The Splendor of Ordinary Days (22 page)

In the Still of the Night

G
uy Dupree and the Night Owls continued to play encore after encore as a line of ­well-­wishers formed to congratulate us. Several patted me on the back, many of them hugged Christine, and all of them wanted to see the ring. Given that it was a ­two-­and-a-­half-­carat stone, it was the focus of commentary.

More than a few of the ­well-­meaning rural women commented, “Whoa, honey. What did you have to do to get that?”

John came and shook my hand, saying nothing and offering a mirthful wink. Hoot grabbed me in a jaws-of-life bear hug. He and Karen had spent most of the evening together, and she seemed delighted with his company. For Hoot, it was clearly a fortuitous match. They were roughly the same age, and Karen was likely one of the few women in the valley who wasn't put off by the smell of silage.

Connie and Estelle both came and hugged me, each with the remnants of elated tears staining their faces. Connie held my arm and whispered, “I'm awfully proud of you, sweetheart.”

I regarded her with a rather puckish grin and whispered in return, “Thanks, for everything.”

It was almost an hour before we made it to the car. It seemed that no one wanted the night to end and so many wanted to share in our excitement. But we were thinking differently. The furtive glances between the two of us clearly communicated our singular desire to get away, to be blissfully alone.

On the drive to her home, I shared with Christine all the painful details of my foiled plans to propose out at the lake and then at the dance. She laughed almost to the point of hysterics. And yet, oddly, my efforts seemed to engender in her an affectionate devotion beyond words.

“It was perfect, Luke. Just perfect,” she assured me. It still amazed me that this beautiful girl who less than a year ago had so easily detested me now loved me so completely.

After we arrived at her home, Christine went upstairs and woke up her mother, Madeline, who had left the dance hours earlier. She came down in her housecoat and gave me a long hug as Christine told her about my ­center-­stage proposal. I adored Madeline Chambers. She had married a farmer, but she had been a banker's daughter and was the embodiment of charm and graciousness. She was a lovely, engaging woman of incredible strength who had imbued her daughter with the best of her own qualities.

Madeline bid us good night and returned to bed. Christine grabbed a quilt, and we retreated to the quiet shadows of the moonlit front porch, sinking into the deep cushions of the wicker sofa. We sat tightly beside each other. Christine turned and brought her knees across my lap and draped her arms around my neck, occasionally kissing my cheek and nuzzling me with her nose when she wasn't gazing euphorically at the ring on her outstretched hand. It seemed she couldn't be close enough to me. It was heaven.

Despite the late hour, we were awash in a delicate euphoria, unable to stop talking and giggling in voices that were low and sweet, echoing musically against the quiet serenity of the night.

I spoke barely above a whisper. “So, Miss Chambers, when do you think you'd like to become a doctor's wife?”

“Mmm, I guess I'm kind of traditional. I've always wanted to be a June bride and get married at Watervalley First Presbyterian. That will give us time to plan the wedding. Besides, I won't be out of school until late May.”

“June, huh. Seems like a rather long engagement.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. I guess not. It's just that I see engagement to be pretty much the same thing as marriage, except without the fringe benefits.”

Christine laughed and shook her head, again rubbing her nose into my cheek. “Well, maybe we should just elope so we can get started on those six children you talked about.”

“Okay, so what about all that? You seemed a little ­shell-­shocked when I mentioned it last night.”

“No, no, I love the idea. I really do. Look, you're an only child and I'm an only child. We have no first cousins. We're pretty much alone in the world, Luke. So the idea of a house bursting at the seams with little voices sounds absolutely wonderful to me. Although I have to admit, the thought of spending almost four and a half years pregnant is a little daunting.”

“It will be fine, Christine. I will be right there.” I paused a moment and looked into the darkness beyond the front porch. “You know, when I was little, I don't believe my dad ever missed a Little League or soccer game. He might have missed an inning or two, but he always showed up. He was my hero. And I never sensed he saw it as some obligation, I think he just loved me and wanted to watch me play. That's who my dad was, and that's who I intend to be.”

“For all six?”

“For all six.”

“Okay, this might be a silly question, but will we be able to afford that many?”

“They say that doctors make pretty good money, although granted, so far it's an unproven theory. Besides, the family trust comes into play in about three and a half years. So that should cover things like bicycles, braces, and your shoe budget.”

She rolled her eyes at my teasing. “Easy there, Bradford. A girl has to keep her standards.”

She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek again. “I think it's wonderful. I love the idea of having six children.”

I looked down and ran my hand along the curve of her hip and then under her delightfully rounded backside. “And I, Miss Chambers, love the idea of making six children.”

Her eyes had a mischievous gleam. “Do you, now?”

“You know I do. Don't you ever think about it?”

She looked down, but her impish smile never wavered. “I think about it all the time.”

It was not the response I was expecting. “Really?”

“Well, yeah. Really.”

We sat for a moment, intimately holding tightly to each other in the autumn darkness. I placed my hand beside her face and ­gently kissed her forehead. “Christine, I'm in love with ­you—­deeply in love with you. I think you know that.”

She nodded. I looked down and spoke slowly, carefully choosing my words. “I've also come to understand from the things you've said that, well, you've held tight to a promise you made to yourself long ago, about waiting. And I love that about you too. But I won't lie about or deny my desire. So talk to me. Tell me what you want.”

She searched my face, her piercing, luminous eyes reflecting her thoughts. And as I gazed at her, I saw all the strength, all the passion, all the tenderness of a woman who had clung bravely to an ideal that the larger world thought naïve and archaic.

Her words were soft, almost fragile, yet spoken with a full measure of certainty. “What I want is you, Luke. That's all I know.” She paused for a moment before once again looking ardently into my eyes. “I want you. So I guess it's up to you. Perhaps I should feel differently, think differently . . . believe differently. But I don't. Not now. Not anymore. Not with you.”

I nodded in understanding. Eventually, I leaned toward her and again pressed my lips to her forehead, leaving them there for the longest time.

Unexpected

I
arrived home around two in the morning. Christine had asked me to stay and sleep over in the guest bedroom, but I gently refused. I was exhausted and wanted my own bed.

Will and Louise had agreed to let Rhett stay with them for the night. So as I pulled in and parked the car at the side of the house, I was thinking of nothing more than collapsing into bed. But as I made my way to the front porch, something caught my eye.

I froze.

The porch light wasn't on, but the lamplight coming through the front windows dimly defined a large silhouette. It was a man sitting on the porch floor with his back against the house and his arms folded in front of him. His chin was down and his face was hidden under a ball cap. He wasn't moving.

My breath quickened as alarm raced through me. At this deep and desolate hour, nothing good could come of this strange presence. I stepped closer, my eyes straining to determine who this could possibly be. Then I heard a low wheezing sound. Whoever he was, he was asleep. But I was on edge, tense, alert.

I ascended the first step and leaned in, doing my best to be eye level with the ghostly figure. Within the frail shadows, the image was eerily surreal. But soon enough, I recognized him.

It was Clayton Ross.

I inhaled a deep breath and braced myself, unsure of what to anticipate upon rousing him. I stepped up on the porch and lightly tapped his foot.

In the flash of a moment he was on his feet and lunging at me like a tackling linebacker. But instead of throwing me to the ground, he slammed both of our bodies against the side of the house, using his to absorb the brunt of the crashing impact. His voice was thunderous, ­panic-­stricken. “They're shooting, Jonas! They're shooting!”

“Clayton! Clayton! It's me, Luke Bradford.”

He turned to me in ­wide-­eyed terror. “Jonas, Jonas! Your face, your face! You're okay! Look, look. . . .” He stopped. His words drifted into the dark, and he slowly released his grip on me. He seemed lost, spooked, and he stared blankly into the night as he ran the palm of his hand over his forehead, obliviously pushing back his ball cap, which fell unheeded to the porch floor.

“Clayton, it's me, Dr. Bradford. I think you just woke from a bad dream.” There was no smell of alcohol on his breath.

He stared numbly for another few seconds, his expression a picture of woe. For a brief moment, I saw in his eyes the ­half-­captured image of a frightened child. His was a mind encased in fear and confusion. Awkwardly, he looked around, and I could see the light of reality begin to emerge on his face, leaving him in an embarrassed and lowly state. He glanced at me briefly and then carefully bent down and picked up his ball cap. His hands were trembling.

He spoke stiffly with downcast eyes. “I'­m—­I'm sorry, Dr. Bradford. I couldn't sleep tonight, so I started walking. I must have walked for miles, and somehow I got it in my head to come see you. That maybe you could help me.” He glanced up at my eyes, wanting to read something in my gaze. He looked down again quickly and continued. “After I got here . . . I don't know. Just knowing that I was close; knowing that I might talk to you and maybe you could help me . . . well, it made me relax, helped me to not think about things. So, I guess I fell asleep. I'm sorry. It's the middle of the night. I'll come back to the clinic sometime.”

He offered a ­tight-­lipped nod and began to step away. Despite my consuming exhaustion and a head floating in the fog and dullness of lost sleep, I lightly grabbed his shoulder. “Clayton, come inside for a while.”

He paused for only a moment before nodding and following me. He took a seat on the large sofa in the living room while I walked to the kitchen and retrieved two bottles of water. I returned and handed one to him. I took off my tuxedo jacket, tossed it over the back of the large chair, and sat down.

He spoke politely. “I guess you went to the bandstand dance tonight?”

“Yeah, it was a good time.” I paused and nodded thoughtfully. “A big evening.”

He nodded in return, looking around the room, lost in uncertainty.

“So, I guess you opted not to go?” I said. “Veterans got in free, you know.”

He smiled weakly and exhaled a deep sigh. “Probably best I didn't. I, uh, I don't seem to do well in crowds.”

We sat looking at each other in an uneasy and appraising manner. The brooding air between us was thick, guarded, cautious. I lightly rubbed my chin.

“Who was Jonas, Clayton?”

There was a heavy pause at the mention of this name. At first, he spoke stiltedly, fumbling over his words and struggling through his sentences as if unsure where to begin. But in time, his low, husky voice poured out the long narrative of a buried desperation. He talked about the war and spoke of horrific, dreadful things: of terrified faces gasping for breath; of the warm, sickening stench of lacerated bodies; and of the gruesome business of wiping the remnants of his friend Jonas's face from his own uniform. His descriptions were grotesque and vivid. And yet I came to slowly realize the cathartic need he had to tell me. Apparently Clayton had determined that since I was a doctor, all the unspeakable gore wouldn't matter and that perhaps somehow I could dispassionately help him to understand, to find perspective. In reality, I could do little more than nod and listen.

It was the balance of his cheerless and somber words that convinced me there was a darkness in him that I couldn't begin to fathom. He told of how, since his return home, he had felt a stranger, always adrift, searching to find an entrance into his former life. Alcohol had become his refuge against the noise and confusion of the world. Ultimately, he told of a tremendous sense of failure and frustration, an obscure but consuming belief that his life would be forever tainted, restless, alone. His whole existence seemed defined by an epic sadness.

As I absorbed the full measure of his lament, I began to understand my disgraceful ignorance of ­post-­traumatic stress. I was more comfortable with a disease process that presented itself with identifiable symptoms and a clear frontal wall of attack. In my discomfort in dealing with the elusive maladies of the mind, I tended to gloss over them, conveniently relegating them to some chemical imbalance or hormone deficiency.

I came to grasp how war makes tortured souls of its participants, often requiring them to live day by day, haunted by ghastly memories and tethered to cruel demons that fester like madness in their minds. It occurred to me that all who had been in battle had been forever changed by it. Some simply handled it better than others.

All of this contrasted shamefully with my joy of the previous hours. My consuming preoccupation with creating some perfect moment to propose now seemed frivolous when compared to the swallowing misery of this tearful young man. In my head I had invented a grand fiction about Clayton, assuming he was nothing more than a drunkard and a bully. I had been wrong.

Lost in thought, I now realized that he was asking a question.

“Is there some pill I can take, Dr. Bradford?”

I exhaled deeply. “Medications are probably part of the solution, Clayton. But I think it would be good for you to talk to someone . . . someone who has more experience with this kind of thing.”

He shrugged his shoulders, not understanding. “We're talking here, aren't we?”

“We are, and as much as I want to help you, Clayton, I'm not the best choice.” I paused for a moment, sharpening my gaze. An idea had struck me. “But I might know somebody who is.”

Clayton sat despondently. Having poured out his story, he seemed drained. I was on the verge of collapse as well. “Clayton, I'm going to get you a pillow and a blanket, and you can bunk there on the couch tonight. In the morning, I'll give you a ride home.”

He seemed slightly uncomfortable with this plan but ultimately responded with a muted nod. Another long silence followed, and I stared thoughtfully at him. “Clayton, you've been through a lot, and I'm sorry. But I'm going to do everything I can to help you get better.”

“Thanks, Doc.” His face was downcast, and it seemed he felt ashamed, embarrassed to admit to his pain. It made me all the more determined.