by Jeff High
Maylen Cook, Hoot Wilson, Toy McAnders, Gene Alley, and even the surly Luther Whitmore along with numerous others were in the mix. One by one they found a moment to shake my hand and congratulate me. Some readily imparted some marital wisdom; others ...not so much.
Holding both a chicken wing and a beer, Hoot Wilson gave me a massive bear hug. “Doc, I gotta let you in on a little secret. I got engaged today.”
“That’s great, Hoot. Congratulations.”
“Yeah,” he proclaimed with stoic authority. “Karen and I decided we didn’t want to steal your thunder. So, she didn’t wear the ring tonight.”
I did my best to muster an accommodating, complimentary tone. “Well, that was certainly thoughtful.”
Hoot continued, speaking with philosophic reserve. “Yeah, I’ve been carrying the ring around for several days. I was going to propose tomorrow morning at the annual Bass Fishing Tournament down at the lake. I figured the two of us out on my flat bottom boat, doing what we both love would be the perfect time. But, turns out, she had to come out to the farm this morning because one of the milk cows had mastitis.”
I nodded, doing my best to show great facial interest. “Well, nothing brings out true love better than a bacterial toxin.”
Hoot gave me a glance of uncertainty but nodded nevertheless. "The moment just felt right, you know. So, I popped the question, and she gave me a big high-five yes." Having said this, he pantomimed the flinging of a rod and reel. "Yup, I can still reel them in, doc. Hoot Wilson, master caster.” He grinned proudly and proceeded to suck the meat off of the chicken wing.
“All good stuff, Hoot. I’m happy for you.”
"And I’m happy for you too, doc...although I hate to see you go. Hey, while you’re doing research, think you could come up with a cure for brain freeze?” I smiled, nodded and said nothing. By now Matthew had joined us. Hoot turned to him.
“Great job with the eats, Matthew. It’s nice to come to a gathering where there’s real man food and no celery stalks stuffed with pimento cheese.”
“Good to know,” replied Matthew. “There’s plenty more. Help yourself.”
Hoot nodded and headed off. I turned to Matthew and spoke confidentially.
“I think the first rule of Hoot’s diet is that bacon goes with everything.”
Moments later Gene Alley approached me, and in his weird and wacky way, he detailed an elaborate assertion of how women are descended from centipedes. He ultimately took a conspiratorial glance from side to side and leaned in, speaking in a whisper. “You’ll understand this when she moves her shoes into your closet. Just be prepared.”
“Thanks, Gene,” I said cautiously. “Good tip.”
The conversations were nonstop; filled with a pungent brew of wit and humor. In time the men migrated into small groups, their faces illuminated by the faint glow of the fire. Despite the dissimilar mix of those present, exchanges were easy and effortless. Matthew threw more wood on the coals, and the laughter and robust voices continued, absorbed into the great vat of darkness that surrounded us.
After an hour or so I headed inside to take a quick bathroom break. Upon my return, I found John Harris in the kitchen. He was waiting for me.
“Well, Professor Harris. I didn’t take you for a wallflower at your own gathering.”
John responded with a slightly cynical lift of his eyebrow. “Hoot’s telling an extended story about one of his cows. I hate missing it because I’m sure it’s gripping stuff, but I wanted to talk with you offline for a minute.”
“Sure. By the way, nice speech and toast at the dinner tonight. Normally people are offended when you’re talking and terrified when you’re done. But everybody seemed to love it.”
John twisted his mouth to one side, assessing me coolly. “I’m going to let that one go, given how it’s your big night and everything.”
I grinned. “So, what’s on your mind?”
“You’re gone for two weeks, right?”
“Correct.”
“Well, I wanted you to know that by the time you get back, Ann and I will be married.”
“Wow! That’s big. Congratulations.”
Spontaneously, I shook his hand, and John's mood eased to mellow humor. “Yeah, I umm, I’m very happy about it. She’s a great gal.”
“That, she is.”
John folded his arms and looked down for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I want to thank you, Luke, for all the conversations along the way. For helping me negotiate my way out of the past. Molly will always be part of my life. For the longest time, the only thought I had of her was her loss, and that overshadowed the present, making every day a misery. But now, when I think of her, I think of her life and not her loss. I think of the many wonderful years we had together, and I’m grateful. You helped me see that. And you helped me see that there are new chapters to be written with Ann.”
John finished, and a contented silence fell between us.
“So, you’re happy?”
“Very happy.”
“Good.” I paused and moment, shaking my head. “It’s been quite the night for matrimony. Hoot told me earlier that he and Karen are engaged.”
“Really? Huh, good for Hoot. He’s getting both a wife and a veterinarian in one package. I didn’t realize they were that serious.”
"Yeah, Hoot came and talked to me several months ago. Said that something was missing in his life."
“You mean other than a reliable deodorant?”
“Something like that.”
Somewhere approaching midnight, one by one the men began to congratulate me once again and depart for home. I had spoken to most all of them except for my reserved, reticent barber, Maylen Cook. In his quiet, observant way, he simply wasn't one to initiate conversation. So, as he left, I shook his hand and asked him, "Maylen, any words of wisdom for a happy marriage?"
For the longest time, he stood there as if cut from stone. Then slowly, he lifted his hand to scratch his head, and in his immovable hang-dog manner, he spoke in a dispassionate monotone. "Become a mind reader."
By midnight, everyone had left except for John. Matthew pulled a third chair around the fire, and the three of us talked about Matthew’s new role at the clinic.
“I’m glad that’s working out,” said John.
"Me, too. The whole Polly business was giving me second thoughts."
John stared reflectively into the fire. "Yeah, I figured the idiot fairy would pay you one last visit before you got out of town.”
From the glow of the flames, I could discern Matthew quietly grinning. I replied appreciatively. “Thanks for the sentiment, John. Delicately couched as always.”
Ignoring me, he stood and spoke briskly.
“Hey, I just realized. We’re missing something here.”
“You mean besides sleep.”
John shot me an acerbic grin. "No, smartass. Hang tight, and I'll be right back.”
"So," said Matthew. "The wedding’s tomorrow at four and the reception is afterward out at Christine's farmhouse."
“Correct. We thought about having it at the bandstand over at the lake, but as you heard earlier, they’re hosting the annual Watervalley Bass Fishing Tournament there in the morning. By the way, being in the Navy and everything. Are you a fishing kind of guy?”
“Not unless I can forego the whole ‘baiting the hook’ thing and shoot them with guns.”
“I don’t think the tournament has a category for that.”
By now John had returned with a Scotch bottle and three glasses he had retrieved from the kitchen. “Boys,” he said. “This is the last of the old Scotch bottles from the cave of Knox McAnders. Seems like an appropriate time to crack it open and have a toast.”
Matthew regarded me curiously. “Knox was my first patient in Watervalley... a grand, old gentleman. He was a teenager when Hiram was here, and his family made Scotch. I’m sure they all knew each other.”
Matthew smiled broadly. “Sounds fitting.”
We toasted my marriage, John’s imminent betrothal, and Matthew’s grand new venture with the B&B as well as his new role at the clinic. Soon afterward, John departed. I knew he wasn't much for hugging a man unless it involved the Heimlich maneuver, but I gave him one anyway. I thanked him several times, and he departed for his car.
Oddly, despite my weariness, I didn’t want the evening to end just yet. Matthew and I remained by the fire and talked more. Perhaps it was the Scotch, or merely the satisfaction at being so soundly immersed in the life of Watervalley, but Matthew began to open up and talk about his life; about being a missionary kid and about his experiences in high school and college before the Navy.
“So, what was your first real job?”
“I turned eighteen during my Freshman year of college. That next summer was my first real job. I was a youth counselor at a camp for troubled inner-city kids, most of them between twelve and fifteen.”
“Hmm, interesting. What kind of stuff did you do?”
“One of my big responsibilities as a counselor was to get the kids to talk; to let them know it was safe to open up.”
I shrugged and poked the coals, sending sparks skyward. “Makes sense. Anything come of that?”
“Oh, yeah. One night around the campfire these 14-year old boys from the inner city started talking about sex.”
“How’d that go?”
Matthew’s expression grew wide-eyed. “It was pretty graphic. I mostly just listened. And, being the mature adult figure in the group, I would occasionally inject thoughtful comments to help guide the conversation.”
“Oh, yeah?
“Yeah. You know, comments like, ‘It that right?’ and, ‘No way, are you for real?’ and ‘Explain that to me again.’”
I laughed almost to the point of tears. “Quite the education, huh?”
“Unbelievable.”
We talked on until the fire was exhausted down to a few smoldering coals. Well past midnight, we returned inside, and I quite blissfully crawled into bed. But as I drifted off to sleep, one last delightful thought occurred to me.
It was already my wedding day.
Chapter 51
WEDDING
I WOKE EARLY THE NEXT morning; pre-dawn early. Even though I had only slept a few hours, I was firmly awake, keen for the day before me. For some length of time I was content to quietly stare into the dark pale of my bedroom, listening, anticipating. The grand old house was serenely silent. By infinitely small degrees, the leisurely splendor of morning light began to emerge around the edges of the curtained windows. I dressed, gathered my things, and left Matthew a note of thanks on the kitchen counter.
After tossing my bag into the passenger seat of the Austin Healey, I stood for a moment and breathed in a deep draft of the crisp and glorious morning air. I was held spellbound by the broad and gallant light spreading across the far rim of eastern hills. The moment overflowed with hope, joy, expectation. The sound of morning birds; the wafting, living fragrance of the flowers and honeysuckle; and the whispering call of the distant woods and open countryside pulled at all my senses. I started my car and drove.
In the past year I had come to understand and accept my reluctant love affair with the people of Watervalley. But as I traveled the random backroads, I realized that an abiding affection for the streams, fields, and rolling meadows of this wide plane had also become part of me. The land of Watervalley, with all of its rough sawn pageantry, its raw and powerful geography, had permeated my bones. The valley had been an enduring friend and I felt drawn to spend some solitary time together before my departure.
My mind drifted as I passed into the sweeps and curves of the higher hills. Soon enough, however, my thoughts centered on Matthew and his new role at the clinic. I was grateful. I knew that an incredible burden had lifted from me. But I also knew that in Watervalley, being welcomed was one thing. Being accepted was another. And yet, Matthew seemed to have effortlessly traversed that boundary.
As I had noticed before at church and had observed the previous evening, despite Matthew's clipped reserve, it occurred to me that he was the unqualified owner of the common touch. He easily accepted and admired people who, however plain or peculiar, were nobody but themselves. And yet with the blue bloods of the valley, he had the confidence and social ease of one who had emancipated himself from the need to curry favor or drop names. With his amiable, completely inoffensive nature, his response to everyone was warm and natural. He was at ease with everyone.
I realized that my simplified assessment of him on Christmas Eve had been completely incorrect and there was still much about him I did not know. He could be pragmatic yet preoccupied, shy yet fearless. No doubt, he had a powerful intellect. But it was coupled with a kind of wise humility. And he was blessed with the pedestrian old-school virtues of loyalty, respect, and a distaste for flaunted wealth, for gossip, for bragging. As much as I thought I knew him, I could rarely own that I knew what he was thinking at a given moment. And yet, without any knowledge of his medical skills, I knew that I was leaving the town in good hands.
In time my drive into the high hills brought me to the Watervalley Overlook about a mile from the County Line Market. It was the same place where nearly two years ago I had stopped on my first day in Watervalley to catch an initial glimpse of my new life. Moments before on that same day, I had had a thorny encounter with the man who would eventually become my best friend, John Harris.
After pulling to a stop, I emerged and leaned against the car, taking in the grand panorama below. The landscape was brilliantly illuminated with the fresh and clean austerity of sunrise; the world before me was unchanged, pristine, timeless.
I could only laugh at my own foolishness. I had arrived in Watervalley thinking that I would live out the seasons in obscurity; that cruel chance had stuck me here to wither while a better life eluded me. On reflection, I had been wrong. Watervalley had been kind to me. I had found friends who were lasting, a love who was virtuous and beautiful, and truths that were eternal. I now understood that such things were foundational to a good and happy life. All else was glitter, sound, and fury.
Conversely, even though my time here had gone well, my coming to Watervalley was not just a fortuitous accident. Standing there, I realized that on the day of my arrival, when I had stopped the car on the high overlook and gained my first view of the town far below, that the gust of wind rustling the leaves of the nearby trees had also wafted open a magic door to a splendid and more abundant life. In Watervalley I had found the broad land of a richer world. Here there was an order to life that permeated the day; a clarity that didn’t exist in the tangled and untamed chapters of the life I had known before. The simple elements of the rural life; love, faith, work, the sun, the seasons, and the soil all came together here and taught one how to be wise by easier means, to hold tight to those things that were good and true and enduring.
The morning sun continued to expand across the wide floor of the valley and the warm breath of June began to replace the remnant nighttime air. I took one last look. I knew that this would be a day of moments; captured images that would be kept a lifetime. This one held its own perfection. I started the car and headed back to town.
The balance of the day became a blur, as all such days do.
It seemed that the next few hours of my life were fast-forwarded. I remember eating breakfast at the diner and being constantly greeted and lauded like a Hollywood celebrity. Last minute phone calls and coordination tasks filled the day. Dogs, dry cleaning, gifts, airline tickets, luggage, passports, keys, tuxedos, rings, laughter, excitement, and arrival times were discussed and re-discussed, all hurling together at a surreal and blinding pace.
Driving his new AMG S 63 Mercedes sedan, John arrived at my house in the early afternoon and followed me to Christine’s. I left my car near the road at the end of the long drive for our getaway after the reception. I climbed into the passenger seat of John’s car and we headed back to town.
“Nice whe
els. How much did this set you back?”
He spoke with seasoned indifference. “About a buck and a half. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Pace yourself now, big fellow. I realize that the strain of being on your best behavior for so many hours is going to be hard to sustain. But try to play nice for as long as possible.” As was normal, John ignored me.
“So, any last-minute regrets?”
“Given your general personality, John, are you sure that’s a question you should be asking?”
“Knock it off, smartass. I’m serious.”
I laughed and gazed at the countryside gliding by. “Oh, not really. I haven’t talked about it much. But it would have been nice if my parents could have been part of this day. I’m sure Christine feels that way about her father.”
John nodded reflectively. “Well, I’m sure they would have been damn proud of you, sport.”
"I'd like to think so," I said thoughtfully. "But hey, I’ll have you and Connie as my surrogate parents. I’ll just pretend I’m your two’s imaginary love child.”
John turned to me, his face twisted in a hard, scrutinizing frown. He was thinking. I returned his gaze with a tightened, studied grimace. After another moment’s consideration, we both spoke simultaneously.
“Naaaaah...”
John refocused on the road ahead, now wearing a scowling smirk. He addressed me in a low, instructive voice. “Don’t ever go there again.”
“Understood.”
We passed the remainder of the trip to my house in a silent but mirthful comradery. As had been planned, John had brought his tux. We both changed, went over last-minute details, and arrived at the church as instructed at two o’clock, a full two hours early.
So now, we waited.
There was a sizable conference room adjacent to Pastor Dawson’s office where Christine and I had undergone our marital counseling. This was to be my temporary purgatory until making an appearance through a sanctuary side door a few minutes before the ceremony. In time all of the groomsmen arrived. To a man they were neatly tailored and focused but stiffer than a fence post. All of them, that is, except John. With his imposing presence and swagger, he had them laughing and light-hearted within a matter of minutes. Moments later, Joe Dawson appeared at the door and in his unfailing, cheerful manner, announced that guests were beginning to arrive. John and all the groomsmen departed, leaving me with my thoughts and my watch that, over the next hour and a half, I would glance at some three million times.
