More Things In Heaven and Earth Page 15

  “I met him yesterday morning out at Knox’s place and again today at the funeral home. He’s not a very talkative type.”

  “I suspect not. That degree in front of your name gives you a special status. But you’re still an outsider, slick. You’ll see. They’ll lead you to water, but it doesn’t mean they’ll let you drink. Simple people, simple minds. You better get used to it.”

  “Well, don’t sugarcoat it for me, John.”

  “What did you think Watervalley was going to be?”

  I brooded on the question for a moment. “You said something a minute ago, about people having a sharp opinion—judging, I think you said, if you do well and stay or if you do well and leave. Is that what happened to you?”

  “Getting a little personal there, aren’t you, Doc?”

  “You brought it up.”

  John stared into the distance and rubbed his chin. “Yeah, I did.” He took a strong swallow of the Scotch. His gaze into the distant twilight grew sharp, focused.

  “Growing up in a little town like this one is all fine and good. It gives you a sense of roots, of consistency. But it can also make you insignificant. Molly saw life here as something sweet and vibrant. For me, it was stagnant water, a swamp.” He took another swallow.

  “When I was ten, my dad took me to Nashville for the first time. We walked around downtown, saw all the tall buildings, visited the capital, the Parthenon, drove by all the big hotels. I was just a hick kid. I felt small, frightened. But I remember as we were leaving the city that night, I turned around in the backseat and looked at the distant lights through the rear window. I was hooked. It was like my first taste of an opiate. That is where I saw life happening. I wanted to be part of it, consume it, live right in the middle of it. Molly went along. But wherever we lived, from time to time I would catch her standing out under the stars, looking into the evening sky and wondering which direction was Watervalley. She loved this place beyond words. And, to be honest, it was beyond me why she did.”

  “But you loved her, so you came back.”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  Darkness was now melting over the expanse of the valley and the last lingering fingers of twilight reached far into the rifts of the distant hills. Down below, the streetlights of the small town were flickering on one by one. Stars began to appear vividly in the wide sky above. I took the last swallow of my beer.

  “Go get yourself another one,” John said. “You look like you could use some cheering up.”

  “Well, I don’t know, John. Somehow talking to you hasn’t been the load of giggles I thought it would be.” I could tell that he was reaching a saturation point. The alcohol had taken the edge off his anger, making him modestly jovial, randomly philosophic.

  “Ah. You just need some stouter medicine. Knox was a good man. But it was time. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad doc.” John took another large swallow of Scotch. He exhaled deeply. Then, again holding his glass toward the stars, he quoted: “‘Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments; Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth; Turn melancholy forth to funerals; The pale companion is not for our pomp.’”

  “I’m impressed. Half a bottle of Scotch and you’re quoting A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Seems to me the moment calls for one of Shakespeare’s tragedies rather than a romantic comedy.”

  John chuckled. “Okay, explain this to me, Doc. How is it you know your classics so well? I figured you’d be all about zygotes and mitochondria.”

  “I guess I can credit my aunt Grace with that. After my parents were killed I seemed to have a lot of nightmares. I was just a twelve-year-old kid and was more or less thrust upon her. She had a pretty short on-ramp to the business of parenting. Anyway, she was a librarian and loved the classics. So for the first year or so she would read to me before going to bed. I was a little old for Dr. Seuss, so she read what she loved: Shakespeare, Homer, Jane Austen, even a little Washington Irving thrown into the mix. I guess the habit stuck, and I kept reading them after the nightmares went away.”

  John looked up at the stars now vividly cast in the evening’s deepening blue. “Doc, you’re a man of many facets. I’m glad your unlucky ass landed here.”

  “That’s very reassuring, John. Meanwhile, I better head out. I’ve got patients to see in the morning. Thanks for the beer.”

  “Don’t rush off. I might be able to cheer you up yet.”

  “I’ll take a rain check on that.”

  As I began to leave, John rose with me, his gait somewhat unsteady. He staggered with the unmistakable markings of alcoholic gravity. As we proceeded to my car, I paused one last time to admire the incredible beauty of the moonlight on John’s well-manicured world. A final question came to me. I leaned against the front fender, addressing John directly.

  “Hey—one more thing. Since you know everybody in Watervalley, there’s this girl in town, a schoolteacher. Absolutely gorgeous and feisty, all in the same incredible package. I met her earlier this week. Her name is Christine Chambers. You know anything about her?”

  Suddenly John became stone-faced, staring at me intently. He inhaled deeply, lifted his glass and drained the last of his Scotch. Then, oddly, once again he quoted A Midsummer Night’s Dream: “Oh my. ‘So quick bright things come to confusion.’”

  With that he turned away and walked drunkenly around the house, retreating into the darkness.

  Standing alone in the night, I wondered what in the world that was all about. Knox’s death, the stranger in the downtown alley, Christine Chambers and now John’s odd behavior—the last twenty-four hours had just been filled with unanswered questions. I started the Corolla and began the long, winding drive down the hills back to Fleming Street. Being with John had been a good way to occupy myself, to distract me away from my sense of isolation. But now as I drove the dark curves of the wooded lane, all the uncertainty, all the doubt, all the awkwardness closed in upon me again.

  It was then that I first seriously entertained the thought that perhaps I had made a mistake. That perhaps it might be best if I faced up to some tough realities and did what was needed to leave Watervalley and return to the world of medical research and grants, to the urban world that made sense to me. After a few lost minutes, I dismissed the thought. But in time, it was an idea that would begin to consume me.

  CHAPTER 18

  Autumn

  I awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon. The enticing aroma wafted up from the kitchen and reached into my senses in my half dream state, prompting memories of my adolescent room, careless summer mornings, and my mother’s soft, prodding feminine voice. I finally reached over and checked the clock. Quarter till six. Connie was early.

  I placed my feet on the floor and paused, opening my eyes wide like a child, and stretched my arms high above me. After putting on jeans and a shirt, I made my way downstairs, drawn to the delightful smells of breakfast. My footfalls were inaudible against the clamor of activity created by Connie’s orchestration in the kitchen. She had her back to me and was in a lively conversation on the telephone. The long spiral phone cord bounced across the length of the room as she moved between the stove and table. I stopped and sat at the bottom of the steps, unnoticed, taking in the intensity of her heated conversation.

  “I’m telling you, Estelle, I had every right to do what I did. There we all were, seated at the restaurant, and Luther decided he wanted to be the one to say grace. That’s all fine and good till he starts getting this sanctimonious air about himself, puffing all up and talking in such a low voice you’d think he was trying to force out a burp. You know the man hasn’t hit a lick at a snake for thirty years, claiming all that stuff about weak legs and a bad back, and all the while his infirmity of limb hasn’t done anything to stifle his appetite. Anyway, he was several minutes into it, praying over everything from dead relatives to the blight on the neighbor’s tomato plants, and I finally just spoke up and hollered out ‘Amen.’ Heavens, girl, the food was getting cold. Well, that stopped h
im just long enough for everybody to scramble for their fork in case he wasn’t completely derailed. Then he got huffy and started giving me the evil eye. That’s when I told him that if he was behind on his prayer life, he could get caught up on his own time.”

  At that moment Connie turned and noticed me sitting on the back steps with my chin propped in my right hand. Her eyes narrowed to thin slits, regarding me with a puckered scowl. “Estelle, honey, I gotta go. The doctor is up and moving around in stealth mode.”

  She marched indignantly across the room and hung up the phone. Then, towering over me with hands on her hips, she spoke in a lecturing tone. “There are actions that separate a gentleman—particularly a Southern gentleman—from the lower creatures. Apparently you are not generally familiar with them. Just when did it become polite for you to sneak in on somebody’s conversation without letting yourself be known?”

  Staring sheepishly up at her, again I stretched luxuriously, lifting my right hand straight above my head and using my left hand to cover a deep and robust yawn. “The bacon is starting to burn.”

  Connie’s glare remained locked. But I noticed a minutely perceptible line form on the right side of her tightly pressed lips. It was a grin screaming to surface. She recovered with a quick “humph” and turned toward the stove.

  “We need to amend our contract. There needs to be a fine for bad manners.”

  “Don’t stand on ceremony on my account,” I responded mischievously. “Feel free to speak your mind.”

  Connie’s sour look of disapproval continued. She reached into the nearby cabinet to retrieve a plate. “Get off those steps and get the milk out. Your breakfast is gonna get cold, burned bacon and all.”

  Moving with some measure of early morning sluggishness, I took my place at the table as Connie set the loaded plate before me. I reached for my fork but then stopped abruptly.

  “If I begin to recite some lengthy homily, are you going to cut me off?”

  A muted grin began to emerge, but Connie caught it quickly. Still, it told volumes. A telltale crack had shown itself on her often critical exterior. She countered quickly. “Watch yourself, Doctor. You keep acting too smart for your britches and I’ll cut you with something other than words. I’ll fix it to where you can say grace to the Lord face-to-face.”

  I took a large bite of egg and toast. “Good morning to you too, Connie.”

  This brought another “humph” from her, but it served no purpose in discouraging me. In the absolute, Connie Thompson was a loving, vulnerable softie. It had simply taken me a while to figure it out. She walked over to the counter, took off her apron, poured herself a cup of coffee, and joined me at the table. Now when she spoke her tone was milder, more conversational, though still unmistakably Connie.

  “I looked for you at the funeral home yesterday. I heard you were there. Several of us went to dinner afterward. I was hoping you would join us.”

  “I appreciate that, but I don’t know. Some of the McAnders family seemed to regard me rather warily.”

  “Oh, you’re talking about Toy,” Connie responded abruptly. “I wouldn’t let him bother you. The verdict is still out on him. I’m not so sure that his part of the McAnders gene pool doesn’t need a little chlorine.”

  “Toy McAnders is sort of a tough one to figure out. But it wasn’t just him. I’m not sure where I fit into that situation.” I was also thinking about Christine Chambers, but chose not to subject my interest in her to Connie’s critical opinion, especially given that I had been, in fact, attending visiting hours for a dead man.

  “I don’t understand what you mean. You’re the town doctor. That’s where you fit in.”

  “Right, I get that part. I’m just talking about in the larger sense. I’m not sure how I fit socially with these people. Everybody’s nice enough, but that’s about where it ends.”

  Connie pondered my words. “Sorry, Doctor. Your welcome package to Watervalley doesn’t come with a decoder ring. Where you fit in is something you’re gonna have to figure out for yourself.”

  We sat in silence for a few lingering seconds. The conversation had hit a dead end. Connie drank her coffee. Her face was now reflective, with an underlying concern.

  “So, what did you do after you left the funeral home?” she asked.

  “I wanted some company, so I drove up to John Harris’s place and chatted with him for a while.”

  “Good heavens, Doctor! You no sooner leave the angels floating around poor old Knox’s casket than you skip on up to bend your elbow with the devil himself.”

  I was taken aback, surprised at Connie’s intuition that alcohol had been part of the visit.

  “Devil or not, he was a lot more friendly than the so-called angels floating around the funeral home,” I said. She’d put me on the defensive. “Anyway, it’s not like the devil, as you call him, and I were up there discussing Beyond Good and Evil.”

  “Humph,” responded Connie. “You’re not going to find much room for Nietzsche in this part of the Bible Belt. Not even with John.”

  I did my best to muffle my stunned reaction. How did she do that? I was trying to think of a sharp reply, but, unfortunately, Connie wasn’t finished.

  “Oh, not that he couldn’t handle it. He’s always good for taking up an intellectual challenge, whether it’s Schrödinger’s cat, the Chinese room, or Occam’s razor. It’s not John’s intellect that’s in question. It’s his anger you need to watch out for. Don’t be bringing around here any of that salty language he uses.”

  As I had done on several occasions before, I stared at Connie with an expression of disbelief.

  “Okay, first of all, what makes you think I am so impressionable?” I asked. “And you know another thing—” I stopped in midsentence. “Hold it—Schrödinger’s cat? How do you know about this stuff? How do you pull it out of the air?”

  Connie pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin as I’d offended her. She looked to the side for a moment, clearly preparing her answer. “My youngest son, Theodus, is an associate professor of philosophy at Rhodes College in Memphis. We talk on occasion.”

  I nodded with resignation. “I think I better go get ready for work.”

  “Leave your dishes.”

  I rose from the table and headed upstairs. Halfway up I thought how nice it would be to reply to Connie with some clever retort, but nothing came to mind. I wished she wasn’t such a good cook.

  I went to work and moved through my day, listening and thinking and acting in the moment. The appointments came and went, and patient by patient I did my job. Work and life in Watervalley was becoming routine and the days began to roll forward.

  As the hot weeks of August started to pass into September, I began to quietly bury my thoughts, my longings, and my deep, unspoken loneliness. I wished for distant places. I began to pour myself into the oblivion of work, the long hours, the repetitive cycle of daily assessments, and the drowning ritual of daily life. I would absorb the muddled histories of patients, listen to their stories, and piece together a medical chronicle of their lives. I would assess and prescribe and coach and teach. I began to know them by name and nickname and could speak to them with a voice of care, compassion, and quiet sagacity.

  My greatest fear was that somehow the people of Watervalley would discover the level of my detachment. I had no disdain or contempt for the people here. They were my patients and by definition deserved my skill and attention as well as my concern and acceptance. But I longed to be elsewhere, pursuing a different life. I longed for the glorious promise of new places, new friends, lively music, the call of laughter and nightlife. For so many years my life had been confined to schoolrooms, marching to an invisible metronome of classes, exams, and deadlines as I bided my time for a grander day. And while there were small delights and satisfactions in my daily care of patients, I still found myself as before: marking time, in a hurry to get to the future.

  My conversations with Connie became comfortable if not somewhat per
functory. As the weeks passed, we slipped into an easier relationship. Although she continued to have a relentless scrutinizing nature, it came with a soft undercurrent of care. I had begun to be on call every other week, swapping the alternate week for referrals to the hospital in the neighboring county. I was pulled out of bed at all hours, and yet I still needed to see my regular patients every day, regardless of my lack of sleep and exhaustion. She worried about me.

  Sometimes I would eat lunch down at the Depot, but I felt embarrassed sitting at the counter by myself, pretending to read the paper or look otherwise occupied. On one or two occasions Sheriff Thurman joined me. Curiously, he continued to mention some repeated occurrences of break-ins to downtown stores from which nothing was taken. Warren never lost his easygoing nature, but it was easy to see that these events troubled him.

  Most days I fell into the habit of eating lunch quickly in my office, knowing that there were patients waiting. I had infrequent conversations in the side yard with Will Fox, and thought it odd that I caught only glimpses of his mother from a distance. On occasion I would drive up the hill and spend a few hours talking with John. But I went randomly and my visits were never reciprocated despite my many offers.

  September flew by, and as the days passed, I came to know a profound loneliness, although, admittedly, it was foolishly self-imposed. Within me was a deep-seated determination not to embrace this provincial existence, not to define myself by Watervalley. Late at night, when my mind would drift beyond the pages of some medical journal, I dreamed of some chance circumstance, some lottery ticket, some magic door through which I could pass and find myself in a different, abundant, more exciting place. I was determined not to accept the smallness of my life. I had turned inward.

  However, an event in late September started to change all of that.