by Jeff High
“No, no. I think I’ve got it. It’s where you go to some huge, drafty building and look at old black and white pictures of other people’s grandparents.”
Christine aloofly folded her arms. “Okay, no problem. I’ll just go by myself.”
My gushed response was automatic. “Oh, now don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” She replied innocently.
She had me off balance. “Like, you know...dismissive because I’m not all giggles about looking at what is usually a lot of junk.” My comment brought no response. “Look, I have a better idea. Why don’t we hop in the car and drive to Atlanta tomorrow? All of my parents’ and my Aunt Grace’s furniture are in two huge storage units there. Many of the items are vintage antiques. We’ll make a day of it. You can look through it all and pick out anything you want.”
Christine’s face softened into an amused smile. Then oddly, she stood, circled the desk, and knelt beside me, resting her elbows on the soft arm of the chair.
"Luke, I'm sure your parents' things in Atlanta are nothing short of incredible. I do not doubt that I will fall in love with all of it. But you and I are the same. We're both only children. So, all the generations of furniture and oriental rugs and silver at the farmhouse will one day be mine as well. I doubt we’ll ever have a house big enough for all of it. But the reason I want to go antiquing tomorrow is so that at least one thing in our house will be our own, not from my family or from your family, but ours.”
She was entirely correct, and I was hard-pressed not to appear as stupid as I felt. The moment called for nothing less than absolute contrition, for me to do nothing short of telling her that she was completely right and that I was a moron. So, I did the only thing a real guy could do. I said nothing and sat silently, hoping that the feeling of complete shame would be replaced by a more palatable emotion...perhaps something more on the order of reserved acceptance.
Ultimately, I smiled and spoke penitently. “Well, gee. I guess since you put it like that, now I feel like it’s a moral imperative that we do a little antiquing tomorrow.”
Christine’s gaze tightened into a guileful, knowing smile. She had me. She knew that my atoning response along with its spontaneous but failed humor meant that I knew I was wrong. She also knew that I would likely not openly admit it. But that didn’t seem to bother her. She leaned seductively close and kissed my forehead, never losing her artful smile.
But she wasn’t quite through with me. She looked down and spoke provisionally. “We don’t have to go. It’s only if you want to.”
I responded with a wary grin. I didn’t mind that she so overpowered me; that her intuitive cleverness, her unselfish tenderness, and mesmerizing effect of her sensuous lure always held sway over me. But I did mind that she pretended not to know it. My amused glare spoke volumes.
“What?” She finally countered, her tone replete with innocence.
“I’m just a big gullible puppy dog to you, aren’t I?”
“That’s not true,” she said aloofly.
“Au contraire, brown eyes. I think you know better.”
By subtle degrees, her manner became more relaxed and sportive. Wearing a mirthful smile, she leaned in. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
“Humph,” I lightly retorted. “It’s pathetic. I bet if you scratched my tummy I’d automatically start shaking my leg.”
“You want me to give it a try?”
“Best not. It would only serve as confirmation.”
Christine laughed yet all the while she gazed at me with an absorbed affection. “Oh, Luke Bradford. I do love you so. You crack me up.”
“Said the woman with her hand on the short leash.”
"I think a little road trip will be a great opportunity for us to talk." Her eyes were cast downward as she spoke as if there were something leading about her comment.
I shrugged. “Okay, sure. Talk about what?”
She seemed preoccupied and began to draw small loops in the hair above my ear. At first, she said nothing, content to let her gaze follow the slow circles she was making as if she were secretly dialing the combination to unlock what was inside. There was something evasive in her response. "Oh, about the wedding, the honeymoon, and then...you know, what will happen after that."
“Well, I’ve thought a lot about the first two but haven’t really gotten to the ‘after that’ part.” Even under the most liberal use of rationalization, this was a naked lie. But somehow, I justified my response by viewing my “stay or leave” decision as a colossal fork in the road. I was stuck there. And honestly, I hadn’t thought in detail about the next steps of either option. Fortunately, Christine’s focus was on the middle topic.
“Oh, so you’ve been doing your honeymoon homework? Now would be a good time for the big reveal.”
“Nice try, brown eyes. I’ve told you I’m keeping it a secret.”
“Oh, come on. Not even a hint?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t I have even a little say in this?”
“I’m certainly open to suggestions.”
“How about Paris?”
“As in Paris, Tennessee?”
Christine offered a calculated grin. "No, it's a lovely town, but I think I had a different Paris in mind."
“Never saw that coming.”
She lifted her chin and fell silent, coolly assessing me.
“You know, Dr. Bradford. I get the feeling you like keeping secrets from me.”
“And what makes you think that Miss Chambers?”
She looked down, seemingly consumed in an impish and artful humor. She seemed in terrible want of telling me something. Instead, she simply made a quiet nod of resolve. As she spoke, just as she had done with my hair, she took her finger and began to draw small, slow circles over my heart.
"What makes me think that, Dr. Bradford, is that I believe you are entirely and eternally in love with me. I think you would do whatever you could to make me happy."
“True. But the going antiquing thing may have raised the bar.”
“Oh, admit it. I know you think it’s a fun idea.”
“Well, not so sure about the whole ‘fun’ component. But, being with you has its upsides.”
“Such as?”
“Not sure if I’ve mentioned this, Chambers. But you’re pretty easy on the eyes. And rumor has it that you might even be a fair kisser.”
“Well,” she said, looking down shyly. “Maybe if you weren’t talking so much, you could find out.”
I got the message.
The next morning, we set out on the road to Lawrenceburg, Tennessee. The February sun, normally timid, emerged brilliantly above the frosted hills to the East, casting long, clean shafts of light across the frozen fields. Even though the vast and silent countryside was still in the slumber of winter, the crisp, vaporous air had a muted excitement, an unexplainable, elated feeling of discovery. The morning was fresh, and bright, and perfect as if it were the first day of the world.
Save for the occasional ambling tractor, the idle two-lane roads stretched for miles before us, availing a measure of stress-free solitude to our journey. We talked nonstop and the hour plus drive seemed like an opportune time to reveal everything to Christine about the research offer and the incredible letter regarding the payout from my Aunt's estate. But I seemed powerless to reveal my thoughts and feelings on the matter because, in truth, I was still unsure of what they were. And for much of the way, Christine did not stare out at the road or passing woods but instead was turned toward me, enraptured, as if I glowed. She had this powerful, sensuous way of expressing her affection even with the language of her body. It made me all the more fearful of doing anything that would plunder her happiness. I kept my silence.
Along the way, we stopped by several small and isolated shops that were little more than converted sheds. Their exteriors were cluttered with odd pieces of wrought iron, old wooden windows, and disorderly stacks of abandoned items that didn't warrant shelter. I
nside was equally brimmed. While there were a few articles of worth, most of the congested shelves were filled with memorabilia that had only nostalgic value and could only be treasured by those whose meager funds prohibited them from collecting anything else. Christine and I would casually edge our way to the rear before looping back, all the while wearing faces of polite interest. With a silent nod of confirmation, we would thank the proprietor and make a methodic exit.
After returning to the car from a third fruitless foray into the world of hoarding turned enterprise, I started the car and spoke dryly. “Well, that was certainly fun.”
Christine was undaunted. “It’s not just the destination, Bradford. The journey counts too.”
"Although I will admit, I was tempted to buy the old Smother's Brothers and Herb Albert albums. My parents had those when I was a kid."
“Yeah, I noticed you looking at the girl on the “Whipped Cream,” album like she was an old friend.”
“Actually, I was thinking about what you would look like under similar circumstances.”
Christine shook her head dismissively and turned her gaze to the farm fields rolling past us. “Eyes on the road, Bradford. Eyes on the road.”
On the outskirts of Lawrenceburg, we came across an old Victorian home with a large “Antiques” sign at the road. Our approach down the long gravel drive revealed that the house’s paint-flaking and sagging exterior had long been left unattended. But the classic lines of its central turret, asymmetrical shape, and generous porches spoke of former glory. The place itself was an antique, worthy of renewal.
Once inside we were met by a rather rotund but perky woman in her sixties who welcomed us with an amiable warmth and told us to look anywhere we pleased. We thanked her and began ambling from room to room. The place smelled of the past. The sharp, pungent, yet musty fragrance of wood, smoke, and time had fermented together over many decades, saturating the air. It gave the packed but orderly rooms a feeling of mellow abundance. Unlike the bric-a-brac of the earlier stops, the old house was filled with marvelous furniture. Christine was in her element.
It was all grand until a fellow appeared behind us and began to talk as if we had been familiar friends for years. Being short and equally plump, he was, no doubt, the husband of the woman we had met upon entering. He was thick-jowled and heavy with a flabby roll of flesh under his chin. He walked with the waddling gait of a man who had overeaten his lunch. But despite his friendliness, there was a certain stiff-backed and banty nature to his demeanor. After the initial exchange of pleasantries, he seemed perfectly content to stand and monitor us, injecting himself uninvited into our conversation and observations.
Christine didn't let it bother her, but I found him downright annoying. She was intensely focused on an old oak washstand with her lips pressed together, completely absorbed. I took this as an opportunity to excuse myself, telling her that I was going to check out the upstairs. I departed, and fortunately, the nosy little proprietor elected not to follow.
The upper floor rooms had less furniture and more clutter. Nevertheless, I strolled through them until I came upon the small, square turret room. Upon entering, I practically laughed out loud. The walls were covered with old black and white photographs. Additional piles of framed photos were stacked on the floor around the perimeter of the room. Before me were unnamed faces of the past; images captured for some obscure occasion whose meaning had long been forgotten. Admittedly, I folded my arms and scoffed at it all. "Who would collect such a thing?" I thought to myself. "And furthermore, what kind of idiot would buy them?"
I shook my head and turned to exit. But after one stride into the hall I stopped abruptly and hastily back stepped into the room. A framed picture hanging by the door had caught my passing notice. I drew closer. The sepia-toned photograph was of a cluster of workers on a crowded and busy railroad loading dock. The great doors of the freight cars stood wide open, their insides stacked high with five-gallon cans. All of the men in the picture were slightly blurred, evidence that they were going about their work, seemingly oblivious of the photographer. All of them, save one.
A man was standing in the foreground staring squarely at the camera. He was wearing a sharply tailored suit and a jubilant face. Beside him was a small wooden crate whose lid had been removed and left askew on the platform. In much the same way that someone boastfully presents a newborn baby, he was proudly holding a beautifully crafted Victrola Phonograph. Unmistakably, the man was Hiram Hatcher.
Chapter 25
SCANDAL
I IMPULSIVELY LIFTED the picture from the wall and walked to the window for better light. My mind was swimming. I wanted to immediately memorize every detail, to absorb every particular; the writing on the crates, the lettering on the box cars, the make and model of the truck being loaded. When was the picture taken? What year? What month? And most importantly, why the phonograph? Hiram was a wealthy man with many fine things. And yet for some reason, he clearly had a captivated attachment to this one item...so much so that he wanted to archive its arrival.
For several minutes, I poured over the photograph looking for significance, for some story. But nothing was forthcoming. I did, however, notice one small detail. Tucked under one of Hiram's arms was a package. It was slim, like a large envelope, and yet not the right size. The item was square and wrapped in plain paper, likely brown. I wanted to take the photo out of the frame to see if there was any notation on the back of it. But that seemed inappropriate for the moment. The small, orange price sticker had a hand-written amount of two dollars. Purchasing the picture was a foregone conclusion. But before departing, I quickly scanned the prints on the wall to see if by chance there were any other pictures of Hiram. There was nothing. Satisfied, I returned downstairs.
Christine was in a friendly haggle with the portly proprietor over the price of the oak washstand. I slipped by to the front entry to find the shop owner and make my purchase. She was absently working a crossword puzzle but came to life upon my entrance.
“Found something you liked?” She cheerily inquired.
"Oh, just an old photo." I handed it to her along with a few dollars, hoping to facilitate a quick transaction. But instead, she took the picture and studied it.
“Is there a relative of yours in this?”
Something in my private nature always disliked this kind of invasive question even though it was just a courtesy.
“No. I um, I like trains.”
My clipped reply wasn't lost on her, and she responded with an accommodating smile and a low noise of acknowledgment. As she slipped the picture into a paper bag and handed me the change, I heard Christine call out to me.
"Luke, come look at this washstand. I like it a lot. It could be a versatile piece for us."
In truth, she could have taken a picture with her phone and sent it to me. If she was happy with the item, then I was ecstatic. But I dutifully followed her and did my best to appear discerning and contemplative about how this small piece of furniture would play various roles in the evolving stages of our lives. The nosy little husband of the shop owner seemed quite content to stand and eavesdrop on this private conversation, much to my irritation and Christine’s unconcern. After several minutes, it seemed to me that a proper vetting had been accomplished.
“Well, by all means, why don’t we buy it?”
“Are you sure?”
I was sorely tempted to reveal my indifference. But Christine’s voice was full on gentle yearning, a telling sign that this decision carried much weight with her.
“Absolutely. By the way, how much wampum are we talking about?”
She nodded toward our plump and prying companion. “We’ve already agreed on a price including delivery to your house.”
“Oh. Well, okay. Sounds good.”
Christine gazed at our new purchase with total adoration; as if a long dreamed of and cherished event had finally arrived. She seemed enraptured, fully absorbing the bliss of the moment. I astutely followed her lead an
d warmly admired the piece in silent reverence, all the while contemplating lofty thoughts such as, how heavy that sucker was and if I would be able to lift it by myself.
Nevertheless, I was amused by her unexpected elation. "You're just floating in the clouds, aren't you?"
Remaining focused on the washstand, she breathed a slow, satisfied, "Yes."
But a second later she turned to me and spoke flatly. “Okay. We’re good. Go ahead and pay the man. I’m going to look around a little more.” Before I could utter a response, she was gone. I stared in the direction of her departure and muttered under my breath.
“Good to know you’ve landed safely.”
When I turned around the little rooster with suspenders was regarding me with a rather disdainful and puckered scrutiny.
“That check local?”
As we walked back to the car, Christine inquired about my purchase. I took it out and handed it to her. “I bought it for Matthew House. I’m pretty sure the man with the phonograph is Hiram Hatcher.”
“Really? I’ve never seen a picture of him.”
I started the car, and we headed for home. "He's the spitting image of the fellow in the photograph at Matthew's house." I had to catch myself, remembering that Christine knew about the picture of Hiram standing in front of his home but not the one in the bar with Capone. “If you don’t mind, take it out of the frame and tell me if anything is written on the back.”
“There’s a handwritten date. June 19, 1927. Are you sure it’s him?”
“Best I can tell.”
"It's funny, isn't it? Hiram Hatcher's name is all over Watervalley, the Hatcher Building downtown, the library is named after him, and people still refer to Society Hill as the old Hatcher Mansion. Until now, I don't ever recall seeing a picture of him."
"From what little I've learned, there are plenty of unknowns about Hiram, even though he clearly immersed himself into the life of the town."
“How so?”
"Well, he created a lot of jobs, he developed real estate, he built a railroad, and as you mentioned, he gave money to build the library. He was quite generous to a number of local charities and churches. The list seems to go on and on."
