Free Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good by Jan Karon

armchair.
    ‘How often?’ he said.
    ‘Twice a week?’
    ‘That’s way too much, Kav’na.’
    ‘Once a week, then. That’s absolutely the best deal I can make.’
    The small rattle against the window of maple branches in a September wind. He was completely content, apt to say anything.
    ‘Let’s do it.’
    •   •   •
    P ERHAPS SOME BY - PRODUCT of nocturnal energy poured off celestial bodies, rained on the hapless, jangled human nerves. In any case, he couldn’t sleep.
    He breathed a mantra known to pacify his nervous system—
Thank you, thank you, thank you
, again and again, and finally, onto his nightly petitions for Cynthia, Dooley, Lace, Sammy, Kenny . . . off he went, naming the legions, lingering on some blurred or precise image of each, all this followed by supplications for the Church, this country, her leaders, her enemies.
    He could usually manage that much in a lateral fashion before his petitions drifted like clouds before a leeward wind. He found drifting to be the provoking nature of prayer—and there was the water tower in Holly Springs and Henry and Peggy in the house with the swept yard, and his breathing coming easier now, and he was no longer lifting up the living, but poking around in the dim chambers of those gone before.
    If wakefulness persisted, as it was doing tonight, he often applied himself to the useful soporific of ‘praying the town,’ which meant going in his imagination from door to door, interceding for Mitfordfamilies, with special intentions for the sick. If he lasted long enough, which was rare, he included the merchants, who needed all the help they could get.
    It had been thoughtless to buy into Cynthia’s letter-writing scheme, as if he had nothing else to do. Though, come to think of it, he had nothing else to do, except three miles three times . . .
    So if he was going to write her, where would he go for inspiration? He had used the Song of Solomon more than once, which was also more than enough, being the sticky business most people knew it to be.
    Better still, if he was going to get serious about it, he needed first to answer the letter from Henry, which had arrived days ago. He considered getting up and doing it now, but if he moved, the whole sleeping arrangement would come to pieces.
    O Lord, I call to you, come quickly to me, Hear my voice when I call to you. May my prayer be set before you like incense; may the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice . . .
    Somewhere in the fifth verse, his mind drifted.
    Camelopardalis, he was thinking as he fell asleep.
    •   •   •
    D AWN . T HE LIGHT SHY , the sun hidden; low-hanging fog.
    Still in his robe and pajamas, he took his coffee mug out to the maple beyond the study window and looked toward the dark stain of mountains along the horizon.
    What he needed was a new route. In the past, he’d run up Wisteria and across Church Hill Road, cut up Old Church Lane and hung a left at Fernbank, then a left on Lilac Road and a right toward Farmer. He wasn’t crazy about the Farmer leg of that run, some drivers insisted they paid taxes on both sides of the road and were determined to get their money’s worth. The road to Wesley was busier still, withmore carbon monoxide to suck into his lungs, so what to do? A parochial route; that was the ticket, though he hated having ten extra pounds flapping in the face of every Tom, Dick, and Harry on Main Street—fat was a private matter.
    He’d give the parochial plan a try. If he didn’t like it, he could change it. He would cross Main and hook a right toward Farmer, then a couple of rights to the tower monument, then up Lilac, hit Church Hill, and home. Easy.
    Okay. And if he had any wind left when he hit Lilac, he could keep going and run around the monument, then twice around the parking lot at town hall, then over to Church Hill and home to Wisteria.
    Forgetful of the morning dew, he sat on the bench under the maple tree, exhausted