More Things In Heaven and Earth Page 9

  After only a few minutes it became apparent that not all the men hanging around the shop wanted or needed a haircut. Several were there to pass their time in idle conversation that endeavored not to offend God or man. That is, everyone except for Vernon Boshers.

  Vernon was a squat, chunky little man who owned the coin laundry adjacent to the barbershop. Apparently he was a daily fixture in Maylen’s place and had been so for a long time. With his round face and perpetual clownish grin, he was a loud, ill-mannered, opinionated talker. His gregarious nature and vacant intellect had remained undimmed despite many years of Maylen’s disdain. He noisily rambled on without mastery of facts on any topic, preferring a broad amount of ignorance to a small amount of trouble.

  Vernon sat in a chair across the small room and regarded me with focused interest; no doubt my presence was a novelty. It didn’t take long for him to let his thoughts be known.

  “Doc, you got a lot of hair. You might want Maylen to give you an estimate first.” The comment raised only a few grins, but Vernon laughed robustly, delighted with his own small wit. I simply smiled. Meanwhile, I noticed that Maylen had discreetly and briefly looked up from his scissors and glanced at me. It was a discerning, protective expression.

  Vernon continued, speaking again generally to the room but clearly directing his remarks to me. “Is that the way people wear their hair in the big city now? Kinda makes it hard to tell a guy from a girl.” He chortled a short laugh and glanced at those around him, still quite pleased with himself. His inquiry was driven more by mindless probing than by malice. Several of the men gave me anticipatory looks, suggesting that a response was expected.

  I had no desire to engage Vernon at any level, so I grabbed a magazine from the adjacent side table and began to feign interest in it. It was on bow hunting. Childhood arrows with rubber tips were the extent of my experience and knowledge.

  For a short moment Vernon lost interest in me, but that didn’t stop his stream of rolling commentary.

  “Hey, I was up in Nashville not long ago and ate at one of those Mexican restaurants, and I swear to God they had moles on the menu. They put it in a sauce. I know people in other countries eat strange food ’cause they’re hungry, but I never heard of such a thing. I could supply them up for a month just from my backyard.”

  He surveyed the occupants looking for confirmation, and finally attained several approving nods. I was doing my best to sit poker-faced and not outright laugh at Vernon’s ignorance. Unfortunately, he felt that my input on the issue was required. So he redirected the entirety of his efforts of persuasion on me.

  “Moles must be some kind of delicacy in Mexico, don’t you think, Doc?”

  I glanced up at Maylen, snipping away and unaffected by Vernon’s remarks. Without looking in my direction, Maylen closed his eyes and shook his head for a brief moment. In his deadpan voice, never losing focus on his scissors, he said, “He’s a doctor, Vernon, not a food editor. Meanwhile, we’ll let you know if you suddenly become interesting.”

  This brought some muffled laughs and sideways glances from the men around the room. But Vernon Boshers was unfazed. He continued to comment on a variety of subjects, none of which interested me until I heard the name Knox McAnders.

  “I tell ya, I’ve heard it all my life. There’s a truckload of Scotch whiskey bottles hidden back in that old ice cave. Before we have the parade for his birthday, I think those caves need to be checked out. Then we’d have a real celebration. Ol’ Knox’s had that place boarded up for fifty years, claims he looked and never found it. But I bet they’re still in there somewhere.”

  The man beside Vernon responded, “What makes you think so?”

  “Why, all the talk I’ve heard over the years. There’s lots of people think the way I do.”

  The other man continued, “Well, my grandmother knew Knox’s mother and she claims every bit of it got poured out into the creek after Knox’s older brother died.”

  As Vernon droned on, it was clear that his comments were based on little more than rumor and conjecture. Still, it did make for an interesting story.

  “I bet a hundred-year-old Scotch would be worth a lot of money,” Vernon continued, exercising great authority with his pronouncement. “What do you think, Doc? All you doctors drink Scotch, don’tcha?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “Can’t really help you on that one.”

  Vernon stared briefly at me, openmouthed and clearly surprised at my answer.

  The conversation about Knox continued, and it was easy to discern from the others’ comments that Watervalley looked on Knox McAnders with a regard bordering on reverence. For them, he was more than liked, loved, and respected. He was considered the standard-bearer of all things good about Watervalley—a love of the soil, a devotion to community, and an independent, self-reliant spirit.

  Eventually, Vernon’s rambling caught my attention once again. “I bet John Harris would know a thing or two about Scotch.” He glanced at the others with a malicious leer. “Shoot, I bet he’s got hundred-year-old Scotch up in his big house right now.”

  I kept browsing the hunting magazine as I discreetly tuned in to the conversation. The topic of John Harris prompted a lengthy discussion from the men in the room. Apparently he stirred emotions much the way Knox did, but with darker feelings mixed in with the light. It became clear that in years gone by John had walked among the people of Watervalley like a giant. A man of unspeakable gravity, he possessed the triad of wealth, education, and respect. The passing comments, the subtle innuendo, the animated faces all spoke of an odd combination of reverence and disdain for the man. Despite the general contempt for his arrogance, there was an undertone of self-importance to those who claimed to have known him well, and even those who didn’t like John Harris wanted to know him. Once a major figure in the town’s leadership, he was now a bitter recluse, all references to him based on experiences from years past.

  My turn in Maylen’s chair was coming up, but still in line before me was Vernon himself, who, unlike most days, was actually in the shop to get a haircut. Once in the chair, Vernon jabbered nonstop while Maylen clipped away with the same weary focus, offering only the occasional grunt in reply.

  At the end of each haircut, Maylen had a standard practice of dousing a long horsehair brush with a green barber’s tonic and lightly swishing each customer’s head with this rather oddly scented concoction. Despite his expressionless demeanor, Maylen did this with a ritualistic flair and everyone seemed to accept it.

  But just as Maylen had doused the brush and was ready to administer this final touch to Vernon, he blurted out, “No no no—don’t put that smelly stuff on my head. My wife will think I’ve been to a whorehouse.”

  Maylen was caught off guard and noticeably irked to have his routine interrupted. He stood poker-faced and for a long moment looked at Vernon, then at the brush, then at Vernon again.

  Then he simply shrugged and said, “Suit yourself. My wife doesn’t know what a whorehouse smells like.”

  Yes, without a doubt, from the beginning I really liked Maylen Cook.

  CHAPTER 12

  Celebrity

  On the way back from Maylen’s I stopped in at the Watervalley library. It took up half of what was known as the Memorial Building, a beautiful Greek revival structure that sat a block off the town square. The Memorial Building had been built in the twenties, after the Great War. The other half of the building was a large hall, a gathering place for dances, meetings, and, during election years, political fund-raisers.

  To my surprise, the library was quite extensive, with a large selection of magazines, audio books, Internet terminals, and a wide-ranging collection of books and reference materials. Perhaps what was most amazing was the number of people there—it was downright crowded. The head librarian, an energetic little fellow named Herbert Denson, was for all practical purposes the male counterpart of Nancy Orman, except with a bow tie. He was lively and personable, shaking my hand vigorously as he
greeted me warmly, delighted that I had come in to get a library card. We talked briefly while I filled out the paperwork. I got my card and said good-bye. But as I was turning to leave, Herbert came up beside me, put his hand on my shoulder, and with great earnestness asked me if sometime I would come and speak at a library board meeting. I was vague but noncommittal, and as with other invitations was at a total loss as to what they wanted me to talk about. On the way back to the clinic, I intentionally walked on the opposite side of the street from the firehouse, fearing that Ed Caswell might come running out to ask me to speak to the volunteer fire department.

  After I’d returned from my haircut, Nancy informed me that the lunch break had brought in a new round of walk-ins. It was going to be a busy afternoon. She still had not been able to reach Leo Sikes on the phone but seemed not to think much of it. I asked her to try again before she went home. I had just started my first exam when Hoot Wilson went into cardiac arrest out in the waiting room.

  That event was a turning point for me as the Watervalley doctor. With all the absurdities surrounding my arrival and being so fresh to the job, I was certain everyone in town viewed me with some measure of skepticism. But Friday’s headline in the Watervalley paper, The Village Voice, read “New Doctor Saves Local Resident.” The story was only loosely correct and effectively credited my actions with saving Hoot’s life. Privately, I knew better.

  That morning the staff was almost walking on air. Irrepressible smiles burst from everyone’s face—everyone, that is, except Mary Jo, who in her smirking, laconic way asked me if I had considered going down to the lake to see if I could walk on water. Mary Jo’s sharp comments aside, I received a slew of kind praise from my morning patients. When I walked over to the Depot to grab lunch, a noticeable buoyancy entered my step as many animated townsfolk greeted me along the way. No doubt, I was enjoying a brief moment of celebrity. And while I was far from letting the perception go to my head, I found nothing wrong with taking some modest delight in the accolades. I was closing out my first week as the new doctor and my confidence was at its pinnacle.

  I should have known that a large dose of humility would be served up before the day was out.

  At five forty-five I walked out of what I thought was the last exam and crossed the hall to my office to make some final notes. I had just landed in my chair when Nancy knocked on the half-opened door. She spoke hesitantly.

  “Doctor, there is one more but it’s technically a physical.” She paused, wanting to get my initial reaction before proceeding. I sensed there was something more and responded with a nod.

  “Well, it’s a Miss Akins and she is here with her two-month-old for his well-baby checkup. She just got off work and rushed over hoping you might see him before you go home.”

  I had just paced myself through a full week of mostly geriatric cases, so it hit me as a refreshing change to put on my pediatric hat. Moreover, what Nancy said called to something within me that I had known well in recent years.

  During the long, fatiguing hours of internal medicine residency at Vanderbilt Hospital, it was my pediatric rotation that had taken me to the absolute limits of fortitude. I could never bring myself to refuse a child. A nurse’s page alerting me to an elevated temperature or labored breathing or an accelerated heart rate would pull me from an exhausted doze in some random chair and I would find the strength and patience to go, listen, watch, and assess. Walking the long halls late at night, I would look with compassion into the anxious faces of drained parents. Through those tiring and surreal hours, each new child had kept me focused and compelled me to the next room, the next chart. They were the innocents.

  I looked at Nancy. “Did you say ‘Miss’ as in M-i-s-s?”

  “Yes,” she responded. There was a heavy pause. “Yes. That would be correct. Would you like me to have her reschedule?”

  “No,” I responded, somewhat surprised. “No, not at all. Put them in room three. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Nancy nodded and turned to walk out. As she reached for the door handle, I spoke again. “How old is she, Nancy?”

  She paused as she pondered the question. “I’m thinking she just turned eighteen. She looks older. But I can check the chart.”

  “Not important. I’ll look at it before I go in.”

  Nancy shut the door behind her. For a moment I sat and stared out the window at the long shadows the afternoon sun was sketching across the lawn of the church next door. Actually, the mother’s age was important. A single mom in a small town such as this was always vulnerable to poor health. She was a child with a child.

  I had already taken off my lab coat and tie and decided to conduct the exam with an open collar. Glancing at the chart for a moment while walking down the hall, I was relieved to find Mary Jo already getting the infant’s vitals while the mother held him loosely on the exam table.

  Sarah Akins had gaunt but soft, pretty features and large, expressive eyes. Her posture was bowed with rounded shoulders, and something in her manner spoke of a gentleness, a simple desire to please. On the floor beside her was a cheap quilted cloth bag that no doubt carried diapers and formula. Her face and manner revealed a blend of adult concern and schoolgirl innocence. She wore little to no makeup and her hair was straight and stringy. She was smiling and cooing playfully with her chubby newborn, speaking cheerfully and tenderly to him. Below the surface, however, she was likely haunted by uncertainty and fear.

  The young mother’s weak smile and inquisitive gaze suggested she was awaiting judgment or disapproval. I gave her neither and greeted her warmly. Pulling up a low stool, I spoke admiringly of the baby, who sat looking at his mother through brilliant blue eyes.

  “Okay if I call you Sarah?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “He is one beautiful little boy.”

  She smiled bashfully. “Thanks. I sure feel that way. But then again, I’m his mom. I guess all moms think that of their baby.”

  “His name is Samuel?”

  “Yeah, Samuel Eugene. It’s a family name. But I call him Sam.”

  I proceeded to ask her questions about his eating and sleeping habits and who cared for him. All the information Sarah Akins offered was encouraging. I learned that she worked as a clerk at a convenience store. During the day an aunt kept the baby and from all reports she took excellent care of him.

  Mary Jo handed me the updated progress chart, which included information from the infant’s newborn visit two months earlier. All the measurements for height and weight and head circumference were on track. I examined the child, listening to his breathing and heart, checking his flexibility, and performed a small battery of other assessments. Everything was normal. The infant’s mother stood quiet and attentive, making no effort to interrupt.

  Whatever problems this teenage girl had brought upon herself by the choices she’d made were not evident in the love and care she showed for her son. She seemed to possess a resilience of character, and the yoke of motherhood was one she wore with clarity and focus.

  “Sam appears to be a perfectly healthy little fellow,” I concluded. “All we need to do now is give him his two-month shots.” This comment brought an immediate look of reservation from the young mother.

  “Yeah,” she spoke hesitantly. “I wanted to ask about that. I know there are several, but do you know exactly how many?”

  I thought for a moment, wondering what was motivating the question.

  “Let’s see. I’m not completely sure—there is the second hep C, DTaP, rotavirus, and some others. I need to look at the schedule to be certain.”

  “Do you know how much they all cost?”

  Mary Jo promptly spoke up. “All of the two-month shots together cost about two hundred dollars.”

  Sarah hesitated. “I don’t have any insurance. So maybe I could pay for one or two of them and then come back in the next week or so for the rest. Which ones do you think are the most important, Dr. Bradford?”

  Ignoring Mary Jo’s frown, I stood
and held up my hand in a gesture of embarrassment.

  “You know what? I completely forgot. When I negotiated with the mayor about coming here, he assured me that the city was going to set aside a budget for community health vaccinations for the flu and whatnot. I’m sure that well-baby shots are covered in that. So there’s really no charge.”

  Mary Jo appeared skeptical, but she said nothing.

  I turned to her, away from Sarah, and spoke with a quiet nod. “I’ll cover it.”

  I turned back toward Sarah, who was smiling with a flush of relief. Her whole posture seemed to relax. “Well, okay. That’s great. I guess we’ll just go ahead and get all of them, if that’s all right?”

  “Absolutely,” I responded. “Mary Jo, if you’ll draw those up, I’ll give them to Sam.”

  Mary Jo stood staring at me for a moment longer, her face unchanged. Then she said, “Sure. I guess I didn’t get that memo.”

  I smiled and looked at her flatly. “Well, looks like you got it now. So, if you would, please get them drawn up.”

  Mary Jo exited the room without ever losing eye contact with me.

  I continued to ask Sarah questions. She said she smoked and I encouraged her to stop. She stated that she rarely drank now, noting that drinking was what had helped get her into this predicament. And she said her appetite was fine despite her remarkable thinness. Ultimately, I calmly asked her the key question.

  “What can you tell me about the father?”

  Sarah looked down, refusing to meet my gaze.

  “Why do you have to know anything about him?”

  “I don’t have to, to be quite honest. But it would be helpful to know his medical history.”