More Things In Heaven and Earth

by Jeff High

  Restless, I eased out of the chair, wondering if it was too soon to make my departure, and ran into a game of pickup basketball being played on a small backyard court by the teenage grandkids and some of the young married family members. I was immediately pressed onto a team. Having played college basketball and standing three inches taller than the next closest competitor, I realized it was not the time for showboating. I opted to stand post and constantly passed off, allowing others to make all the points. At least, until the very end of a game of twenty-one, when I couldn’t resist the temptation to slam the ball in with a two-handed dunk. This was met with an explosion of whoops and accolades along with universal pleas for me to do it again. I smiled and refused, but I have to say it was a pretty fun moment.

  I made my way back to the barn, where Nancy and many of the women were cleaning up. With my aunt Grace, helping out with after-meal cleanup was part of the standard drill. I offered to help but was met with a wave of appreciative but adamant rejection. For these women, this was their time to confide small marital complaints into sympathetic ears, to laugh at the occasional foolishness of their spouses, and to delight in the salty language of really good gossip.

  I had also walked into a lively conversation in which I was the central topic. It was Nancy’s equally plump sister Adele, a woman in her late fifties, who spoke first. “Dr. Bradford, we were just talking about you. It’s just not right for a man as good-looking as you to be single. We need to find you a wife.”

  I shook my head in amusement and offered a good-natured response. “Well, by all means, line them up.”

  This prompted a chorus of giggles and laughter from the group, with Adele responding immediately, “We were just discussing that point. That’s kind of the problem—most of the girls in the valley are either too young, too old, or too married.”

  Mary Lynn, one of Nancy’s sisters, said, “What about Cynthia Matthews? I hear she and BT are getting divorced. She’s real sweet and he’s about as worthless as a furball. If you don’t mind waiting, Doc, she’d be really good company. Kind of a looker.”

  Nancy responded indignantly. “Mary Lynn, I cannot believe you are endorsing a divorce just so Dr. Bradford can have a date. What are you thinking?”

  Mary Lynn recoiled and replied sheepishly, “Well, they’re getting divorced either way. So I’m just saying . . .”

  Adele injected enthusiastically, “Hey, what about Shannon Carter? She’s in her late twenties and still single.”

  A collective moan rose from the group. Mary Lynn said, “Good heavens, Adele. Have you been living in a cave? Shannon might as well change her name to Target, because half the men in the valley have had a shot at her.”

  Riotous laughter broke out among the group until Nancy restored order by saying, “I think choosing a mate is a personal matter for Dr. Bradford and we should leave it at that.”

  This was met by a long, silent moment of consideration.

  “Nah,” Adele blurted out. “I don’t think so, sister. We need to get this man some help.”

  Another explosion of laughter followed as I stood with a patient smile. I was striving for nonchalance, but secretly I was hoping someone would bring up Christine Chambers, just to gain some insight from the group reaction. I wouldn’t dare mention her name unless I wanted to start a tidal wave of gossip, something that obviously would not improve my chances with Christine. But no one did mention her.

  I drifted through pockets of conversation among small groups that had formed between the farmhouse and the barn. Although I was politely included, I spent most of my time nodding politely and finding little of value to add to the conversation. Eventually I thanked Nancy and Carl for being such gracious hosts. Amid a bombardment of handshakes and good-byes, I finally made my way back to my car as the sunset was just beginning to cast an orange layer across the rim of the far western hills. Though the air was cool, it had been an unusually warm day for November in Tennessee.

  I stood at the car for a moment, listening to the echoes of laughter, the bouncing basketball, and the collective voices and shouts of all the men and women and children. This was Thanksgiving on a grander order than what I had shared with my aunt. I didn’t so much envy the Ormans as I wondered about them. I marveled at their unquestioned bonds of affection and acceptance, their connectedness, their unsparing tradition of kindness to outsiders such as myself. I wondered what it felt like to follow out their lives within the contours of these constant hills and familiar skies, to live so contentedly in one place for all their days. Our common interests had been few, but their generosity was endless.

  As the days stepped quietly from Thanksgiving into the Christmas season, the clinic began to wear the rich smell of baked goods as people brought plates of homemade cookies, cakes, and pies. I was invited to a few gatherings that all too often were only poorly veiled attempts at matchmaking. It was the middle-aged wives that hounded me so relentlessly. There seemed to be something in every married woman of Watervalley that felt the call to find a mate for me, irrespective of my thoughts on the matter. I endeavored to avoid them and their persistent mission.

  Nevertheless, I dutifully attended the various dinner parties with a mix of enthusiasm and reluctance. Typically, I found myself out of place, despite often being the center of attention. On more than a few occasions, I would excuse myself and leave at the earliest socially appropriate hour. I appreciated the kindnesses offered to me, but within me little had changed. Although I had a general desire to connect, to find common ground, it seemed I still kept myself away.

  I enjoyed an occasional phone conversation with old friends from Nashville, but because I was constantly on call at the clinic, I had no chance to visit them. My friends’ lives were moving on, while it seemed that mine had stagnated, as I remained sequestered within the long winter shadows of Watervalley.

  I maintained my early routine of jogging out Summerfield Road, even though now the mornings were often cold and rainy. Occasionally on the weekends I would see Christine coming out of the public library or maybe walking between the downtown shops, but it was always from a distance. If she saw me, she would politely wave and smile and then, with noticeable effort, look away. I seemed helpless to do anything but stand and stare, following her till she passed from view.

  Sometimes in the small hours of the evening I found myself lost in curious wonder about her, trying to understand her. No doubt, her years in Atlanta had given her a sense of style and manner that was all too familiar to me. But beneath her urban veneer was also something rich of Watervalley. It was more than just the rural strength and the provincial hardiness that flowed through the people here. It was something rooted in the wooded hills and open countryside. It seemed that she and the incredible beauty of the valley were natural companions. In the deep, warm brown of her eyes, in the fresh and wholesome light of her face, there was something of the rolling fields, the wind and sky, the billowing grasses of the high meadows—earthy, sensuous, bursting with health. She was intoxicating. While I was supposedly deep in the pages of some novel late at night, my mind would drift to her. She delightfully haunted the margins of my solitary hours.

  Connie now came only a few days a week, spacing out our opportunities to catch up on each other’s lives. Rhett, however, remained my ever-steady companion. He never failed to look at me with anything short of curious wonder and complete adoration. He was now robustly filled out, his appetite having served him well. Along the way he had developed something of a drooling problem. I told him that if it continued I would have to refer him to an ear, nose, and throat specialist.

  The cold, overcast days of winter had set in, the ebb and flow of work continued, and despite the charm and kindness of the people in my small corner of the world, life in Watervalley had become painfully predictable.

  Sure as hell, that was all about to change.

  CHAPTER 24

  Outbreak

  On the Thursday two weeks after Thanksgiving, an odd thing happened. D
uring the late morning a man in his mid-twenties named Lewis Clanton walked through the clinic doors. His appearance was so flushed and ghastly that Nancy put him in an exam room immediately. He was racked with aching pain, sweating profusely, and had a constant thick, gurgling cough. He was drowning in congestion and gasping for air. His struggle to breathe had sent him into a panic.

  I quickly placed him on oxygen and gave him an antihistamine injection to calm him down, enabling me to do the exam. His temperature was soaring, almost 104. I treated him with an antipyretic, a fever reducer, and Cindy ran a lab test that confirmed influenza.

  His condition would have seemed routine to me except for one thing. The onset had been fiercely rapid, almost violent. Lewis had worked his normal night shift at the cabinet factory. As he drove home around seven that morning, he began to ache and cough. He tried to sleep but the symptoms progressed so quickly that by ten a.m. he had felt compelled to drive himself to the clinic. I also knew that the flu typically found a home with either the very young or the very old but not in robust adults such as Lewis, a strongly built man with no history of respiratory problems.

  What most confounded me was the fact that Lewis had received a flu shot a month prior. The H1N1 strain had been included in the vaccine, thus ruling it out. It was highly unlikely that what I was seeing was the H5N1—avian or bird flu—given its confinement to the far corners of the earth. Lewis hadn’t even been out of the county, much less the country.

  I prescribed an antiviral and strenuously advised rest, fluids, and isolation. His case raised the eyebrows of the staff. Outwardly, I remained reserved about his condition but inwardly I was baffled and deeply concerned.

  Around half past two, another case of the flu appeared with the same profile. The patient was an otherwise healthy young farmer in his late twenties named Graham Peden. The symptoms and onset were equally severe. He had also received the flu vaccine.

  Graham, too, had difficulty breathing and a dangerously high temperature. He was scared. The staff rushed to get him settled in an exam room. After he’d spent several minutes on a rescue inhaler followed by oxygen, his respiration returned to normal. I spent well over half an hour examining him, trying to understand what he might have in common with Lewis Clanton. The two men knew of each other, but had no memory of having had any contact in months. Graham pressed me to explain the cause, but I had no answers.

  I could see the frustration in his eyes. He was miserably sick and wanted to know how and why. Graham’s wife sat silently in the corner of the exam room. She responded with quiet nods to my instructions. I prescribed the same medications and the same regimen of rest and isolation. Little else was said, but the unmistakable marks of fear and anxiety were clearly evident in their body language, and it was all too clear that their disappointment was focused on me. I told them to call me anytime if the symptoms didn’t improve. But they were not consoled, and I couldn’t blame them.

  For the balance of the afternoon, conversation among the staff was muted. Unoccupied exam rooms and protected corners became enclaves for huddled whispers. The staff had seen the flu before, but not accompanied by the fiercely severe symptoms we were witnessing. Eventually, nightfall arrived and the clinic closed.

  Friday came and went with only a few routine gynecological and geriatric visits. Though the rest of the day was quiet, we all still carried the fear that we had not seen the last of this severe strain of the flu.

  It rained all weekend. It was a cold rain with a hard, biting north wind behind it. I spent Saturday watching football and reading books. My general mood along with the weather made me a hermit. I took no morning runs and made it out only to buy popcorn and beer. Once during the day I noticed Will Fox and his mother leaving home and returning from errands. I had yet to meet Louise Fox. From the glimpses I had had of her, she was a small, frail woman with rounded shoulders. She had a pinched face that even from a distance looked cheerless and anxious. As I saw them arrive home, I considered going next door to introduce myself, but I felt awkward. I understood as much as anyone the desire to be left alone.

  Nightfall came and I thought about where people in Watervalley gathered for casual company on the weekend. There was always the Line Dance and Bingo Club that met down at the Memorial Building every Saturday night. Several of my patients had extended an open invitation, so a month or so earlier I had taken a notion to drop in on one of the gatherings.

  I had arrived early—at least fifteen years too early. The crowd was largely geriatric, with only a few as young as their forties. I hung around long enough to be pressed into doing a few line dances, which I did poorly but with a good humor. The experience might have been worth a repeat try, just for vacant fun, were it not for a few fortysomething cougars making less than subtle comments about going to their place to play a game of doctor. It was clear they all had larger plans than the casual exchange of a little spit. I was lonely, but not that lonely.

  I knew there were also poker games in the tack room down at the Farmers’ Co-op and thought of strolling in. These were penny-ante games played just for fun. No doubt I would recognize a few faces and generally be welcomed. But the few times I had been in the Co-op just to grab an odd item or two, it seemed that the conversation was instantly muted, as if a school principal had just walked in on a group of truants. I knew that at heart this was nothing more than the uncanny level of respect the townspeople had for my profession. It was part of their obliging politeness and was not intended to be unkind. Ultimately, I felt that my presence there would be an intrusion.

  There was also a roadhouse on the outskirts of town that was often part of the local gossip. Known as the Alibi, it was located in a wooded area on a chert-topped lane called Indigo Road. The Alibi was known for being a rough bar where locals on the surly fringe would go to blow off steam. It was not exactly my kind of scene. Then again, it offered a place to have a beer and watch a ball game away from the permeating loneliness of my own four walls. It would at least be a place where people would be laughing and having a good time. The idea of a visit had merit.

  But soon the drowsiness of the day won over. I fell asleep on the couch and sometime later dragged myself upstairs to bed and to a night of uneasy sleep.

  On Sunday morning, the church bells were ringing from the downtown steeples just a few blocks over. I thought about putting on my suit and slipping into one of the services, but ultimately it simply didn’t happen. When darkness came early on Sunday afternoon, I once again fell asleep on the couch, bored with my world and wishing Monday would come. Then, at least, I could occupy my thoughts with work. The opiate of responsibility seemed the only cure.

  Soon enough, Monday arrived. And with it came hell’s fury riding on its coattail.

  I arrived early at the clinic and was surprised to see more than twenty cars already parked in the front lot. Entering through the back entrance, I found Mary Jo working up patients in the exam rooms and Nancy scurrying around in a controlled panic.

  “Oh, thank goodness—thank goodness you’re here. I was just about to call you.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked, alarmed.

  “It’s the flu, Dr. Bradford. We had eleven walk-ins waiting at the door this morning and from the best we can tell at least seven to eight of them have severe flu symptoms.”

  “Are they mostly geriatric?”

  “No, they’re all adults—I’d say all under forty.”

  I stood in the back hallway, dumbfounded. “Did any of these people get flu shots?”

  “Actually, yes. Three I know of for sure. I haven’t had time to check on all of them.”

  This sent off an array of alarms inside my head, but I tried hard not to show it. I spoke impassively. “Okay. Exam rooms one, two, and three ready to go?”

  “Yes, yes. Mary Jo has the charts and is getting vitals. What do you think this means, Doctor?”

  “Not sure, but I want to find out what these people have in common. Are they family? Do they work together
? Go to church together? Are they somehow connected to the two fellows we saw last Thursday?”

  “I’m not sure how to get that information,” responded Nancy.

  “No need. I’ll try to figure it out in the interviews.” I kept my thoughts to myself, but I was puzzled. How in the world had people who had received the vaccine ended up with the flu?

  I grabbed my white lab coat and headed into the first exam room. My patient was a man I vaguely remembered seeing some months before, a tall, gangly fellow in his mid-thirties named Lexie Ingram. He worked in the machine shop at the cabinet factory. When I entered, Lexie was holding his hand over his mouth. He had a deep, gurgling cough that seemed to start from his ankles. The man looked miserable. His breathing was irregular. I listened to his chest and reviewed his vitals. His temperature, over 103, concerned me most.

  “When did you first notice the symptoms?” I asked.

  “Yesterday afternoon, Doc. I started getting some chills and aching all over. I thought it was just a cold, but by this morning I was burning up.”

  “Do you remember being around anyone else who was sick?”

  Lexie spoke slowly. Conversation seemed to exhaust him. “Hard to say, Doc. This time of year seems like half the people you’re around are sniffling and sneezing.”

  “Anyone else in your family showing similar symptoms?”

  “My wife, Candice, drove me here. She said she has a terrible headache this morning. She never gets headaches.”

  I pursed my lips and thought for a moment.

  “We may need to check her also. Lexie, it looks like you’ve got the flu. It’s a viral infection in your respiratory system. Antibiotics don’t work on it. I’m going to write you a prescription for some meds. Even still, you’re probably going to feel pretty lousy for a few days. The best thing to do is rest, drink lots of fluids, keep the fever down, and isolate yourself as much as possible. This thing looks like it’s pretty contagious.”