by Jeff High
“No. He’ll be home in about thirty minutes.”
“That’s good, actually. I wanted to speak to you privately.”
We sat in her modest living room and I described our proposed plan of assistance. At first, she refused, not wanting anyone to take on her burdens, but I persisted.
“Louise, we all go through rough patches. This is just to buy you some time so you can get this property sold.”
“I’m afraid I may owe more on it than it’s worth.”
“Well, we can try. How’s the job search coming?”
“A little slow. I’ve been working part-time at some of the shops and cleaning a few houses. Connie has been wonderful. She and her sister have offered me a position at the bakery when it opens, but that’s still a few months away.”
The mention of the bakery stirred my curiosity. “Louise, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve only recently learned about Oscar Fox and the old murder story. Has that been difficult? I mean, has his reputation been something of a cross to bear?”
“Sometimes. Maybe not so much for me because I married into the family. But I think it haunted my late husband. His family always insisted that Oscar was a righteous man and didn’t deserve the blackening of his good name. Why do you ask?”
I smiled. “Oh, no reason. Just curious, I guess. So, do you and Will have a place to go from here?”
“We’re trying to figure that out. My husband was an only child and his parents are deceased. My mother lives in Nashville, but she has only a one-bedroom apartment. There are some places here I might can afford. They’re kind of shabby, but Will and I will make the best of it.”
My heart went out to Louise. She seemed so fragile and so poorly equipped to take on the hard challenges in front of her. Eventually, she agreed to our charity on the condition that she would pay us back when the house sold. Our conversation was cut short by the sound of Will’s boots as he tromped through the front door.
“Hey, Dr. Bradford. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, just talking to your mom.”
“About what?”
Will was a clever, perceptive fellow and I didn’t want to divulge the truth about our conversation. I had to think fast.
“Well, I was asking your mom if you could go on a little adventure with Chick McKissick and me.” Louise’s face was a question mark. Out of a love of cars, Will had often spent his afternoons hanging out at Chick’s garage and the two of them were steady friends.
“It seems that I have been given a car, an old convertible that needs restoration. Chick is going to meet me with the tow truck to bring it back to his shop. Want to ride along?”
Will’s eyes lit up with excitement and Louise readily agreed to my proposition. I called Chick, who said he would meet us at the Strum property, and we hopped in the Corolla and headed out there.
“So, what kind of car is it?” Will inquired.
“A 1962 Austin-Healey 3000 Mark II convertible. It has less than three thousand miles on it and I believe it is blue and white. I saw it once, but it was covered in dust.” I went on to explain to Will the story about Mildred Strum and how the gift had come to me.
“Yeah, she died not long ago, didn’t she?”
“Yes. She has gone on to her reward, as they say.”
“From what I hear, I don’t think she’s finding it very rewarding.”
I looked over at Will and grinned. “Oh, and how is that?”
“Chick was talking about her down at the garage. He said she was as mean as a snake.”
I endeavored to be diplomatic. “I think she may have had that reputation. But looks like she wasn’t all that bad. She left me this car.”
“Hmm, I guess. Anyway, from what I hear, she’s moved on to a much warmer climate, if you catch my drift.”
I exhaled a short laugh. “Yeah, I get it.” Will stared out the passenger window and we rode for the next minute in silence. Then he turned to me.
“So, I hear you’re dating my teacher, Miss Chambers.”
“That’s the rumor.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“With this old Corolla I figured you had a better chance of getting abducted by aliens than getting a date with her, or anyone for that matter.”
“Clearly you’ve underestimated my charm with the ladies. I can explain it if you’d like.”
Will stared out the passenger window again. “That’d be pretty good at generating a yawn.”
“Mighty big talk for a guy who still has footies on his pj’s.”
Will snickered, enjoying this opportunity to rib me a little. He kept up the assault.
“So, is she a good kisser?”
“Will, you’re being a little too chatty. Are you familiar with the concept known as the cone of silence?”
“Hmm. I’m gonna take that as a yes to my question.”
I ignored this. “Okay, buddy. Time for a subject change. You play any kind of sports, Will? You know, like basketball?”
“Basketball? Are you kidding? Do I look like I’m athletic? I’ve got about a three-inch vertical leap, and that’s only if I lift one foot at a time.”
“I could teach you. I used to play a lot of basketball.”
“Maybe. Sports really aren’t my thing.”
“So what is your thing?”
“Cars, computers. I like to write stories too.”
“Oh yeah, like the comic book about Captain Blue Jeans.”
“That, and other stories.”
“Really? What other kind of stories?”
“Stories about doctors who drive ugly cars and have girlfriends who are really good kissers.”
I pondered this for a moment. “Kinda walked into that one, didn’t I?”
Will continued looking out the side window. “Surrrrrrre did.”
By now we had turned onto the long driveway of the Strum property. Already waiting on us, Chick was talking with an older man who was the caretaker. He showed us to the barn and unlocked the latch to the large wooden door.
As he walked around the Austin-Healey, Chick blew out a long, sharp whistle.
“Mmm, mmm, Dr. B. This is one fine-looking piece of machinery.”
With its spoke wheels, chrome grille, leather interior, wood dash, and sleek racing lines, the car was definitely a classic beauty. I wiped away a thick layer of dust from the fender to reveal a swath of the original powder blue paint.
Chick spoke admiringly. “I looked up this model before coming out here, Dr. B. This baby has a top speed of a hundred and fifteen miles per hour and can accelerate from zero to sixty in eleven point seven seconds.”
“So what do you think, Chick? Can you get her running again?”
“I think so. But it’s going to take some time. Lot of detail work.”
“Well, how about this. What say you put Will here on the clock in the afternoons to help you restore her and put it on my tab?”
Chick smiled broadly at Will. “What do you say to that, Will my man?”
“Sure.” During the brief time I had known Will, he had always been one to mask his emotions. Given our similar histories of losing loved ones, I understood this desire. But the look on his face was one of pure elation.
Amazingly, we were able to inflate the tires long enough for Chick to get the car safely loaded onto the flatbed of the tow truck. Will talked nonstop on the ride home, bursting with delight at his new project.
Mildred Strum had been a miserable old woman, but the gift of this car had brought a timely delight to Will’s troubled life. The thought also occurred to me that come springtime a snazzy car like this along with a beautiful girl like Christine would provide me with some timely delight as well.
Truth
be known, she was a good kisser.
CHAPTER 26
Pandora’s Box
The short days of January continued. Some were bright and brilliant, with skies of pristine blue that spread a soft optimism over the daytime hours. But most were overcast, wrapping the distant hills in a hood of gray vapor, encouraging the townsfolk to stay inside, to sleep, to dream of warmer days.
Despite the freezing temperatures, I often walked to work for the daily exercise. Daylight had already arrived by the time I made my morning trek, but usually I returned home on the cusp of darkness. The windows of Fleming Street radiated a cozy glow, and as I passed them, I breathed deeply of the winter air, now laced with the intoxicating smell of woodsmoke. An awareness of these small delights was slowly defining me.
During the colder months the Farmers’ Co-op served as little more than a gathering place for coffee and card games. Across the valley the fields lay frozen and the farm lanes became black ribbons of endless mud. Livestock huddled around hay bales and silage bins. The tall gray silos that dotted the landscape were the cathedrals of the rural architecture, standing sentinel against the severity of winter.
Christine and I continued to see each other, usually texting or talking on the phone on a daily basis. We went out on weekends, and as the days passed, from within the initial fog of intoxicating attraction, there emerged between us an enduring and easy friendship. Here was a finer harmony than I had known in previous relationships. When we were together, I sensed a gentle choreography to our thoughts, our choices, our actions. It seemed that a charmed ease had mellowed between the two of us. For my cautious heart, she was brave new territory.
By late January, Connie and Estelle had closed on the old bakery, but their plans for renovation were still on the drawing board. Conversely, a for-sale sign had gone up next door to me, a hope-filled step forward. My only regret was that the financial assistance we’d provided seemed to further Louise’s humiliation. On the chance encounters between us, she kindly waved and looked away, regarding me with an unspoken yet embarrassed gratitude.
My pursuit of the murder mystery had gone cold and Lida had yet to find her father’s old file box. Meanwhile, I was haunted by the Star of David that Christine and I had seen on Oscar Fox’s grave. I found it difficult to reconcile the conflicting accounts of Oscar’s apparent charity in light of his reputation as a vicious murderer. But my curiosity would have to wait. The tug of daily responsibilities had taken center stage. Still, I kept the autopsy report on my desk, mentally placing it under unfinished business.
The gray, sleepy days of January ended. February arrived and with it came the first faint breath of warmer air, the first frail stirring in the quiet fertility of the open fields. The second week brought a short string of warmer sunny days and the daffodils, the vanguards of spring, began to peek through in small golden clusters along the county roads. The nights were cold and winter continued to hold sway, but the expanding daylight hours and temperate days foretold the inevitable changing of the season.
The fourteenth of February, Valentine’s Day, was a Friday. Every female who knew my name had reminded me of this fact, twice. It seemed that my budding relationship with Christine was broadly endorsed and they wanted to ensure that no doofus act of omission on my part should derail it. During the preceding week, Christine and I had talked about the day but made no definite plans. Getting together was naturally assumed, but in Watervalley, it didn’t take long to exhaust the options for diversion. We had decided to touch base at the end of the workday and go from there.
Early that Friday morning I was sleeping soundly, undisturbed even by Rhett’s incredible capacity for snoring, when a clamoring downstairs woke me abruptly. Connie was being unusually noisy, banging the pots and pans. The explosive sound I heard next made me sit straight up in bed. Booming up from the kitchen came the deafening, deep-lunged voice of a woman singing.
Even Rhett had an alarmed look on his face. I immediately grabbed my robe and tumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, where I halted, wide-eyed. The singer was Estelle, dressed in a sequined jogging suit.
With one hand raised above her head and the other one holding a wooden spoon as a microphone, she was belting out a song at the top of her lungs. Her eyes were closed and she was dancing, not with just a modest shimmy, but with her whole body rhythmically gyrating, including every appendage, her considerable hips, and her large, contralto bosom. She was caught up in her own hinterland of unabashed expression and dark creative freedom.
I considered retreating quietly back upstairs, but I was mesmerized by the spectacle, locked in a state of semishock.
She was dubbing her own words into the song “Lady Marmalade” and finished with an earsplitting “I made homemade marmalaaaaaaaade!”
She held the last note in a long finale, stretching both hands skyward and ending at a volume approaching that of a tornado siren.
Upon finishing, she clenched her fist in a notable expression of satisfied glee. Only then did she notice me sitting at the bottom of the steps with a frozen and bug-eyed face.
“Mmm, mmm. I am in fine voice this morning. Good morning, sweetie! Did I wake you up?”
“Estelle, I think it’s safe to say you woke up the entire zip code.”
“Everybody should be up. It’s Valentine’s Day!”
My initial shock had passed. Despite Estelle’s energy, I was returning to the half fog of sleep that I had been so delightfully immersed in only minutes prior. “And so it is. Estelle, where is Connie?”
“She had some things to do this morning, so I volunteered to come help get your day going.”
“Well. Mission accomplished.”
“I brought some of the pastries that will be in the bakery along with some homemade marmalade. I want to try them out on you.”
“Sure.”
“I have a few vol-au-vents and some chouquettes.”
From some distant memory I knew these were French treats made from puff pastry. I poured a cup of coffee and moved to the table, where Estelle brought me a plate. The pastries were heavenly, and while I ate them, I could only wonder what Watervalley would think of having such unique culinary options. They also brought to mind another matter.
“Estelle, are you going to try and serve anything besides bread and pastries?”
“I’m thinking I might need to have some lunch options, maybe some sandwiches. I’ve been hearing a rumor that Lida Wilkins over at the Depot Diner is going to start selling fried pies and baked goods.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard as much. Seems kind of a shame for you two to be in competition.”
“Seems tacky to me. But if she wants to cut in on my pastry business, I’ll just have to cut in on her lunch business.”
I nodded, knowing this was just the way things had to be. Still, I really liked both women and wanted each of them to succeed.
“Here, Dr. B., try some of my orange marmalade. That’s what got me going. It just seemed a cue for a song.”
“I can see that.”
“Oh, come on now, Dr. B. Don’t you ever catch yourself doing something and just getting a song in your head?”
“You know, Estelle, I don’t think I’m wired that way.”
“Are you telling me you never sing to that pretty girlfriend of yours?”
“I’d say the fact that we are still dating is proof of that.”
“Well, what about dancing? You take her dancing, don’t you?”
“Mmm, can’t say that’s happened either.”
She stood over me with her hands on her hips, shaking her head.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm. Dr. B., you need to loosen up, boy. You are just way too white and uptight.”
She walked back to the stove, robustly giggling, amused to the point of giddiness. I finished eating, thanked her, and walked back upstairs to get ready for work. What was it about the Pillow s
isters? One was stern and the other was silly. Both had a way of putting me in my place.
When I arrived at the clinic that morning, Clovis Benefield and his wife, Edith, were waiting on the front steps.
“Hey, Clovis. You’re here bright and early. Are you okay?”
“I’ve swallowed poison, Doc. I need to get my stomach pumped.”
His words alarmed me, but nothing about his appearance did. He was placidly calm, albeit clearly worried. It was like someone yawning while telling you he was choking. I unlocked the door and told them to come inside.
Clovis was a timid little fellow in his seventies who long ago had taken on the role of designated worrier. With his frazzled hair and stubbly chin he always wore a racked and anxious face. He would be constantly muttering to himself, adrift in some sea of interior monologue. He barely spoke above a whisper and sometimes it seemed he was drifting out of consciousness in midsentence. Edith was a lot more levelheaded and sociable, but had become legally blind in recent years. They made an interesting pair.
I was alarmed about the poisoning until Clovis explained the source. During the night he had reached for his glass of water and taken a huge gulp only to realize that he had grabbed Edith’s denture cup by mistake.
“Clovis, you might feel a little icky, but I don’t think we’ll need to pump your stomach.”
“You sure, Doc?” he replied. “I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Quite sure. Not to worry.”
He nodded with a mix of reluctance and resignation. “Come on, Edith. Let’s go back home.” He took several steps away, but Edith remained, looking in my direction with a quaint grandmotherly smile. She was clearly amused by the whole affair. After Clovis was out of earshot, she spoke confidentially.
“Thanks for talking some sense into him, Dr. Bradford.” She turned to leave and then stopped and added wryly, “Somebody has to.”
At two o’clock Ann and I met with Sunflower Miller. After she’d spent weeks reminding me of our agreement, I had finally arranged to discuss her plan to implement some community health programs. To her credit, Ann was very much in favor of the idea, despite knowing that Sunflower would do everything she could to give the programs a holistic flavor. I was less enthusiastic and blamed myself for knuckling under in a weak moment of distracted hunger.
