The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  I was filled with dread. Perhaps at the heart of my trepidation was the reality that I had nothing more to argue with than the weight of my opinion, since telling Luther about the sobriety test was ­off-­limits.

  I parked the car in his driveway and ascended the steps to the dark front porch, guided only by the lights from the street. A sign was tacked to his front door, and I used the light of my cell phone to read it. The large print read as follows:

  NO SOLICITING.

  FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE STUBBORN, STUPID, VOCABULARY IMPAIRED, OR JUST WANT TO PISS ME OFF . . . ALLOW ME TO CLARIFY.

  GO THE HELL AWAY.

  1. I DON’T WANT ANY MORE MAGAZINES.

  2. I HATE COOKIES.

  3. I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR SOCCER TEAM.

  4. I ALREADY KNOW JESUS.

  My stomach churned, pulling nauseously on my throat. The massive front door stood sentinel in the gloomy dark. I took a deep breath and knocked.

  For the longest time there was no sound, no movement, only me standing, listening, watching the eerie shadows upon the lifeless house. Something was foul about the whole business, and I felt a stifling uneasiness.

  “Anybody home?” I yelled.

  Soon, noises could be heard from within, and the porch lights came on, nearly blinding me. The large door creaked open, and Luther stood before me, regarding me stiffly. His face was dark and insolent, momentarily rendering me speechless.

  “Well, Bradford, what do you want? You look like you’re waiting for your voice to change.”

  My words were ­half-­choked. “Hello, Luther. Sorry for the intrusion. I, um . . . I was wondering if I might talk with you for a few minutes.”

  At first he merely leered at me suspiciously. Then he grinned with a thin, rude coating of mirth. “Walk around back. I’ll meet you in the garage.” He slammed the door shut, and immediately the lights went out, leaving me fumbling in the dark. As my eyes adjusted, I descended from the porch and followed his instructions, making my way around the side of the house toward an attached garage in the rear that appeared to have been added in recent years. With its large wooden doors standing wide open, it was well lit.

  I soon discovered, so was Luther.

  He stood holding a ­half-­empty bottle of Jim Beam by its neck. The walls and shelves were cluttered with beer cans and whiskey bottles. There was a thick smell of stale nicotine, and the dusty room had a cluttered, burly male quality.

  “Bradford, I’d offer you a drink, but candidly, I really don’t give a damn about sharing.” There was a telling slur in his speech.

  For some reason Luther’s drunken state eased my intimidation. “I can see that you and whiskey are still on good terms.”

  “Yeah, well, my original plan for the evening was to take up needlepoint. But getting drunk seemed like a better idea.”

  “Clearly your life’s a banquet, Luther.”

  He ignored my jab and took a long draw from the whiskey bottle before walking over to a folding chair and plopping awkwardly into it. “So, Doctor. My keen grasp of the obvious tells me you’re here with an agenda. But first, I’ve got a question for you.”

  I grabbed another folding chair and placed it a few feet away from him. As I sat down, I couldn’t help but notice his smug glare. He had the harsh face of one who took pleasure in other people’s misery.

  Luther’s mind was probing, temporarily unconcerned with learning the purpose of my visit. His words were cynical and unenthused. “You were wanting to do research, weren’t you, instead of coming to this backwater hick town?”

  Luther was going for the jugular, attempting to gouge a suspected vulnerability. I spoke cautiously. “There is some truth to that statement.”

  “Well, why don’t you see if your ass can come up with a cure for brain freeze? That way I could just eat donuts and ice cream for dinner.”

  I spoke impassively. “Kind of a limited menu, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, what the hell,” he said callously. “It’ll give my cholesterol medicine something to do.”

  From within their cavernous sockets, his adder eyes gauged me. I got the impression that Luther saw himself maliciously toying with me, not unlike what a cat does with a wounded mouse. He knew I would eventually get to the purpose of my visit, but meanwhile I was something to trifle with, an unthreatening diversion.

  “So, did you come to tell me you’re going to pay for bush hogging the lake property?”

  I grinned. “Not even close.” But his question opened the door to my burning curiosity about Moon Lake. “Tell me something, Luther. Why did you enclose the place with the tall ­razor-­wire fence like you did? Kind of overkill, isn’t it?”

  His face held unmasked contempt, as if he were weighing out the need to answer me. “Seems obvious, doesn’t it? Keeps people out of there.”

  “A simple sign and a pasture fence would keep people out. That ­six-­foot fence makes it a fortress. How come you never built a home out there anyway?”

  His eyes were open, but he seemed to be looking far away into some lost abyss, haunted by some deep preoccupation. “Because when I came back from Vietnam, everything had changed.”

  “How so?”

  “That’s none of your damn business,” Luther exclaimed with great delight.

  I changed tactics. “Did your ex-wife not want to live out there?”

  “No, it was never her choice anyway. It was never meant for her to live out there.”

  It seemed an odd thing to say, as if in Luther’s mind Moon Lake were something private to which Claire was not allowed membership.

  “I don’t understand what you mean by that, Luther.”

  He took another long drink, ignoring my question. He looked out the large doors into the darkness and spoke distantly, again waving his bottle in a grand soliloquy. “Moon Lake, the promised land. ‘And I saw the holy city, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.’”

  Luther may have been drunk, but he was still clever. I didn’t understand why he chose this passage of scripture, but I was certain it held some buried significance.

  “Luther, how is it you so easily quote the Bible?”

  He responded with sanctimonious pride. “There was a time when I thought about going into the ministry.”

  I lowered my head in disbelief. “Seriously? What happened?”

  “My hormones kicked in.” He wiped his mouth and glared at me. “Bradford, why do you care that I put a fence around Eden?”

  “I’m just curious what you’re trying to keep out.”

  Slowly he rolled his doleful, drunken eyes toward me. “The past.”

  I offered no response. I was searching, thinking, trying to frame a question. Before I could, he spoke again.

  “So, what’s the house call all about?” Luther had finally grown weary of our sparring.

  I took a deep breath, speaking firmly. “I think it was a bad decision to print that article about Clayton Ross and the other veterans.”

  “Bad decisions make good stories.”

  “Your facts were laced with a lot of fiction.”

  “Are you saying there are some facts I’m missing?”

  “A few.”

  “Like what?”

  I sighed. “I’m not allowed to say.”

  Luther grunted, making a low scoffing noise. “Why? Did you pinkie swear you wouldn’t tell anybody?”

  “It’s just not something I can disclose.” I refrained from mentioning that it was medically related, although Luther would probably figure that out.

  “Humph. So, what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Retract your story.”

  “Bradford, you might want to consider pursuing more attainable goals.”

  “It’s the right thing to do.”

 
“Says who, you? On what basis?”

  “Because it’s inflammatory, it makes false assumptions, and it’s cast a cloud of resentment and suspicion on the Mennonites. People get pretty emotional when they think a military veteran has been done an injustice.”

  “Oh, cry me a river, Doc. You’re just one dead dog away from a good country song.”

  “The article put words in Clayton’s mouth that he never said. It all came from his father, didn’t it?”

  A cunning grin spread across Luther’s face, telling me that I had hit my target. He spoke in a voice absent contrition. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I know what it’s like. I used to be on the volunteer fire service. Years ago we made a wasted trip out to the buggy boys.”

  “Are you talking about the fire on Mercy Creek Road?”

  Luther’s eyes tightened with suspicion. It seemed he wanted to ask what I knew about the ruins, but for some reason, he chose to ignore the question and spoke evasively. “That doesn’t matter. It’s about the Mennonites. They’re a damn nuisance.”

  “Why do you dislike them so much?”

  “News flash, Bradford. I don’t like anybody.”

  “Yeah, I get that. But you have a special loathing for the Mennonites, don’t you?”

  Luther’s countenance grew hard and cool, as if somehow the mouse had landed a right uppercut and the fun had left the game. “What of it?”

  “Why? Because they’re pacifists?”

  Luther grunted a low noise of contempt. “Look at you. Aren’t you just bathed in stupidity? You have a soft spot for them, don’t you? You think that because they’re all meek and humble, I should cut them some slack.”

  I was unfazed, clearly aware of his attempt at redirection. “Why, Luther? Why do you hate them?”

  “Because they think they stand on some theological high ground, that’s why.”

  “So, you don’t like them because they never served their country like you did?”

  His voice was now loaded with a full measure of condescension. “No, I don’t like them because I don’t like them.” His words hung fat in the air. Then with a superior tone he added, “Besides, you’re wrong. Some of them did serve. They did their time during the war, so to speak.”

  This comment attained its intended effect, leaving me dumbfounded. “You’re telling me that some of the Mennonites served in the military?”

  “Hell no. What kind of dumbass question is that?” Luther shot me a look of complete disgust. He lumbered to his feet. “Go do your homework, Bradford. And leave me alone. I’m through talking.”

  He shuffled to the house’s back entry and disappeared inside, slamming the door. I walked back to the car, knowing I had accomplished nothing. Talking with Luther left me uneasy and confused. There was a blackness in him I could not fathom.

  As I drove down the dark and dispirited streets, the town now seemed smaller, more callous, and more tattered than before. Luther was only one voice, but it was a loud one that rippled through the public mind. I tried to put him out of my thoughts, but it was little use. Meanwhile, I was determined to find out what he’d meant about the Mennonites who had served.

  It had been a long, difficult day, and I was exhausted. But as I pulled into my driveway, one good thought came to mind: Christine.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF CHRISTINE CHAMBERS, AGE 14

  June 23, 1999

  Dear Mr. Wonderful:

  You have a stupid name!

  There is no way you can be wonderful. Because wherever you are right now, you’re just a boy. And boys are stupid.

  I wear a new swimsuit and all they do is stare.

  They run around the pool and do nothing but scream and laugh like idiots. They want to play Marco Polo so they can pretend to bump against me and then laugh and whisper. But they don’t laugh so big when I hold them underwater. They just get mad.

  Then ten minutes later, they want to play Marco Polo again, so they can pretend to bump me, again. They’re just stupid.

  I hope you are not like the boys around here, Mr. Wonderful, because if you are, you need to change. You need to get all of the stupid out of you before you show up.

  Otherwise, you better be a really good swimmer.

  CAC

  CHAPTER 16

  Moonlight

  Thursday at the clinic was uneventful, a welcome change from earlier in the week. I had gone online and learned that ­draft-­age Mennonite men had, in fact, served in civil service jobs during the Vietnam era, rather than join the active military. Still, I was left with little insight regarding who and what Luther had been referring to.

  As I had instructed, Clayton Ross came in each day to get his dressing changed. While Ann was doing this, I stepped into the exam room briefly to check the wound’s progress. Clayton was silent and ill at ease. For now, I chose to say nothing to him about the newspaper article.

  When I arrived home that afternoon, the Blind Boys Mowing Service had just finished trimming the lawn. Kenny and Kevin Blind had been cutting yards for nearly twenty years, but every time I saw the company name on the side of their truck, I had to laugh.

  I took Rhett out to the backyard. The ragged state of my garden was absolutely shameful. The weeds were so large, I could almost hear them ­trash-­talking me. So after feeding Rhett, I changed into some shorts, and armed with a hoe, I proceeded to declare war on the invaders. I quickly learned they weren’t giving up without a fight.

  With his head on his paws, Rhett watched lazily from the shade. The six o’clock sun still had plenty of muscle, and I was promptly drenched in sweat. I took off my shirt, used it to wipe my face, and tossed it on the nearby grass. For the better part of an hour I chopped, pulled, tugged, and swore at everything that didn’t look like a vegetable. And I had to laugh at myself. I was a summa cum laude graduate from one of the best medical schools in the country and completely loved being a doctor. But weeding a garden surprised me with an odd satisfaction, a gratifying sense of accomplishment as I methodically brought order to this small patch of earth filled with plants that I had started from seed.

  I was almost finished when Christine’s car pulled into the driveway beside the house.

  “Hey, I’m back here.”

  She looked radiant even in shorts and sandals. As she approached, I leaned on my hoe and blew away the sweat dripping from my nose. Her smile was full of warmth and humor. And in those brief seconds as she walked toward me, the sensuous movement of her long legs and lovely figure melted me far more than the blistering June sun had.

  Suddenly galvanized, Rhett trotted briskly over to meet her. Christine dropped to one knee and rubbed his ears. “Hello, Rhett! Have you had a nice day?”

  Rhett was doing his best to play the sympathy card, using his big brown eyes to look like a despondent and lonely puppy, prolonging Christine’s adoration. I leaned casually on my hoe. “It’s good to see you too, Miss Chambers.”

  She rolled her eyes and stepped toward me, taking in my grubby appearance. “I’d like to get a picture of this.”

  “Gee, hate that. GQ should be here in about ten minutes to do a photo shoot. Sorry, they got dibs.”

  “I see. GQ, huh? What’s the article?”

  I thought for a second. “Which doctor is best: The specialist or the garden variety.”

  “Cuuute,” Christine chided. However, she was staring at me rather intently, her eyes walking up and down my ­six-­foot-­two frame. “You know, I’m kind of impressed. You’re pretty cut. I can’t think of when I’ve seen you with your shirt off.”

  Something in Christine’s tone and eyes spoke beyond her jovial response. Admittedly, ever since I had been a college athlete, playing undergraduate basketball for Mercer, I had kept myself in good shape.

  “For the last hour I’ve been doing mortal
combat with weeds so gargantuan they’re worthy of a Japanese horror movie.”

  “Seems to have done the trick. You look like the cover of one of those muscle magazines, all taut and shimmering.”

  “Actually, I was thinking more like wrenched out and sweaty, but I like your version better.”

  I walked over and grabbed my shirt from the grass, and we headed back toward the house.

  “Have you had dinner?” I asked.

  “Had a salad earlier. What about you?”

  “Ate a late lunch. So I’m good.” I stopped for a moment to stretch my back, hoping to work out a minor ache or two from the past hour’s labor.

  Curiously, Christine’s adoring gaze remained unrelenting. She spoke playfully. “Yeah, Bradford, I have to say . . . this no-shirt thing is a good look for you.”

  “Good to know. Thanks for noticing.” I again rested the hoe on my shoulder and stared at her for a moment.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Well, in the interest of fair play, I was just wondering how the no-shirt thing would look on you.”

  I was awaiting the usual rebuttal, but to my surprise, Christine responded with a cunning grin. “I have a better idea.”

  “Okay, you’ve clearly gotten my attention.”

  “I brought my bathing suit. Why don’t we go out to Moon Lake for a swim?”

  “Sure,” I said in a mix of eagerness and delight. “I’ll take a quick shower and we’ll head out.”

  “I’ll get my suit from the car and change.”

  Ten minutes later, we were in the ­Austin-­Healey loaded with beach towels, a blanket, and some drinks. Christine had slipped her suit on beneath her T-shirt and shorts. Much to his dismay, Rhett had to stay home.

  We chatted along the way, but our words were short, buoyant, filled with smiles and a dancing sense of expectation. It was past seven thirty when I pulled up to the gate outside of Moon Lake. I unlocked it and drove the car through. Normally I would leave the gate open, but this time I stopped and locked it behind us. Christine waited in the car, making no inquiry of me when I returned. By an unspoken understanding, we both wanted the evening to be ours alone.