More Things In Heaven and Earth Read online

  “What do you say, Doc? Think you’ll fit in here okay?”

  “Sure. Seems plenty big for a single guy. I’ve got some family furniture in a storage facility in Atlanta, but doesn’t look like I’ll need it here.”

  Warren nodded in a kind, thoughtful way. Yet something in his countenance spoke of a more calculated assessment. His question about fitting in here had a subtle duplicity; it was imbued with meaning. He was gauging my response on a larger level, weighing my words, trying to read my thoughts. The question didn’t seem to be driven by meanness, but rather by caring. In time I would learn that in the vernacular of Watervalley, he was dumb like a fox.

  “Well, we’re glad to have you in Watervalley, Doc. Maybe in time you can get all of your things here. The valley has a way of growing on you, getting into your bones.” I suspected Warren sensed my reluctance, but was too considerate, too respectful to ask me about it directly. He extended his massive hand and offered an even larger smile, if that was possible. We shook and I thanked him, after which he departed to the patrol car.

  I spent about an hour settling in until, as planned, the mayor came by to give me a short driving tour of the town. Proudly chauffeuring his old Cadillac Sedan de Ville, Walt, with his broad face and double chin, chatted nonstop about the town’s history, the schools, the few local industries, and the variety of shops Watervalley offered. But he spoke mostly about farming crops and raising cattle, the businesses that had been the financial mainstays of the valley. The vast rolling, fertile fields had afforded the farmers and townspeople a prosperous living for decades, despite droughts and blights and seesaw markets. He occasionally asked me questions, but seemed more preoccupied with supplying information than with gathering it.

  “That’s the Farmers Bank over there, Doc. Good people, good people. You probably want to set up an account with them.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s something I should take care of in the next—”

  “Hey, see that over there? That’s the Depot restaurant. Best food around. Used to be the actual depot when the train ran through here years ago. Lida Wilkins owns it. You met her earlier at the reception. You remember her? Short gal, reddish hair?”

  “Yes, I seem to recall—”

  “Lida also owns Society Hill.”

  “Society Hill?”

  “Bed and breakfast. It’s an old, rambling mansion built by a fellow named Hiram Hatcher back in the twenties. Watervalley is not exactly a convention center, so we really don’t have any hotels. Society Hill Bed and Breakfast pretty much handles all the visitor traffic. We thought we might have to put you up there for a spell, but Public Works managed to get your house ready in time.”

  “Yes, and it’s very nice. I want to—”

  “By the way, Doc. Not to pry, but have you got a girlfriend back in Nashville? There have been several inquiries.” Walt glanced over at me with a gleeful, openmouthed wiggling of his head. It was a look of baited anticipation.

  “Not really anything permanent. I guess I was a little more focused on—”

  “Well, that’s good, that’s good. I’ll put out the word that hunting season is open.” Walt exhaled a low-pitched chuckle, shaking his head. He was quite amused with himself.

  We drove around the balance of the town, with Walt dispensing tidbits of history and some colorful gossip about a few of the local personalities. He pulled the Cadillac back into my driveway and handed me the keys to the clinic. Although he had interviewed me at length on the phone, I always expected that there would be some further evaluation, some additional review process after I arrived. Apparently, the only test I had to pass was listening to the long version of Walt’s chronicle of the community. I took the keys from him and, with no more ceremony, I was Watervalley’s new town doctor.

  “I know Watervalley’s not Nashville or Atlanta, Doc, but I think you’ll like living here. We’re sure proud to have you.”

  I shook his hand and nodded. As I stood in the shade of my front lawn and watched Walt drive away, the thought occurred to me: I knew more about living in a small town than Walt might have guessed.

  Later that evening I stood on the back stoop admiring my newfound kingdom and reflecting on the day. As the sun began to set I pulled the Corolla onto the grass behind the house out of sight from the street. A soft breeze kicked up and long shadows began to play across the back lawn. Lightning bugs started to flicker in the mystical half-light of dusk. Turning on the radio, I sat in the driver’s seat with the car door open and channel surfed. It was a long-held ritual. As I absorbed the smells and sounds of the summer evening, my mind wandered, bouncing seamlessly between the decades.

  My affinity for summer evenings and radios was rooted much deeper than my years at Vanderbilt, even deeper than my teenage years living with my sophisticated aunt Grace in urban Buckhead. It called up warm memories of being a young boy, listening to Braves baseball games, and playing in the open fields beyond my parents’ back porch in rural Georgia. Perhaps deep within, it reminded me of those incredible early years with them before the accident, before everything changed. I was only twelve years old when it all had come to its tragic end.

  The mayor’s assumption was mostly correct. I had spent the better part of the last two decades in Atlanta and Nashville. But I knew small towns. I knew them well. Yet when I had abruptly moved to Buckhead—as a tall, gangly, emotionally splintered boy—and found myself enrolled in an upscale private school, I had quietly learned to slough off my rural skin. During those years in Buckhead my future self had been forged.

  The local radio station hummed and crackled in the background, permeating the summer evening with a mix of classic country music songs. I climbed out to stretch my legs, leaving the door open. The sagging Corolla sat tiredly in the dewy grass, looking as if it would be quite happy for me to leave it parked there permanently. I stared mindlessly into the evening, mesmerized at the play of light and shadows. I was transported away to forgotten places, forgotten voices. Over the years those memories, those early childhood experiences had been pushed to the periphery, only scantly and obscurely viewed, never looked upon directly, because doing so primed up a deep well of confusion and loss and broken understanding. Time had taught me to silently tuck those feelings away.

  A bursting twang from the radio brought me back. As twilight spread above, I thought of the day’s absurdities and could only laugh. It was a rather undecorated start. Even so, I knew my parents would have been proud. I had followed in my father’s footsteps and become a doctor. In spite of myself, I was a doctor in Watervalley, Tennessee.

  I leaned against the car and closed my eyes, listening for a long while under the wide canopy of evening stars. When the weariness of the day finally set in, I turned the radio off, locked the back door behind me, and went upstairs to bed.

  I lay in the orderly confines of my bedroom, pondering, brooding, staring into the shadowy darkness. The first night in a new place always feels peculiar, dark with uncertainty and strangeness. It’s not that I was consumed with any notion of fear or dread, just one of ambiguity. Although the townspeople’s welcome had been enthusiastic and warm, I saw myself as a permanent visitor. With a mixed heart I listened to the random pops and groans, the nocturnal noises of the house.

  Outside, the night was unseasonably cool. From a distance, the random streetlights blended together, giving a soft glow to the wide valley floor. At the far rim of the county, the moonlight cast a rich shadowy luminescence on the grasses of the high hills. Up above, a million stars twinkled brightly. A whole universe was moving about its order.

  I drifted in and out of a fitful slumber, sometimes simply lying there. After midnight, the headlights of a few cars rolled along Fleming Street and then slowly faded into darkness. All now quiet, Watervalley had gone to sleep for another night. And in the small upstairs room at 205 Fleming Street, I finally slept, peacefully, blissfully unaware of the disaster awaiting me the next morning.

  CHAPTER 4

  B
reakfast

  It was ten a.m. and I lay there in disbelief. Having pulled weekend emergency room duty for the last couple of years, I hadn’t slept for so many hours in a single spell for a long time. I stretched luxuriously.

  Normally I went for a run, but the sound of nearby church bells reminded me that taking a jog on Sunday morning was likely not the way the people of Watervalley showed a little reverence. My thoughts turned instead to breakfast.

  I ambled downstairs to the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge, finding eggs, bacon, and a can of biscuits. When I turned on the old gas oven it made an odd hissing sound. In my drowsy morning state this struck me as curious, but I thought little more of it.

  I found an iron skillet and started the bacon. A short while later I opened the oven door and turned toward the kitchen table, where I had set the baking tray of biscuits.

  That’s when the explosion came.

  As I was about to learn, the oven flame had never ignited and gas had been pouring into the closed compartment for the last several minutes. When I finally opened the oven door and made an about-face to retrieve the tray of biscuits, the gas streamed out and was ignited by the flame on the cooktop.

  Like the mouth of a dragon, the oven spewed a huge ball of fire five feet out with an incredible boom that shook the entire house. It was just for an instant, but enough to sear my boxers and singe the hair off the back of my legs. The blast sent me sprawling across the kitchen table, knocking it over and propelling everything on it across the room.

  As quickly as it had come the flame was gone, leaving me in shock on my backside on the kitchen floor. The flash had set off the fire alarm, and complicating my confusion even more was the deafening sound of the siren blasting from the attic gable.

  What I didn’t realize was that the system had automatically triggered an alarm at the fire hall. It was later explained to me that since the house belonged to the town, Ed Caswell, Watervalley’s fire chief, had made sure it was equipped with a state-of-the-art alarm system. So at ten twenty-eight in the morning, while I was fumbling around in burned boxers, twenty-four different pagers were going off in the middle of sanctuaries and Sunday schools all over Watervalley. Every one of them read “205 Fleming Street,” which of course created no small stir.

  Ministers in three different services interrupted their sermons, requesting immediate prayers for the emergency. Knowing their congregations’ natural curiosity, both the Episcopal and Baptist ministers communicated the location of the fire so that petitions to God could be as specific as possible.

  Meanwhile, I managed to gather my wits enough to scramble up from the floor and shut off the gas to both the oven and burners. But the pan of bacon on the stove was now a small grease fire. In my panic, I used the tablecloth as a potholder and, without thinking, put the flaming pan in the sink, dousing it with water. This put the fire out, but created a choking fog of smoke. The control panel to the fire alarm and security system was beside the back door, and after a few painful minutes of pushing several button combinations, I fortunately managed to get the siren to stop.

  By now the smoke in the kitchen was almost intolerable, forcing me out onto the back porch steps, leaving the door open to air out the place. I bent over with my hands on my knees, coughing violently to get the sharp pinch of smoke out of my throat. Standing straight again, I found myself face-to-face with Ed Caswell, whom I had met at the bungled courthouse reception the day before. A no-nonsense and orderly little man, he had cut through backyards, running directly from the Episcopal church after radioing the station to see if the pump truck was on the way. He had rounded the back corner of the house with a fire extinguisher in one hand and a first aid kit in the other.

  “Doc, you okay?” was his immediate response to all the smoke coming out the back door. I waved my hands in a gesture of dismissal.

  “Fine, fine. Everything is fine.” It was a futile attempt. The last thing I wanted now was to attract a lot of attention to this small disaster. “It was the stove. The gas stove. It sort of blew up and caught some bacon grease on fire, but everything’s okay now. No need to do anything. So I guess you can go back to, you know, whatever you were doing.”

  Ed walked right past me into the house as if my words didn’t register. In the distance, I heard the slow, steady rise of a fire truck’s siren, followed by a sudden foghorn blast. I stood listening in total disbelief. There were two blasts, each lasting a good fat second. I turned and looked into the kitchen, where Ed now stood, staring calmly at me.

  “They do that when they go through an intersection. The horn blast.”

  “So I guess that means they’re on their way here?”

  “That would be correct.”

  “Well, can you call and tell them that everything is okay and just, um, not to worry about it?”

  Ed was polite, but very matter-of-fact. “I could. But by my calculations they just passed the corner of Main and Church, and they’ll be here by the time I get dispatch on the radio.”

  At that moment Chick McKissick, a local mechanic, and two other volunteer firemen rounded the back corner of the house. Sunday shoes, fire coats, rubber boots, and loosened ties had been flying everywhere as the men tried to change into their fire suits during their sprint from the First Baptist Church. Seeing Ed and me on the back porch brought them to a halt.

  “Everything okay here, Ed?” asked Chick.

  “Yeah, boys, everything’s fine. Just a little stove mishap. Doc here’s still in one piece too.”

  I stood silently, my arms folded with one hand held casually over my mouth. I was certain that even if I lived to be 110, this would be the most embarrassing moment of my life—quite a thought given my entrance to Watervalley the day before. With scorched boxers, singed hair, and soot-covered legs, I tried to look unfazed and in control. But given my sad state, there was little room to stand on my dignity.

  I couldn’t help but notice that Chick and the other men were grinning at me and muttering to each other, studying my burned underwear with undisguised delight.

  Chick spoke up. “Hey, Dr. Bradford, you sure you’re okay? ’Cause if your legs get much darker, I may have to call you a brother.”

  This produced further laughs from the three. I sensed that it was all in good fun and simply nodded and said, “Yeah, well, if I get much darker, you can call me well done.”

  They all smiled. Meanwhile the pump truck could be heard screeching to a halt in front of the house.

  Ed Caswell said, “Chick, if you don’t mind, go around front and tell them it’s all clear. Oh, and tell Charlie to leave the blow fans.”

  The high-powered fans were unloaded from the pump truck and placed at the back door to suck the remaining smoke out of the kitchen. Chick stayed with Ed to help maneuver the fans. Within a few minutes, they had done their job.

  As they turned to leave, Walt Hickman came around the house in a fast waddling trot. Fortunately, I had already gone inside to put on some jeans, avoiding yet another encounter between the mayor and my underwear. Upon my return downstairs I saw Walt and Ed standing outside the breakfast room window in an intense conversation. The mayor had a frustrated look on his face and was shaking his head from side to side. Ed was speaking firmly, pointing to him and then at the house.

  I couldn’t make out their words, so in the absence of information my imagination began filling in the blanks. I was certain Ed was using words like “dimwit” and “moron.” My status as an idiot now seemed confirmed. These people were going to come get me in the middle of the night, drag me out to the street, and beat me. Or, even worse, they were going to bury me in some ditch with a backhoe and call the residency program at Vanderbilt saying, “Dr. Bradford never showed up. Would you please send us another one?”

  Finally Mayor Hickman pursed his lips and nodded reluctantly in reply to some last point Ed was making. With that the mayor looked up at the house, right toward the window where I was standing. I immediately ducked down so as not to be see
n eavesdropping. What I really wanted to do was get into the Corolla and drive away. But by now the mayor was climbing the steps to the back porch.

  “Hey, Doc, you in there?”

  “Sure, just a minute.” I took a deep breath and tried to gather my thoughts. Within twenty-four hours of my arrival in Watervalley, I’d already been center stage to not one but two disasters. A wretched queasy feeling began churning in my stomach. I was about to get fired. I knew it. I hadn’t spent five minutes on the job and already I was getting canned. Admittedly, part of me almost liked the idea, while another part was sick with failure. Stepping out the back door, I stiffened my neck in preparation for the worst.

  “I’m real sorry about that stove, Doc,” Walt said. “Ed told me all along we should have had that thing replaced.”

  This of course took me aback. “Well, no—I mean, I should have paid more attention. Look, Mayor, instead of the stove, maybe you should just have me replaced. I’ve really gotten off to a bad start here.”

  He gave me an incredulous look. “Nonsense, Doc. You’re going to be just fine. I tell you, though, what you need is a housekeeper. You’re gonna be awful busy and it might be good to have somebody keep an eye on this place. I know just the lady. Connie Thompson is her name. I’ll tell her to come around to the clinic about seven thirty in the morning. You two can talk things through.”

  I stood in disbelief.

  “That sound okay to you, Doc?”

  My stunned response was a mix of relief and skepticism. “Sure, sure—seven thirty would be fine.”

  That said, he turned and left. For several moments, I stood on the back stoop, still in a state of disbelief. Returning to the kitchen, I stared at the charred mess before me. I exhaled a deep sigh, found a dish towel, and began the arduous task of cleaning up.