by Jeff High
I nodded. Another awkward pause followed. The topic of Matthew’s children seemed the natural prelude to a proper mention of his departed wife.
“I uh, I understand you’re a recent widower. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Matthew said nothing but rather cleared his throat, tightly pressing his lips together with a slight nod of acknowledgment. I realized that this was his first Christmas without her and I sensed that he would rather avoid the topic. To his credit, he had the presence of mind to change the subject.
“So, tell me about Watervalley.”
I scratched the back of my head. “Not a lot to tell, really. You’ll fit right in, you know, so long as you realize that the use of chewing tobacco is a cherished way of life.”
His mood lightened, and we talked on, exchanging the usual small discourse of new acquaintances. And as we spoke, there rose between us the first faint validations of a fair camaraderie; an unspoken, deeper layer of understanding shared by those of broadly similar geographic and academic backgrounds. I sensed that with me, Matthew was less guarded; desiring to cautiously explore some matters of confidence. Nevertheless, the conversation was framed by sensitive boundaries that neither of us wanted to cross. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.
“The people here are a lot more diverse than I expected. Some of them are rather proper.”
“Yeah, and some of the rather proper ones are rather improper.”
He smiled and tilted his head appraisingly to one side, noting his understanding. I gestured toward the narthex, and we headed in that direction.
As we walked, Matthew absently rubbed his chin, his eyes cast reflectively toward the floor. He seemed preoccupied, musing pensively, his words tinged with unease. “I was a little caught off guard by the reception at the end. I doubt I’ll remember half of their names.”
“I wouldn’t sweat it. It’s mostly a farming community. The people here are pretty much salt of the earth with a few notable personalities sprinkled in the mix.”
He glanced up at me briefly, absorbing my assertion before returning his ponderous gaze downward. “Yeah, there was one fellow. Seemed nice enough but boy was he peculiar. Said he was with the local radio station.”
"That's Gene Alley, and yeah, peculiar is an understatement. He's got a metal plate in his head; an old Vietnam injury. But, somehow, that doesn't quite seem to explain it."
“Recreational pharmaceuticals?”
"Hmm, I almost wish. That would make for an easy answer. But there is no evidence to that end. Gene's unusual brand of weirdness comes from deep within his DNA. Still, all in all, he's a good guy. His radio show is actually syndicated."
“Really?”
“Yeah, he’s gets e-mails from little towns all over the country and, given Gene’s ethereal strangeness, probably even from a few parallel universes.”
In keeping with his quiet manner, Matthew politely grinned at my comment. But while doing so, there was also a moment’s hesitation; a quick tightening of the eyes at something I had said.
As we arrived at the narthex door, Matthew turned and surveyed the empty room. “Hey Luke, one other thing. The fellow they honored tonight, Luther Whitmore was his name, I believe. What was that all about?”
“It’s kind of a nice tradition. Every year at the Christmas Eve service, the town honors one of their own. Luther’s a long-time native. But it came out recently that he was a big-time war hero. He’s the most highly decorated soldier in the town’s history. Never said a word about it for forty years. So, rightfully, the town has a tremendous reverence for him. The honor was well deserved.”
“Interesting. So, who received the honor last year?”
I chuckled. “Well, funny you should ask. Actually, I did.”
“Well, that’s impressive.”
“Eh, not really. In the fall of last year, the town got hit by a strange flu epidemic. I managed to figure out the cause. It was just a timing thing.”
“Must have been a big deal to them.”
I was evasive and looked away. “Hmm, hard to say. The truth of the matter is this. Every year, when picking the person that has touched their lives the most, the people of Watervalley are told to vote from their heart. That being said, the real winner for the last three years running has been Peyton Manning. But the rules say that you must physically reside in the county. So, I kind of lucked out.”
Matthew smiled. “Luther Whitmore’s been trying to get in touch with me the last couple of weeks.” He paused, again choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been uh, pretty busy and haven’t had a chance to get back with him. Any idea what he wants?”
“Sure, an interview. Luther is editor of the local paper. You’re the new owner of Watervalley’s only bed and breakfast. That’s big news for this little community. The stuff that normally hits the front page includes things like ‘Someone saw a squirrel.’”
"So, I take it Watervalley is not a hotbed of tourist activity either?"
“Matthew, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but most Tennessee Travel Guides describe us like this: ‘Watervalley: Don’t bother.’”
“That bad, huh?”
“Well, typically, over the course of the summer, at least ten or eleven visitors will flock to Watervalley. Of course, they’re usually lost and just asking for directions to Lynchburg and the Jack Daniel’s Distillery.”
Matthew nodded in what was now becoming a notably consistent dry manner, seemingly unaffected by this observation. I thought this strange but let it pass. “So, what are your plans? Think you’ll be opening up Society Hill after the New Year?”
For the first time in our conversation, his well-moderated demeanor eluded him, and an uneasy look was cast upon Matthew's face. He made a gesture of feigned uncertainty, and his eventual response seemed to mask his deeper thoughts. "There are a lot of renovations that I'd like to do first. So, it's hard to say. Might be a while."
This was only a modest surprise. The previous owner, Lida Wilkens, had left the old mansion in generally good order. But even she had admitted that upkeep was a cash hemorrhage and that many repairs were needed. She had gladly sold the bed and breakfast so she could focus her efforts on the Depot Diner, Watervalley’s local restaurant. I had no idea of Matthew’s financial status, but the near-term profitability of the inn looked rather slim. He seemed unconcerned.
“Well, okay then. Hey, just out of curiosity, how did you happen to know my name?”
"I, uh...I've been spending a lot of time online lately researching the B and B. One thing led to another, and I came across the newspaper article from last year announcing your arrival to town. So, is Watervalley home for you now?"
My response was not immediate. Unknowingly, Matthew had asked a painfully troublesome question. My life in Watervalley was rich with love and purpose. But the imprint of earlier ambitions, long consigned to the far reaches of my mind, still plagued me. He had chanced upon a small but deeply buried regret.
I dreamed of doing medical research.
Despite the daily rewards of being a small-town doctor, sometimes I pondered this different calling and wondered if I was employing my talents to their highest use. But the turns in my life had brought me here and, regardless of my aspirations, being the town doctor was the only future available to me. So, I had pushed these thoughts aside and did not speak of them, even to my fiancée, Christine.
“Did I ask the wrong question?”
I surfaced from the temporary fog.
"Oh, sorry. It's a bit of a complicated question. I'm about halfway through a three-year commitment to the town wherein I agree to be a doctor, and they agree to bail me out of debtor's prison. They're paying off my college loans, two hundred grand worth. I originally thought I'd do my time and then return to Vandy to do medical research. But, Watervalley has grown on me and, turns out, I'm now engaged to one of the locals. So, right now, looks like I'm here for the duration."
“Congratulations. Was she here tonight?”
/> “Yeah, in the choir. She sang the advent solo.”
“I remember. Pretty girl.”
"Thanks." Under different circumstances, I could have spoken at length about Christine. But all conversations, even ones of endearment, invoke comparisons. And I was sensitive not to once again trespass near the subject of his deceased wife and what was surely a boneyard of tragic memories.
By now the last of the volunteers were ready to leave. Matthew called out to his children, and as they came scampering toward him, an idea struck me.
"Listen, I don't know if you have plans or some Christmas Eve tradition, but a sizeable group of friends is gathering at my house. I'd be delighted for you and the twins to join us. I'm sure they'd all love to see you."
Matthew’s response was quick and decisive. “Thank you. But, no. I uh, I probably need to get the children to bed soon.” As he spoke, he reached down and tenderly clutched their hands. His daughter immediately tugged on his sleeve and spoke in a whispered voice.
“Daddy?”
"Good to meet you, Luke. Hopefully, we can catch up again soon."
On impulse, he released his daughter’s hand and shook mine.
“Same here. Hope you guys have a Merry Christmas.”
When once again Matthew clasped his daughter’s hand, she tugged on his sleeve a second time.
“Daddy?”
I was turning to leave when Adelyn implored her father for a third time.
“Daddy?”
Just as before, Matthew regarded her with caring patience. “Yes, sweetheart.”
“Guess how many?”
“I have no idea?”
“Guess.”
“Five hundred.”
She wrinkled her perfect nose. “No, silly.”
“Seven hundred.”
“Stop.”
“I give up. How many?”
“Seven,” replied Adelyn.
But upon hearing this, her brother, Andrew, spoke in an expressive whisper. "No there wasn't, Adelyn. There were eight. One was in the choir."
Adelyn paused a moment and counted on her fingers. Then she nodded in confirmation. “Andrew’s right, Daddy. There were eight.”
“Okay. Eight. That’s very good.”
I had stood silently and listened to this curious exchange, quite certain I was missing something.
Matthew read my face. “Oh, it’s a little game they play where they count the angels.” He shrugged, clearly wanting to make light of the matter. “Kind of a kid’s thing, I guess.”
The two children nodded in confirmation. It took me a moment to process this before lifting my eyebrows and speaking in an animated voice. "I see. That's very good. Very good, indeed. I guess a church is probably an excellent place to look around and take an angel inventory." My response had been okay up until the last comment which likely was about as dumb as it sounded. The children cast confused looks toward their father, who stood quietly, offering nothing further.
For an embarrassing moment, I froze; my open mouth swallowing air like a fish. Finally, pursed my lips together, smiled, and spoke with an emphatic nod. "Right. Okay. Merry Christmas."
With that, I turned and departed into the narthex as Matthew bent down to button his daughter's coat. I was about to push my way out the large entrance doors when I distinctly heard Adelyn speak in the loud whisper that children often use. No doubt, she thought I was out of earshot and unable to hear her confidential message. I was on the third step down when her exact words registered. I stopped.
Oblivious to the December cold, I cautiously looked back over my shoulder at the massive, solemn entry doors to the Episcopal Church, replaying her words in my head and reassuring myself that I had heard them correctly. Her comment was profoundly odd. I endeavored to understand, to assign meaning. But no clear answer prevailed.
Adelyn had whispered, “This time, Mommy wasn’t one of them.”
Chapter 4
THE LETTER
ADELYN’S WHISPERED declaration was curious, but after giving it a moment’s reflection, I resumed my steps toward the car, thinking no more of it. Despite the chill of the air, I was wrapped in a mild euphoria, warmly anticipating my arrival to Fleming Street and a house filled with the laughter and cheer of good friends.
Yet, the past rode along with me during that short drive home. Christmas Eve always stirred memories of my lost parents. I was an only child, and from the age of twelve, I had been forever tainted by their sudden and tragic death. Over the years there was always some part of me that was fragmented and reluctant; an outsider who insulated himself, least I once again be vulnerable to such a devastating wound.
But during my time in Watervalley, I had come to realize another hard truth. A totally isolated heart is not only unattainable, but it is also inherently self-destructive. Something in our design programs us to seek out at least one intimate with which to entrust our thoughts, our concerns, our longings. Our sanity demands it. I had come to think of it as "the need for one."
As the car eased slowly from streetlight to streetlight, my mind was lost in reflection.
On the occasions when I made house calls to the remote corners of the valley, I would sometimes chance upon those whose circumstances availed to them a perfect seclusion; some by choice, others not. Yet upon closer observation, the lack of that one confidant came at a price; it left all of them with gaps that needed to be filled and even sometimes, a kind of small madness. Often the imbalance would be subtle, surfacing as an odd eccentricity or a peculiar outlier in their personality. But it was a hidden torment that forever robbed them of contentment. For most of my life, I had been a loner. I knew the symptoms well.
Adrift in this netherworld of introspection, I suddenly realized that I was sitting in my driveway, unaware of my arrival. Full reality set in when I noticed that someone was standing alone in the faint reaches of the front porch light, waiting. It was John Harris... the man, who, for better or for worse had become my best friend in Watervalley.
Wealthy, retired, and in his late fifties, John was a native of the area. He was a tall, ruggedly handsome fellow with penetrating eyes and a devilishly sharp wit. He was the most intimidating man I had ever met. He held a doctorate in chemical engineering and for many years had worked for DuPont as well as teach at the college level. He listened more than he talked and knew more than he said. With his imposing stature and hard demeanor, he radiated sheer presence.
In decades past, he had been a quiet, selfless leader in the community. But that had changed two years earlier with the tragic loss of his wife to cancer. By the time I arrived in Watervalley he was a brooding and reclusive alcoholic. Nevertheless, we had forged a strong friendship.
He had a magnificent modern house of wood and glass situated among the high hills that rimmed the valley. From the vantage of his Adirondack chairs, we had enjoyed many evenings of shrewd exchange and friendly banter. As the months passed, John had largely turned his drinking around and modestly re-engaged in the life of the town.
My fiancée, Christine, was John’s niece. Even though my long talks with John had become less frequent, he remained my closest friend. Perhaps more than anyone in Watervalley, John knew me. He also knew about the letter, a matter that I had permanently dismissed and, as well, a subject that I had never mentioned to Christine. As I excited my car, I had no idea that that decision was about to hauntingly come home to roost.
I breathed in a large draft of the cold December air and walked toward him. Inside, my normally quiet cottage home was a riot of conversation, music, and celebration. The presence of so much merriment washed away my reflective mood, consuming me with a light-hearted air.
The magic would be short-lived.
"Evening, Professor Harris. Not sure you got the memo, but I think the party is actually inside the house."
“Merry Christmas to you too, smartass.”
I laughed. We shook hands.
He was holding a heavy tumbler half full of eggnog. The unmistak
able smell of bourbon wafted in the air. “Gee, John. Looks like your holiday glow has been enhanced by an accelerant. How many of those have you had?”
He took a healthy swallow, emptying his glass and offering little more than a patronizing sneer. “More than a little and less than enough.”
“Nice. Good answer. Well, when vertical gives way to horizontal, you’re welcome to the couch. Just make sure no one is sitting on it. The lumpy feeling will be your clue.”
“Oh, relax, Sawbones. I’m fine. Even I know it’s not kosher to get holly-jolly hammered on Christmas Eve.”
“Okay, odd choice of words, given the holiday. But, glad to hear it.”
“You’re late to your own party.”
“Doesn’t sound like it’s holding anyone back.”
John looked over his shoulder at the cacophonous roar from the inside. "True enough. What was the holdup?"
“I hung around to meet the new innkeeper. Nice guy. A little quiet.”
“So, you two exchanged pedigrees, huh? How’d that go?”
“Fine. In some respects, I sympathize with him. When you're new to a place, it's easy to feel like you're being observed by unfriendly eyes and mocking tongues.”
“Eh,” John sneered dismissively. “Matthew House was a college professor. He’s probably used to being regarded that way.” He turned and placed his hands on the porch rail, gazing into the night sky. I filled in the void.
“A shrewd insight, I’m sure. But not everyone handles it as well as you do, John.”
“What do you mean?” he grunted.
“I mean you’re not bothered by other people or what they think. Face it, Professor Harris, you never seem to like anybody.”
He was unaffected. “That’s true. But in my defense, they usually don’t like me first.”
“Mmm, I don’t know, John. Over the years you’ve run rough-shod over a lot of folks. I’m guessing every therapist in a three-county radius feels like they know you personally.”
“Yeah, whatever. Listen. I was waiting out here because I want to ask you something.”
“Ask away.”
