The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  “Oh, don’t be silly. I can take care of that. Besides, I had no idea Maggie was a woman of such easy virtue.”

  “I had no idea Rhett was such a Romeo.”

  Louise laughed again, shaking her head. “Truth be told, if it had to happen, I’m glad it was Rhett and not some ­four-­legged traveling man.”

  “Louise, this is kind of new territory for me. If something does come of all this, I’d be more than willing to help pay child support. Or, well, puppy support, such as it is.”

  Louise placed her hand over her mouth and giggled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I’m sorry. I probably overreacted.” She closed her eyes and made a quick shuddering movement with her head, as if trying to erase the picture of the two lovebirds from her memory. “It was just kind of a shock.”

  “Well, let me go gather Rhett up and put him back inside. He’ll definitely be in ­time-­out for the next decade.”

  We walked around back where the two dogs were lying in the sun. Maggie sat up and watched our approach, looking innocent and unassuming. Rhett, on the other hand, had an expression I would be ­hard-­pressed to describe. He wore a contrite and downcast demeanor, knowing full well that his behavior had been scandalous. But there was also a certain triumphant glint in his eyes that seemed to ask, How do you like me now?

  I assumed an air of reproach, grabbed him by his collar, and walked him back through the side gate to the house. After plopping down in his usual spot on the kitchen floor, he rested his chin on his paws and looked up at me, his brown eyes full of penitence.

  “Okay, big fellow, you’ve gotten yourself in the soup now. When I get home tonight, we’re going to have a serious discussion about things like commitment, getting a job, saving for college . . . the whole bit.” He responded to my stern lecture by rolling over on his side and flapping his tail against the kitchen floor. I towered above him with folded arms and an admonishing glare, fully confident my sharp words had gotten through to him.

  Satisfied that he would rise, go, and sin no more, I quickly made a sandwich and headed back to work.

  CHAPTER 20

  At the Movies

  I slept in till eight o’clock Saturday morning, a rare luxury. An exciting day spread before me, filled with grocery shopping, pulling weeds, and bathing a dog. I tumbled downstairs and made coffee. I thought about cooking some breakfast as well, but decided to go over to the Sweetlife Bakery to snag some of Estelle’s fabulous sausage rolls and maybe even a bear claw or two before continuing to the grocery store. Within fifteen minutes I was in the ­Austin-­Healey and headed downtown.

  After turning onto Chestnut Street, I suddenly came upon a line of traffic moving so slowly at first I thought there had been a wreck. I was the eighth or ninth car back and inching forward at a snail’s pace. I had no choice but to chug along.

  One by one the cars in front of me turned off, and when the last one did, I found myself creeping along behind the source of the problem. It was Beatrice McClanahan driving her riding mower down the center of Chestnut Street. Instead of being befuddled or mortified about it, Beatrice was having the time of her life, waving gaily at passersby and smiling like she was in a ­one-­float parade. Apparently, to her thinking, the loss of her driver’s license didn’t extend to lawn equipment.

  I followed her to Courthouse Square, where she pulled into a parking space in front of the Sweetlife Bakery. I parked next to her, got out, and leaned against the car. She was digging through her purse, which was large enough to qualify as carry-on luggage.

  “Good morning, Beatrice.”

  “Oh, Dr. Bradford! It’s so good to see you!”

  “And you as well. Interesting mode of transportation you have there.”

  Beatrice took on a pleasant, unassuming countenance. “Oh, thank you for noticing.” With feigned politeness, she spoke in a mildly lecturing tone. “Since you and the sheriff won’t let me drive my car anymore, I thought this would be a suitable alternative. It gets wonderful gas mileage.”

  “Well, that’s um, that’s rather creative of you.” I paused, studying her for a moment. “So, Beatrice, did Nancy Orman give you the list of the local organizations that cater to folks like you who no longer drive?”

  “Oh piddle, Dr. Bradford. I don’t need those silly people. As you can see, I’m getting around just fine.”

  “Yes, I can see that. But it might be nice to get a little help. You can have groceries delivered right to your door.” I was doing my best to be politely instructive. Beatrice wasn’t biting.

  “I’m sure they’re nice people, Dr. Bradford, but I’m actually on my way to visit my friend Dorothy Benefield over on Terrace Street. While I’m there, I might mow her lawn.”

  “Beatrice, I admire your positive attitude. But I’m not sure that Sheriff Thurman will agree to your driving your lawn mower all over town.”

  Her indignant air was thinly veiled with an ingratiating smile. “Well, I guess if need be, I can mow Warren Thurman’s yard too.”

  I shrugged. “Enjoy your Saturday, Beatrice.”

  I did admire her. She was determined not to live life limited by the frailties of age. And I highly expected that given her exuberant personality, loneliness was likely her greatest enemy. Driving her mower around town was not a viable option, but thankfully and perhaps selfishly, it would be Sheriff Thurman’s problem to deal with. Still, my heart went out to her.

  I grabbed some treats from the bakery and made my departure, but only after Estelle gave me a hug with a force equal to a Heimlich maneuver. The balance of my morning was spent grocery shopping, giving Rhett a ­much-­needed bath, and working in the garden. Tomatoes and squash were starting to ripen in such abundance that if the 82nd Airborne were to stop by, I could probably provide lunch. I began to understand the need to inundate one’s neighbors with the surplus, yet another blessing of getting one’s hands in the soil. The innate value of not letting something good go to waste inspired an attitude of spontaneous charity.

  Around midafternoon, I called Christine to make plans for the evening. She was way ahead of me.

  “Let’s go to the movie at Watervalley Lake tonight.”

  “There’s a movie at the lake?”

  “Yes. The Watervalley Parks Department puts on two or three of them each summer. Tonight they’re playing Frozen.”

  “Isn’t that an animated film?”

  “Well, yeah. Bradford, where have you been lately?”

  “Apparently not in junior high.”

  “Funny. All right, going or not?”

  “Okay, sure, sounds like fun. I think.”

  “Oh, it’ll be great. It’s actually a ­sing-­along.”

  “You do know that people have committed felonies after hearing me sing?”

  “The singing is optional. Besides, if you haven’t seen it, you won’t know the songs anyway.”

  “Tonight just keeps getting better and better.”

  “I’ll make us something to eat. Pick me up at seven.”

  “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

  “Not really.”

  “Seven, it is.”

  We arrived at the lake that evening and found a place to pitch our blanket in the midst of an already burgeoning crowd. The Parks Department had erected a large temporary canvas screen in the short grass near the lake and set up part of the bandstand to serve concessions. Like so many events of this kind in Watervalley, the age groups ranged from young to ancient. The evening was filled with cacophonous laughter, a rainbow of lawn chairs, and acres of smiles.

  I made my way to the concession stand to grab some drinks. While I was waiting in line, a huge set of hands grabbed my shoulders from behind and gave me a rattling shake. It was Hoot Wilson.

  A ­third-­generation dairy farmer, Hoot was large, loud, and ­immeasurably likable. He had a booming voice and a stea
dy low chuckle that accompanied every conversation. It seemed that with Hoot, laughter was never far away. He was a single parent and devoted dad of Wendy, the ­thirteen-­year-­old who had been Will’s secret heartthrob.

  Hoot was dressed in overalls and ­flip-­flops, unabashedly exposing a pair of very white ankles. Were it not for his tremendous smile, Hoots’s massive size, scraggly beard, and ­mono-­brow would strike fear in most mortals. But I knew that a good, hearty shoulder shake was just his way of saying hello.

  “Hoot, how you doing, fellow?”

  “Doc,” he said robustly, “I’m just proud to be here.”

  “You and Wendy looking forward to the movie?”

  Hoot glanced to the side, an indication that he was about to speak confidentially. “Actually, I’m under strict orders to keep my distance. I’ve got a teenager in the house now, and it looks like some of the young bucks are taking an interest.” Hoot squinted his eyes and gave me a conspiratorial nod. “That’s okay. I’ll keep my distance, all right. But ol’ Hoot, he’s like the Eye of Sauron. He sees everything.”

  “Good to know, Hoot. I’ll call you next time I can’t find my car keys.” He looked at me oddly, my attempt at humor lost on him. I let this pass.

  “Hey, Hoot. Have you heard we have a new veterinarian in town?”

  Hoot’s smile collapsed slightly, and he assumed a withdrawn demeanor. “Yeah, I heard tell of that. I wish her the best, but I’m not sure she’ll be able to do me much good.”

  “Why not, Hoot? You’ve got cows. She’s a vet.”

  “Oh, I know, Doc. But the way I understand it, she’s no bigger than a field mouse. I don’t think her and a ­fifteen-­hundred-­pound Holstein make for a good combination. It ain’t worth somebody getting hurt, Doc.”

  I nodded thoughtfully and found myself caught in Karen’s dilemma. I believed what she had told me about her uncanny ability with animals, but I found her gift difficult to explain to others. Perhaps even I had my doubts.

  “Well, try to keep an open mind about her, Hoot. She might surprise you.”

  He offered an accommodating nod. “We’ll see, Doc. We’ll see.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll put the word out to all the teenage boys I know to be on their best behavior.”

  “Ah, don’t worry, Doc. I got that one covered. I snitched Wendy’s cell phone and copied her contacts. I sent a little text message to all the likely offenders and told them ol’ Hoot will be watching. I also let them know that my mode of observation was through the scope of my deer rifle. I think that did the trick.”

  He was joking, but I went along for the fun of it. “What makes you so sure they got the message?”

  “Because I told them to send me a confirmation text.”

  I paused and stared blankly at Hoot. “And did they?”

  Hoot ran his thumbs under the straps to his overalls, rocking lightly from heel to toe. “One hundred percent compliance, Doc.”

  After a moment of glazed disbelief, I leaned toward him, speaking in a modest and cautious voice. “Hoot, you’re not, by chance, related to Christine Chambers in any way, are you?”

  From the look on his face, I didn’t think Hoot understood the purpose of the question. “Nope, Doc. Can’t say I am.”

  “Good.”

  I bought some soft drinks and returned to where Christine and I had cast our blanket, only to find her surrounded by a swarm of adolescent girls. They all appeared to be between twelve and fourteen, awash in braces and the first attempts at makeup, poised near the boundary of an adult world they were anxious to join. Their faces glowed with the limitless possibilities of youth. As I approached, their eyes eagerly followed me, and they all spoke in unison.

  “Hello, Dr. Bradford.” An explosion of giggles followed. Apparently, I had been the topic of conversation. No doubt, Christine’s and my relationship was seen through the idyllic lens of youthful imagination.

  Christine and I exchanged a knowing glance.

  “You know,” I said, “I just can’t figure it out. There has got to be some reason why all the girls in Watervalley are so beautiful.” Another round of giggles ensued.

  “No, seriously. I’ve never seen so many pretty girls.” I paused and spoke in a more detached, confidential manner. “Of course, the big one in the middle is kind of pulling down the average. But it’s still a very impressive bunch.”

  ­Wide-­eyed “Ooohs” echoed from the small troupe. Many of them shot alarmed glances at Christine, who was now eyeing me sharply with a calculated and cunning smile. It was fun theater, and the girls loved it.

  Suddenly the big screen came alive as the film started. About the same time, I noticed a black Mercedes pulling into the nearby parking lot. I knew of only one such car in the entire valley. It belonged to John Harris, and I was struck with curiosity as to what he was doing at a ­sing-­along. I bent down to Christine.

  “I’ve got someone I need to go talk to. Are you okay for a while?”

  She smiled buoyantly, wrapped her arms around the two girls sitting nearest to her, and declared, “We are grand, Dr. Bradford! It’s ­sing-­along time!”

  I grabbed a sandwich from the picnic basket and headed back toward the bandstand, where I found John in the concession line. He was smartly dressed in khakis and a polo shirt.

  “Well, Professor, I didn’t take you for the ­little-­girl-­movie type,” I said.

  “Bradford, you do realize that you’re here too, don’t you?”

  I laughed. “So noted. My date dragged me here.”

  “You say that like there was a more exciting Watervalley venue to choose from tonight.”

  “Valid point. So, seriously, what brings you out tonight?”

  “Let me grab an iced tea, and I’ll meet you at the rail over there.”

  A minute later, we were leaning over the bandstand railing and taking in all the life and sound and singing of the marvelous Saturday night.

  John seemed pleasantly lost to another world. He spoke thoughtfully. “Molly would have loved this.”

  I understood. Since the renovation of the bandstand had been his deceased wife Molly’s last wish, it was fully appropriate that John would have wanted to experience the delight and celebration of the event. He seemed pleased, as if the last, satisfying page were turned on an important chapter of his life. As with many of our conversations, I made no comment. There simply existed between us a mutual awareness of the larger point.

  He gazed out over the crowd and saw Christine delightedly singing along with her adoring entourage. “Looks like your date is having a grand time.”

  “Yes, and I’m standing here with you. Lucky me.”

  “I have to hand it to you, Luke. I thought she would throw you on the scrap heap along with all the other broken hearts. It’s ironic, really. I’d say this movie is symbolically appropriate.”

  “Why is that?”

  John gave me a studied look. “I guess she didn’t tell you her nickname in high school?”

  “No. No idea.”

  I was expecting a response, but instead John retreated into a puckered silence.

  “Well, Professor Harris. Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

  He grunted a low noise of resignation. “The Ice Queen.”

  “Huh, really?”

  John nodded, cutting his eyes at me. “Yeah . . . ­small-­town stuff. You hear things through the grapevine. I remember at first thinking it was about the way she played basketball . . . always cool as a cucumber in clutch situations. But evidently she had a reputation. Apparently you couldn’t get a kiss off her even if you needed CPR.”

  Amused, I folded my arms. “Seriously?”

  “Yup.”

  “So I guess that’s why you gave me that little speech about her last winter . . . that she’d have me crying like a little gir
l.”

  “Yeah, sport. But I have to admit, you seem to have broken the spell.”

  “Well, that may be. She told me that in another month we can start holding hands.”

  John cut his eyes at me again. “Yeah, right. And aren’t you just full of crap?”

  We exchanged wry grins, and an amused silence fell between us. The ­sing-­along was not our cup of tea, but we were having a great time watching from the sidelines. There was something contagious in the exuberance of all the young and radiant faces. And in the center of them was Christine.

  “So,” I said, “what was she like when she was young?”

  John spoke without the slightest change in his expression. “She was very focused, totally driven. She always had a kind of maturity, a wisdom if you will, beyond her years.”

  He paused briefly. “But it wouldn’t be accurate to say she was always serious. She also seemed to live in a whimsical world of her own creation. She played out in the fields and along the creek when she was a little girl. Albert, her father, used to tell me that she would spend every waking minute playing on a small grassy rise at the back of the farm called Bracken’s Knoll. Sometimes he’d have to go looking for her there. He said that as he approached he could hear her having dramatic conversations.”

  “Hmm. Who was she talking to?”

  “You’ll have to ask her that one yourself, sport.”

  “Fair enough.”

  John turned around and leaned against the railing, admiring the new and elaborately detailed bandstand. “A lot of great dances happened here over the years. Some really good times.”

  “Maybe there will be a few more.”

  John pressed his lips together. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea, sawbones.”

  “Oh, yeah? How so?”

  “We should have a big dance here as a ­fund-­raiser for the statue. Get a good band out of Nashville and a few corporate sponsors. Make a really big splash.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Yeah, I like the thought of it.”

  “Of course you do. It was your idea.”