The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  There seemed little else to say on the matter, and I wanted a change of subject. The talk of veterans brought Karen Davidson to mind. Since Lida owned Society Hill B and B, I knew they had met. “Hey, what do you think about our new veterinarian?”

  “Dr. Davidson? I like her. Keeps her room as neat as a pin and is as quiet as a mouse. Trooper loves her, too.” Trooper was Lida’s corgi. “I think he’s ready to propose marriage. Get ­this—­he sleeps outside her door every night, the little traitor.”

  “Did you know she’s a veteran? Fifteen years in the army.”

  “She hadn’t said, although I guessed as much,” responded Lida. “She’s a bit on the ­plain-­Jane side and a little shy, but plenty likable.”

  “Well, I wish the best for her. I hope the local farmers will give her a chance.”

  Lida puckered her lips in an expression of doubt. “Hmm, hard to say on that one. I heard several of the boys express concern about her getting hurt, you know . . . her being so little and cows being so big. Of course, if Trooper is any indication, all she’ll have to do is walk down the street playing a pipe. Every dog and cat in town will come running.”

  “I think that only works on rats.”

  Lida thumped her finger on the newspaper and winked at me, speaking with unvarnished tact. “Well, if that’s the case, the Village Voice will need a new editor.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “So, Doc, what’ll it be this morning?”

  I ate pancakes and reread the newspaper article. The words set a discordant tone to the day. I finished, paid my bill, and drove over to the clinic.

  The morning was filled with mostly routine patients, but I felt ­ill-­tempered. All of them wanted to talk about the Clayton Ross incident. The story had roared across Watervalley. It seemed that scandalous news had longer legs than the other kind.

  I ate lunch in my office and was finished with appointments by three that afternoon. Near that time, Joe Dawson, the new pastor at Watervalley First Presbyterian, dropped by.

  Although he had a wife and two children, Joe and I were about the same age and friendly acquaintances. He was a lively, slim fellow with dark hair, a big smile, and an easygoing manner. Perhaps his greatest attribute as a pastor was that he came off as just a regular guy. He invariably wore the robe and vestments on Sunday, but was in blue jeans most any other day of the week. He loved to cut up, laughed easily, and had nothing of the serious, sanctimonious air assumed by many in his profession.

  We shook hands as he entered my office, and I invited him to have a seat.

  “No need, Luke. I just have a quick question for you. Earlier this morning, I was working through the old church rolls and came across a name I didn’t recognize. Normally, Alice knows who everybody is, but she’s off today. So, I was walking by and thought I would ask you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Does the name Leyland Carter ring a bell?”

  “Can’t say it does. Should it?”

  “Not necessarily. Apparently he’s an older fellow who has been on the church rolls for years. I can’t determine his exact age. He doesn’t have a phone, so I can’t get in touch with him, and he hasn’t been to church in a while. Just wondering if you had seen or treated him.”

  “No, don’t think so. Where does he live?”

  “On Beacon Road out in the eastern edge of the county.”

  I looked at Joe and folded my arms. An idea struck me. “I’ll tell you what. I’ve seen my last patient and could use some fresh air. It’s been something of a troublesome day here. Give me the address, and I’ll drive out there this afternoon and check on the old fellow.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, no problem,” I responded pleasantly, hiding my real thoughts. I was in a brooding, sour mood and wasn’t even completely sure why.

  Joe smiled cautiously, perhaps sensing my buried aggravation, but was too polite to press me further. “Let me know what you find.”

  Ten minutes later, I was in the ­Austin-­Healey and heading out. Along the downtown streets, men and women huddled in small groups with sober faces of concern and resentment. Invariably, one of them was holding a newspaper. Luther had used Clayton’s injury to turn the normally kind and tolerant townspeople against their better selves. Despite the sweltering sun of the June afternoon, it seemed that Watervalley lay in shadow.

  I drove out of town on the east highway, away from the noise and gossip. The passing wind, the dull drone of the engine, and the rippling haze off the shimmering hot pavement lulled me into a trance. The empty road stretched into the distance and was bordered by a few scattered farms and pastures that soon gave way to miles of jumbled hills. Long stretches of thick woods lay beyond.

  Decades earlier, this part of the county had been ­strip-­mined for phosphate. The mining had long since played out and the land had been reclaimed, but a coarseness remained. This was a poorer part of the valley, populated only by the occasional trailer or shabby house with tall weeds, ratty fences, and yards cluttered with the broken refuse of accumulated years. The farther I drove into these desolate reaches, the more it seemed that an immense and lonely sky pressed down on me.

  Watervalley had provided me with a few dear friends and perhaps the love of my life. But recent events and acrimonious tongues had robbed it of its larger charm, and I felt a need to distance myself. The day had exposed the unvarnished contrast between my life and theirs. Despite the gratifying bonds of community that I shared with them, I held larger dreams, higher goals. My dispirited mood cast a veil over everything. Even the passing countryside now felt raw, neglected, ugly.

  Soon, I entered deep woods, making numerous turns before I found the dusty sign indicating Beacon Road. I traveled for another mile until I came upon an unkempt driveway with a rusted mailbox. The faded numbers on its side were barely legible, leaving me uncertain that this was the correct address. Thick trees hovered above the overgrown and sparsely graveled drive. I drove slowly. At the end of this long, winding lane was a small house surrounded by woods with a small clearing in front. I pulled up and killed the engine.

  It was a rude shack of unpainted pine boards with a weathered and rather ­shaky-­looking front porch. Tall oaks sheltered it, and I sensed that once upon a time it had been an orderly cottage of white boards, fresh sunlight, and tidy flower beds. Now it had all the markings of desertion, save for a front porch rocking chair that creaked softly with the occasional breeze.

  I grabbed my bag, carefully picked my way up the rickety steps, and knocked on the front door. There was no sound or answer. Heavy drapes covered the windows, restricting any view of the inside. Given the general neglect of the place, I was quickly certain no one was here. I had made the trip in vain, adding yet another frustration to my day. I took out my cell phone to call Joe, but it was out of range with no service available. I was alone, isolated in this forgotten place.

  My mind was filled with a tangle of broken thoughts as I tried to reconcile events, issues, and emotions. The previous harmony of my small world seemed gone, and all that remained were fragments of worry and anxiety over everything and nothing. I walked back down the steps and sat on the lowest one, leaning my shoulder against the rail post. The surrounding woods seemed deep, still, mysterious. Dappling sunlight played through the fluttering leaves. The lulling effect of the thick shade and soft breeze was forcing my eyes to shut, leaving me with a drowsy lethargy.

  Perhaps somewhere in my subconscious I had known that I would find no one here. Perhaps I was doing what I had always ­done—­disassociate, move away from the noise and ignorance. I sat for the longest time, staring in a half daze at the slumberous shade and patchy sunlight, my thoughts floating unfinished into the air.

  When I heard the voice behind me, I almost jumped out of my skin.

  CHAPTER 14

  Leyland Carter

  “It’s a dangerou
s thing, you know.”

  Startled, I stood and turned abruptly. An old man in overalls was sitting in the rocking chair.

  “Hello. Sorry. I didn’t hear you come out. I’m Luke Bradford, the town doctor. Are you Mr. Carter?”

  He smiled and gave a crisp nod of his chin. He looked to be in his eighties, thin, with soft eyes and a full head of neatly cut white hair. His mouth was shaped into a vague yet welcoming smile. There was an observant and shrewd manner about him, and he seemed to see the world with a quiet and contented humor.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Carter. Um, I’m sorry, I’m not sure I caught what you said.”

  “I said it’s a dangerous thing, you know.”

  “What would that be?”

  “It’s dangerous to be lost inside one’s own head, to be looking for all the answers there.”

  “I’m uh . . . I’m sure you’re right.” My initial surprise having passed, I folded my arms and leaned against the porch post, endeavoring to speak lightly. “I thought I was alone. Looks like you caught me daydreaming.”

  He responded with polite scrutiny. “Hmm, daydreaming, you say? Looked to me like you had some weighty thoughts on your mind.”

  His penetrating smile made me feel transparent, vulnerable. I answered evasively. “Oh, nothing really.”

  The corners of Leyland’s eyes tightened. His piercing stare was without menace, but something artful bloomed darkly on his face, revealing his knowledge of my ­half-­truth.

  “Hmm, don’t think so.” He had an elfin smile. “A man who’s daydreaming doesn’t wear such a puckered brow.”

  I chuckled and looked away, nodding in a gesture of resignation. “Okay, fair enough. I didn’t realize I appeared so intense.”

  “You don’t happen to have any peppermint on you, do you?”

  “Um, no. I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Hmm, shame. I love peppermint. Been my favorite since I was a boy. I don’t get to the store much.”

  I paused, scrutinizing him. “So, Mr. Carter, as I mentioned, I’m the town doctor. How are you feeling these days?”

  “Better than you, I think.”

  I chose not to respond despite his amiable and hearty manner. He spoke again.

  “So, what does a ­fair-­looking, ­well-­educated young man such as yourself have to worry about? Seems you should own the world.”

  His question caught me off guard. During my short tenure in Watervalley, I had met a few men like Leyland Carter, older gentlemen with a penchant for blunt speaking and sharp inquiry who slid easily into philosophic commentary. And while it had never been my nature to unburden my thoughts to strangers, there was a pervasive atmosphere of ease and privacy in this remote woodland setting. I spoke openly.

  “I guess on the surface it would seem that way. But it’s been an unsettling day, and I’m far from owning the world, as you say.”

  He saw right through my thinly veiled frustration and spoke with impunity. “You’re a young man, Dr. Bradford. And when we’re young, we are intoxicated with the world, with the freshness of our ideas, with the possibilities for our future. Ambition, acclaim, passion, fortune; these things are everything. I’m guessing being a doctor in Watervalley has put such dreams on hold for you. Something has triggered your interest in revisiting them.”

  His ­razor-­sharp insight baffled me. And there was something about his contented smile and tempered manner that, despite his impoverished surroundings, cast him as a man with whom life had not dealt harshly. With each passing minute, Leyland Carter was capturing my curiosity.

  “You, uh . . . You seem to have a perspective that comes from experiences larger than living in these woods. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Carter.”

  He offered a short and rather vague narrative of his life, noting that he was born several counties away and that his family moved here when he was young. His people had been farmers and outdoorsmen. He had fought in the war, had once been engaged but never married, and along the way he had attained an education, earning a degree in classical studies from Vanderbilt. I watched him as he talked, and it seemed a legend of great distances was written on his face. After this brief summary, he turned and spoke pointedly, returning to his previous inquiry.

  “So, which is it, Doctor, that has you in such a brooding mood? Ambition?”

  I was amused by his persistence. “Yeah, in part. Being in Watervalley has been fine. But try as I might, I’m not one of these people. For the most part I respect and admire them, but some days I’m reminded pretty sharply of our differences.”

  He listened thoughtfully and answered in a low voice, “‘One man in his time plays many parts.’” He was quoting from As You Like It.

  “Okay, what is it about the people around here that they so readily cite Shakespeare?” Both Connie Thompson and John Harris had done this in the past.

  “Living near the soil doesn’t make you allergic to literature.”

  “Fair enough. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to know what role to play.” I went on to tell him about the newspaper article and how Clayton Ross’s injuries were, in my thinking, being wrongly pinned on the Mennonite community.

  “And why do you think that?”

  “Because I suspected something and had a blood test run. Clayton’s blood alcohol level was point nine. He was legally intoxicated although he didn’t show many signs of it. That means he’s probably a heavy drinker with a really high tolerance, especially given that the test was run hours after the accident occurred. In all the confusion and darkness of fighting the fire, nobody noticed his inebriation, but that’s why he stumbled and fell. That’s why he got hurt. And yet Luther Whitmore is using the story to stir everybody up against the Mennonites. Why, I don’t know.”

  “Ah, Luther Whitmore,” Leyland said ponderously. “I know of that fellow.”

  I picked up a rock and threw it at a nearby tree, missing my target. “Yeah, well, unfortunately he spreads his misery around, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

  Leyland focused hard on the nearby woods before speaking his next words. “‘This is the foppery of the world: that when we are sick in fortune . . . we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and stars.’”

  I chuckled and threw another rock. “King Lear.”

  He waited for me to absorb his deeper meaning. After a few moments, I politely played along. “So, what are you telling me?”

  “You can’t blame the stars for what you don’t want to do.”

  “You think I need to confront Luther about the article, don’t you?”

  “It would seem.”

  I picked up another piece of gravel and rolled it loosely in my hand. “I have a better idea. Why don’t I just say screw it and leave the matter alone?”

  A lengthy silence passed between us. Leyland lifted his chin and for the longest time, he rubbed the back of his fingers against the stubble of his whiskered face. He spoke slowly, reflectively.

  “You could. But it wouldn’t leave you alone. It would leave you disillusioned. And over time, disillusionment takes the light out of men, gives them a dry soul.”

  “Maybe. That seems a little dramatic, though, don’t you think?” I turned to find his face framed in a gentle regard.

  “It’s always by a thousand cuts. A ­half-­truth, an unspoken word, an overlooked injustice; they float by us like falling leaves. We ignore them, become blind to them. But we don’t forget them, and as the years pass, we lose sight of the splendor of ordinary days.”

  The earnestness of his response kept me from further comment. I turned back to the woods and threw the rock at the tree, this time hitting it squarely.

  Eventually Leyland began to tell about memories from his past. It was the idle talk of the lonely aged, but his voice was soft and melodious and pleasing, and I was content to listen. He talked about being
a boy and the pungent smell of fermenting apples from the cellar, about burying ­best-­loved pets, about the joy of walking down a lonely road at night in winter and seeing a light in the distance and knowing that it was his home. He spoke with wit and charm, and I found myself captivated by his small stories and reflections from decades past.

  He also began to talk about going off to war, but he hesitated, as if touched by something odd and transitory, a momentary lapse of memory. In time, the somber glow of fading daylight began to cast deeper shadows on us.

  It was time to go.

  I stood, but he remained seated in the rocking chair, his hands gripping the armrests. I wanted to step closer and shake his hand, but something arrested the impulse. We exchanged confirming nods, as if we recognized in each other a sort of quiet understanding.

  “Come back anytime you’ve got something on your mind, Dr. Bradford. Or even when you don’t. I’ll be here.”

  I bid him ­good-­bye and walked back to my car. I liked Leyland Carter. He had a wisdom gained from long, solitary hours spent in the woods and with the soil.

  I started the engine and carefully began the arduous process of pulling the car forward and backward in order to turn it around in the narrow space available. When I was finally able to head out the grassy driveway, I turned back to wave at him one last time, but he had already gone inside the house.

  I drove toward the distant lights of Watervalley, consumed with a simple resolve. Ahead of me was a wholly disagreeable yet necessary task.

  CHAPTER 15

  A Talk with Luther

  The last light of evening was fading as I made my way into town, leaving a lonely ­half-­moon in the large bowl of night sky. I eased my car under the streetlights and shadows toward Luther’s house. He lived on High Street in an old ­Victorian-­style home with ornate porches, overgrown hedges, and ancient trees, all in desperate need of attention. The deterioration was not so bad as to warrant an official complaint, but cheerless enough to cast a dreariness on the otherwise ­well-­manicured street.