More Things In Heaven and Earth Page 11

  “I take it the vote did not pass.”

  “No, it didn’t. What made it worse was that the main folks who spoke against it were some of my misguided brethren from several of the local pulpits. As if doing away with that bandstand would do away with sin and stupidity. John took it personally. Coupled with the bitterness of losing Molly, all he was left with was a lot of anger at the town, the people, and no doubt the Church.”

  “Why doesn’t he just move away? He could live anywhere in the world. You’d think there would be some place more interesting, away from all the things that remind him of his dead wife.”

  “This is home to him. And it was where Molly wanted to live. He’s holding on to his anger, but he’s holding on to his home too.” Connie’s voice had been subdued, thoughtful. Then her gaze turned critical. She lifted her chin and focused pointedly at me through the lower half of her glasses. “Besides, Dr. Bradford, not everybody thinks that Watervalley is such an uninteresting place.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Connie responded with a sullen face, clearly offended. “Where are your manners, boy? That’s not exactly cotillion behavior. I would have thought a Buckhead upbringing would have taught you to be a little more polite.”

  I shrugged. “Well, it’s not that. It’s just that aside from the lake, the softball park, and Maylen’s Barbershop, there’s not a lot to this town. I guess I’m just more of a big-city guy. But it is what it is. So here I am.”

  Connie shook her head. “Mmm-mmm. Give it some time, Dr. Bradford. There’s not a lot to see in Watervalley, but what you hear makes up for it.”

  Her comment provoked a question. “Okay, how does that work anyway?”

  “How does what work?”

  “How is it that everybody in this little town knows everything about anything the moment it happens? It’s like you have to constantly watch your step.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that too much, Doctor. You’re not going to control what people think. Besides, around here you’ll find out pretty quick that the people who care don’t matter and the people who matter don’t care.”

  I nodded, then grabbed my tea glass and began to move toward the back door, thinking I might enjoy the evening shade from the back porch.

  Connie’s voice stopped me. “So how did your shirt get all wet?”

  “The last patient of the day was a little two-month-old who needed a checkup and his shots.” Connie immediately began to speak, but I didn’t let her. “I know, I know. I’m sure you can guess who it was, so we don’t need to call out any names. I gave him his shots with a deep needle and that kid let out a wail you could hear from space. So, like a knucklehead, I took him from his mother and tried to comfort him. That’s when he ralphed all over my back. I had no other shirt to wear home, so I tried to rinse it out in the sink.”

  I had been gazing out the back door while telling the story. As I finished, I glanced back toward Connie, who was now staring at me, smiling with a beaming pride. The look threw me.

  “What?”

  “Sounds like you were trying to do the right thing, Dr. Bradford.”

  I responded with a low resignation. “Oh, I don’t know. I was just trying to be a doctor.”

  “A baby’s cry is a good thing. It means life. It means God hasn’t given up hope in us yet.”

  I simply nodded my head and stepped out onto the back porch. It was well past sunset. I sat on the back steps and reflected on the day. For some reason, Knox McAnders was foremost in my thoughts—maybe because he’d been my first patient, maybe because I had a sense of his story, maybe because of his age and the subtle arrhythmias I had noticed. Time would tell.

  After a few moments Connie stepped through the back door and stood behind me where I was seated on the steps.

  “I’m leaving now, Dr. Bradford. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Thompson. Dinner was good.”

  “Get yourself to bed soon. You look tired.”

  “Sure. Thanks. I’ve got a few phone calls to make first.” My voice was solemn and crisp against the night air.

  I stayed seated on the back steps. For a moment, Connie remained behind me, gazing into the deep black of the yard. She reached down and softly patted the hair on the back of my head, smoothing it into place. “It was your first week with patients, Dr. Bradford. Sounds like it went just fine.” With that she stepped back inside. A minute later I heard the front door close and then Connie’s car start up. The sound of the engine faded into the distance as she drove away.

  I sat in silence. But Connie’s small act of kindness, the caring lilt in her voice were still drifting in the air, stirring memories from the distant years, stirring within me the voice of my aunt Grace.

  My arrival in Watervalley had been so botched. But arrivals had never been a grand affair for me. Years earlier, when I had ventured fresh-faced into the new world of private school in Atlanta, neither I nor my classmates had looked upon my arrival with anticipation. It was a place of academic competition, clever banter, and high regard for social standing. I was a stranger, uncertain and turned inward, who had learned to sit in the back of the class and observe and assess those around me. In time I learned to adapt, to become part of the pack, to create an acceptable version of myself.

  But during that difficult first year I remember Aunt Grace would sit on my bed each night, smooth my hair, and talk to me about my day, patiently listening to the ups and downs, the small victories, the abysmal defeats, the curious discoveries, and the occasional outpourings of my guarded heart. I was changing, casting away the boy of those early small-town years that had been so wrapped in wonder. Even though in time I had found a place in Buckhead—a role to play—I think she knew that secretly I still counted myself an outsider, always looking for some point of entry into the light and fellowship. As the years passed I completely reinvented myself with my prep school demeanor, my seasoned urban self. Even so, part of me believed that my aunt always regarded me as an awestruck little boy from a small town. But now too many years had passed for that identity to still define me.

  I sat and listened to the sounds of the night. It had been a good first week. Despite my dubious start, it seemed I had a charmed touch as the new doctor. I thought about the short list of patients I needed to call. For some reason, I considered calling Knox, just to check in with him, but there was really no need. More important, I remembered Leo Sikes, who Nancy still had not been able to connect with on the phone. Tomorrow was Saturday, and if I still couldn’t get in touch with him, I would drive out to his farm.

  I looked up and saw a million stars visible from galaxies far distant. It struck me as incredible that some of the stars I was watching no longer existed. They were there for me to see for this brief moment, but their fate had already been cast. It didn’t occur to me at the time that the laws that bound the heavens also bound the life in Watervalley. Before another week would pass, I would understand.

  CHAPTER 14

  Lessons to Be Learned

  By midmorning Saturday I still had not been able to reach Leo Sikes, so I drove out to his farm on Fatty Bread Road. I was far from any real sense of panic about him, but it was unsettling that we had been unable to contact him for three days. The long gravel drive led to a small farmhouse shadowed by a large barn in the rear. I knocked on the front door and waited for several minutes, but received no response. Something was wrong here, something afoul about the whole business, and I could start to hear my heart pounding in my ears. I walked around back, where an old Chevy Impala and truck were parked on a small concrete parking pad filled with years’ worth of cracks and opportunistic weeds. I yelled out for Leo but heard no response.

  With faster steps I walked toward the huge Dutch-style barn, noticing that the large sliding door to the central hallway had been left open about three feet. I stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the dark corridor. A light was coming from an open door on the right a few feet down the long hall. I heard
the faint sound of voices. Again I yelled out Leo’s name and hurried in that direction.

  “Leo? Leo Sikes?”

  “Hey, back here.” I had just heard his response when Mavis stepped to the open doorway holding, of all things, a glass of iced tea.

  “Well, hello, Dr. Bradford. What brings you out here?”

  “Hi, Mavis. Are you two okay?” I had reached the open doorway only to find that this room of the barn was finished out into a small office complete with desk, filing cabinets, and a small window AC unit.

  “We’re fine, I think,” she replied, clearly confused by my presence. Leo was across the room sitting in one of two recliners, watching a baseball game on a large, boxy old TV set. He rose from his chair, looking as spry as ever, and greeted me.

  “Hey, Doc. Didn’t know you make house calls.”

  I exhaled, relieved to find them okay, and laughed sheepishly.

  “Nancy and I have been trying to get in touch with you for several days. I want to run a few more tests. But we could never reach you on the phone.”

  “Oh my,” Mavis responded. “I am so sorry, Dr. Bradford. For some reason we can’t get the satellite dish to work on the TV in the house, so we’ve been out here a lot lately. I’m afraid we’ve missed your calls.”

  We talked for a few more minutes, during which Mavis offered several times to make a sandwich for me. I politely refused. They agreed to call the office Monday and set up another appointment. I departed amid a chorus of thanks and apologies and began the drive back to town feeling a mixture of relief and embarrassment. Watervalley simply lived at a pace and a remoteness that I did not understand. But the drive home revealed an even deeper revelation about the rural life I was coming to know.

  Along Fatty Bread Road, I noticed a number of fresh-vegetable stands beside the long gravel driveways. Makeshift tables had been set up to accommodate the overflow of family gardens. Baskets of cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, and beans were proudly displayed. These were typically manned by a solitary child or an elderly man or woman. But some stands sat unoccupied, with only a price list and a jar where customers could put their money. I marveled at this, amazed that such a culture of trust still existed.

  As the wheels of the old Corolla crunched their way down the gravel road, my mind was absorbed, deliberating. The owners either were naively trusting in those around them or simply saw it as a benevolence to those needing food and unable to pay. In either instance, it spoke of a deep well of common goodness. I drove the dusty roads in a state of wonder.

  On Monday morning the alarm went off at six. I pressed the snooze button once. The second time, I managed to sit up and place my feet on the floor. I groaned my way out of bed and by a quarter past six I was out the front door and jogging west on Fleming Street.

  Slowly, the aches and sore muscles loosened somewhat and I felt the strength to maintain my pace. But the morning was hot. The air was heavy, humid, motionless. Within a mile I was soaked with sweat and heaving deeply to find my breath. Usually I felt a certain awakening in running first thing, an unexplained illumination, a sharpening of focus. But this morning it was just work, a drudgery. After another half mile, I decided to turn back. I was hot and hurting. Pushing farther and harder seemed pointless. I walked the last couple hundred yards with my hands on my hips. Fleming Street seemed devoid of oxygen and catching my breath felt almost impossible. As I approached the house, I saw Connie’s car parked out front.

  The house was already rich with the smells of breakfast as I came through the front door. Connie was in the kitchen with her striped cotton dress, white apron, full makeup, styled hair, and inevitable sour face. She was holding a spatula, standing over a pan of frying eggs on the stove. Without looking up, she spoke in her usual breezy voice. “Good morning, Dr. Bradford.”

  I noticed a plate of cooked bacon cooling on a paper towel on the counter next to the stove. I walked over to grab a strip, but as I reached out Connie swatted my hand with the spatula.

  “You best keep your sweaty hands back. I didn’t hear anybody say breakfast was ready.”

  I recoiled a couple of steps. “Somebody’s a little testy this morning.”

  “Humph,” Connie replied. “Mind your manners, Dr. Bradford. Just look at you with your big sweaty self.” Connie reached to the upper cabinet and retrieved a large glass. “Here. Pour yourself some orange juice and go get cleaned up. I’ll have breakfast ready when you get back down.”

  Taking the glass from her, I returned her firm grimace with a wry grin.

  “Good morning to you too, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Humph.” She turned back to the stove.

  I downed the glass of juice and headed up the back stairs. Within minutes I was shaved and showered and returned to the kitchen. Connie had a plate of eggs, bacon, grits, and toast ready for me on the table. I grabbed a couple of paper towels and tucked them into my open collar.

  Up to her elbows in dishwater, Connie made her usual announcement. “Dig in, Dr. Bradford. I’ve already blessed it.”

  I looked at her hesitantly, then nodded and grabbed my fork. The breakfast looked delicious, but was far larger than what I was accustomed to eating in the morning. I couldn’t resist making a teasing inquiry.

  “Mrs. Thompson, I’m sure this is tasty and I know you’re a fabulous cook, but have you heard of this thing called a bagel?”

  Connie turned toward me, holding the cast-iron skillet like a handy weapon. “Not sure. Have you heard of this thing called a mild concussion?”

  I grinned and began to devour the plate of food in front of me. After a few swallows, I said, “Yes, Mrs. Thompson. Come to think of it, I have. But if I keep eating like this, I’m going to weigh over three hundred pounds.”

  Connie turned back to the sink and continued drying the dishes. “You’re still a young man, Dr. Bradford. And skinny. Maybe even a little on the puny side by my standards. There are still plenty of years for yogurt and granola. But don’t worry. I’ll fix you some fruit and frittatas if that’s what you want.”

  I took another huge bite and shook my head. “I’m not saying this meal isn’t absolutely scrumptious. But if you keep this up I’ll have to ask for a double XL lab coat for Christmas.”

  I finished and hastily began to gather my things for work. “By the way, what are we having for dinner?”

  Connie looked at me deadpan, as if the answer was yet undecided. Finally, a subtle amusement spread across her face. “Bagels.”

  I smiled, shaking my head, and returned up the stairs to grab my tie. At ten till eight I was out the door. The thick August air hit me instantly, so instead of walking I drove the car over to the office. Having been parked in the shade, even with no air-conditioning, it at least held the promise of a cooler arrival.

  I was slightly relieved to find the clinic parking lot relatively empty. Approaching the back door, I found Mary Jo Marshall discreetly smoking a cigarette on the stoop. It was likely not her first of the day. She stood like a bored statue, clasping the elbow of her cigarette-holding arm.

  “Good morning, Doctor.” Her voice was flat, unaffected.

  “Good morning, Mary Jo,” I responded. “I could be wrong, but seems like I read somewhere that those things are an impairment to your health.”

  Mary Jo was unmoved. “I know. I keep thinking I should switch to reefer.”

  Rebuttal seemed pointless. “I’ll see you inside, sunshine.”

  As I entered, Nancy was trotting down the hall at a whirlwind pace, wearing an ear-to-ear smile on her excited face, bursting with her usual warmth. “Good morning. Good morning, Dr. Bradford,” she called, as if one “good morning” was inadequate. “Sure is hot out there. Hope you had a nice weekend. Just a few patients lined up this morning. Do you want some coffee?”

  “Good morning, Nancy. And no, thanks. No need for more coffee.”

  “Well, that’s probably good. They say it’s not really that healthy for you.”

  “Yes, they say a lot of t
hings. I hope your weekend was okay,” I responded pleasantly.

  “Oh, yes, yes. It was just great. Mr. Orman and I went to that new steak house over in Hohenwald. They have the best salad bar. It had three different kinds of lettuce.”

  “Maybe later you can tell me all about it. So, not too many patients this morning?”

  “Oh, not too bad. But your first appointment is over at the elementary school.”

  “The elementary school?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I should have told you, but I have on my calendar that you need to be over at the elementary school at eight thirty this morning for the professional day in Mrs. Chambers’s sixth-grade science class.”

  This news caught me off guard. “The elementary school, really? It’s just early August. Is school already in session?”

  “Watervalley went to a year-round schedule two years ago. They’re just coming back from a three-week break.”

  By now Mary Joe had appeared through the back door, having attained her nicotine fix for the morning. Hearing Nancy’s last comment, she immediately chimed in. “Hot dig, Doc, you’re in for a real treat. Take the first aid kit. Mrs. Chambers is one sharp-tongued old battle-ax.”

  “Now, Mary Jo, be nice,” responded Nancy.

  Mary Jo smiled with a sneer. “Humph. I was being nice.”

  “I agree, she can be opinionated,” replied Nancy, “but she’s really good at what she does. Everybody says so.”

  I held up my hand. “Time out, ladies. Just who is Mrs. Chambers?”

  Nancy responded, “She teaches science and math to the sixth graders at the elementary school. She has been there for over thirty years and has taught nearly everybody in this town. Very smart. Very, very smart. But she does have a bit of a sharp personality.”