by Jeff High
The benefit dance had raised an impressive sum of money. But we were still short more than ten thousand dollars for the funds needed to build the memorial statue. When push finally came to shove, Connie and John would probably quietly come up with the rest of the money. But I knew that they had already donated huge sums, and I insisted that they hold off, believing that we needed to give the people of Watervalley more time to make up the difference.
Connie and the other volunteers continued to work on the list of names of fallen soldiers that would go on the memorial. All told, the list was nearing seventy men and women killed or missing in action during the wars of the last century. The volunteers had done exhaustive searches of local and state records as well as National Archives databases. Still, several names needed further information and verification. This required a trip to Nashville to the state’s vital records office. On a Tuesday in late September, Connie stopped by the clinic around lunchtime to inform me that I was the one assigned the task.
“Give me one good reason why it has to be me.”
Connie sat in the large leather chair across from my desk, indifferent to my whining. “Because the state of Tennessee has this funny little rule about privacy. Anyone can request information about a death certificate, but the state won’t tell you the cause of death. The only people who can get that information are certain family members or a doctor. Now, sweetie, did that all make sense, or do I need to repeat it more slowly?” Her words were followed by a hard scrutiny.
I frowned and offered a reluctant grunt of understanding.
“Don’t be sitting there giving me the stink-eye, young man. It won’t hurt you to do this.”
“When does it have to be done?”
“Within the next week or so. I’ll get you a list of the names.”
She left soon afterward, but within minutes, I had another visitor. It was Karen Davidson. Over the past weeks her business had turned around. By word of mouth, her incredible skills with animals and her progressive ideas of herd management were winning the confidence of the locals. I couldn’t have been happier for her.
She was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, her familiar uniform. But she had retained her newfound feminine panache. Her hair was longer, more stylish, and she radiated the alluring attractiveness of a confident woman. Her easy smile seemed perpetually touched with tenderness and humor.
We greeted each other warmly, and she took a seat in the chair Connie had just vacated.
“Karen, I’m going to be nosy. How are things going with you and Hoot?”
A mirthful look inched across her face. “We’ve been seeing a lot of each other. He’s adorable, really. I told him that if he didn’t quit treating me like a porcelain doll, I would give him a good old-fashioned army butt kicking.”
“Well, aren’t you just the charmer.”
“Eh, he can take it.”
“Sounds like he wants you to stick around.”
“Yeah, he’s got a little caretaker cottage on his farm that he’s fixing up. He’s invited me to move into it.”
“Oh? And?”
“Well, I do need a place to stay. So I told him I would, but only on the strict condition that I pay rent. I like Hoot. And I really like Wendy. She’s delightful. But, you know, things need to be taken a step at a time here.”
I nodded.
“Besides,” she said, “I’ve continued to stay at the B and B because Lida hardly charges me anything for rent. But I’m kind of glad to be moving out.”
“And why is that?”
“That place is, well, different. Things go bump in the night.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. I guess every little town needs a spook or two. I don’t put much stock in it, though.”
“Anyway,” Karen continued, “let me tell you why I dropped by. I need you to do something. It’s regarding Clayton Ross.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“He and I have talked several times, and I think he’s made some real progress.”
“Good to hear. Thanks again for helping him.”
“Sure. But here’s the deal. He’s actually a pretty sensitive kid, and he feels bad about that fight with the Mennonite guy back in July.”
“Yeah, I remember it well.”
“Clayton wants to find him and apologize. He figures you know who the fellow is since you sewed him up. So he wants to know if you will take him out to Mennonite country. He believes that if he goes out there by himself, they’ll probably lock their doors and it won’t go well. He’s guessing that you might be better at approaching them. Some of them are your patients, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, they are.” I thought about Karen’s request for a moment. I admired Clayton for wanting to do this, and I saw little reason why I shouldn’t try to help him. “Okay. When does he want to go?”
“Later this afternoon, actually.”
“This afternoon?”
“Yeah, he works at the cabinet factory and gets off around three. He was hoping to come by afterward. You’d have several hours before dark.”
The afternoon clinic schedule was light. “Sure. Tell him to come on.”
Karen smiled broadly, thanked me, and rose to leave. It had been a good idea to bring Karen and Clayton together. This small request to accompany him was clearly the right thing to do. I didn’t realize at the time that it would begin to unwind the spool of a much larger story.
CHAPTER 36
Making Amends
The best way to find Levi Beiler was to first talk to Jacob Yoder. Before Clayton arrived later that afternoon, I took some time to think about how I might approach Jacob. My eyes were drawn to the quilt he had given me. It was still draped over the arm of the office sofa where I had tossed it several months ago. With the onset of cooler evenings, it would be much more useful on the couch at home. So I walked over and was tucking it under my arm when there was a knock on the door. Clayton had arrived.
At first he regarded me with a rather stiff and awkward military politeness. We made our way to the Austin-Healey, where I laid the quilt on the small backseat. Clayton was quickly enamored of the sporty roadster. As we headed out of town, he seemed to relax.
“Man, this is quite the car, Dr. Bradford. How fast will it go?”
“You know, Clayton, that’s a good question. Can’t say I’ve ever tried to figure it out.”
“Ah, probably just as well. If the sheriff catches you speeding in this thing, he’d probably throw your can in jail.”
I spoke slowly. “Yeaaaaaah, I heard he does that.”
He chuckled, making a grand nod as he gazed out the window. “That he does, Doc. That he does.” An easy smile was etched across his face.
“Hey,” he said, “I understand congratulations are in order. I hear you’re marrying Christine Chambers.”
“That would be true. And thanks.”
“She was a senior when I was a freshman.”
“So was she a pretty girl back then too?”
Clayton gave me an incredulous look. “Are you kidding, Doc? Look, she’s your fiancée and everything, so I’m going to watch what I say here, but you can be she sure wasn’t ugly.”
I laughed. “Okay, good to know.”
By now we were well into the open countryside. The day was warm for September. Decked in our sunglasses with the top down on the convertible, Clayton and I shared an unspoken exhilaration. He was six years my junior, but we enjoyed the camaraderie of two guys in a sports car cruising down the open road.
I half yelled above the rushing air, “I admire you, Clayton. This is a good thing you’re doing.”
He nodded. “Yeah, it feels right. Dr. Davidson encouraged me to do it.”
“I’m glad you two are talking. Seems like that’s been a good thing.”
“Yeah, I gotta tell you, though, Doc,
I’ve been through some stuff. But Dr. Davidson, she’s seen some real crap.”
“She works around cows. That’s not too surprising.”
Clayton looked over and smiled. “Nah, I’m telling you. Some of the things she’s told me, jeez, I don’t see how she got through it.”
“Well, I’m coming to realize that Karen Davidson is tougher than the two of us put together.”
Clayton nodded, his expression galvanized in agreement.
We had been traveling down Gallivant’s Crossing and made the turn onto the narrow passageway of Mercy Creek Road.
“I don’t know where Levi Beiler lives,” I said, “but my plan is to go find his future father-in-law, Jacob Yoder, and ask for directions.”
Instinctively, I slowed the car to a stop as we passed the small meadow with the old ruins. Something about it still seemed covered in essential wonder. Absorbed in thought, I looked over at Clayton, speaking hesitantly.
“Clayton, I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to think I’m nuts.”
He grunted a shallow laugh. “Doc, we’re in pretty bad shape if I’m the sane one in the car.”
“Here’s the thing. You’ve spent a lot of time outdoors in the woods and fields of the valley, right?”
“All the time.”
“Have you ever heard singing in the wind sometimes?”
His response was immediate. “Sure.”
“Really?”
I turned to him, and he shrugged lightly. “Yeah. I remember even when I was a kid, I would be hiking across some field and I’d hear singing in the distant hills. The first time it happened, I ran home and told my folks.”
“And what did they say?”
“Well, my dad thought I was imagining things. But my mom told me all kinds of old stories about how some people swore they could hear voices in the wind. I don’t know. It’s just Watervalley, I guess.”
“So this happened to you more than once?”
“Oh, yeah. Quite a few times over the years. And you know, it was never creepy or spooky. It was always pleasant and peaceful. Mostly folk songs. Sometimes it was old hymns. Why do you ask, Doc? Have you heard them?”
“Yeah, I have. What’s that all about?”
“Beats me. My mom’s always been kind of a religious person. She said they were angels, people who died with music still in them. And by music, I think she meant life.” He looked out the window for a moment, seemingly uncomfortable with his own words, then turned to me with a shy uncertainty. “Kind of corny, I guess. I don’t know, seems as good an explanation as any.”
“Hey, works for me.” I put the car back in gear and we pushed onward.
We topped the last hill before Mennonite country, and once again I was taken by the tranquillity of the pastoral scene before me. The houses were modest and cozy with orderly, unadorned yards that stood in the shadows of great barns. And gazing upon this quaint landscape, I became strangely aware that the Mennonite tempo of life was grandly measured by seasons and years and not by minutes and moments. Something in me envied them. I knew their work was hard and their days long, but admittedly, I was still fascinated by the certain rhythms of their world.
I pulled down Jacob’s drive and parked some distance away from the house.
“Might be best if you sit tight for a moment while I find out where Levi Beiler lives.”
Clayton nodded.
As I approached the house, I noticed that the boy of about twelve whom I had seen on my previous visit was washing apples in a large pail on the front porch. Upon seeing me, the limber little elf took off toward the barn. I slowed my approach, calculating that he had gone to bring back Jacob. Soon enough, five men in a tight group emerged from the barn and briskly made their way toward me.
This was not what I had expected, and I found their approach intimidating. Their determined gait continued, but as they drew closer, Jacob recognized me. An easy smile spread across his face, and without him saying a word, two of the men whom I did not know headed back to the barn. It was as if Jacob governed them unconsciously. Under their broad hats, I finally recognized the two men who had remained with Jacob as his father, Eli, and Levi Beiler. The boy who had retrieved them had followed at a distance.
As they approached, I noticed them scrutinizing my car in the distance. Eli had a sour face, and Levi wore an expression of strained uncertainty. They stopped some ten feet away and stood waiting in a patient silence while Jacob continued forward, greeting me in his familiar warm and reserved manner.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Bradford. You have paid us a visit.” It was his curious way of invoking an explanation.
“Yes, Jacob. Good afternoon to you as well.”
I went on to explain the purpose of the call. Pointing toward my car, I detailed Clayton’s desire to apologize for his actions. Jacob nodded soberly. A knotty silence fell between us. He politely lifted his hand toward me, a gesture requesting me to stay while he walked back to the other two men. A huddled conversation ensued, and they looked at one another apprehensively, asking questions in a chorus of low voices. Finally, Levi and Jacob walked back toward me.
“What is the young man’s name?” Jacob asked.
“Clayton Ross.”
“Can you ask him to join us?”
“Sure.” I turned toward the Austin-Healey and signaled to Clayton, who got out of the car and began to make his way toward us. Levi stepped forward to meet him.
The two met some fifty feet away. Clayton extended his hand in greeting and, after a moment’s hesitation, Levi took it and the two of them shook. At first they were awkward, uncertain of what to say or how to behave. Their conversation wasn’t audible against the low breeze, but soon enough it was clear that Clayton was speaking in earnest. Levi was offering slight nods of his head in understanding.
Jacob’s voice drew my attention away. “It is a fortunate thing that you have come, Dr. Bradford.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“I think it is time for Father to come and pay you a visit about his eyes. He has agreed.”
We both turned toward Eli, who still stood a short distance away, staring at us with folded arms and a slightly sullen face.
I half whispered under my breath, “You certain about that?”
“Quite certain. Would Thursday afternoon of next week be an appropriate time?”
“I’m sure we can work it out. Come around three.”
He nodded at me and then toward his father, who clearly understood what had just transpired.
As I turned back toward Clayton and Levi, the two of them were shaking hands again and walking back toward us. At this same time, I heard feminine voices emerging from around the back corner of the house. It was Jacob’s wife, Hannah, and their daughter, Rebecca.
They had been thick in conversation as they turned the corner, unaware of Clayton’s and my presence. Upon seeing us, they halted immediately. Rebecca had been smiling at something her mother was saying, but when she saw her fiancé talking with Clayton, her expression froze. They were now casting uneasy and troubled looks at each other.
Jacob gave Rebecca a reassuring nod, a simple sign that seemed to convey a full exchange of information. They approached cautiously. By now Jacob and Levi had joined us.
I introduced Clayton to Jacob, who regarded him with polite reserve. To his credit, Clayton spoke a respectful apology to Jacob, who in turn responded with a somewhat stoic but appreciative nod. An uncomfortable silence followed. It seemed our business was finished.
Simultaneously, Clayton and I both began to step away, but Jacob stopped me. “One moment, Dr. Bradford.”
Clayton touched my arm. “I’ll see you at the car, Doc.”
Jacob turned toward his wife. “Hannah, bring a few of the apples.” She walked to the front porch where a number of freshly cleaned apples sa
t on a table next to the water bucket.
Meanwhile, Levi shook my hand and stepped away toward Rebecca. As he approached, her mouth edged into a tender smile. And as I stood there and watched the two of them, an image was flickering in the shadowy corners of my mind. There was something about Rebecca that I was trying to recall. But whatever it was, it drifted just beyond the threshold of memory. I only half heard Jacob speaking to Hannah.
“Those are the red ones, aren’t they?”
She was handing me four large, beautiful apples. I took them from her, but I was still lost in a mild fog. Something in my speechless and curious face prompted Hannah to politely explain Jacob’s question.
“Jacob is like his father and has difficulty seeing certain colors.”
I now realized my rudeness and thanked them profusely. Jacob thanked me as well and noted that he would see me the following week.
I returned to the Austin-Healey, and we headed back to town, talking easily about sports, the weather, and cars. But the entire way, I was plagued with the notion that somewhere in the exchange between Jacob and Hannah there was something I had missed.
CHAPTER 37
House Call
Rhett was now a regular fixture over at the Fox house, especially during the day when he and Maggie and their brood would eat, sleep, and frolic in the backyard. He seemed to be taking fatherhood in stride, generally lying with his head on his paws while some of the youngsters climbed over him during play. He was learning that parenting was not for those with short attention spans.
The puppies were now almost four weeks old, making more pressing the need to discuss future homes for them. Louise and Will wanted to keep one, and I was vacillating about keeping one myself. Two others had been spoken for: Hoot’s daughter, Wendy, wanted one, much to Will’s delight, and Nancy Orman, the clinic’s administrator, also wanted one, saying that she and her husband had always loved golden retrievers. But that left two in need of homes.
