So far, he’d come up with Bill Sprouse at First Baptist, Bill Swanson from Lord’s Chapel, the new Methodist hire, and Reverend Browing at First Presbyterian. He hoped Father Brad would join them, and anyone else who took a notion.
‘You’re goin’ to pray?’
‘And talk and have breakfast, of course. And yes, pray.’
‘Right out in front of everybody?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, we don’t have a back room where you can, like, go pray.’
‘We wouldn’t need a back room. Just wondered if we could start off with the table in the corner? Every other Saturday, eight o’clock sharp.’
‘But so you’re goin’ to pray where people can see you prayin’?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so, that’s the usual way of the prayer breakfast.’
Wanda had a concerned look. He needed Mule in on this.
‘It happens all over the country, all the time,’ he said. ‘Wendy’s, McDonald’s.’
‘We’re not fast-food, Father.’
‘I was just giving you an example of how widespread the prayer breakfast is. If it’s a problem . . .’
‘I don’t know squat about your particular religion,’ she said. ‘I was raised Holy Roller. Y’all don’t by any chance fall back in th’ Spirit, do you?’
‘Not usually,’ he said.
‘Hey!’ said Omer. ‘Any room for me?’
‘I’ll get back to you,’ said Wanda. ‘What’s for th’ flyboy today?’
‘The usual,’ said Omer. ‘An’ thank you, ma’am.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ she said.
‘What’s goin’ on in town?’ asked Omer.
He slid his copy of the Muse across the table. ‘All yours. More than you ever wanted to know. How was your potato crop this year?’
‘Awesome. I’ll bring a bag by th’ bookstore.’
‘We’ll sure appreciate it. Nice shirt.’ He was a longtime fan of the flannel shirt.
‘Thanks. Yard sale. Two bucks.’
‘Mule likes a good yard sale.’
Omer grinned. ‘He’s beat me out of a few items over the years.’
‘You flying today?’
‘Not today. I’ve got a project goin’ at th’ house.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘A Scrabble game. Online. Playing with somebody who’s pretty good.’
‘You play Scrabble? Online?’
‘I’m stuck with some crazy letters, but I think I’ve got it figured out. Just need to get back to my dictionary.’ And there were the piano keys, and maybe the intro to a little Irving Berlin.
• • •
HEADING ACROSS TO THE BOOKSTORE, he realized he was doing something he almost never did, even though he very much enjoyed doing it.
He was whistling.
Fr Tim,
MICE UPSTAIRS!!! 3 and maybe more!!! I beg u 2 do what needs 2 B done B4 next Wed. and know u wl B HUMANE. I owe u a donut. Hugs Marcie
The note was decorated with a smiley face.
‘Dora,’ he said, calling down to the hardware. ‘I need a humane mousetrap.’
‘Sorry. When it comes to mice, we don’t do humane.’
‘What do you have against mice?’
‘They get in th’ feed sacks, eat th’ birdseed, poop on th’ counters, you name it. An’ since you’re runnin’ the bookstore, I guess you know they eat books.’
‘Eat books?’
‘Plus chew electrical cords, gnaw through wires, climb pipes . . .’
‘Okay, so . . .’
‘I can give you pellets or th’ old-fashioned wood trap. Or you can go th’ five-gallon-bucket route. That’s popular.’
‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said.
For some reason, he could not engage with this project, donut or no.
‘Coot,’ he said. ‘Could you step here a minute?’
• • •
THE OLD PEOPLE HAD SAID it would be a hard winter, and weren’t they usually right? Four inches of snow they’d had, with leaves still clingin’ to the trees, and she couldn’t get warm to save her life.
Esther Cunningham backed out of the garage and headed to town. Ever since the Hendrick funeral, she had been cold as a corpse, herself. Her brother had invited her to Florida to sit in the sun on a bench in his retirement community, but no way. The sun would come back around soon enough and she had never enjoyed sitting on a bench, period, much less with old people.
Mama, you need to slow down! She had not liked hearing that from Marcie Guthrie before eight o’clock this morning. And look who was talkin’. Her daughter was a chicken with its head cut off—down at the Woolen Shop to do the books, over to the Local to get out the payroll, up to Village Shoes to do Abe’s inventory, over to Lew Boyd’s to help with his taxes which were a rat’s nest, and now volunteerin’ at Happy Endings every Wednesday, which had for years been Marcie’s only day off—except Sunday, when she went to church, taught Sunday school, and cooked a big dinner for her kids and grans.
As for Joe Joe’s swearin’-in next Saturday, who but the chief’s own mother had signed up to bake three hundred cookies and two sheet cakes? Marcie Guthrie was th’ pot callin’ th’ kettle black.
And there was that bloomin’ plastic bag still flappin’ around on the awning of the Wool Shop. She guessed she’d have to climb up there herself and yank it down. She despised plastic bags. Wasn’t there a gazillion of the dern things out in the ocean with flip-flops and milk jugs whirlin’ around in a gigantic cesspool?
When she was mayor again, plastic bags would be outlawed. The merchants would have to use recycled paper and they would not like it. What is this, a socialist state? For crap’s sake, Esther, this is America. Nossir, they would fight her tooth an’ nail on that little ord’nance.
‘Bring it on!’ she shouted.
She bent over the steering wheel, coughing. Lord help, she was gettin’ a cough like nobody’s business. A wrackin’ cough, is what her mother used to call it. It had been so bad last night that Ray got up and slept in the guest room.
She pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror.
Blotches. Big time. And her heart bangin’ around everywhichaway.
She had never paid much attention to her heart or any of her other organs, she just let ’em do whatever they had in mind, and what business was it of hers?
Lord help, it was kickin’ around in there. She pulled into a parking lot and rolled the window down. She was hot as a firecracker, and where was she anyway? Was this Wesley or Mitford? She turned on the radio, maybe they would know.
• • •
‘I FOUND HER PULLED OVER in front of Shoe Barn. Motor runnin’, radio goin’.’
Hamp Floyd, Mitford’s fire chief, had gone to buy boots for rabbit hunting.
‘She was slumped over the steerin’ wheel; been listenin’ to Rush Limbaugh. He was talkin’ about the government gettin’ rid of Social Security.’
That’ll do it, he thought.
‘I got the ambulance to take her to ER; I’m up at the hospital ’til somebody can get here. Her preacher’s out of town. One of the nurses said call you, you’d come.’
‘Is she . . . ?’ Was this last rites? Good Lord!
‘They’re puttin’ her in ICU, is all I know.’
‘Where’s Ray?’
‘Somewhere in Wesley, he don’t carry a cell phone.’
‘I’ll be right there,’ he said.
Who would sub? Not his wife, who was at the eye doctor in Winston-Salem.
‘Coot,’ he said, ‘can you step here a minute?’
• • •
‘FATHER. Do . . . o . . . o me a favor.’
‘Anything,’ he said. Heaven knows, a big chunk of Mitford history was lying right here, hooked to two IVs, a heart monitor, and a tank of oxygen.
‘Climb up on that awnin’ at th’ Wo . . . o . . . ol . . . en Shop . . .’
There was a long pause, the monitor beeping.
‘. . . an’ get that da-a-adgum plastic bag down.’
‘Consider it done,’ he said.
• • •
CYNTHIA’S DIAGNOSIS: MACULAR HOLE.
Neither had ever heard of it.
She explained the fairly rare condition as best she could. ‘They’ll remove fluid from my right eye and replace it with a bubble of gas. I’ll have to lie facedown for two weeks.’
Facedown? Two weeks? Unbelievable!
‘I’d like to wait ’til after Christmas. But my vision in that eye is going fast, it’s decreased from twenty/forty to twenty/one hundred. I may have to shut down the book ’til this is behind me.’