The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  I asked Clarence to have dispatch activate the clinic staff for an emergency callout and told him I would head to the clinic immediately.

  I switched on the light and rubbed my face. After the initial jolt of adrenaline that accompanied such conversations in the small hours, I always felt a certain residue of confusion. I opened my eyes wide, shook my head briskly in an effort to wake up, and refocused quickly. A few minutes later, I was out the door.

  The rain had moved on, leaving the night air thick and muggy. The EMT van pulled into the clinic parking lot soon after my arrival.

  We hastily helped the three injured men inside. During this hurried process, Clarence and Leonard gave me a brief report on the men’s condition and what had happened. The volunteer firemen had been called out to a barn fire that was dangerously close to the adjacent farmhouse. The two men suffering from smoke inhalation were Chick McKissick, the local mechanic, and Maylen Cook, the local barber. The burn victim, unfamiliar to me, was a fellow in his ­mid-­twenties named Clayton Ross.

  I spoke decisively. “Leonard, put the burn victim in room one. Is he having respiratory issues?”

  “Don’t think so, Doc.”

  “All right. Get him settled and stay with him.” I turned to the other EMT. “Clarence, go with Maylen to room three. I’ll take Chick to room two. He seems to have gotten the worst of it.”

  My mind was racing, endeavoring to make orderly, methodic decisions. But it was a surreal moment. Seeing the exhausted, ­soot-­smudged faces of Chick and Maylen and witnessing their violent coughing and gasping brought front and center to me the hard reality of being a ­small-­town doctor.

  These were not strangers in a metropolitan ER whom I would treat with earnest but detached professionalism. These men were my mechanic and my barber. They were friends; good, honest, uncomplicated men who lived modest lives, men who had willingly left their homes and gone into the grim misery of the storm to safeguard one of their neighbors.

  After getting Chick settled, I pulled an oxygen tank to his room. He was short of breath, wheezing and hacking. His panicked face was a far cry from the normally lively and spontaneously happy fellow I knew. He was also experiencing confusion and nausea, both classic symptoms of smoke inhalation. Fortunately, my staff nurse, Ann Patterson, arrived just as Chick was inhaling two deep breaths of a bronchodilator. She helped me place a ­non-­rebreather mask and an O2 saturation monitor on him. I instructed her to do the same for Maylen and to let me know the results.

  Like a man who had just surfaced from almost drowning, Chick gasped deeply of the ­oxygen-­rich air. He was dirty, wet, and trembling uncontrollably as he held the oxygen mask with one hand. His other hand was drawn tightly to his chest in a twisted and unnatural way, shaking violently. I reached out and held it. “It’s going to be all right, Chick.”

  He looked at me through frightened eyes and responded with short, jerky nods, gripping my hand ever tighter. For me, it was a heartrending, sobering moment.

  “Long, slow breaths, Chick. Long, slow breaths.”

  Soon his oxygen saturation climbed to a safe level. By now, the rest of the staff, Cindy and Camilla, the two ­middle-­aged sisters who were the lab tech and the phlebotomist, had arrived.

  “I want you to draw an ABG and CBC on each patient.” They nodded and set about the business of drawing blood for an arterial blood gas and a complete blood count, critical information that would help determine hemoglobin levels and lung functionality.

  Ann reported that Maylen’s oxygen levels were fine. I instructed her to collect vital signs on Maylen and Clayton while I took care of Chick. Slowly his respirations returned to normal and he sat calmly, but with a drained and anxious face. I examined him, thankfully noting that all his numbers were normal.

  “Chick, you’re going to be okay. I need to check on the other two, but I want to keep you here for observation.”

  He responded in a hoarse whisper and with a grateful nod, his body still occasionally shuddering. “Thanks, Dr. B. If you think I’ll be okay, that’s good.” There were remnants of tears in his eyes, and he spoke with a tinge of apology. “It just . . . It just shook me up, that’s all. Not being able to breathe and everything. Clayton gonna be okay?”

  “I’m about to find out. Sit tight.”

  I checked on Maylen, who was now showing no distress and expressing a desire to go home. His wife, Alice, had arrived and was in the room with him. I examined him and asked a few questions. Other than an occasional cough, he seemed fine. I asked him to wait for the blood test results. In his deadpan way, Maylen offered a low sound of acknowledgment.

  I headed to Clayton’s exam room.

  From the report the EMTs had given me, part of the barn had collapsed in Clayton’s direction. While turning to retreat from it, he had tripped and fallen, leaving his arm pinned momentarily under a burning pole. Before he could be pulled free, he had suffered ­second-­degree and nearly ­third-­degree burns on his right forearm and hand. The EMTs had triaged him with a simple sterile bandage.

  By now, some of his family had arrived and were standing in the waiting room with hard, worried faces. They were talking in low voices and casting uneasy, troubled looks at one another. I nodded to them as I crossed to the exam room.

  Clayton looked to be about ­twenty-­five. He was of modest height with a tough, boxy build and strong shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot from the smoke and lack of sleep. As I entered, he stiffened in ­straight-­backed attention and nodded with a measure of respect and reserve. Per my instructions, Ann had placed his arm on an elevated mayo table covered with a sterile drape. I introduced myself.

  “Any trouble moving your fingers, Clayton?”

  His answer was polite and crisp. “No, sir, don’t think so.”

  “Feeling much pain?”

  “Not too bad, sir.”

  His posture, manner, and frequent use of “sir” made his recent history all too obvious. “So, which branch of the service were you in?”

  He smiled and seemed to relax. “Army, sir. Hundred and First Airborne. Fort Campbell. Discharged out a month ago.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Any overseas duty?”

  “Afghanistan, sir. Two tours.”

  I pursed my lips and nodded respectfully. “Wow. That’s impressive. Ever wounded?”

  “Nothing except for a heart broken by a barmaid in Ramstein.”

  I smiled lightly. “Well, isn’t that the way of things? Two tours and not a scratch. One month back in Watervalley and here we are.”

  “It happens, sir.”

  “Okay, Clayton. Here’s what I need to do. I’m going to remove this bandage, see what we’ve got, wash and clean up the wound, and then put a new dressing on. It’s probably going to hurt. I can give you a local anesthetic or a bullet to bite. Your choice.”

  He grinned. “Go, ahead, Doc. If it gets too bad, I’ll let you know.”

  Fortunately, the injury was not so severe as to need a skin graft. Clayton winced a few times, and I could tell that the pain was sharp, but he gritted his way through it.

  “What kind of work are you doing now, Clayton?”

  “Just helping my dad on the farm. I’ve put in several applications around town.”

  “Well, you may need to do light duty to let this thing heal some. The biggest problem with burns is infection. If this gets infected, it’ll upset my whole day, and no telling what it will do to yours. So, here’s the plan. I want you to come back each day for me or Ann to put a new dressing on this until I say uncle.”

  Clayton nodded in understanding, but I could tell that this plan didn’t appeal to him. His shoulders and posture slumped. Camilla had stepped into the room to give me his lab results. They looked fine, but something was bothering me. I took out my pad and wrote a note for her.

  “Camilla, if you’ve got enough blood left from
the sample, have Cindy run this test for me too.” She looked at the paper and then at me before quietly leaving.

  As I stepped into the hall, the slowly opening door of morning was beginning to show through the large waiting room windows. I grabbed the charts of both Maylen and Chick to review their lab tests. Fortunately, the results were good. I found both of them in Chick’s exam room along with Clarence and Leonard.

  To my delight, Chick seemed to be doing much better, the company of friends proving to be the best medicine. His wife, Delilah, had arrived as well. The men were engaged in a friendly banter about the events of the previous hours, replaying tense moments through a filter of wit and humor. Alice and Delilah stood by with tolerant grins that only thinly masked the mixture of relief and pride that they were no doubt feeling for their husbands. The tension of the last hour had vanished, and the lighthearted mood was a welcome relief.

  Leonard was in the middle of a protracted story as I entered, and I motioned for him to continue. But within seconds, from behind the exam room door came heated voices in the hallway, followed by a yell that pierced the clinic walls.

  “It shouldn’t have happened, dammit. It’s all their fault.”

  The angry announcement served as a vacuum, draining away all the laughter and merriment. A hush fell over the small gathering. I immediately stepped into the hallway, where I found Clayton and an older man. He was slightly taller than his son, thickly built with a heavy jaw and a red face. Clayton was trying to leave, but the other man seemed bent on venting his temper. Upon seeing me, he turned, speaking sharply.

  “How long will it take this to heal?”

  I responded coolly. “Who are you, sir?”

  “I’m his father, that’s who. You didn’t answer my question.”

  I looked to Clayton for confirmation. He offered a low nod. I spoke calmly.

  “It’s a significant ­second-­degree burn, so it will likely take several weeks. It could have been a lot worse.”

  My words seemed only to fuel the man’s anger. “Well, pardon me, Doc, while I go whistle a damn happy tune.”

  That was enough. This fellow wanted a shouting match, not a discussion. Clayton saw the look on my face and spoke first. “Let’s go, Dad. We’ll talk at home.” He placed his unhurt hand on his father’s chest to push him away. The man yielded reluctantly, taking several steps backward under the pressing guidance of his son. There was no waver in his furious glare. Before turning to exit, he pointed his finger at me and spoke a last venomous declaration.

  “It’s those damn Mennonites. It’s their fault, and they’re gonna pay.”

  CHAPTER 9

  EMTs, DOA, and DRT

  I had no idea what Clayton’s father was talking about. The incident had cast a pall over everyone’s mood. Faces were now brooding, preoccupied. The headache and exhaustion from a long night remained. I did a final exam on Chick and allowed him to go home with a long list of instructions and an insistence on follow-up.

  I did the same with Maylen. But as he was readying to leave, I stopped him. “Maylen, you know everybody in town. Who was that Ross fellow, and what was that all about with his father?”

  As was his way, at first Maylen simply stared at me with a wooden face and doleful eyes, thinking before responding. “That’s Cal Ross. He’s not intentionally mean, Doc, just not inclined to show any restraint. He’ll cool off.”

  “What was that about the Mennonites?”

  “The first call we got last night was about a barn fire out Gallivant’s Crossing. Turned out to be in the Mennonite community.”

  “Who made the call? I didn’t think the Mennonites had phones.”

  “We don’t know. It was a woman on a cell phone. Dispatch tried calling back, but nobody answered. Still, we had to respond. There was a fire, but it was just an outbuilding at the Yoder place, under control long before we got there. Meanwhile, a second call came in regarding the fire at Dora Mae Taylor’s place, clear across the county. By the time we arrived, the barn was mostly gone. It all happened pretty fast. Every fire seems to have a tipping point. Clayton was too close when the barn collapsed. If we’d gotten there sooner, it might not have happened. Maybe Clayton wouldn’t have been hurt. So I’m betting that’s what Cal was mad about.”

  “Thanks, Maylen. I’ll call you later to check in. Get some rest.”

  I went to the lavatory to wash my face, now feeling the fog and headache that accompanied too little sleep. When I arrived at the break room, Clarence and Leonard were engaged in a robust conversation. Nothing seemed to faze these two. The paramedics had a private language of their own, ­stand-­ins, acronyms, and subtleties about things that only they understood. Clarence was in rare form, chiding his partner.

  “Preacher, I think if you had given Mr. Calli mouth-to-mouth, you might have saved him from being DOA.”

  Preacher was Leonard’s nickname. Leonard Lee Lineberry was tall and lanky with a perpetual toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth. He used to be called Triple L, which I’d assumed was derived from his name, but I’d learned more recently that it stood for Lounge Lizard Leonard. In his younger days, he had been a ­low-­end ­honky-­tonk crooner, fashioning himself as a Porter Wagoner wannabe. It was also rumored that he had been something of a ladies’ man, although to look at Leonard now, I was certain that the ladies must have been under the influence to have earned him that moniker.

  Somewhere along the way Leonard had had a road-to-Damascus conversion and started his own church called the Whosoever Will, Full Gospel, Praise Band Church. A couple of years ago the church had changed its name to the Love From Above Chapel and become a small independent congregation on the outskirts of town.

  Leonard spent a lot of time studying the Bible. He believed there were secret messages hidden in the text and symbolic meanings to the numbers found in scripture, even the ones at the bottom of the page. Still, something of the oily lothario lingered in his demeanor. I got the sense that he was a man for whom hair care was still an important priority.

  “Oh Lordy be,” responded Leonard in his amiable, drawling voice. “I thought Dora Mae was having a conniption. I walked up and there was Mr. Calli, stiff as a flagpole. Dora Mae was moaning and wailing and a-LJ-ing, wanting me to do something for him. But I’m tell you right now, it wasn’t no resuscitation situation. Mr. Calli wasn’t DOA. He was DRT. They wasn’t a thing I could’a done to save him.”

  This set off some minor alarm bells. “Leonard, whoa. Explain what you just said. What are LJ-ing and DRT? And who’s Mr. Calli?”

  Clarence intervened. “LJ-ing is yelling ‘Lord Jesus,’ Doc. Preacher don’t like to use the Lord’s name in vain.” The two men shared rather pious, confirming nods. Clarence continued. “DRT means ‘dead right there.’ And Mr. Calli is Dora Mae’s calico cat.”

  “Oh,” I responded in relief. “A cat. Well, that’s too bad.” I walked to the counter to pour a cup of coffee. Leonard spoke reflectively.

  “Dora Mae thinks the lightning got him, but there wasn’t a singed hair on him. He was nigh on to fifteen years old anyway.”

  “Leonard, how do you know so much about Dora Mae’s cat?” I inquired.

  “My cousin, Tommy Dean Lineberry, lives in a trailer down the way from Dora Mae and does odd jobs for her. She’s in her seventies and lives out there alone. She puts up with him despite his drinking.”

  “Leonard, I don’t think I know Tommy Dean.”

  He leaned back and rubbed his chin. “Oh, I’d say Tommy Dean’s in his early fifties now. He never quite found his depth, you might say.”

  Clarence took a sip of coffee. “There’s quite a few Lineberrys out in that part of the county, ain’t there, Leonard?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll tell you,” he responded, “Tommy Dean’s a true-blue Lineberry.”

  I was only half listening to the conversation, but Leonard’s comment p
iqued my curiosity. “What do you mean by ‘true-blue Lineberry’?”

  “Well,” said Leonard, pausing for effect, “it’s like this, Doc. Before they was married, Tommy Dean’s daddy was a Lineberry and Tommy Dean’s momma was a Lineberry. So Tommy Dean, he’s a true-blue Lineberry. He’s Lineberry all the way to the bone.”

  I nodded, doing my best to feign an innocent and nonjudgmental face.

  “Now, don’t be getting the wrong idea, Doc. It was just a coincidence. They wasn’t even second or third cousins. ’Course, you wouldn’t know it by looking at Tommy Dean.”

  “Leonard, I think I already know more than I want to.”

  They finished their coffee and departed. It was only six thirty; the clinic didn’t officially open for another hour and a half. The rest of the staff had already left, so I locked the doors and returned home to clean up before starting the day.

  When I pulled into my driveway, my ­thirteen-­year-­old neighbor, Will Fox, was holding Rhett on a leash, and I was at a loss as to how my crafty dog had gotten out. It was only after I stared for a moment that I realized my mistake. The dog Will was holding was definitely a golden retriever of similar size and shape, but it wasn’t Rhett.

  “Hi there, Willster. Who’s your new friend?”

  “This is Mattie,” Will responded, pleased and proud. “We just got her yesterday.”

  “­Fine-­looking gal. Where did she come from?”

  “Lawrenceburg. There was an ad in the paper. The family was moving to Nashville and giving her away to a good home. I’ve been wanting a dog, so Mom agreed.”

  Will was a bright and clever, albeit peculiar, boy. I liked him. We shared a quirky friendship. He had lost his father to an accident more than a year ago, just as I had lost my parents when I was twelve. An unspoken bond of understanding existed between us.

  “Well, I’m sure Rhett will be ecstatic to have a play friend.”

  “That’s why I told Mom I wanted a golden.” Will paused a moment and then added confidentially, “Don’t worry, Dr. Bradford. She’s been fixed.” He made a gesture of quotation marks with his fingers.