by Jeff High
Nancy paused, pondering the question before speaking dryly. "Do you think the rest of us could line up and take a shot?" Christine placed her hand over her mouth, shuddering with delight.
“Love you, too, Nancy. Go home and come back tomorrow as a nicer person.”
She smiled and winked at Christine, before closing the door.
“You know I haven’t thought to ask you,” said Christine. “How was your day today?”
I tucked my hands under my arms and thought for a moment. “Well, let me think. I saw a few cases of the sniffles. I did exams on a pilonidal cyst, two hemorrhoids, and three cases of bunions. It’s just been a buffet of healing.”
Oddly, for the longest time, Christine said nothing. When she did speak, her voice carried a deeper tone of concern. “Doesn’t sound like you enjoyed it very much.”
I played this off. “It is what it is.”
She nodded her understanding. But buried within her expression was a deeper contemplation, something she seemed in want of saying. I changed the subject.
“What’s going on this weekend?”
“I have a shower Saturday afternoon. But it will be over by four.”
“Good. I have an idea. The weather is supposed to be sunny and warm. What say we go out to Moon Lake Saturday afternoon, build a fire, and, I don’t know, maybe talk about the future.”
“The future?”
“Yeah. Sure. The future.”
Oddly, a long silence fell between us, during which, Christine studied my face probingly. In time an affectionate smile emerged. “Sure. I’d like that.”
Chapter 31
THE MEETING
ON FRIDAY THE CLINIC was modestly busy with a few of Watervalley’s more colorful personalities in the mix. Having made the decision to stay, I rediscovered a mild contentment with the daily rattle and hum of patients. Although far from inspiring, the day was routine and for the most part, enjoyable. Admittedly, the highlight was the lunch meeting of the newly formed Community Development Council; a reality that hit me as I started my car for the drive downtown. My threshold of thrill had sunk to an all-time low.
I arrived late for the meeting at the Courthouse only to find an empty conference room. After checking my cell phone calendar, I realized that the meeting was at noon and not eleven thirty. Weighing my options in the balance, I decided to simply take a seat and wait. This proved to be a fortunate choice because a minute later, John Harris walked through the door. Instantly, there was a spontaneous humor between us.
“Hello, professor. I’m glad you’re here. We need to have a little chat....you know, just between us girls.”
“What’s on your mind, doctor?”
“As I recall from our last episode, you were expressing some heavy concerns about leaving Watervalley behind and discovering new worlds. ‘Finding yourself,’ I think you called it. But the only place you’ve been finding yourself is down at the clinic hovering around Ann. Am I missing something here?”
John offered nothing more than a derisive grin. He took off his coat and drug one of the heavy wooden chairs away from the conference table, turning it askew. It was neither against the wall nor square to the table, but rather sitting in space, as if John were instinctively asserting that this was now the center of the room. In similar fashion he casually seated himself, exhibiting a composure secured by the chemistry of wealth and intellect. But there was something different about him, a kind of submerged ease that supplanted his normal brooding air.
I was prepared for a healthy round of his clever-tongued invective. Instead, he held his hands up in a gesture of concession. “Doc, I don’t know what to say. These past few weeks have been, well...incredible. My face hurts from smiling so much. She’s funny, she’s beautiful, she loves me just the way I am. Hell, even I don’t like me the way I am. And lately I’ve been experiencing this really weird feeling.”
“John, let the doctor explain. That feeling your talking about, it’s called happiness.”
He shook his head, amused. “I just find myself thinking about her all the time.”
“It’s simple. You’re in love, big guy.”
His gaze sharpened. I leaned forward in my chair. “Look, John. I realize that our normal topics of conversation are limited to news, weather, and sports. But being in love is considered normal for most humans. It’s one of the six basic emotions.”
“Oh, really? What are the other five?”
“Gee. I don’t know. Greed, lust, envy, fear of used car salesmen, getting the munchies...what does it matter?”
“You left one out.”
“Which is?”
“Anger. And you know what’s a primary cause of anger?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Marriage.”
“So is driving in Atlanta. What’s your point?”
“The point is, sport...” John’s voice seemed to stick in his throat. His expression withered. “Hell, I’m not sure what the point is. I just know I don’t want to screw things up.”
As I was about to respond, Connie Thompson entered the far end of the conference room. “My, my. Looky here. Watervalley’s brain trust is already on the job. The town is saved.”
John turned to her, his words thick with salt and humor. “Connie, I’m surprised you’re here. Isn’t this about the time of year you normally shed your skin.”
She came and seated herself in the chair next to him, unfazed.
“Keep it up, John and your organ donor card may come into play a lot sooner than you think.”
“Oh, come on, Constance, play nice. Besides, you know I’m just wanting your attention. I’ve always had a big crush on you.”
“Hmm. Why do I have my doubts?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“All the time.”
“Then you should be more used to it.”
John glanced at me, winked, then fluidly changed his tone to one of genuine concern. He reached over and lightly placed his hand on top of Connie’s. “Hey, before I forget. How’s Rayford doing?”
“Oh, he’s fine. He’s going back to work Monday. I need to go pay him a visit.”
I stared at Connie, confused. Rayford was her oldest son who lived in Chicago. “What happened to Rayford?”
“Acute appendicitis. Last Sunday. He was on his way home from the hospital on Monday before I even got a call. I was ready to drop everything and catch a plane, but he insisted that I stay home. Said he wanted me to come when he was well and not when he was recovering from surgery.”
Admittedly, I was a little stunned. Not just with the news but with the fact that I knew nothing of it. “Well, I’m glad he’s doing alright.” My response seemed forced and diplomatic, but I gave it the full measure of facial concern, attempting to make up in dramatic delivery for what the words lacked in novelty. Oddly, Connie only nodded and lapsed into a distracted silence.
Soon afterwards other committee members began to arrive, and the conversation migrated to the typical salutations of acquaintances. There were about nine altogether including some merchants, a bank officer, and a couple of prominent farmers. Watervalley was still largely an agricultural community and the mayor knew where his bread was buttered. Insightfully, Walt was seeking input from a variety of viewpoints before launching any campaign to attract new industry. If Walt was anything, he was a politician.
He was the last to make an appearance, scuttling in as if he were late and anxious with a kind of prancing nervousness. He greeted everyone effusively and offered at least two rounds of thanks to all the participants. After detailing the need to cultivate some moderate growth in the local economy, he began the discussion by tossing out several “brainstorming” ideas he had in hopes of getting the conversation started.
His first recommendation regarded promoting tourism and hovered around Henrietta, the dancing chicken.
Apparently, some decades ago, a local chicken farmer named Butterbean Taylor made a home video of one of his chickens he claimed co
uld dance. Butterbean thought it would be a good marketing ploy. His pitch was, “The Taylor Egg Company, Home of Henrietta, The Dancing Chicken.” He scrounged up enough money to buy come commercial air time on a Nashville TV station and Henrietta became an overnight sensation. For a time, people flocked to Watervalley to see Henrietta in action.
“I’m thinking,” said Walt enthusiastically, “that we could build on that by having a “Dancing Chicken Festival.” The Fall Festival is our biggest tourism money maker. So, I thought we could do this in the spring. Have a fried chicken competition, a Funky Chicken Dance off, maybe even a dancing chicken contest with real chickens.”
Having made his spiel, Walt surveyed the room. “Well, what does everybody think?” His inquiry was met with deafening silence and most of the committee members cast their eyes downward like truants in the principal’s office. Finally, John replied, doing his best to be diplomatic and kind. “Walt, I’m not sure that being the birthplace of Henrietta the Dancing Chicken should be claimed as our proudest moment. I realize that we’re not trying to qualify as a World Heritage Site, but I think we might want to put our efforts toward something more sustainable than a one weekend festival.”
Walt responded in stride. “Good point, John. Which brings me to the next idea. I think we should try to capitalize on the valley’s natural recreational value. There’s a five-acre tract of land available at the north end of Akin Ridge. What if we were to get one of those paragliding outfits to come in here and set up. It could bring in several jobs and a steady flow of tourists.”
This scheme prompted a few approving nods and a more open-minded reception. That was, until once again, John spoke in a polite yet informative voice.
“Paragliding from Akins Ridge isn’t going to be particularly popular with anyone who is familiar with gravity. You need a place to land as well. Given that the only safe landing zone is Lester McFall’s pig farm, the whole experience would probably be considered something less than cosmic. And convincing Lester to sell would probably require a Papal Decree.”
Walt nodded his understanding, his enthusiasm clearly waning. For a moment, the conversation stalled. The mayor’s intentions were good but figuring out an approach to the task seemed beyond his depth. Fortuitously, Connie, who had a certain knack for seeing the dominant color in any situation, entered the discussion.
“Walt, it seems to me that we need a plan on multiple fronts. For starters, we need to see how we might open greater markets for the agriculture we’re already producing. The cabinet factory is here because the surrounding hills have thousands upon thousands of acres of inexpensive hardwoods. Maybe we should look at recruiting some furniture manufacturing here as well. There’s plenty of timber to go around. As far as industry goes, our best shot is to find someone to retool the old DuPont plant. We still have a working railroad track coming through the valley and that will prove beneficial to any new industry. New retail is fine, but we need to find ways to bring new dollars into the community, not redistribute what we have. We find new dollars, retail will follow. We all know these things and talk about these things, but we need to devote some focused attention to them. I say we make some sub-committee assignments to look into each area and meet back to discuss the possibilities.”
Seamlessly, Walt followed in step and began to assign chairs from the various group members. Appropriately, John was asked to look into the plant revitalization since in years past he had been the manager. The farmers agreed to meet with the Co-op and look into expanding the agricultural markets. Walt and the bank officer would reach out to possible furniture manufacturers. Luckily, given my busy schedule and upcoming wedding, Walt didn’t assign anything to me. Connie wasn’t so considerate.
“Luke, you’re friends with Matthew House. Why don’t you ask him when he thinks he might reopen the bed and breakfast? If we’re going to attract new business, people will need a place to stay when they visit.”
Suddenly, all eyes turned to me. My voice stuck in my throat. Apparently, Matthew had remained tight lipped about his intentions. I had assumed that his desire to keep Society Hill as a private residence was general knowledge. I now realized it wasn’t. I stammered out a response. “Um, well, sure. I’ll make a point of asking him.”
Soon after, the meeting adjourned, and Connie quickly exited before I had any chance to speak with her. The room emptied leaving only John and me.
“Wow, Connie more or less parted the waters for everyone in that discussion.”
John’s eyes tightened. A shrewd grin foretold that he knew something more.
“What?” I inquired.
“Sport, do you think she and I walk into these things blind? For years the two of us have sat in meetings like this until we were about to die from fanny-fatigue. These days we’re a little more intentional. Everything you heard was well discussed several days ago. My job was to defuse any bozo ideas Walt came up with and Connie’s job was to bring some structure to the gathering.”
“You’re not making this up, are you?”
“Of course not. Look, I like Walt. You like Walt. Everybody and their dog likes Walt. But other than having a knack for bringing the right people together, he has the IQ of a croissant.”
John’s summary of Walt was no surprise. But his comments answered a larger question. “I guess that’s how you knew about Rayford?”
“Yeah, she mentioned it when we talked earlier this week. I take it you didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen Connie this week.”
“You know,” John said reflectively. “I kind of picked up an odd vibe from her about that. It seemed to be about some discussion the two of you needed to have but one that she was wishing to avoid for the time being.”
“That’s odd. She mention anything specific?”
“Not really. It just struck me as peculiar that a woman who has avenging angels with fiery swords on speed-dial would be hesitant to have a discussion with a welterweight like you.” John laughed, clearly amused with himself. “Come on sport. I’ll walk you out.”
As I drove back to the clinic, my mind raced. Connie and I had already had the “Talk.” Perhaps she thought I needed a refresher course. But I was at a loss as to why she would have any reticence in approaching me on the matter.
I debated the question around for several minutes with no resolve. Soon enough, my focused changed. Tomorrow was Saturday and I was taking Christine out to Moon Lake. I had my own “talk” for which I desperately needed to prepare.
Chapter 32
CONFESSION
I WANTED EVERYTHING to be perfect.
The accumulated weight of my guilty conscience had burdened me with the need to impress, to be romantic, to vividly assure Christine of the depth of my affection. The fact that I had been deceitful about a galactically important matter for the past half year was just a trivial detail in a larger story. It simply needed some perspective. My original intentions had been honorable, mostly. And my sins were ones of omission; misdemeanor sins as it were. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Saturday morning, I anxiously put my plan into action.
I borrowed Hoot Wilson’s pickup truck to take my push mower out to Moon Lake. Along the way I stopped at the hardware store and bought some tiki lamps, a couple of canvas chairs and a small wrought iron table. I drove to the property and locked the gate behind me, not wanting any unwelcome intruders. Certain aspects of my scheme took hokeyness to an Olympic level, and I was profoundly self-conscious that no one but Christine knew of it.
The rains and warmer days of April had already produced a thick carpet of orchard grass. Using the push mower, I neatly clipped a small level area beside the lake in the silhouette of a heart. Admittedly, even while I was shaping it, the idea struck me as embarrassingly corny. I knew that if I was ever questioned about it, I would have to do what any normal guy driven by ardent love would do: lie with impunity.
But Moon Lake was my private world and I felt emboldened. I was so proud
of my landscaping prowess that I decided to engage a second grand idea. I moved to the opposite side of the lake where the bank sloped more sharply. Using the push mower, I carefully sculpted stick figures of a man and a woman followed by progressively smaller children and two dogs; a figurative depiction of our future. I returned to the near side and smugly admired my handiwork. Despite my sense of satisfaction, the moment was mixed.
I was torn between pride of cleverness and a sickening vulnerability for this open display of sappy melodrama. I considered going back and mowing over the whole business. Then again, Luther, whom I was buying the property from, never came out here. I was the only other person with a key. And besides, my confession needed all the style points it could get. Christine was far from gullible, but there was no harm in doing everything I could to set the stage for a charmed evening. Nevertheless, for a guy who typically hid his feelings, I felt practically naked.
In the early afternoon I made a second trip out to the lake, this time bringing a white table cloth and two dozen freshly cut roses from the flower shop. I positioned the chairs, spread the covering over the table, and centered the roses in a large glass vase. Before leaving, I paused to take in everything. The intoxicating smell of clover and warm grass poured over me. The world seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation. Satisfied, I ambled back to my car, all the while rehearsing the words I would say. The stage was set.
Unfortunately, I had an hour to kill before picking Christine up at four and the idle minutes permitted me to slip into a pool of my most woeful feelings. I was filled with a nagging uncertainty. It’s not that I feared losing Christine but rather, I feared losing her esteem. As well, in my heart of hearts I knew that my choice to stay in Watervalley was far from unassailable. By degrees I had simply talked myself into it. Yet I felt that I must steel myself to reveal nothing of those doubts; to demonstrate a complete resolve to stay, lest my indecision cast an even darker cloud over Christine’s trust. Perhaps my real trepidation came from the knowledge that I hadn’t stopped dreaming, I had simply gotten better at hiding it.
