by Jeff High
“It was because of the children. I saw them counting angels. They can see them. It’s a gift.”
My gaze tightened. “Connie, that’s almost scary. Matthew has told me the same thing about them. How did you know?”
“Because from time to time in my life, Luke. I’ve been able to see angels.” She held up her hand in a gesture of acknowledgement. “I know, I know. People think you’re nuts when you say such things. And I spent a lot of time being confused as a little girl.”
“I guess so if no one else saw them. Probably felt like a bit of a curse.”
“No. It honestly was a blessing. I’ll admit, it took a while to figure out. But think about it, Luke. If you saw angels; if in your heart and mind and soul you truly believed you saw angels, think about how easy it would be to have an unshakeable faith.”
I crossed my arms and shrugged. “You make a good point.”
“When I saw those children counting angels, it threw me. I’m not sure why, but it stirred up all of that awkwardness from years ago. I knew there was a connection, but it scared me. That’s why I’ve avoided meeting Matthew. Now it all seems kind of silly.”
“Connie, Matthew and I have been exploring every basement crack and crevice of this place and I’d be humiliated for you to know what a whiney little chicken I’ve been. There’s no need to explain any trepidation to me.”
She leaned in, speaking confidentially. “I have to confess, it took all the courage I could summon just to go back into the upstairs study, much less climb up into that musty old attic. I always knew there was something about this house, some kind of unexplained feeling that all the prayer and positive thinking in the world couldn’t shake.”
“So, how do you feel about it now?”
Connie paused, taking a moment to look up at the high roof and broad shoulders of the stately old mansion. “It may sound strange, but now I feel kind of connected to it. Like it’s home.”
“It should. Your grandfather built the place.”
Connie looked down with a reflective smile. “Perhaps that’s true. But I wouldn’t want to change a single minute of my life with my Grandfather Rayford. I recognized his handwriting in that Bible of Hiram’s. That’s what rattled me.”
“Your grandfather sounds like a good man.”
“He was both good and wise. And my grandmother will always be a saint to me. Whatever decisions they made about keeping Violet’s life a secret, they made them because they loved my mother.”
“Well, are you okay with this new revelation about your ancestry? About being part Portuguese?”
Connie smiled sublimely. “In the end we’re all part something, Luke.”
I nodded in agreement. “Besides, looks like you inherited your grandfather’s knack for making money.”
Connie raised her chin and spoke with casual detachment. “I was thinking that now I understand where mama got her beautiful skin, which, as you know, she gave to me. Hiram passed that along too.”
I could only shake my head and laugh at Connie’s rare grab at vanity. “So, what happens now?”
“I think what Matthew said was correct. He and I have a lot to talk about.” Having said this, she twisted her mouth into a disenchanted frown. “Then we’ll add the sister to the equation and we’ll talk about everything again. Only louder.”
I laughed, gave Connie a hug, and said goodbye.
After stopping by the house to clean up, I spent the balance of the afternoon and evening at Christine’s house. During dinner, I took particular notice that her grandmother, Mattie was unusually quiet, especially when asked about what news her old friend Betty Hudson had to offer. I counted her silence as a blessing and let the matter pass.
Later, as the evening edged toward twilight, Christine and I took an ambling walk down the farm lane through the fields behind the house. I told her everything about Matthew. But this time, I included the details about his wife’s dying request, about Hiram’s picture with Al Capone, and most importantly about Violet Jamison Hatcher and her connection to Connie.
Christine listened with muted amazement. “So that picture you found down in Lawrenceburg, the one of Hiram Hatcher at the railroad. That old phonograph he was holding was up in this hidden attic?”
“Sure was. Along with all the recordings, letters, and documents.”
Christine absorbed everything I had told her for several steps. “Luke, that’s a pretty incredible story.”
“Isn’t it, though,” I said in agreement.
“So, based on what you’re telling me, Hiram Hatcher certainly never killed a woman up in the old mansion. If anything, I guess you could say he kept her alive all these years.”
“In a manner of speaking, that would be correct.”
“Then all of this was what my Grandfather Cavanaugh was referring to when he said there was more to the Hiram Hatcher story than people knew.”
“Likely so. I’m guessing he may not have known about the secret attic. That seems to be a private matter that Hiram had completed by some trusted workmen. But your grandfather probably knew about Maylene’s adoption. To his credit, he saw it as no one’s business and never told.”
“Mother and my Uncle John are going to want to know all of this. Especially Uncle John, since it clears any doubt about his grandmother.”
“I don’t think he’s losing any sleep on that one.”
Christine offered a bemused smile. “Even still.”
“And, I guess I need to apologize for not telling you earlier about the Capone picture and Matthew’s wife’s request. He trusted me to keep that secret.”
Christine brushed this off. “I had no need to know and you gave your word. I’m sure there are plenty of interesting details about your patients that would make for noteworthy conversation. You don’t tell me those things, and, nor do I care to hear them.”
I was again reminded of Christine’s depth of character. Despite the vulnerabilities she revealed to me, she was beyond the petty insecurity of needing to know everything, of allowing no room for discernment and discretion between us. At least, on some things.
“On the other hand, Bradford. If, say for example, there’s going to be a stripper at your bachelor party, then that’s a matter that needs to be thoroughly detailed and vetted.”
I laughed out loud. “At this point, I’m not sure there’s even going to be a human at my bachelor party. Right now, it’s only the dogs and me. The bachelor party is typically organized by the best man, who happens to be your uncle; a man who tries to keep his interaction with humans down to three sentences a week.”
“So, Uncle John hasn’t mentioned anything?”
“Not a word. Besides, this is John we’re talking about. If, in fact, he was to plan a bachelor party, I’d probably have to sacrifice my liver to get through it.”
“But what will you do? You have to have a bachelor party.”
“Okay, time out. Two minutes ago, you were going all Gestapo about what kind of debauchery my bachelor party might be getting into and now you’re concerned that it won’t be happening.”
“I just want you to enjoy the whole process, that’s all.”
“Well, let’s think about it,” I said, rubbing my chin. “I guess as a fallback I could go out to the Alibi Roadhouse and round up some of the bubbas. We could hang out at the bar. Bend our minds a little and our elbows a lot. Then we could swing by the Bingo and Line Dance Club and pick up a few hotties from the denture crowd. After that, maybe we could all go back to my place. You know; drinkey, drinkey, naked dancing.”
Without losing stride, Christine teasingly hit my shoulder, all the while looking down and smothering an eager laugh. “Stop it, Bradford.”
“Look, if my groomsmen were a bunch of guys from the old days in Nashville, I’m sure they would have something appropriately crude and raunchy all prepared. But as you know, the groomsmen are all friends from here. Most of them are married and probably in bed by eight-thirty. Just going bowling may be a stre
tch for them.”
“Okay. I get it. I just hate it for you, though.”
“Well, here’s an idea. I could come crash your bachelorette party. What time does the naughty nighty part begin?”
“Not funny.”
“And speaking of which...are you guys having a stripper? Because, it looks like I’m going to be available.”
“Now, really not funny.”
“Sounds like someone’s afraid that the bridesmaids might get tired of just looking at Lake Bradford and decide they want to take a dip?”
Christine stopped and put her hand to her mouth, laughing uncontrollably. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”
“Okay, now I’m hurt,” I said in mock displeasure. “Careful how you play your cards here, Chambers. Chicks still dig me, you know.”
Christine’s something short of an eruption. She could barely catch her breath.
“Geez, I didn’t think it was that funny.”
Having momentarily lost the power of speech, she did, however, detect my slightly wounded tone. Spontaneously, she gathered my face into her hands and kissed me, a gesture that said more than a few conciliatory words.
We both laughed. Albeit, her more than me. “Sweetheart, you’re a good looking, very desirable man. Especially for someone your age.”
My appeasement was short lived. “You were doing okay until that last sentence. What does that mean...for someone my age? It’s not like I wear Old Spice or anything.”
“Oh, stop it, Bradford,” She smiled at me dismissively and resumed her steps down the grassy farm road. I joined her.
“Good thing the assisted living place has a honeymoon suite.”
Unknowingly, my attempt at humor prompted Christine on an entirely different matter. “Speaking of honeymoons, Dr. Bradford. You still haven’t told me where we are going. I could use some hints about what to pack. You know, like a general theme.”
“The word skimpy comes to mind.”
“Not helping.”
“Let’s see. Passport, toothbrush, some jewelry, and a big bottle of unbridled passion.”
“Check, check, and check. But you’ve told me we’re going to be gone for two weeks. That list might be a little light.”
“Okay, fair enough. So, bathing suit, light jacket, shorts, cocktail dress, and a top or two and you should be fine.”
“That’s it?”
“If you want, we can go over a detailed list of lingerie.”
Christine stopped and placed her hands on her hips. “Luke, I know you want it to be a surprise. So at least tell me when you’re going to let me know.”
“I’m thinking the carriage ride as we’re leaving the reception might be a good time.”
“Seriously?”
I spoke softly. “It’s okay, dear. It really is. We’re not going to another planet. If we need anything, we’ll just buy it.”
Christine smiled, shook her head, and said nothing more. She took my hand and we resumed our stroll, awash in a grand awareness that we were both foolishly and splendidly happy.
In the far rim of the valley, the western hills glowed with the last vestiges of orange light. Cooler air tumbled in and we made our way back to the farmhouse under a canopy of distant, delicate stars. Soon after, I left for home.
As I made my way down Summerfield Road, I felt a sense of completeness, a kind of mellow awareness that my time in Watervalley was coming to a close. The wedding was only a week away and all the plans were finally set. Matthew’s troubling quandary had been resolved, Connie’s disconcerting DNA discovery had found a resolution, and the town appeared to be slowly accepting my decision to leave. It seemed that everything was settled and that my path to the future was finally certain.
That was all about to change.
Chapter 46
FAILURE
THE NEXT MORNING, I arrived at First Presbyterian for the eleven o’clock worship service. I was at seven minutes late and slipped in feeling somewhat disheveled and panicked. Fortunately, one of the rear pews was empty. But the creaks and groans of the old floor and bench made for a noisy landing. Heads turned, and I whispered small apologies. Afterwards. I settled in and took a deep breath, finding equilibrium. My clamorous arrival now past, attentions returned to the pulpit. The organ played and the familiar words echoed through the long hall. The hymns washed over me, lulling me into that grand sense of solace that one can only feel in a sanctuary. With each passing minute I was absorbed into the reverence and pace of the service. Time slowed.
As was normal, I grew reflective and observant of those in the room; slowly taking inventory of the stories and the lives that I had come to know. To my mild surprise and delight, I noticed Matthew and his twins were seated several rows ahead on the far side of the sanctuary. Beside the children were Connie and Estelle. I quickly surmised that the powerful realization of a common ancestry had created an irresistible gravity. Instead of leisurely scheduling some future day, it seemed that phone calls, exchanges, and likely visits had occurred within hours.
Perhaps what was more amazing was that from time to time, Connie and Adelyn exchanged small, animated whispers. For a woman who historically thought that there was a special place in hell for anyone brazen enough to talk during a worship service, this was practically a sign of the apocalypse. But collectively, to see them there together was a gratifying and splendid thing.
And yet, something wasn’t right.
Despite the captivating satisfaction of the moment, there was within me a nagging sense of something wrong, something missing. Immediately my attention went to the choir. Christine was there; silently, attentively listening to the sermon. Her mother was beside her. I briefly glanced around for John. He wasn’t there but this was hardly cause for alarm. Relentlessly, however, the unexplainable feeling of trepidation continued, occupying my thoughts more and more.
I endeavored to dismiss this misplaced sense of dread, for it made no sense. I couldn’t think of a time when my life had known such simple harmony or sense of purpose. I closed my eyes, refusing to be bullied by some unnamed anxiety. And in that moment, it seemed that mentally I was slowly surveying the room, that somehow my subconscious was wanting me to see what my eyes could not. That was when I realized what was wrong. It wasn’t something that was missing, it was someone. Polly Shropshire.
I opened my eyes instantly, like one who had been roused by an explosion, and quickly scanned the room; practically standing in hopes of catching a glimpse of one of Polly’s absurd hats. Nothing. Whatever her personality failings may have been, Polly was a fixture for Sunday worship service. The certainty of her absence now began a cascade of alarming realizations.
Polly had not come to the party Friday night. This was the social event of the season and her affinity for the society limelight made it unthinkable that she would be a no-show unless something was terribly wrong. Unconsciously, my breathing had accelerated. The heat thickened in the corners of the room. Desperately, I began to replay our conversation from the previous Friday. The impact of Polly’s words now hit me full force. She had said, “I have my medications. I’ve been making plans on what to do. I’ll be fine.” Among other things, I had written Polly a prescription for sleeping pills. The day I stopped by her house she affirmed that she hadn’t taken any of them. But on Friday, she had spoken of her medications and her plans in the same breath.
How could I have been so absent minded, so stupid? None of her prescriptions were for dementia. My mind was racing, searching; trying to find some way to defuse the horrific thought that was now consuming me. Then, my subconscious screamed forth a final detail. I recalled the calendar in Polly’s kitchen and the notation about Clayton’s death; the worst day of Polly’s life. The date was June fourth.
That was today.
In a mixture of fury and panic, I leapt from my seat and bolted to the narthex doors, shoving them recklessly open. I was oblivious to the world around me, uttering in an ever-louder voice, “No! No! No!”
Her car was there, parked under the portico. I ran to the front door and immediately pounded on it, calling out Polly’s name. I waited. There was nothing. I stepped to one of the front windows, cupping my hands around my face. But the curtains were drawn, and the inside was dark. Nothing was discernable. I rapped on the window as well, again calling out for Polly. My summons was met with only an eerie silence.
I returned to the front door to see if it would open. But it was locked and solid. Instinctively, I ran to the rear of the house. The back door off the kitchen had glass panels on the top half. I did my best to peer inside but just like the front, no lights were on. I knocked on the door stoutly and for a final time, yelled Polly’s name. There was no answer.
That was it.
I picked up a terra cotta pot from the porch and broke one of the glass panels. Seconds later I was inside. “Polly! Polly! It’s Dr. Bradford. Are you here?”
Intuitively, I ran to the bedroom hallway, turning lights on along the way. I was expecting the worst, but all three bedrooms and the bathrooms were empty.
“Polly, are you here? It’s Luke Bradford.”
I returned to the kitchen and for a flickering moment, thought that perhaps I had been impulsive and foolish. I found the light switch to the short hallway that led to the living room. Once there, I flipped on the overhead light. Polly was on the couch. Upon seeing her, I instantly knew. She was dead.
Her body was contorted and askew to one side; as if she had been sitting and collapsed upon losing consciousness. Her mouth was slightly open, and all the color had drained from her face. A plastic prescription container was on the end table beside her. The top was off, and it was empty. A quick glance confirmed it was the sleeping pills. For nearly fifteen seconds I stood there, frozen, shocked. Then, a hard, angry resolve hit me.
