, for the kids’ sake. Can you do that?”

Betty switched the porch light on, and he saw Pauline’s face as she turned and looked at him. “Yes,” she said.

“Didn’t want y’all to be setting out there in the dark,” said Betty, going back to her room.

They were silent again. He heard Poo laughing, and faint snatches of music and applause from Betty’s TV.

“There’s something you need to know,” she told him.

He waited.

“I won’t make trouble, I won’t try to make Dooley come and live with us. He’s doing so well . . . you’ve done so much . . .

“If he wants to, he can come and stay with us anytime he’s home, but I want you to be the one who . . . the one who watches over him.”

She was giving her boy away again. But this time, he fervently hoped and prayed, it was for all the right reasons.

He kissed her on the cheek as he came into the bedroom.

“Kavanagh . . .” he said, feeling spent.

“Hello, dearest,” she said, looking worn.

After he showered, they crawled into bed on their respective sides and were snoring in tandem by ten o’clock.

“Emma, that program on your computer, that thing that helped you find Albert Wilcox . . .”

“What about it?”

“I’d like you to search for these names. I’ve written down the states I think they could be in.”

“Hah!” she said, looking smug. “I knew you’d get to liking computers sooner or later.”

Some days were like this. One phone call after another, nonstop.

“Father? Emil Kettner. We met when Buck Leeper—”

“Of course, Emil. Great to hear your voice.” Emil Kettner owned the construction company that employed Buck Leeper as their star superintendent.

“I have good news for you, I think, if the timing works for Lord’s Chapel.”

“Shoot.”

“The big job we thought we had fell through, and to tell the truth, I think it’s for the best—as far as Buck’s concerned. He needs a break, but he’d want to be working, all the same. I wondered if we could send him out to you for the attic job.”

He was floored. This was the best news he’d had since . . .

“The way he described it, it sounds like six months, tops. I hate to send him on a job that small, I know you understand, but it’s the kind of job he’d find . . . reviving, though he’d never admit it.”

“We’d be thrilled to have Buck back in Mitford. We’ll look after him, I promise.”

“You looked after him before, and it worked wonders. There’s been a real change in him, but he still works too hard, too fast, and too much. You won’t hear many bosses complaining about that.”

They laughed.

“The money’s in place if we can keep on budget,” said the rector.

“That’s what Buck’s all about, if you remember.”

“I do! Well, I can’t say enough for your timing, Emil. Our Sunday School enrollment is mushrooming, I’ve had three baptisms this month, and the month’s hardly begun. When can we expect to see Buck?”

“A week, maybe ten days. And we can’t give him much support on this project, he’ll be rounding up locals to do the job. How does that sound?”

“Terrific. The carved millwork in the Hope House chapel is locally done. We’ve got good people in the area.”

“Well, then, Father, I’ll be looking in on the project like I did last time. Until then.”

“Emil. Thanks.”

He’d asked for Buck Leeper to do the attic job, never really believing it could happen, only hoping.

And—bingo.

“Father? Buck Leeper.”

“Buck!”

He heard Buck take a drag on his cigarette. “You talked to Emil.”

“I did, and we’re thrilled.”

“You reckon I could get that cottage again?”

That dark, brooding cottage under the trees, where the finest construction superintendent on the East Coast had thrown furniture against the wall and smashed vodka bottles into the fireplace? He didn’t think so.

“Let me look around. We’ll take care of you.”

“Thanks,” Buck said, his voice sounding gruff.

And yet, there was something else in his voice, something just under the surface that the rector knew and understood. It was a kind of hope.

“Father. Ingrid Swenson.”

Dadgum it, and just when he was having a great day.

“Ingrid.”

“We’re very close to getting everything in order. I’d like to personally make a proposal to you and your committee on the fifteenth. I’m sure the timing will be good for Lord’s Chapel.”

He didn’t especially care for her almighty presumption about the timing.

“Let me get back to you,” he said.

“Father, it’s Esther.” Esther Bolick didn’t sound like herself. “This is th’ most awful thing I ever got myself into . . . .”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve never heard such bawlin’ and squallin’ and snipin’ and fussin’ in my life! I’m about sick of workin’ with women, and church women in particular!”

“Aha.”

“Why I said I’d do it, I don’t know. Th’ Bane! Of all things to take on, and me sixty-seven my next birthday, can you believe it?” She sighed deeply. “I ought to be sent to Broughton.”

“Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I don’t have to, a whole gang of so-called church workers is thrilled to do it for me!”

“You want to come for a cup of coffee? Emma’s home today. I’d love to hear more.”

“I don’t have time to come for a cup of coffee, I don’t have time to pee, excuse me, and Gene hadn’t had a hot meal in I don’t know when!”

Esther Bolick sounded close to tears. “So even if I can’t come for a cup of coffee, I wish you’d do your good deed for the day and pray for me . . . .”

“I will. I pray for you, anyway.”

You do?”

“Of course. The Bane is a cornerstone event for Lord’s Chapel, and you’ve taken on a big job. But you’ve got a big spirit, Esther, and you can do it. I know it’s easy for me to say, but maybe you could stop looking at the big picture, which is always overwhelming, and just take it day by day.”

“Day by day is th’ problem! Nearly every day, somebody dumps something else in our garage, and mainly it’s the worst old clothes and mildewed shoes you ever saw! Mitch Lewis backed his truck up to th’ garage, raked out whatever it was in th’ bed, and drove off. Gene said to me, he said, ‘Esther, what’s that mound of stuff layin’ in th’ garage?’ We couldn’t even identify it.

“We need toaster ovens, we need framed prints and floor lamps and plant stands and such! This sale’s got a reputation to maintain, but so far, I never saw so much polyester in my life, it looks like we’ll never get rid of polyester, they won’t even take it at th’ landfill!”

He wished he could offer some of the contents of Fernbank, but Miss Sadie hadn’t wanted her possessions picked over. One thing was for certain, he wouldn’t donate those mildewed loafers from the back of his closet . . . .

“You know the good stuff always comes in,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “It never fails.”

“There’s always a first time!” she said darkly.

“Let me ask you—are you praying about this, about the goods rolling in and your strength holding out?”

“I hope you don’t think th’ Lord would mess with the Bane?”

“I hope you don’t think He wouldn’t! Tell me again where the funds from the Bane will go.”

“Mission fields, as you well know, including a few in our own backyard.”

“Exactly! Some of the money will fly medical supplies to a village where people are dying of cholera. Do you think the Lord would mess with that?”

“Well . . .”

“Then there’s the four-wheel drive ambulance they need in Landon,” he said. “Remember the blizzard we had three years ago?”

“That’s when I had to call an ambulance for Gene, who nearly killed himself shoveling snow! I shouted for joy when I saw it turn the corner. If it hadn’t been for that ambulance . . .”

“That winter, two children died of burns because nobody could get a vehicle into the coves around Landon.”

“I think I know where you’re headed with this,” she said.

“I don’t believe He’ll let Esther Bolick—or the Bane—fail.”

“Maybe I could ask Hessie Mayhew to help me out, even if she is Presbyterian!” Esther was sounding more like herself.

“I believe it’s going to be the best Bane yet. Now, about your volunteers—my guess is, they’re moaning and groaning because they need strong leadership, which is why they elected you in the first place! Look,” he said, “I have an idea. Why don’t I pray for you? Right now.”

“On the phone?”

“It’s as good a place as any. Try taking a deep breath.”

“Lately, it’s all I can do to get a deep breath.”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“I didn’t know men ever had trouble gettin’ their breath.”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Standin’ up at the kitchen phone, which is where I’ve been ever since I let myself get roped into this.”

“Could you get a chair?”

He heard her drag a kitchen chair from the table, and sit down.

“OK,” she said, feeling brighter. “But don’t go on and on ’til th’ cows come home.”

“Fernbank or bust!” cried Cynthia, huffing up Old Church Lane.

“It’s only taken us a full year to do this.”

“And it’s all sitting right there, just as you left it.”

He realized why he had put this off, over and over again. He had ducked into Fernbank a few times to check the roof leaks, and ducked out again as if pursued. To see those empty, silent rooms meant she was gone, utterly and eternally, and even now he could hardly bear the fact of it.

“This must be a hard time for Louella, the anniversary of—”

“I’ll see her tomorrow,” he said, doing some huffing of his own. “Let’s have her down to dinner.”

“I love that idea. Maybe sometime next week? Oh, for a taste of her fried chicken!”

“We’ll have to settle for a taste of my meat loaf . . . .”

They were up to the brow of the hill and turning into the driveway, which was overhung by a thicket of grapevines gone wild. Though Fernbank hadn’t been well groomed since the forties, it had still looked imposing and proud during Miss Sadie’s lifetime. Now . . .

He saw the house, surrounded by a neglected lawn, and felt the dull beating of his heart.

“Let’s buy it!” he croaked. Good Lord! What had he said?

She looked astounded. “Timothy, you don’t need a domestic retreat, you need 911. How could you even think such a thing?”

And why couldn’t he think such a thing? Didn’t a man have a right to his own mind?

He felt suddenly peevish and disgruntled and wanted to turn around and run home, but he remembered Andrew Gregory was meeting them on the porch in ten minutes.

Andrew stood in the middle of the parlor and looked up.

That’s what everyone did, thought the rector—they stared at the water stains like they were some kind of ominous cloud above their heads. Why couldn’t people see the dentil molding, the millwork . . .

“Beautiful millwork!” said Andrew. “I’ve been here only once before, the day of the wedding reception. I was enchanted by the attention to detail. It’s a privilege to see Fernbank again.”

“Would you like to see it, stem to stern?”

“Stem to stern!” said Andrew, looking enthused.

Two hours later, they were close to a deal.

“The development firm has unfortunately asked for several of the finest pieces,” said Andrew. He referred to notes that he had hastily jotted as they toured the house.

“Nonetheless, I’d be interested in the Federal loveseat in Miss Sadie’s bedroom, the Georgian chest of drawers in her dressing room, the three leather trunks in the attic, the chaise in the storage room, which I believe is Louis XIV, the English china dresser, and all the beds in the house, which are exceedingly fine walnut . . . now, let’s see . . . the six framed oils we discussed, which appear to be French . . . and the pine farm table in that wonderful kitchen! It must have been made by a local craftsman around the turn of the century.”

“Anything else?” asked the rector, feeling like a traitor, a grave robber.

“In truth, I’d like the dining room suite, but it’s Victorian, and I never fare well with Victorian. There are two chairs on the landing, however—I’m not certain of their origins, but they’re charming. I’ll have those chairs, into the bargain . . . and oh, yes, the contents of the linen drawers. I have a customer in Richmond who fancies brocade napery.”

“Hardly used!” said Father Tim, knowing that Miss Sadie had certainly never trotted it out for him.

Cynthia roamed around, sounding like a squirrel in the attic, as he went through the miserable ordeal of dismantling someone’s life, someone’s history.

Miss Sadie’s long letter, which was delivered to him after her death, gave very clear instructions: “Do not offer anything for view at a yard sale, or let people pick over the remains. I know you will understand.”

Was Andrew picking over the remains? He didn’t think so, he was being a four-square gentleman about the whole thing. Besides, something had to be done with the contents of twenty-one rooms and the detritus of nearly a century.

“How about the silver hollowware?” asked the rector. He felt like Avis Packard who, after selling and bagging a dozen ears of corn, was trying to get rid of last week’s broccoli. “The, ah, flatware, perhaps?”

“Well, and why not?” agreed Andrew, looking jaunty. “Who cares if it’s all monogrammed with B, I think I’ll have it for my own!”

The rector drew a deep breath. This wasn’t so hard.

“The rugs! How about the rugs?” After all, every cent he raised would go into the Hope House till . . . .

Andrew smiled gently. “I don’t think Miss Sadie’s father did his homework on the rugs.” He jotted some more and offered a price that nearly floored the rector.

“Done!” he exclaimed.

Feeling vastly relieved, he shook Andrew’s hand with undeniable vigor.

“While you and Andrew toured around like big shots, eyeing major pieces, I was burrowing into minor pieces. Look what I found!”

His wife’s face was positively beaming.

“An easel! Hand-carved! Isn’t it wonderful? And look at this—an ancient wooden box of watercolors, two whole compartments full! The cakes are dried and cracked, of course, but they’ll spring back to life in no time at all, with—guess what?—water!”

He hadn’t seen Christmas make her so jubilant.

“And look! A boxful of needlepoint chair covers, worked with roses and hydrangeas and pansies, in all my favorite colors! Perfect for our dining room! Oh, Timothy, how could we have neglected this treasure trove for a full year? It’s as if we stayed away from a gold mine, content with digging ore!”

She held up a chair cover for him to admire.

“Now it’s your turn to find something for yourself, like Miss Sadie asked you to do. She said ‘Take anything you like,’ those were her very words.”

He stood frozen to the spot, suddenly feeling as if he’d burst into tears.

Cynthia quietly put the chair cover down, and came to him and held him.

He found it in the dimly lit attic.

Though the box appeared to be of no special consequence, he felt drawn to it, somehow, and knelt to remove the lid and unwrap the heavy object within.

The figure had the weight of a stone, but a certain lightness about its form, which rested on a sizeable chunk of marble.

Back at the rectory, he set the bronze angel on the living room mantel and stood looking at it.

It was enough. He wanted nothing more.

“Mule! What have you got in a little rental house, maybe two bedrooms, something bright and sunny, something spacious and open—and oh, yes, low-maintenance, in a nice part of Mitford, maybe with a fireplace and a washing machine, not too much money, and—”

“Hold it!” exclaimed Mule. “Are you kidding me? You’re talkin’ like a crazy person. Think about it. If I had anything like that, would it be available?”

He thought about it. “Guess not,” he said.

Cynthia’s interest was growing. “Let’s invite Pauline and Poo!”

They sat in the kitchen, planning the dinner party while their own supper roasted in the oven.

“Terrific idea. Louella, Pauline, Dooley, Poo, Harley, you, and me. Meat loaf for seven!”

“Better make it for ten. Dooley has the appetite of a baseball team.”

“Right! Ten, then.”

“I’ll make lemonade and tea and bake a cobbler,” she said.

“Deal.”

“In the meantime, dearest, I’ve planned our retreat.”

“Really?”

“Really. Next week, I’m taking you away for two days.”

“But Cynthia, I can’t go away for two days. I have things to do.”

“Darling, that’s exactly why I’m taking you away!”

“But there’s an important vestry meeting, and—”

“Poop on the vestry meeting. Since when does the rector have to attend every vestry meeting as if it were the Nicene Council?”

“Cynthia, Cynthia . . .”

“Timothy, Timothy. Let me remind you of all you’ve recently done—you’ve had three baptisms, a death at the hospital, you’re working on that project with the bishop which keeps you talking on the phone like schoolgirls, you do two services every Sunday, Holy Eucharist every Wednesday, not to mention your weekly Bible class. Plus—”

“There’s no way—”

“Plus your hospital visits every morning, and pulling together that huge thing for the mayor, and working on the benefit for the Children’s Hospital, and tearing down Betty’s shed—not to mention that on your birthday you made a wonderful evening for me!”

She took a deep breath. “Plus—”

Not that again. “But you see—”

“Plus you still think you haven’t done enough.”

What was enough? He’d never been able to figure it out.

“Well, dearest, I can see you have no intention of listening to reason, so . . . I shall be forced do what women have been forced to do for millennia.”

She marched around the kitchen table and thumped down in his lap. Then she mussed what was left of his hair and kissed him on the top of his head. Next she gave him a lingering kiss on the mouth, and unsnapped his collar, and whispered in his ear.

He blushed. “OK,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

While Cynthia scraped and stacked the dishes, he sat in the kitchen, awaiting his cue to wash, and read the Muse.

Violet was perched by the gloxinia, purring; Barnabas lay under the table, snoring.

Four Convicted in Wesley Drug Burst

He roared with laughter. This was one for his cousin Walter, all right! He got up and pulled the scissors from the kitchen drawer and clipped the story. Walter liked nothing better than a few choice headlines from the type fonts of J. C. Hogan.

“Who discovered America?” He heard Lace Turner’s voice drifting up the stairs through the open basement door.

“Christopher Columbus!” said Harley.

“Who was America named for?”

“Amerigo Vespucci! Looks like it ought’ve been named f’r Mr. Columbus, don’t it? But see, that’s th’ way of th’ world, you discover somethin’ and they don’t even notice you f’r doin’ it.”

Cynthia whispered, “She’s been coming over and teaching him for several nights, you’ve been too busy to notice.”

“Who was th’ king of England when North Carolina became a royal colony?” Lace Turner sounded emphatic.

“George th’ Second!”

“When was th’ French and Indian War?”

“Lord, Lace, as long as I’ve lived, ain’t never a soul come up t’ me and said, ‘Harley, when was th’ French and Injun war?’ ”

“Harley . . .”

“They ain’t a bit of use f’r me t’ know that, I done told you who discovered America.”

“Who defeated George Washington at Great Meadows?”

“Th’ dern French.”

“Who was th’ first state to urge independence from Great Britian?”

“North Carolina!” Harley’s voice had a proud ring.

“See, you learn stuff real good, you just act like you don’t.”

“But you don’t teach me nothin’ worth knowin’. If we got t’ do this aggravation, why don’t you read me one of them riddles out of y’r number book?”

“OK, but listen good, Harley, this stuff is hard. You borrow five hundred dollars for one year. Th’ rate is twenty percent per year. How much do you pay back by th’ end of th’ year?”

There was a long silence in the basement.

The rector put his arm around his wife, who had come to sit with him on the top basement step. They looked at each other, wordless.

“Six hundred dollars!” exclaimed Harley.

“Real good!”

“I done that in m’ noggin.”

“OK, here’s another’n—”

“I ain’t goin’ t’ do no more. You git on back home and worry y’r own head.”

She pressed forward. “A recipe suggests two an’ a half to three pounds of chicken t’ serve four people. Karen bought nine-point-five pounds of chicken. Is this enough t’ serve twelve people?”

“I told you I ain’t goin’ t’ do it,” said Harley. “Let Karen fig’r it out!”

The rector looked at Cynthia, who got up and fled the room, shaking with laughter.

He went to his study and took pen and paper from the desk drawer. Let’s see, he thought, if the recipe calls for two and a half to three pounds of chicken to serve four people . . .