The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  Christine slumped and spoke in dry disbelief. “Bradford, how can you be so smart and so clueless at the same time?”

  I answered sheepishly, “Practice?”

  She shook her head, speechless.

  We sat in silence for a moment, and I thought about that ­wonderful first date. I spoke softly, reflectively. “It was incredible, ­actually—­the lake, the sunset, and just the two of us on that high hill looking over the valley.”

  Christine’s eyes grew large. “That’s it! That should be our song!”

  “Okay, ‘that’ as in . . . what?”

  “‘Over the Valley.’ It’s a song by Pink Martini.”

  “I know of the group, but I can’t say I know the song.”

  “Trust me. It’s perfect.”

  Christine smiled and closed her eyes. She became lost to some distant land, some secret world that lent an air of enchantment to this one. She was incandescent with delight.

  “Perfect, huh?” I whispered.

  “Yes!” She closed her eyes again, pulled her shoulders up, inhaled deeply, and then dropped them in a gesture of great satisfaction. “Just perfect!”

  In the days that followed, Christine’s joy that evening reminded me that it was time to put my plans together. Ideally, a proposal of marriage was something I intended to do only once in this lifetime. Given my inclination to hide my feelings, asking Christine to marry me was the quintessential private, intimate moment between us. I knew that my capacity for romantic expression was dismal at best and considerable forethought was needed. In the closing days of August, I put my lofty scheme into play.

  I still had grand intentions of going to my storage units in Atlanta, but I had a ­more ­pressing need of my free time. I took a half day off and traveled to Nashville, where I had arranged for a jewelry store to mount a ­two-­and-a-­half-­carat diamond that had come into my possession sometime earlier. While there, I dropped in on some favorite professors from med school.

  To no large surprise, none of them had ever heard of Watervalley. I had finished first in my class, and I could see in their eyes an unspoken disappointment at what they considered a squandering of my abilities. My major professor, Dr. Burns, casually suggested that several new grants were pending that could avail some research fellowships in the near future. I smiled and thanked him, politely avoiding a response.

  Later that afternoon, after I had picked up the finished ring, I was nearly incandescent with excitement. All of my old regrets about doing medical research were temporarily forgotten. I made the ­two-­hour drive back to Watervalley consumed in thought as to how, when, and where I would propose.

  As I pulled into my drive, I noticed Will Fox sitting on his front porch steps with a pad of paper and a stack of books. Curious, I walked over to him. He was intensely absorbed in some faraway world.

  “Hi, Willster. You seem pretty adrift. A fellow once told me it’s a dangerous thing to be lost inside one’s own head.”

  Will lifted his chin and stared at me for a long moment, his gaze completely absent of expression. He was in his ­pseudo-­sophisticated mode, one of the many personas he occasionally chose to inhabit. He said, “That statement might have relevance if, in fact, I were actually lost.”

  “Oh,” I replied thoughtfully. “Do tell.” At first I feigned an expression of enlightened innocence. Then ever so slowly my eyes tightened, regarding him with a sly, furtive smile. The little smart­ass. I could see the corners of his mouth turning upward, betraying the bursting grin that he was ­hard-­pressed to contain. But the moment was telling. He had read my unspoken affirmation of his cleverness, something I knew he yearned for. He returned to his book in an effort to mask his contentment. I reached over, tousled his hair, and took a seat beside him on the step.

  “So, what are you reading? Homework?”

  “No, I got a bunch of books on poetry from the library.”

  “Hmm, still trying to capture love’s labor lost on paper?”

  “Nah. I’m over Wendy Wilson. She’s so June.”

  I wanted to laugh, but the seriousness of his remark held me in check. “Okay, good, glad to hear it.”

  “I’ve decided I’m pretty good at writing poetry. So I’ve been reading all the poems I can. I don’t get some of them. But a lot of them I do.”

  This was wildly entertaining. I truly liked Will, but after he had told me a few months ago that his avatar name for an online Gladiator game was Geekus Maximus, I honestly didn’t think he could get any more nerdy.

  “Who have you been reading?”

  “Wordsworth, Longfellow, Whitman, a little bit of Tennyson, and some unknowns like this one called Poems to Sylvia.” He was holding a small, antiquated library book.

  “What kind of poems do you like to write?”

  “Poems about feelings . . . love, hope, despair, allergies, that sort of thing.”

  I looked at him quizzically. “Allergies?”

  “Yeah, I wrote a poem about things I’m allergic to. You want to hear some of it?”

  “Umm, sure.”

  He flipped open his notebook. “This one is called ‘Allergic to You.’”

  You saw me crying,

  I said it’s the flu.

  But I was just lying

  It was really about you.

  I protected my heart,

  With indifference and candor.

  My nose only smarts,

  From the pollen and dander.

  There’s no longer a “we,”

  Most unequivocally.

  But don’t worry about me,

  I’ll be snivelly, civilly.

  For a moment I sat speechless, struggling with what to say. “Okay then. Good. Pretty clever.”

  Will smugly closed his notebook. “Yeah, I think it’s pretty good too.” We shared a silent moment of ­head-­nodding guy bravado. “You know, Dr. B., I could probably help you out if you needed to write a poem for Miss Chambers. Girls like that kind of stuff, you know.”

  “Will, that’s a great offer. Let me, uh, let me think on that, and I may take you up on it in the near future.”

  “Sure. Anything I can do to help.”

  I tousled his hair again and headed back to the house, where Connie and Estelle were waiting with, I could only imagine, a delicious ­calorie-­laden dinner. With the ring in my pocket, the first step of my master plan for the perfect evening, the perfect moment, and the perfect proposal was in place.

  I was fairly certain that Will’s poetry would not be included.

  I found Connie and Estelle in the kitchen, talking nonstop above a clamor of banging pans and clattering dishes. We sat down to dinner, and after saying grace, Connie turned toward me.

  “I hear Lida Wilkins has a buyer for the bed and breakfast.”

  “So I hear.” I nodded in reply.

  “Some fellow out of Charleston . . . a widower with two little children. Not exactly the normal profile of someone wanting to get into the lodging business. There’s bound to be a story there.”

  “Well, Connie,” I replied with good humor, “I have no doubt that in no time you’ll get to the bottom of whatever deep, dark secrets are behind this mysterious fellow.”

  She stopped in midchew to eye me scornfully. “Watch yourself, Doctor. The rest of your dinner might just be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

  I winked at her and continued eating. “Speaking of dads and children, Dr. Davidson says that Maggie should deliver sometime around Labor Day.” I glanced over at Rhett, who was lying forlornly in the corner of the kitchen. “As you can see, Rhett is giddy with excitement.”

  “Humph,” responded Connie as she eyed Rhett sharply. “I’m still not speaking to him, the little ­four-­legged reprobate.”

  “Hate the sin, love the sinner, Mrs. Thompson,” I said teasingly.
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  Connie ignored me. “I hear that Dr. Davidson’s veterinary practice is still having a hard go of it. I like that gal. I wish there were something we could do to help.”

  “So do I,” I said. “I’ve talked to several of the dairy and beef farmers, but it hasn’t done much good.”

  “Is it because she’s a woman?” inquired Estelle.

  “No, that’s not the impression I get,” I said thoughtfully. “Nobody seems to doubt her ability. They’re just concerned that she’ll get hurt trying to handle big animals.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 27

  Gene Alley

  Tuesday 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, lower
ed 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?”