The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  “Well, yeah.”

  He nodded, telegraphing his understanding. “What’s the song, Doc?”

  I told Gene about the song “Over the Valley” by the group Pink Martini, and the name instantly registered with him. This offered small assurance in what had otherwise been a rather surreal encounter. His face melted into a scheming grin, and he waggled his index finger at me.

  “I gotcha, Doc. I’m with you. Got a little ­something-­something special planned, huh? Want to set the right mood, the right ambience.” He floated his hands outward like a symphony conductor.

  “Yeah, well, something like that.”

  Gene rubbed his chin. “Hmm, smart plan, Doc.” He paused and winked. “You need any other ideas? ’Cause I know a thing or two about captivating the honeys.”

  “Um, no, Gene. I’m good. But thanks.” I repeated all the details to him again and thanked him for his help. But by the time I finished, his expression was vacant, preoccupied, and he seemed miles away.

  “Gene, do I need to write this down for you?”

  He made a sign of dismissal. “I got it, Doc. It’s all stored right up here.” He tapped his finger several times to the side of his head. “I learned in ’Nam it’s better not to write things down; otherwise people can figure out what you’re up to.” He leaned in closer and looked from side to side as if someone were in the closet with us. “Matter of fact, I got a theory that not writing things down is actually the eleventh commandment.” He squinted his eyes and gave me an emphatic nod.

  “Okay, interesting.”

  “Yep, pretty sure that’s right. Of course, you know, it’s not written down in the Bible for obvious reasons.”

  I just didn’t know what to make of Gene. I couldn’t help but think that a part of him had forgotten to show up for the conversation. His adaptive mind didn’t seem troubled by the pitfalls of chance and daily nuisances that beset most of our lives. Then again, part of me wondered if, in fact, Gene was the quintessential practical joker; that long ago he had found life a little too dull and over the years had developed this kindly yet slightly deranged persona. I simply couldn’t figure him out.

  We stood for a moment in the dim illumination of the flashlight. Gene had begun to look around, clearly puzzled. After another moment of hesitation, he regarded me with an innocent, inquisitive face and asked a question that seemed to say it all.

  “Doc, why are we standing in a closet?”

  CHAPTER 28

  Estelle to the Rescue

  Friday morning I stopped by the Sweetshop Bakery for a lifesaving infusion of coffee and one of Estelle’s elaborate pastries. Connie emerged from the kitchen, dusting flour from her hands.

  “My, my, Doctor. Pray tell . . . where have you been all week?”

  “Same old same old. Work, sleep, and eat. Oh, and practicing all my steps for the big dance tomorrow night.”

  “­Umm-­hmm. Well, you might want to modify your ‘Gangnam Style’ for a little ­fox-­trot.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I heard yesterday from John that the band canceled at the last minute . . . something to do with a DUI charge. The only group he could get to replace them is called Guy Dupree and the Night Owls. They play ­big-­band music.”

  I was unaffected by this news, but knew that it would likely disappoint some Watervalley regulars. “Not exactly hoedown material.”

  “Oh, I think it will be fine,” Connie responded. “People just want to have a good time.”

  “Hey, grab a coffee and join me.”

  We sat at one of the small tables. “So, you’ve been keeping a pretty low profile for the past week. Anything you need to confess?” Connie inquired.

  I almost laughed at her bluntness. “No, Mrs. Thompson. My life has been just a fairy tale.”

  “Hmm, do tell. Speaking of which, how are things with the big bad wolf? Have his eyes gotten any worse?”

  It should have been no surprise that word about Luther’s macular degeneration had gotten out. “Luther’s the same old sweetheart. He had an appointment last week, which, of course, made my day.”

  “Luther’s pretty complicated. A lot of those guys from the war era are like that.”

  “Yeah, but with Luther, I get the sense that it’s not just the war. It’s something else.”

  “By the way, how has Gene Alley been? Any more bouts with the Top Forty countdown?”

  I was suspicious that she knew more about my visit to Gene and my proposal plans for later that evening than she was letting on. I strove for nonchalance.

  “Mmm, all right, I think. I talked to him briefly earlier in the week, and he seemed to be okay.”

  “I don’t think the words ‘Gene’ and ‘okay’ belong in the same sentence.”

  As Connie finished, Estelle approached, sparkling with her ­larger-­than-­life self. “Morning, morning, morning, Dr. B. Did you come by to fill up my dance card for tomorrow night?” She held up her hands and swayed her hips from side to side.

  “Estelle, it breaks my heart to tell you this, but I think Cinderella already has me booked up.”

  “Well, no matter. It’s your loss, sweetie.” She pulled up a chair and joined us. “Anyway, I’m glad I’ve got you two together for a moment. Speaking of Cinderella, we need to do something about our little ugly duckling.”

  “Who you talking about?” Connie asked.

  “Dr. Davidson, that’s who. She was in here yesterday and let it slip that if things don’t change, she may be folding her tent in another month. That’s just wrong.”

  I exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Look, I need to level with you two. Like I mentioned the other night, the beef and dairy farmers think she’ll wind up hurting herself around big livestock. But Karen has this kind of magic power with animals, this amazing ability to calm them. I can’t explain it, but I’ve seen it firsthand. We just need to get one or two of the farmers to give her a chance. I pitched her to several of them, but no one’s biting.”

  “Well, sweetie,” responded Estelle, “there’s your problem. Your approach is all wrong.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “You’re trying to bring the honey to the bees. You need to let the bees come to the honey.”

  I glanced at Connie, who was nodding in agreement. “Estelle, I’m . . . I’m still in the dark here.”

  “We need to de-ugly that duckling,” Estelle declared. “Bless her heart, that girl has the fashion awareness of an eggplant. There’s a ­good-­looking woman under all that plain G.I. Jane. You let Connie and me work our magic, and I guarantee the farmers will take notice.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the kind of noticing Karen wants,” I responded skeptically.

  “Sweetie, men are like mules,” Estelle added. “They’ll do what you want, but sometimes you first have to pop them on the side of the head to get their attention.”

  “Gee. I don’t know. You make us sound more like pigs.”

  Estelle pretended to admire her nails. “Your words, not mine.”

  “Even so, Estelle, I’m not sure Karen will go for this.”

  She flipped her hand at me. “Oh, honey, you’re just blind with love. I admit she’s a little on the skinny side and doesn’t have an hourglass figure like me, but there’s enough there to work with.”

  Connie turned to her sister. “Girl, did I just hear you say you had an hourglass figure?”

  Estelle continued to admire her nails. “You certainly did.”

  “Humph,” Connie responded coolly, taking a sip of her coffee. “Don’t look now, but I think the sands of time have shifted on you.”

  Estelle spoke aloofly. “I’ve kept my shape.”

  “And you’ve certainly added to it.”

  Estelle ignored her. “So, what do you think, Doctor?”

  I shrugged. “Okay by me
. But how do you propose to get Karen on board with the idea?”

  Estelle looked at her watch. “It’s seven ­thirty-­four. That opportunity is going to happen in three, two, one seconds.” She looked up and pointed toward the door.

  As if on cue, Karen Davidson walked in. Estelle waved her over.

  “Dr. Davidson, honey, we were just talking about you.”

  Karen pulled up a chair to join us, and we all exchanged greetings. She smiled cautiously. “So, guys . . . what’s up?”

  I glanced guardedly at Connie and Estelle before speaking. “Look, Karen. The three of us are aware that your veterinary practice has not been as robust as you’d like.”

  “There’s an understatement.”

  “Well, we’d like to help.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible. But I’m open. What do you have in mind?”

  Estelle leaned across the table toward Karen. “Dr. D., we were just curious. . . . Do you have a special somebody?”

  Karen sat puzzled and threw a quick glance in my direction. “Um, Estelle, I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  Connie responded in a kind, motherly voice. “Dr. Davidson, my sister is wanting to know if you are seeing a man.”

  Karen laughed. “Only if I close my eyes and concentrate.”

  “Well, Dr. D.,” Estelle said, “if that’s right, it’s just a crying shame. A ­good-­looking woman like you ought to be swatting the men away like flies.”

  Karen shrugged. “I don’t know about all that. I work around animals all day, so I spend most of my time swatting flies away like flies.”

  “Honey,” Estelle said, “are you planning on going to the big dance tomorrow night?”

  “I hadn’t really decided. I could either go to the dance or stay home. But I’d say the smart money is on the ‘staying home’ option.”

  “Uh-uhh, sweetie,” declared Estelle. “You are going to the dance. But first, you and Connie and me are heading out on a little shopping trip in the morning.”

  Karen smiled warily. “Um, okay, I think. Sounds like fun, maybe. But I’m not sure how this is going to help the practice.”

  The two sisters exchanged edgy glances. Connie patted Karen’s hand. “We’ll explain all that in the car tomorrow, dear.”

  Karen turned to me. “What are these two up to?”

  I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “My advice is to just go with it. In my experience, the Pillow sisters are not to be denied.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The Perfect Moment

  My plan was to go to Moon Lake, build a fire, and have a cozy evening of food and wine under a soft sky of pristine stars. At nine o’clock, provided Gene was in his right mind, “Over the Valley” would be playing on the radio and I would propose to an enchanted, radiant Christine. The plan was for us to share something sweet, endearing, perfect.

  At least that was the plan.

  That afternoon, winds of early autumn began to sweep down the high rim of hills that surrounded Watervalley. A cooler breeze blew in from the fields and brought with it the tender expectation of a beautiful twilight. But it also brought something rather unexpected. Rain.

  Before leaving the clinic, I checked and rechecked the radar on my phone. A band of showers was moving through. With any luck, it would move out by eight o’clock, leaving a low, thick cloud cover. My plans were still intact, but now without the stars.

  Christine had called me around four as she was leaving school for the day. At first she wanted to stay in and watch a movie, saying that she was tired from a very active week with sixth graders. Without showing my hand too strongly, I persisted with the idea of going out to the lake and building a fire. She finally acquiesced and told me to pick her up at seven.

  But when I arrived at the farm, I found her sound asleep on the wicker couch on the front porch, curled up under a quilt. I eased in beside her and kissed her on the cheek. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Wake up. Prince Charming is here.”

  She opened her eyes slowly and stared vacantly for a moment. Then she pulled the quilt back over her shoulder and buried her face in the cushion. “Go away. You’re still a frog. Come back in an hour and try again.”

  This was not in the script.

  I bent over and kissed her again, applying slightly more pressure. She did nothing. Not a movement, not a sound, not even a demure and cooing moan. Nothing.

  ­More ­aggressive action was needed.

  I began to rub her back. Her face remained pressed into the cushion. “Sweetie, I think the pizza is getting cold.”

  “Let it.”

  “And the wine is getting hot.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “And we’re missing the sunset.”

  “Whatever.”

  I was at a complete loss. She had yet to even open her eyes.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No.”

  “So you want me to stay?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to put my pants back on?”

  That got her eyes open. She sat up abruptly and looked at me with something less than an adoring regard. “That wasn’t even close to funny.”

  “Woke you up, didn’t it?”

  “I’m not liking you right now.” She widened her eyes and inhaled deeply, lifting her arms above her head in a stiff, contorted yawn. Held by an elastic tie, her disheveled hair was pulled back and a little tousled to one side. She was sloppily attired in a sweatshirt and blue jeans. Sleep lines from the creases on the cushion were still faintly discernible on her face, and she looked at me in a drowsy stupor.

  I spoke with a false earnestness. “Seriously, if you want to just pass on the evening and go back to sleep, that’s fine by me. I’m sure Rhett would love the pizza.”

  “No, no, I’m awake now. Let’s go.”

  Perhaps it was my predisposed ­mind-­set for it to be a perfect evening, but I spoke the next words before thinking. “Do you need to go, you know, freshen up first?”

  Her response convinced me that this was something you should never say to a woman, especially when she is still in the vexing fog of ­post-­sleep. Christine dropped her chin in a look of sharp reproach. “Just what are you implying, Bradford?”

  Now she was definitely awake.

  I laughed at my own foolishness and ran my hand over the side of her face, smoothing back a stray lock of hair. “Okay, Sleeping Beauty. You are always gorgeous in my eyes.”

  “But what?”

  “Well, as long as you’re gorgeous in your eyes too, then we’re good to go.”

  She frowned lightly and gathered up her hair, redoing the small elastic band. “Oh, you’re probably right, but I’m too tired to care. It’ll be dark soon, so just squint your eyes a lot.”

  By the time we loaded up in the ­Austin-­Healey, the rain had completely stopped, leaving a fine, stinging mist. There was still something of a sullen, quiet reserve to Christine’s mood. I had awoken Sleeping Beauty, but instead a fairy-tale character more like Grumpy had gotten into the car with me.

  Enchanted and radiant no longer seemed part of the plan either.

  At Christine’s insistence, we stopped and picked up Rhett, taking him with us. Given the surprise visit we’d had on the previous trip to the lake, apparently Christine felt more secure having Rhett along. So the “we two” part of the evening turned into “we three.”

  Earlier, I had loaded some cordwood into the trunk. But it was soaked with rain, making for a difficult time starting a fire. I finally got a flame going by dousing on some gasoline I had brought along. Some of it got on my hands and, try as I might, I was unable to clean off the smell. This left me reeking with something less than a fetching aroma for the rest of the evening.

  The orchard grass had been left uncut for quite some time and had fallen
over in lumpy clumps, disguising the fact that the ground below was a mushy soup from the earlier downpour. I had innocently spread the blanket out near the fire, and Christine sleepily sat down and hugged her knees into a tight bundle. Suddenly she shrieked and popped up as if she had been stung.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My bottom’s wet. Water must have leached through the blanket.”

  I bent down on one knee to feel the spot, only to discover that just as quickly, my knee was also soaked. Christine stood with her backside to the fire, none too happy. Ever the optimist, I was determined to salvage the moment and make the night magical.

  I picked up the blanket and folded away the wet spot, placing it on the hood of the car. Warmed by the glow of the fire, we sat there, eating cold pizza and drinking red wine from Solo cups. I turned the radio on low and Rhett ventured into the darkness. In time, Christine again pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs in a tight ball. She snuggled in close beside me and rested her head on my shoulder, staring lost into the fire.

  “You’re awfully sweet, Bradford.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You’re trying really hard to make a nice evening out of a pretty dreary situation.” She covered her mouth for a long yawn. Afterward, she shook her head briskly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so tired tonight.”

  “Oh, it’s okay. It’s been a while since we’ve been out here, and I just wanted it to seem special.”

  She took my arm and embraced it in a firm hug, pulling it tightly to her. I glanced at my watch. It was ten minutes before nine o’clock. Finally the moment and the mood seemed to be coming together. For the twentieth time that evening I put my hand in my jacket pocket and gently felt for the small case that held the ring. Satisfied yet again that everything was in place, I leaned over and kissed Christine’s head, and we sat in silence. All we needed to do now was wait.

  But Rhett had other ideas.

  In the black of the night a short distance away, we heard a brief “woof” followed by a huge splash. Christine and I both sat up, looking at each other with quizzical faces. I called out to him, “Rhett! Come here, boy!”