by Harry Kraus
“Remember his passion, his motivation?” Claire stood and resumed the theme song, directing a symphony with her arms and pacing around the boxes in her small apartment.
“What’s this got to do with us? With you leaving for Massachusetts?”
She shook her head, refusing to answer directly. “Liddell left his sister and the mission they had started. Why? Just to train for the Olympics? For glory?”
“Come on, Claire. Liddell needed to run. It was personal. Spiritual.”
Claire tried to imitate Liddell’s accent. “When I run I, feel his pleasure.” She studied her fiancé. His lips were pursed, his brow wrinkled. He wasn’t getting it.
She went on. “That’s how it is with me and surgery. Whenever the residents let me participate in a case, throw a stitch, use the scissors or the knife—that’s when I feel God’s pleasure in me … when I’m operating.”
John’s expression was blank. Perhaps he had never felt something so deep. Maybe he would never get it. For Claire, it was personal. It was spiritual. Surgery felt more like a calling than anything else she’d known.
John sighed.
“I just want to be ready,” Claire said. “I feel like I’m moving to a new level. I’ve been called up to the big leagues, and I’m up to bat, John. I’m facing Greg Maddux and he’s about to throw me his best stuff. I don’t want to strike out.”
“You are ready, Claire. You’ve done nothing but study for four years.”
“John, I can’t lounge at the beach right now. I want to get settled in and find my way around.” She started clearing the paper plates. “You could come and visit me. Spend a few days checking out the history around Lafayette.”
He nodded slowly. “So that’s it. End of discussion. Straight to Lafayette. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.” “Right.”
He lowered his voice. “What about Stoney Creek? Your mother wanted you to come home.”
Claire clenched her teeth. Not after today. Not after how her father had been at graduation. When she hesitated, John spoke again.
“Your father looks like a sick man, Claire. He was so restless during the ceremony today that I thought he might fall off the bench.”
“He was drunk, John. He embarrassed me.”
“No one knew he was your father.”
“Good thing, too.”
John put his foot into the overflowing trash can, smashing the contents together. “What if your mother’s right? What if it’s more than alcohol?”
“My mom’s in denial. My father’s an alcoholic.”
“What about your grandmother? You should apologize. And what about Margo? You should see her.”
Claire paused, leaned over the kitchen sink, and stared out the window into the gathering darkness. “What is it, John? Why the sudden interest in me going back home?”
John put his hands on her shoulders and placed his lips against the back of her neck. “I don’t want to lose you, Claire. I want you to stay connected to Virginia, to Brighton, to Stoney Creek. Don’t forget your home, Claire.”
She let her shoulders sag. John always did this to her. He knew just how to probe the recesses of her heart, to pierce the protective shield she wanted so desperately to keep intact. She thought about her home, her family, and the events of the afternoon. She knew John was right. But after today’s fiasco, she didn’t want to see her father regardless. “I spoke too harshly to my grandma. I’ll write an apology.”
“Go back and talk to her in person. It’s not that much of a detour. I can go with you. I’d like to get to know your family better. Your grandmother seems like a character.”
A smile escaped her lips. “She is. She’s a bright spot in Stoney Creek, that’s for sure.” She felt John’s hands withdraw, and she turned to see him opening up another fortune cookie, his third.
“What was she talking about—the Stoney Creek curse?”
Claire smirked. “Grandma takes old legends too seriously.”
“Well, she believes what she was telling you—she had fire in her eyes.” He pointed at Claire and raised his voice to a high-pitched screech. “‘I just hope your generation is spared!’” He chuckled. “What’d she call your father? A marked man?”
Claire waved her hand dismissively. “Who knows? Grandma’s been in Stoney Creek all her life. I think it’s finally getting to her.”
“Tell me the legend.”
Claire sighed, then reluctantly began. “It’s about a Pentecostal evangelist who got riled up and led a group of men up to an old moonshine hideout and smashed a still owned by two brothers. One brother, Gregory Morris, had come to the Pentecostal camp meeting and got religion—or at least, he got Eleazor Potts’ version of it. Mr. Morris confessed his sins with a multitude of tears and told the preacher about the secret still.” She sat down opposite John, who was quietly stroking his chin.
“The story goes,” Claire continued, “Gregory’s brother Harold knew nothing of Gregory’s new religion, or his betrayal of the still’s location. The next night, after the revival meeting, the self-proclaimed prophet Eleazor Potts led a band of fervent followers up the hollow and into the mountains, where they smashed the devil’s still and righteously pronounced a curse on anyone drinking from the still should it ever be built again.”
“What happened?”
“Eleazor Potts kept up his fire and brimstone preaching for an entire summer. Practically all of Stoney Creek came and heard him. My grandmother says she first heard the gospel message the night Gregory Morris cried and told the preacher about his still. She was just a little girl at the time.”
“What about the curse?”
“Well, sure as the night is dark, Harold rebuilt the still. Soon, he started stumbling all over town, slurring his speech and losing his mind.”
“Sounds drunk to me.”
“Exactly. But that’s not what the folks who remembered Potts’ curse thought. When Potts returned the next summer, Harold lost it completely and ended up hanging from the end of a rope in his own apple orchard.”
“Suicide?”
“Yep. Left a note saying he hadn’t had a drink in six months, but couldn’t escape the misery of his body or his mind, which he could no longer control.” She shrugged. “I don’t think anyone with brains believed him, but there are a few, my grandmother included, who took Harold’s note as definite proof of the curse’s power.”
“I don’t get it.”
“If his symptoms weren’t due to the alcohol, then they had to be the result of Potts’ curse, right?”
John nodded. “For someone who doesn’t pay attention to old legends, you sure seem to know the details.”
“You can’t grow up in Stoney Creek and not hear about the curse.”
“Anyone else suffer from it?”
“A few over the years have kept the rumors alive. Most of this happened a long, long time ago. Harold Morris must have been thirty or forty years older than my grandmother, and she’s eighty-one. Since Harold Morris, I would guess just about anyone who stumbles out of the tavern with a good drunk has revived the legend to one degree or another.”
John twisted his mouth. “So what about your father? What if your mother is right about him not drinking that much?” He lifted the left side of his mouth into a scowl. “Did your father drink moonshine from the still?”
“Probably. Everyone in Stoney Creek who loves alcohol seems to know how to get the stuff.” She hesitated. “John, my father lies about how much he drinks. Maybe Mom believes him. Maybe she’s just covering for him. Families do that.”
“What if something else is wrong with him?”
“I know my family, okay?”
He shrugged. “So can we go? Will you take me to Stoney Creek?” “I’m going to Lafayette tomorrow. As soon as I get the rest of these boxes into the U-Haul trailer, I’m out of here.”
John got to his feet, then paced around the living room and into the bedroom. He called back, “Where are you going to sleep
? You’ve packed away the bed.”
“I’ve got my sleeping bag.”
John reentered and appeared to be studying the floor, shaking his head. “You can’t get a good night’s sleep like that. You need to be rested for your trip.”
“I’m so exhausted, I think I could sleep anywhere.” Claire turned back to the sink, looking for a cloth to wipe the table.
John slipped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I don’t want you to go away. That’s no secret.” She turned toward him. “John, we’ve—”
“Let me finish,” he spoke softly. “I know you’re leaving. I know it’s right for you. It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
They kissed, and Claire felt her throat knotting. She didn’t want to cry.
John brushed back a tear from her cheek. “Come stay with me tonight. Mike left for the weekend. It will be our last night for a long time.”
Claire lay her head on his chest, her vision blurring.
After they had fallen in love, Claire had held out for so long, not giving herself completely to John, wanting to be sure he was the one, wanting to keep her Christian commitment to wait until marriage. But after the engagement, the compromises had begun. She prolonged the kisses. His hands were never still. He’s going to be my husband anyway, she thought, and all of my friends think I’ve been a fool to wait.
The night they’d clumsily lost their virginity, John had prayed so fervently, gripping her hands, asking God to marry them in his sight.
She felt her body begin to relax against his. His arms felt so right around her. She knew what he’d say if she resisted. The license is only a piece of paper, honey. In God’s sight, we’re one already.
John kissed her ear, her neck. She wanted him so badly. Just one more time, okay, God? I’m leaving tomorrow anyway. I can sort all of this out when John’s not around. His hand pressed the small of her back. His kisses were hungry, searching.
She pushed her hand against his chest. “Help me get the rest of this stuff in the trailer. I’ll just leave from your place in the morning.”
Chapter Two
Claire glanced at the glowing red numbers on the clock radio. Five-thirty. She held perfectly still, listening to the night sounds around her. John snored softly; a neighbor’s dog barked, his raspy voice crisp and sharp against the night. The ceiling fan above John’s bed emitted a low rhythmic hum, something Claire had never noticed during the day. Now it seemed obnoxious, impossible to ignore.
She had slept for only five hours, a restless slumber punctuated by images of her home. She had awakened moments before, struggling to remember the dream that seemed to leave her with such longing, an emptiness she couldn’t describe beyond the vague feeling that she had missed something of importance, something just beyond her grasp that retreated before her into oblivion. She’d had the feeling before, a haunting that gripped her in the early hours of the morning when she found herself in sleeplessness. You were made for something more.
She shook off the feeling and concentrated on the events of her graduation. This time her anger softened into sadness, and soon tears flooded her eyes, blurring the red numbers on the clock. For the first time, Claire thought of her reactions the day before and winced. She had been so wounded by her father’s behavior that she hadn’t been able to respond to her mother’s or her grandmother’s requests. She had returned hurt for hurt, and she’d compounded the problem by speaking so harshly to her grandmother. Maybe John was right. Maybe she should go back to Stoney Creek. She could at least see her father sober. And maybe she could leave her grandmother on a more pleasant note. She needed to tidy up this graduation weekend, so it wouldn’t be forever etched in her memory as a total failure. She wanted to move on, start a new chapter in her life, pursue her dream in surgery, and put her past in Stoney Creek in proper perspective. What was everyone calling it these days? Claire stared at the ceiling, listening to the fan noise and searching her mind for the psychological buzzword: Closure. She nodded in silent resolution. That’s what I need. I’ll bring an end to the “country girl from Stoney Creek” chapter and write a new story. A bigger story. What will it be called? “Dr. Claire McCall, skillful hands, compassionate healer"? She smiled and wiped her eyes, trying vainly not to sniff too loudly. The new title was too corny, but she couldn’t think of anything better offhand. She could name it later. Anything had to be better than the story of her dysfunctional upbringing.
If she left now, she could watch the sunrise over North Mountain, eat breakfast at the little café in Fisher’s Retreat, then drive over to Stoney Creek to say good-bye. She smiled. I’m a doctor now. I’m on to bigger and better things. Nothing, not even my family, or a backwards little town like Stoney Creek, can hold me back.
She glanced at John’s sleeping form, then slipped silently from his bed. The moonlight through the window lit his thick brown hair, and, in spite of the dim light, Claire could easily appreciate his well-muscled chest and arms. But instead of desire, the image invoked a return of regret, a memory of promises made to herself and broken. The haunting resurfaced, this time with a hint of remorse. Each time, the morning after she slept with John, she had the same feeling: loss, not joy. Guilt, not satisfaction. And each time, she promised herself that she’d do better. She’d stick to her guns for a while—then, in a moment of passion, she’d let down her guard again. Each time it seemed easier to fall, and easier to shove aside the feeling that she’d lost something she’d never regain. But the conviction would remain: She was made for something more.
She dressed silently and quickly, wanting desperately to be rid of the chill, and of the memory of another night of compromise.
She tiptoed into the bathroom and shut the door, finishing her preparations alone. Five minutes later, she emerged, careful to shut off the bathroom light before opening the door. Then, without looking back into John’s bedroom, she silently fled the apartment into the cool morning.
Outside, she whispered, “Good-bye, John,” and opened the door to her aging Toyota.
Highway 2 between Brighton and the first small town in the Apple Valley, Fisher’s Retreat, carried a reputation all its own. With only a single lane in both directions, and with a grade demanding low gear, the white-knuckled passage over North Mountain had both awed and frustrated almost every sane driver in western Virginia.
Claire gripped the steering wheel tighter, depressed the accelerator to the floor, and wondered aloud why she had decided to pull a trailer over a curvy mountain road before sunrise.
“Lord, have mercy,” she muttered, offered more as an offhand comment than a heartfelt prayer. Actually, heartfelt prayer was something of a rarity anymore for Claire, reserved for crises or for nudging the Atlanta Braves closer to a pennant.
The car lurched forward, straining at the incline, as Claire squinted at the highway, wishing the clouds hadn’t gathered so thickly, blocking out the moonlight. Her headlights illuminated the guardrail and the pines arising from the steep mountainside. The trees’ eerie shadows waved wildly as she downshifted her Toyota again around the hairpin turn.
As she neared the top of the mountain, the rain began—large, menacing drops, testing Claire’s resolve. She flipped on the windshield wipers and ducked her head closer to the steering wheel, peering beneath a large water streak left by her car’s aging wipers. Wonderful! I think I’m doing the right thing to say good-bye to my family, and now I have to face the rain!
Thankfully, as she crested the top of North Mountain, the rain lessened and Claire relaxed her death grip on the steering wheel. She maneuvered through three more S-turns and then started a slow descent, her foot resting on the brake.
Halfway to the valley below, Claire pulled off into the small paved overlook from which she’d hoped to see the sunrise. She checked her watch and sighed. The sun, even if it was up by now, was hidden by a dense bank of clouds. She opened the car door, stepped into the light drizzle, and squinted back toward the east. There wouldn’t be any pro
mising sunrise this morning.
Even so, Claire spent a few minutes stretching her legs, glad to be away from the driver’s seat for a moment, even if it meant getting wet. The rain felt cool and invigorating, and she made no attempt to keep it off her face. The only thing that would have felt better was coffee. Claire yawned, missing her morning caffeine jolt. Starting the day with strong coffee flavored with a generous dollop of French vanilla creamer was a delight that bordered on addiction.
She glanced at her watch again. The café in Fisher’s Retreat would be open for the Monday morning breakfast crowd. She would stop for breakfast and celebrate a safe passage over North Mountain after towing a trailer in the rain. She might even see a familiar face or two from Stoney Creek—many of the locals stopped there to eat, since they didn’t have a restaurant of their own.
After a minute longer in the rain, Claire slid back behind the wheel and shifted into low gear to descend North Mountain into the Apple Valley.
Fifty minutes later, she pulled into a small parking lot behind Fisher’s Café, a watering hole in Fisher’s Retreat. There, she spotted her brother’s pickup, a red Chevy that Clay had rebuilt and coddled since high school.
Inside, she scanned the early breakfast crowd, inhaling the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee and frying bacon. The regulars were there: Tom Shifflett, the mayor of Stoney Creek, sat with old Dr. Jenkins, a general practitioner who had cared for the people of the Apple Valley for over thirty years. Mike and Larry Martin, brothers who had grown up on the hill adjacent to the McCall’s, were there, probably fueling up before heading into Carlisle to work at their father’s sawmill. There were others that Claire didn’t know—some reading the local paper, others chatting above the noise of breakfast dishes, seemingly content with small-town life and a simple cup of coffee. Mr. Knitter, the owner, was working the grill behind a counter, his grease-spotted white apron inadequate coverage for his ample stomach. She saw Clay at the end of the counter, slumped over a tall mug, his back to her, but his strong arms and shoulders and his blond curls recognizable to his twin in an instant.
