by Jeff High
During the second week of March, I called Dr. Bray at Vanderbilt with the simple intention of telling him that I was likely turning down the research position. I had expected a five-minute conversation, at best. But after an hour of patiently listening to all of my reasons, my wise old med school professor told me that he still thought I was the best man for the job and that he was in no hurry. I suspect he read the uncertainty buried within my words. He asked me to call him mid-April. We would talk then. There was something cathartic about weighing out this tremendous decision with a trusted colleague. As I hung up the phone, I saw little that might happen over the next month that would change my mind. For better or worse, I was staying in Watervalley.
Despite the consolation that came with having the decision made, I found myself haunted by the finality of it. Lying in my bed at night, when there were no longer any patients, or decisions, or noise to occupy my thoughts, I would listen to the great moaning of the wind outside my darkened cottage and wonder if my disillusionment were inevitable. That even with the many fulfillments of my life in Watervalley, I would look back ten years from now and think of these days as my lost chance. I had thought that the disenchantment with the daily routine that had begun months earlier would be dispelled once I had made my choice. But it seemed that in those lonely hours during the watches of the night, a kind of subtle despair occupied my soul. Despite my resolve to be grateful for the wonderful life before me, I could not seem to shake this thin veil of despondency. As I had done before, I chose to pour myself into the oblivion of work and the rituals of daily life.
Oddly, for the entire month of March, the clinic was only mildly busy. The days seemed to pass slowly, accentuated by the monotony of everlasting repetition. And for some reason, loneliness appeared to top the list of my patients' ailments, especially for the elderly. Many of them spoke of symptoms that were non-descript and soon enough it would become imminently clear that they just wanted someone to talk to, to assure them. I had long accepted this as part of the job, and most of the time I would simply sit back and listen, occasionally nodding my head and frowning with concern. But about mid-morning on Thursday in the last week of March, I reached my saturation point.
Cletus McFarland, who was a kindly little septuagenarian had come to the clinic to get an annual check-up. His last annual check-up had been two weeks prior which had followed another yearly check-up two weeks before that. Nancy Orman did her best to gently remind him that two weeks and not a year had passed. But after a moment of, what I suspect, was a bit of feigned confusion, Cletus shrugged and said, "Well, I'm already here. I guess I might as well go ahead and see him."
Admittedly, I was slightly exasperated with Cletus before ever entering the exam room, and not just because he tended to spit when he talked. He would always begin the conversation by detailing some recent but no longer present pain in one of his appendages. I would examine the offending ankle or elbow, looking for wounds and checking flexibility, while Cletus would launch into some interminable drawn-out tale. He would get confused along the way, and there would be long pauses. Magellan had circumnavigated the globe in less time.
My typical response to Cletus’s manufactured ailments was to throw out a few Latin names for possible diseases he might have and rub my chin thoughtfully. But something in my slightly frustrated state induced me to take a different tact. I interrupted him in mid-sentence and spoke gravely. "Cletus, according to my notes, this is the third time in the past year you've come in about pains in your left ankle. I'm glad it's feeling okay now. But frankly, if you have to come back again because of aching in either your arms or your legs, I'm afraid we'll have to amputate."
Instantly Cletus's back went ramrod straight. His wide-eyed face lost all its color, and he uttered a single choked word. "Amputate?"
"I'm afraid so, Cletus. Just cut that sucker right off. Next time you come, bring one of those big pickle jars. Whatever we have to cut off, we'll just put it in formaldehyde, and you can take it home with you."
His previous slouching lethargy promptly changed, and he was now exhibiting movements as perky as a squirrel. I barely had the opportunity to shake his hand before he was out the door. Gathering my things, I followed him into the central hallway, but he had already exited to the parking lot. The only thing missing was a roadrunner dust trail.
Nancy Orman had emerged from behind the receptionist desk and was now staring in the direction of Cletus's departure. Clearly mystified, she looked back at me.
“What on earth happened to Cletus?”
“Beats me,” I responded innocently.
She was unconvinced and regarded me with a raised eyebrow. Not wanting to endure further scrutiny, I quickly retreated to my office. The waiting room was empty and the day outside was warm and splendid. Perhaps I was feeling a tinge of remorse for my handling of Cletus because I chose to do something that for some reason I had been avoiding; house calls.
From early on when I first began my practice in Watervalley, I kept a list of patients who were shut-in or lived alone as well as some who had chronic conditions and tended to be non-compliant with their treatment. Every month, as time availed, I would drive out to the country and make rounds on them. Invariably, the visit would mostly be a pep talk, encouraging them to be diligent in their care. Despite the trepidation that accompanied these un-announced visits, their completion commonly brought about a great sense of satisfaction, something my day desperately needed.
I retrieved the list from my desk drawer and studied it for a moment. I felt a reluctance. But getting out of the clinic and connecting with a few of my more marginal patients might very well be good medicine for the doctor himself. I told Nancy what I was doing and asked her to call me should any emergencies arise. Then, on the way out the back door, I reminded her that it was Thursday, and that no emergencies were allowed to happen on Thursdays.
I drove out the north road and decided to make my first stop at the farm of Charlie Peach. A small-time pig farmer, Charlie was a likable but independent little fellow with a weathered face, lively eyes, and a constant cigarette. He was in his early fifties and lived alone except for an Ark full of dogs who lived in the house with him. He always greeted me with an amiable warmth, and while it was good to see him, he tended to be on a perpetual holiday from hygiene. I suspected that he likely had to stand upwind of himself just to get through his day.
Like many of the bachelor farmers in Watervalley, Charlie had a rather independent spirit and perhaps a bit of a wily side to him. He worked hard. But on the weekends, he tended to fall under the influence of Bacchus and likely had a regular barstool at the Alibi Roadhouse. He had been a smoker for thirty years and acquired lung cancer for his trouble. I had diagnosed him six months prior and luckily, caught the disease early. He had made a full recovery but not before offering up part of his right lung to the god of bad habits. Charlie wasn’t particularly reliable about keeping to his follow-up appointments, so I had made a habit of going to see him.
Having heard my approaching car, he emerged from his barn in a slow and cautious manner. But after recognizing me, he pulled off his work gloves and greeted me with great enthusiasm. He immediately began a lengthy declaration, stating that he hadn't touched a cigarette since the operation, that he had been getting regular exercise, and that the pain hadn't been too severe. Charlie looked well, and it was all good to hear. But the readiness of his confession along with his congenial but crafty temperament made his declaration suspect. It wouldn't have surprised me to know that he was treating any pain by smoking a homegrown medicinal; the kind of substance that also helped him take an intense four to five-hour interest in individual blades of grass.
As I drove away, I had to smile. I liked Charlie and, in many ways, even admired him. He and his like cut no figure on the small stage of Watervalley. And yet, despite the obvious petty frustrations of his daily routine, Charlie had a certain contentment with his life. I envied him.
My next stop was to see my fav
orite octogenarian in all of Watervalley, Lilly Dell Logan.
Lilly Dell was a small, diminutive farm woman who had a lively spirit and a sharp intellect despite her years of deteriorating health. She had a generous warmth about her and a clever wit which led her to be boyishly direct whenever she spoke. She lived in a large, white clapboard farmhouse that formerly reigned over a large farm. Her husband had passed ten years prior, and every few years Lilly Dell would sell off a small parcel to keep some cash in the till. However, I was never under the impression she lacked money.
Nor was she lacking house guests. It seemed that the grand farmhouse with its high-pitched roof and generous porches served as temporary quarters for one wayward grandchild or another from time to time. Lilly Dell had had six children of her own and they in turn had been equally prolific...all except for her youngest son known as Mutt who was well into his late forties and still lived with her. But Lilly Dell handled in stride the matriarchal responsibilities of such a large clan.
When I pulled up to the house, I noticed Mutt in the side yard near the barn. He was bent under the hood of one of a half-dozen vehicles randomly parked there. He surfaced for a moment and offered a voiceless wave before returning to his half-submerged position. Lilly Dell greeted me at the door with a grand smile and immediately offered coffee and cake as if she had been expecting me.
We settled at the kitchen table and I inquired about her health. She brushed the question off with the wave of her hand. "The last thing I want to do these days, Doctor Bradford, is prattle on about the pathetic state of my wellbeing. Besides, you should have come yesterday. It was my birthday. I had seventeen grandkids and five great-grandkids here."
“So, didn’t any of your own children come?”
“Yeah, but they don’t count.”
“I saw Mutt outside. Quite a few cars out there.”
"Yes, yes. Two of the grandchildren are here for a little bit. Sally, my oldest daughter Edna's youngest, is taking a semester off from college. She wants to get into country music and be a singer, so she asked if she could stay here and work on her songs. She's up there with her guitar right now."
I paused and listened, catching the faint lilt of a rather twangy but soulful female voice. “Sounds like she sings from the heart.”
Lilly Dell looked at me dryly. "I've heard howler monkeys with better voices." She took a sip of her coffee and continued. "I love the child, but I'm afraid she has misplaced visions of grandeur. The only thing that sparkles about her is a pair of small diamond earrings she bought herself. I'm sure she showers with them. Anyway, she's just going through the stages."
“The stages?”
“Oh, you know. Youthful idealism, inevitable disillusion, eventual reconciliation.”
I smiled and nodded.
"I could go ahead and explain to her that life is just a series of stubbed toes. But I think it best she figures it out for herself."
“So, you said that two of the grandchildren were staying here?”
“Bill Junior’s boy Ernie has been here since Christmas. He’s going through a bit of a rough phase. He’s twenty-seven and just got out of rehab for the second time. He says he’s trying to find himself. Meanwhile, he says he’s found Jesus. I’d be happy if he just found a comb.”
“Is he going to church somewhere?”
She nodded. “Some little independent congregation in the south part of the county. They meet in a barn.” She snickered lightly. “I think you have to have dual membership in AA to join.”
"Sounds like it might be a good thing."
Lilly Dell regarded me with a seasoned scrutiny. "I'm not so sure. I think it's a rough church, with bouncers and a smoking section."
She followed this with a wink and an entertained laugh. “Apparently finding yourself requires a lot of time doing nothing. I think his superpower is sitting on the front porch watching the traffic go by.”
I stifled a laugh. “Well, Lilly Dell, I hope they’re not driving you crazy.”
“No, Dr. Bradford,” she grinned cleverly. “Trust me. They’re not driving me crazy. I’m close enough to walk.”
As we continued to talk, I pressed her again about some of her health issues to which she was mostly dismissive. I was always amazed at her humor, her quiet dignity, and at the way, her eyes were so patient and understanding. Her home and her heart were a refuge for her larger family, and despite the demands it placed upon her, she found both purpose and solace in that role. As I left it occurred to me that perhaps Lilly Dell's greatest fear was that of an empty house. She insisted that I come back again, and soon. I nodded and waved goodbye. Admittedly, there was a part of me that wondered if that might never happen.
I made several stops over the next two hours and was delighted to find those I visited in generally good condition. It had been a successful afternoon, one that had reminded me of the significance I could and should play in the lives of those in this small community. I felt a sense of satisfaction, an uplifting of spirit. And perhaps that’s what compelled me to make one last stop before returning to the clinic. As I made my return into town from the far end of Walnut Street, I pulled down the drive of a large yellow Victorian house that brightly dominated everything around it. This was the home of Polly Shropshire.
Chapter 29
POLLY
I RANG THE BELL AND waited. In time, Polly opened the front door, awash in a mix of alarm and taut courtesy. She was immaculately dressed but stiffer than an iron post.
“Dr. Bradford?” She anxiously inquired.
"Hi, Polly. I was just out doing rounds this afternoon and thought I would stop by to check on you." Having said this, I smiled broadly. But inwardly I was kicking myself. The wave of euphoria that had washed me to her doorstep had evaporated, and I again remembered how unpleasant her company could be. She stared at me blankly. Painful seconds passed. She seemed to be gathering herself from the shock of my presence. But quickly enough she assumed a gracious but rigid cordiality. As was her norm, she operated behind a wall of impenetrable politeness.
“That’s very kind of you. Please, do come in.”
I passed through a central hallway and entered an oak-paneled parlor with heavy drapes and stiff Victorian furniture. To no surprise, the room was spotlessly clean. Some original artwork covered the walls, and every level surface was filled with framed photographs of Polly and her late husband, Clayton. The marriage had produced no children, so invariably all the images were just the two of them.
As I settled into a large chair, Polly asked if I would like coffee. Normally I would have declined, but I accepted the offer if for no other reason than to avail a moment to regroup my thoughts. She disappeared to the kitchen, and I continued to study the myriad of framed photos that blanketed the room. Apparently, they had been great travelers for many of the pictures were of exotic places ranging from Polynesia to Africa to Egypt. In all the captured images, I would be hard pressed to say that there was anything glamorous or handsome about either of them, even in the younger snapshots. Yet, I couldn’t help but notice that in every photo the two of them seemed idyllically happy.
Minutes later Polly returned bringing coffee with a silver tray and pot. She had regained her equilibrium because she now spoke in her usual patently aristocratic voice, invoking a ponderous pronunciation of each word. "I hope you don't mind me being formal. I don't often have company anymore, and sometimes it's nice to get the silver out of retirement."
I sipped my coffee and made a few of the standard inquiries to Polly about her health. In return, she offered polite but somewhat clipped responses, and the conversation progressed awkwardly, lacking rhythm and flow. To her credit, Polly moved the discussion to a more effortless plain.
“How are your wedding plans coming along?”
I breathed an easy smile. “Wonderfully, I assume. I do my best to keep to the periphery of things. It’s all pretty overwhelming, though. I think the first moon landing was launched with less preparation.”
Curiously, Polly’s eyes softened to a warm regard. “Oh, let the girl have her fun, Dr. Bradford. You’re quite the lucky fellow, you know. Christine Chambers is splendidly beautiful and a darling young woman. There’s not a soul could speak ill of her. You’ve made the catch of a lifetime.”
"Well, I certainly won't argue that," I said clumsily, slightly surprised by Polly's charmed affirmation of my bride to be. I usually recoiled at Polly's assertive pontifications. But it seemed that an endearing sentence or two about my sweetheart was all it took to win my kinder regard. She wasn't finished.
“Nor should you. She’s full of life, that one. She’ll always have you guessing, but you’ll love every minute of it. There are elements in each of your personalities that make you a perfect fit. I hope you have many wonderful years together.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say so.” I was doing my best to demonstrate a kind of casual urbanity but no doubt I was blushing, thrown by Polly’s unexpected kindness and candor. Clever old bird that she was, she sensed my uneasiness and spoke in a diffusing manner.
"Oh, don't mind me, Dr. Bradford. When you get old, you become philosophic and direct about things. You spend a lifetime honing what you know, and you want to save others the trouble, whether they want it or not."
I endeavored to make some conciliatory or accommodating remark, but the words seemed stuck in my throat. An uncomfortable silence fell between us, and Polly's gaze drifted toward the floor. I spoke hesitantly.
“It, umm. It looks like you and Clayton had quite a few adventures together.”
Polly was about to speak, but it seemed that a weighty pause attended the mention of his name. She gazed out the window for a moment, passing into a deeper contemplation.
