The Fullness of Time--A Novel of Watervalley

by Jeff High

  She suggested that maybe the three of us could get lunch the next day. The very thought of being around her grandmother made waterboarding seem like a day at Disney World. My answer was as vague as possible.

  I mentioned to her that I had taken the dogs out to Moon Lake but said nothing about the attorney's letter. That conversation was not for the phone, and besides, I had much to think about before bringing her into the equation. I went to bed early, hoping that the morning light would bring clarity.

  Instead it brought work.

  The Watervalley Clinic had historically observed a practice of closing for the week between Christmas and New Year. This, however, was my second Christmas in Watervalley and I had learned a valuable lesson from the first one. When it came to closing the clinic, everybody but the sick people got the memo.

  Thus, I had told the staff that during Christmas week this year, we were going to open the clinic for some limited hours...an idea that didn't exactly receive wild, sustained applause. Nevertheless, Tuesday morning I rolled out of bed and made my way over to Church Street and the old antebellum mansion that housed Watervalley's Medical HQ. I slipped in from the back door and was excitedly greeted by the office manager, Nancy Orman, who zipped by me at her usual administrative Mach-7 speed. Despite her rather short and rotund shape, Nancy was a virtual cyclone of organizational energy. Nuclear power plants were run with less regimen.

  The balance of the small staff greeted me with notably less enthusiasm and began the day echoing a low mutter of sullen protest. But their snarls soon thawed into some good-natured teasing. Even though they didn’t want to be here, they understood that this was the nature of the profession. We did what we had to do.

  And, when we had to, we did without. Ann Patterson, the clinic nurse, and John's love interest, was still out of town. Fortunately, there were only a few people in the waiting room.

  The first two cases were common colds brought on by the December weather. But my third patient that morning was somewhat unexpected. It was Hoot Wilson.

  Large and loud, Hoot was a third-generation dairy farmer and the single parent of a darling fourteen-year-old daughter. I liked him, a lot. He was a huge man of three hundred pounds with an expansive, mischievous humor, and an ever-present perpetual smile.

  I entered the exam room to find Hoot in his standard overalls but wearing a flowery Hawaiian Christmas shirt and a face of tacit worry. The shirt concerned me more. Generally, dairy farmers from rural, bush-hog intensive regions like Watervalley didn’t have Hawaiian attire in their style file.

  “Wow, Hoot. And here I thought your New Year’s resolution would be to wear more camo. Think you could turn down the volume on that shirt?”

  He spoke sheepishly. “It was a Christmas gift from my cousin, Paula Jo. We always try to get each other something thoughtful.”

  “That’s nice. What did you give her?”

  “A tee-shirt that said, ‘Drink till you want me.’”

  “Okay, good. Interesting stuff.” Despite the peculiar wardrobe modification, Hoot still had the unmistakable ambience of the dairy parlor. It was an odor strong enough to disrupt cell tower signals. He was noticeably unaffected and probably thought of it as “the scent of a real man.”

  As much as I liked Hoot, I was anxious to move on with the day and attend to the remaining patients before lunch. "Hoot, what seems to be the problem? Do you have a cold? Are you feeling sick?"

  “No, I feel fine, doc.”

  I folded my arms and regarded him with a curious frown. “Hoot, I don’t think I understand.”

  He shrugged. “I feel good, doc. I really do.”

  I was vacillating between perplexed and perturbed. “Well, Hoot. I guess at the risk of asking the obvious, why are you here?”

  He looked from side to side and spoke in a hushed voice. “Doc, can I tell you a secret?”

  I stared at him vacantly, not sure where this conversation was going. “I wouldn’t recommend it, no.”

  He ignored this. “I kind of got something I really need to get off my chest.”

  “Is it your shirt? Please say it’s not your shirt.”

  Once more he looked from side to side. “Me and the doc have kind of hit a bump in the road. I could use a little advice.”

  Hoot had been dating Karen Davidson, a Veterinarian who had moved to town over the summer. Petite and amiably attractive, she was ex-military, plain-spoken, and had the unembellished manner of a tomboy. For months, she and Hoot had cultivated a close, companionable relationship, much to the surprise of many, including me. I spoke cautiously.

  “Okay, Hoot. What’s on your mind?”

  “Normally, doc, I have a lot of confidence, except around women. Typically, when I walk in a room, they scatter like deer. Those that don’t run off regard me as a friend, and I have a hard time shifting that perception. But Karen has been different. She seems to really like me, a lot. And lord knows I’ve been pretty crazy about her.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “She’s been a little miffed the last couple of days.”

  I thought for a moment. "You guys seemed fine at the Christmas Eve Party a couple of nights ago. Come to think of it, I've never seen a woman eat so many ribs, except maybe in a caveman drawing."

  “I’m thinking I might have messed up with her Christmas gift.”

  I sighed. This was my punishment from the universe. It was no small irony that I would be called upon for relationship advice. "Okay. So, what did you get her?"

  Hoot dejectedly looked at the floor. “I’m a little embarrassed to admit to it.”

  I wanted to say, “Okay. Sorry, can’t help you. Bye.” But I didn’t. I took a deep breath and spoke patiently. “Well, can you give me a hint.”

  He shrugged. “It starts with a b.”

  “Okay. Bubble bath? Bikini? Brassiere?”

  His face squeezed to a tight grimace. “More like bait.”

  I was dumbstruck. “You mean, bait? As in, you know...fishing bait.”

  The notable disbelief in my response served to deepen Hoot's embarrassment. His voice was choked with contrition. "Yup. Nightcrawlers. You think that was a bad idea?"

  “Hoot, what were you thinking? Good grief, fellow. Do you have a history of mental illness in your family?”

  Hoot thought for a moment. “I have an uncle who does yoga.”

  I chose to disregard this. "Seriously, Hoot. Nightcrawlers. Really?"

  “Gee, doc. What was I supposed to do? The woman really likes to fish. I got her a new Zebco rod and reel, too.”

  This was an improvement. My initial shock ebbed. “Well, okay, good. There’s that, I guess.” I was caught between stunned and amused. “Why didn’t you just get her a frog gig to complete the set?”

  “She already has one.”

  Decidedly, “stunned” had won out. Again, I stared at him blankly. “Hoot, I may be a little out of my wheelhouse with this situation.”

  He adjusted his John Deere cap and spoke reflectively. “Yeah. I understand, Doc. I guess hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

  I scratched my head, still anxious to attend to the remaining patients. “I don’t know, Hoot. Seems to me that regular sight should have seen this one coming. What did she get you?”

  “Not anything. We had agreed not to exchange gifts.”

  There it was; the "aha" moment. "Well, maybe that's the problem. Maybe when you said, ‘Let's not exchange gifts,' she took that to mean ‘Let's not exchange gifts.'"

  Hoot rubbed his chin. A cunning regard tightened over him. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  "Look, Hoot. Why don't you just talk to her? Apologize. Offer to give her a foot rub. Grovel a little. Women seem to like that kind of thing. Seems like the easiest solution."

  He winced with uncertainty. "I don't know, doc. Sounds too simple."

  I was exasperated. “Well, you two could always go at it bare-knuckled. See who’s really in charge.”

  “You serious, Doc? I don’
t know about that. Karen’s pretty scrappy. I’m guessing she could arm wrestle any of the guys down at the Co-op and maintain a winning percentage.”

  “Hoot, I was kidding. Look, just talk to her. Tell her how you feel.”

  “I tell her how I feel all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You know...like, I feel tired or I feel hungry.”

  I pursed my lips tightly. “We’re not connecting here. Maybe you should get one of those relationship books, like the men from Mars and women from Venus one.”

  “Actually, doc, I’ve got that book.”

  “And you’ve read it from cover to cover?”

  "No, I mostly just read the cover. Astronomy's not my long suit, doc. I couldn't really get into it."

  I stared at him in quiet disbelief, speechless. Hoot sensed my frustration and began to inch off the exam table, a gesture of departure. “Well, doc, thanks for your time. I guess this sort of thing ain’t exactly in the medical books. Maybe I’ll drop by the Alibi later tonight and throw back a couple with the boys to see what they think.”

  I was fairly certain that a randomly selected panel of lowlifes down at the Alibi Bar were probably not the best life coaches for Hoot’s dilemma. I held up my hand and motioned him to stay.

  “Hoot, what’s the real problem here?”

  “What do you mean, doc?”

  “I haven’t told you anything you don’t already know. So, what’s really bugging you?”

  Once again, he gazed toward the floor. “Things are just different now than when I was younger. It used to be that if a fella was prosperous and owned his own doublewide, he had it made with the ladies. But Karen's been all over the world. She's seen lots of things, and all those experiences are part of who she is. Me, I’m just a dairy farmer from Watervalley. I barely make it to the Livestock Show at the State Fair in Nashville every year. We’re just not the same.”

  “So, you’re telling me that there’s a whole side to her that you can’t relate to; that try as you might, there’s a large part of her life you'll never be able to understand fully."

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “And here you are with a fourteen-year-old daughter and a tether to the milk barn that prevents you from experiencing some of the things Karen talks about, to share that part of her life.”

  He exhaled a long sigh. “Yeah.”

  “Hoot, have you asked the woman if she cares? As I recall, she came to Watervalley to be a part of a community, to belong somewhere, to leave that other life behind her. Maybe a dairy farmer with deep roots is exactly what she wants.”

  Hoot took off his hat and absently ran his fingers through his hair. Despite his massive size, he wore the anxious face of a little boy. He was searching. I knew that he had been crushed when his wife had walked out on him while Wendy was still an infant. Hoot was no different from anyone else. The loss, the confusion, the abandonment, and the pain had left scars on his heart that served as an unseen reminder of the devastating memories. Instinctively, Hoot had quietly programmed himself to never be vulnerable in that way again.

  In time, he nodded with a face of quiet resolve and extended his massive hand toward me. "Thanks, doc. I knew you were the right fellow to talk to. I'll sit down with Karen, and we'll get it all sorted out."

  I shook his hand and nodded. "Anytime, Hoot. Let me know how it goes. And, just as a reminder...I really was kidding about the whole fistfight thing."

  The next two patients were a couple of well-baby check-ups and immunizations which went quickly and smoothly. That left only one remaining chart hanging outside of Exam Room Two. I grabbed it for a quick review before entering. But upon reading the name, I exhaled a long, deflating sigh. It was Polly Shropshire.

  This was nothing new. Polly was a frequent flyer at the clinic. With her petulant, hangdog face and haughty voice, she would come by every few weeks with a protracted litany of non-specific ailments which she would summarily attribute to “upset nerves.” Usually, the list was long, and their description was longer. And invariably, Polly would randomly slide into a social commentary about the lesser tribes of men and women of Watervalley.

  For some reason, with each visit, she seemed compelled to connect with me on a confidential level. She would assume a whispered, sacrosanct tone to signal the imminent disclosure of some scandalous intelligence. Typically, her facts were laced with a fair amount of fiction. But that did little to dissuade her certainty regarding the pontifical weight of her opinions. When this occurred...and it always did, I would tactfully redirect the conversation.

  As I entered the exam room, Polly’s face looked thin and sour, as if she had swallowed poison. An enveloping weariness rested upon her like an old perfume. Historically, she would greet me with an effusive cordiality and would detail her complaints with a slow and ponderous enunciation of each word. But today she projected a pricklier nature.

  “Good morning, doctor. Thank you for seeing me. I’m not well.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, Polly. What seems to be the problem?”

  "I can't sleep," she remarked tersely. Usually, Polly would volunteer a lengthy description of her infirmities. I waited, but nothing was forthcoming. So, I asked the obvious.

  “What do you think is the cause?”

  “My nerves. I’ve been very distressed lately.”

  “I see. And when did all this start?”

  "Well," she said stiffly. "It began on Christmas Eve when that maid of yours treated me so rudely in front of Dr. House. It was so unkind and upsetting. I haven't been able to sleep."

  And there it was. Polly had cleverly guided the conversation into a discussion of social score keeping. Her complaint clearly called for me to agree with the injustice she felt she had been served. Nor was it lost on me that Polly had referred to Connie as my "maid," denoting a certain lesser standing. Having set the trap, she locked her gaze in sharp scrutiny, awaiting my response. On previous visits, I would do my best to listen patiently to Polly, occasionally nodding my head and frowning with concern. Not this one.

  “I see,” I said politely. Without emotion, I reached into my pocket, retrieved my prescription pad, and proceeded to write in silence. With each passing second, her stern scowl de-glossed into a face of childlike confusion. “Polly, I am writing you a prescription for some sleeping pills.” I ripped the paper from the pad and handed it to her. My tone was reserved and academic. “Hopefully, that will take care of the problem.”

  Somewhat stunned, she hesitantly lifted her hand and took the prescription. But from her speechless, searching expression, I could tell that she considered the conversation far from finished. Soon enough, her momentary confusion calcified into a lofty, offended inquest.

  “Did you not see the way she treated me, pulling me away like that?”

  This was a direct question, an awkward and thorny moment calling for both tact and honesty. I did what any highly-educated mature adult would do. I responded with neither.

  “I didn’t notice.”

  This did little to satisfy her. Both her resolve and her lips stiffened, and she gave the matter a final salvo. "I would think you would treat this situation with more concern, Dr. Bradford."

  Polly was seeking affirmation, wanting me to take sides. I was Polly's doctor, and to that end, I felt called to treat her medical complaint. I was not, however, called to explain to her that she was an insufferable snob and that, in fact, she was the one being rude on Christmas Eve.

  I spoke with detached diplomacy. “Polly, if you have an issue with Connie Thompson, I suggest you pick up the phone and give her a call. I’m sure she’ll be glad to talk with you.”

  My response yielded only a stern, unappeased stare that eventually withered into a look of hurt and betrayal. Polly assumed an air of resolve, gathered her purse and stood.

  “Thank you for the prescription, Dr. Bradford. Good day.”

  I went to my office, sat in my desk chair, and gazed out the large window at
the grounds of the church next door...wondering how I might have handled the conversation differently. I didn’t have long to ponder the matter. Moments later, there was a heavy rap on my office door.

  Chapter 16

  AN OMINOUS CONVERSATION

  JOHN HARRIS ENTERED the room wearing an aloof air of casual authority. He moved fluidly, swinging the door shut behind him before plopping down in one of the armchairs across from my desk. Unintentionally, it seemed that everything about the man had an intimidating element. His presence was like that of a mountain, reducing you to size. Despite his fifty plus years and his affinity for scotch, he was still lean and athletic, solidly made. I rested back in my chair and knitted my hands behind my head, observing him with a wry grin. John's eyes tightened as he took note of my chosen reticence. A shrewd smile began to form at the corners of his mouth.

  Without a doubt, my smirk was nuanced with superior righteousness regarding his Christmas Eve impersonation of Goldilocks. John easily read this. By small degrees, an expression of amused contempt began to emerge. He looked away for a second, gushing a short laugh.

  “Forget it, sport. I didn’t come here looking for amnesty.”

  I held my hands above me in a long stretch. "I see. So, you're not here because your conscience told you to make nice. Shocker."

  “Didn’t you get my note?” He said defiantly.

  “The napkin? Yes. I’m having it framed.”

  “That’s right, smartass. Have your fun. Get it out of your system.”

  "Oh, not the case at all," I said innocently. "I just didn't realize that Christmas Eve was also when you celebrated the repeal of Prohibition."

  “Clever. Anything else?”

  “Hmm, I think that’s it for now.”

  “I saw Polly Shropshire leaving as I came in. She didn’t look so happy.”

  “Does she ever?”

  John rubbed his chin. "Yeah, good point, I guess. Polly's not all bad, though. Back in the day, she did a lot for the community. She was almost normal about five cats ago."

  “I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, what can I do for you, professor?”