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  She raised her head and glanced back into my eyes for a moment, but remained silent.

  “Any chance he might be able to help out with the expenses and with taking care of the baby?”

  “He gives me a little money when he can. He hasn’t been able to afford a place for us yet. Besides, he has his hands full taking care of family.”

  I tried to sort through this information, but it didn’t exactly present a clear picture. I deduced that the father must already be married with children.

  “Does he have a name?” I asked in a low voice, still looking compassionately at her.

  “Well, yeah, Doc. He’s got a name,” Sarah responded. “Half the people in this town would like to know it. It’s none of their business.”

  “That means it’s none of my business either.”

  “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Dr. Bradford. It’s just that me and him, we got our reasons and nobody else needs to know them.”

  I smiled and nodded my head. The fact that she had been a minor when she became pregnant was reason enough to be secretive. Tennessee, and especially small towns like Watervalley, had conservative opinions on this matter. Despite the feelings between Sarah and Sam’s father, there was the looming possibility that he could be accused of statutory rape. Further questions on the matter would have been pointless.

  Mary Jo came through the door carrying a sterile pan with two labeled syringes, but the needles were wrong.

  “Get me a couple of twenty-three-millimeter needles if you would, Mary Jo.”

  While she was normally obedient with such requests, this time she responded flatly. “These are sixteen millimeter. They’re thinner and shorter. It’s what we always use on infants.”

  It was late and I was tired. I repeated the request. “Mary Jo, get me the twenty-three-millimeter needles, please.”

  “Dr. Bradford, that’s an awfully long needle for such a little fellow.”

  I stopped her. My voice was low and firm. “Mary Jo, when we get a chance I will show you the literature that cites the benefits of the longer needle. But right now it’s late and I think it best to get this done so we can all go home.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and complied.

  I switched the needles and asked Sarah to hold Sam with his bottom exposed. After dabbing the target with alcohol, I gave the injection as I’d done a thousand times before. It was routine.

  What was not routine was the volume of the wail that came from the infant. It started as a sudden gasp for breath quickly followed by a deafening scream. This, of course, brought a deeply condescending look from Mary Jo. But I was undaunted. I got the second syringe and proceeded to dab a spot of alcohol on the other pudgy pink buttock.

  In three seconds the job was done, but Sam was clearly just getting warmed up. His screams brought the rest of the staff—Nancy, Cindy, and Camilla—to the open exam room doorway, where they stood with sympathetic looks for both the screaming child and the girlish mother who was desperately bouncing him and whispering soothing sounds into his ear.

  My confidence running high, I remained unrattled. Even still, the commotion made for an awkward moment. I reached instinctively toward Sarah, who by reflex gave the bawling infant to me. In hindsight, I can’t imagine what I was thinking or, for that matter, what Sarah was thinking. When comforting a screaming child, there is nothing that trumps the soft voice, warmth, and smell of his own mother. But for some reason, Sarah yielded Sam to me. It was an act of obedience to the myth that wisdom is automatically bestowed to the medical professional.

  I cradled him and gently bounced him with his head on my shoulder. Within seconds, all was silent. For a brief moment, it seemed that the comforting touch of the doctor had worked its magic. A grand smile of satisfaction spread across my face as I glanced around at the women, all of whom were mothers themselves. I went from being treated with subdued respect to earning their deep, ogling adoration. I was a genius. I had started the week with an exam of Watervalley’s oldest resident and was now finishing with Watervalley’s youngest. For a few cosmic seconds, they gazed upon my prowess with enchantment.

  Until Sam wrenched forth a tremendous burp, followed by an explosion of regurgitated formula that streamed all across my back and down my white shirt.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dinner

  After rinsing out my shirt in the sink, I walked the few blocks home from the clinic. Strolling the sidewalks under the large trees, I collected the sounds and smells of people gathered for backyard barbecues. The sun was now falling behind the western hills and the heat of the day was beginning to melt away. Long shadows traced across the front yards of Fleming Street. Kids rode by on their bicycles, men were mowing their lawns, and women were standing along picket fences, laughing and talking with great animation, gesturing with their hands. Life was happening all around me.

  These people of Watervalley, these patients I was getting to know—I knew my job was to listen and evaluate and recommend a cure for them. Nothing more. But their lives intrigued me, stirred something more in me. The names, the faces, the medical histories—I knew their numbers but not their stories, and what few stories I did know were unexpectedly captivating me. Their lives were rich with qualities I was just beginning to understand.

  As I meandered down the sidewalk, I wondered if Connie would still be waiting. Soon enough, I had my answer.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she hummed softly. “Just look at you. What fool thing did you do? Walk through someone’s sprinkler on the way home?”

  “That would have been more pleasant. I’m going upstairs to change. I’ll explain when I get back down. Something smells good.”

  “It sure isn’t you. You smell like a dairy barn.”

  I retreated upstairs, washed up, put on some jeans and a clean shirt, and returned to the kitchen.

  Connie was at the stove and without looking up she spoke to me in a deadpan voice. “How was your day, Doctor?”

  “Long.”

  “Sorry your dinner is running late. I was delayed getting out of my yoga class.”

  “Did you say your yoga class?”

  Connie looked up from the stove. “Yes, that’s right.”

  I had to ponder that for a moment. “Wow. That’s really interesting. I didn’t know you took yoga.”

  Connie had retrieved a plate and was serving up portions of pork chops and an array of vegetables.

  “I don’t take yoga. I teach yoga.”

  I was gulping a large swallow of tea and nearly spit it back into the glass.

  “You teach yoga? How did you learn to do that?”

  “I spent three years in a Hindu monastery.”

  “I don’t think I believe that one.”

  “Mmm-mmm, Doctor. Nothing gets past you,” Connie replied in her breezy monotone.

  I studied her for a moment. “You enjoy this, don’t you, Mrs. Thompson? These little conversations of ours.”

  For the longest minute, she regarded me with purse-lipped boredom. Again her response was deadpan. “Sure. I’m ecstatic about them, almost to the point of yodeling.”

  She turned away with a subtle grin, then put together a second plate and placed it on the table.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to join you. I haven’t had dinner either.”

  “Sure.” I was actually glad for the company.

  Connie put away her apron and sat across from me. “I’ve already blessed it, Doctor. You can dig in.”

  I nodded and reached for my fork. Connie spoke again. “After Mr. Thompson died I just couldn’t seem to relax. I was watching one of those infomercials on TV late one night and there was this ad on about learning yoga. It was a five-disk set for only twenty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents plus shipping and handling. Couldn’t pass that up.”

  I stifled a laugh. “Wow. Yoga. Mrs. Thompson, you’re a mess.”

  An almost perceptible smile began to inch across her face, but it vanished quickly. Meanwhile, I was trying hard to slow the p
ace with which I was devouring the food before me. Again, it was Connie who broke the silence. “So, what do you think about your first week, Doctor?”

  I stretched back in my chair, cupping my hands behind my head. “I think I’m glad no one died. That episode with Hoot Wilson yesterday scared me to death. Didn’t do him a lot of good either. I talked to his cardiologist today and he’s doing fine. He’ll probably get a pacemaker.”

  “I heard you handled that situation really well. Everyone said you knew exactly what to do.”

  There was a detectable tone almost of pride in Connie’s voice. Since the first minute we had met, it seemed that Connie had looked upon me as little more than a tall adolescent, so this came as something of a surprise. I was gratified, but I knew better. I looked at her impassively and shook my head. “Actually, it was a disaster. The only thing I can figure is that Hoot is a direct descendant of Lazarus. I think Wendy did more to save him than I did.”

  “God works in mysterious ways, Dr. Bradford.” Connie’s voice had a certain oratorical, sermonlike quality; she seemed always ready to seize upon the opportunity for a teachable moment. She continued in a declarative tone. “Seems like your being here was providential.”

  I shrugged. “I can’t say I can speak to that. All I know is that Hoot was dead as a rock and then came back to life when Wendy grabbed his foot. It might just be that the heart monitor was malfunctioning all along and then finally decided to work. That would certainly explain everything.”

  Connie continued to eat dinner in silence, choosing to ignore my last comment the same way you ignore someone who has just made an embarrassing sound. In time we finished and as she began to gather the dishes from the table she spoke again. “So, how was the rest of your week?”

  “Well, it seems like I met half the town. Some interesting people, and, thankfully, none of them were extremely sick. Most of them could and should take better care of themselves.”

  “I’d say that sounds like Watervalley.”

  “I did meet one elderly gentleman who was ninety-nine years old. Really interesting fellow.”

  “Oh, that’s Knox. That little Scotsman was born when Taft was president. A lot of stories about his dad and that old ice cave still float around. If we were in the big city, I guess folks would call it an urban legend.”

  “Since we’re in Watervalley, what do folks here call it? A rural legend?”

  Connie paused to give me a short look of reprimand. “No, they just call it an old story.”

  “Just what is this so-called old story?”

  “There’s supposed to be a tunnel full of his father’s whiskey somewhere in the catacombs of that old cave. But the whole place has been boarded up for decades.”

  “You know, they were talking about that at the barbershop. I didn’t think much of it. I just figured it was some kind of old folklore or myth. Or something of that nature.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” responded Connie. “Jesus help us. If those bottles really do exist, there are plenty enough feeble minds around here that would love to get their hands on them. It’s the syrup of Satan.”

  “I don’t know. One-hundred-year-old Scotch might be a pretty prized possession. Some people would pay a lot of money for it.”

  “People fork out half their paychecks for lottery tickets. Doesn’t mean they have good sense.”

  I smiled and nodded but I couldn’t resist digging into Connie’s indignation. “Okay, point taken.” I rose to get the pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. “You know, the word ‘whiskey’ comes from old Scottish words meaning ‘water of life.’”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Connie responded without looking up from her plate. “And the word ‘intoxicated’ comes from the Latin word toxicum, which means ‘poison.’”

  How does she do that? I thought to myself. Retrieving the tea pitcher, I headed back to the table. It was time to change the subject.

  “This tea is incredible. What’s in it?”

  “Amphetamines,” Connie responded. “Gives you a slight euphoric feeling.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll make mine a double.”

  “Any other interesting patients this week?”

  “Are you familiar with what’s known as the HIPAA laws?”

  “That would be the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996. It protects confidential patient information.”

  I stopped and stared at Connie for a moment. “Yeah. That would be the one.”

  “Get off your high horse, Doctor. I’m just trying to make conversation. You can change or even delete the names to protect the innocent if you want to.”

  I took another large swallow of tea and nodded. “Well, he wasn’t a patient, but I did meet an interesting fellow on Wednesday when I decided to go for a hike in the hills around the lake.”

  “And you found your way back. I’m impressed. Those trails have never been mapped out. Even Saint Peter has been known to stop and ask for directions.” Connie was definitely in a lighter mood now.

  “Yeah, the trails were pretty bad, but I had a little help with that.”

  “Someone show you the way home?”

  “I hiked up a pretty good ways and came upon this beautiful apple orchard. I met the owner. He wasn’t very friendly at first.”

  Connie’s puzzled frown was quickly transformed to a reserved smile and a slight nod of understanding. “So did John try to shoot you with his BB gun?”

  “Sounds like you two have met.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve known John Horatio Harris for over fifty years.” She paused and looked at me for a moment. “Mmm-mmm-mmm, Dr. Bradford. You’re just gettin’ a real education about Watervalley—good, bad, and ugly.”

  I shrugged. “Not so sure about that. All I know about John Harris is that he’s pretty darn smart, pretty darn rich, and pretty darn intense. Doesn’t seem to have a lot of lost love for the people in town either.”

  “I can assure you the feeling is mutual.”

  “What’s that all about anyway? I understand he lost his wife, which might make anybody bitter. But all that animosity toward the town—that’s driven by something else, something he didn’t want to talk about.”

  Connie looked inquisitively at me. “So I take it you two actually spoke to each other. He didn’t just shoot his gun off and send you running.”

  “Like I said, he wasn’t exactly friendly at first. But eventually he invited me up to the house, gave me a short tour, and we sat and talked for a few hours. Actually, I kind of liked the guy. He definitely has a volatile way about him, but he ended up being friendly. Gave me a ride back and invited me to come up and see him again.”

  Connie’s expression was one of pure astonishment.

  “What?” I inquired.

  At first she didn’t speak. Then she began to shake her head. “Dr. Bradford, are you telling me that you actually befriended John Harris? This may be a sign of the apocalypse. He is not a man given to generous impulse.”

  “I guess I did.” I paused. “Like I said, he’s a little intense. But . . . I don’t know. He’s an interesting guy. And I guess you have to be a little impressed with the whole setup. He has one really beautiful place.”

  “Oh, yeah. That would be Molly’s hand you saw. That gal had more style in her little finger than most people could ever attain, body and soul, in a lifetime.”

  “So what’s the story?”

  Connie sipped her tea and thought for a moment before speaking. “John Harris used to be one of the most beloved men in this town. He grew up here, was an All-State basketball player, smart, good-looking, cocky. Went to Carnegie Mellon on a full academic scholarship. He and Molly Cavanaugh dated in high school. She went off to Agnes Scott in Georgia. She was a short, cute brunette, always had a big smile for everyone and always had John wrapped around her little finger. They carried on their romance long-distance all through college and got married here in a big wedding the summer after they both graduated. The Cavanaughs were old-money people, big farmers
. Good people, though. Threw one of the biggest weddings this town ever saw.”

  “What about John? I guess he came from money too?”

  “Not really. They were respectable folk, but not rich. His dad was a mail carrier and his mom was a schoolteacher. Just solid workaday people. Both passed away a few years ago. John and Molly never had any children—not sure why. Anyway, John was an only child. Molly had a twin sister.”

  “So if John was so beloved as you say, what happened?”

  “John came back here and ran the DuPont plant. What people don’t know is that six months after he arrived, he got orders to shut the place down. But he refused. He managed to keep it open for another seven years. He worked like a dog getting the place retooled and retraining the workers, trying to make it profitable. Ultimately corporate made him close the doors anyway, and a lot of folks wanted to blame John. They had no idea how hard he had worked for them.”

  “Is that why he’s so angry at the town?”

  Connie regained her focus and shook her head. She spoke reflectively. “No. There’s more to it than that. John Harris’s anger is all wrapped up in that whole ugly business with the bandstand.”

  “The bandstand? You mean down at the lake?”

  “Yeah, the one at the lake. You see, when we were kids in high school—no, even for many years before that—they used to have big dances down at the bandstand. That’s where John and Molly had their first date. Anyway, about fifteen years ago a bunch of teenagers threw a big shindig down there and some young bucks with small brains and too much testosterone got in a knife fight. One almost died. A lot of beer and booze was floating around. Well, that was enough for the city to close the bandstand down. Too much liability.”

  “How does that play out with John?”

  “When John and Molly moved back, she got the idea to have the old bandstand renovated. She was quite the romantic. At first she didn’t get very far with the idea. But nothing ever stopped Molly. She was determined to have the old bandstand returned to its former glory. Then she was diagnosed with cancer. But that didn’t keep her from pushing for the city council to hold a vote on the restoration. She really wanted to see that done in her remaining time. John even offered to fund it as a gift to the city. The proposal came before the council a month before she died. Despite being deathly sick, she was there with John, much against his will.”