The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  I was encouraged, thinking that possibly her curious malaise from the previous day was now past. Perhaps it had been a combination of weariness and stress mixed with who knew what. I had to laugh at myself. I worked all day, every day, in a building full of women. How come I still understood so little about them?

  I gathered my coffee mug and stepped outside to take in the splendor of the unseasonably warm fall day, all the while thinking of Christine, ruminating on her offer of love the previous evening, toying with it, pondering it, and in time, becoming obsessed by it. The idea was consuming.

  On the one hand, our restraint seemed absurd. We were in love, for heaven’s sake, and engaged; fully committed to each other. A desire for total intimacy was completely natural. The previous evening’s discord had precluded the possibility and had spoiled the moment. Even so, the thought of making love lingered. And that thought was powerful, delightful, and, more than I wanted to admit, irresistible.

  I grew restless and wanted to get away, take a drive. After changing clothes, I grabbed my keys, started up the ­Austin-­Healey, and headed out to the countryside. I drove for nearly an hour, aimlessly traveling the remote roads of Watervalley until I found myself on the east road headed toward the woods and Leyland Carter’s secluded shack.

  On the way, I made a brief stop at Eddie’s Quick Mart to grab a soft drink and a couple of other items. The landscape on the east road seemed tangled and disfigured, broken up by overgrown, sagging fences and cluttered with the occasional abandoned building and weedy parking lot. In time, I was swallowed by thick woods.

  I traveled down Beacon Lane and turned at Leyland’s mailbox. After stopping in the small clearing in front of his house, I cut the engine and stepped toward the porch, calling out in a loud voice, “Leyland! Hey, Leyland! It’s Luke Bradford, the doctor. Are you home?”

  I waited and heard nothing. The house had the same deserted appearance as on my last visit. Curtains still tightly covered the windows, and now a few errant tree branches had come to rest on the roof, providing a pocket for the accumulation of fallen leaves. I called out again, but there was still no sound save for the sporadic creak of the rocking chair, stirred by the occasional wisp of warm breeze. Otherwise, a heavy stillness permeated the air.

  I walked around the side of the house, and toward the back, where I found a ­1970s-­vintage Ford truck parked in the weeds and gravel. It was beaten up and rusted.

  The small back stoop was partially covered in leaves and adorned with an old pair of work boots that appeared to have been left in the weather for quite some time. I knocked loudly on the back door and still heard no sound. I thought about calling out again, but at this juncture, it seemed pointless. Leyland wasn’t here.

  I leaned on the fender of the truck for a few minutes and breathed in deeply of the rich, musty woods. Shafts of morning light filtered through the remaining leaves, warming the small backyard and illuminating small patches on the forest floor. The day had a dreamy, ethereal feel to it, and there was something comforting in the incredible silence. Even so, my thoughts troubled me. In time I ambled back around the house, looking down to carefully place my steps among the rocks and tall weeds. I was almost to the car before I heard Leyland speak.

  “What’s your hurry, Luke?”

  He was sitting in the rocking chair, just as he had been in my previous visit. He was wearing a heavy, ­waist-­length farm coat.

  “How do you do that?”

  “And what would that be?” His face was framed in the same grin as before.

  I stepped onto the porch, folded my arms, and leaned my shoulder against the near column. “How do you sneak out here without making a sound?”

  “Old is not the same as rusty, my boy.”

  I looked away, amused and not surprised that I wouldn’t get a straight answer from him.

  “What brings you out on this fine Sunday morning?”

  “Seemed like a nice day for a drive. Catch a little fall color.”

  “You wouldn’t have headed out the east highway for that.”

  “Yeah, but then I couldn’t check up on you, could I?”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you’re a fine man for doing so.”

  “Since we’re on that subject, tell me, Leyland. How have you been?”

  “Pretty fair, pretty fair. I woke up aboveground this morning, which always makes for a good day.”

  “Can’t argue with that, I guess. Are you getting along okay out here by yourself? You have everything you need, like food and medications and that sort of thing?”

  “Seem to be. The well pump still works, I still hunt in the woods some from time to time, and I get to the store when I need to. And not to cut down on your business, Doc, but I feel fine. Don’t take any medicine.”

  “Well, okay. I guess my work here is done.”

  I suspected Leyland knew I was joking, but he played along for sport.

  “Ah, hang around. I’m sure you can think of another question or two.”

  I nodded and surveyed the nearby woods, which now seemed to have a warmth and brightness.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Leyland, what do you do for entertainment?”

  “Don’t mind a’tall. I read, I listen to the woods, and when I get lonely, I hum a little tune.”

  I knew that for many of the older citizens of Watervalley, the pace of life was rather slow. But Leyland took this concept to an ­all-­new level, completely detached from the fervor of the larger world. Still, he seemed content. “Well, I tell you, Leyland, I might get some of your well water before I go. Seems to keep you healthy, wealthy, and wise.”

  “Healthy and wise, maybe.”

  We shared a brief moment of mutual understanding before Leyland spoke again.

  “So, what’s troubling you today?”

  I tightened my gaze at him. “And why do you think something is troubling me?”

  “You seem wounded.”

  I stiffened slightly, amused and curious. “I don’t think I follow you.”

  “When you were walking around the house just now . . . you seemed wounded.”

  I stood there with my hands in my coat pockets and shrugged. “No, Leyland. I feel fine.”

  He rubbed his mouth as if he had just finished a meal. Then he stood and, after steadying himself on the porch railing, he looked at the woods, seeming to search for a memory. “One time when I was a boy, I went with my dad to the store. It was a general merchandise where they sold everything: food, hardware, even clothing. Every time I had been in that store, the owner had told me to get a piece of peppermint candy out of the big jar. But for some reason, this time he didn’t. Now, my dad needed a certain kind of rope. So he and the proprietor went back into the storeroom to look for it, leaving me all alone and standing next to that great big jar of peppermint candy.” He paused a moment. “So, I had a decision to make. I knew I could take a piece and no one would ever miss it.”

  “But technically you thought that would be stealing,” I said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. The store owner had offered in the past.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “I took the lid off and put my hand in the jar. Then, after a moment, I just stopped. I pulled my hand out and put the lid back.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “They came back out from the storeroom. My dad bought his rope. We left.”

  “And that’s the end of the story?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Leyland, I think you lost me somewhere. I don’t believe I see the connection between that story and your thinking that I look wounded.”

  “Because as we rode back home, I had the same look on my face that you did a few minutes ago. I wanted that piece of peppermint. It had been offered in the past, so I thought I could easily justify having it. I chose not to, and it was the
right decision. But I had missed out on something really delightful. And frankly, I felt wounded.”

  I tightened my lips and thought about Leyland’s words. He knew nothing about me or the desires swirling around in my head. But admittedly, his insightfulness was daunting.

  Still pretending to be amused, I spoke cautiously, politely. “So, Leyland, tell me your point here.”

  He looked down for a moment, never losing his amiable smile. “The point, Doctor, is that in this life, just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

  His words hung heavy in the air. He gazed into the patchy ­sunlight of the woods. “It seems that within us are deeply buried notions. They well up from some ancient, hidden, ­half-­forgotten, ancestral memory; they’re woven into our very nature. Notions that we don’t freely lay upon ourselves, yet notions that we feel we must obey. They confuse us, so we try to ignore them. But they hound us, chide us to weigh the moral quality of our actions.”

  “Not exactly a popular sentiment, Leyland, but I guess there may be some truth there.”

  He was half laughing under his breath. “The truth rarely gets applause.”

  He eased himself back into the rocking chair. He began to talk about his life, of how his favorite sandwich as a child was buttered white bread, of how he loved to work with wood and stone to build things, and of how his education at Vanderbilt had taught him a love of poetry.

  Most of all, he talked about the land, of how the soil was his eternal kinsman, of how a life tilling the earth fostered a kind of wisdom and strength, of how the land was always beautiful, healing, full of adventure. It seemed that his was a contentment to be envied, and I found myself wanting to understand what had given his life such satisfaction and ease; what had made all the difficulties and disappointments of life seem so distant. He was a paradox to me: a life that had so little, yet a mind that had so much.

  The noon hour approached, and he stood and stretched. “Son, I need to move around a little. You want to take a walk in the woods with me? There’s a creek nearby with large rocks that form some shallow pools. I like to go to the water.”

  “Perhaps another time, Leyland. I probably ought to be getting back.”

  “Come again anytime. I should be here. If I’m not, I’m probably somewhere else.” His eyes twinkled at his own humor.

  I returned to the ­Austin-­Healey and waved to him as I departed. He held up a hand in reply. I was lost in thought and was a half mile down Beacon Road when I noticed the bag from Eddie’s Quick Mart on the passenger side.

  “Crap,” I said. I turned the car around and made my way back down Leyland’s driveway. After parking, I reached into the bag and retrieved the five pieces of peppermint candy I had bought for him because he had asked me on my earlier visit if I had any. But he was nowhere to be seen.

  I knocked on the door and called out, but received no answer. He had likely taken off into the woods and was out of earshot. I left the five pieces on his chair and headed back to town.

  CHAPTER 39

  Vital Records

  Tuesday afternoon, Connie stopped by the office with the list of names for my visit to the Tennessee Office of Vital Records. The statue company was pressing for the names to be engraved as well as for the final payment. After talking with Nancy Orman about Wednesday’s schedule, I reluctantly agreed to drive to Nashville the next morning.

  I had already made plans to take Friday off and finally go to Atlanta, meet with the moving company, and arrange to transfer some furniture from storage. This unwanted trip to Nashville only complicated the week. But it had to be done.

  I left early Wednesday, hoping to return in time to take care of any patients and then later meet up with Christine. We hadn’t seen each other since Saturday.

  The morning air was cool and sunny. Telephone poles flashed by in an endless blur as the roadster hummed across the hills and farmlands. I was restless, lost in thought.

  A strange feeling troubled me that I had missed or forgotten something, and I began to randomly replay the events of recent weeks. For some reason, my mind kept returning to Luther and his odd desire to hide his heroism. I couldn’t get his quote from Milton out of my head: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Presumably, he’d been talking about Eli Yoder, and yet, Eli’s service hardly involved standing and waiting. Luther was more clever than that. I was missing something.

  In time, I approached the familiar skyline of Nashville and made my way downtown to the Central Services Building and the state’s vital records office. After parking, I grabbed the folder and headed inside. An hour later, the task was done.

  But I wasn’t the same. It had been deeply sobering to read the death certificates of the seven men on my list. They had been faceless names in a file folder, but now I knew part of their stories, and my efforts had insured that their names would appear on the memorial. It had been time well spent.

  The day had warmed up, so I took off my jacket before getting into the car. I was about to toss it into the backseat when I noticed the quilt still there, neatly folded. Sunlight shining through the side window fell upon it, illuminating the vivid green and red patterns. Numerous times I had thought to take the quilt inside after arriving home. But it hadn’t happened because something about it kept nagging me, pestering my subconscious, pleading for me to recall some conversation, some buried realization.

  Then it hit me. I stood there stunned for several lost seconds. My mind raced; searching, probing, connecting the dots. I shut the car door, walked back inside, and returned to the vital records counter. There was one more document I needed to see.

  When I arrived in Watervalley later that day, I drove straight to the offices of the Village Voice. I found Luther at his desk, seated in the middle of the ­modest-­sized room cluttered with files, books, and old papers. He was reading something on his computer. I entered and shut the door behind me.

  “Luther, we need to talk.”

  He was unmoved by the intensity in my voice. “Do I have a choice?”

  “What happened the night of the fire?”

  “You care to be more specific?”

  “July fifth, 1968. The fire out on Mercy Creek Road. What happened?”

  There was a subtle stiffening in his posture. By degrees his eyes grew more sharply focused. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just humor me, Luther.”

  His expression turned crafty, undaunted. “We rode out there for nothing. The house on fire belonged to the Mennonites, and they didn’t want our help. What of it?”

  “Everybody knows that part. What I want to know is, what happened earlier that evening?”

  Luther folded his arms and sat back in his chair. “I’m not sure I understand your question, Bradford.”

  He was stonewalling. “I think you do, Luther. I think you remember it vividly. It was the night before you headed off to war.”

  “Since you seem to be recently blessed with a dose of clairvoyance, why don’t you tell me your theory?”

  “Okay, fine.” Once again Luther was at his game of cat and mouse. “Let’s just say I’m spitballing here, but I’m guessing you knew that house well. I’m guessing that you were there earlier that night. You’re a lot of things, Luther, but you’re not a liar. So tell me. Yes or no?”

  His haughty manner hardened to a low anger. “Why do you want to know, Bradford?”

  “Because I want the truth. Because I think there is more to this story than even you know.”

  He stood heatedly and placed both hands on his desk as he leaned venomously toward me. “What do you mean, more than I know?”

  “Just answer the question!”

  “About what?”

  “About what happened that night between you and Ellie Yoder.”

  His face went pale. His tall frame wilted before me, and he slowly eased back into his chair. For the longest t
ime he stared vacantly, resurrecting the memories of a past decade. Eventually, he sighed deeply.

  “You really want to hear all this?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ellie Yoder and I had been secretly in love for years, ever since we were children. When we were kids, we promised to marry each other. That’s why I know scripture so well. I was studying to become a Mennonite, so I could be accepted into their faith. When I moved to town, it was harder to see each other. We met secretly. We had been very careful, but I think Eli figured it out.”

  “What happened?”

  “The war, the draft. I got called up, and it was a little late to claim that I was a conscientious objector. So we decided that I would serve my time and we would marry when I returned. The house on Mercy Creek Road was to be hers. We were going to live there until I had a chance to build a house at Moon Lake. Then she died. I didn’t find out until two months after it happened. My mother mentioned her death randomly in a letter. Even she didn’t know about us.”

  “So what happened that night, Luther? How did her house catch on fire?”

  Despite his defeated tone, Luther scrutinized me sharply. “Bradford . . . I really don’t get you. Why do you care?”

  “For the moment, let’s just say I’m curious and leave it at that.”

  This seem to satisfy him. His reflective voice filled the room. “It was my last night before leaving for the war. After it grew dark, we met at the house. It was abandoned in those days, and her family used it for storage. We were both ­eighteen—­scared, uncertain, wholeheartedly in love. It was terrible. Somehow, we both had this desperate feeling we would never see each other again, that I would never return from the war. We were both in unexplainable tears.”

  He paused and stared at me. “Can you imagine what that’s like, Bradford? To have the one person who is everything in your life standing before you, and to somehow know that this is it. To have the dreadful knowledge that after you say ­good-­bye and turn away, you will never see them again?”