The Splendor of Ordinary Days (18 page)

“That was my mother, Evangeline, at her debutante ball.”

Somewhat startled and embarrassed, I set the frame down quickly, endeavoring to be careful to leave it standing properly. “She was an attractive woman.”

“She was eighteen, I believe. She married my father shortly after that. I was born in 1950.” Luther handed me the check. I put it in my pocket and thanked him, and he showed me to the door. Before exiting, I turned to him and extended my hand.

He looked at me and then at my outstretched arm. Then slowly, he extended his and we shook, exchanging solemn nods. I turned away, and he shut the door behind me.

The meeting with Luther had not been the confrontation I had expected. And while the conversation had shed some light on the origins of his dark nature, there remained unanswered questions as to what had soured his life. I understood how certain experiences could not be shared any more than they could be forgotten. But more than ever I was convinced that something in Luther's past had poisoned him.

From what Connie had told me, Luther's battle injuries had left him unable to have children of his own, and apparently adoption was never considered an option. The disillusionment of the war, the loss of one childhood friend, and the untimely death of another had been difficult chapters in his life. But collectively, these events seemed to fall short of explaining a lifetime of bitterness.

Although it wasn't outwardly visible, Luther had a disfigured spirit. Something dark in his past had left him unable to see any possibility of a happy ending. Somewhere in the rice paddies of Vietnam Luther's soul had died, leaving him consumed with some terrible regret.

I pulled into my driveway, trying to piece together everything Luther had told me. In time, I cut the engine and headed inside. On the porch steps I pulled out the check he'd given me, noting that it was for five hundred dollars.

It was a small victory, especially considering the ­mean-­spirited sign on his front door. At least I had fared better than the Girl Scouts.

Levi Beiler

T
he hot days of July came and went.

Daily life returned to its routine if mildly mundane tempo. The shared misery of the sweltering heat made for a ready topic of conversation, and most chose not to suffer in silence. Once or twice a week it would rain, providing a brief relief, but it was often followed by humidity tantamount to a steam room.

Gardens exploded, including mine. If it was left untended for more than two days, I had zucchini the size of a Wiffle ball bat. The surplus was so absurd that neighbors began to lock their doors and hide when they saw me coming with a loaded paper bag. I would walk out my front door in the morning, only to find a large sack of cucumbers, bell peppers, and tomatoes left by the vegetable fairy, some poor soul whose ingrained ­mind-­set of ­waste-­not-­want-­not had reduced him to such covert acts.

Beatrice McClanahan no longer trolled the streets on her lawn mower, having been given a kind but firm ultimatum by Warren Thurman. I decided to visit her one afternoon. It was a convenient excuse to find a new victim in my ­ever-­widening search for recipients of the garden overflow. She seemed delighted to see me and grateful for the bag of veggies, but I couldn't help notice that some of the light had gone out of her eyes. She was lonely, and the heat kept her confined, unable to walk any great distance. I made a mental note to check in on her more often.

After a brief exam, Karen Davidson determined that Rhett did, in fact, have a small tumor behind his left eye. Her advice was to watch it for a while but that it might require surgery. She also confirmed that Maggie was expecting. Perhaps it was my imagination, but Rhett seemed to have a little more strut in his step after hearing the news. Louise Fox had graciously invited Rhett to spend his days in the fenced backyard so that the newlyweds could discuss favorite names and what color to paint the nursery. The two would frolic with each other for the first ten minutes and then settle down to a morning of lounging under the shade of the tall trees. The lucky dogs.

Meanwhile, Karen's practice limped along poorly. She had grown a modest cat and dog business, and a few of the horse owners in the valley who had engaged her services had been amazed by her talent and skill. But word of mouth was slow to take hold, and the large beef and dairy operations were not calling. It was tough going, and there seemed little I could do to help her.

The community charity yard sale had netted more than eight thousand dollars, which was being donated to the statue fund. So despite all the unrest and frustration that day had held for me, it had also produced a sizable donation to a worthy cause.

A company in Nashville that specialized in bronze work was awarded the contract for the memorial statue. The final quote turned out to be slightly over a hundred and eight thousand dollars. We had raised nearly ­two-­thirds of that. Fortunately, the company agreed to begin the project with only half down and the balance due just prior to delivery.

John had recruited a group of volunteers, including Connie, to begin the arduous process of digging through the county, state, and national archives to come up with a list of veterans from the valley who had died in combat. The ­fund-­raiser dance down at the lake had been scheduled for the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, with the intention of catching some cooler weather. We were all in great hopes that this event would go far to closing the gap on the needed funds.

As instructed, Levi Beiler returned to the clinic to have his stitches removed. He had driven his wagon to town alone, giving me an opportunity to talk to him individually. At first he had little to say, but he opened up when I asked him about his time in Nashville.

“It was quite an interesting city.”

“How did you get around?”

“Buses and taxis. Sometimes I would catch a ride with strangers.” He grunted an amused laugh. “Mostly women.”

“So, what did you think of it all?”

His words were cautious. “What you are asking requires me to be critical of your way of life, Dr. Bradford. I'm not sure that's such a good idea.”

I almost laughed. “I'm quite certain, Levi, that I could be much more critical about it than you would ever be.”

He nodded his understanding. The succinctness of his answer convinced me that this was a question to which he had devoted considerable thought. “The city gives you a certain oblivion, an ability to re-create yourself. Perhaps for some that is a good thing. But for most of the people living there, life was so competitive. It makes them want things, things to replace their existing things that are perfectly fine. They want it all. There, the answer to ‘How much is enough' was always ‘Just a little bit more.' At home with my people, with the Mennonites, we just wanted to know what the temperature was going to be that day.”

I smiled.

He continued. “Don't misunderstand, Dr. Bradford. It wasn't all bad. There were some enjoyable amusements. And a lot of the beer was really good.”

This assertion left me curious. “Hold it, Levi. You're only twenty. How did you get beer?”

His face eased into a wry smile. “Fraternities.”

I had to laugh. Wearing a T-shirt and jeans, Levi would look right at home on ­Twenty-­fourth and Kensington, the intersection of Vanderbilt's Greek world.

“So I take it you found your way into a few parties?”

“More than a few, I'm afraid, Dr. Bradford.”

“How did you pull that off?”

“By telling the truth. That I was Mennonite.”

“And they bought that?”

He seemed surprised by my skepticism. “Sure. They had a thousand questions, and they always wanted to talk about theology.”

“Interesting. How did that go?”

“It was sad, really. For me, speaking of God is an eloquent, rewarding thing. For them, he was little more than a short and ugly monosyllable. They treated religion as if it were constantly in need of mending. You see, Dr. Bradford, for the Mennonites, there are truth and untruth, belief and unbelief. We are at ease with extremes and inhabit them by choice. We sin and have our failings, as all men do. But we see our world in black and white, not the halftones and gray shades that the larger world accommodates.”

I thought about Levi's words for a moment and couldn't help but be impressed with the succinctness of his insights, with the clarity with which he so easily articulated the tenets of his faith. Admittedly, his sense of conviction was enviable.

“Well, Levi, that's rather impressively said. Did you win over any converts?”

He laughed lightly. “That was hardly my intention. I did meet a lot of rather interesting people, though.” He paused, reflecting for a moment before speaking with a subdued smile. “Some of them were rather pretty.”

“Hmm, I'm guessing you met a few coeds at the parties.”

Levi looked confused.

“‘Coeds' refers to girls.”

His wry smile returned. “Yes, quite a few. Some of them saw me as a challenge. I'm quite certain a few of them wanted to take me to bed, like I was some kind of prize. One or two were almost winners. But ultimately, I could not let it happen. All I could see was the face of Rebecca.”

Again, I nodded. “Well, that's certainly understandable. Rebecca seems quite fond of you.”

His face glowed at the mention of her name. “Yes. I came back because of my faith. But my heart never left her. We have been in love for a long time. Mr. Yoder has consented for us to be wed.”

“Congratulations! I have kind of a dumb question. For some reason I assumed that Mennonite marriages are arranged. I'm guessing that's not true?”

“It's a common misunderstanding, Dr. Bradford. But no, we date and fall in love like all people do. Courtship is more structured, and we are required to marry within the faith.”

“So, a Mennonite would never marry an outsider?”

“Only if that person joined the faith.”

“And that's allowed?”

“There are no rules prohibiting it, but it would be quite difficult.”

“I see. Well, congratulations again. I'm happy for you.”

“Yes. We are quite excited. We will be married in October.”

“Levi, with both of you being so young, where will you live?”

He spoke with polite reserve. “Dr. Bradford, we are a frugal people, but that does not mean we are poor. Both of our families have set aside money and land for us to begin our life together. We will do the same for our children. For a brief time, we will live with my parents, but I am buying some land from the Yoders. It is on Mercy Creek Road. Next spring I will build a house there.”

“Where on Mercy Creek Road?”

“It's a small farm surrounded by large hills. There used to be a house there, but it burned years ago. I will probably build on the old foundation.”

“I know the place. I passed it a while back when I went out to examine Jacob's father. So the Yoders own that property?”

“Yes. Eli's father bought it when Eli and his sister, Ellie, were children. It was supposed to be a home for Ellie when she got married. But she died young of sickness, and the place has been left all these years. Now Rebecca and I are to have it.”

I was fascinated. It had never occurred to me to ask Jacob who owned the property. Now I understood why the ruins had remained untouched for decades. Perhaps because of the unexplained singing in the wind I had heard there, the place held a peculiar enchantment for me.

I congratulated Levi once more, and soon after, he departed.

I was happy for him and his lovely bride to be. But what he'd told me also held up a light to a simple reality.

It was time to move forward with my own plans.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF CHRISTINE CHAMBERS, JUNE 10, 2000

Dear Mr. Wonderful:

I haven
't written to you in a while, but I thought of you today. So I am writing this letter. I don't know who you are or where you live, so I can't mail it to you. But I'd like to think that when I dream about you, magically you can hear what I am saying and know what I am thinking.

I've been out on a couple of car dates. The boys were sweet, but they weren't you, Mr. Wonderful. I don't why I know this. I just do.

I spent a couple of hours over on Bracken's Knoll late this afternoon. I got a new CD player for my fifteenth birthday, so I took it with me and listened to songs. My favorite is “Breathe.” It made me think of you and that day I heard your voice floating in the air.

Or did I just dream that?

Will we have a song, Mr. Wonderful? What will it be? Will you sing it to me?

I wonder where you are right now. Are you dating? What kind of girls are they? Are they pretty? I hope you'll think I'
m pretty.

That's stupid, isn't it? You would never be Mr. Wonderful if you didn't think I was pretty. But I'm smart too, and athletic. I make good grades and play basketball.

I think I'm pretty. And it's nice when boys notice and say so and ask me out. But I don't think they care that I'm smart and a good athlete. You won't be that way, will you, Mr. Wonderful? You'
ll love everything about me, won't you?

I do hope we have a song. And it will be playing when we meet, or when we first kiss, or when you first tell me you love me. That's the way it should be. Our song should be playing when something important happens.

But you already know this because you can read my thoughts; you know what I'm thinking.

I hope we meet soon.

I love you, Mr. Wonderful.

CAC

P.S. I hope you can sing.

Our Song

T
he first of August signaled Christine's return to work as a schoolteacher. Our evenings together on the farmhouse's broad porch became less frequent, and when they did occur, they included stacks of papers to grade and the preparation of lesson plans. When I wasn't reading a medical journal or a book, I was doing my best to distract her, using small acts of affection that were not as greatly appreciated as they might have been.

One Thursday evening in ­mid-­August, I was lying on the wicker sofa absorbed in a mystery novel while Christine sat nearby grading a pile of tests. She looked up from her papers and asked, “Luke, do you think I'm smart?”

“You're dating me, aren't you?”

“That hardly qualifies.”

I continued reading. “I love you too.”

“Oh come on, Bradford. Answer the question.”

I stayed hidden behind my book. “I think you are very smart. Why even ask such a question?”

“Oh, it's nothing.” She returned to grading her papers.

But a minute later, she spoke again. “Luke.”

“Hmm.”

“We're a couple, right?”

I was at a critical, consuming point in the novel and left a long pause before my idle response. “Sure.”

“I need you to look at my eyes when we talk.” It was her schoolteacher voice.

I rested my book on my chest and peered over the top. “Okay, brown eyes, I'm missing something here. Why all the questions?”

“No big reason. The girls in my classroom were asking me about it today.”

Returning to my book, I responded lethargically. “Well, I hope you didn't tell them we were going steady, because if that gets out, I'll never hear the end of it down at the Co-op.”

“Gee, hate that. Looks like you're just going to have to man up.”

I knew that tone only too well. There was something deeper, a cloaked desire in the question that my clownish answer had not accommodated. I sat up, put my book aside, and spoke with all the earnest affection I could muster. “What other kinds of questions were they asking, Christine?”

She remained focused on her schoolwork for a moment longer, requiring me to pay penance for my detached behavior of the last few minutes. But I could see her eyes soften with the change in my tone and posture.

“Oh, you know, the kind of things that ­twelve – and ­thirteen-­year-­olds are curious about. How did we meet? Where do we go on dates? What's our song?”

“Do we have a song?”

“No, don't think we do.”

“Well, I think we should have a song. I'm pretty sure it's required for couple status.”

“Well, what's your suggestion?”

“Absolutely no idea. I flunked the ‘pick your song' class. You're going to have to do the heavy lifting here.”

“It should be something from a special moment we shared.”

“Define ‘special moment'?”

“Hmm, I don't know. Maybe something to do with our first date, first kiss, first something.”

I thought about this for a second and realized I was completely clueless. “Okay. It's official. This is definitely a girl thing.”

“Oh come on, Bradford. Try to be the romantic for a whole five minutes.”

“­Ooooo-­kaaaaay. Jeez.” I exhaled and rubbed my chin. “How about the first time I told you I loved you?”

“Nah, not good. We were at the dairy barn, and you had just finished helping with milking. You smelled like a cow.”

“Well, dang, I thought it was pretty romantic.”

Christine noted my wounded tone. “Oh come on now. Yes, it was sweet and wonderful and everything, but it wasn't exactly song ­worthy.”

I twisted my lips into a tight pucker. “Well, then, what about the moment I fell in love with you?”

Christine's face softened. “When was that?”

I breathed a small sigh of embarrassment. “You're probably not going to believe me. But looking back, it was the night of our first date when we went out to Moon Lake and built the fire. I mean, I can't say that even at the time I understood it or was even willing to admit it to myself. But I felt the same way about you after that night that I feel right now. So, Miss Chambers, I guess you stole my heart from the very beginning.”

An adoring tenderness welled in her eyes. “Luke Bradford, I take it back. You are the romantic.” She lowered her chin and regarded me with glowing affection. “Seriously? That first night at Moon Lake?”

“Yeah, that first night. You remember; we talked for hours. I never told you this, but I had looked you up on the Internet. You were valedictorian of your class, a ­five-­star basketball recruit, everybody said you could sing like a bird, and yeah, you were also quite gorgeous. So sure, I was a little intimidated.”

“You're telling me
you
were intimidated?”

“Well, sure, a little. Look, for months I only knew you from a distance. And then there we ­were—­the lake, the fire, the stars, and I had you all to myself. I thought I would spend the whole evening just staring at you, trying to memorize you. But the more we talked, the more I was fascinated. You were smart, strong, funny, and yet, you were also sweet and vulnerable. I guess I fell in love with all of that.”

In a fluid motion Christine left her chair and came to sit beside me, bending her legs across my lap and draping her arms around my neck.

“So, Mr. Luke ­Romantic-­After-­All Bradford, what do you think our song should be?”

Nothing was coming to mind. When an idea finally did hit, I spoke before thinking. “Well, since we built that fire, how about ‘The Campfire Song' by SpongeBob SquarePants?”

Christine slumped and spoke in dry disbelief. “Bradford, how can you be so smart and so clueless at the same time?”

I answered sheepishly, “Practice?”

She shook her head, speechless.

We sat in silence for a moment, and I thought about that ­wonderful first date. I spoke softly, reflectively. “It was incredible, ­actually—­the lake, the sunset, and just the two of us on that high hill looking over the valley.”

Christine's eyes grew large. “That's it! That should be our song!”

“Okay, ‘that' as in . . . what?”

“‘Over the Valley.' It's a song by Pink Martini.”

“I know of the group, but I can't say I know the song.”

“Trust me. It's perfect.”

Christine smiled and closed her eyes. She became lost to some distant land, some secret world that lent an air of enchantment to this one. She was incandescent with delight.

“Perfect, huh?” I whispered.

“Yes!” She closed her eyes again, pulled her shoulders up, inhaled deeply, and then dropped them in a gesture of great satisfaction. “Just perfect!”

In the days that followed, Christine's joy that evening reminded me that it was time to put my plans together. Ideally, a proposal of marriage was something I intended to do only once in this lifetime. Given my inclination to hide my feelings, asking Christine to marry me was the quintessential private, intimate moment between us. I knew that my capacity for romantic expression was dismal at best and considerable forethought was needed. In the closing days of August, I put my lofty scheme into play.

I still had grand intentions of going to my storage units in Atlanta, but I had a ­more ­pressing need of my free time. I took a half day off and traveled to Nashville, where I had arranged for a jewelry store to mount a ­two-­and-a-­half-­carat diamond that had come into my possession sometime earlier. While there, I dropped in on some favorite professors from med school.

To no large surprise, none of them had ever heard of Watervalley. I had finished first in my class, and I could see in their eyes an unspoken disappointment at what they considered a squandering of my abilities. My major professor, Dr. Burns, casually suggested that several new grants were pending that could avail some research fellowships in the near future. I smiled and thanked him, politely avoiding a response.

Later that afternoon, after I had picked up the finished ring, I was nearly incandescent with excitement. All of my old regrets about doing medical research were temporarily forgotten. I made the ­two-­hour drive back to Watervalley consumed in thought as to how, when, and where I would propose.

As I pulled into my drive, I noticed Will Fox sitting on his front porch steps with a pad of paper and a stack of books. Curious, I walked over to him. He was intensely absorbed in some faraway world.

“Hi, Willster. You seem pretty adrift. A fellow once told me it's a dangerous thing to be lost inside one's own head.”

Will lifted his chin and stared at me for a long moment, his gaze completely absent of expression. He was in his ­pseudo-­sophisticated mode, one of the many personas he occasionally chose to inhabit. He said, “That statement might have relevance if, in fact, I were actually lost.”

“Oh,” I replied thoughtfully. “Do tell.” At first I feigned an expression of enlightened innocence. Then ever so slowly my eyes tightened, regarding him with a sly, furtive smile. The little smart­ass. I could see the corners of his mouth turning upward, betraying the bursting grin that he was ­hard-­pressed to contain. But the moment was telling. He had read my unspoken affirmation of his cleverness, something I knew he yearned for. He returned to his book in an effort to mask his contentment. I reached over, tousled his hair, and took a seat beside him on the step.

“So, what are you reading? Homework?”

“No, I got a bunch of books on poetry from the library.”

“Hmm, still trying to capture love's labor lost on paper?”

“Nah. I'm over Wendy Wilson. She's so June.”

I wanted to laugh, but the seriousness of his remark held me in check. “Okay, good, glad to hear it.”

“I've decided I'm pretty good at writing poetry. So I've been reading all the poems I can. I don't get some of them. But a lot of them I do.”

This was wildly entertaining. I truly liked Will, but after he had told me a few months ago that his avatar name for an online Gladiator game was Geekus Maximus, I honestly didn't think he could get any more nerdy.

“Who have you been reading?”

“Wordsworth, Longfellow, Whitman, a little bit of Tennyson, and some unknowns like this one called
Poems to Sylvia
.” He was holding a small, antiquated library book.

“What kind of poems do you like to write?”

“Poems about feelings . . . love, hope, despair, allergies, that sort of thing.”

I looked at him quizzically. “Allergies?”

“Yeah, I wrote a poem about things I'm allergic to. You want to hear some of it?”

“Umm, sure.”

He flipped open his notebook. “This one is called ‘Allergic to You.'”

You saw me crying,

I said it's the flu.

But I was just lying

It was really about you.

I protected my heart,

With indifference and candor.

My nose only smarts,

From the pollen and dander.

There's no longer a “we,”

Most unequivocally.

But don't worry about me,

I'll be snivelly, civilly.

For a moment I sat speechless, struggling with what to say. “Okay then. Good. Pretty clever.”

Will smugly closed his notebook. “Yeah, I think it's pretty good too.” We shared a silent moment of ­head-­nodding guy bravado. “You know, Dr. B., I could probably help you out if you needed to write a poem for Miss Chambers. Girls like that kind of stuff, you know.”

“Will, that's a great offer. Let me, uh, let me think on that, and I may take you up on it in the near future.”

“Sure. Anything I can do to help.”

I tousled his hair again and headed back to the house, where Connie and Estelle were waiting with, I could only imagine, a delicious ­calorie-­laden dinner. With the ring in my pocket, the first step of my master plan for the perfect evening, the perfect moment, and the perfect proposal was in place.

I was fairly certain that Will's poetry would not be included.

I found Connie and Estelle in the kitchen, talking nonstop above a clamor of banging pans and clattering dishes. We sat down to dinner, and after saying grace, Connie turned toward me.

“I hear Lida Wilkins has a buyer for the bed and breakfast.”

“So I hear.” I nodded in reply.

“Some fellow out of Charleston . . . a widower with two little children. Not exactly the normal profile of someone wanting to get into the lodging business. There's bound to be a story there.”

“Well, Connie,” I replied with good humor, “I have no doubt that in no time you'll get to the bottom of whatever deep, dark secrets are behind this mysterious fellow.”

She stopped in midchew to eye me scornfully. “Watch yourself, Doctor. The rest of your dinner might just be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

I winked at her and continued eating. “Speaking of dads and children, Dr. Davidson says that Maggie should deliver sometime around Labor Day.” I glanced over at Rhett, who was lying forlornly in the corner of the kitchen. “As you can see, Rhett is giddy with excitement.”

“Humph,” responded Connie as she eyed Rhett sharply. “I'm still not speaking to him, the little ­four-­legged reprobate.”

“Hate the sin, love the sinner, Mrs. Thompson,” I said teasingly.

Connie ignored me. “I hear that Dr. Davidson's veterinary practice is still having a hard go of it. I like that gal. I wish there were something we could do to help.”

“So do I,” I said. “I've talked to several of the dairy and beef farmers, but it hasn't done much good.”

“Is it because she's a woman?” inquired Estelle.

“No, that's not the impression I get,” I said thoughtfully. “Nobody seems to doubt her ability. They're just concerned that she'll get hurt trying to handle big animals.”