by Jeff High
“There used to be a small chapel here, dating back from the eighteen hundreds,” Christine said. “I’m told my great-great-grandfather Taylor and his brothers built it. Quite a few of the Taylor ancestors are interred here, although I think Oscar Fox was the last person to be buried in the cemetery.”
We made our way through the tall grass and approached the dilapidated gate that was shrouded on either side by a tall, dense thicket. The overcast sky offered only a bleak light. Wisps of our breath vanished into the moist air. As we stepped closer, a soft, moaning wind poured through the nearby trees. Nearing the gate, I heard a distinct rustling from among the bushes. I froze. My eyes caught a split second of some phantom movement. The attack began before I could utter a single word.
A snarling beast surged toward us in a blur of black eyes and large teeth. Both of us pushed back on our heels, stumbling over the grass and underbrush, falling on our backsides. It leaped closer, spewing forth a rapid succession of vicious, deep-throated barks. The animal had the shape and form of a dog, but this was something more than a dog. Rhett was a dog. This was something you could ride into battle.
I instinctively held out my hand and yelled at the creature, accomplishing little more than to halt his approach and doing nothing to stop the barrage of bloodcurdling barks. It was Christine who got his attention.
“Rufus, stop. Stop that right now, Rufus.”
Her voice was like magic. Immediately the huge creature sank back on all fours, staring up at Christine with watchful, cautious eyes. We both rose to our feet, and Christine put a hand over her heart and gasped while I kept a close eye on this massive dog, unsure of this uneasy truce.
Christine was wide-eyed and laughing. “Oh, my gosh. That scared the daylights out of me.”
“Didn’t do a lot for me either. So, you know this fellow.”
“This is Rufus. He belongs to Hoot Wilson.”
“Is he some cross between a wolf and a horse?”
“No, he’s a mastiff hound. They’re pretty rare. Hoot keeps him for protection.”
“From what? This guy wouldn’t just fight a bear—he’d try to date his sister.”
“Well, he’s not real good with strangers. Let me walk him back up to Hoot’s place. It’s only a hundred yards down that fencerow.”
“You sure about that?”
“Oh, he’s a big baby once you know him, but it’s probably best if you keep your distance.” She walked over and spoke to the enormous animal, gently grabbing him by the collar. They disappeared down a narrow dirt path and I was left to stand guard over the cemetery and, hopefully, get over the willies.
While I was trying to open the iron gate, another blaring sound startled me. It was a cell phone ringing in the weeds a few feet behind me. Instinctively I patted my chest coat pocket, thinking it was mine. But it must have fallen from Christine’s coat when we took the tumble. I scrabbled for a moment, trying to find the phone in the tall grass. When I finally did, I hastily answered it.
“Hello, hello.”
“Where’s Christine?”
I moaned. I knew that gruff, geriatric voice only too well. “Um, she’s not here right this moment.”
“What do you mean she’s not there? What have you done with her?”
“Well, nothing. She’s just not where she can talk right now.”
“I don’t believe you. Take a picture with your phone and send it as proof of life or I’m calling the cops.”
“Mrs. Chambers, she’ll be back in a minute. So just sit tight and I’ll have her call you.”
“Better yet, take a picture of yourself and send it. You better have all your clothes on.”
“Mrs. Chambers, I’m hanging up now. Christine will call you in a couple of minutes.”
I ended the call and stared at the phone, shaking my head.
After a few seconds of wrestling with the rusty latch, I was finally able to push the old gate open enough to squeeze in. Despite the cold weather, an undergrowth of green vines covered much of the graveyard. Time and weather had tilted some of the larger obelisks. Along with the headstones, some of the graves were also marked with thin, moss-covered concrete slabs. Most were old and cracked and likely not very heavy. A garden-variety ghost in decent shape could easily slide one aside and take a leisurely stroll in the moonlight.
I was reading the inscriptions on the various markers when Christine called out and squeezed through the iron gate behind me. I walked toward her with her phone.
“Here, you must have dropped this when we fell. Your grandmother called. I think she’s worried about you.”
Christine smiled, shrugged, and proceeded to dial. I wandered back into the graveyard, taking notice of the names and dates that extended back almost two centuries.
I turned and watched Christine talking with great animation to her grandmother. The delightful lilt of her voice cut against the still and stark tranquillity of this modest place. I envied Christine and her deep well of family. For her, these humble markers were more than cold stone. They were the book covers of distant lives whose labor and laughter and love had transcended the years and were infused into her. Because she knew their stories, she never walked alone. I was only beginning to understand how this defined her.
She finished and headed toward me. “Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Grandmamma just wants to know if we can pick up a couple of things at the grocery since we’re out.”
“And . . . that’s it?
“Yeah, is that not okay?”
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s just, well, never mind.”
Christine shrugged. “So, find anything interesting?”
“Yeah, amazing really. There are some very old grave markers here. One of the inscriptions over there is pretty thought provoking.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘I told you I was sick.’”
Christine pushed my shoulder. “Stop it.”
“Hey, it’s every doctor’s nightmare.”
She laughed again and grabbed my arm. “Come on. If I remember correctly, Oscar Fox’s grave is toward the back.”
Twilight and the soft tides of cooler air began to seep around our hands and faces. We made our way through the low thick vines and lonely markers. With each passing second, the gathering darkness seemed to be moving upon us at an accelerated pace. It occurred to me that in reality there was nothing to be gained by finding Oscar Fox’s grave. But it had become something of a challenge to locate him before night blinded us. We hastily began to check the various tombstones. Many were covered with a light film of black grime and reading the names required rubbing with our fingers.
Finally, I came across a small marker with a cross mounted on top, standing in the back right corner of the cemetery. Although the stone was almost seventy years old, there was a noticeable difference in the weathering. I knelt down and read the inscription. “Oscar Fox. Born November 17, 1913. Died April 28, 1944. Rest in Peace.”
I stood quickly and took a step back. “Dang. Now that’s just a little weird.”
“What’s wrong? What is it?”
“I realize it’s only a fluke happenstance, but Oscar Fox and I have the same birthday. What’s more, I’m thirty years old. He was thirty when he died.”
Christine exhaled a ghostly, shuddering laugh. “Oooh. That is kind of creepy.”
I shrugged. “Well, it’s a coincidence, that’s all. No need to start going all X-Files about it.”
We stood there for a frozen moment, staring at Oscar’s modest grave site. Then in the remaining light, I noticed something wrapped around the marble cross on top of the headstone. It was a chain looped around the front and hanging toward the back. Someone had clearly placed it there. I lifted the chain and for a speechless moment, Christine and I stared at it in disbelief.
It
was a Star of David.
CHAPTER 21
Open for Business
“What in the world do you make of this?”
Christine shook her head. “I have no idea.” We were both equally dumbfounded.
The star was old and tarnished, with no way of telling how long it had been there. I knew of only one or two Jewish families in the area, and being so small, Watervalley didn’t have a synagogue. As well, I was fairly certain that the Hebrew families I knew of had come to Watervalley within the last few years and would not have known Oscar Fox. The whole business was odd.
I returned the chain and star to its place on the headstone and we clumsily worked our way through the tangled vines and darkness to the car. We made a quick stop in town at the grocery, yet all the while, both of us were awash in uneasiness, wrestling with the same unanswered questions.
I pulled up to Christine’s house and killed the engine. We sat for a moment, staring at each other, consumed in a fog of uncertainty. I realized that we each knew what the other was thinking. Christine shook her head. “Yeah, that was all just . . . I don’t know, weird, wasn’t it?”
Preoccupied, I simply nodded. I didn’t want to admit it, but Oscar Fox and I having the same birthday and being the same age invoked a haunting stir of thoughts. I generally didn’t consider myself superstitious. I was a doctor, for heaven’s sake, and by practice and training approached the world pragmatically. Even still, the similarities were peculiar and unsettling.
“Luke?”
“Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought for a moment there.”
“Call me tomorrow.”
“Sure. I mean . . . is that okay? Because the last two days have been, well, wonderful. But I don’t want to crowd out all your time.”
“I didn’t say I was going to answer.”
“Right, okay, fair enough.”
“Brrrrr. It is so cold. Listen, you don’t have to walk me to the porch.”
“Are you kidding? I’d be missing out on the best part of the day.”
Christine’s smile turned delightfully elfin. She leaned over and once again, just as earlier in the day, grabbed the open sides of my coat. She spoke carefully in a low, hushed voice. “Okay, then. Why don’t we say good-bye right here?”
I whispered in return, “Why don’t we say good-bye both places?”
* * *
I drove back to Fleming Street, took care of Rhett, and was in bed early that night. Tomorrow the clinic would be open for business, and despite my casual prediction to Ann, I feared it might be a busy day.
Monday morning the weather turned uncharitable. A harsh, cold wind complained outside as I made coffee and toast. At my insistence, Connie was taking some time off, but candidly, I was looking forward to the holidays being over and getting back to our joint routine. I had grown to depend on her to keep me focused.
I arrived at the clinic at seven thirty, and just as on the day before, Ann was early, waiting for me in her SUV.
We went inside together and I introduced her to the clinic’s small staff, including Nancy Orman, the office manager and receptionist, and Cindy and Camilla, the two middle-aged sisters who acted as the lab tech and phlebotomist respectively. They greeted Ann warmly, told her how glad they were to have her join the staff, and politely inquired about where she was from. Ann engaged them with courteous reserve. As kind as she was, I could sense that she still kept her distance. Admittedly, I understood this, given that she was an RN traveler and not expected to put down roots.
There was already a small crowd of walk-in patients, most of whom had winter colds, along with one or two of my geriatric patients, who had minor complaints or needed prescriptions refilled. Ann and I worked through these quickly, and to my delight, she easily caught on to the routine of meeting patients, taking their vitals, and asking the right questions. By ten thirty we had finished the last one and had retreated to my office to discuss a few details.
Moments later, Nancy simultaneously knocked and stepped through the doorway. “Dr. Bradford, Lester Caruthers is here.”
“Is he bleeding?”
“Don’t think so.”
After a short deliberation, I asked her to put him in exam room two.
Lester worked on the loading dock at the Farmers’ Co-op and had a hard, bony face that only a dog could love, a nearsighted one at that. In his forties, he had a lanky build and a mop of hair that was usually covered by a faded John Deere hat. His large discolored buckteeth protruded prominently from a mouth that was perpetually in a casual gape. I had come to know Lester over the past months as a likable soul with a mind that was happily not burdened by pondering any of life’s complex dilemmas. His goal was just to get by.
On his previous visits I had stitched up some small cuts and scrapes. For farmers and laborers in Watervalley, it wasn’t uncommon to acquire a few scars and even lose a digit or two along the way. But Lester’s injuries were invariably self-inflicted and usually preceded by the comment, “Hey, hold my beer and watch this.”
“Ann, no need to take vitals on this one,” I said.
Her gaze sharpened under her wire-rim glasses.
“Lester is something of a special case. Just um, follow my lead.”
We found Lester sitting on the exam table wearing blue jeans and his best Bud Light T-shirt. I introduced Ann and proceeded to ask him what seemed to be the problem.
“I’m feeling rough, Doc, really rough. I can’t concentrate worth a flip. I think I need some more of them pills.”
I rubbed my chin and nodded thoughtfully. “I see. And when do you notice this lack of concentration the most?”
“Mostly at work. But sometimes, you know, just all the time. It’s rough, I’m telling you.”
I responded with a low hum, again pondering his response with great deliberation. “Well, Lester, let me check a few things.”
I proceeded to examine his ears and his eyes, and listened to his chest, careful to avoid the pungent waft of his rather noxious breath. All the while, Ann stood by, discreetly observing our exchange. I finished and once again stood rubbing my chin and deliberating.
“Gee, Doc. What do you think? I mean, it ain’t like it’s rocket surgery.” Lester had a prodigious capacity for mixing figures of speech.
“Lester, you may be right. Hold on and I’ll get you some of those pills. Ann, go ahead and take Lester’s temperature and blood pressure just for good measure. I’ll be right back.”
She nodded. I returned shortly with a small, yellow plastic pill bottle on which I had taped a written label. Ann volunteered that his temperature and pressure were normal.
“Lester, take one, and only one, of these every morning. You should be fine.”
Lester readily agreed. I patted him on the back, telling him to take care. He departed and Ann and I returned to my office.
“What in the world was that all about?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s just Lester. He’s an okay guy, just a little high maintenance.”
“And the pills?”
“Lester came in a few months back wanting me to write a prescription for those ‘special pills.’ I looked in his file and noticed that several years back someone had prescribed Adderall, thinking he might have ADD. Adderall is amphetamine salts, so I’m sure Lester got a delightful buzz off of them.”
“So you’re aiding his addiction?”
“Hardly. The only thing Lester is addicted to is the path of least resistance. I hear he has a rich uncle somewhere, so probably the two most important words in his future are ‘estate sale.’ Besides, he doesn’t have ADD, he has LOA.”
“LOA?”
“Lack of ambition.”
“I don’t understand. You’re giving him a Schedule II drug because he’s lazy?”
I laughed. “No, of course not. I gave him a prescription bottle full of Tic Ta
cs.”
“Tic Tacs? That’s not going to cure anything.”
“Apparently you didn’t smell his breath.” I leaned back in my chair. “Anyway, Lester seems happy, I’m happy, the Tic Tac company is happy. It’s a win-win.”
Ann lowered her chin, folded her arms, and stared at me incredulously. After a moment she shook her head and laughed out loud. “Wow, and I thought I’d seen everything.”
I answered drily, “Welcome to Watervalley.”
We talked casually for the next half hour. Ann’s mood grew lighter. She seemed more relaxed. I suspected she was deciding Watervalley might be a good fit for her. I was thrilled. She also began to volunteer a little about her past, revealing a rather salty wit.
“Yeah, I was married for thirteen years. Been divorced for about the same number. No children, thank heavens. The world doesn’t need any more like him.”
“So how did you meet?”
“Through a mutual friend who I never speak to anymore. Anyway, my ex drove a beer truck.”
“Hmm, well. At least he had that going for him.”
Ann laughed at herself. “Yeah, he smoked, he drank, and he made funny noises under his arm. Who wouldn’t fall in love with him?”
Our exchange was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The door swung open and the visitor stood grandly in the doorway. To my delight and surprise, it was John Harris. Again, this was a first. Over the months I had known John, I had never seen him at the clinic. Now he had breached the city limits for the fourth time in a week.
“Hey, sawbones.” As soon as he spoke, he noticed Ann sitting in the chair opposite my desk. “Hmm. Looks like I’m interrupting. I’ll come back another time.”
“Don’t run off on my account, Dr. Harris,” injected Ann.
At first John stood quietly. Then he took a few steps into the room, assessing Ann with a collected reserve. It was clear he took her comment as something of a challenge. “Good to see you in your nursing uniform, Ms. Patterson. It changes you, makes you look so civilized.”