The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  Somehow the idea of discussing sex with a ­thirteen-­year-­old, even sex among pets, felt awkward. I answered stiffly. “Well, I’m sure they can, um, enjoy a kind of austere and cerebral relationship.”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘platonic.’”

  “Shut up and take your dog inside.” I winked at him and smiled as I turned toward my front door.

  “See ya later, Dr. B.”

  “You too, Willster. I’ll let Rhett know the good news.”

  Rhett greeted me at the front door with a wagging tail and his tennis ball in his mouth, something he never did first thing in the morning.

  “Well, hello, Mr. Perky. Looks like somebody saw the new neighbor out the window and wants to show off a little.” I reached down and rubbed his ears and, for the first time, noticed that his right eye was cloudy. I took the ball, along with a little associated slobber, out of his mouth and waved it from side to side to watch his eye movements. He followed it with rapt attention, but admittedly it was a poor test. I shrugged, unable to tell anything more, and set the ball aside.

  Luther Whitmore, Eli Yoder, and now my own dog. Everyone around me was going blind, and the day was just getting started.

  CHAPTER 10

  Patients

  I was late getting to work that morning because I decided to walk the six blocks to the clinic. The day had a pristine, ­well-­scrubbed feel that comes after a rain. Walking gave me time to think.

  While I enjoyed my life in Watervalley, some days I saw myself as a stranger in a strange land, more of a curious and amused observer than a participant in the life of the town. The clinic had proven to be a small stage with an ­ever-­changing cast of players as patients came and went. All the emotions of the human ­experience—­courage, joy, fear, sorrow, hope, depression, heartbreak, and of course ­humor—­were part of the daily theater. And admittedly, I loved my work . . . at least for the time being.

  Privately, I still held tight to my dream of doing medical research. And despite my ­long-­standing habit of emotional detachment, my life here had taught me that I inevitably cared deeply for those around me. Today would be one in which comedy and tragedy would be deceptively entwined.

  I entered the back door of the clinic and slipped into my office before suiting up in my white coat and working my way through the already full exam rooms. Nancy had placed a stack of notes on my desk regarding phone calls and a list of the day’s appointments. I glanced at these quickly, taking particular interest in the findings from the final lab test on Clayton Ross. It was for a blood alcohol level, and the result was difficult to believe. I thought about this for a moment and then mentally filed it away.

  My first patient of the day was Beatrice McClanahan, a pert and lively little woman with a cheery, grandmotherly disposition. Beatrice drove an old Country Squire station wagon, wore brightly colored cotton dresses, and, I was certain, lied with impunity about her age. Beatrice said she was pushing seventy. I was certain she was pulling eighty. I glanced at her chart and shook my head. She had come to the clinic for an eye exam.

  Watervalley had an optometrist named Gordon Kelly who came in one day a week, if that. Gordon was in his early seventies and liked to fish. I began to secretly wish that Karen Davidson would forgo being a veterinarian and practice optometry instead. How much difference could there be between the two professions?

  I quickly learned that Beatrice wasn’t there voluntarily. Apparently the sheriff, Warren Thurman, had found her driving on both sides of the road a little too often and was holding her license until she had her eyes checked. As I entered the exam room, Beatrice was sitting primly in the chair with her hands in her lap. She was wearing a bright red cloche hat, and her eyes sparkled behind her emerald green ­cat-­eye glasses. She smiled sweetly at me with all the polite innocence that a crafty octogenarian could muster.

  “Good morning, Beatrice. How are you?”

  “Oh my, Dr. Bradford. It’s so nice to see you.” She conspicuously placed a strong inflection on the word “see.” Beatrice thought she was working her magic. I smiled pleasantly.

  “What seems to be the problem today?”

  “Oh,” she said with ­wide-­eyed naïveté. “I just have a little piece of paper I need you to sign.” She handed me the documents from the sheriff, which included a police report. I knew what the sheriff was up to. Anyone who had seen Beatrice out driving with her hands locked at the ten and two positions and her nose barely level with the steering wheel would be at a loss as to how she stayed out of the ditch. Whenever anybody in Watervalley saw the old Country Squire coming, they automatically gave her a wide berth and sometimes even pulled off the road altogether. Warren was trying to find a polite way to keep Beatrice from driving.

  I rubbed my chin and feigned ignorance. “Beatrice, tell me what brought this about?”

  “Well, I’m not really sure. Warren seems to be concerned about my driving. He pulled me over Thursday afternoon, and for the life of me I don’t understand all the fuss. He even had a deputy drive my car while he drove me home, entirely against my will.”

  “It says here, Beatrice, that you were swerving all over the road.”

  “Why, that’s just silly. I veered out of my lane for only a second,” she declared diplomatically. “Besides, there was a bee in my car. I tried to explain that to Warren, but he just had a bee in his bonnet.” She finished with an authoritative nod.

  “I see. Beatrice, it also says here that Warren suspected the presence of alcohol.”

  She flipped her hand at me. “Oh piddle. That was just Listerine.”

  I was doing my best to keep from laughing outright. I knew that the sheriff was too nice a fellow to administer a sobriety test to a kindly ­eighty-­year-­old woman on the side of the road. “And the empty liquor bottle the deputy found under the seat?”

  Beatrice looked away, speaking innocently. “Why, I have no idea how long that’s been there. My late husband, Henry, must have left it.”

  “Hmm. So, Beatrice, you don’t drink?”

  She hesitated and stared at me for a moment before speaking in a voice of polite contrition. “Well, Dr. Bradford. Don’t misunderstand. I love Jesus, but I do drink a little from time to time. It helps keep me regular.”

  I nodded, offering no response. Beatrice regained some of her pluck and continued. “Anyway, I think Warren is just overreacting, don’t you? He even accused me of trying to bribe him.”

  “Bribe him?”

  “All I did was offer him some chess pie and told him we should just forget the whole thing.”

  “Chess pie, huh?”

  “Why, yes. Can you imagine? He acted like I was trying to slip him a roofie.”

  I wanted to laugh so hard, I could pop. I covered my mouth with my hand. I knew from Beatrice’s chart that she was beyond passing any eye exam, despite corrective lenses. Still, I also knew that the inability to drive would mean the loss of freedom and independence. I would have Nancy work with her to coordinate community resources and relatives to help her with daily living. It was a tough choice, but the right one.

  However, apparently Beatrice mistook my silence for agreement. She smiled winsomely, reached into her bag, and produced a small ­foil-­covered plate.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “I brought you some peanut brittle. It’s homemade.” She discreetly placed an ink pen on the top and handed the plate to me.

  She wasn’t very happy when she left the office. Maybe I shouldn’t have kept the pen.

  Thankfully, the rest of my appointments were routine. Except for Gene Alley, my last patient of the day.

  Gene worked as a disc jockey at Watervalley’s only radio station, WVLY, “the Voice of the Valley.” Years ago, he had taken a piece of shrapnel to the head in Vietnam. As part of his treatment, the army had placed a small metal plate over his parietal bone, the upp
er rear part of the cranium. I had been told that Gene had always been a little goofy, even before the war, but in the intervening years his ascent into the world of wacky had become legend. Any conversation about him always ended with the statement, “That boy’s just not right.”

  Including my residency at Vanderbilt and my time as the physician at the Watervalley Clinic, I had a few thousand exams under my belt. I had seen some rashes that bordered on outright icky, heard abdominal sounds that needed an exorcist, and even had a patient who wanted a pill for her allergy to squirrels. However, my discussion with Gene topped all of those.

  Ann had already taken his vitals, which all seemed fine. However, beside the “reason for visit” section, she had written the words, “the storm.” Ann was nowhere to be found, so I shrugged and proceeded into the exam room, where Gene’s wife, Peggy, was with him, wearing a face of pallid worry. Conversely, Gene was relaxed with a bemused smile. My confused look was difficult to mask.

  “Gene, Peggy, how are you doing today?”

  Peggy responded immediately. “Only so-so, Dr. Bradford. It was the storm last night. It got him going.”

  “Going . . . as in how?”

  “He started doing it again.”

  “Doing . . . what?”

  Peggy pursed her lips and cast a worried glance toward Gene. She spoke with a mixture of fear and frustration. “He’s talking in song titles again.”

  “Did I hear you correctly? Song titles?”

  “Yes, song titles.”

  “Gene, is this right?”

  He nodded sheepishly. “‘True.’”

  I paused, regarding both of them cautiously. “When did this start?”

  “‘In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning,’” he responded.

  “And you think the cause is . . . what?”

  Gene shrugged, a childlike smile still etched on his face. “‘Thunder and Lightning.’”

  I held up my hand and released a muted laugh. “Okay, hold it. I feel like I’m the setup man in a comedy routine.”

  Peggy responded flatly, “Tell me about it. I can’t make him stop. Everything I say comes back with a Top Forty response. We just go . . .”

  “‘Round and Round,’” blurted Gene.

  Peggy closed her eyes, and her head sank to her chest in resignation. “Dr. Bradford, do you think he’s . . .”

  “‘Crazy,’” Gene finished. He sat there with a complacent, vacant stare.

  Peggy was looking for an answer, and I had nothing to offer. I turned and grabbed one of the exam room chairs, pulled it in close, and took a seat. I was stumped. I wanted to think this was just a hoax, but that seemed unlikely. I knew of no mental disorder into which this symptom neatly fit, nor was I a psychiatrist by training. But Peggy was staring anxiously. I had to try something.

  “Gene, I’m going to ask you some questions. Tell me what pops into your head.”

  He nodded in agreement.

  “How are you feeling right now?”

  “‘Under Pressure.’”

  “Okay, so when you heard all the thunder and explosions last night, what did it make you think about?”

  “‘It’s the End of the World as We Know It.’”

  “Right, so you were scared?”

  Gene nodded. “‘I Fall to Pieces.’”

  This was getting nowhere. I began a different line of questions. “Gene, when you get scared like that, does it cause you to drink?”

  “‘One Thing Leads to Another.’”

  I scratched my head, trying hard to appear serious. “And does the drinking help calm you down?”

  “‘Whatever Gets You Through the Night.’”

  I exhaled a deep sigh. “Okay. Let’s try something else. Gene, I want you to concentrate. What was the one thing the storm last night made you think about?”

  “‘Stayin’ Alive.’”

  It seemed hopeless. Gene was answering my questions, but only by channeling everyone from Patsy Cline and the Fixx to the Pointer Sisters and the Brothers Gibb. Sitting there with the face of an amused simpleton, he seemed to be enjoying the conversation immensely. I leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded.

  “Unbelievable,” I exhorted.

  Peggy shot me a look of disbelief.

  “Oh, sorry. I forgot. . . . That’s a song title too, isn’t it?”

  I crossed my arms and studied both of them. Physically, Gene was fine; oddly, he seemed aware of his own malady, but unable to do anything about it. There could be no sure diagnosis. Nonetheless, I wanted to provide Peggy with some encouragement.

  “Guys, I don’t have a ready answer for you. It all points to some kind of ­post-­traumatic stress event triggered by the flash and noise of the storm. I’m not well versed in treating that. My best advice is to take it easy for a couple of days. I can write you a prescription for a sedative if you think that will help. But if this . . .” I paused, unsure how to define Gene’s ailment. “If this situation persists, I will need to refer you to a specialist. I wish I had a better answer. But that’s my game plan for now.”

  They both nodded. Peggy responded with a weak ­thank-­you. As they left, Gene winked at me. I’m not sure what he meant by it, whether it was a gesture of confidentiality or just easier than saying, “‘Happy Trails to You.’” I stayed seated in the exam room chair, both fascinated and frustrated. Soon afterward, Nancy found me.

  “Dr. Bradford, John Harris is waiting in your office.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Statue

  I had met John Harris a year ago, soon after my arrival in Water­valley. I remembered the day well because he almost shot me. I had taken a hike into the hills and stumbled upon his apple orchard. John, a brooding recluse at the time, had thought I was trespassing. In all fairness, the rifle he was pointing at me was actually a BB gun. Ours was something short of a spontaneous friendship.

  In time we had grown to like each other and shared a bantering camaraderie. John had a PhD, was a retired chemical engineer, and was quite wealthy. Tall, modestly handsome, and muscular for a man in his late fifties, he possessed a subtle yet powerful charisma. He had grown up in Watervalley and had been a tireless community leader until two years ago when his wife, Molly, died of cancer, sending John into a time of bitter isolation and alcohol abuse.

  However, in recent months he had undergone a significant transformation. He had gradually reengaged in the life of the town, slowly put his anger and heavy drinking behind him, and kindled a romance with the clinic’s staff nurse, Ann Patterson. Still, he was a man both loved and feared. While he was a strong individual capable of great generosity, he could also be tough and intolerant. On more than one occasion I had seen him use his commanding presence, brilliant mind, and acid tongue to lay waste to those foolish enough to cross him.

  He was also Christine’s uncle.

  John was seated in one of the wingback chairs facing my desk and rose when he heard me enter. But after two steps I stopped in my tracks, not believing what I was seeing. John, who perpetually wore a farm shirt, jeans, and work boots, was dressed in paisley shorts and a polo shirt. This was a rift in the order of the universe.

  “Hey, sawbones. Want to see something interesting?”

  “I think those shorts have already accomplished that for me. It’s like seeing John Wayne wearing ­flip-­flops.”

  “Yeah, smart-ass. Get your giggles over with. I’ve got a photo I want to show you.”

  Ignoring his comment, I was still a little taken aback by his outfit. “I’m guessing you and Ann have plans for later?”

  “It’s five o’clock, sport. So actually we have plans for right now. She told me to give her a minute. Take a look at this.”

  John handed me his cell phone to show me a photo he had taken.

  “Isn’t that the courthouse square?”

  “Ye
ah, and all those fragments you see are what’s left of the statue of The Grateful Farmer.”

  Decades ago, a statue had been built on the courthouse lawn of a man in overalls holding a handful of vegetables. The statue commemorated one of Watervalley’s own, who had been named State Farmer of the Year. I had never paid it any serious attention.

  “What happened to it?” I asked.

  “Lightning strike from the storm.”

  “You know, there was a huge flash that hit nearby last night. I bet that was it.”

  “Cracked it into more than thirty pieces.”

  “Wow. Well, that’s a shame. Guess the farmer’s not too grateful anymore.”

  “No, but everybody else is.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The statue was well intended, but it’s always been somewhat of a community embarrassment.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve never looked at it closely, have you?”

  “Not really.”

  “You know how the guy is using both hands to hold a bunch of vegetables about waist high.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, if you ever viewed him from behind, the way both of his hands were together at that level, it looked like he was holding something else.”

  “Oh, so it looked like Watervalley’s version of one of those Italian fountains?”

  “Yeah, right there on the courthouse lawn too.”

  I handed the phone back to him, and he studied the picture, lost in thought.

  “So, John. I guess I’m a little curious. As fascinating as this bit of trivia is, I’m not sure why it was significant enough to take a picture and show it to me.”

  John looked at me shrewdly. “I’ve got a really great idea.”

  “What? You going to suggest they put up a statue of you?”

  In a show of easy manners, John didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, it’s a given that the town will put up a statue of me at some point. The only question is whether or not they’ll spring for having it lit up at night.”