Part 4

Light from Heaven
by Jan Karon

(Page 4 of 6)

"We got a rubber band and put it aroun' all them bills, an' took out a big envelope and whopped 'em in there, an' I licked th' flap and sealed it up tight as Dick's hat band, so nothin' would fall out.

"She say t' me, 'Louella, you th' best frien' I ever had, but you cain't go down there with me, this is between me an' th' Lord.'

"Then she struck out to th' garage, an' when she come back, she was proud as a pup wit' two tails.

"I say, 'Miss Sadie, where you put that money in case you pass?' She say, 'I ain't goin' t' pass any time soon, don't worry about it. Sometime later she mention that money; we was livin' at Miss Olivia's ol' house. She say she ought to go get it out of where she put it, but th' market was still real bad.

"Then, we both plumb forgot.

"Th'other day I was settin' in this rockin' chair watchin' th' soaps an' it come to me like a lightnin' strike. I said, oh, law! Somethin' bad goin' to happen to Miss Sadie's money, an' Miss Sadie, she'll be hoppin' mad." He was dumbfounded by this strange turn of events. As far as what might be done about it, his mind felt oddly pickled.

Louella's immense bosom heaved with a sense of the urgent mission to be carried forth; she leaned toward him and lowered her voice. "So," she said, "what you goin' t' do 'bout Miss Sadie's money?"

On the way to Main Street, he zoomed by their yellow house on Wisteria Lane and found it looking spic, not to mention downright span. Harley's general supervision of its welfare made it possible to spend this carefree year at Meadowgate.

He threw up his hand and waved.

"We'll be back!" he shouted.

He wheeled into Lew Boyd's Exxon, still occasionally referred to as the Esso station, and saw the Turkey Club sprawled in plastic deck chairs inside the front window. The lineup included J. C. Hogan, longtime Mitford Muse editor; Mule Skinner, semiretired realtor; and Percy Mosely, former proprietor of the now-defunct Main Street Grill. He'd been hanging out with this bunch for eighteen or twenty years, and it had been a rude awakening when Percy and Velma packed it in last Christmas Eve, vacating a building that quickly became a discount shoe store. Currently occupying the spot where the club's rear booth had stood was a rack of women's pumps, sizes eight to ten.

"Hooboy!" Mule stood and saluted. "Here comes our Los Angelees movie producer."

"Who, me?"

"Pretty soon, you'll be whippin' that back in a ponytail an' wearin' a earring."

Father Tim suddenly felt his hair flowing over his shoulders like a medieval mantle.

"Come on, leave 'im alone," said Percy. "He's livin' out in th' boonies, he don't have to slick up like we do."

"If you call that slicked up, I'm a monkey's uncle."

"How long're you stuck out there in th' sticks?" asked Percy.

"Hal and Marge will be living in France for a year, so ... roughly nine more months. But we don't feel stuck, we like it."

"I lived in th' country when I was comin' up," said Percy, "an' it like to killed me. They ain't nothin' but work on a farm. Haul this, fix that, hoe this, feed that. If it ain't chickens, it's feathers."

"About time you showed up, buddyroe, my fish san'wich is goin' south." J.C. rooted around in his overstuffed briefcase and came up with something wrapped in recycled foil. Mule sniffed the air. "How long has that thing been in there?"

"Seven o'clock this morning."

"You're not goin' to eat it?"

"Why not? Th' temperature's just a couple degrees above freezin'."

Father Tim noted that the editor's aftershave should effectively mask any offensive odors within, loosely, a city block.

"What'd you bring?" Mule asked Percy.

"Last night's honey-baked pork chop on a sesame-seed roll with lettuce, mayo, and a side of chips."

"Man!" said Mule. He expected that anybody who'd owned the Grill for forty-odd years would show up with a great lunch, but nothing like this. He peered into his own paper sack.

"So, what is it?" asked J.C., hammering down on the fish sandwich.

"I can't believe it." Mule appeared disconsolate. "Fancy's got me on some hoo-doo diet again."

"Why is your wife packin' your lunch? You're a big boy, pack your own bloomin' lunch."

Mule examined the contents of the Ziploc bag. "A sweet potato," he said, devastated. "With no butter."

"A sweet potato?" Percy eyed the pathetic offering with disbelief. "What kind of diet is that?"

Mule slumped in his chair. "I can't eat a sweet potato; no way can I eat a sweet potato. I feel trembly, I had breakfast at six-thirty and now it's way past twelve."

"What'd she give you for breakfast? A turnip?"

"Hard-boiled eggs. I hate hard-boiled eggs; they give me gas."

"So, Percy," said Father Tim, unwrapping a ham and cheese on white from the vending machine, "see what you did by going out of business? Left us all high and dry."

"Yeah," said Mule. "I was happy with things th' way they were."

J.C. gobbled the remaining half of his sandwich in one bite. "Ah guss nobar hurrbowwissonor ..."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," snapped Mule, who was digging in his pockets for vending machine change.

J.C. swallowed the whole affair, and knocked back a half can of Sprite. "I guess you turkeys didn't hear the latest about th' Witch of th' North."

"Witch of th' South," said Percy, recognizing the nickname, albeit incorrect, for his much-despised former landlord.

"Turns out she said her first clearly understandable word since that big crack on th' head in September."

"Money!" exclaimed Percy.

"What about money?"

"Money had to be th' first word out of that back-stabbin', hardhearted, penny-pinchin' ..."

"Now, Percy," said Father Tim.

J.C. glared at the assembly. "Do you want to hear th' dadgum story or not?"

"Say on," commanded Father Tim.

"Ed Coffey was in town yesterday, haulin' stuff out of her carriage house up at Clear Day to take down to her Florida place. He said that right before he left, she was sittin' in her wheelchair at th' window, lookin' at birds, and she motioned him to come over... ."

Mule looked disgusted. "If brains were dynamite, Ed Coffey wouldn't have enough to blow his nose!"

"Then, she motioned 'im to come closer... ."

The Turkey Club sat forward.

"Ed said instead of all that word salad she'd been talking, she spoke up as good as anybody... ."

"What'd she say, dadgummit?" Percy's pork chop was stuck in his gullet; if there was anything he disliked, it was the way some people had to be th' bride at every weddin' and th' corpse at every funeral.

© 2006 Penguin, a division of Penguin Putnam, used by permission.

About the Author

Jan Karon, born Janice Meredith Wilson in the foothills of North Carolina, was named after the title of a popular novel, Janice Meredith. Jan wrote her first novel at the age of ten. "The manuscript was written on Blue Horse notebook paper, and was, for good reason, kept hidden from my sister. When she found it, she discovered the one curse word I had, with pounding heart, included in someone's speech. For Pete's sake, hadn't Rhett Butler used that very same word and gotten away with it? After my grandmother's exceedingly focused reproof, I've written books without cussin' ever since."