The Splendor of Ordinary Days (29 page)

As we walked back to the car, the crushing weight of Luther's painful life poured over me. To think that his son and grandchildren were living less than ­twenty-­five miles away and yet he would likely never see them again seemed a terrible penance. But rather than looking miserable, Luther appeared divinely at peace, as if he were closing up a ­long-­suffered wound. The one thing that Luther and Eli still shared was a love of Ellie Yoder. For her cherished and untarnished memory to remain intact, it was best to leave matters as they were. My heart went out to him.

On our return trip down Mercy Creek Road, I asked Luther if he minded stopping at the site of the ruins. He seemed glad to oblige.

He pulled only a few feet down the long drive and stopped the car. For a full minute we sat in silence, absorbing the view of this enchanted meadow and its surrounding hills.

“Levi told me that he and Rebecca are going to build here in the spring,” I said.

Luther seemed pleased. “Ellie would like that. It's only right that her granddaughter should rebuild out of the ashes and live a happy life here.”

A question struck me. “Luther, you know everything about this place. Who originally built this house?”

“No idea. It was abandoned for years before the Yoder family bought it. There's an old story that the guy who built it was at one time engaged to my grandmother.”

“So I take it he wasn't your grandfather?”

“No, he was some fellow who died soon after their engagement. I don't know if he was killed in a farming accident or what. After several years, my grandmother met and married my grandfather. She died when my mom was three. Anyway, as the story goes, the fellow who built this place wrote her a bunch of poems. She had them made into a book. It's in the Watervalley library.”

A memory fluttered. “What was the name of the book?”

“I believe it's called
Poems to Sylvia
. That was my grandmother's name.”

“I think I've seen it. Will Fox was reading it on his front porch a while back.”

Luther shrugged. “I remember seeing it once years ago, but I don't remember much about it.”

“And you don't remember the name of the guy who wrote the poems?”

“Love poems from one of your grandmother's old boyfriends aren't exactly memorable stuff, Doctor.”

“Point taken.”

In time we left and Luther drove me to the clinic where, no doubt, a waiting room full of patients was anxiously anticipating my arrival. Luther got out of the car and walked around to shake my hand one last time.

“So, what's next?” I said.

“I'm leaving town for a few days. There's something I need to do. Someone I need to go see.” His words seemed intentionally guarded, so I didn't inquire further.

Luther filled in the silence. “I know I've said this before, Luke, but I owe you. If there's ever anything you need me to do, just let me know.”

I stared at him for a moment, and then a thought occurred to me. “Luther, you know there is one thing that does come to mind.” Then another idea hit me, and I spoke hesitantly. “Actually . . . two.”

Beacon Road

T
he early days of November had been cool but unseasonably dry. My morning runs began in darkness, and along the way I would quietly watch the drowsy countryside awaken. As the first delicate light of morning pushed away the shadows, tatters of white fog could be seen nestled in the ­low-­lying fields and along the creek banks. And by the time I made my way toward home, the sun had scaled the eastern hills, catching the morning sky on fire.

With each passing day, it seemed that Christine regained more of the joy for life that had always defined her. Despite the devastating news about her medical condition, she was courageously finding the resolve to hope. On a few occasions she even asked me about some of the articles she had read in online medical journals. Perhaps the best part of her willingness to talk was that she was beginning to understand the depth of my love for her, that this setback was our challenge together, not hers alone. On that heartrending afternoon at Bracken's Knoll, I had never considered that this beautiful woman's greatest distress was her fear of losing me. It was a reality that I doubted I would ever completely understand.

Even so, she would occasionally tease that perhaps we should run off and elope so that we could start the whole baby factory process sooner. Admittedly, as a guy with a firm aversion to ceremony and on the heels of a ­three-­hour Mennonite wedding, I found this idea had merit on several levels. Christine was as beautiful as ever, my blood was still decidedly red, and my passion for her was ever present.

On Thursday of the first week of November, Beatrice McClanahan came to the clinic complaining about an assortment of aches and pains. Her slightly disheveled appearance was a departure from her usual spruced-up and tidy manner. She was also quite liberated from her normally polite reserve and ranted on about everything.

She started with how stupidity was more and more in unlimited supply and how her neighbor had the ­brain-­wave activity of a stapler. She progressed to the poor shape of her maple trees and when the sap would run, or not run, or simply jog in place. I listened as best I could but it was exhausting. Then a simple reality occurred to me. Beatrice was still full of life, but she was lonely and bored.

When she finally stopped to take a breath, I asked, “Beatrice, what would you think about providing a home to two wonderful puppies?”

Later that afternoon I brought the two remaining progeny of Rhett and Maggie's union to Beatrice's house. Earlier that morning, the friend who had driven Beatrice to the clinic had volunteered to take her by the Farmers Co-op, where she had loaded up on puppy food, puppy toys, puppy beds, and a ­fifty-­five-­gallon barrel of puppy love, figuratively speaking. As I handed the two squirming fellows to her, she was bubbling over with pure delight and laughing to the point of giddiness. Her animated face was a study of faultless devotion. She talked nonstop into the sweet, expressive brown eyes of her new canine companions. For Beatrice, it seemed like a day trip to heaven.

When I left her house, a good two hours of daylight still remained. The glaring reminder of Beatrice's loneliness made me think about Leyland Carter. He had mentioned having been in the war, and it occurred to me that it would be fully proper for him to be included in the assembly of veterans being recognized at the upcoming Veterans Day ceremony. After only a moment's deliberation, I headed out the east road to pay him a visit.

Twenty minutes later, I was inching the ­Austin-­Healey down Leyland's ragged and partially ­washed-­out driveway. I parked in the small grassy area in front of his house and, as I had done before, I called out to him as I approached the porch steps. The day was cold, but the ­late-­afternoon sun was sharply bright, cutting brilliantly through the bare trees. The added light gave the dilapidated shack an eerie illumination.

More than ever, this rude cottage seemed to convey an air of desertion. I called out several times but was met with only the faint echo of my own voice resonating through the nearby woods. Repeated raps on the front door yielded neither sound nor movement from within. Leyland simply wasn't here; truthfully, the place looked like no one had been there for some time.

As I was turning to leave, I caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off the porch rocking chair. I stepped closer and was instantly dumbstruck. On the seat were the five pieces of wrapped peppermint that I had left there weeks earlier. This made no sense. Surely Leyland would have found them. A list of distressing possibilities began to nag at me. Had he fallen in the woods? Had he died in his sleep? No answers seemed like good ones.

I walked around the house and checked the doors and windows. All were locked tight. His old truck still sat tiredly, covered in a blanket of rotting leaves. I stood silently, waiting, listening. Briefly, from somewhere in the distant woods I could have sworn I heard a man singing. It struck me as the same tune I had heard at the ruins on Mercy Creek Road months earlier. It lasted only half a minute and then faded. I called out a few more times, but to no avail.

I tried my cell phone, but there was still no service in this remote corner of the valley. I needed to contact Sheriff Thurman and get him along with the EMTs to investigate further. After stepping briskly to the car, I wheeled it around and bumped my way back out Leyland's driveway. As I made the turn onto Beacon Road, a car was approaching from the opposite direction. The driver recognized the ­Austin-­Healey and pulled to a stop. I slowed up as well. It was Joe Dawson, the pastor from Watervalley First Presbyterian.

Riding in the passenger seat was none other than Leonard Lineberry, the ­full-­time EMT and ­part-­time preacher. In the past months the two of them had struck up a regular friendship based on their shared love of ministry. No doubt, Leonard found much to learn from Joe's seminary training, and Joe delighted in having a connection with someone who knew every soul in Watervalley, lost, found, or hiding. Joe rolled down his window, and we chatted in the middle of the remote highway.

Leonard spoke first. “Doc, what in the world are you doing out here and coming out of that old place? You trying to get a little gravel in your travel?”

“I came to see Leyland Carter.”

“Leyland who?”

“Leyland Carter.” Both men offered no response. “You remember, Joe. He was the fellow you asked me to check on when you stopped by the clinic last summer. We talked about him at the July Fourth celebration.”

Joe looked lost and turned toward Leonard. Leonard placed his hand on the dash and leaned across Joe to speak to me. “Doc, are you looking for Lester Carter? He lives up the road a few miles. We're on our way to see him. Lester's pretty old and rusted out with lung disease, so Joe and I have made it a point to see him together.”

“No,” I responded immediately. “No, I'm talking about Leyland Carter. He's clearly an older fellow, but he definitely doesn't have COPD. Leyland is as fit as a fiddle.”

Joe snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “You know, Luke, I remember the conversation you're talking about now. This may be my mistake. The fellow I was asking about was Lester Carter. I must have gotten the names confused.”

“But that doesn't make any sense, because I've visited Leyland Carter out here a couple of times.”

Leonard spoke cautiously. “Doc, are you talking about the place you just pulled out of?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because that's the old Jamison place. Nobody's lived in that ­run-­down shack for twenty years.”

I shook my head. “Leonard, that can't be right. Like I said, I've been out to that house a couple of times before and talked with the guy who lives there. He said his name is Leyland Carter. And candidly, fellows, I'm a little worried about him right now. I just left there, and he's not answering the door. I'm afraid something may have happened to him.”

Leonard was about to speak again, but Joe stopped him. He regarded me gravely. “Luke, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but whoever you were meeting with at that place wasn't Leyland Carter. I remember that name now. For some reason, Leyland Carter got left on the church rolls as an active member. But he died almost a hundred years ago.”

String of Pearls

W
e chatted for another minute or so before continuing on our separate ways, but I was resolved that some misunderstanding had occurred. Admittedly, Leyland Carter was a curious, elusive fellow, but he had been very real. It still troubled me that perhaps I should call the sheriff and investigate further. But with detached certitude, Leonard had reaffirmed his conviction that no one had lived at the old shack for some time. His steadfast insistence convinced me not to take immediate action. I looked at my watch and decided to head for home. For the first time since my return from Atlanta, Connie was cooking dinner for me. The two of us had much to talk about.

The slanting light of sunset spread before me as I made the lonely drive back to Fleming Street. The confusion of the previous hour troubled me. From deep within, the small, rational voice that served me so well in making patient assessments was casting doubt about all that I felt I knew regarding Leyland. I dismissed these thoughts, relegating them to the blur of a long and weary day.

Nightfall came quickly. By the time I reached home, a low luster of moonlight had appeared. After pulling into my drive, the glow through the windows of my quaint little house, along with the anticipation of Connie's cooking, returned me to a lighter mood.

I found her in the kitchen, talking to Rhett and the newest member of my family, Casper, one of the male puppies. Rhett was lying forlornly on the kitchen floor and enduring an onslaught of nips and assaults from his wildly energetic offspring. Apparently, Connie shared my belief that Rhett had a full command of the English language. She was in rare form, preaching to him about the wages of sin.

“­Umm-­hmm, that's right, big fellow. You let a moment of unbridled passion get the best of you, and now look what 'chu got to put up with. I'm guessing the expression ‘Every dog has his day' isn't such a proud mantra for you anymore. Humph, I'd say you need to be wagging your tail to the tune of ‘Who's Sorry Now.'”

Rhett looked dolefully at me as if to say,
Please shoot me
.

Content that she had made her point, Connie turned to me. “Evening, sweetie. I was taking the opportunity to have a little teachable moment with Mr. Rhett here.”

“So I heard. You know, Connie, I hate to tell you this, but I think Rhett operates on the theory that all dogs go to heaven. I'm not sure your lecture is going to yield the intended results.”

“Humph,” she snorted in response. “Doesn't hurt him to have someone hold up a light to his actions.”

“You can't put all of this on Rhett. Seems to me the lady might have been willing.”

Connie cut her eyes at me. “We're not going there, Luke Bradford. This is the South, and we don't impugn a young lady's virtue.”

I laughed, holding up my hands in surrender. “Fair enough. I give.”

Connie responded with a firm nod and seemed loaded for further evangelizing. I quickly changed the subject.

“So, what's for dinner?”

“Meat loaf, corn, and ­black-­eyed peas. Get yourself washed. We've got a lot of catching up to do.”

Five minutes later I was deep into the ecstasy of Connie's cooking. Having lured me into a state of slight euphoria, she went for the jugular with her first question. “So, Doctor, explain to me how it came to pass that you and Luther attended a Mennonite wedding together.”

“I guess you saw where Luther put a short write-up about the wedding in the paper,” I responded. I'd been as surprised as anyone to see the article. It seemed that Luther couldn't stop from making mention of his beautiful granddaughter's wedding, a relationship that was obviously not disclosed. Still, he clearly was risking the possibility that suspicions would be raised, especially given Luther's previous rants about the Mennonites.

“Yes, I did. What was that all about?” Connie persisted.

“I was invited and Luther wanted to come along. I guess he wrote the article as a piece of local color.”

“­Umm-­hmm,” Connie responded, unconvinced. “That's difficult to swallow. Usually Luther is more interested in ­off-­color. He sure seems to have changed his attitude toward the Mennonite community.”

I made no response, knowing that the least said was easiest defended. Still, Connie wasn't buying.

“Okay, tell me the real reason you took Luther along.”

“Well, Mrs. Thompson, as you know, Luther was a boyhood friend with Eli Yoder. Years ago they had a ­falling-­out. Both men have been to see me about problems with their eyesight. It occurred to me that along with their physical loss of vision, perhaps they had been blind to each other. So I arranged something of a reconciliation.”

Having offered this information, I said nothing more, certain that Connie would understand two things. First, that I wasn't telling everything and second, that I couldn't.

Connie possessed an unfathomable capacity for insight. In the silence that ensued, it occurred to me that it was perhaps no accident that she was lecturing Rhett about his untimely consummation with Maggie at the exact moment I happened to arrive in the kitchen. This uncannily mirrored Luther Whitmore's story, even to the detail of not casting aspersions on Ellie Yoder. Yet again, it may have all been a coincidence.

Connie took a sip of tea and brooded. Then, it seemed, she deliberately turned and looked at Rhett for a few seconds. Afterward, she nodded her head lightly, signaling that the matter was closed. She spoke tenderly on a different matter. “Tell me how things are with you and Christine.”

“It's been tough on her. There's a lot to process. But I've done everything I can to let her know it's all going to be okay, whatever the outcome.”

“You know her aunt Molly, John's wife, couldn't have children and Christine is an only child.”

“Yeah, I guess, considering her family history, her condition should have come as no big surprise.”

“When she and I talked on that day you were driving back from Atlanta, she mentioned that you told her you wanted a lot of children. Five or six, I believe she said.”

“That would be true.” I hesitated a moment. “And one way or another, we can still have five or six children. I guess our home may end up looking like a miniature United Nations.”

Connie's eyes softened momentarily, regarding me with clear admiration. Then she lifted her chin in an expression of hard resolve. “You're a good man, Luke Howard Bradford. This may sound awfully strange coming from me, but I'm going to tell you something, and, sweetie, you need to listen up good.”

I nodded, curious as to what was on her mind.

“I didn't have four children by sitting in a pumpkin patch.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I've been reading up on premature ovarian failure. Youth is still on Christine's side.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, that's largely true.”

“Well, I know the two of you are trying to do the right thing and holding off till marriage. Don't ask me how I know. . . . I just know. Now don't get me ­wrong—­I respect your choices, and I love you both deeply for it. But at the same time, part of me thinks that maybe the two of you need to just run off and get married, find yourself a room, and don't come up for air for about a week to ten days. Heavens, boy, your hormones are probably so backed up, I'm surprised you still have the power of speech.”

I laughed outright, unable to contain myself from the odd mix of love and candor in Connie's words.

“Connie, the thought has crossed our minds.” I paused for a moment. “But here's the deal. I'm in love with her. And I know she's always dreamed about having a big wedding with all of her friends and family present. Say we eloped and next June arrived and she still wasn't pregnant . . . then where would we be? As far as the two of us having our own children . . . well, that dream may be taken away. But the big church wedding is a dream of hers that I can help make happen. So, we'll wait until next June. At least, that's the plan.” I paused, grunting a quick laugh. “Unless, of course, my hormones come up with a better one.”

Connie patted my hand and nodded proudly. “All right then, sweetie. That's the way it will be.”

The look on her face reminded me of something very impor­tant that I had failed to remember. “Oh my gosh. I almost forgot. Wait right here.”

I went upstairs to search the boxes that I had brought back from Atlanta. After finding what I was looking for, I bounded back down the stairs and pulled my chair adjacent to Connie's. “I've got something here I want you to have.” I placed the ­felt-­covered jewelry box in her hand.

Connie looked at me dumbfounded. “Luke, what on earth?”

“Take it. Go ahead,” I said.

She looked at me blankly before slowly opening the small container. Carefully, she lifted the long string of elegant white pearls. “Luke Bradford! Honey, I don't understand.”

“They belonged to my mom. She wore them all the time, and I used to tease her about them. She wore them to church, to my ball games, everywhere. Anyway, I want you to have them.”

Connie shook her head. “Luke, honey, I can't take these.”

“And why not?”

Her words held a full measure of tender instruction. “Because these belonged to your momma.” She slid the case toward me.

I smiled and gently slid it back. “They still do.”

Connie stood and gave me a long hug. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Besides,” I said to her, “since all of my relatives are in the great beyond, come next June's wedding, you'll have one whole side of the church to yourself.”

Connie laughed. “I'll be proud to stand in as your mom.” She carefully placed the pearls back in the jewelry box and quickly regained her stern demeanor. “Now, be a good boy and help your momma clean up the kitchen.”

As we worked side by side, we talked randomly about a number of topics, including the upcoming Veterans Day ceremony.

“So, do you have your speech prepared?” Connie asked, knowing I didn't.

“Nah, I figure if I do a lousy job, I'll quit getting asked to do these things.”

“I can't say I approve of that attitude. Things happen for a reason, you know.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the reason is because you weren't paying close enough attention when a friend snookered you into doing something.”

Connie grinned and let my comment sink in for a moment. “By the way, it turns out that ­seventy-­two men and women from Watervalley have been killed in combat since 1900. Every one of them will have their name embossed on the statue base. The list is over there. The names are in chronological order as to when they were killed.” Connie pointed to a manila folder on the kitchen counter.

Curious, I walked over and opened the file. But after seeing the first name on the list, a rush of panic seized me. “Connie, no.” I looked at her, awash in disbelief and shock. “No, this can't be right!”

“Luke, what's wrong, honey?” She stepped toward me but stopped, staring in an odd mix of worry and astonishment. “Sweetie, you're as white as a sheet. If I didn't know better, I'd say you just saw a ghost!”

The first name on the list was a soldier killed in action, June 26, 1918, near Reims, France. His name was Leyland James Carter of Mercy Creek Road.