The Splendor of Ordinary Days (19 page)

“Well,” said Estelle shrewdly as she leaned back in her chair, “looks like I'm going to have to come up with a solution for Dr. Davidson's money woes.”

Connie rolled her eyes. “And this from a woman who spent five hundred dollars on a pair of shoes.”

Estelle sipped her iced tea. “Don't judge what you don't understand, Constance Grace.”

“Well,” I said, “I'm open to any ideas.”

Estelle gazed into the middle distance. “Just let Estelle put a little thinking time on this situation. She'll come up with an answer!”

Connie snorted. “That assertion loses its gusto when it comes from a woman who talks about herself in the third person.”

“Keep it up, Constance, and you won't be riding in my car on the way home. You'll just have to use your broom.”

As entertaining as the two sisters were, it seemed a good time for a change of subject. “So, Estelle, the big family reunion was this past weekend. How did it go with Tyrell?”

The two sisters exchanged subtle glances.

Connie answered for her. “Luke, let's just say that my suspicions about Tyrell turned out to be correct.”

Estelle straightened the cuff of her blouse. “It was something of a disappointment, but we did have some nice conversations.”

“Who are you kidding, girl? You couldn't get away from him fast enough. You looked like Indiana Jones getting chased by that big ball.”

“­Umm-­hmm,” Estelle responded smugly. “Sort of like you and Cousin Maureen.”

“Oh heavens,” Connie replied. “Talk about running away . . . I got stuck sitting next to Cousin Maureen at the dinner Saturday night. That girl talked on and on about all her aches and pains and strange rashes. And all the while she was eating like a pig. She might have been in declining health, but she sure wasn't declining food.”

We all laughed, and Estelle added, “Connie, you should tell Dr. Bradford your big news.”

“Oh?” I inquired.

Connie beamed. “Theodus, my youngest son who teaches at Rhodes College, he and his wife, Elaine, are adopting a baby. Come October, I'm going to be a grandmother!”

“Congratulations, Connie. I'm very happy for you!”

The two sisters seemed radiant at this news and continued to talk about Connie's other three children, all of whom were single and pursuing professional careers. Estelle began to clear away the dishes but stopped and stood behind my chair. Placing both hands on my shoulders, she spoke teasingly.

“Connie, maybe you can give Theodus and Elaine some pointers since you've adopted a child of your own here.” She squeezed me with her pudgy, fragrant hands.

“Thanks, Estelle. I'll be sure to give Connie a call whenever I go through that ­second-­childhood phase.”

Connie regarded me deadpan. “I was unaware you had left your first one.”

I let this pass.

Connie reached over and patted my hand. “It's okay, sweetie. Your secret's safe with me.”

“Well,” I said, finishing my last bite, “one day when I have half a dozen kids, I'll introduce you as their grandmother. Boy, won't they be surprised.”

Connie stiffened. “First of all, I would be proud to be grandmother to your children. Second, if memory serves, it's customary for a young man to get married first, although I realize these days it's hardly a requirement.” She stared at me silently, awaiting an answer to her inferred question.

I cut my eyes at her and spoke with a sly grin. “Go fish.”

Connie shook her head in disdain as she carried a handful of dishes to the sink. “Humph. Sometimes I wonder who ties your shoelaces for you.”

“Some things in this life, Mrs. Thompson, are on a need-to-know basis,” I responded smugly.

“Well,” Connie said bluntly, “all I'm saying is this, Mr. Need To Know. You need to know that the clock is ticking. If you're having all those children, you might want to get a move on. Or do I need to pin a note to your sweater to remind you?”

I folded my hands behind my head. “Connie T., you may rest assured that if and when I decide to make a proposal of marriage to a certain young lady, not a soul in town will see it coming.”

I made this declaration with all the ­self-­confidence that God in heaven above could possibly allow a man to have. Apparently, I had forgotten I was living in Watervalley.

Gene Alley

T
uesday morning I caught a quick breakfast at the diner. I was sitting at the counter, reading the paper, when there was a tap on my shoulder. It was Clayton Ross.

His words were hesitant. “Doc, I uh, I just wanted to thank you for taking care of my arm. It's healed up really good.” He extended his hand to me.

I didn't have a high opinion of Clayton, especially after what he had done to Levi and what I privately knew about him. Nevertheless, I returned his handshake.

“You're welcome. Glad you're better.” I thought that would be the end of the conversation, but Clayton remained. He seemed nervous, searching for words.

“I, uh, I have an interview at the cabinet factory later today. So uh, so maybe I'll be able to put the arm to good use.”

I wondered why he was telling me this. A strained silence fell between us, and Clayton pressed his lips together and nodded, a sign of closure. With that he turned and left.

I went back to my breakfast and the paper. It was an odd encounter, and I endeavored to put it out of my mind. But it nagged at me all day. More than once the mental picture of Clayton and his outstretched hand crept into my head. It occurred to me that perhaps he was reaching out for more than a handshake.

The morning passed quickly, filled with a full slate of annual physicals, some runny noses, and a few bad backs. Around lunch I slipped away to make a clandestine visit to Gene Alley out at the radio station.

I had called earlier to see if he could meet with me privately. Thankfully, he had responded in language other than song titles, albeit there was something in his tone that seemed off. It should have been my first clue.

The radio station WVLY, “the Voice of the Valley,” was located on a modest hill a few miles out of town on Leipers's Creek Road. It was a small, windowless brick building set adjacent to a large radio tower. I was relieved to find only one car in the parking lot when I arrived . . . meaning that only Gene would hear my plans.

I entered the front door into a small, poorly lit reception area with a large plate glass window for viewing into the studio. That room was even darker, illuminated by the blue and red diodes of the electrical equipment and a ­low-­wattage desk lamp. Gene sat with his chin resting in his hand, his eyes closed.

I tapped lightly on the window and woke him with a start. He had the shocked look of a fugitive who had just heard bloodhounds nearby. However, once he recognized me, his face lit with impish glee. Despite his ­fifty-­nine years, he had the sprightly actions and perky manner of a younger man. He held up a finger to signal me to wait a moment and proceeded to make a short announcement into the microphone. Then, he removed his headphones and opened the locked steel door adjacent to the picture window. He seemed wrapped in a secretive but pleasant euphoria.

We shook hands robustly. “Greetings, Doc. Glad to see you.” He peered over my shoulder, lowered his voice, and spoke in a confidential whisper. “Did anybody follow you?”

“Umm, no, Gene. I'm pretty sure I'm alone.” He ushered me into the studio, shut the door quickly, and exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Good, Doc, good.” His eyes had an energized, feral quality, comically bordering on a faint glint of madness. Still, there was an engaging, openly friendly air to his manner. He looked at me sharply. “Doc, you got any combat skills?”

I hesitated. “I'm not sure I follow you.”

“Fighting skills, Doc, you know, martial arts. You by chance have a black belt in karate?”

“Gene, I don't think I have a black belt in my closet.”

He twisted his mouth in a hard grimace of understanding. Then his eyes brightened with another question. “You packing any heat, Doc?”

I stared at him blankly. “Well, no, Gene. I'm not even packing a lunch.”

Again he nodded his head in shrewd assessment, momentarily lost in a generous fog. “I think we need to fall back to a more secure area, Doc. Come with me.”

In spite of his bizarre eccentricities, Gene had an amiable, completely harmless nature. His involvement was critical to my plans, so I went along. He walked over to the control panel, selected a disk, and popped it into the player, speaking with a conspiratorial assuredness. “That should buy us some time.”

He grabbed a small flashlight and opened a door on the backside of the studio room. After pausing for a short survey, he stepped inside and motioned for me to follow. I did so and he shut the door behind me.

I now realized I was standing in a five-by-­seven-­foot storage closet with a man who clearly did not limit his madness to March. Holding the flashlight under his chin, he changed the intonation of his voice to that of a reserved business professional.

“So, Dr. Bradford, how can I help you?”

I swallowed hard, deciding not to question Gene's covert antics.

“I, um. I was wondering if I could get you to play a certain song for me at nine o'clock Friday night?”

“Sure,” he answered readily. “You mean on the radio, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

He nodded, telegraphing his understanding. “What's the song, Doc?”

I told Gene about the song “Over the Valley” by the group Pink Martini, and the name instantly registered with him. This offered small assurance in what had otherwise been a rather surreal encounter. His face melted into a scheming grin, and he waggled his index finger at me.

“I gotcha, Doc. I'm with you. Got a little ­something-­something special planned, huh? Want to set the right mood, the right ambience.” He floated his hands outward like a symphony conductor.

“Yeah, well, something like that.”

Gene rubbed his chin. “Hmm, smart plan, Doc.” He paused and winked. “You need any other ideas? 'Cause I know a thing or two about captivating the honeys.”

“Um, no, Gene. I'm good. But thanks.” I repeated all the details to him again and thanked him for his help. But by the time I finished, his expression was vacant, preoccupied, and he seemed miles away.

“Gene, do I need to write this down for you?”

He made a sign of dismissal. “I got it, Doc. It's all stored right up here.” He tapped his finger several times to the side of his head. “I learned in 'Nam it's better not to write things down; otherwise people can figure out what you're up to.” He leaned in closer and looked from side to side as if someone were in the closet with us. “Matter of fact, I got a theory that not writing things down is actually the eleventh commandment.” He squinted his eyes and gave me an emphatic nod.

“Okay, interesting.”

“Yep, pretty sure that's right. Of course, you know, it's not written down in the Bible for obvious reasons.”

I just didn't know what to make of Gene. I couldn't help but think that a part of him had forgotten to show up for the conversation. His adaptive mind didn't seem troubled by the pitfalls of chance and daily nuisances that beset most of our lives. Then again, part of me wondered if, in fact, Gene was the quintessential practical joker; that long ago he had found life a little too dull and over the years had developed this kindly yet slightly deranged persona. I simply couldn't figure him out.

We stood for a moment in the dim illumination of the flashlight. Gene had begun to look around, clearly puzzled. After another moment of hesitation, he regarded me with an innocent, inquisitive face and asked a question that seemed to say it all.

“Doc, why are we standing in a closet?”

Estelle to the Rescue

F
riday morning I stopped by the Sweetshop Bakery for a lifesaving infusion of coffee and one of Estelle's elaborate pastries. Connie emerged from the kitchen, dusting flour from her hands.

“My, my, Doctor. Pray tell . . . where have you been all week?”

“Same old same old. Work, sleep, and eat. Oh, and practicing all my steps for the big dance tomorrow night.”

“­Umm-­hmm. Well, you might want to modify your ‘Gangnam Style' for a little ­fox-­trot.”

“Why is that?”

“I heard yesterday from John that the band canceled at the last minute . . . something to do with a DUI charge. The only group he could get to replace them is called Guy Dupree and the Night Owls. They play ­big-­band music.”

I was unaffected by this news, but knew that it would likely disappoint some Watervalley regulars. “Not exactly hoedown material.”

“Oh, I think it will be fine,” Connie responded. “People just want to have a good time.”

“Hey, grab a coffee and join me.”

We sat at one of the small tables. “So, you've been keeping a pretty low profile for the past week. Anything you need to confess?” Connie inquired.

I almost laughed at her bluntness. “No, Mrs. Thompson. My life has been just a fairy tale.”

“Hmm, do tell. Speaking of which, how are things with the big bad wolf? Have his eyes gotten any worse?”

It should have been no surprise that word about Luther's macular degeneration had gotten out. “Luther's the same old sweetheart. He had an appointment last week, which, of course, made my day.”

“Luther's pretty complicated. A lot of those guys from the war era are like that.”

“Yeah, but with Luther, I get the sense that it's not just the war. It's something else.”

“By the way, how has Gene Alley been? Any more bouts with the Top Forty countdown?”

I was suspicious that she knew more about my visit to Gene and my proposal plans for later that evening than she was letting on. I strove for nonchalance.

“Mmm, all right, I think. I talked to him briefly earlier in the week, and he seemed to be okay.”

“I don't think the words ‘Gene' and ‘okay' belong in the same sentence.”

As Connie finished, Estelle approached, sparkling with her ­larger-­than-­life self. “Morning, morning, morning, Dr. B. Did you come by to fill up my dance card for tomorrow night?” She held up her hands and swayed her hips from side to side.

“Estelle, it breaks my heart to tell you this, but I think Cinderella already has me booked up.”

“Well, no matter. It's your loss, sweetie.” She pulled up a chair and joined us. “Anyway, I'm glad I've got you two together for a moment. Speaking of Cinderella, we need to do something about our little ugly duckling.”

“Who you talking about?” Connie asked.

“Dr. Davidson, that's who. She was in here yesterday and let it slip that if things don't change, she may be folding her tent in another month. That's just wrong.”

I exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Look, I need to level with you two. Like I mentioned the other night, the beef and dairy farmers think she'll wind up hurting herself around big livestock. But Karen has this kind of magic power with animals, this amazing ability to calm them. I can't explain it, but I've seen it firsthand. We just need to get one or two of the farmers to give her a chance. I pitched her to several of them, but no one's biting.”

“Well, sweetie,” responded Estelle, “there's your problem. Your approach is all wrong.”

“I'm not following you.”

“You're trying to bring the honey to the bees. You need to let the bees come to the honey.”

I glanced at Connie, who was nodding in agreement. “Estelle, I'm . . . I'm still in the dark here.”

“We need to de-ugly that duckling,” Estelle declared. “Bless her heart, that girl has the fashion awareness of an eggplant. There's a ­good-­looking woman under all that plain G.I. Jane. You let Connie and me work our magic, and I guarantee the farmers will take notice.”

“I'm not sure that's the kind of noticing Karen wants,” I responded skeptically.

“Sweetie, men are like mules,” Estelle added. “They'll do what you want, but sometimes you first have to pop them on the side of the head to get their attention.”

“Gee. I don't know. You make us sound more like pigs.”

Estelle pretended to admire her nails. “Your words, not mine.”

“Even so, Estelle, I'm not sure Karen will go for this.”

She flipped her hand at me. “Oh, honey, you're just blind with love. I admit she's a little on the skinny side and doesn't have an hourglass figure like me, but there's enough there to work with.”

Connie turned to her sister. “Girl, did I just hear you say you had an hourglass figure?”

Estelle continued to admire her nails. “You certainly did.”

“Humph,” Connie responded coolly, taking a sip of her coffee. “Don't look now, but I think the sands of time have shifted on you.”

Estelle spoke aloofly. “I've kept my shape.”

“And you've certainly added to it.”

Estelle ignored her. “So, what do you think, Doctor?”

I shrugged. “Okay by me. But how do you propose to get Karen on board with the idea?”

Estelle looked at her watch. “It's seven ­thirty-­four. That opportunity is going to happen in three, two, one seconds.” She looked up and pointed toward the door.

As if on cue, Karen Davidson walked in. Estelle waved her over.

“Dr. Davidson, honey, we were just talking about you.”

Karen pulled up a chair to join us, and we all exchanged greetings. She smiled cautiously. “So, guys . . . what's up?”

I glanced guardedly at Connie and Estelle before speaking. “Look, Karen. The three of us are aware that your veterinary practice has not been as robust as you'd like.”

“There's an understatement.”

“Well, we'd like to help.”

“I'm not sure that's possible. But I'm open. What do you have in mind?”

Estelle leaned across the table toward Karen. “Dr. D., we were just curious. . . . Do you have a special somebody?”

Karen sat puzzled and threw a quick glance in my direction. “Um, Estelle, I'm not sure I understand the question.”

Connie responded in a kind, motherly voice. “Dr. Davidson, my sister is wanting to know if you are seeing a man.”

Karen laughed. “Only if I close my eyes and concentrate.”

“Well, Dr. D.,” Estelle said, “if that's right, it's just a crying shame. A ­good-­looking woman like you ought to be swatting the men away like flies.”

Karen shrugged. “I don't know about all that. I work around animals all day, so I spend most of my time swatting flies away like flies.”

“Honey,” Estelle said, “are you planning on going to the big dance tomorrow night?”

“I hadn't really decided. I could either go to the dance or stay home. But I'd say the smart money is on the ‘staying home' option.”

“Uh-uhh, sweetie,” declared Estelle. “You are going to the dance. But first, you and Connie and me are heading out on a little shopping trip in the morning.”

Karen smiled warily. “Um, okay, I think. Sounds like fun, maybe. But I'm not sure how this is going to help the practice.”

The two sisters exchanged edgy glances. Connie patted Karen's hand. “We'll explain all that in the car tomorrow, dear.”

Karen turned to me. “What are these two up to?”

I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “My advice is to just go with it. In my experience, the Pillow sisters are not to be denied.”