The Fullness of Time--A Novel of Watervalley

by Jeff High

  Soon afterwards, Christine joined us. She invited Matthew and the children to come for Sunday lunch out at the farmhouse. “Mom generally cooks enough fried chicken to feed the Third Infantry, just in case they’re in the neighborhood. So, there will be plenty.”

  Matthew politely refused. Curiously, he seemed distant, preoccupied, as if something in our conversation continued to privately absorb his thoughts.

  We bid our goodbyes and departed.

  I spent a leisurely afternoon at Christine’s and left around five. I drove to John’s house to tell him about my decision. This was a discussion that needed to happen face to face. I knew that he would respond with detachment, as was his way. But part of me dreaded telling him. John was my friend and I would miss him. And perhaps in some odd way, the foreknowledge that he would feign indifference to my news troubled me. But I was saved from the entire episode. He wasn’t home.

  I drove back to Fleming Street to take care of the dogs and hopefully enact an early bedtime, fearing the week would be a busy one.

  At half past eight, I turned out my lamp and endeavored to close my eyes. But sleep was elusive. I was thinking about Matthew and his evolved perspective about his life here. In many ways I was happy for him, maybe even a little envious. He had found a contentment in permanently defining himself as part of Watervalley.

  Lying there in the shadowed darkness of my room, I knew that part of me had done the same. Albeit, there was a key difference. He had come here by choice. I had not. Nevertheless, our arrivals shared one common denominator. We both were here because of the wishes of family. The key difference was that he had somehow progressed to a place where he had accepted his life here. And while his curious brooding toward the end of our conversation was still a mystery, it appeared that he was sincerely ready to move on.

  Yet the researcher in me was still troubled. There were question marks that remained from what little we knew about the life of Hiram Hatcher. The photograph with the phonograph, the hidden trunk, the dress and the Bible, and more than anything, Hiram’s sudden departure were seemingly part of a larger story. But it was a story with whole sections that had been absorbed into the folds of time.

  Perhaps there were chapters in everyone’s life that were turning points; significant events that forever changed their path. The consequence of those actions rippled across the decades, affecting those who follow. But try as we might, we regretfully discover that those family stories of years ago are closed narratives, leaving scarce enough information for us to fully understand. I suspected that Matthew was coming to terms with this reality. His heart wanted to find peace, to have closure. Perhaps investigating the old spring house was somehow a last tangible act in his quest of understanding the tragic loss of his wife. It wouldn’t seem so, but as his friend, I was open to his request.

  Sleep finally came. A good thing, especially given that the next morning the news on the front page of the local paper would throw my life in a tailspin. And things would only get worse from there.

  Chapter 35

  ESTELLE

  I DECIDED TO FOREGO my morning run the next day. Connie still came on Monday mornings and I felt a desperate need to talk with her about my plans. She wouldn’t be happy about it, but just as with John, I wanted to tell her before talking with the mayor. They were my best friends in Watervalley and I owed them as much. As well, she had been reclusive and not herself for several weeks. I wanted to know why.

  Usually she was in the kitchen before I came downstairs at seven. But this morning she was late. As I waited, I let the boys have an extended run of the back yard before walking to the front porch to gather the paper. As I picked it up I heard a car approaching from down the street. I stood there, fully expecting it to be Connie. It wasn’t. The whole business was strange. “Connie,” and “late,” were not words normally found in the same sentence. Checking my watch, I noticed it was only ten after. I exhaled an impatient sigh, turned to go inside, and casually unrolled the paper. Normally the headline was something earth shattering like “Man From Connecticut Seen In Farmer’s Co-op.” The reality was quite different.

  The front page was an aerial photo of Moon Lake with a headline that read “Watervalley’s Version of Crop Circles.”

  My shocked response was automatic and audible. “Oh, craaaaaap!”

  One of the local amateur pilots had apparently flown over during my absence on Saturday and taken the photo. It vividly showed the images I had mowed into the grass on the far bank as well as the heart shaped area with the table and flowers. I hungrily consumed the typed words, blistering through them in disbelief. The paper read:

  It would seem that Watervalley’s most adorable and soon to be betrothed couple had romantic plans this weekend. Perhaps a certain physician may soon be exercising his option to buy Moon Lake and get a family started...that is, along with raising a few cows.

  I was dumbfounded, embarrassed, and slightly angry. Who could have ever seen this coming? And worst of all, the article closed with a ghastly assertion.

  Looks like Dr. Bradford and his bride to be are making plans for a long and happy life in the valley. We wish them both the best!

  This was not good on so many levels. Dazed, I staggered back to the kitchen and sat at the table, reading through the entire story at least two more times, trying to find some upside to this. There wasn’t one. I stared blankly into the room, trying to think of some narrative, some way to spin this that wouldn’t make me look like a total traitor to my neighbors once word of my departure got out. Nothing came to mind. I began to read the article through a third time when the doorbell rang...which was odd, because it was already unlocked, and Connie had a key. When I went to answer it, the person standing before me was totally unexpected.

  It was Estelle.

  Estelle Pillow was Connie Thompson’s flamboyant sister. She was ten years Connie’s junior and had recently taken early retirement from teaching chemistry at Vanderbilt to return to Watervalley and open the Sweet Life Bakery. She was a large, loud, hilariously lovely woman and a far cry from her typically stoic older sister.

  “Estelle!” Hi. Good morning. Please...come in.”

  She immediately wrapped me in a consuming bear hug that always seemed to linger a moment longer than it should. “Hi, sweetie! I brought you some rolls from the bakery. You’re looking skinny. Is my sister not feeding you well enough?”

  She immediately pressed past me, bustling straight for the kitchen with no expectation of an answer. As she disappeared down the hall, I rolled up the newspaper and hid it under some magazines. I wasn’t prepared to navigate that discussion. Donning my game face, I quickly followed.

  In typical Estelle fashion she was wearing lightweight lavender colored sweats with enough sequins to be seen from space. There was no category of Estelle’s life that could be appropriately defined as “understated.” Her presence and Connie’s absence concerned me more than the headlines. I did my best to be cordial.

  “So. Estelle. How are you?”

  “Sweetie, I am fine. Just like I look.” Having said this, she struck a pose, lifting one hand to her hair, the other to her hip, and pressing her lips together in an impish smile.

  “No argument here. Mighty colorful outfit you have there.”

  “Luke, honey. I decided a long time ago to never let the world dull my sparkle.”

  “Well, mission accomplished. So, at the risk of asking the obvious. Where’s Connie?”

  Immediately, Estelle’s face lost a degree of illumination. “My sister, has gone to Chicago.” Her tone was awash with a distinct aloofness.

  “Chicago, really? Did she go to visit Rayford?”

  “Beats me,” Estelle continued in an overly theatrical air of indifference. “She said she had a list of things she wanted to do.”

  “So, she didn’t tell you why? That’s odd.”

  “Tell me about it,” she declared sullenly, flipping her hand for dramatic flair. “Listen, I know my sister can be a s
tarched old fuddy-dud, but lately she’s taken that persona to an industrial level. Something about her is just not right.”

  “You mean like a personality disorder?”

  “Oh, heavens no. It’s more like a ‘I have no personality’ disorder.”

  I let this pass. “So, she didn’t share anything with you about her trip?”

  Estelle turned to reach some plates from the cabinet. There was a noted resentment in her response. “No. We haven’t been in much of a sharing mood lately.”

  “How so?”

  ”Humph,” she grunted. “Based on how she’s been acting recently, let me explain how I feel about sharing with my sister. Let’s say I have five cookies and she wants one of them. You know how many cookies that leaves me with? Umm hmm. That’s right, five.”

  Despite her present angst, I knew that Connie and Estelle were extremely close. What I was witnessing was thinly veiled hurt feelings. Realizing that nothing more would be learned with further questions, I let the matter drop,

  “Well, I appreciate you coming over in her stead. I’m sure I would have been fine. Do you need to get back to the bakery?”

  Her radiant demeanor promptly returned and once again, she dismissively flipped her hand at me. “Oh sweetie, not at all. The staff has everything covered there. Besides, Connie wanted me to remind you to keep the place tidied up.”

  Having not yet to come to terms with Connie’s assertions about my housekeeping habits, I was somewhat indignant at this last comment. “Oh, and what if I’m not up to par.”

  “She said I should slap you around like a sock monkey.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course not, sweetie. I just made that up.”

  I shrugged. “Right. Okay. I guess it just kind of sounded like Connie.”

  Still giggling, she put the pastries on plates and we sat at the kitchen table. After a long silence, she spoke reflectively. “I don’t know what’s going on with my sister, Luke. Heaven knows I love her but sometimes she can be a difficult person. That girl can start an argument with an empty room.”

  I took a bite of pastry. “I don’t know either. But, I’m sure she’ll come around.”

  “Well, I’ll admit. It has hurt my feelings...her being all secretive and what not. But I’ve decided that even if she doesn’t come out of it, I plan on being my glamorous, happy self. You know what they say, a smile is always in style.” She said the last sentence with prophetic flair, as if she were making a speech in the Miss America Pageant.

  “Sounds like a good mantra,” I responded passively, content to let the subject drop.

  Estelle wasn’t. She placed her hand on mine and looked at me imploringly, using the solemn voice people have when they are about to tell you that the president has just been shot.

  “Luke, I think it’s important to always be one’s self.” Satisfied with this pronouncement, she took her fork and ate another bite of pastry. “Unless, of course, you’re a princess. Then you should always be a princess.”

  As was normal, talking with Estelle was a magic carpet ride in an alternate universe. My angst about the headline article began to re-emerge. But I still thought it best not to broach the subject. I strove for nonchalance.

  “So, Estelle. How have you been?”

  “Oh, Luke. I have to tell you this story. The other day, the most terrible thing happened.”

  I did my best to nod thoughtfully, unsure of what was to follow.

  “I was in the yard, down on my knees pulling weeds from the roses and a yellow jacket flew up my gym shorts and stung me, right on my booty-bone.”

  “On your what?”

  “On my booty-bone. You know? You want me to show you?”

  “No, no. That’s fine. Are you okay?”

  “I couldn’t be better. But I’m telling you right now, after the sucker stung me, I didn’t care if I was out in the yard in front of God and all creation, those fluttery gym shorts were coming off. I mean off, baby.”

  “You took your shorts off in the front yard?”

  “Oh, you know I did,” she declared with unabashed detachment. “So what if the rest of the world learns that big girls like to wear leopard panties like the skinny ones do. When you get stung on your booty-bone, vanity has to take a back seat.”

  I was doing my best to take this trip to Neverland in stride. “Estelle, I just have to ask. You’ve got a PhD in chemistry. You’re a highly educated woman and an accomplished baker. But, seriously...booty-bone? I’ve heard better English from Tonto. That’s the best you’ve got?”

  She paused and looked at me sheepishly. “I guess you have a point.” But after pondering the idea for a moment, she crinkled her nose with a girlish grin. “But it does sort of roll off your tongue, doesn’t it? Booty-bone, booty-bone, booty-bone.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Oh, my! Would you look at that?” Estelle’s molecular attention span had moved on.

  “Look at what?” I said aloofly. I was still trying to process the newspaper article, to think of a narrative to bring it into perspective. I liked Estelle. But she was a drama queen, and I was finding it difficult to pay attention.

  “My nails! Goodness, I can’t believe what bad shape they’re in.” She turned her hand for me to see. “My, my. That’s just criminal.”

  “Should I notify the media?”

  She cut her eyes in feigned admonishment. “Don’t be playing, Luke Bradford. A girl’s nails are an important business.”

  “Good advice. I’ll make a note.”

  By now she had moved on to her toes. “Heavens, would you look at those. If my toenails get any longer I could swoop down and catch dinner from a lake. Mmm, mmm. I’ve got to get a Mani Pedi today.” After a reflective, self-consumed moment, she looked up at me with an animated face, as if she had solved the secret to cold fusion. “You know, Luke, you should get one too. You should call Christine and the two of you go together, like a date.”

  “Hmm. Not so sure about that one, Estelle.”

  “Oh, piddle. There’s nothing wrong with having attractive hands. Think about it, you could put the man back in manicure.”

  “Thanks, Estelle. But I think I’d rather put the pro back in procrastinate.”

  She offered a puckered frown and returned her focus to her hand, speaking wistfully. “You know, when I was younger there was a time when I thought about being a hand model.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Why yes. People have always told me I had beautiful hands. And listen to this. When I was a lot younger back in Nashville, I once had a painter ask me to pose for him, in the nude.”

  “Gee,” I said, mildly surprised. “Did you do it?”

  “No, but I did think about it. He was so dashing and cute.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. And very talented, too. He was painting my kitchen at the time.”

  I chose to finish my pastry in silence.

  Soon after, I thanked Estelle and gathered my things before heading to work. Between making the front page, Connie’s peculiar absence, and my imminent conversation with the mayor, my stomach was in knots. And to make matters worse, on the way to the clinic, with my hand on the steering wheel in front of me, I couldn’t help but notice that perhaps Estelle was right.

  I could use a manicure.

  Chapter 36

  BREAKING NEWS

  THERE WAS NO SHORTAGE of teasing remarks from the staff about the newspaper article. I did my best to be dismissive but the contradiction to my real plans made the matter all the more foreboding. As much as I wanted to talk to Connie and John first, I had a burning need to move forward with the whole business. It was time.

  I had a lull in patients around mid-morning and decided to walk over to the mayor’s office. Walt Hickman was probably the least intimidating person in Watervalley, but my painful trepidation over breaking the news coupled with the expanding heat of the day made the short journey feel like a death march. By the time I climbed th
e steps to the courthouse, I was consumed with dread. Fortunately, Walt was in and able to see me immediately.

  His assistant amiably invited me to have a seat in his office and said that he would join me shortly. A moment later Walt arrived in a whirlwind of bother and fluster, apologizing for having kept me waiting. Despite oily politician demeanor, it was simply impossible not to like the fellow. He had a chubby, affable appearance that appeared to have never lost the round contours of infancy and a personality that was completely free of guile, rendering his face captive to his immediate thought or mood.

  I began with a kind of clumsy gratitude, thanking him for all his assistance over the past two years. It was an awkward and indirect start. Despite having practiced my exact words a dozen times, I was suddenly incapable of speaking directly to the point. I rambled, making conciliatory remarks that by their nature assumed that my departure was already understood. I guess that in some way I had hoped that Walt would grasp my intent by inference and deduction. He didn’t.

  “Doc, I’m not sure I understand what you’re telling me here.”

  I exhaled a deep, decisive breath. “Walt, I’m leaving.”

  For a moment, his mouth worked silently at attempted speech. I continued.

  “I’ve been offered a research position at Vanderbilt, and I’m going to take it. This has been an incredibly difficult decision, but I think that for me, it is the correct one.”

  I went on to explain as diplomatically as possible all the factors that weighed into my choice and to again express my gratitude to him and the town. All the while his mouth formed an “O” of surprise, and I felt quite certain that for the next few minutes the rest of my words fell away. In time he gathered himself enough to offer a few understanding nods but beyond that he was largely silent. It was not the meeting of minds I had hoped for.

  I brought the encounter to a close by repeatedly asking him to keep the matter strictly confidential until after my wedding. Thirty days-notice was all that was required, but I told him that I wanted to give him the opportunity to discreetly begin the search for my replacement as soon as possible. He again nodded his understanding and thanked me. But his whole demeanor was one of wide-eyed shell shock. There was nothing more to say. I stood and extended my hand. We exchanged a hearty shake, something Walt knew how to do instinctively. But his clasp lingered, as if he didn’t want to let go.