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  CHAPTER 5

  The Housekeeper

  Monday finally arrived. It was to be my first day at the Watervalley Clinic. Given the disastrous events of the weekend, I met the morning with no small amount of trepidation. But I was determined to take control of my world and begin this unwelcome new job on my terms.

  I rose early to take a run. It wired me, served as a wake-up call. Running was a habit I had acquired some time back when the hungry years of med school had forced me to forsake the expense of barista coffee. Afterward I showered, ate a piece of toast, and walked over to the clinic, arriving before seven. I was the first one there.

  The clinic had been a grand private home dating from the 1850s before it was bought by the town and converted to a clinic in the 1920s. True to its antebellum style, it had a considerable front porch supported by broad-shouldered columns. Original plate glass filled the fan transom and side panels surrounding the front door. Astonishingly, the glass had survived years of wear and storms and even war, and still it remained to weakly obscure the interior.

  The hinges groaned as the massive door swung inward, revealing a broad entry hall with imposing cased openings on all three sides. Straight ahead was a receptionist counter and beyond it was a grand central hallway that ran the length of the old home, with a massive stairwell down one side. The rooms were heavily trimmed with moldings painted crisp white, and all had twelve-foot-tall ceilings and shiny wood floors. Despite the near echoing spaciousness, I felt an unexplained ease, a warm welcome within the walls. On either side of the front entry hall were orderly waiting rooms filled with comfortable chairs and interspersed with low tables stacked with old magazines and picture books of children’s Bible stories.

  I moved quietly down the center hall and found a door with my nameplate already attached. The office was cavernous with dark mahogany paneling, handcrafted shelves, a polished wood desk, and a wheeled leather chair. The decor spoke of an older South, a steady, enduring gracefulness. Behind the desk, two large windows flooded the room with brilliant morning light.

  Shutting the door behind me, I stood frozen, absorbing everything. The room was a stately, breathing presence, a quiet sentinel to the many years of service and duty. There was a captivating smell of accumulated time filling the room with a fragile wonder, an air of expectancy. The office resonated with the lives of Watervalley from decades past. Echoes of simple, rustic voices were whispering hopes, fears, worries. For Watervalley, this office, this room had a significance I had not foreseen.

  I moved tentatively to the large leather chair and sat there brooding. It was difficult not to be impressed, not to feel some small measure of pride in the stateliness of my office and the implied respect Watervalley gave to my new role. And while I had done my best to school myself away from regret over my circumstances, I still had mixed emotions. My gifts were academic, better suited for independent research. Engaging the masses was an honorable calling, but I wanted it to be calling someone else. My ill-fated antics of the last two days weren’t helping either, especially when compared with this imposing room. I kept telling myself that it was only for three years, only a thousand and ninety-five days, give or take a leap year. I felt little consolation.

  I heard several staff members come in through the back entrance of the clinic. The lights were still off, so no one realized I was there. Through the office wall I heard the unmistakable sound of very animated and very Southern female voices emanating from the adjacent staff kitchen. I listened to see if I could hear what was being said, curious to know if my weekend humiliations were the hot topic of conversation. I could barely discern anything except for the word “NASCAR,” which I was certain was repeated several times.

  The plan for the day was to meet the clinic staff and discuss the caseload with Dr. Curtis, who had been filling in on Thursdays in rotation from the regional hospital in Gunther County, some forty miles away. I was also scheduled to take a tour of the town hall and talk with, among other people, Ed Caswell. After yesterday’s pyrotechnics, I was well ahead of the game on that one.

  I sat in the chair mindlessly thumping a pencil on the desk. Reality kicked in when the door burst open and a woman I had met the previous Saturday stepped in to turn on the lights. She was five feet, three inches, noticeably overweight, and a virtual cyclone of energy. She flipped the switch.

  “Oh my!” she said with a gasp, her hand flying to her chest. “Doc, you gave me a start. I didn’t know you were in here.”

  “Hi—sorry. I came in earlier and was just gathering my thoughts for the day. By the way, I know we met Saturday, but names were kind of a blur. Nancy Orman, right?”

  Nancy bubbled. “That’s right, Dr. Bradford! I’m the receptionist, clinic manager, shoulder to cry on—pretty much whatever is needed.”

  “Well, Nancy, it’s good to see you again.”

  “Same here, Doc. We sure are glad to have you here. We heard that you finished first in your class.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But I’m starting to think maybe it was a pretty dumb class.” I smiled, trying to think of a nice way to say I was glad to be here without lying.

  “Oh, by the way, Doctor, your seven-thirty appointment is here.”

  “I didn’t think I had any patients scheduled for today.”

  “It’s not a patient, Dr. Bradford. It’s Connie Thompson. I think she’s here to talk to you about keeping house.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Mayor Hickman said something about her coming by. Please send her in.”

  “I’ll do that, and then after you two are done I’ll introduce you to the rest of the staff.”

  “Sure. I’ll be right here,” I replied. Dying a slow death, I thought to myself.

  As she opened the door to exit, she turned to me with a large smile and lifted eyebrows. “So excited. We’re all so excited.”

  The condition was not contagious.

  She left and I stood there thinking to myself, Connie . . . Connie . . . Connie? I didn’t remember meeting a Connie on Saturday, which was probably a good thing. For a moment, I delved into a slight daydream. Every Connie I’d ever known was blond and pretty. Maybe this Connie was someone the mayor was subtly trying to fix me up with. I had dated various girls along the way, but since I had no significant attachments back in Nashville, I liked the idea of having an attractive young woman to look after my house and home. Two sharp knocks on the door brought me back to earth.

  “Come in.”

  The woman standing before me profoundly shattered the Connie vision. Connie Thompson was a large and robust black woman in her mid-fifties. She wore a neatly pressed cotton suit and carried a black patent leather purse in one hand and two soft white gloves in the other. With an exceptionally handsome face, she had near perfect brown skin, the whole made even more distinctive by an arresting glare. Her black-rimmed glasses trimmed with gold inlay rested above a firm mouth and elevated chin that communicated a look of pure disdain. Without doubt she was quietly putting me through a critical assessment and showed little sign of liking what she saw.

  “You must be Connie Thompson,” I said. “Should I call you Connie?” I stepped toward her with my hand extended. She looked down sharply at my hand through the lenses of her glasses and then up at me, clearly with no intention of accepting my handshake.

  After a long, awkward moment she looked directly at me and said, “You may call me Mrs. Thompson.”

  Realizing that my hand was still dangling in space, I withdrew it and placed it on my chest, pretending to rub something off my shirt. With an uncomfortable nod I replied, “Please have a seat.”

  She sat in one of the two tall leather chairs across from my desk. I considered sitting in the other one beside her but instead chose to retreat to my desk chair.

  I folded my hands and sat quietly for a moment. Connie’s gaze bore in hard, with no change in her expression. The silence was excruciating.

  “Okay, I understand Mayor Hickman recommended you. Did you bring a résumé?
”

  Connie stared impassively at me, then answered in a calm but firm voice, “No.”

  I thought about this for a moment. “Okay. Well, then, maybe you could give me your verbal résumé. I guess you could tell me about your experience as a housekeeper, for example.”

  Having rarely conducted an interview before, I was painfully unfamiliar with what to ask. Thus far Connie Thompson hadn’t moved a muscle or changed the terse look on her face. With this question she turned and stared toward the wall for one moment to contemplate an answer. After what seemed like a month, she returned her gaze toward me.

  “I kept house for Mr. Thompson for twenty-seven years. I raised four children, all of whom are grown, educated, and with careers. They have families of their own, except for my son Rayford in New York and my baby Angelica, who lives and works in Nashville.”

  Lucky her, I thought to myself. I pondered her response and something about her past-tense description of Mr. Thompson raised a question. “I gather you and Mr. Thompson are not together anymore?”

  “I’m a widower. Mr. Thompson passed seven years ago. Heart attack.”

  Again I thought, Lucky him. The interview was not going well. This woman was in full contempt of me and had apparently been weaned on a dill pickle. Hiring a housekeeper had been Mayor Hickman’s idea. I wasn’t sure I even wanted one, much less could afford to pay for her. I was out of questions and not sure what to say next. As I tapped a pencil on the side of the chair and tried to avoid eye contact, another question finally came to me.

  “What other experience do you have?”

  “Other experience?”

  “Yes, for example, have you been a housekeeper for anyone else?”

  Once again Connie looked away for a brief second. Then she answered, “No.”

  I didn’t know what else to ask, so I simply repeated her response. “No. Okay, I guess that’s a fair answer.” I smiled, but her expression was still one of firm disapproval. “Let me think for a moment. I’m sure there are several other things that I need to ask you but they don’t exactly come to mind.” I was trying to phrase another question when Connie Thompson spoke.

  “Dr. Bradford, do you go to church?”

  “I’m sorry. Do I do what?”

  She slowly repeated her words as if my hearing was geriatric. “Dr. Bradford, do you go to church?”

  The question threw me. “Well, yeah. I mean, in the past. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m not interested in keeping house for any man who won’t at least make the effort to go to church from time to time. I realize that sitting in church doesn’t make you a moral man any more than sitting in a pumpkin patch will make you a pumpkin. But at least it’s a step in the right direction.” She said her words with clarity and crispness, more lecture than conversation.

  I sat for a moment, both puzzled and amazed. Connie Thompson was not at all what I had expected. But what could I do? The mayor had recommended her. There was no way to avoid hiring her unless I wanted my things to be moved out of the house and left on the front lawn before the end of the day. Attending church along the way wouldn’t bother me, but the audacious tone of the demand took me by surprise. I returned from my brief mental fog and realized I was sitting on the edge of the chair. I slumped back between its cavernous shoulders and exhaled deeply. So much for taking on the new job on my own terms. With something of confused resignation I replied, “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

  I had said the magic words. Instantly, Connie’s face took on a sweet and pleasant demeanor. “Very well, Dr. Bradford. I’ll start this afternoon.” She began to rise from her chair.

  Relieved to have the awkward meeting over, I rose also. “Okay,” I said. Then it struck me. “What about a key and pay and that sort of thing?”

  Connie was already headed toward the door. She spoke without turning around. “Oh, don’t worry about that. Walt already gave me a key.” By now her hand was on the doorknob. She paused and faced me. “Let’s see how it goes for a week. Then we’ll talk about money.” I joined her at the door and merely nodded.

  Then Connie did something completely out of keeping with her previous frostiness. She extended her hand and said, “You have a good first day, Doctor. I’ll see you when you get home.” Her voice was almost warm and motherly. I instinctively shook her hand and smiled.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” I said. And then, feigning enthusiasm as best I could, I added, “It’s been good to meet you.”

  Connie’s head tilted down. She looked at me sharply above the top of her glasses and the powerful look of disdain returned. She didn’t speak, but the whole of her face said, Cut the bull, Doctor. I felt like a truant in the principal’s office. She turned to leave, then hesitated and looked back at me again, this time with an air of stern reprimand.

  “One more thing, Doctor. Around me you will keep your pants on. None of this parading-around-in-boxers foolishness.” In a tone of detached finality she added, “I am a lady.” Then she nodded her head and was out the door.

  I leaned back against the closed portal and exhaled deeply, still a little stunned. Boy, now wasn’t that just a bucket of fun? I stood gathering my thoughts. It was time to introduce myself to the rest of the staff, but I needed a moment. My meeting with Connie Thompson had left me in a slight daze. Eventually, I shook my head and chuckled, endeavoring to laugh off the encounter. For a split second, lying in a dark corner in the fetal position also seemed like an attractive option.

  The rest of my day went surprisingly well. That morning I met all the clinic staff. As it turned out, Camilla, the phlebotomist, and Cindy, the lab tech, were sisters, not a difficult guess given that both of them were small, quiet women with mousy faces and slightly bowed shoulders. They were sweet natured, with soft, amiable voices.

  In contrast, the staff nurse, Mary Jo Marshall, reminded me of the middle-aged women in Nashville who would perch in bars, wearing stylish outfits, predatory looks, and condescending glances. She was broad shouldered and thin, with hair so blond it undoubtedly came out of a bottle and skin so brown it was clear the tanning bed industry had found its way to Watervalley. She wasn’t particularly pretty, although her facial features were sharp and well painted. And while I had heard her mention that she was pushing fifty, I highly suspected that she was pulling it. She typically had a laconic expression that bespoke a deep-seated boredom. She said little, but when she did speak, it could be venomous. Her uncensored opinions were not tempered with any sense of restraint. I had known a few people whose tongues had been dipped in acid, but I sensed Mary Jo gargled with it. I would later find that, paradoxically, with the patients she smiled pleasantly, always seemed to find the right level of compassion, and ultimately knew her business through and through.

  But it was Nancy Orman who was the heart and soul of the staff. Full of boundless energy, she seemed to have a spiritual and emotional need to exhaust herself in the service of others. In time I would also come to learn that along with her relentless smile she had an unsparing generosity, with the incredible knack for knowing just the right thing to say to whoever came through the clinic door. Having lived in Watervalley all her years, she knew everyone’s name, nickname, and hat size.

  I also spent a considerable amount of time reviewing the equipment and supplies, which were notably limited and outdated. This concerned me, but my first day didn’t seem to be the best time for making critical observations.

  Late in the afternoon Chick McKissick, the volunteer fireman I had met the previous day, came in with a nasty cut, having snagged his leg on some metal banding from a shipping box down at his auto repair shop. For Chick, it was probably the only five minutes of the day when he wasn’t smiling about something. Short, wiry thin, and always grinning, he was a guy you couldn’t help but like. He just radiated friendliness.

  I injected lidocaine around the cut to numb it before closing it with stitches.

  Chick let out a low wail.

  “Ooooooh weeeee,
Doc. That’s got some sting on it.”

  I could see him wincing, bravely trying to choke back the stinging pain. After a moment, the medicine took effect and the relief was easily read on Chick’s face, an easy, brilliant smile against his dark skin.

  I stitched him up, for which he thanked me profusely.

  “Sorry to be causing you trouble like this, Doc. Thanks so much. I owe you one—I surely do.”

  “Not at all, Chick. Although I might give you a warning call before I fire up my stove again.” I wanted to make light of the previous day’s mishap.

  Chick grinned. “You’re covered on that one, Doc. I hear you got Miss Connie keeping house for you now. She can fire up the stove by just looking at it. She’s a mighty good woman, but mind you now, she’ll fire up your backside too if you cross her.” He laughed heartily. Given the propensity for gossip in a small town, it shouldn’t have surprised me that Chick already knew about the housekeeper. And yet somehow it did.

  I nodded and smiled. The thought of being home with Connie Thompson standing over me like a disapproving specter gave me a queasy feeling. Chick wasn’t helping.

  When I arrived home a car that I assumed was Connie’s was parked in the driveway. I walked up the front porch steps and stopped at the door, momentarily gathering my wits. I pursed my lips, sighed, and with trepidation turned the door handle. I was met with an almost palpable wave of incredible aromas wafting from the kitchen. Connie had prepared a veritable feast, including meat loaf, corn casserole, collard greens, and macaroni and cheese. It was the pinnacle of comfort food, all from a woman who pointedly made me uncomfortable.

  She gave me little more than a sideways glance and spoke with a breezy indifference. “Afternoon, Dr. Bradford.” She had on a striped cotton dress and a long white baker’s apron. Clearly, this was a woman who was content in the kitchen, although little about her expression revealed it.