The Splendor of Ordinary Days (15 page)

“So,” I said, “what was she like when she was young?”

John spoke without the slightest change in his expression. “She was very focused, totally driven. She always had a kind of maturity, a wisdom if you will, beyond her years.”

He paused briefly. “But it wouldn't be accurate to say she was always serious. She also seemed to live in a whimsical world of her own creation. She played out in the fields and along the creek when she was a little girl. Albert, her father, used to tell me that she would spend every waking minute playing on a small grassy rise at the back of the farm called Bracken's Knoll. Sometimes he'd have to go looking for her there. He said that as he approached he could hear her having dramatic conversations.”

“Hmm. Who was she talking to?”

“You'll have to ask her that one yourself, sport.”

“Fair enough.”

John turned around and leaned against the railing, admiring the new and elaborately detailed bandstand. “A lot of great dances happened here over the years. Some really good times.”

“Maybe there will be a few more.”

John pressed his lips together. “Actually, that's not a bad idea, sawbones.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

“We should have a big dance here as a ­fund-­raiser for the statue. Get a good band out of Nashville and a few corporate sponsors. Make a really big splash.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Yeah, I like the thought of it.”

“Of course you do. It was your idea.”

John winked at me. “Good point.”

We stood a moment longer. Eventually John turned to me with his hand extended, and we shook firmly. “Good seeing you, Luke. I need to go work the crowd a little, see if I can turn some of this evening's spirited mood into a few donation dollars.”

“Go get 'em, chief.”

I stayed at the bandstand railing for the longest time, watching Christine, who was caught up in the shared laughter, the animated smiles, and the giggling foolishness of the moment. It seemed that a small part of her was still that innocent girl, seeing the world through eyes of wonder and expectation.

Yet by all measures, she was a woman, fully bloomed, graceful, sensuous, beautiful. She had such a compassionate heart. And much as John had described, she had an intuitive wisdom beyond her years. I loved her, completely. Standing there under the summer stars and surrounded by all that was Watervalley, I knew that I could never imagine my world without her.

Months earlier, I had been foolishly slow to tell her that I loved her, a reluctance that had almost ended our relationship. I wouldn't make the same mistake with my heart's intentions now.

Fireworks

J
uly arrived with record temperatures. The long days of hot sun and no rain were beginning to bleach the world of vitality. Just walking to the mailbox felt like a death march. Patches of muted brown could be seen on neighborhood lawns, the trees looked wilted, and the garden seemed in constant need of watering.

Nevertheless, the Public Works Department labored through the dog days, and little by little, colorful red, white, and blue banners began to appear on the streets and around Courthouse Square. By small measures the town was awakening from its listlessness in anticipation of the Fourth of July holiday. Local merchants advertised big Independence Day sales. Flags were hung in all the storefronts and from many of the porches up and down Fleming Street.

The Fourth fell on a Friday. The day started hot and continued up the thermometer. Shortly after four o'clock, families and church groups began to show up at the lake to set up their cookouts in anticipation of the town's annual fireworks display.

The Presbyterians were the first to arrive, partly to take advantage of the closest parking spaces, but also due to their general affinity for having a good time. For them, church gatherings and private gatherings followed the same rules, especially when it came to their beverage of choice. Thus, they approached such events with much less timidity than other church groups. They hiked to the far point of the lake and proudly hoisted the Presbyterian standard. Other groups soon followed.

The bandstand was alive with color, draped full circle in patriotic banners. At five o'clock, the local Boy Scout troop performed a ceremonial raising of the flag under the watchful eye of scoutmaster Neil Holloway. As two of the older boys carefully unfolded and hoisted the flag, Neil and the rest of the troop stood nearby, saluting while standing stiffly at attention.

With great pomp, Neil called out the orders for each phase of the ceremony. The boys, all of whom had forgotten at least one or more articles of their Scout uniform, shifted their weight from foot to foot and tried to look serious, a difficult thing to do at age thirteen or fourteen. Once the flag was successfully raised, the troop led the crowd in the Pledge of Allegiance.

Shortly afterward, a small, makeshift marching band that included a few teachers from the high school, the town librarian, and one or two other stragglers made its grand entrance. The group included a tuba, a flute, a trombone, a clarinet, a drummer, a tambourine, and an old guy with a ponytail who played bongos. Marching as they played, they started at the far end of the lake parking lot and moved along in a more or less organized clump until they made their way ceremoniously to the bandstand, a full ­one-­hundred-­yard journey.

They played tunes for the next half hour with a repertoire that included “You're a Grand Old Flag,” “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” “The Caisson Song,” “America the Beautiful,” and “Rocky Top.” “The Star-Spangled Banner” was their big finale, which included a rather odd and lengthy improvisation by the bongo player right after “land of the free.” Apparently the embrasures of the trombone and tuba players were on the verge of blowout, because they hit the final C with a discordant B. Nevertheless, the crowd applauded enthusiastically.

The fireworks display was set up on two ­stripped-­down pontoon boats that were tethered together and floated out in the middle of Watervalley Lake. In charge was Ed Caswell, the fire chief, who had taken a special online course on sequenced fireworks ignition. The certificate hung proudly in his office.

Soon enough, the whole place was a cacophony of laughter and fellowship with children running, tumbling, giggling, and throwing sticks into the lake. The good, thick smell of charcoal and smoke permeated the warm evening air. The sense of celebration was contagious, and everyone seemed to be having a great time, especially the Presbyterians and Episcopalians. This likely had something to do with the presence of so many red Solo cups and frequent visits to the coolers hidden toward the back of their serving areas.

I floated among the various groups, making small talk and trying to guide the conversation toward donations to the memorial project. I managed to obtain a few commitments. But largely I was scraping the low ceiling of my ­fund-­raising ability.

Along the way I saw Joe Dawson, the Presbyterian pastor.

“Hey, Joe. Wait up.” He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, sandals, and a huge smile. We shook hands, and after a quick exchange, he had a question for me.

“Hey, remember that Carter fellow? Were you able to find him?”

“Yeah, sure did. Interesting old guy. Lives very off the beaten path. We talked for a while, and I asked him how he was doing. Didn't seem to have any physical ailments that I could tell. But I don't think he gets out much.”

“Is he a shut-in?”

“No, he seemed to get around okay. We talked on his front porch. The place was pretty ­run-­down, though, almost deserted looking really. But he seemed to be doing fine.”

Joe nodded. “Sounds like I need to pay him a visit.”

“He'd probably appreciate the company. You'll get a kick out of him. Incredibly sharp mind for his age, whatever that is.”

For whatever reason, I hadn't thought about Leyland for several weeks and now felt guilty for having so easily pushed him out of my mind. Something about his insightful words, or maybe it was just the tranquillity of the remote woodland setting, inspired a desire to go see him again, and soon.

Around nine o'clock, Ed Caswell came puttering down the length of the lake, towing the ­fireworks-­laden pontoons with his small ­flat-­bottom fishing boat. Mustering as much ceremony and dignity as he could, he threw off a couple of concrete blocks to serve as anchors. Then he announced over a bullhorn that the show would start in ten minutes.

I walked around the lake to find Christine so we could watch the fireworks together. Along the way, I noticed a small group of Mennonites gathered on the fringe of the woods some two hundred yards away. It seemed that even they enjoyed a good fireworks show.

It turned out to be a grand display, even for tiny Watervalley. At the end, everyone sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” this time without the help of the band.

At six o'clock the next morning I was already downtown on the square, setting up tables for the community charity yard sale. This wasn't by choice; Christine had volunteered me for the duty. During the fireworks display, she had placed her chin on my shoulder and made her request in a soft, pleading voice.

“You don't mind, do you, Luke? It would be such a big help.”

“Six o'clock. Seriously?”

“Pleeeease.”

“You're evil and should be destroyed,” I said, borrowing a line from
Steel Magnolias
.

By seven that morning, I was soaked in sweat. By nine, the oppressive, muggy air was having a subtly agitating effect on everyone, casting a faint pallor of intolerance on the day. Nevertheless, the charity yard sale had a huge turnout, and the downtown square was packed with people examining table after table of clothes, furniture, electronic items, and various other things that most observers would call junk. It seemed that all of Watervalley was there en masse, including a large contingent of the Mennonite community.

Midmorning I went home and showered. Shortly after twelve, I drove over to the grand opening of Karen Davidson's office, located about two blocks off the square. I was anticipating a huge crowd and a robust Watervalley welcome for her new practice.

But the small parking lot adjacent to her building was virtually empty. Inside, I found Karen talking to Connie Thompson; both were preparing to lock up and leave.

“Hey, what gives?” I asked. “Did I come at the wrong time?”

The two women exchanged glances, and the room had the stiff air of a funeral home. On a nearby table sat full trays of cupcakes and other bakery treats. Karen spoke in ­good-­natured defeat. “No, actually you are right on time.”

“I don't get it. The open house was from ten to one, wasn't it? Did the crowd come early?”

Karen exhaled. “Not exactly. Except for the two of us, my receptionist, and Toy McAnders and his wife, you are the only other person to set foot in here today.”

I stood there stunned and glanced at Connie, whose somber face confirmed the news. “Wow, Karen, I am really sorry. I know this is disappointing.”

“Well, it probably isn't the best timing with the big yard sale going on downtown.” She was doing her best to put a good face on the situation, but she was clearly crushed.

Connie spoke in a kind, instructive voice. “Don't you worry about paying for all the bakery goods. I'll just take them back, and we'll sell them at the shop.”

“Connie, that's really sweet, but you don't have to do that.” Karen paused briefly. “Actually, I'm thinking about binging on them. Maybe a sugar rush will pick this day up a little.” She produced a forced smile, doing her best to appear courageous. “Thanks for coming by, Luke.”

“Not so fast, sister.” I said. “I'm looking for the full tour here. Rhett insisted I check everything out.”

Karen shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“I'm going to grab this tray and head on back,” Connie interjected. “I'll leave you two doctors to talk shop.”

Karen and I spent the next half hour together, and she proudly showed me her exam rooms, the surgery, and the small kennel area. I did my best to assure her that the low turnout was just an anomaly, but it seemed I could do little to change her wilted outlook. And privately, I wondered if I was perpetuating a false hope. Karen's painfully reserved nature wasn't allowing her to make headway in Watervalley. I had thought the need for veterinary services in this small community would generate a modest crowd, but apparently, that wasn't the case.

Still, she endeavored to make light of her situation. “Well, Luke, I guess the good news is that I have an excellent ­work-­life balance.”

“How so?”

“I have no work and no life.”

“I have an idea. Let's walk up to the square and I'll introduce you around. I know you've met a lot of people, but it would be good to mingle.”

She was about to answer, when the ring of my cell phone cut her off.

“Hello.”

“Doc, Warren Thurman. Got a small emergency at the jailhouse. There's a fellow here that got into a fight downtown and needs to be stitched up.”

“Sure, I'll be right there.”

Karen read my troubled face. “That was the sheriff. He needs me at the jail. Mind if we take a rain check on the introductions?”

“Not at all.”

It was lousy timing. I was abandoning Karen at the worst possible moment. I was determined to try to help her, but it would have to wait. Still, my concern over her situation combined with the scorching heat left me in a foul mood.

At the sheriff's office, I found Warren in the front room. “Thanks for coming, Doc. Two fellows got into a fight downtown, and one of them got a bad cut to his head.”

I followed Warren down the cell block hallway to find Clayton Ross sitting in the first holding cell. He never looked up but sat with his face in his hands. In the cell next to him, holding a bloody towel to his head, was a young Mennonite man.

I looked at Warren in disbelief. “What's he doing here?”

“Fighting in public, Doc. He broke the law.”

“Warren, you can't be serious. You and I both know the Mennonites are pacifists.” My smoldering frustration poured through my words.

Warren seemed slightly taken aback by the fervor of my tone. “It's routine police work, Doc. When there's a fight, you bring both of them in.”

I was incensed. This was absurd. I pointed toward the Mennonite. “And just how many punches did he throw, Warren?”

Warren didn't like the question and regarded me sternly. “He knocked Clayton down with a chair.” His words were blunt. “You going to take a look at this fellow or not, Doc?” He unlocked the door and swung it open for me.

“What's his name?”

“He wouldn't say. And they don't exactly carry a driver's license.”

I ignored Warren and stepped into the room. The young man was thin with brownish blond hair and couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty. I introduced myself and told him I was a doctor. He regarded me impassively and nodded. He had a swollen left eye, and just above the back of his neck was a long laceration still oozing blood. His wounds told a simple story. Clearly he had been slugged brutally in the face and fallen back against something that had cut his head.

The injustice of the situation pushed me beyond any amiable restraint. My words were raw, determined. “I'm taking this man to the clinic.”

Warren was standing in the cell doorway. He folded his arms and stayed firm. “Can't let you do that, Doc.”

I calmly placed my things back into my bag, walked up to Warren, and stood six inches away, intentionally crowding him. We were the same height, but he had a good fifty pounds on me. It didn't matter. I spoke with conviction. “Yeah, Warren, you can. I don't have what I need to treat him here. He has both a cut and a likely concussion, so I'll need to observe him for a few hours.” Looking Warren squarely in the eye, I said the next words with a hard confidence. “I'll be damned if I'm doing that here.”

Warren maintained his grim countenance, but finally nodded. “Okay, fine, Doc. But I'm sending one of my deputies with you.”

“No, you're not.”

My terse response hit Warren like a whip, and he looked at me in openmouthed astonishment. “Why . . . hold it.” He paused for a moment and held up both hands. “Look, Doc, I can see you're upset, but the man was fighting in public and resisted arrest.”

“Resisted how?”

“He refused to get into the patrol car.”

I closed my eyes, shaking my head in exasperation. “What did you expect? The man drives a horse and buggy. Doesn't exactly make him an intimidating flight risk, now does it?”