blushed, just thinking about it.
“We’re taking the stove,” he said.
He made a quick sweep of the rectory, looking once more in the kitchen drawers, feeling along the top shelves of the study bookcases, peering into the medicine cabinets.
Clean as a whistle.
Their tenant was moving in tomorrow with what she called “light furnishings,” a grand piano, and a cat, and he didn’t want any of his jumble lying around to welcome her. Ever since he moved in behind Father Bellwether in Alabama, he was careful to clean up any rectory he was vacating.
Father Bellwether had left behind a 1956 Ford on blocks, several leaf bags filled with old shirts and sweaters, a set of mangled golf clubs, three room-size rugs chewed by dogs, an assortment of cooking gear, several doors without knobs, a vast collection of paperback mysteries, and other litter that couldn’t be completely identified. Determined not to whine to the vestry who had called him, Father Tim remembered using a shovel and a hired truck to clean the place out while the movers huffed his own things in.
His footsteps echoed along the hallway to the basement door. He opened it and called down the stairs.
“Harley, are you there?”
Lace Turner appeared at the bottom of the steps, her blond hair in French braids.
“Harley’s taking a test,” she said.
He thought that each time he saw the fifteen-year-old Lace Turner, she had grown more beautiful, more confident. The hard look he’d once seen on her face had softened.
“But you can come down,” she said. “He’s almost through.”
“What’s the test on?” he inquired, trotting to meet her in the basement hallway.
“History. It’s his favorite subject.”
“Hit ain’t no such of a thing!” Harley called from the parlor.
Harley was sitting on the sofa with a sheaf of papers in his lap, using a hardcover book as a writing surface. A fan moved slowly left, then right, on a table next to the sofa.
“It was your favorite last week,” she said patiently, as they came into the room.
“Rev’rend, she’s got me studyin’ Lewis ’n’ Clark, how they explored th’ Missouri River and found half a dadblame nation. . . .”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Oh, hit’s in’erestin’, all right, but this question she’s wrote down here is how many falls is in th’ Great Falls of th’ Missouri. They won’t a soul ever ask me that, I don’t need t’ know it, hit won’t pay t’ know it—”
“Harley . . . ,” said Lace, looking stern.
“Two falls!” said Harley.
“No. We talked about it yesterday.”
“Six!”
Lace shook her head. “Think about it,” she advised. “You don’t like to think, Harley.”
“Didn’t I make eighty-nine on my numbers test you give me?” Harley grinned, displaying pink gums perfectly lacking in teeth.
“Yes, and you can make a hundred on this one if you’ll just think back to what you read yesterday.”
Father Tim quietly hunkered into a chair.
“I don’t give a katy how many falls make up th’ Great Falls. I quit, by jing.” Harley laid his pencil on the arm of the sofa and put his papers to one side. “I’m goin’ to pour th’ rev’rend a glass of tea. You can mark up m’ score on what I done.”
Harley marched to the kitchen, looking as determined as his instructor. He turned at the kitchen door. “An’ say some of y’r big words for th’ rev’rend.”
Lace gazed at Father Tim, her amber eyes luminous and intense. “He’s learned an awful lot,” she said, defending her practice of coming regularly to educate the man who protected her as she was growing up. It had been Harley who often fed Lace, and hid her from a violent, abusive father. To Lace, it was no small matter that Harley had sometimes risked his life for her well-being.
Lace was now living with Hoppy and Olivia Harper, and adoption procedures were under way. Father Tim considered that her privileged life with the Harpers might have turned the girl’s
“We’re taking the stove,” he said.
He made a quick sweep of the rectory, looking once more in the kitchen drawers, feeling along the top shelves of the study bookcases, peering into the medicine cabinets.
Clean as a whistle.
Their tenant was moving in tomorrow with what she called “light furnishings,” a grand piano, and a cat, and he didn’t want any of his jumble lying around to welcome her. Ever since he moved in behind Father Bellwether in Alabama, he was careful to clean up any rectory he was vacating.
Father Bellwether had left behind a 1956 Ford on blocks, several leaf bags filled with old shirts and sweaters, a set of mangled golf clubs, three room-size rugs chewed by dogs, an assortment of cooking gear, several doors without knobs, a vast collection of paperback mysteries, and other litter that couldn’t be completely identified. Determined not to whine to the vestry who had called him, Father Tim remembered using a shovel and a hired truck to clean the place out while the movers huffed his own things in.
His footsteps echoed along the hallway to the basement door. He opened it and called down the stairs.
“Harley, are you there?”
Lace Turner appeared at the bottom of the steps, her blond hair in French braids.
“Harley’s taking a test,” she said.
He thought that each time he saw the fifteen-year-old Lace Turner, she had grown more beautiful, more confident. The hard look he’d once seen on her face had softened.
“But you can come down,” she said. “He’s almost through.”
“What’s the test on?” he inquired, trotting to meet her in the basement hallway.
“History. It’s his favorite subject.”
“Hit ain’t no such of a thing!” Harley called from the parlor.
Harley was sitting on the sofa with a sheaf of papers in his lap, using a hardcover book as a writing surface. A fan moved slowly left, then right, on a table next to the sofa.
“It was your favorite last week,” she said patiently, as they came into the room.
“Rev’rend, she’s got me studyin’ Lewis ’n’ Clark, how they explored th’ Missouri River and found half a dadblame nation. . . .”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Oh, hit’s in’erestin’, all right, but this question she’s wrote down here is how many falls is in th’ Great Falls of th’ Missouri. They won’t a soul ever ask me that, I don’t need t’ know it, hit won’t pay t’ know it—”
“Harley . . . ,” said Lace, looking stern.
“Two falls!” said Harley.
“No. We talked about it yesterday.”
“Six!”
Lace shook her head. “Think about it,” she advised. “You don’t like to think, Harley.”
“Didn’t I make eighty-nine on my numbers test you give me?” Harley grinned, displaying pink gums perfectly lacking in teeth.
“Yes, and you can make a hundred on this one if you’ll just think back to what you read yesterday.”
Father Tim quietly hunkered into a chair.
“I don’t give a katy how many falls make up th’ Great Falls. I quit, by jing.” Harley laid his pencil on the arm of the sofa and put his papers to one side. “I’m goin’ to pour th’ rev’rend a glass of tea. You can mark up m’ score on what I done.”
Harley marched to the kitchen, looking as determined as his instructor. He turned at the kitchen door. “An’ say some of y’r big words for th’ rev’rend.”
Lace gazed at Father Tim, her amber eyes luminous and intense. “He’s learned an awful lot,” she said, defending her practice of coming regularly to educate the man who protected her as she was growing up. It had been Harley who often fed Lace, and hid her from a violent, abusive father. To Lace, it was no small matter that Harley had sometimes risked his life for her well-being.
Lace was now living with Hoppy and Olivia Harper, and adoption procedures were under way. Father Tim considered that her privileged life with the Harpers might have turned the girl’s
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