by Jeff High
I found myself daydreaming of magically protecting her, of changing the world and shielding her from this grief. But that was far beyond any present ability. In truth, my heart was broken for her, but I never made mention of this. Somehow even the knowledge that I was saddened for her, that her perceived failure gave me any distress at all, only brought her further dismay. It was a testimony to the beautiful complexity of a woman’s emotions. I only knew to love her.
On Thursday of the following week, at my request, John Harris stopped by my office during lunchtime. He made no mention of Christine, which to my mind confirmed that he was unaware of her condition. John was too good a man and loved his niece too dearly to say nothing if, in fact, he knew. The Chamberses were guarded people, and no doubt Christine wanted the matter to remain private, even from her uncle.
As he walked into my office, John was in a cajoling, jovial mood. “Well, Doctor. What bit of worldly wisdom do you have for me today?”
I directed him toward one of the wingback chairs. “Have a seat, Professor. I have good news.”
“Oh,” he said drily. “You’re not about to tell me that I’ve won a golden retriever puppy, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, no. But it’s not a bad idea. There are still two available.”
“We’ll table that motion for now. So, what’s the news?”
“I have the rest of the money for the statue fund. It came from a donor who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“You’re kidding. The full ten thousand?”
“The full ten thousand, in cash. I deposited it yesterday afternoon into the fund’s bank account.”
John was stunned. “That’s pretty amazing.” He cut his eyes at me warily. “You didn’t do this, did you, Bradford? You know, tap into the trust fund?”
I laughed. “John, I can’t touch the trust fund for a few more years. You know that.”
He nodded. “So no hints as to the donor?”
“You are familiar with the definition of ‘anonymous,’ aren’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah. Fine, smart-ass.” John grinned, awash with delight. “This gives me a great idea.”
“Why do I already not like the sound of that?”
“We’ve got three weeks until Veterans Day. I’ll call the monument company and have the statue installed in time to have a huge unveiling.” John’s face lit up like an excited child’s. He clapped his hands together. “You can give the address!”
I didn’t share his enthusiasm. “If I have to make another speech before the entire town, the only address I’m giving is a forwarding one.”
John waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, stop your whining. You did fine with the high school graduation speech earlier this year.”
He was referring to the previous May, when I had been asked to give the commencement address to Watervalley’s graduating seniors, a dubious task that had required a lot of long and anxious hours of preparation.
“You weren’t even there,” I retorted.
“I was afraid I’d get too emotional.”
“Funny.”
“Come on, you’re perfect.”
“Not happening, John.”
“You’ll do a great job, Doc.” He rose from his chair and began to leave. “Well, gotta run. I need to get with the mayor and start the ball rolling.”
I endeavored to offer some further rebuttal, but John moved too quickly, waving good-bye before I could utter a word. Just before departing my office door, he turned and scrutinized me. “Might be good if you keep it under twenty minutes. It’ll probably be cold outside.”
With that, he was gone.
“Great, another speech,” I muttered. It was the sort of thing that made me want to sit in a dark corner and whimper.
The following week, Luther and I rode together in his sedan out to Mennonite country to attend the wedding of Levi and Rebecca. And as if going to a wedding with Luther Whitmore weren’t weird enough, the time and day of the wedding made the whole affair absolutely bizarre.
It was at nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning.
Apparently, Old Order Mennonite weddings were all-day affairs and never held on Saturday. Doing so would require cleanup work to be done on Sunday, which was set aside strictly for worship. Luther picked me up at my house. He was in a lighthearted mood, which I found slightly unnerving.
As we headed down Fleming Street and out of town, Luther broke the silence. “So, Doctor, you get the money deposited okay?”
“All ten grand, Luther.”
“Hope I didn’t startle you Monday night. It was just easier to bring it by after dark. I figured no one would notice.”
“It was fine, Luther. I put it under my pillow. Slept like a baby.”
“Good to know.”
“Word about an anonymous donor giving ten thousand dollars to the statue fund is going to cause quite a bit of speculation. You might want to think about putting an article in the paper just to draw suspicion away from yourself.”
“Bradford, I doubt I’ll be on anybody’s top-ten list for suspected generosity. Still, that’s probably not a bad idea.”
“Oh come on, Luther. Don’t sell yourself short. The sunshine factor always jumps up a notch or two whenever you walk into the room.”
Luther ignored my jab. As we drove deeper into the countryside and passed distant farmhouses, he began to tell fascinating stories from his childhood about people who had lived on and worked these large, rich fields. I listened intently and realized that even Luther Whitmore had an abiding love of Watervalley, which had remained unvanquished by his years of bitterness. Within the realm of this wide fertile plain was an enduring strength that permeated its inhabitants, consoling them, whispering into their souls, and in time, providing a source of healing. Luther was no exception to Watervalley’s influence.
Soon we made our way down Mercy Creek Road. I wanted to ask Luther about the old ruins site, but his mood had turned apprehensive and he hurried past it.
Unlike their Amish cousins, the Mennonites didn’t always conduct weddings and church services at home. Years ago, they had built a small chapel in their community. Luther knew its location. Ours was the only car among an extensive gathering of horses, buggies, and wagons. After he parked and turned off the engine, he fell silent, clearly worried.
I cut my eyes at him. “You going to be okay?”
His words were laced with uneasiness. “I think so. Thanks for doing this, Luke.”
“Not a problem,” I said, sensing his apprehension. “Come on. You’ll be fine.”
It was already a splendid October morning, but as we emerged from the car, it seemed that a golden light displaced the air. The scene before us was quaint to the point of being surreal. The humble, starched white church was perfectly beautiful.
We made our way toward a small gathering of men standing near the front steps. They were all dressed in black hats, plain black clothes, and unadorned white shirts. We were met with polite but expressionless faces until Eli emerged from the crowd and approached us. He shook my hand and then Luther’s. Then he gestured us toward the other men. I quickly recognized Jacob, who looked up as we approached. Eli made the introductions.
“Jacob, you know the doctor.” We shook hands.
“And this is Luther Whitmore. He is a family friend from years ago.”
Jacob extended his hand and regarded Luther with civility. Luther, however, was fixated, staring at Jacob. Finally, Luther reached and took his hand; in that moment, something rather indefinable seemed to pass between them. Jacob’s eyes tightened, and he held on to Luther’s hand, unable to let go. It was as though an unseen energy now connected the two men. Despite all my medical training, I couldn’t help but think that there was much that the universe had yet to tell us about the primal bond between father and son.
Luther finally
choked out a low response. “It’s, um, it’s good to finally meet you.”
Luther looked at me awkwardly. I put my hand on his shoulder and gently guided him toward the steps. We took a seat on the back row, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves. Luther was clearly shaken but seemed to gather himself once we were settled.
In time, Levi emerged from a side door near the front. He was well groomed and eager, but stiffer than a fence post.
Minutes later Rebecca appeared, wearing a plain, light blue dress and a black bonnet; in keeping with conservative Mennonite custom, she wasn’t carrying any flowers. Even so, she was radiant and Luther was visibly dumbstruck. His eyes were open, but he seemed to be looking at her from some great depth, lost in a welling-up of memories summoned forth in a grand moment of inexplicable peace. Ultimately, he looked at me with all-consuming gratitude. I was happy for him.
But I wasn’t happy for me.
Mennonite weddings are largely church services, and they last three hours. By the time it was finally over, I thought that Levi and Rebecca had visibly aged in front of me. Afterward, Luther and I hung around outside to speak with the bride and groom, thinking it best not to participate in the reception at Jacob’s home. To my surprise, as the couple departed the church, Rebecca was presented with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. They were daisies.
I shook Levi’s hand, and he thanked me for coming. I started to take Rebecca’s hand as well but stopped, unsure what was appropriate with Mennonite women. She read my hesitation and swallowed a short laugh, her dark eyes mysterious. She smiled at me, and I felt my face flush. It was easy to see that she had a beauty and a wisdom that belied her age, yet all the while I was reminded that she was the perfect replica of Evangeline Whitmore, Luther’s mother.
Luther introduced himself, offering congratulations to Levi and making a few comments about having known Eli when they were young boys. He then turned to Rebecca and was uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Finally he said words that he’d clearly practiced, though they were still poorly delivered. “I knew your—your great-aunt Ellie as well. She was . . . She was a lovely and good person.”
Rebecca nodded silently and respectfully. I couldn’t help but wonder at her thoughts, and if she wanted to hear more about this lost person from her past. As well, I could tell that Luther desperately wanted to talk to her, to stare at her, his grandchild, to perhaps even hold her hand.
But he kept himself in check. He nodded to both of them and then to me. Before departing, I spoke to Jacob one final time.
“Congratulations, Jacob. It was a lovely ceremony.”
He smiled at my poor attempt at diplomacy. “It was painfully long, Dr. Bradford. And you are kind for speaking considerately.”
“Either way, I’m happy for them.” We both turned and gazed at the young couple, who were surrounded by well-wishers. “Jacob, I’m curious,” I said, stepping closer to him. “Where did you find fresh daisies this late in the year?”
“Hannah grows them. We have a small greenhouse.”
I nodded. “Levi told me they are going to build next year on the property along Mercy Creek Road.”
“Yes, my aunt’s place.”
“Beautiful setting. I actually stopped and walked around the old foundation earlier this year. Wonderful place for a young couple.”
Jacob nodded. A subtle question gathered in his eyes, as if he detected something intentional in my comment. There was.
“Funny thing, Jacob. When I stopped by there last spring, someone had left some freshly picked daisies on the hearth. Any idea who that might have been?”
He seemed slightly embarrassed. “That was me, Dr. Bradford. When I was a boy, each year around my aunt’s and father’s birthday, he and I would walk out to the old foundation. He would pick daisies, lay them on the hearth, and talk to me about his sister. They were twins, and I think he loved her very much. He has often said he wished I could have known her. So each spring I still put flowers on the hearth in her honor.” He turned toward Eli, who stood several feet away talking to Luther, and added, “Over the years, my father has told me many things about my aunt, many stories, and many secrets from their childhood.”
Jacob fell silent, and part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he knew Ellie was his biological mother, if somehow over the years he had read the burden on Eli’s heart to tell the truth, much in the same way Luther had unknowingly given me clues. His penetrating gaze at Luther seemed to confirm my suspicion, but he said nothing more. I would never know for sure.
I bid Jacob good-bye and joined Luther and Eli, who was introducing Jacob’s two younger boys to his old friend. The youths nodded politely and then dashed away, no doubt desiring to be first in the line for food.
As the two men shook hands one final time, Luther inquired, “Perhaps someday I can come and visit . . . for old times’ sake.”
Eli held on to Luther’s hand and nodded. “Perhaps.”
Even so, I could see in their eyes that both knew a return visit would likely never happen. There passed between these two childhood friends a final acknowledgment of who they once were and how their lives had been both wondrously and tragically entwined. But they belonged to different worlds, and both of them knew it.
As we walked back to the car, the crushing weight of Luther’s painful life poured over me. To think that his son and grandchildren were living less than twenty-five miles away and yet he would likely never see them again seemed a terrible penance. But rather than looking miserable, Luther appeared divinely at peace, as if he were closing up a long-suffered wound. The one thing that Luther and Eli still shared was a love of Ellie Yoder. For her cherished and untarnished memory to remain intact, it was best to leave matters as they were. My heart went out to him.
On our return trip down Mercy Creek Road, I asked Luther if he minded stopping at the site of the ruins. He seemed glad to oblige.
He pulled only a few feet down the long drive and stopped the car. For a full minute we sat in silence, absorbing the view of this enchanted meadow and its surrounding hills.
“Levi told me that he and Rebecca are going to build here in the spring,” I said.
Luther seemed pleased. “Ellie would like that. It’s only right that her granddaughter should rebuild out of the ashes and live a happy life here.”
A question struck me. “Luther, you know everything about this place. Who originally built this house?”
“No idea. It was abandoned for years before the Yoder family bought it. There’s an old story that the guy who built it was at one time engaged to my grandmother.”
“So I take it he wasn’t your grandfather?”
“No, he was some fellow who died soon after their engagement. I don’t know if he was killed in a farming accident or what. After several years, my grandmother met and married my grandfather. She died when my mom was three. Anyway, as the story goes, the fellow who built this place wrote her a bunch of poems. She had them made into a book. It’s in the Watervalley library.”
A memory fluttered. “What was the name of the book?”
“I believe it’s called Poems to Sylvia. That was my grandmother’s name.”
“I think I’ve seen it. Will Fox was reading it on his front porch a while back.”
Luther shrugged. “I remember seeing it once years ago, but I don’t remember much about it.”
“And you don’t remember the name of the guy who wrote the poems?”
“Love poems from one of your grandmother’s old boyfriends aren’t exactly memorable stuff, Doctor.”
“Point taken.”
In time we left and Luther drove me to the clinic where, no doubt, a waiting room full of patients was anxiously anticipating my arrival. Luther got out of the car and walked around to shake my hand one last time.
“So, what’s next?” I said.
“I’m leaving town for a few days. There’s something I need to do. Someone I need to go see.” His words seemed intentionally guarded, so I didn’t inquire further.
Luther filled in the silence. “I know I’ve said this before, Luke, but I owe you. If there’s ever anything you need me to do, just let me know.”
I stared at him for a moment, and then a thought occurred to me. “Luther, you know there is one thing that does come to mind.” Then another idea hit me, and I spoke hesitantly. “Actually . . . two.”
CHAPTER 44
Beacon Road
The early days of November had been cool but unseasonably dry. My morning runs began in darkness, and along the way I would quietly watch the drowsy countryside awaken. As the first delicate light of morning pushed away the shadows, tatters of white fog could be seen nestled in the low-lying fields and along the creek banks. And by the time I made my way toward home, the sun had scaled the eastern hills, catching the morning sky on fire.
With each passing day, it seemed that Christine regained more of the joy for life that had always defined her. Despite the devastating news about her medical condition, she was courageously finding the resolve to hope. On a few occasions she even asked me about some of the articles she had read in online medical journals. Perhaps the best part of her willingness to talk was that she was beginning to understand the depth of my love for her, that this setback was our challenge together, not hers alone. On that heartrending afternoon at Bracken’s Knoll, I had never considered that this beautiful woman’s greatest distress was her fear of losing me. It was a reality that I doubted I would ever completely understand.
Even so, she would occasionally tease that perhaps we should run off and elope so that we could start the whole baby factory process sooner. Admittedly, as a guy with a firm aversion to ceremony and on the heels of a three-hour Mennonite wedding, I found this idea had merit on several levels. Christine was as beautiful as ever, my blood was still decidedly red, and my passion for her was ever present.
