by Jeff High
As the EMT van pulled next to the house, a young man was standing on the side stoop smoking a cigarette. I gauged him to be in his mid-twenties. From a distance he looked of average height, with a wiry build. But walking toward him, I saw that he had arms and shoulders of a sinewy, cabled hardness and a strong, handsome face. He was tan, deeply tan—not the kind one gets at the beach or in a tanning bed, but the kind acquired from long hours of work in the sun. He had a full head of thick brown hair that fell partially across his face. We were introduced.
He was Toy McAnders, Knox’s grandson. He nodded at me without expression. With his piercing blue eyes he was a younger replica of Knox. I suspected Toy had an easy grin, but at the moment he was reserved, quiet, dark. His was a face of genuine but suppressed grief. He stared at me for a few awkward moments and then flicked his cigarette into the nearby shrubs. He spoke with a nod of his head toward the side entry door.
“He’s in there.”
We passed through a mudroom into a wide central hallway that ran the length of the house from front to back. It was a typical farmhouse with ten-foot ceilings, heavy moldings, and the occasional sag caused by decades of settling. The rooms were large and square, each with a small fireplace. Oval rugs covered the wood floors. Curiously enough, the house was spotlessly clean, which told something of the character of the quiet and intense Toy McAnders. Even yet, the house had an old smell to it—not an organic or distasteful odor, but one of time, of aged furniture and old draperies. And while the house was orderly and neat, it lacked the softness that a woman’s touch conveys to a place. There were no doilies, no flowers, no decorative items artfully displayed on tabletops.
Once in the main hallway, Toy looked at me with a somber face and pointed to a door on the back left. I entered first.
It was dark in Knox’s bedroom. I immediately opened the curtains and turned on all the lamps, flooding the room with light. For some reason, people think the dead like shadowed rooms. From my hospital days I instinctively knew that these situations were morbid enough without the added darkness. Toy had covered Knox neatly with the bedsheet. I examined him, determining that the time of death fell somewhere between two and four in the morning. From all indications his heart had simply stopped beating and he had died quietly in his sleep. Since my role as community doctor included being the county coroner, I signed the death certificate. The EMTs carefully placed Knox in the van to take him to the local funeral home.
By the time we were ready to go, several other cars had arrived. A small crowd had gathered in the large kitchen at the back of the house. I was introduced to Trent McAnders, a man in his late fifties. He was Knox’s son and Toy’s father. Several other men and women of various ages stood clustered in the distant reaches of the room. They were talking quietly. Their solemn faces and lack of eye contact conveyed that they were not comfortable with engaging or introducing themselves. It made the moment all the more awkward.
Trent was reserved but amiable. “Thank you for coming out, Dr. Bradford. Dad said he had a nice visit with you last week.”
“Certainly. I’m . . . um, I’m sorry for your loss. Knox seemed like a kind and wise elderly gentleman.”
“Yes, yes. He was,” responded Trent.
There was a moment’s pause with all three of us exchanging uncomfortable looks.
Then Toy spoke with quiet authority. “Was there anything you saw in his checkup last week, Doc?”
The entire room picked up on this question and conversation ebbed as everyone stared intently at me.
After looking to the side and thinking for a moment, I responded with simple conviction. “No.” I let the answer sink in for a few seconds. Trent nodded. I continued, “There was nothing that could have predicted this. He had an occasional irregularity in his heartbeat that he’d probably had for decades called a PAC—premature atrial contraction. We ran an ECG, but nothing else showed up. He was simply a man of many years. I’m afraid I have no better explanation.”
I probably should have explained more about the ECG and what it was. But buried deep within me was the instinct to remain vague. I knew they were looking for an answer, a reason for the death, but there was little I could offer. And secretly, even though every bit of my training confirmed that my actions and assessment had been correct, I still doubted myself and wondered if I had missed something.
My answer brought another nod of acceptance from Trent, but Toy offered no such assurance. He looked at me deadpan, as if trying to read me more than my words. Trent broke the awkwardness once again by thanking me and offering his hand. I shook it, nodded to Toy, and left.
During the ride back, the mood was subdued among the two EMTs and me. There was little conversation. I stared vacantly out the window along the seventeen-mile return to town. The landscape was dotted with small houses and rolling hills. Some were well kept; others were not. There was the occasional large farmhouse with the accompanying shacks and sheds and farm implements sitting idly in tall weeds. Soon the countryside was a blur of gardens, overgrown fencerows, small tobacco patches, and fields of corn.
It seemed strange to me that behind the door of any one of the dozens of modest houses and tattered trailers were the lives of people I knew nothing about but to whom I held a bond of responsibility. I had been there for a week and had seen over two hundred patients, a significant cross section of the valley’s inhabitants. Perhaps with each exam, with every new face, at work in the back of my head was a simple nagging question: why do you live here? For the most part, they were uncomplicated people whose lives were filled with work, fears, weariness, hope, romance, conversation, boredom, dreams, and simple entertainments. I thought about the endless labor that encompassed their everyday life. And yet, I had also witnessed during my brief time in Watervalley their unmistakable capacity for contentment in their small world. I wondered about their lives, but felt a world apart from them.
Knox’s death was just part of the natural course of events, but it had shaken me. The town had been preparing to honor him on his one hundredth birthday in a matter of weeks, and, more than I realized, I had been caught in the collective spirit of that imminent celebration. He had been my first patient and now he was gone. It was impossible not to feel some sense of failure in my role, not to second-guess myself. I rode along in a daze trying to grasp what had just happened. The rural countryside flew by in blurry confusion, a haze of hills, woods, light, shadows, within which I felt a need to find some order, some meaning. Death was rarely a con artist, but invariably he showed his hand long before playing his cards. Hypertension, renal failure, respiratory disease—something usually foreshadowed the inevitable end. But that hadn’t been the case with Knox. Despite his advanced age, his passing was unexpected. It seemed as if my life in Watervalley had lost some degree of innocence. One of those under my care was gone. It was impossible to regard his passing with indifference.
Lost in my thoughts, I felt as if only scant moments had passed when the EMT van pulled into the clinic’s parking lot. I thanked the guys and got out, took a deep breath, and climbed the steps to the front door. I had patients to see.
The day passed without further incident. Nancy had no shortage of energy, but it was subdued. Somewhat to my surprise, the most compassionate face I encountered all day was that of Mary Jo. From her I half expected a look of curt indifference. Instead, she looked at me with an almost tear-filled empathy. At one point in the afternoon, she found me standing in the small kitchen, my hands on the counter, staring at nothing. She walked over and patted my hand, then lay hers on top of my own. When I looked at her, she pursed her lips and nodded. Nothing was said. She walked away, leaving me to my thoughts.
I arrived home a little before six. Connie had left a hamburger casserole and a note telling me that she was helping some friends take food to the McAnders family. I understood, but my heart was pain-struck. Connie was the one person in whom I thought I could confide. So I was left with my thoughts, the casserole, an empty house, a
nd the blinding hot late-day sun.
The evening passed slowly. I moved about aimlessly, watched some TV, and drifted around on the Internet for a meaningless hour. The clock pushed past nine. The last of the twilight had melted away and the dark had quietly, eerily stolen across the trees and yards of Fleming Street. Sleep was still hours away.
I decided to take a walk. I went out the front door, pulling it shut and not bothering to lock it. I ambled down the long, empty sidewalks, past the silent houses and tightly drawn curtains. My mindless steps took me downtown. The night air was thick, warm, unsettled. A few cars would roll slowly past, then move steadily on, their taillights disappearing from view at a distant turn. I heard the faint, far-off hums and groans of the night. The streets seemed filled with sad and indiscernible whisperings. I walked for well over an hour.
Stopping in the shadows between the far-flung reach of the streetlights, I looked deep into the night sky at the distant, tender stars. I understood nothing. All of my pondering of Knox’s death had yielded no revelation. Knox’s life was simply a star whose light had passed. There was nothing more I could do, nothing more to understand.
Unconsoled and weary, I began my return to Fleming Street. As I passed back through downtown, something caught my eye. About fifty feet in front of me someone had emerged from the alley next to Morrow’s Drugs. I heard a short gasp. Whoever it was turned and ran back down the alley. It was a small figure in pants wearing a ball cap. I felt no compulsion to run and certainly not to give chase. When I approached the alley, I stopped and stared into the narrow darkness, but couldn’t detect anything.
Odd, I thought, and resumed my pace back toward Fleming Street, only occasionally looking behind me to see if I might catch a glimpse of the skittish man. But I saw nothing more.
Curiosity began to give way to uneasiness and I accelerated my steps. In a few short minutes I arrived back home. What an hour earlier had been a collection of lonely rooms was now a familiar and welcome haven from the unsettling encounter in the shadows of the downtown side street. I locked the front door behind me. Only one lamp was lit in the living room, but it was ample enough light to guide my way to the kitchen. The small measure of adrenaline from the walk home had passed, leaving me with a genuine exhaustion. I retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and decided to step out onto the dark of the back porch to once again gaze at the night sky before climbing the stairs to bed. I walked a few feet into the grass to get the best view of the massive bowl of stars above me.
Suddenly, there in the cloaked silence of my backyard, I heard the strange, rhythmic, muted sound of footfalls. I walked to the side yard in the direction of the noise. The sound stopped. All was quiet and still. I had only imagined it. Returning into the house, I climbed the back stairs to my bedroom, washed my face, and crawled into bed, hoping sleep would come soon.
CHAPTER 16
The Funeral
The blaring phone woke me from a deep sleep. It rang enough times to kick on the answering machine downstairs in the kitchen. It was almost six. In ten more minutes the alarm was going to go off anyway, so I decided to force myself out of bed and check the message.
It was from Connie. She was not going to be there for breakfast but reminded me that there was cereal in the cabinet and a can of biscuits in the fridge. She added in a lecturing tone to be careful when using the oven to bake them. There was a pause. Then, speaking in a somewhat hesitant voice, she noted that the visitation for Knox McAnders was being held at three that afternoon and she would see me there. The fog of events had precluded my thinking about the funeral. I wanted to stay away from the whole business, but I caught Connie’s suggestion. It would be best for me to go and politely offer the appropriate condolences to the family. After all, since I was the county physician, they were all my patients. Perhaps because Knox had been so full of life, so sharp and clever, his death felt out of place. I had been unable to erase my small sense of guilt regarding his passing. Despite my reluctance, I knew that attending the visitation was the right thing to do.
Restless, I showered, dressed, and headed to the clinic. Nancy pulled in behind me as I drove into the parking lot. We walked in together, Nancy as bubbly as ever. The appointment load wasn’t heavy and I told her I’d be leaving around three that afternoon so I could attend the visitation at the funeral home. Nancy diplomatically said that visiting would be a nice gesture. The tone of her response made me ill at ease, but I said nothing and nodded in return.
The day passed quickly. At lunch I walked over to the Depot to see what the meat-and-three was for the day. I took a seat at the counter and ordered. Some familiar faces nodded, but no one spoke or called me by name. That is, until Warren Thurman, the sheriff, slapped me on the back and mounted the wide chrome-and-plastic seat next to me.
“How we doin’ today, Doc? Anything good to eat?”
I was delighted to be greeted with such lack of reserve.
“Hey, Sheriff. I’m doing fine. As far as the menu goes, they say it’s all good.”
Warren grinned. “Well, they would be right. And I’ve got an extra twenty pounds of middle to prove it.”
I nodded and smiled. “So how’s the police business?”
“Never a dull moment. Got a call this morning from Mayfield Morrow, the pharmacist. He owns Morrow’s Drugs—you know, over on West Main.”
“Sure, I know where it is.”
“Well, he thinks someone tried to break into his store again last night. When he opened up this morning, the alarm system had been turned off and the dead bolt on the back door was unlocked. Mayfield swore he had set the system and locked the dead bolt when he left last night.”
“Was something missing?”
“Nope. That’s why I’m making small talk of it. Nothing was out of place or stolen. Same thing happened several times in the last few months. Sometimes I think Mayfield is just getting forgetful about locking up. So, no crime no foul—just fodder for conversation. We’ve got a suspect or two, probably somebody who’s pretty good with keys. But since nothing was stolen, it’s not a police matter.”
I sat quietly. It was next to Morrow’s store that I’d seen the man in the ball cap the night before. Perhaps he’d been the lookout for a thief breaking in and my presence had spooked both of them.
Warren continued, “Mayfield’s just turned seventy-two. I think maybe he’s getting confused. Or hell, maybe I am. Never know—could be both.” Warren breathed out a short but deep-throated laugh.
I thought about telling Warren about what I’d seen, but hesitated. What had I seen? Really nothing. Just someone in the alley, someone I could in no way identify. I let it pass. He and I exchanged small talk for the rest of lunch. Nothing was said about Knox, which again left me with a troubled feeling. Perhaps Warren saw no reason to talk about what was well known to everyone, or maybe he thought it best to let me bring up the topic if I felt the need to talk about it. With him, there was an odd mix of insight and politeness, a cleverness that left room for the other person to direct the topics of conversation. I finished up, paid my bill, and walked back to the clinic.
At three, I went to my house to change into my suit and go to the funeral home a short walk away. I took my time, not wanting to get there too early and be the first in line. When I arrived at a quarter past four, the building was already packed—front steps, front porch, all with more people than I knew existed in Watervalley. Clearly half the people in the county had known Knox, and the other half was related to him.
I worked my way into the front funeral parlor. It was an elaborate older building with floors covered in rich, deep red carpet. The entire place had an air of practiced decorum and muted dignity. I signed the guest register and moved toward the throng of people in the receiving line.
A tall, gangly young man in a poorly fitted dark suit approached me. He had a boyish face and was clearly in his early twenties. His general mien seemed stiff and rehearsed, as if he were stoically trying to look older than he real
ly was. He introduced himself as Campbell Harrington, the son of the mortician. It became clear that I’d been spotted as a stranger and this fellow wanted to satisfy his curiosity. I told him who I was, which invoked an animated look of recognition. The effusive cordiality in his manner seemed to cover an underlying frostiness. I suspected he was privately passing judgment on me. It was unsettling.
The room buzzed with a muddled cacophony of low conversation. The people of Watervalley, in all their plain and modest finery, were here en masse. Some of the women were small with a hardened timidity in their thin, sour faces, but most were bulky, with putty-colored skin, big hair, wool suits or neatly pressed cotton dresses, and large clunky shoes. Some held small shiny purses in front on them, while others carried handbags large enough to contain a week’s worth of laundry.
Beside them stood neatly shaven, rotund men in ill-fitting brown and gray suits, poorly polished shoes, nicotine-stained fingers, and blemished, leathered skin. There were numerous children: somber-faced little girls in Sunday dresses who whispered behind their hands to each other with great intensity, and boys of all ages, some with well-oiled and neatly combed hair, wearing short-sleeved dress shirts buttoned to the neck. They were all standing obediently with darting, inquisitive gazes that absorbed everyone and everything and seemed particularly interested in me as I entered the room.
The people in the receiving line were huddled in small confidences, wearing expressions of staid decorum. Old Knox McAnders was stretched out in his coffin, devoid of the youthful spirit for which he was so well known. He seemed to be only a frail shell of the alert, mischievous gentleman who, with a kind face and warm, twinkling blue eyes, had greeted me in the clinic the previous week. I heard the overflow of several conversations expressing regret about how Knox had come so close to reaching one hundred. It seemed absurd at first. The man had lived ninety-nine incredibly healthy years. Still, it occurred to me that the planned celebration wasn’t so much the marking of time, but rather a heartfelt opportunity to truly recognize one of Watervalley’s grandest old gentlemen. The laments I overheard were driven by a deep remorse that Knox had been cheated out of a tremendous outpouring of love and appreciation. It only deepened my own personal doubts about my handling of his last days.
