‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said Dooley, who would rather turn a vehicle deal than eat when hungry. ‘But you need to consider new, really. Break it in yourself, like a pair of farm boots. You don’t want another guy’s truck, people can be hard on trucks.’
‘I don’t have time to break in a truck.’
‘Trust me—buy new. Leather seats. A really good sound system. Chrome-clad aluminum wheels . . .’
‘Those are things. Things don’t matter in the end—they wither like grass; the soul lives on.’
Dooley cackled. ‘Hey, Dad, this is a truck we’re talkin’ about.’
• • •
HE WOKE AT THREE. The thing that nagged him was like a barely audible movement in a room at the back of the house.
Now he knew what it was.
During his rant on Saturday, Sammy had not stuttered.
He got up and went downstairs and gave his dog a scratch behind the ears and fired up his computer and Googled what he thought may be a phenomenon.
Sudden onset of stuttering is common. A sudden end to it is rare, but it happens. Why it happens is a mystery. Maybe the blow to the forehead? No search gave credence to this. And maybe it wasn’t the end for all time, maybe Sammy had simply forgotten himself in his anguish for the boy in the hospital bed.
He went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water and drank it down, his wife would be proud.
• • •
MONDAY, SIX-THIRTY A.M., the phone.
‘Good morning, Harley.’
‘Yessir, good mornin’, hit’s twenty-eight degrees.’
‘Right.’
Silence on the other end.
‘You called to give me a weather report?’
Harley cleared his throat. ‘Sammy wants to come t’ work later, when it warms up. Or work tomorrow when the temperature’s more like fifty-two.’
‘He told you to say this?’
‘Yessir, he did, I cain’t git ’im up.’
‘Tell him to get himself out of bed and I’ll see you at seven-thirty sharp. Did you pick up the trellises?’
‘Yessir. Nice. Real nice.’ Harley did the throat-clearing again. ‘I cain’t git ’im up for nothin’.’ Harley Welch had rather taken a whipping than make this call.
‘We won’t be working outdoors. We’ll paint trellises in the Sunday school. Bring your sawhorses.’
Another tense silence.
‘You might mention to Sammy that I have the capability to change my mind about pressing charges.’
An intake of breath. ‘Yessir. An’ I’ll bring m’ other oil heater. You want to ride down with us? Not havin’ a vehicle . . .’
‘I’ll walk, thanks, and see you there.’
‘Yessir, Rev’rend, seven-thirty.’
‘Sharp.’
‘We’ll be there sharp.’
His tolerance for a stolen cue?
Generous.
His tolerance for a wrecked automobile?
Beyond generous.
His tolerance for not showing up for work on time?
Zero.
• • •
‘WHAT Y’UNS WANT FOR LUNCH?’ said Harley.
‘The usual,’ he said.
‘Reu-reuben,’ said Sammy. ‘An’ f-f-f-fries.’
Not only had the stuttering not stopped, it was worse.
He’d given the matter into God’s hands; he had other fish to fry.
With a table contrived of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood, the occasional sound of rain on the tin roof, and their heaters going at full gallop, the old Sunday school was a pretty tolerable winter headquarters. Today the trellises, tomorrow the benches—which they had decided to build themselves.
After lunch, he walked up from the church and met Hélène for a run-through. He dreaded the possible street theater with the lock business. He gave her fair warning and handed over the key.
In went the key, click went the lock.
‘C’est merveilleux!’ she said.
From: Emma Newland
To: Fr Tim Kavanagh
Tuesday, 7:15 p.m.
<Cannot keep Tuesday open for all eTernity
<Let me organize your filling, run your calendar, pick up your cleaning, streamline your computer system and make life easier~as of yore!!!
<This offer ends soon.
‘Not nearly soon enough!’
‘What did you say?’ Cynthia asked from the kitchen.
‘Just talking to myself.’
‘It’s come to that,’ she said, popping chicken in the oven.
‘What’s Olivia’s report on Hoppy?’
‘He’s been sick, but improving. It’s not malaria, as feared. Home in November, then off again to South Sudan and home for Christmas.’
He called Hélène.
‘How did it go?’
‘Trés bien, Father, trés bien! I was nervous as a cat, but can’t recall when I’ve known such enjoyment. Pur plaisir! I feel I have stood at the crossroads of the world!’
That would be one way of looking at it.
‘Two people from Canada, three from Missouri, and someone from Franklin, Tennessee. The last of the leaf peepers, says Winnie.’
‘And all went well at the bank?’
‘Oh, yes, one hundred and ninety-six dollars, I put in four of my own to make an even number.’
‘Well done, Hélène! Well done! I’ll let Hope know.’
‘Sometimes we go too long, do we not, Father, for want of refreshment of our souls? I love music, but I had forgotten how I love words. And people can be rather enjoyable, as well, vous ne pensez pas?’
• • •
LIGHTS. COFFEE. And the roar of the Hoover.
Coot was a regular German hausfrau. In the corners, tight to the baseboards, under chairs and tables. All this preceded by the beating of chair cushions and the dusting of a grim rubber plant from a customer relieved to be shed of it.
‘’At’s done,’ said Coot, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Now, let me show y’ somethin’.’ Coot held up a book, grinning to beat the band. ‘Looky here!’ he said, pointing to the second word in the title. ‘C-A-T. Cat!’
‘Yes! Wonderful!’
‘Now, looky here.’ Coot pointed to the fifth word in the title. ‘H-A-T. Hat!’
He whistled, gleeful.
‘But I ain’t got them in-between words yet.’
‘You’ll get ’em,’ he said. ‘You’ll get ’em.’
• • •
THE MUSE TRUCK WAS RUNNING LATE this morning. He stood at the window, looking for the truck with the avidity of a Christian Science Monitor subscriber. Had his brain ossified? Was he carrying around a rock up there?
When he saw the truck coming, he stepped outside and caught the delivery in midair.
Two for One: Today’s Helpful Hints
We are big into clean, happy air, how about you??
One: To make your rooms smell fa-bu-lous, try a few drops of lavender oil in a glass of really hot water and yayyy, you have destroyed unwanted cooking odors and doggie smells if you have a dog&^.
Two: to clean your bottles Cut up a raw potato and put the pieces in the bottle with a tablespoon of salt and two tablespoons of water and shake. Every stain gone in a flash! You will not believe it!
Susan, Joe, Avice and Wilma Faye Are Taking Care of Our Own. Are You?
Dear Vanita, here is a pic of a bag of trash I picked up on the road to Farmer. I power walk out there which is crazy because I could get killed in a heartbeat. If people are not driving on the shoulder they are driving in the middle of the road and saying it’s because they pay taxes on both sides!
Anyway, by the time I get home I have usually picked up about seven pounds of garbage thrown out by cretans (I looked this up, it fits exactly), otherwise known as rednecks. Yours sincerely and go, Panthers! Susan Glover, age 56, Rural Route 4
Hi I am Joe Zwieback like the toast. Here is a picture of me from last year’s two-foot powder blowing snow off the walk of somebody who did not have a shovel, a blower or even a job. You cant see me for the snow flying but that is my dog Howdy a real trooper—me and him moved down here from Minnesota for the climate ha ha. Thank you.