by Jeff High
“I expect nothing less.”
“No, sawbones, I’ve got an idea that’s been long overdue. I want the town to build a memorial to all the soldiers from the valley who have been killed in combat. You know, a war memorial.”
“Hmm. Nothing wrong with that. But isn’t the memorial building downtown a, well . . . memorial?”
“Sure. But the hall was built in the twenties as a dedication to all who served in the Great War. Nothing has been done since then. I’m just guessing, but I bet there are more than fifty men and women from the valley who have died in wars over the last century. Something, somewhere, should have their names on it.”
I nodded in agreement. “Seems like a grand idea. What’s your plan?”
“The town doesn’t have much money for this kind of thing, so we’ll have to solicit private donations, probably through some kind of fund-raising campaign.”
“Sounds good. Except, was there a significance in your use of the word ‘we’?”
John’s face eased into a sly grin. “I want you to cochair the campaign with me.”
I didn’t immediately say yes. Perhaps I should have, but instead I hesitated. I couldn’t think of a more worthy project, but in truth, I knew this effort would swallow a fair amount of my time and that was one thing I was pretty selfish about. The years in med school and the long hours during residency had put me on a treadmill that required every spare minute. Now, the demands of being Watervalley’s only full-time doctor and my romance with Christine filled my days, making me reluctant to readily commit.
But there was a pleasant warmth in John’s persuasive charm. He persisted, and I knew I had no choice. “Well . . . sure, okay. Put me in, coach.”
Having attained my agreement, he was all business. “Good. We’ll need to form a committee and get a consensus of what the memorial should look like, put together an estimate, and start to round up donors. I can connect with the mayor to streamline any city council issues. There are a limited number of deep pockets in the county, so we’ll have to hit them all up to give till it hurts.”
I grinned. “That includes you, I presume?”
John smiled. “Heck, sawbones, I may even give till I’m middle class.”
Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door and Ann entered, smiling warmly at John. He grinned and winked at me before turning to Ann, “Thanks for stepping up, sport. I’ll be in touch.”
The two of them left, and soon afterward I locked up. I had been up since four a.m., and it had been a long day. But I smiled all the way home. Connie was making dinner.
CHAPTER 12
Life with Connie
Normally I would arrive home to find Connie with her apron on and in the kitchen, rattling pots and pans and cooking in high gear. Instead, she was in the living room watching a movie. Rhett was sitting in rapt attention, also focused on the TV screen.
“What gives, Connie T? Don’t tell me all those millions I’m paying you are not enough?” This, of course, was said in jest. Connie Thompson was a wealthy woman, having made a fortune from investing her deceased husband’s pension in the stock market and in the local bank. I did pay her a modest wage for her services as cook and housekeeper, but she helped out more as an act of kindness and friendship than out of any need for money.
Connie looked drily up at me and spoke in her usual breezy monotone. “Humph. You’d have to give me a raise just to get me to ‘not enough.’ Anyway, there’s a chicken casserole in the oven if you’re hungry.”
“Sounds good. What are you watching?”
She held up her hand for me to be silent, focusing intently on the scene playing in the movie. After a moment, she reached over, grabbed the remote, and turned it off. “Mmm-mmm-mmm. That Denzel Washington. Now, that’s a man who could make a girl lose her principles.”
I feigned shock. “Why, Constance Grace Thompson. I cannot believe my ears. I’m shattered, just shattered. Should I call Pastor Dawson and activate the prayer chain?”
Connie regarded me coolly above her gold-inlay glasses. “Keep your shirt on, Doctor. It’s not like Denzel’s gonna be dropping by the house.”
I laughed and followed her to the kitchen. “So, are you telling me there’s a man who could use sex to get what he wants?”
She responded flatly. “No. I’m not saying that at all.”
As she carried the casserole to the table, she spoke again, this time with blunt authority. “Besides, men don’t use sex to get what they want. Sex is what they want.” With that, she grabbed a plate and began to serve, her chin judiciously elevated.
I grabbed a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge, and we sat down to dinner.
“Go ahead and eat, Doctor. I’ve already blessed it.”
I nodded obediently.
“So, how’s everybody at the clinic today?”
“Tired and not very motivated after being up part of the night.”
“Speaking of not being motivated,” Connie said in a decidedly lecturing tone, “I noticed you didn’t make your bed this morning. Now, I’m not your momma, but it seems to me you’re getting a little sloppy in your bachelor ways, don’t you think?”
I rolled my eyes and mumbled under my breath, “Not my momma, huh? Walks like a duck, talks like a duck.”
“I heard what you just said,” Connie declared sharply.
“Me? I didn’t say anything.”
“Humph. Keep it up, Doctor. When I’m done here, I might just reach over there and smack you.”
“I look forward to that.”
“Humph,” Connie grunted again. “The point is, this house needs a woman’s touch. I’ve taken you to raise as long as I can. It’s time for a handoff. You need a woman around here to keep you straight. I’m thinking Christine Ann Chambers could do the job just fine.”
“I’ll ask her to fill out an application.”
“Don’t start with me, Luke Bradford. You know what I’m talking about.”
Even though I tended to keep my feelings private, I was amused by Connie’s bluntness. I chose to disregard her inference of matrimony. “Connie, I’m not sure I get the logic of making my bed. I mean, after I take my shoes off, I don’t retie the laces.”
Connie stared at me deadpan, shaking her head. “You know, sooner or later we all have to be grown-ups. Don’t you think it’s time you took a turn?”
Ignoring her question, I told her about the destruction of the statue and John’s plan for the new memorial.
“Umm-hmm,” Connie mused. “I heard that lightning got it.”
“Yeah, he wants me to cochair the drive to raise money for the new monument.”
“Sounds like a good character builder.”
“I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that every time I’ve done something that’s supposed to build character, I’ve regretted it.”
Connie offered no response.
“Hey, why don’t you cochair it instead of me? You and John would make a great team.”
“Why, Doctor, I wouldn’t know where to begin to fill those big floppy shoes of yours.”
“It’s just that it’s a busy time, and I’m, well . . . I’m kind of at an awkward stage.”
“And what awkward stage is that, the one between birth and death?”
“Very funny.”
Continued complaint seemed pointless. “Anyway, it is what it is, and it’s the right thing to do,” I said with resignation.
“That statue was dedicated to Wicky Willoughby,” Connie added. “He was the State Farmer of the Year in 1955.”
“Wicky, huh? Weally?”
Connie scowled. “Just keep it up. I’m fixing to grab the broom and come at you piñata style.” She took a bite of casserole, quite pleased with herself.
“Pretty lofty talk for a woman who not ten minutes ago expres
sed a willingness to acquire a little carnal knowledge with a certain movie star.”
Connie stopped in midchew and shot me a withering stare. “Denzel, Dr. Bradford, is off-limits. You need to leave him out of this.”
I smiled, and we both ate in amused silence.
“I heard about Chick and Maylen and the Ross boy getting burned. Are they going to be all right?” Connie inquired.
“Yeah, I think so. What a strange night, though.”
“How so?”
“That whole business about the fire truck going out to the Mennonite community. You always seem to have the skinny on everything, Connie. Have you heard anything more about who made the phone call?”
“Just that it was a young woman. There hasn’t been a fire call out to the Mennonite community in decades.”
“You know, speaking of which, I passed an old burned-out house on Mercy Creek Road on the way to see Jacob Yoder yesterday. The place sits in the middle of a beautiful meadow. It was sad, such a beautiful homesite, but it’s been abandoned.”
“Mercy Creek Road, hmm. I think I know the place. It burned back in the sixties, and if I’m not mistaken, the volunteer fire department was called out on that one too. It’s on the fringe of the Mennonite community, and one of the nearby farmers called it in.”
“I think that’s right. While unwrapping her grandmother’s china, Christine found an old newspaper article about the fire that she gave to me. I wonder who owns that place now?”
“Probably one of the Mennonite families.”
“Really? Seems strange to leave it abandoned.”
“Don’t have an answer on that one. The Mennonites are pretty frugal, and they buy up property for their children to live on later. I guess that place hasn’t been needed yet.”
I shrugged. “Guess not.”
“Anyway,” responded Connie, “that storm seemed to wreak havoc on a lot of folks’ lives. There were power outages and trees down everywhere.”
“Yeah,” I chortled. “I had a pretty strange case today that was storm related.”
Even though it was stretching doctor-patient confidentiality, I went on to tell Connie about Gene Alley’s visit.
“Mmm-mmm,” she said. “So Gene’s back to talking in song titles again, huh? That boy needs a genetic do-over. He should have orange cones placed around him.”
“So he’s done this before?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Well, even so. I feel kind of bad about it. Part of me wanted to keep talking to him to see what he would say. But he and his wife came to me for help, and it’s just not my field of expertise. I don’t think I did him much good.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Luke. Gene has a bout of this malady every six months whenever he takes a notion to irritate Peggy. For years she talked about divorcing him, thinking she could trade up. I think that ship has sailed. She’ll complain as long as she has anything resembling a puppet of an audience. You’re just a new set of ears. It’ll pass in a few days, and he’ll be back to his slightly wacky self.”
We finished dinner. I helped Connie clean up, and she left shortly before seven.
Afterward, I took Rhett out to the backyard to survey the garden that I had planted a few weeks earlier. It was my first foray into growing vegetables, and I was quickly learning that gardening was twenty percent inspiration and eighty percent perspiration. Weeds were everywhere. I pulled a few but soon quit, taking on a stoic attitude of survival of the fittest, tomatoes versus dandelions. Rhett gave me a disapproving look.
“What are you staring at?” I said. He continued to regard me with a droopy and dour disdain. The cloudiness in his right eye seemed more pronounced. I would need to get Karen Davidson to check it out.
By eight thirty, I was showered and ready to hit the sack. Maybe it was because of the unusually early hour, but as I lay in bed that night, the sounds of the street took on an unfamiliar restlessness, an almost brooding malevolence.
In the watches of the night, when my body was drinking deeply of much-needed sleep, the press wheels of the Watervalley newspaper were roaring in high gear. The buried anger of events from long ago was preparing to find a voice.
CHAPTER 13
Headlines
I awoke early the next morning and decided to take a short run. Normally, Rhett would enthusiastically wag his tail in anticipation when he saw me lacing up my running shoes. But this morning, he was awash in lethargy, doing little more than lie on his side and strain his neck slightly to follow my movements. I fully expected him to be drinking coffee and watching cartoons upon my return.
We were in the thick green of June, and the cooler morning air provided only a slight reprieve from the consuming humidity. I jogged toward Watervalley Lake and its newly renovated bandstand, built out over the water. The historic structure’s renovation had been largely underwritten by John Harris. In completing the project, John had fulfilled the last dream of his departed wife, Molly. Built in an elaborate Victorian design, with detailed embellishments, it had been an iconic landmark of Watervalley for nearly a hundred years.
Upon my return home, I found Will in his front yard, throwing a ball to his new dog friend, Mattie. But instead of his usual mischievous and witty air, Will was the definition of glum.
“Morning, Willster. Why the long face?”
He spoke sheepishly. “Girl problems.”
“Oh,” I said thoughtfully. “I see.” I knew that Will harbored a small crush on Wendy Wilson, the cherub-pretty daughter of a local dairy farmer, Hoot Wilson. “So, what happened? Ugly breakup?”
“Uh-huh. She says she wants to just be friends.” Will’s emphasis on the last word indicated what he thought of that idea. “It’s all because of Tommy Short. She thinks he’s so great because he made the Little League All-Star team.”
I nodded. “Hmm, jocks. Well, what can I say? Girls can be like that.”
“Yeah, I just never figured her for a cleat chaser.”
“Give it time. She may come back around. Meanwhile, looks like you still have Mattie’s undying affection.”
Will’s mood lightened, and he reached over to rub her head. “Mom says we’re going to build a picket fence around the backyard so Mattie can be outside more. Maybe Rhett can come over and play.”
“He would love that, I’m sure. Meanwhile, chin up, big guy. All-Star season doesn’t last forever.”
“Yeah. I’ll be all right. I’m thinking I should pour my feelings into poetry.”
“Wow. Poetry, huh. Okay, that’s interesting and, well, different.”
“Too nerdy?”
“No, no. Not at all. Sounds like, um . . . like a good way to think outside the Xbox. Let me know how that works out.”
I said good-bye and walked to my house, all the while thinking that Will Fox might be the most peculiar kid I could ever imagine.
I was showered and ready shortly after seven, enough time to stop by the Depot Diner and grab some breakfast. The diner, owned by saintly and spunky Lida Wilkins, invariably served as the morning source of lively gossip and interesting news. It was normally a cacophony of loud chatter and clanking dishes, but today it had taken on a subdued air, a place of huddled conversations and sullen exchanges.
I took my usual seat at the counter, where Lida met me with the coffeepot. “Lida, is it just me, or am I missing something? This place seems all whispery and secretive.”
Lida slapped a copy of the Village Voice on the counter in front of me.
“There’s your answer, Doc.”
The headline read, “Mennonite Hoax Contributes to Veteran’s Injury.” The story was an inflammatory account that linked the injuries sustained by Chick, Maylen, and Clayton Ross to the fire truck’s unnecessary trip to the Mennonite community. The language was full of rancor and invective, written more like an edit
orial than an unbiased news report. There was a naked bluntness to Luther’s attacking words.
The Mennonites, who shamefully make no voluntary contribution to protect the very freedoms they enjoy, are now maliciously responsible for the injuries of three Watervalley veterans.
Despite their unsophisticated ways, the people of Watervalley were not gullible. But it was clear that the article had cast a pall over the mood of those around me.
The piece did little to inform and much to inflame. Perhaps everywhere, and especially in small towns, devotion to those who serve our country runs deep. A respect for the sacrifice of servicemen and – women permeated the people I knew here, and they would not be happy with the suggestion that our local veterans had been made to suffer needlessly. But the greatest aggravation for me was that another factor had contributed to Clayton’s injury, one that I could not reveal.
“Pretty sour situation, huh, Doc?” Lida’s voice brought me back.
“Yeah, I think this is the work of Clayton’s dad. I didn’t get the impression Clayton was that upset, and I’m quite certain Chick and Maylen would not be expressing these sentiments.”
“Sticking up for his boy, I guess.”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t mean he’s right.”
“Well, parents get that way. They get convicted and righteous in their opinions when it comes to their kids. And I have to say, if it had been my boy . . . who risked his life in Afghanistan only to be hurt because of some foolish Mennonite, I’d be a little hacked, too.”
“I suppose you’re right. Still, I’m surprised Luther would print such a biased rant. There’s no proof that a Mennonite even made the call. They don’t carry phones as I understand it.”
“I get your point, Doc, but we’re talking about veterans here. I don’t think speaking on behalf of the Mennonites is going to win you sustained applause from this crowd.”
I said nothing and sat there, silent and disgusted. Lida poured me more coffee. “Besides, you know how Luther is. He’s got a soul the size of a peanut. He can be pretty obnoxious sometimes, and when those sometimes happen, he sells a lot more newspapers.”