He stooped to the coffee maker and studied it, frowning. With some misgiving, he dumped the specified quantity of beans into the grinder bin and hit On. Nothing happened. He flipped the switch to Off, then again to On. Zero.

Nothing worked these days. You could not gain entry into packaging of any kind, nor could you depend on On or even Off to mean what they promised. It was a black mark against society in general.

He was considering a dash to the Feel Good when he spied a note pinned to the corkboard.

Fr T, coffee machine unplugged. Plenty of change in drawer. Yesterday’s sales great. U R very sweet to do this. Call if U need me. # on door at wall phone. Thnx for making deposit by five.

Marcie

He watched the beans grinding with industrial vigor as he filled the water bowl for Barnabas. The antique furnace was heaving around down there; a giant throbbing could be felt in the floorboards. He flipped a couple of wall switches—Beethoven’s Ninth, third movement, was succeeded by a constellation of reading lamps lighting the room.

And there went the Muse truck up the street and the sound of this week’s edition smacking the front door. No way would he fetch it in and trouble his head—he would depend on the greater diversion of the Times, albeit last Sunday’s edition.

He’d spent Wednesday doing almost nothing, trying not to feel guilty about his decision. He’d taken it as a day to reflect and pray, to know whether the peace he felt about declining was real. And yes, thus far it was real.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t put a shine on the consequences. When the bishop’s offer came to be public knowledge, as it assuredly would, some might see his refusal as a shirking of duty. A few would be scornful, some would feel betrayed, a handful would understand, and the rest wouldn’t care.

He was frankly surprised by his decision—but profoundly relieved. Relieved, for one thing, because it hadn’t actually been his decision. El Shaddai had spoken in that way which is not speaking, to a confused cleric vested in robe and pajamas by his home fire.

In truth, he should ring Asheville now, before the shop opened and while his head was still relatively unfrayed. He crossed himself, a schoolboy sent up the hall to the headmaster.

The pleasant but brief conversation was over before he quite realized it. He stood in the middle of the room, dazed.

Bishop Martin had been disappointed though not completely surprised, and would ring up at once the Colorado mountain-climbing priest known to be ‘fond of the guitar in the early service.’ They confirmed their meeting in the vestry at Lord’s Chapel a half hour before the eleven o’clock on the seventh.

‘And Timothy,’ the bishop said at the end, ‘I have every confidence in your decision.’

It was as if he were coming back from a kind of death, and hearing the familiar Ninth for the first time.

Under the watchful gaze of his dog, he picked up a coffee spoon and with something like astonished joy, conducted the remainder of the sublime third movement.

•   •   •

THE BELL JANGLING ON THE DOOR. Ten after ten. He was ready.

‘Esther?’ Good Lord!

‘It’s me,’ said Esther Bolick, thumping a Sweet Stuff bag onto the sales counter. ‘The new me.’

‘I liked the old you.’

‘Old? I’m runnin’ from that word doin’ eighty miles an hour.’

‘But a tan? I’ve never seen you with a tan.’

‘I have never been tan, and will never be tan again. I thought, what the heck, you and Cynthia paid to get my hair dyed, why not give that poor child a break and get sprayed?’

‘How was it?’

‘Hosed down like a squash plant, arms an’ legs everywhichaway. What do you think about my hair?’

She twirled around, a bit unsteady.

‘I like it. That’s the ticket. You look younger by ten years.’

‘I thought I’d never get out of there, Fancy Skinner drives me crazy. I brought you something to say thanks for your nice gift. It was wonderful of y’all to do that.’

She patted his hand, pushed the bag to him. For some reason he couldn’t understand, Esther Bolick didn’t get it that sweets were verboten where he was concerned. When news of his diabetes swept through the parish like a brush fire, she delivered him a full-blown two-layer OMC as a consolation. He’d put it in the fridge and slammed the door and leaned against it as if the thing might break out of there and have its way with him. Which of course it did. He had been in the hospital a mere nine days.

‘You wouldn’t believe what they charge for a single slice,’ she said. ‘Go ahead, I brought you a fork.’

She thrust her hand into her coat pocket and handed over a sterling dessert fork loosely wrapped in a paper napkin.

‘Do you think I should?’

‘Why shouldn’t you?

‘Well, I mean, you know—diabetes.’

‘Oh, pshaw,’ she said, bored by this confession. ‘Just take one bite, and I’ll finish it.’

‘Deal,’ he said, digging in.

‘So?’ she said, giving him a fierce look.

‘It’s good. It’s really good.’

‘But?’ She arched an eyebrow.

‘But not as good as yours, Esther, and you can take that to the bank.’

‘Ha!’ she said. ‘You have not lost your silver tongue, Father. And look at this.’

She whipped a piece of paper from her handbag, showed it to him up close. ‘My first check.’

‘Wow.’

‘Wow is right, they did a big wedding last Saturday at Linville. Th’ OMC was forty-two inches high and seven layers, I took a picture.’

‘Forty-two inches.’ He marveled. ‘Seven layers!’

‘How ’bout them apples?’

‘Gene would be thrilled. So you think you’re going to like being retired from the OMC?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ she snapped. She grabbed the fork, wiped it with the napkin, dug in. ‘Uh-huh. I was afraid of somethin’ like this. A little too sweet. She deviated from th’ recipe.’

‘Are you sure?’ He felt the need to protect Winnie.

‘She’s not supposed to deviate from th’ recipe, Father. It’s in th’ letter of agreement.’ She waggled the fork at him. ‘A letter of agreement is just that—two people agreeing. I don’t suppose you have a cup of coffee—a cup of coffee would certainly improve th’ taste.’

‘Right this way,’ he said.

First Things First!!!! A Belated Tribute to Miss Sadie Baxter

by VANITA BENTLEY

My husband says I have never before publicly (much less privately) admitted to being wrong, but I am doing it here and proud to say What was I thinking?

I jumped the gun on trying to find a living leading citizen when we ha=ve a dead deceased leading citizen who needs to be recognized FIRST!!!! Miss Sadie Baxter bless her heart, who left us eight years ago in June (Mr. Hogan pls check me on this) was as generous a benefactor as any lttle town could ever hope to have.

From her house on the ridge above Main Street Miss Baxter is said to have rocked in her rocker and prayed for this town and the little cars and people she could see from up there moving around on the streets below. Have you ever heard anything so sweet as that? I personally have not.

So what I am proposing is that we name Miss Sadie Baxter who never married but gave her ALL to friends and neighbors, is that we name her Mitford’s LEADING CITIZEN even though she is crossed over and put a plaque in the town museum so we can always remember where these great gifts came from:

1. Hope House, our state of the art nursing facility for people of all races, colors, religions, walks of life and you name it

2. Baxter Park between Main and Churchill—Little Mitford Creek runs through it!! Have you ever been to Baxter Park? You should GO!! It is so pretty and shady. Remember to pick up your trash and do not park in there at night as the MPD often checks it out.