More Things In Heaven and Earth Read online

  “Then why are you wearing a bike helmet?”

  “I like it.”

  “So you wear it when you climb trees?”

  “No, I pretty much wear it all the time. It protects my brain.”

  I thought about that for a moment and smiled. “You’re kind of a dorky kid, aren’t you?”

  “I’d say that pretty well sums it up.”

  “Good for you. Dorky is okay with me. Matter of fact, it’s pretty much been my experience that the dorky people end up with all the money.”

  The boy smiled approvingly. “Dorky people and doctors.”

  “That remains to be seen.” I paused for a moment. “What’s your name?”

  “Will.”

  “Good name for a guy. Is it a family name?”

  “It was my grandfather’s, except his was Wilhelm.”

  “You have a last name, Will?”

  “Yup.”

  “You want to tell me what it is?”

  “Fox.”

  “All right, then, Will Fox. I’m Luke Bradford. Good to meet you. You have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Nope, just me.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Do your folks know you are up in that tree?”

  “It’s just my mom, and she doesn’t care.”

  “Is your dad not home?”

  “He died last November.”

  This caught me by surprise. He was so young, his father’s death must have been tragically premature.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Being twelve without a dad is tough.” I paused, considering for a brief second about elaborating. But it was not the time. “How old was he?”

  “Forty-three, I think.”

  I nodded. Although annoyed to have my privacy invaded, I felt a genuine empathy for this odd little fellow.

  “So how is your mom taking all this?”

  “She seems sad a lot, and she worries about things.”

  “I guess that’s understandable. By the way, speaking of worrying about things, I think she would be worried to know that you are up in the tree like that. How did you get up there anyway?”

  “It’s easy,” the boy said with detached determination. “There’s a limb over there by the fire escape.” He made a head gesture toward the house behind him.

  I walked into the neighboring yard to get a better look. Next to the upstairs window was a black metal fire escape complete with stairs and landing. The maple tree had a sizable branch that reached beside it. It would have been little trouble for the boy to climb over the rail and walk along this branch while steadying himself on the upper limbs. I studied the situation and then looked up at him, still perched in the same position in the tree.

  I smiled again, speaking casually. “Okay, Will Fox, here’s the deal. What say you climb back over to the fire escape while I’m watching, just so I’ll know that you got there okay?”

  Will thought about this for a moment. “What if I don’t? It’s my tree.”

  “That’s true—it is your tree. But if you fall and break your arm, you’ll be my patient.” I put emphasis on “my.” “So let’s just say I’m practicing preventative medicine.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Not at all. Come on down. We can still talk, just face-to-face.”

  With that the boy reached for a limb above him and began the process of clambering back to the fire escape. Despite his small, gangly appearance, he moved nimbly and was quickly over the rail and onto the metal landing. He came down the stairs and walked over to me, staring up with curiosity. I stood a good two feet taller than him.

  “This isn’t exactly face-to-face.” There was an injured quality to his voice.

  “Point taken.” I walked over and took a seat on the remains of a stone wall that stood between the two properties. “So, what grade are you in?”

  “Sixth.”

  “You like school?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You play sports?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I’m a doctor. It’s my job.”

  “You’re not at work right now.”

  “Sorry, force of habit.”

  “I have a question,” he injected.

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “You have a girlfriend?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I said flatly.

  “It was a fair question.”

  “It was a fair answer.”

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed. I don’t have a girlfriend either.”

  “Who said I didn’t have a girlfriend? I simply said it was none of your business,” I returned, amused by the little fellow’s lively intellect.

  “I think I know the answer,” responded Will confidently. “Besides, it’s no surprise with that piece-of-crap car you drive. What kind of doc are you anyway?”

  “I’m sure there are many people in this town asking themselves the same question.”

  “Which question?”

  “Well, not the one about the girlfriend or the car. You know, you have some pretty sharp opinions for a guy with a bicycle helmet and no bike.”

  “It’s still a crappy car. So what about the doctor question. Are you any good?”

  “I think my best advice to you is to stay out of trees so you don’t have to find out.”

  A grin forced its way across his face. It was clear he was enjoying the banter. “You know, I bet you like being a doctor.”

  Something in his comment struck home. I did like being a doctor. It was being a doctor in Watervalley that I wasn’t so sure about. This peculiar little boy was clever, maybe even too clever. I couldn’t help but enjoy his company. I wondered if his quick mind had earned him some pounding by the larger, more dim-witted boys at school. That would certainly explain the bicycle helmet.

  The moment was broken by a loud call from the back porch of his house. “Will?”

  Clearly, from the tone and pitch, it was his mother. To my surprise, his face suddenly turned ashen, as if he were thinking about things a world away. “I need to go.”

  “Sure. But—hey, since we’re neighbors, why don’t I say hello to your mom?”

  “Now is probably not a good time. Maybe later,” Will said hastily. He sped off and disappeared around the back corner of the house.

  I stood and scratched the back of my head, thinking about Will’s sudden departure. His mother’s call had panicked him in some small way and it was clear that he was truly nervous, wanting to hide something. It was intriguing, but then again, so was he. Just like Connie Thompson, he was a small bundle of complexities.

  As I walked back to my yard the thought occurred to me that John Harris had it wrong about the people of Watervalley. They weren’t simple at all.

  CHAPTER 10

  Getting to Know You

  I sat on the steps of my back porch for a few minutes, pondering the day and watching the last dappling patches of sunlight play across the rear lawn. I knew I needed to start making calls. From the dozens of patients I had seen the day before, I had made a list of about fifteen or so who had issues that I wanted to follow up on. It was not something anyone had required me to do. It was simply a practice I remembered from years before. I had learned it from my father.

  Every evening after dinner he would spend an hour on the phone calling patients, asking if they had gotten their medications, inquiring about their symptoms, or just listening quietly to a liturgy of minor complaints. When I was a child, it baffled me. In time I had come to realize that this was how he chose to run his practice. Now, despite my ambivalence about being in Watervalley, it seemed the right thing to do. I knew the staff could make many of these routine calls, but I was the doctor and they were my patients. I went inside, placed a chair beside the kitchen wall phone, and dialed the first number.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, is Doyle Dodson there?”

  “Speakin’.”

  “Doyl
e, this is Dr. Bradford.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Bradford, from the clinic.”

  “My God, Doctor. What’s wrong? Have I got cancer?”

  “No, no. Not at all. I was just calling to tell you your strep culture came back negative.”

  “Negative? Is that bad?”

  “Well, no. Negative is good.”

  “Negative is good? That doesn’t really make sense, does it, Doc?”

  “I see your point. Look, Mr. Dodson. The test showed that you don’t have strep. You just have a sore throat. Take your medications and you should be fine in a few days.”

  “Okay. I guess that’s good. Man, you scared me, Doc. I never had a doctor call me at home before. You sure the test didn’t show I have cancer?”

  “We didn’t test you for cancer. But if you’re concerned, come by the clinic and we can do some blood work.”

  “Nah, that’s okay. So, is that it? Is that why you called?”

  “Yeah, I thought you might want to know the test results.” There was a long pause with no response. “Mr. Dodson?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Okay, then, Doc. Thanks for the call. Hey—while I’ve got you. Do you have any way of testing whether or not a cow has strep?”

  “Mr. Dodson, I’m pretty sure cows don’t get strep throat. Any infection from cows is usually passed through their milk if they have something like mastitis.”

  “Well, he just sounds hoarse to me.”

  “I see.”

  “I mean, not like a horse, but like a sore throat kind of hoarse.”

  “I understand. I think.”

  Mr. Dodson proceeded on for several more minutes describing in great detail the symptoms of his vocally challenged cow. At one point I even held the phone out and studied it like a rare artifact, amazed at the endless words pouring out from the small speaker. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of conversations he and the cow had. Given Mr. Dodson’s penchant for talking, I was surprised the cow got a word in edgewise. Eventually Mr. Dodson took a breath and I was able to end the call. Before I dialed the second number, I was beginning to get the vague notion that one of the hot beers in the cabinet might not be so bad after all.

  Next on my list was Nadine Tomlin, a pleasant but rather forthright and seriously overweight woman in her late forties. Her chronic arthritis had been giving her a considerable amount of pain. I had prescribed some new medications. The phone rang seven or eight times before she answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Nadine Tomlin?”

  “Yeah, and I don’t know what you’re selling but I probably already have three of them. Bye!” I heard a stout click, followed by the steady hum of the dial tone. I redialed the number. It rang even longer this time and the response was tinged with annoyance.

  “Hello-oh.”

  “Nadine, this is Dr. Bradford. Please don’t hang up.”

  “Oh, crud. Was that you who just called?”

  “Yeah, but that’s no big—”

  “Gosh, Doc. I am so sorry. It’s usually someone trying to sell me something.”

  “Not a problem. Listen, I was calling to follow up—”

  But once again, Nadine broke into the conversation. “Doc, can I call you back in a few minutes?”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, it’s just that X Factor is on and I really don’t want to miss who wins.”

  “Um, yeah, sure.”

  “Will it take long? Because I can call during the next commercial.”

  I exhaled and shook my head. “Just call when you get a free moment.” We said good-bye and as I placed the phone back in the cradle I started contemplating what beer on ice might taste like.

  It took another hour and a half, but I was finally able to make the rest of my phone calls. Like Doyle Dodson, a few of the others immediately responded with a voice of alarm, but generally I was able to put them at ease in short order. Some expressed polite trepidation and hesitation, not sure what to make of the doctor calling them at home. A few genuinely appreciated the call and the underlying attitude of care that had prompted it. And while even those conversations were often awkward, I felt assured that this was a good practice. I would do my best to make it a mainstay of my role as community doctor.

  After I finished the last call, I flipped the paper over and noticed that I had written down one additional name followed by a question mark. It was Leo Sikes. He and his wife, Mavis, had come to the clinic because Leo had been experiencing a slate of changes in his demeanor. They were both in their early seventies and, other than some significant hearing loss, had been in relatively good health. But lately Leo was having trouble remembering things, he had lost his sense of taste, and he was experiencing increasing mood swings and depression. I had prescribed a few medications for these symptoms, but wasn’t really satisfied. What troubled me about Leo was that these issues could be caused by a number of etiologies that were perhaps unrelated, especially given his advanced age. After they had left the clinic, it had occurred to me that his symptoms could also be signs of the onset of Parkinson’s. I wanted him to come back so I could test him further.

  Over the next half hour I dialed his number a couple of times but never got an answer. It was not a great concern, but it did seem odd that they were not there to answer the phone even past nine o’clock at night. I would have Nancy get in touch with them in the morning. Eventually I turned off the lights and went upstairs to shower and go to bed. Tomorrow would be another day of patients.

  CHAPTER 11

  Haircut

  Thursday morning brought only a modest number of appointments and we worked through them quickly. Despite her fondness for socializing, Nancy was a drill sergeant when it came to processing patients. She marshaled the staff into an invisible lockstep. They would have the paperwork filled out, the blood work done, and the patients ready for me, all to the beat of an unseen metronome.

  Most of the patients were middle aged to elderly and much of what I saw could have been treated at home. More than a few were obese and seemed to have an affinity for tobacco in one form or another. It also became clear that a number of patients weren’t so much sick as they were curious—that is, curious to meet the new doctor. And while most of them were plainly dressed and plainspoken, I began to see the warp and woof of small-town Southern life. Vague in its presentation and elusive in its markings, the various strata of social ranking in the fabric of the town’s tapestry were becoming evident to me. It was a complexity I had not expected to find in such a remote little place.

  One lady who presented an air of high decorum was Mrs. Polly Fletcher, who had come to the clinic to have her blood pressure checked and for a review of her medications. She was a short woman of robust proportions, with a powdery, well-rounded face, graying hair that was clearly molded in a beauty parlor, and red lipstick so thick it bordered on that of a circus clown. With doleful eyes she spoke in a modulated voice that required her lips to barely move. Although somewhat stiff, she had an appropriately polite and receptive manner and took great delight in telling me all about the Society Book Club, of which she was a member. More than once during the conversation she reminded me that it was Watervalley’s oldest and most prestigious book club, as if it were some great importance to me. She noted that the club was for women only, but that they would be delighted to have me come speak sometime. On what, I had no clue.

  Another mainstay in town was the Chicks with Sticks Knitting Club, to which several of my patients belonged. Apparently this group was a vestige of what had once been known as the Home Demonstration Club, a group of farm women that had met once a month to learn about canning, cooking, sewing, child rearing, and anything else that provided an excuse to gather and gossip. The old Home Demonstration Club had played out its usefulness a couple of decades earlier, but the interest in socializing had not. This group also offered me an invitation to come and speak to them at some point in the near future. I appreciated the enthusiastic
interest but was at a complete loss as to why or what to talk about. What did these people think I had to offer? It was a knitting club. Did they want a demonstration on suturing wounds?

  And yet, while social tiers clearly existed, there was still a certain unity of spirit, a genuine openness and kindness I experienced from the patients who came to see me. With each new appointment, however, I came to realize that many of them cast lingering glances at my manner of dress and appearance. Which raised the issue of my hair.

  During my residency I had allowed my hair to reach an almost shaggy state, but Watervalley was the land of buzz cuts and flattops. It seemed that a more conservative cut was in order. So at noon on that Thursday I walked downtown to find Maylen’s Barbershop, which according to Nancy was pretty much my only option. Some men had been known to go to the Three Sisters Salon, but Nancy’s raised eyebrows and wary face had offered an unspoken opinion of that idea. Maylen’s would be fine.

  With storefronts filled with colorful displays, signs, and merchandise, Watervalley’s modest downtown had surprising character and vibrancy. The buildings varied in material and design and spoke of a more opulent bygone era. With the courthouse nestled among the trees and green of the central square, the town presented itself as a picture-perfect village of merchants and markets.

  Maylen’s Barbershop was on the modest side, a simple one-room structure made of concrete blocks smothered in clean, fresh white paint. The traditional spiraling barber pole was mounted outside the door and the glass front was covered with printed community announcements.

  I entered and took a seat after offering a polite nod to the half dozen men situated around the small room. Maylen looked up from where he was standing at his barber’s chair and, without expression, spoke with simple courtesy.

  “Afternoon, Dr. Bradford.” From the very first, just because he knew my name without an introduction, I liked the man.

  I responded with a polite nod. “Maylen.”

  Snipping away with his scissors, Maylen Cook had the epitome of a hangdog appearance. Although a trim fellow, he had doleful eyes and heavy jowls that bounced lightly on the few occasions he chose to speak. Having been a barber for thirty years, he projected a lackluster disposition that suggested cutting hair had long ago become tedious for him. Nevertheless, he was methodical at cutting, gifted at listening, and an insightfully clever fellow as well. He treated me with a genuine politeness and an obliging humor. But that wasn’t true for everyone in Maylen’s world.