Each Shining Hour

by Jeff High

  As I made my way down Fleming Street, I began to hear music in the distance. As downtown drew near, the sounds thickened in volume and variety, spilling into the morning air. By the time I reached Main Street, a block away from the courthouse, I was awash in an ocean of people, roaring music, boisterous laughter, lively conversations, the rich smell of coffee, and the captivating aromas of breakfast being cooked on outdoor griddles. After a week of slumber, Watervalley had come alive.

  It seemed that I had arrived late to a grand party, a riotous outpouring of community filled with energy and celebration. Runners in all shapes and sizes were stretching, jogging in place, clustered in groups. The whole downtown was alight with the myriad pastels of winter coats. The courthouse lawn was bursting with colored banners, grill smoke, cacophonous voices. Old farmers and townsfolk in Carhartt coats occupied the benches. Some amused themselves by whittling bits of wood, while others simply sat with smiles and folded arms, taking in the spectacle.

  Beneath the surface chaos a diviner harmony was at work. Despite the cold and drab of winter, the people of Watervalley lived buoyantly. Their lives and livelihood were invariably modest, but they knew how to find joy among the mess and beauty of the common day.

  Events like the 5K heightened their spirits. Smiles were everywhere. A salty wit and eager gossip permeated the air and excitement poured over everyone. These were people who welcomed one another with loud, uninhibited friendliness. As I made my way, they greeted me robustly, waving and shouting my name.

  I found the sign-up table, had my number pinned to my sweats, and was handed a pair of purple plastic scissors in keeping with the “runs with scissors” theme of the race. I had been searching the crowd for Christine. I had to laugh. It seemed a rather unorthodox first date, one to which the entire town had been invited. But it was impossible not to enjoy the exhilaration and spontaneity. It wasn’t long before I found her.

  She stood in the middle of a throng of ecstatic, giggling schoolkids—probably from her sixth-grade class. They looked upon her with rapt attention. She was a rock star. She was laughing and teasing with them, smiling in pure delight. She talked to them in an easy voice of total acceptance, and I could tell they loved her for it. Her dark eyes and raven hair were made all the more radiant by the animation on her face. She was beautiful. I leaned against a nearby tree and watched.

  She glanced up and saw me standing there taking in the drama of her adoring fans. Smiling sweetly, she sent me a nuanced look that asked me to give her a moment.

  “Are you going to walk the race or run it, Ms. Chambers?” inquired one of the boys.

  “I’m going to try and run the entire race, Edwin, but it’s just fine to walk it. The important thing is to finish. There’s nothing wrong with competition, but remember, our class goal is for everyone to complete the race. It’s all for fun, okay?”

  They nodded obediently. I think in reality she had them mesmerized. She could have told them to go rob the bank and they would have enthusiastically agreed.

  “All right. Everyone go and have a good time. I’ll see you at the starting line.”

  She began to make her way among them, stopping to straighten a couple of winter hats. As she approached me, we both smiled.

  “Morning, brown eyes. Nice speech.”

  “They’re great kids. So sweet. I love ’em.”

  “Well, the feeling appears to be mutual. You’re quite the celebrity.”

  She seemed embarrassed by this. “Not really. I don’t think it’s me. It’s just their age. They like having a young teacher. I bet you secretly adored one of your elementary school teachers.”

  I reflected for a moment. “Not really. My sixth-grade teacher was about a hundred and twenty years old and smelled like Vicks VapoRub.”

  She rolled her eyes at me without losing her warm smile.

  “So,” I said, “I have a confession to make. Ever since our conversation the other night, I’ve been feeling under pressure to win this thing. But after hearing you talk to the kids about how it’s all for fun, looks like there’s no worry about you showing me up.” I was teasing her. I knew Christine had been an all-state basketball player and was no doubt athletic and competitive.

  My comment invoked her rather cunning grin. She reached up with both hands to adjust the string on the hood of my sweatshirt. “Now, Doctor, surely you’re not one of those guys who can’t accept the idea of a woman beating him, are you?”

  “No problem accepting that at all. I’ve known plenty of women who have wanted to beat me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I laughed. “So. Gloves off, then, huh? No holding back . . . mano a womano?”

  Before she could respond, Mayor Hickman called over a bullhorn for all runners to assemble at the starting line. We had both turned to listen to the instructions. Now Christine looked mischievously back at me.

  “Just don’t be surprised if all you see at the finish line is my backside.”

  “If that’s the case, at least I’ll certainly be enjoying the view.”

  Again, she rolled her eyes. But her enticing smile lingered.

  About one hundred runners assembled at the starting area in a somewhat orderly clump. There were four age brackets for the winners, ranging from eighteen to over sixty-five. Out of both courtesy and common sense, we instinctively organized ourselves with younger adults moving to the front. No one wanted to get run over.

  Another one hundred or so kids, moms, dads, and others who were simply going to walk gathered behind us. Within this group were a number of colorful, whimsical, and intentionally tacky outfits. One woman carried a huge five-foot-long pair of scissors cut out of cardboard and wrapped in aluminum foil. Some of the high school girls wore brightly colored, striped socks under clunky Uggs. Even Hoot Wilson, a jovial and towering dairy farmer who had nearly died of cardiac arrest during my first week in Watervalley, lined up wearing cutoff overalls over bright yellow sweatpants. I couldn’t be sure if this was just for laughs or part of his normal attire.

  Maylen Cook, the town barber, stood at the starting area holding a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun. Only in Watervalley. With his iconic hangdog face, Maylen counted off the start in his flat monotone.

  “Runners, on your mark.”

  Everyone in the front group glanced around in puzzlement. There was not a mark to be on. Maylen picked up on this, frowned, and spoke again.

  “Okay. Forget that. Is everybody ready?”

  The entire group leaned forward, tensing into a release position.

  “Get set.” BOOM!

  He fired the shotgun and we were off.

  After two hundred yards a pack of about six of us moved ahead of the main group. Four of them were high school boys from the local track team who looked like they could run till February. Christine and I were the only ones in this lead group from our age bracket, twenty-one to thirty-five years. We settled into a steady pace and began the long loop around town. For me, it was time to think.

  A 5K is three and one-tenth miles. An in-shape adult athlete will run at a pace of six to nine miles per hour, requiring somewhere between twenty to thirty minutes to finish the race. Some people in town knew I had played college basketball, but I had never revealed that in high school I had run track. Although it had been over a year ago, the last time I had run a 5K, my time was under seventeen minutes. I was a competitor on a completely different level. So, I had a decision to make.

  I couldn’t say I would enjoy losing, but winning this race was not a big deal to me. I had nothing to prove. I just wanted to be with Christine. At the same time, I didn’t want to look like I was holding back, sandbagging. I rolled this dilemma over and over in my head for the first minutes of the race, but had no idea what to do. I decided to stay in the pack and let things work themselves out however they might.

  We were running at a little over a s
ix-minute-per-mile pace and Christine was having no trouble keeping up. In fact, she was making it look a little too easy. She even took the lead for a short while, picking up the pace. She was testing the group, watching to see who responded and how. She was crafty.

  Two miles clicked by and the main pack was now far behind us. Two of the high school boys started a kick and accelerated ahead. We let them go. The other two began to drop behind, seemingly content to finish at a steady pace. That left Christine and me running together. Another half mile passed, leaving only a final half mile to go. Admittedly, I was amazed. Christine was still moving fluidly and had finished the first two and a half miles in less than seventeen minutes. I stayed with her.

  Again, Christine accelerated slightly, slowly pulling ahead.

  She knew that if we were even for a final sprint, she would probably not win. So she had to put some distance between us, enough so that my longer legs couldn’t overtake her in a final dash. With less than a quarter mile to go, she made her move.

  I was astounded. Without ever looking back, she found another gear and began quickly to widen the distance between us. I let her go.

  We had turned on School Street and there was now less than fifteen hundred feet to the finish line, the length of five football fields. Christine had pulled ahead by some fifty yards. Then, for the first time since she had accelerated, she looked back.

  It was just a glance, but I knew what it meant. She thought she had me.

  That’s when something primal kicked in, some raw competitive instinct that was indifferent to the subtle complexities of relationships. It was time to make it a real race.

  I pushed hard off my right foot, practically launching from it. I did the same with the left. Putting power into each step, I accelerated my pace. I was gaining rapidly. Whoops and yells began rising from the bystanders along the sidewalk. Foot by foot I was reeling her in, closing the gap. She continued to move effortlessly, but I was in a rhythmic gallop, shortening the distance between us.

  At about a hundred yards from the finish line, I caught her. I moved past her, pushing ahead about ten feet. I began to ease off, feeling well in charge, preparing to coast into the finish and a chorus of cheers.

  But the next thing I heard was not the crowd, but the blaring ring of my phone in the back pocket of my sweats.

  It was a call from dispatch down at the fire station. With the clinic closed, calls were forwarded there for screening. Despite the celebration, the fanfare, the intensity of the race, and the thrill of the moment, I was still the town doctor. And I was on call. If I waited till after the finish line, I would miss it. So, I did the only thing I could do. I stopped.

  In ten seconds, Christine won the race. I was glad for her, and maybe a little bummed. But I had done the right thing. The timing was lousy, but the call was important. It was the one I had been expecting.

  CHAPTER 15

  From Morning to Eden

  “Is this Dr. Bradford?”

  I was fighting to catch my breath, making for a broken response. “Yes, yes, this is Luke Bradford.”

  “Hi. This is Ann Patterson, the agency RN. Did I call at a bad time?”

  I lied. “No, no. It’s fine. Just . . . hold on one second.” I stepped across the sidewalk into a nearby front yard to escape the noise and arriving runners, and also to find a little oxygen. “So, are you in town yet?”

  “Actually I arrived early yesterday afternoon. I thought I’d take a day to get my bearings and settle in before I called.”

  For some reason, I found this amusing. “You may have allotted too much time. You can see all of Watervalley in about thirty minutes.”

  “Oh, I drove out in the countryside also, to, you know, check out all the landmarks.”

  I let this comment pass, unsure what landmarks there were to see. “Okay, good. I guess you found the Society Hill Bed and Breakfast without any problem?”

  “Yes. I’m there now. I walked downtown earlier to go by the library and stumbled into the big goings-on. Watervalley’s quite a lively place.”

  I almost laughed out loud at this. “Well, not to worry. It’ll calm down pretty quickly.”

  “Oh, and I met Lida Wilkins yesterday afternoon. She said she had just come from seeing you.”

  “Yes, that would be right. We met over at the clinic. She had a couple of questions for me.” I knew Ann’s comment was likely motivated by a desire to establish familiarity and find common ground, but I was quick to dismiss a conversation about Lida, given all that she had told me. “So, Ann. Do you need anything?”

  “No, I’m good. I was just calling to see when we might get together and go over things at the clinic.”

  “How about tomorrow, say, one o’clock?”

  “Perfect. I’ve got more exploring I want to do anyway. So that works fine.” I wasn’t sure what exploring she had in mind, whether it was antique stores or hiking trails, but it didn’t matter. I was hoping to enjoy my day with Christine and was relieved that this timing worked for Ann as well. I gave her the address of the clinic. We ended the call and I headed toward the finish line to find that Christine was walking toward me with her hands on her hips, trying to catch her breath. She wore a flushed and worried face.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. The call was one I needed to take, but not an emergency.”

  Her expression of concern melted away to one of resignation and frustration. “You had it. You had the race won.”

  I shrugged and smiled. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s not a big deal.”

  We walked together back toward the finish line at the south end of Courthouse Square. After crossing under the banner, we stepped over to the side to avoid other runners who were newly arriving amidst rounds of cheers, whoops, and applause.

  Christine turned and studied me for a moment, searching my face. Then she shook her head and shoved my right shoulder lightly with her hand. “Ugh! Don’t be so nice about it.” She was teasing me. Her elfin smile was warm, inviting.

  “Hey, you ran a great race. You had every right to win. But if it will make you feel better, I guess I could tear up a little.”

  “Maybe. Let me think about it.”

  She stood shaking her head, mystified, as if she couldn’t find words for her thoughts. Meanwhile, I was captured in the net of her adoring smile. For me, looking at her was far better than winning any race.

  “Well, all I can say, Luke Bradford, is that you fooled me by jogging so slowly down Summerfield Road every morning.”

  I shrugged again. “Sometimes, it’s all about taking in the view. Oh, speaking of which, that last shot at the end of the race was pretty fabulous.”

  “Stop while you’re ahead, Doctor.”

  I grinned, holding up my hands in surrender. “Okay, just saying.”

  She smiled, reached over, and took my elbow. “C’mon, sandbagger.”

  We walked back to the finish line to watch the rest of the competitors.

  “Is it okay if I wait here for a while?” she asked. “A lot of my kids will be finishing soon and I want to cheer them on.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  One by one the children in her class crossed the finish line, their faces glowing. I walked over to grab a water bottle from the concession table and was soon engaged by several of the older citizens, who were only too happy to enlighten me with a litany of their ailments. Their complaints usually involved bodily functions, the kind I really didn’t want to discuss openly. I kindly and diplomatically responded with as much discretion as one can have in the middle of a crowd. All the while I was glancing over at Christine.

  To my delight, I noticed that she was doing the same, randomly turning and looking for me within the noise and throng. Eventually, the conversation around me drifted from health complaints to gossip about whose cow had died and whose tractor had b
roken down and who got what Christmas gift. I had long ago learned that in Watervalley a sympathetic ear was an essential medication.

  Yet despite the clamor, the cheers, the wispy smoke, the cold, fragrant air, and all the chaos and celebration around me, it seemed I was caught in another world, one of coded glances and knowing smiles. From across the distance Christine and I maintained a patient, tender accounting of each other. Her eyes told me volumes. I could sense the affection in her gaze, the unvoiced apology for being so occupied by her students. I gazed back at her sympathetically. I understood. It seemed that as doctor and teacher we belonged, in part, to those around us. But the warmth of her delicate smile floated words into the air that only I could hear. The day had magic.

  Eventually, all the runners and walkers completed the race. A short awards ceremony followed, in which the winners received plastic medals and were handed checks. In turn, each winner graciously offered the check to Cynthia Robbins, the Watervalley Elementary School principal. All of them, that is, except for the winner of the fifty-something bracket, who demanded a kiss from her first. I was somewhat taken aback until Christine whispered, “That’s her husband.”

  The couple’s quick and impromptu smooch was met with a grand round of applause along with a few whistles and lighthearted catcalls. Cynthia extended thanks to all those involved and with that, the event began to wrap up. A few people lingered, but soon most everyone headed to the warmth of their cars and homes.

  It was almost noon. Now that we had the opportunity to talk, it seemed that Christine and I were at a loss for words. Silence ensued, and I was anxious to fill the void.