The Splendor of Ordinary Days (6 page)

Songs and Summer Nights

I
drove back through the thick woods of Mercy Creek Road and once again came upon the meadow opening to the old ruins. Slowly I edged the car down the gravel drive that was nothing more than two stony paths separated by thick weeds. I parked under a large maple and cut the engine. Except for a lonely breeze that ­gently fluttered the leaves of the great tree, I was surrounded by a swallowing silence, a uniform tranquillity. This small lap of land, this perfect meadow, was strangely and woefully beautiful. The moment held me still.

I stepped through the tall grass, walking around the old foundation, and past the rock wall of the garden plot to take in the small pond. In time I circled back, standing on the outside of the cottage ruins. As much as a century ago someone had placed these rocks one upon the other to build a hearth for meals and warmth. Now the abandonment and desolation of this perfect place seemed such a waste. I couldn't help but think that some wretched story was buried in its past, that these remnant stones were a boneyard of tragic memories. Once, this small cottage lay at the center of someone's life, some obscure soul whose light was spent molding this small valley into his own Eden.

And it seemed in that moment, standing just outside the old foundation, I was touched by something strange and fleeting, a warm and uplifting revelation.

That was when I heard the singing.

At first, I ignored it, believing it to be nothing more than a peculiar noise floating on the wind. But in time the mellow notes echoed unmistakably across the small amphitheater of the grassy meadow. It was the melodious voice of a man. The words were not discernible, and yet the tune was strangely familiar, existing just beyond the gateway of memory. I slowly turned full circle, listening, looking, and straining into the distance to determine the source of the lilting and sweetly melancholy song. But it seemed to have no origin. It simply drifted on the air.

I breathed a muffled laugh. My mind refused to accept what my ears were hearing, and yet, the pleasing, silvery tune continued. I spoke aloud to no one. “Okay, fine. Nice voice. Why are you singing?”

I felt a little foolish and shook my head, again exhaling a short laugh. During my brief time in Watervalley I had occasionally heard stories of voices singing in the distance. Whether lore or fable, it was said that the delicate tones of ancient hymns could be briefly heard, coming from beyond the brow of the next hill or above the gliding flow of a nearby brook. I had accepted these tales with a respectful silence, relegating such experiences to the charm and superstition of the rural ­mind-­set.

But there was no superstition here. This time, I was the one hearing the singing.

In time, the sound ebbed and finally disappeared, returning the ruins once again to silence. Even for me and even in that moment, the incident was difficult to take seriously. It seemed that I was inclined to cast anything supernatural or miraculous into the realm of false notion, ignorance, or happenchance. I could make no sense of it and shook my head.

“Only in Watervalley.”

I walked toward the low stone foundation, then stepped over it and into the enclosure of the original cottage. Once I was there, my eyes were drawn to a flash of color on the ancient hearth. I walked over and stared in disbelief. Carefully laid in the center of the elevated stones was a fresh bouquet of flowers.

They were daisies.

I bent and touched them. Given the surreal nature of the last several minutes, I found myself doubting my senses. There was no wrapping or tag, just two dozen or more delicate ­long-­stemmed flowers. I stood abruptly and looked around to see if anyone was nearby, my mind immediately suspecting Luther Whitmore. But I saw no one. Still, it had been two hours since I had seen Luther ­downtown—­plenty of time for him to have left these here.

And yet, I couldn't be sure. I had passed plenty of small patches of daisies growing wild along the road. Perhaps it was just an odd coincidence. Nevertheless, someone had been here not long before my arrival and, more than the voice I had heard in the wind, that thought gave me an eerie feeling. It was time to leave.

I drove back to Gallivant's Crossing and made my way out to Christine's. She met me on the shaded front porch of her family's large farmhouse with a glass of iced tea and an endearing smile.

“So, how was it?”

I plopped into one of the wicker chairs. “Quite interesting, actually. I met Jacob's wife and mother. They were pleasant but reserved. I did the exam on his dad. Boy, was he ever a stern one. Oh, and I met Jacob's daughter. Probably about eighteen. Really pretty and really tall.”

Christine nodded. “So, what was the area like? You know, the houses and the barns?”

“Well kept and plain.”

“Gee. Didn't see that coming.”

“Anyway, apparently the daughter I met was expecting an admirer. One of the neighborhood farm boys was coming over for dinner. I'd love to see what that looks like.”

“It's probably very sweet.”

“It's probably very stifling.”

“Oh, so is it stifling when you eat a meal with my family?”

“They're not exactly Mennonites.” I sipped the iced tea and settled comfortably into the deep cushions. “Besides, I'm just spitballing here, but I'm guessing Mennonite courtships are kind of a negotiation. Like, you know, I'll give you my daughter along with two cows and four chickens.”

“I guess if word gets around that my family owns a dairy herd, those Mennonite guys will be beating a path to my door.”

I winced. “Hmm, I don't know, Chambers. You're kinda on the homely side.”

She lowered her chin in feigned offense, repeating my words slowly. “Homely side? Tread carefully here, Bradford.”

I rubbed my chin reflectively. “Yeah, I mean, look, you might be able to get a date at a lumber camp . . . but short of that, it's kinda iffy. You may have to throw in a couple of horses and a bushel of rutabaga to get any serious takers. These Mennonite guys are different. They want a woman with skills.”

Christine laughed at my teasing, yet continued to play along, speaking reproachfully. “I have skills.”

“I'm talking about domestic skills. I don't think a great jump shot is high on the list.” Christine had been an ­All-­State basketball player.

“I'll have you know, Luke Bradford, that I have a thorough understanding of sewing and cooking and cleaning.” She paused and added in a low, mirthful voice, “Granted, understanding them is pretty much where my interest stops.”

“And there's the girl I love. I knew she'd show up soon.”

Through her own laughter, Christine spoke with renewed authority. “For your information, Bradford, Mennonite courtship has traditionally had some pretty interesting practices.”

“You mean besides holding hands and sharing a zesty cup of hot chocolate?”

“I don't know if the Watervalley Mennonites still do this, but they used to have a courtship practice called bundling.”

“Okay, you got me on that one. What's bundling?”

“It's where the boy and the girl are each fully clothed, wrapped in individual blankets, and lie in bed together. They are expected to talk to each other all night.”

“What if talking leads to ­show-­and-­tell?”

“They put a board in the middle of the bed, just in case.”

“And if someone goes overboard?”

She stared at me blankly. “Why do I talk to you?”

I took another swallow of tea while Christine did her best to muster a look of admonishment. “I have to tell you, though,” I said. “On the way there, I came across the most interesting place. It was the ruins of an old farmhouse that sat in the middle of this absolutely beautiful meadow surrounded by high hills. The place looks to have burned down decades ago and been left abandoned. I stopped on the way back and looked around. It was both enchanting and haunting.”

“You actually stopped and walked around it?”

“Sure. Why not? There seems to be a story there.”

Christine laughed at me and shook her head.

“What?” I responded in mock offense.

She smiled through her words. “You, that's what.”

“Meaning?”

“You can take the doctor out of research, but you can't take the researcher out of the doctor.” She was referring to my ­well-­known desire to do medical research instead of working as a ­small-­town doctor.

“Okay. So I have a natural curiosity. Anyway, laugh all you want. There was something really fascinating about the place.”

“Where was it, anyway?”

“On Mercy Creek Road.”

“Hold it. Mercy Creek Road?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Okay, this is wild. I saw a newspaper headline about that place earlier today.”

“How?”

“Up in the attic when we were unpacking my grandmother's china this morning. The first piece I pulled out was wrapped in a newspaper from 1968. I remember looking at it because I was curious as to when the box was packed. It was on the front page from July of that year, something about the volunteer fire department getting called out in the middle of the night to a fire on Mercy Creek Road. But when they got there, they realized it belonged to the Mennonites and were told their help wasn't needed.”

“Looks like someone made a poor judgment call on that one. There was nothing left but the stone foundation and the old chimney.”

“I think the article said that the house was unoccupied and that the Mennonites were just letting it burn.”

“Well, that doesn't make any sense. If the house was in bad shape, you'd think they would have torn it down rather than burn it down, especially in the middle of the night.”

“Beats me.”

“Do you still have that newspaper?”

“Yeah. I'm pretty sure I know where it is.”

“I'd like to read it. Maybe you can find it before I leave.”

Christine nodded. For some reason, I wasn't sure why, I decided not to mention the singing or the daisies.

“So, anything else interesting?” she inquired.

“Yeah. Apparently the Mennonite community is really close to the back side of Moon Lake.” I paused a moment. “You know, if you had come along with me, we could have gone for a swim and cooled off.”

“I wouldn't have had my swimsuit.”

“I wouldn't have had mine either. Sounds like we would have been even.”

Christine spoke with amused resignation. “Bradford, you're the king of wishful thinking.”

“I'm not reaching for that scepter just yet, brown eyes. It's not an altogether out-of-­the-­question idea.”

Christine responded with only a blushing, secretive grin. Moments passed. When she finally did speak, there was a noted change of subject.

“So, you want to watch a movie or something?”

I stretched my arms above my head. “You know, I'm pretty good right here. I've got a comfy chair, a glass of tea, a pretty girl . . . living the dream.”

Twilight was approaching. Christine put ice cream into a couple of bowls, and we continued to sit in the cool of the front porch. From there we watched the sunset spread across the open fields, our voices soft and singular against the approaching darkness.

I had to laugh at myself. It was a life far from the one I had known while living in Atlanta and Nashville. In the city, the onset of the night brought about an excitement, an anticipation associated with the noise and revelry of sharing a few beers with friends and the potential for laughter, furtive glances, new attachments.

Here in Watervalley, the slow ebb of sundown brought about a tranquil, reflective close to the day. Cooler, moister air tumbled in, enveloping us in the delicate, sensuous smell of freshly cut hay. The solemn moon illuminated the countryside, casting a low white luster that vanished into the black, shadowy tucks of the distant hills. The dusty confusions of the day faded, and our world slowly lapsed into an immortal stillness, a soft, brooding hush brought on by the fading twilight.

Evenings on the summer porch had become our nightly ritual. Often I would lie on the long wicker sofa, sometimes with my head in Christine's lap, and we would talk and laugh and giggle . . . our voices echoing into the lonely distance. The hours would pass. Eventually our eyes would grow tired and we would fall silent, listening to the vast orchestral music of the night. Crickets would chirp nearby, or occasionally there was an elusive humming in the evening breeze. The low groan of a car could be heard distantly, winding its way around the far curves of Summerfield Road until the solitary headlights would fade into the black. Despite the delight and the rich comfort of being together, sagging weariness would overtake us, telling us it was time for me to go home.

But not before we passed several moments in the delightful euphoria of some long and passionate kisses. With the moonlight on her face, Christine would appear luminous. The warm, fragrant smell of her skin was intoxicating, and I would gather her in, embracing her wholly with eagerness and longing.

And in those parting moments, even against the drowning fog of fatigue, a quiet yearning would steal through us, a desire to physically express our consuming emotions. Holding her so delightfully close left me drunk with passion. In time we would separate, whisper awkward ­good-­byes, and I would walk to the car in the shadowy moonlight, all the while feeling the contemplative, wishful glow of her eyes upon me.

Despite the affection, the great intimacy and honesty we shared, it seemed we could not find words to discuss our arrested desire any more than we could refute its unspoken presence. We had been caught in our own trap since our first date. Perhaps from the very beginning, the vast weight of the potential each of us saw in the relationship had made us cautious, careful, respectful, apprehensive about boldly pursuing sexual intimacy. In these days of promiscuity and permissiveness, our puritanical practices seemed almost laughable, but they had become our uncanny norm.