by Jeff High
“Let me guess. You were talking about how I carry myself with a breezy sophistication and impeccable style.” I was hoping that my stab at humor would lighten Mattie up a little. It didn’t. She smiled thinly, leering at me like a benevolent vulture.
Rolling her eyes, Christine bumped my shoulder with hers. “No, we were wondering who your groomsmen were going to be. I don’t think we’ve talked about that.”
My response was aloof. “That’s because talking about it requires that I actually think about it first.”
Christine was unamused. “Seriously? That’s your answer?”
The noted change in her tone set off some alarm bells. The last thing I needed was to have her upset with me in front of her grandmother, whose happiness seemed to feed upon my disapproval. I regrouped.
“Well, what I meant was...isn’t there a kind of parity thing to all that? It sort of depends on how many bridesmaids you’re having, doesn’t it?”
Christine relaxed. “True. That’s a fair point." My response had done the trick, diffusing the momentary angst in Christine's voice. Her grandmother, however, was unimpressed, regarding me like something that scurried under the refrigerator when the lights went on in the kitchen.
“So, how many bridesmaids are you thinking?”
“Seven, at least. Maybe eight.”
“Wow. Really?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No. I don’t guess. I mean, I may need to have Rhett and Casper fitted for a tux to come up with that many guys.”
With this, Mattie Chambers entered the conversation with her blunt, foghorn voice. “Are you not in the habit of making friends with humans?”
I glanced at Christine and endeavored to find a diplomatic response to Mattie’s strident inquiry. “I um, I’ve always been something of a loner.”
Her gaze bent upon me with piercing intensity. Ignoring my presence, she turned to Christine and spoke in a voice loud enough for dogs in Nebraska to hear. “Are you sure about this one?”
Under the table, Christine grabbed my hand before smiling warmly at her grandmother. “It’s fine, Grandmamma. We’ll get it worked out.”
Mattie's jaded regard of me continued. Nursing her contempt, she took a sip of tea and spoke to the general air, her voice serving as its own public-address system. "Well, I don't know. He seems dumber than Howdy Doody to me." Exasperated, she shook her head and began to slide sideways out of the booth seat. “I gotta go pee. Order me the vegetable plate.” Before departing she gave me a final sneer. The only thing missing was a show of teeth and an accentuated bark.
As she ambled away, I leaned back against the bench, lifted my chin, and gave Christine a stiff sideways glance. She read my thoughts in one swift glimpse and spoke in an accommodating if not apologetic voice.
“Grandmamma can be a little direct.”
"I hadn't noticed," I said, nonchalantly browsing the menu.
She melted into a mischievous smile, looking down at her menu as well.
In time Mattie returned, and we managed to pass the next half hour exchanging a few pleasantries that almost bordered on normal conversation. Mattie did manage to further endear herself by noting that when I ate, I sounded like a mule enjoying an order of oats.
We finished, and I asked for the check. My deliverance from family purgatory was finally in sight when, unfortunately, Christine asked to be let out. She needed to be excused to the restroom. I almost said no. Her departure meant I would be left alone with the septuagenarian from hell. After letting Christine out, I sat back down, painfully aware of Mattie’s disapproving scowl. She scrutinized me like something from a petri dish and wasted no time in finding a voice for her disdain.
“So, you’re marrying my granddaughter, huh. Are you sleeping with her?”
There was an intended shock factor to her inquiry. But after being battered for so long by her unfiltered bluntness, I decided to respond in similar form. Leaning in, I spoke with cool defiance. “Can’t say I am. But I sure would like to be.” I continued my radar-lock stare and casually took a bite of a French fry. "Think you can help me out with that?”
At first, her neck stiffened, clearly at a loss for words. But then, curiously, her eyes narrowed to a clever softness, and there appeared the faint suggestion of a smile. It was slight, little more than a muscular tremor, but there was something telling in it. She rallied quickly.
“Humph. Fat chance, Dr. Gigolo.” She took a healthy sip of iced tea, an obvious stall tactic while she recovered her caustic persona. “By the way, nice save with the whole groomsmen thing. I haven’t seen that kind of fancy footwork since Riverdance.”
I had had enough. “You know, Mattie, since we’re going to be family, I don't feel like we’re building team skills here.”
Once again, the edges of a crafty smile began to surface. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
My response was notably indignant. “Seems like I’d have to be to win Christine’s affection, wouldn’t you think?”
Oddly, her face blossomed into a stunned delight that I had never seen before. Her response was animated, almost gleeful. “Oh, I love the way you bring the noise.”
"Mattie, I love your granddaughter, and we are going to be married despite the fact that you come with the package. All I ask is that you don't bring your flying monkeys to the wedding."
She was about to respond when Christine appeared at my side. “Well, I see you two are getting along famously.”
Instead of standing I moved over so that she could slide in beside me. "Yes, famously," I said glibly. Mattie sat smugly and said nothing, observing me with a guileful smile. I couldn’t quite figure out the old goat. Soon afterward I paid the bill, and we parted company.
As I walked back to the clinic, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had survived another encounter with Mattie. But something about this episode was different, as if I had gotten a brief view into the second side of her, one that told of a hidden cleverness. It was yet another odd twist to what had been a mostly out-of-sorts day. Nevertheless, I didn’t dwell on her for very long. As quickly as possible I wanted to wash her out of my thoughts. And then, for good measure, rinse and repeat.
Chapter 18
LAYERS OF THE ONION
WHEN I RETURNED HOME later that afternoon, there was a large and unfamiliar SUV sitting in front of my house. I pulled into my driveway and cut the engine, all the while regarding the vehicle curiously. Seconds later, the driver emerged. It was Matthew. He walked toward me and waved somewhat sheepishly. From under the sleeve of his coat, I noticed that his left hand was wrapped in white gauze.
“Luke. Hi. Wonder if I might trouble you for a minute. I’ve had a small mishap.” Matthew was apologetic but in no apparent distress. "Sorry to catch you off guard like this. I went by the clinic, and it was closed. So, I thought I'd try to find you here."
We shook hands. “Hey, no problem. What happened there?”
Matthew held up his bandaged left hand, observing it casually. “Small grease burn. Pretty clumsy of me. I was wondering if you might write me a prescription for Silver sulfadiazine? That is, assuming you don’t carry Exsalt at the clinic?” His request somewhat surprised me; not in its bluntness, but in its accuracy. Silver sulfadiazine or Silvadene was commonly known as an excellent antibacterial ointment for a severe burn. But Exsalt dressings were specialized products used mostly at professional burn clinics.
“Exsalt, huh? That’s some pretty savvy medical knowledge for a Classics Professor.”
Matthew grinned dismissively. "Well, marry a doctor, and the dinner table talk can be quite educational. So, think I can get that prescription?"
I wanted to be accommodating, but I wasn't used to patients coming to me with a predetermined diagnosis and remedy. Matthew awaited my response. I stalled.
“Um, sure. But let’s go inside and take a quick look at it. No sense standing out here in the cold.” My response was slightly disjointed, as were my thoughts.
His comment readily indicated that he thought my examination unnecessary. And admittedly, he seemed well proficient in the jargon of skin burns.
I grimaced, turning my head to the side in an expression of reluctance. After a brief deliberation, he acquiesced and offered an accommodating smile. “Certainly.” He proceeded to open the door of the SUV so that Andrew and Adelyn could climb out. Just as before, they were dressed warmly but in a somewhat ragamuffin style.
“Come along, guys.”
I asked the three of them to wait on the front porch while I put the dogs out in the fenced backyard to do their business and to avoid the inevitable licking and love attack for the children's attention. I returned and let them in, taking their coats and asking the children if they wanted something to drink. They politely refused.
“Your house smells like the woods,” said Andrew curiously.
"Well, thank you," I replied, unsure if his assessment was a good or bad one. "Must be all the pine from the tree and the wreaths."
“No,” said Adelyn in the characteristically unfiltered bluntness of a child. “I think it smells more like a dog in the woods. A stinky dog.”
I couldn’t help but smile. "I'm sure you're right. My two Golden Retrievers have been skipping bath time. I'll have to speak to them about that.”
Matthew calmly took control. "Children, I want you to wait in the living room for a few minutes while Dr. Bradford looks at my hand. Can you do that for me?"
They nodded obediently and sat side by side on the couch, absorbing everything in the room with silent, inquisitive eyes. Matthew and I went to the kitchen where I found a pack of sterile gloves and proceeded to unwrap his bandaged hand.
“This cottage has a lot of charm,” said Matthew, endeavoring to make polite conversation.
I almost laughed outright and offered a good-natured response. “That’s pretty high praise coming from the owner of Society Hill, the Lord of the Manor as it were.”
A knowing, wry grin spread across his face. “Well, Luke.” He said slowly. “I guess that proves we have one thing in common.”
I continued to unwrap the bandage and glanced up at him. “And what would that be?”
“Neither of us is impressed by money.”
There was a telling penetration to his statement. He was right, I suppose. He had quickly distilled that my unrestrained badgering about him owning the old mansion meant that I owed him no reverence just because he had a larger stack of chips than most. Despite my present circumstances, I had come from money. I knew its pluses, but I also knew its limits as a substitute for contentment. I continued to unwind the gauze.
“So, I take it your people have done well?”
For some reason, the question amused Matthew. He smiled, and there was a pleasant warmth in his response. “Yes, I would say they have done well. But not in the sense you’re implying. My parents are lifelong missionaries. For the past five years, they’ve been in Kenya. I suspect they believe they live richly. But their creature comforts are modest at best.”
I stopped and stared at him. "That's fascinating. Then, I'm guessing you grew up all over the world?"
“Pretty much. Charleston was home base. But a fair amount of my childhood was spent in Europe and Africa.”
“Well,” I said inquisitively. “That’s quite interesting.” He nodded, and I resumed the unweaving of his bandage. My curiosity loomed. I spoke cautiously.
“Looks like you were on somebody’s ‘A’ list. I take it from what you said about Emily’s grandmother the other night that you married into Charleston Society.” It was a probing question, one that I probably had no right to ask. But Matthew’s relaxed and sensitive face seemed at ease, open, receptive. He spoke with a warm smile.
“I don’t think I was on anybody’s ‘A’ list or ‘B’ list or even their waiting list. I just got lucky.”
“So how did you two meet?”
“We met ten years ago at the Spoleto Gala, a high society affair before the festival begins.”
His response was curious and unexpected, triggering a kind of spontaneous amusement. "Alright, big guy. This has the makings of a good story. You need to fill in a few blanks here. Next, you're going to tell me you were working as a valet and parked her car and it ended up being some kind of reverse Cinderella story."
"No, it was a slightly less dramatic than that. I was there in uniform. I was a Naval officer stationed in Charleston. As a kind gesture toward the military, the organizing committee always extended a dozen or so invitations to the base. My name got pulled out of a hat, and I went."
"Ahh, and you two met, and you swept her off her feet."
"No, actually someone bumped into me, and I accidentally spilled wine on her shoes. I apologized, and we struck up a conversation. Emily was gorgeous, but I didn't really care for her at first. I just figured she was another ditzy socialite with one of those thick southern drawls. I certainly got that one wrong."
“In what way?”
“For starters, she had just finished med school; not exactly ditz status. She was very genuine, very real, but she had a kind of graceful ease about her. She fit in everywhere. She was one of those people who have a kind of energy and joy in them; something that they communicate with everything they touch.” As he spoke about his departed wife, Matthew’s face seemed to glow, losing its usual sad and thoughtful framing. Words were crowding his brain, seeking utterance.
I finished taking off his bandages. The burn site was on the top of his hand and bordered on being Level Two in severity. Fortunately, it was only about the size of a silver dollar.
"Ouch. That looks pretty nasty." I examined the injury for a moment, and as I did, a curious thing struck me. At the clinic, I saw minor burn injuries all the time, and this one didn't present as anything unusual. But what was different was the bandaging.
Matthew, no doubt, had done the dressing himself and had used Kerlix wrap and Xeroform gauze...items typically found in a hospital ER, not on the pharmacy aisle at the grocery. Then again, his wife had been a doctor, and he would previously have had access to these sorts of items. The dressings had been applied immaculately, and I now understood why Matthew hadn't wanted them removed. His original assessment had been entirely accurate. All the injury needed was Silvadene.
Carefully, I began to reapply the dressings. "Matthew, I haven't helped you here at all. You were right about it from the beginning. There's no Exsalt at the clinic, but I know we've got some Silvadene. If you want, you can follow me over there, and I can fix you right up?"
“Thanks, but a prescription is fine.”
"You sure? This is going to need some regular dressing changes. I can get you what you need, or you could just come by every few days."
He gave me an accommodating smile. “Thanks, again. But not necessary. All I need is the Silvadene.” I wanted to ask more but didn’t. An awkward silence ensued.
Matthew sensed this and endeavored to fill in the gap. "Besides, it's not that bad. I've had verbal insults that have probably taken longer to heal."
I smiled, nodded, and wrote out the prescription. We walked to the living room where his children had been as quiet as mice. Andrew was silently gazing out the front window, but Adelyn was standing in front of a small chest crowded with old family photos. She was studying them with sharp intensity.
“Are you the little boy in this picture?” She asked inquisitively.
“I sure am. That’s my Dad and my Mom and my Aunt Grace. We were on vacation at a place called High Hampton. It’s in North Carolina.”
She nodded and for a moment, returned her gaze to the photo. “They’re not here anymore, are they?”
I hesitated. It took me a second to process the question. "No. No, they're not. They passed away some years ago."
She turned and looked up at me with her penetrating, radiant eyes and s
poke with all the diplomatic innocence and sincerity of a child. “I’m sorry.”
The depth and purity of her delivery were both heartwarming and adorable. "Well, you are very kind to say so. Thank you."
By now Andrew had joined us. He said nothing but simply endorsed his sister's comment with a strong, affirming nod. I looked over at Matthew. He smiled and calmly said, "familia supra omnia.”
I helped get the children into their coats and walked with them to the SUV. Matthew once again expressed his appreciation. I held up my hand as they drove away.
Family above everything. My Latin was thin, but I was quite sure that this was what Matthew had said. His children were incredible; practically cherubs and clearly a great source of joy for him. But there was no escaping the impression that Matthew was haunted by a sense of irreparable loss. His love for his absent wife had much hunger in it.
Yet, a large portion of him remained a mystery and secretive, and I began to suspect that he had a powerful talent for concealment. More than ever, I was convinced that he was hiding something that went beyond a desire for mourning and privacy. I liked him and, in some ways, even admired him, especially in his relationship with his children. But my trust in him lagged far behind.
I went to the back door to let in the boys. In their frustration at being excluded from making new friends, they had overturned the trash can and were having a private dinner party. Quickly, however, my initial aggravation soon gave way to a light-hearted thought. Of all the entangling messes in my day, at least this was one that I knew how to clean up.
Though inwardly amused, I put on my stiffest game face and regarded them tersely; lecturing Rhett and threatening Casper with military school.
It would be my last light-hearted moment of the day.
Chapter 19
MAYLEN COOK
I WAS HAUNTED THAT night. Darkness came early as it always did in December, leaving me to negotiate a quiet house of lamplight and shadows with hours to pass before sleep would come. I built a fire in the fireplace to occupy the time and perhaps bring some small measure of coziness to the slow hours. Warmed by the embers, the dogs stretched out on their sides and collapsed in a listless slumber on the living room rug.
