‘Two hundred and eighty-four dollars and twenty-six cents,’ he reported in a call to Hope. ‘Is that good?’

‘That’s wonderfully good!’ she said.

‘And my wife gave us an order for a hundred and twenty dollars for items we don’t have in stock. Should I pass that list to Marcie?’

‘Yes, please. This is such good news, Father; I don’t know what to say. How can I ever thank you?’

‘Taking care of yourself is all the thanks I need. I’ll be over to see you soon, and I’ll be here tomorrow, same time. Tomorrow’s payday around town, we need to be open.’

Tears.

‘My dog enjoys coming in. Must get down to the bank now.’

‘You’re a saint.’

‘If you only knew,’ he said.

•   •   •

AFTER LOCKING UP, he gave the new postings a once-over.

There is no frigate like a book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry

—EMILY DICKINSON

Pray for Hope!

Push lawnmower for sale, good condition $45 or make offer -2895 ask for Lloyd

Esther was right, of course. Their community billboard would have to go. He set the backpack down and peeled the many contributions off the window and put them in his backpack.

A little white vinegar and the Times’ Style section and all would be well. He wondered if the Muse had ever run that as a helpful hint for glass-cleaning.

•   •   •

HIS MAMA WAS SETTIN’ on the side of the bed; he could tell she had dipped a little snuff.

‘Looky here,’ he said. He didn’t even stop to take off his jacket. ‘It’s my name in a book.’

‘What’re ye doin’, gittin’ y’r name ever’where all of a sudden?’

‘I ain’t doin’ nothin’, it’s jis’ in here. Th’ preacher says always was in here, always gon’ be in here.’

‘Is my name in there?’

‘It ain’t. What my name’s in here f’r is a duck. A coot is a kind of a duck I reckon you named me after.’

‘I never heard of such,’ she said. ‘Your gran’daddy on my side, they called ’im Coot, you was named after your gran’daddy. It wadn’t no duck you was named after, I can tell ye that.’

He liked being named after a duck, but he wouldn’t say a word about it, nossir, that would be his secret. He took the book and set it on the mantelpiece where he could see it from nearabout anywhere in the room.

•   •   •

AFTER RAW COLD, the air was mild and forgiving. He walked with Harley to the west side of the house and the bench beneath the maple.

‘My cue is missing. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Your cue?’ Then it dawned. ‘Lord help!’ Harley said.

‘He’s headed for trouble.’

‘I know it, I know it, Rev’ren’, I lay awake knowin’ it. They was a competition over at Bud’s ball hall in Wesley a few nights back, he prob’ly hated to go in there without a cue. I let ’im ride with Jupe from down at Lew Boyd’s. Jupe’s a good boy, he got Sammy back by eleven-thirty. He done real good in th’ competition.’

‘I’m going to try talking with him,’ he said. ‘No accusations, no guilt trip, no conflict of any kind. Just want to draw him out if I can, see if there’s something we can grab on to. Just talk.’

‘You’ll be blue in th’ face.’

Life with Sammy had been hairy at Meadowgate, but they’d worked at it and Sammy had settled down. And then came the trip to Holly Springs and Ireland, and what was gained now appeared lost.

Also lost was the chance to commandeer the Lord’s Chapel landscaping project and involve Sammy. That was his only regret in saying no to Jack Martin.

•   •   •

RESTLESS, he went to his bookshelves in the study and searched among the Wordsworth volumes. There were many, both by and about the good poet whom he’d loved since boyhood. The paperback bought while in seminary was worn but not wasted. He stuffed it into the backpack.

He wandered up the hall, Barnabas following, to the living room they’d never lived in. Then he peered into the Ball Hall, aka dining room, where they had seldom dined.

He switched on the lights, lonesome for the clattering of balls, the cries of triumph or lamentation. It was as dead in here as a funeral parlor.

The cue rack—it was full. All cue sticks were in place.

Had he and Puny been mistaken? But he’d seen the empty slot with his own eyes and now he was seeing this. He walked to the rack and removed his cue and examined it with some absorption. No marks or damage of any kind.

He replaced the cue and hurried to the study and called next door, expecting Harley to answer.

‘Yeah?’

‘Sammy?’

‘Yeah.’

He couldn’t summon whatever it took to ask for Harley.

‘Just wanted to say . . . we miss seeing you.’ That had flown out, unexpected and true.

Silence.

He didn’t know where to go with this.

‘Well. See you soon.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sammy.

•   •   •

ABSALOM GREER HAD BEEN a mighty encouragement. The eightysomething country evangelist had never pulled punches with the town priest. They had been two respectful equals serving from the common ground of one-God-made-known-through-Jesus-Christ, and having a pretty good time of it.

The old man often spoke of the God of the Second Chance. To roughly reassemble Kafka’s metaphor, God had sure used his axe to break the frozen sea inside Tim Kavanagh, who, as a priest in his forties, had not yet come to a living faith.

He’d been given the grace of the Second Chance over and over again. More than anything, he wanted Sammy to break the bread of grace.

He sat at his computer and brought up the search engine and typed in his search. A lot of sites. He clicked on a link, it opened on exactly what he was looking for. Yes, yes, and yes.

Holy smoke.

In roughly ten minutes, he hit Add to Cart.

•   •   •

WHEN HE RETURNED Friday morning from walking Barnabas to the monument, Puny was jubilant.

‘I have good news!’

‘Last time you had good news, you also had bad news.’

‘Same this time. But th’ good news is, your cue stick’s back! Jis’ like it never left!’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘You mean you found it and put it back?’

‘I just walked in the room and there it was.’

‘Oh,’ she said, knowing. ‘You want to hear th’ bad news?’

‘Not really.’

‘I really don’t want to tell you, either.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t.’

‘You’ll be mad.’

‘Puny. You’ve known me for ten years. How often have you seen me mad?’

‘Well.’

‘See there? So what’s the bad news?’

‘I had to run up to your room to get your laundry, and because Timmy was cryin’, I jis’ slung ’im on my hip an’ took ’im with me, you know how I do. An’ I laid him down a minute on your pillow, I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘You would be right.’

‘And so . . .’ Puny looked at her feet.

He waited.

‘And so he threw up all over your favorite pillow-w-w!’ A small wail and then tears—a Puny trademark. ‘I know you have trouble sleepin’ and how you looked for years for that one pillow, and now . . .’

‘Now?’

‘Now it’s really stinky.’

He flashed back to his days as a bachelor. So routine, so undisturbed by dissonance, one might have heard a pin drop in his life. Then a dog as big as a Buick started following him home, and then Dooley showed up, and then Puny came to work, and then Cynthia moved in next door, and then Puny started having twins, and that’s how he ended up with a real life. And even though he loved it and wouldn’t trade it for anything, he had no idea how he’d find another pillow as beloved as the one just gone south with upchuck on it.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said. ‘This is very bad news. On the other hand, if we consider the really bad news in the world, this news is actually pretty good.’ He was suddenly laughing and didn’t want to stop.

‘I thought you’d be mad,’ she said, looking startled.