by Jeff High
Thursday morning I stopped by the diner and took my regular seat at the counter.
“Lida, you look like you are about to levitate. Have you been smoking some of Sunflower Miller’s special tobacco?”
She winked and poured me a mug of coffee. I feigned a tone of further concern. “It’s okay. You can tell me these things. I’m a doctor, you know.”
Lida was incandescent. She leaned across the counter and spoke in an excited whisper. “I’m closing on the sale of the B and B this afternoon.”
“Congratulations. I guess your Charleston buyer came through?”
“He sure did. Wonderful fellow. His name is Matthew House. He’s a widower with the cutest eight-year-old twins, a boy and a girl. He looks to be early thirties, pretty close to your age. I think you’ll like him.”
“Sounds good.”
“Oh, it is. He doesn’t take possession until the first of December. Meanwhile, I’ve got to start moving everything out.” She leaned even closer, cutting her eyes sharply. “Maybe I can get Casper the friendly ghost to move out too.”
“Lida, Karen Davidson said something to that effect. Can’t say I much believe in ghosts. What’s the deal here?”
She shrugged. “Eh, let’s just say that the old place has some long-term nonpaying guests.”
“Fair enough. Does the new owner know about this?”
“First thing I told him.”
“And?”
“He just laughed. He shook his head and said, ‘Lady, I’m from Charleston. We’ve got so many phantoms floating around, we set extra plates at the dinner table.’”
“Lida, I’m happy for you. And I look forward to meeting the new owner.”
I finished breakfast and headed to the clinic. It turned out to be a hectic day. Even so, we managed to stay on schedule—running late was one of my pet peeves, although the people of Watervalley didn’t seem to mind either way. They kept a more tolerant pace and seemed to enjoy chatting in the waiting room, sharing a little gossip along with a few germs and the occasional virus.
However, one late-afternoon patient, Luther Whitmore, didn’t show. He had a follow-up appointment for his macular degeneration. It was out of character for him to miss and not phone. So around six o’clock that evening, after finishing the day’s paperwork and follow-up phone calls, I sat at my desk for a moment and brooded.
Luther’s nonappearance troubled me. He was a punctual newspaperman. As much as I didn’t like him, his blowing off an appointment sent a message. And I was his doctor.
I exhaled a deep sigh, knowing what I needed to do. But before grabbing my keys, I pulled open my bottom-left desk drawer and grabbed the bottle there. I locked up and headed over to his house.
As I parked in Luther’s driveway, the last thin traces of daylight were slipping westward, leaving his imposing home in a cloak of gloomy shadows and sad whisperings. I stood quietly, absorbing the unsettling dreariness that permeated the air, before walking around the side of the house to the attached garage, where Luther typically found refuge from the boredom of his evenings. My intuition proved correct. I found him sitting on a folding chair near the partially open garage door, smoking a cigarette and staring vacantly into the oncoming darkness. I stopped a step or two away from him. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward me.
“Hello, Bradford. For some reason I thought I might be seeing you this evening.”
“You missed your appointment today, Luther.”
“So I did, so I did. Is that why you’ve come?” His question seemed in earnest, lacking its usual acidity.
“Not really. Just thought I’d drop by to get a dose of your charm.”
“Sarcasm, eh, Bradford? Gee, that really hurt my feelings.”
“For some reason, Luther, I don’t take you for one of those tormented, thin-skinned guys.”
He ignored me. “What have you got there?”
“Whiskey. It was a gift given to me last Christmas and has been sitting in my desk. I’m not a bourbon guy. It’s Jim Beam, your brand of choice.” I handed the bottle to him. This act of kindness seemed to throw him off his normal invective. With his cigarette locked between his knuckles, he rose from his chair to retrieve an empty Mason jar from a nearby shelf and poured a good two inches into it.
“So, what’s on you mind?”
I folded my arms and shrugged, a gesture of honest confession. “Just checking in. Hoping to talk a little.”
“How much time you got, Bradford? There might be a whole lot of words in this bottle.”
“Luther, you mind if I push the garage door open a little more?”
“Suit yourself. But if all the cigarette smoke gets out, it will spoil the ambience.”
In one tilt he drank a full inch of the whiskey and returned to his seat. I grabbed a small wooden chair, turned it away from Luther, and straddled it with my arms draped across the back.
“Look, Luther, I’m pretty sure we’re not going to be tight chums any time soon. But the simple reality is this: you are one of my patients.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning my job is to give a damn.”
Luther rubbed his chin slowly, assessing me in the dim light. “Yeah, I’ll give you that, Bradford.”
There was an accommodating tone to Luther’s voice. His acknowledgment that he’d been expecting me spoke volumes. He was an intelligent, calculating man, blessed with a shrewd and detached ability to predict the actions of those around him. Something in Luther knew I would come . . . wanted me to come. Maybe, just maybe . . . Luther wanted to talk.
He held the Mason jar at eye level, studying it for a moment before taking another large swallow. Exhaling a contented sigh, he spoke lightly, clearly in a good humor. “Sort of brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘Beam me up.’”
The last of twilight had faded, and we sat there in the black cloak of evening, illuminated only by the pale glow from neighboring houses.
“Luther, you want me to turn a light on?”
“Nah. I like the dark, Bradford.” He put out his cigarette, crushing it into a small ashtray. “You were orphaned when you were twelve, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I lost my parents, but I had an aunt who took me in and cared for me. Why do you ask?”
Luther had discerned my guarded attitude to his question. There was an obliging element to his response. “The point is, Doctor, everybody’s life is a story. You just have to look for it. That’s why I like the newspaper business. People don’t just want information. They want a story.”
“So, Luther, tell me your story.”
“Why?”
“Like I said, my job is to give a damn.”
He scratched his chin, amused. “You already know my story.”
“No, not really. All I’ve got is information. You grew up on a farm, you lived in town as a teenager, and then you went to Vietnam, where, I might add, you were highly decorated. But you came back different. You fenced in Moon Lake and took over running the paper. And somewhere in the middle of all that, something happened. So, Luther, you can tell me to piss off like you have before, or maybe you can help me understand the larger story here.”
Luther exhaled and leaned forward in his chair. Somehow over the course of my repeated visits it seemed that he had found in me a worthy delegate of his deeper reflections, a side of him that he kept carefully protected from the larger world. As he had done in July, he spoke with a moving eloquence, a somber and powerful voice that pierced the darkness.
“There’s nothing unique about my story, Bradford. I came of age in the sixties, and the sixties were a troubled sea filled with wreckage. We were drops of blood upon the water, pulled apart by a world bound in fear, an unsettled and anxious generation split between old principles and new social and moral awakenings. Some of us stayed home and protested. Some of u
s went off to war. All of us left behind a past that was forever lost. We arrived in Vietnam believing in so many things—country, patriotism, service, God—and upon our return, we believed in one thing and one thing only: nothing. It was a wretched deterioration. First came disenchantment, then despair, then apathy. When it was over, there was no hero’s welcome, no glorious return. America was indifferent; heaven was empty. It left us with hearts that would always know hunger.” He paused before adding a final assertion to his soliloquy. “Hearts that would be forever stained by our stupid mistakes.”
“How so?”
Luther sat brooding for a moment. When he finally answered, his words were grim, naked, penetrating. “In our hot youth, there was no life beyond the moment.”
With that one comment, he had departed from a general summation about his generation. It was a small crack in the door to his personal life. I spoke innocently, endeavoring to hide my deeper interest. “Tell me what you mean by that, Luther.”
My voice seemed to awaken him from some lost pocket of memory. From his hunched-over position he sat upright in his chair, stiffening his back in a gesture of resolve. “Oh, it doesn’t matter, Bradford. The human mind’s ability to adapt is formidable. We all came back and went about our days, our work, our lives, discreetly hiding our scars, covering them with the raiment of society.” He took another large drink from his glass and sank back into a despondent brooding.
Once again Luther had been evasive, and I realized that my earlier assumption about his wanting to talk was wrong. I rose from my chair. “I think I’ve had all the fun I can stand for one evening. Call the clinic tomorrow and reschedule your appointment. We need to monitor your condition. Can’t do that if you don’t come see me.”
“Bradford, I almost like you. Stick around and have a drink. We’ll toast something.”
“And what would we toast to?”
“To war and men and honor. To chivalry and when knighthood was in flower.” He paused briefly to ceremoniously hold up his glass. He slurred drunkenly, halting over his words. “In fact, we’ll do a toast to all the knights: the Teutonic Knights, the gin tonic knights, and the Three Dog Nights.”
I smiled at Luther’s cleverness and made one final probe into his well of secrets. “Luther, speaking of war and honor, why is it you don’t want anyone to know about your medals of valor?”
At first he glared at me as if the question maddened him. Then his eyes drifted away, his face sullen. “Because, Bradford, the things I did in Vietnam, the acts of valor, as you call them, I didn’t do them alone. . . . ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’”
I had no idea why he was quoting Milton or what it meant, and I saw little chance that he would explain further. “Call the clinic tomorrow. I’ll toast to that.”
I walked through the shadows to my car. Something about being with Luther always left me feeling empty, as if he drained the light and life out of me. And his talk of war and honor and chivalry made no sense. Still, I wondered about him. I had always thought the war had stained him with a lifetime of bitterness. I had assumed that in his youth, since he had believed so much, had trusted so much, the disillusionment of Vietnam had stripped him of all that he had previously held in wonder, leaving them ugly and common. And yet it gnawed at me that there was something more, some grand regret that haunted him.
As I walked up my porch steps under the stars of late September, one thing Luther had said still rang true. I didn’t just want information; I wanted the story. I didn’t realize at the time that in his own way, Luther was trying to tell me his.
CHAPTER 38
Pent Up
The following Saturday was the first of October and the Fall Festival. Ever since our engagement, Watervalley’s regard for Christine and me was a testimony to the fabric of small-town life. Despite their firm disdain for anyone who made claim to pretentiousness, the plain and simple people of the town still wanted their champions. It seemed that by rules that were undeclared and vaporous, they bestowed on certain individuals an elevated social regard. Typically this involved money and lineage, although education was also a wild card that granted social esteem. As a physician, I had experienced that since the first day of my arrival.
Over the past month, I had begun to realize that along with Christine’s gracious nature and striking beauty, in the eyes of Watervalley she was viewed as having all the social trappings of heritage and wealth. We were seen as the perfect couple, and it seemed to be a great point of pride with the locals that one of their own had won the heart of the town doctor. We were treated just short of nobility, a status neither of us understood or desired. The townsfolk couldn’t get enough of us. It was both a blessing and a curse. But on this day, the Saturday of the Fall Festival, it felt like the latter.
Throughout the day, a growing tension seem to expand between Christine and me, and we argued over small things that didn’t matter. As we moved among the throngs of people, we were constantly corralled by well-wishers who wanted to see Christine’s ring, tease us about being engaged, and offer an endless encyclopedia of unwanted marriage advice.
By the time we arrived at the Fall Festival dance being held at the Memorial Building that evening, both of us were in a sour mood. Christine was distant, distracted, and my occasional inquiry as to whether everything was okay was met with immediate and curt dismissals. This fostered an impatient and brooding agitation between us. At the dance, the need to paint on a cordial smile for the endless stream of well-meaning townsfolk only exacerbated the situation. After thirty minutes of relentless interruptions, Christine turned to me.
“Can we go? Just, you know, leave?”
“Okay, fine.” I set down my beer, took her by the hand, and we walked out. I didn’t care about being at the dance anyway. But I was at a loss as to what could possibly be behind Christine’s intolerant mood.
After getting into the car, instead of starting the engine, I draped my arms over the steering wheel. Fatigued and annoyed, I rested my chin on top of my hands. “So, what do you want to do?”
“I don’t care.” Her clipped words were dispirited, frustrated. “What do you want to do?”
“I wasn’t the one who wanted to leave the dance.”
“Do you want to go back?”
“Not particularly.”
“So, what’s your point?”
“My point,” I said in a notably firmer but accommodating voice, “is that I don’t care what we do. I’m okay with being at the dance; I’m okay with doing something else. I’m open. So, you just decide, and by golly, that’s what we’ll do.”
A tense silence fell between us. Christine stared ahead in a brooding preoccupation: tight-lipped, pensive, caught in the shadow of some nagging worry. A moment later, she lifted her chin and exhaled deeply. “Let’s go to your place and make love.”
My blurted response was immediate, skeptical. “Is that what you want?”
Her boldness faltered. “Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. Maybe.” She looked away. Her voice was timid, pleading. “Don’t you want to?”
“Of course I want to. I wanted to make love with you the first time I saw you standing in your classroom door at school.” I paused a moment, shrugging slightly. “Of course, back then it was probably for all the wrong reasons. But now, well, now it’s for all the right reasons.”
Her gaze probed mine. “Are there right reasons?”
“Sure there are.”
She looked down and nodded delicately, still preoccupied and reflective.
“What’s wrong, Christine?”
As soon as I pressed the question, she immediately fortified herself again, painting on a fainthearted smile, speaking dismissively. “I don’t know. I’ve just been a bag of emotions lately.” She sat, looking down. “All I know is that I love you very much.” Again, she exhaled deeply and spoke with quiet resolve. �
�Maybe you should take me home. I’m just not feeling great.”
“Tell me how you feel.”
She looked up at me, searching my eyes, and seemed instantly comforted by the deep well of devotion she found there. Her mood lightened. Smiling warmly, she ran her finger along the back of my hand. “That is, take me home . . . unless, of course, you really would like to go back to your place and make love. I mean, I brought it up. I guess I’m not being very fair to bounce you around like that.”
I almost laughed. Even I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. “Christine, I’m pretty sure I’ll hate myself in another hour, and I mean really hate myself. But, no. Not now. Not like this.”
I reached over and held the soft contour of her face in my hand. I wanted her to answer my question, to talk to me, to tell me what was wrong. But she closed her eyes and rolled her cheek into my palm, breathing out a low murmur.
It had been a difficult, confusing day. The night was unseasonably cold and Christine shivered. I reached into the small rear seat and grabbed the Mennonite quilt that I had left there weeks before. I unfolded it and put it around her, then started the engine, turned on the headlights, and headed toward Summerfield Road.
As we passed under the streetlights, I reached over to hold her hand. But instead, she took my arm and wrapped it in a yielding embrace, holding it securely to her and resting her head on my shoulder the entire way home.
I walked her to the door and we kissed good night. But in the embrace that followed, she held me tightly, as if afraid to let me go. I was content to hold her as long as she wished. But in time, she took a deep breath of resolve, said good night, and disappeared behind the large front door.
The next morning, I texted Christine to see how she was feeling. Minutes later, she responded with a brief message. “Much better. Still sleeping. Will call later.”
