by Jeff High
“Well, it only happened on Saturday. I found him when I was jogging out Summerfield Road.”
The disdain on her face was so intense it could have withered a plant. “So I take it you’re planning on keeping him?”
I glanced back at Rhett and his imploring brown eyes. I gathered my courage and spoke with as much authority as I could muster. “As a matter of fact, I am. It’s my house and now he’s my dog. I think a man ought to have the right to a little companionship.” I wanted to sound decisive, in control, but something about me standing there in a makeshift skirt didn’t confer the command presence I was hoping for.
Connie stood as if carved from stone. She spoke impassively. “You want to try that again, this time making it sound a little more convincing?”
I stood firm, but my words were strangled, barely escaping from my mouth. “No, I’m . . . uh . . . I’m good.”
Connie placed her umbrella in the corner and continued to stare at me. Eventually she rolled her head, looking down into Rhett’s pitiful face as he peered out from behind me. I was witnessing the slow disintegration of her scornful facade. The tough lines melted from her face and she looked up at me, shaking her head in resignation.
“Oh, come on, Connie. Haven’t you ever had the heart to pick up a stray?”
At first she didn’t respond, just took off her coat and hung it carefully on the rack in the entry hall. But as she passed by me on the way to the kitchen, she mumbled under her breath, “Mmm-hmm. Last time I gave in to that impulse I ended up being a housekeeper.”
It seemed that, by the narrowest of margins, Rhett had found a new home.
October was coming. The winds of autumn began to sweep down the hills that surrounded Watervalley. The flowers that were once a riot of color even in the late summer heat of August were now limp, their backs bowed from the long trial of the hot season. Cool, crisp, starlit nights were becoming the norm. Throughout the valley the trees began to take on the lustrous hues of fall. Entire hillsides became rich collages of orange, gold, and crimson. Fallen leaves filled the yards on Fleming Street, creating a muffled rustling sound. The distant ringing laughter of children at play echoed through the chill air into the twilight hours.
The Fall Festival came, a glorious event put on with much fanfare, a celebration of all things Watervalley. It began early Saturday morning with the annual Hog Jog, a 5K charity run in which all contestants had to wear something emblematic of a pig. Sweatshirts and T-shirts with pig pictures were the most popular, but there were also a smattering of fake pig snouts and pig ears. The Society Hill Bed and Breakfast was booked solid and all the town parks and recreation areas were packed with trailers and travel vans. The entire downtown and courthouse square were a mass of people with tents, concessions, crafts, and children’s activities. A few blocks away a livestock judging contest was being held at the county Agricultural Building, along with innumerable contests for best jams, jellies, corn ears, pumpkins, strings of hot peppers, and every other fruit or vegetable known to man. The celebration ended with a large square dance down at the Memorial Building with the main act being none other than Sheriff Warren Thurman and his band, made up primarily of several deputies. Appropriately, they called themselves the Blue Lights.
Watervalley’s annual blood drive also took place that morning. Nancy had made arrangements with the Red Cross to ensure that there would be enough volunteers on hand to operate the mobile blood bank. Amazingly, more than two hundred of Watervalley’s citizens took their turn in line. I joined in, and jokingly told the volunteer starting the IV to be careful—I was a screamer.
It was an incredible day, a spontaneous outpouring of laughter, excitement, and acres of smiles. Something about Watervalley’s agrarian identity imbued this day with a pride that was unmatched by anything I had previously witnessed. I had shied away from participating in any of the events, but moved among the crowds, content to watch and observe and return the constant friendly greetings.
The Fall Festival marked a turning point. I was beginning to see the people of Watervalley in a new light. These were not the champions of brute ignorance that John Harris would have me think. No doubt, events and ideas of the larger world did influence their days. And while they still looked to distant horizons with a genuine curiosity, they chose to hold tight to what they valued most—agriculture, family, and faith—not out of fear or ignorance, but from a deeply felt conviction borne of life’s joys and hardships. Their tradition of hard work, their love of the soil, and their tough-mindedness found an exulted voice in the Fall Festival. It provided a collective release from the mundane quality of their lives, an opportunity to revel in the bonds of shared community.
I was coming to realize that Watervalley was far more than some quaint, simple farm town; it was permeated with a complexity wrought by years of tough agrarian existence. I felt a growing respect for those in my small world. But I still counted myself an outsider.
The days of fall came and went.
On the Thursday following the Fall Festival I had seen my last patient by two o’clock. I worked in my office for an hour, finishing up notes for the day and going through the mail. Along with the usual solicitations from various drug companies, there was an envelope from the Red Cross marked CONFIDENTIAL. It was a thank-you note and a summary of the donations made during the recent blood drive. As would be expected, most of the donors were O positive, with a smattering of types A and B. One individual had type AB, a very rare occurrence. I filed all this away.
I sat in my large office chair staring out the large windows at the brilliant fall afternoon. Despite the arrival of cooler nights, some of the mid-October days were still oven hot with only some marginal relief in the humidity. I stacked the day’s paperwork on my desk and told Nancy that she could reach me on my cell phone; I had an errand to run.
I had long promised myself that I would get the air conditioner in the Corolla fixed. Summer was over, but the midday October heat had proved to be the final inspiration. I drove the car over to Chick McKissick’s garage, a white-painted concrete block building two streets off the city square. It had a fenced-in side lot that served as a graveyard for about thirty old cars and trucks. Most were used for parts, but a few were candidates for restoration at some future, and likely nonexistent, date.
A weathered sign hanging out front read AUTO REPAIR. As I pulled into the parking lot, I also saw a small sign in the front window noting CHICK’S LOCK AND KEY.
I headed for the glass office door. Adjacent was a large, open garage bay that revealed a late-model sedan head high on the hydraulic lift. The surrounding walls had floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with boxed auto parts, smudged manuals, grease-covered parts and tools, and the requisite wall calendar of a bikini-clad woman leaning suggestively over a shiny roadster.
No one was in the work bay. In the office I found a wrinkled little man with tanned, leathery skin and a cigarette tucked between his fingers. He wore a dirty, faded ball cap, grease-smudged khakis, and a work shirt with the name CHARLIE embroidered on the pocket. I remembered his name. Someone had mentioned it regarding some of the break-ins. Apparently this fellow was suspect, but little about him seemed sinister. He was standing behind the worn counter and staring with squinted eyes at a computer monitor. He greeted me with a well-gapped toothy smile. “Can I hep ya?”
“Yeah, is Chick around?”
“Out back,” the man replied, smiling amiably and nodding over his shoulder. I noticed behind the counter an entire wall of brightly colored and oddly shaped keys. The little man refocused on the computer screen and pecked away at the keyboard, his cigarette smoldering above his knuckles.
I nodded and passed through the side door to the garage area. Voices were emanating from the back, so I walked through the large rear bay door. There, to my surprise, I found not only Chick but also Will Fox, engaged in a lively, laughing conversation. Will was seated on a small makeshift bench with his knees tucked up under his chin. Chick was working on an
engine block that was lifted on a chain hoist. Their animated conversation came to an abrupt halt when I rounded the corner.
“Hey, Doc! What brings you ’round here today?”
“Hi, Chick. My Corolla brings me around here, but not very comfortably. The AC hasn’t been working all summer. I’ve been meaning to come by but it just seems that now is my first chance.”
“Doc, you gotta be kidding me. Frying pan hot all summer and you just now getting it fixed? What you been thinking?”
“I guess I’m thinking better late than never. How quick can you get to it?”
“I can look at it right now. Hey, you know my sidekick Will here, don’tcha? You two are neighbors.”
Will had been sitting silently taking in the exchange and was much less animated than a few moments before. He looked at me slyly, with considerable contemplation.
“Oh, yeah. Mr. Fox and I are well acquainted. How ya doing, Will?”
“Not so bad, Dr. Bradford. Glad to see you’re going to get that piece-of-crap car fixed. Why don’t you get a new air conditioner with a new car wrapped around it?”
“What, so you’re a car salesman now?”
Chick’s perpetual smile broke into robust laughter. “I’m gonna let you two have at it while I go look at your car, Doc.”
“Keys are in the ignition,” I responded. We watched Chick amble toward the front, whistling some random tune. I turned to Will. “So this is where you hang out in the afternoon. I didn’t know you had such a keen interest in cars.”
Will shrugged his shoulders. “Sure. Cars are fun. Besides, Chick’s real nice. I learn a lot from him. He lets me help out.”
“Nothing wrong with that. You don’t strike me as much of a grease monkey, though. Not an oil stain or smudge or dirty fingernail on you.”
“He does all the mechanic stuff. I mostly clean up and help out with other things.”
I nodded and smiled, waiting to see if the boy would volunteer anything else. He didn’t. “How’s your mom?” I asked. “I’ve seen her out in the backyard a couple of times in passing, but I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself.”
“She’s okay. Stays inside a lot. She . . . uh, she gets headaches and has to lie down pretty often.”
“I haven’t seen her at the clinic either. I’d be glad to talk to her about her headaches. Maybe I should come over and get acquainted.” This last comment seemed to set off an alarm in Will. His eyes darted to the side and he was physically drawing inward, pulling his knees even tighter to his chest and wrapping his arms firmly around them. I could see that he was searching for a response, a carefully worded one.
“She’s kind of funny about visitors, but I’ll tell her what you said. I’m sure if she needs anything, she’ll let you know.”
I studied him for a few moments. Will was undaunted, even though it was clear that he was under my full measure of scrutiny. Without doubt, this little fellow was clever, and confident about it.
An awkward silence passed. I realized there was nothing more to gather from him. As with conversations before, the boy seemed evasive, calculating, secretive. Whether he was up a tree or in the back of an auto repair shop, I seemed to always find him out of place. Not in any particular mischief, but somehow in the wrong orbit, not quite fitting into the larger picture. I pursed my lips and nodded.
“Think I’ll find out how much cool cash it’s going to take to get some cool air. See you around, Will.”
He lifted his hand. “See ya.”
I made my way to the front, where I found Chick under the hood with an apparatus of hoses and small nozzled canisters. “Chick, what do you think?”
He completed what he was doing and then shut the hood. He turned to me with a large smile. “I think, Doc, that you are good to go.”
I was astonished. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Just needed a little Freon. Can’t seem to find a problem anywhere. Pressure’s holding fine. It may have some kind of small leak, but should keep you cool till next spring. If it runs hot then, just bring it back. We’ll gas it up again and you should be good for the summer.”
“Okay, hold it. A mechanic in Nashville told me it would cost seven hundred dollars to replace the AC. So that was bunk?”
“Oh, you know it was. I’m sure there are honest folks in the city, but there’s always somebody who will cheat you and figure they’ll never see you again. Anyway, I don’t want to cheat nobody. ’Cause if I did, I’d have to expect them to cheat me when I buy my groceries or get some new shoes or have my hair cut. A place like Watervalley just don’t work that way. We got our differences, but we gotta live together.”
I nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Now, you can give me seven hundred dollars if you want to, Doc, but twenty dollars for the Freon will be fine.”
I shook my head and smiled. Pulling forty dollars out of my wallet, I handed it to Chick.
“Doc, your math is a little off, unless you’re planning to go ahead and pay me for gassing the AC up next spring.”
“Keep it, Chick. Your time’s got to be worth something. Besides, I’m glad to see you keeping my neighbor busy, although he doesn’t look much like a mechanic.”
“Oh, he’s no mechanic at all. But he is crackerjack with making keys and a whiz on the computer. Charlie and me are lost when it comes to technology, but young Will’s as slick as a whistle on it. He’s good to have around.”
I shook Chick’s hand and nodded.
“Thanks again.” Chick smiled and headed back through the garage bay, once again whistling loudly. I started the Corolla and let the cool air pour over me. It was unbelievable. I spoke aloud to the Corolla. “Well, old girl, I guess I feel about as dumb as a rock.” Shaking my head, I put the car into gear and almost felt like taking it for a drive in the country, given my new world of comfort. Then I recalled that Connie wanted me to stop at the grocery to grab a few items for dinner. So I turned left off the square and headed in that direction.
Years before, when I was a little boy, I once heard a Sunday school lesson from Ecclesiastes about how time and chance happen to all men. I was about to learn that they even happen in the canned goods aisle of the local Bi-Rite.
CHAPTER 21
The Grocery
I had pulled into the grocery store’s parking lot when I noticed my shirt. Apparently when Chick and I had shaken hands, mine had gotten smudged with engine dust and I’d brushed it against my white button-down. There was a distinct smear the size of a postcard.
Great. Connie was going to love that. Looking around the Corolla, I found some napkins in a side compartment left over from months before when fast food was available in my world. With a little spit, I was able to get my hands clean.
Realizing the stain was altogether too obvious, I pulled my shirttail out to give the appearance of being casual or grungy, as if I had been doing yard work rather than having come straight from the clinic. The idea didn’t completely work, but it made me feel a little less noticeable.
Oddly, I actually enjoyed grocery shopping. For most other purchases, my hunter-gatherer instincts kicked in: find the target, pull the trigger, bag it, and then move on to more enjoyable activities. But grocery shopping was different. I liked to meander, take my time. In the early years my aunt would take me along in Atlanta whenever she went to one of the many elaborate shops and bakeries nearby. Although she never cared much for housework, she was a wonderful cook. She loved finding fresh and often rare vegetables, buying unique breads, and crafting delectable sauces. By the time I learned to drive, she would send me to round up the unusual items on her grocery list. Her passion had rubbed off on me.
Shopping at the local grocer in Watervalley wasn’t quite so exotic. There were more choices of chewing tobacco than there were of bread, and requests for items like plantains, bok choy, or radicchio were met with baffled faces. Nevertheless, I still enjoyed food shopping.
I grabbed a grocery cart on the way in and proceed
ed to amble through the produce section, smiling at several familiar faces. As I moved farther along, however, I overheard the intense voice of a young woman coming from across the next aisle. Even though I hadn’t heard her in many weeks, I was certain it was Christine Chambers. Despite her disinterest in me, she still haunted my thoughts. As I listened to her speak, I realized she was trying to explain something to someone. The process was fraught with painful but compassionate difficulty.
I looked down at my shirt, dismayed, but just as quickly caught myself. There was really no reason to care about my appearance. Even still, the many lonely days had played more heavily on me than I’d realized, and the prospect of seeing Christine sparked something deep within me. But I decided to remain friendly but aloof and go on with my business. Who was I kidding? Things between us could hardly get any worse.
As I rounded the corner, I saw Christine about twenty feet down the aisle talking with an older woman. They were focused on an item on a lower shelf. I approached unnoticed, leaned over the handle of my cart, and spoke casually.
“Hello.”
When Christine recognized me, her first reaction was not the disdain I expected. She looked embarrassed, off balance, vulnerable. Clearly she was caught off guard and not able to fully regain herself. She spoke awkwardly.
“Hello, Dr. Bradford. Hi. Um, Dr. Bradford, this is my mother, Madeline Chambers. Mom, this is Luke Bradford. He’s the new doctor at the clinic.”
The middle-aged woman standing before me was shorter than her daughter. Although dressed casually, she had a graceful, lovely presence. And like her daughter she was a handsome brunette. I knew that I had never met or seen her before, but something about her was strangely familiar, as if I was certain I knew her face. She held out her hand to me with a delighted smile.
“Good to meet you, Dr. Bradford.”
I took her hand. “‘Luke’ is fine, and I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Chambers.” We exchanged polite conversation for a few brief moments. I noticed that although Madeline Chambers’s natural skin tone was olive, her complexion was pale. During our conversation she would occasionally reflexively squeeze the fingers of her other hand. She was kind and engaging, yet slightly unfocused. Christine continued to appear uncomfortable. She was slipping her finger in and out of a ring she wore on her right hand. It was done unconsciously, a revealing sign of anxious impatience.
