Each Shining Hour

by Jeff High

  “Find what?”

  “The diamonds.”

  “What makes you think there are diamonds here?”

  “Because of what my dad told me.”

  A tingling sensation fluttered up the back of my neck. “And what did he tell you?”

  Randall held up his hand, a gesture to give him a moment. He closed his eyes for a second, seemingly to gather his strength. Then the words began to pour out of him, as if he was speaking a confession from which he had long desired to unburden himself.

  “My father was not a good man. His people were poor and pretty backward, so he scraped by and got an education in finance because he loved money and he wanted to show all his dirt-poor relatives that he wasn’t like them. When Oscar Fox came to town and started to spend a lot, my dad took notice. He said Oscar never seemed to have much on deposit but always had a lot of cash. He noticed that Oscar had a safety-deposit box at the bank that he visited often. The box was in Oscar’s name, not his wife’s. Dad was a vice president at that time, and one day, he did something he shouldn’t have. After hours late one night, he got a key and looked in Oscar’s box. He found diamonds there, hundreds of them. Oscar made frequent trips to Nashville. Apparently, someone there bought them from him for cash.”

  “So, your dad broke the law.”

  “Yeah, he broke the law. Like I said, he was not a good man.”

  “Go on.”

  “The day the German arrived in town, Oscar came to the bank in a big hurry, carrying a metal container. He went to the vault, opened his safety-deposit box, and left soon afterward. Dad was convinced he took the diamonds and hid them here. He was also convinced that Elise Fox knew nothing about them. Years later, when he became bank president, he put a lot of pressure on Elise to sell the bakery. As soon as she did, he searched it thoroughly. He was the one who cut the holes in the walls and floors, thinking the diamonds were hidden there. But he never found them. Eventually, he gave up. But he was still convinced that there were diamonds somewhere.”

  “Why wouldn’t Oscar have hidden them at his house?”

  “Because they checked there.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “My dad had a couple of drinking buddies he was pretty tight with in those days. The sheriff, Crawford Lewis, and the town doctor, Haslem Hinson. Lewis called my dad the night of the murder. The three of them decided to make it look like Oscar Fox had killed the German in cold blood. They figured whoever the guy was, he had come to town for the diamonds. It was sort of a half-baked plan, but they thought if Oscar could be rumored to be tied up with some German spy, it would be a good cover to search for the diamonds. That night Hinson gave Elise Fox a sedative and kept her down at the clinic while the sheriff and my dad searched the house. They found nothing. The diamonds had vanished. They thought for the longest time that the guy who lived by the lake had them.”

  “Otto Miller, Sunflower’s father?”

  “Yeah. They gave him a pretty hard time of it. But ultimately, they were convinced he knew nothing. Hinson and Lewis eventually died. Neither of them had any children, so the story died with them.”

  Randall paused for a moment, catching his breath. “You need to know something, Dr. Bradford. I didn’t know any of this when I was growing up. My dad told me all of it a week before he died. He told me never to let the bank sell the bakery. I asked him why and that’s when the whole story came out. That was fifteen years ago and I hated my dad when he told me. I wanted nothing to do with the bakery. But time does funny things to you. You forget the bad stuff about your parents; you gloss over them and construct a memory that’s more workable, more acceptable. That’s why I . . .” He paused for a moment. “That’s why I didn’t want to sell the bakery at the board meeting a few months ago, even though I hated my father for what he’d done. I couldn’t shake his voice in my head telling me not to sell. Stupid, I guess. Now I’ve let his twisted business become my undoing as well.”

  I absorbed all that Randall had told me. It seemed that the knowledge that John Harris had both the means and the determination to have him sacked had eaten at Randall like a cancer during the past months. This was a humbled and desperate man. So desperate that he had succumbed to the reckless idea of sneaking into the bakery and resuming the search his father had abandoned. Though he remained a pathetic figure, I still found it difficult to pity him.

  Then another question occurred to me. “Tell me something else, Randall. What happened when Connie Thompson’s mother was fired from working here? Your dad have anything to do with that?”

  A pained grin inched across his face and he spoke with mild sarcasm. “Among his other virtues, my dad was a racist. He was very low-key about it, but I knew it. My dad was one-eighth black and was always embarrassed about it.”

  He paused, speaking reflectively. “You know, when you’re young, you take everything your parents think and double it. I picked on Connie when I was a kid. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. I’m not going to sit here and lie and tell you I’ve ever really liked her. But I have a lot of respect for her. What John Harris said in the board meeting was true. Connie saved the bank, and the community along with it.”

  There was a long silence between us. Randall looked up at me, speaking in a voice of defeat and resolve.

  “So, Doctor, what happens now? I guess you’re going to have to tell the sheriff and the Pillow sisters about all this.”

  I thought for a minute. “I’m not telling anyone anything—at least, not yet. But you may have some things that need to be said.”

  I explained to Randall what was on my mind. He agreed. I helped him to my car and drove him home.

  Sometime after two o’clock in the morning I turned the key in my front door. Rhett greeted me with sleepy enthusiasm. I let him out into the backyard and stood under the stars while he took care of his business. Regrettably, it was far too late to call Christine. I wasn’t sure what to tell her in any case. Randall’s confession was not something I could speak about for the time being.

  My head and my heart were spinning. Equal measures of wonder, bewilderment, and aching passion were vying for my attention, flooding my thoughts despite my exhaustion. I collapsed into bed, comforted only by the opiate of sleep.

  CHAPTER 43

  Birthday

  Sunday morning I slept in. The eleven o’clock church bells woke me from a deep slumber and I sat straight up in bed in a panicked state. In two hours the guests invited to Connie’s birthday party would be arriving and I had a lot to do to prepare. I took care of Rhett, showered, and scurried around making sure all was ready for the small gathering. The only interruption in the flow came shortly after noon when there was a knock on the door. It was Louise Fox.

  “Hello, Dr. Bradford. I hope I’m not interrupting, but I wanted to give you this.” She held out an old envelope. “We’re trying to get everything packed up and I ran across it in a box of things that had belonged to my husband’s grandmother Elise Fox. It’s addressed to Connie’s mother, and, well, I just thought Connie might like to have it.”

  It was a letter dated 1968 that had been returned to sender. I remembered Connie mentioning that Elise Fox had written to her mother shortly before Maylene Pillow died of cancer. But Maylene had refused to read it. I took the envelope.

  “Thanks, I’ll see that Connie gets it.”

  Louise turned to leave. She was a good woman and I admired her thoughtfulness. I wished things could be different for them. I stuck the letter in a basket on the desk where I kept the bills. It would have to wait till later. Time was running short.

  The party turned out to be a riotous affair. A delightful collection of friends, including the mayor, Walt Hickman, Chick McKissick, Nancy Orman, John, and several others, came together for a robust couple of hours to celebrate Connie’s sixty years. All four of Connie’s children called during the party to wish her happy birt
hday. They all lived in distant cities and at her insistence had not come since they were all scheduled to gather for a family reunion in another month. Estelle had outdone herself making a cake that could have fed half the county. She also reminded everyone that the grand opening of the bakery would be held the following Saturday, less than a week away.

  “Everybody, be sure to come,” Estelle said. “There’ll be lots of fun things to taste and free gâteaux.”

  This comment piqued Chick’s interest. “What’s a gâteau, Miss Estelle?”

  Connie answered for her. “It’s a cupcake, but roughly translated, it’s French for ‘I’m charging a dollar extra.’”

  Chick cackled, and not to be outdone, he quickly typed something into his cell phone. “Well, next time you come for an oil change, I’ll have to charge you for a”—he read the translation off his phone—“‘changement d’huile.’”

  Everyone laughed and toasted and told favorite stories. While Connie did her best to appear unmoved by all the fuss and attention, her irrepressible smile kept bubbling up. John endeavored to tease and cajole her, but her sharp retorts stopped him from getting the best of her.

  We all had a grand time. But my enjoyment was tempered by a burning concern. Christine had not come. I suspected she was furious with me, and deservedly so. I needed to call her and make amends.

  Still, I was surprised she would be inconsiderate to Connie, given that the gathering was really about her. I learned otherwise once all the guests had departed. Estelle had to run home because she had forgotten her blood sugar medicine, leaving only Connie and me to gather up the party remains and finish up in the kitchen.

  I said, “Sorry about Christine. I’m not sure why she didn’t make it.”

  Connie gave me a surprised stare. “You don’t know? Why, she called me earlier to apologize for not coming. Madeline was taking Grandmother Chambers back to the airport in Nashville this morning and asked Christine to come along. I thought you knew.”

  “No, I didn’t. But I’m glad she called you. It just didn’t seem like her not to show.”

  I tried to act as if the incident meant nothing, but I was sure Connie wasn’t convinced. In reality, neither was I. I had left Christine to fend for herself at the dance in a lousy way. Medical emergencies took precedence, but I hadn’t called and explained afterward. Part of the prom evening had been a dream, a near culmination of long-repressed feelings, a release of deep and tender desire. Yet it had ended in such a bizarre ordeal, an odd mix of disgust and revelation.

  I needed to tell Connie, to speak of what I had learned. But the last two hours had been such happy ones that I thought it best not to ruin the moment. Even still, I knew that Connie was reading my thoughts; she knew that something was bothering me and struggling to find a voice.

  A knock on the door made the decision for me. I left Connie in the kitchen and answered it. Before me stood Randall Simmons. He spoke penitently.

  “Dr. Bradford, I noticed Connie’s car in the driveway. I was wondering if I might have a moment to speak to her.”

  A voice behind me spoke firmly and coolly. “Show Mr. Simmons to the living room, Luke. I’ll be right there.” Connie was standing in the hallway, stoic defiance etched on her face. She read my questioning look and nodded lightly. I did as she said.

  Randall hobbled over to one of the large wingback chairs and plopped down in it. He was doing what I had told him the previous night he should do: confess and apologize to Connie. But on the heels of her birthday party, it seemed like rotten timing. Nevertheless, here he was. Truth, it seemed, followed its own clock.

  Connie entered and sat on the couch across from him.

  “I’m going to take Rhett out back and let you two talk,” I said.

  In the backyard I tossed the tennis ball to Rhett, wondering what awkward conversation was taking place in my living room. After about thirty minutes, I heard a car start up in the driveway and walked to the yard’s edge to see Randall leaving.

  As I entered through the back door, I found Connie washing dishes at the kitchen sink. She didn’t look up at me but only stared at the plates and cups moving from her hands to the drying rack. Her lips were puckered and pressed hard together in a mixture of bitterness and resolve, forcing her to inhale and exhale through her nose in deep, sullen breaths.

  I moved close to her and casually leaned against the kitchen counter beside her, tilting my head sideways toward her as if to pry her gaze toward me. Without looking up, she continued to stubbornly and methodically wash the dishes and place them to one side. She was occupying herself, seemingly avoiding the tempest of emotions knotting within her. Eventually, despite her stern countenance, large tears began to roll down her face, falling from the edge of her cheeks and into the dishwater. She made no effort to wipe them away.

  Perhaps I should have spoken, but it seemed best to stand silently and reassure her with my presence. Welling up within her was all the grief, all the loss, all the accumulated years of petty injustices. And somewhere in the naked pain of her tears I saw a glimpse of Connie Thompson from decades ago: a vulnerable and excluded little girl, desperate to understand the unfairness and prejudice of the world around her.

  Finally, she broke the silence. Remaining focused on the dishes, she lifted her quivering chin, and quoted Scripture in a low, determined voice. “‘I am not my own but bought with a price.’”

  She stepped back, placed her hands on the edge of the sink counter, and leaned forward with her head down. I instinctively moved toward her and gathered her up in an enveloping embrace. She buried her face in my shoulder and wept, pouring out her heart like water from a vase. Her deep sobs washed over me, filling the room.

  I shamefully realized that my thoughts of Connie’s early years had been minted in my imagination, where I’d naively filled in unknown chapters of her life. I’d imagined those years as sweet, wholesome, protected. Instead, cruel and unjust acts had placed their stain upon her. Yet she had found the courage to rise above them. I saw with burning clarity that her tough exterior was only a facade to protect her tender and generous heart.

  In time, she patted me on the back and stepped away, grabbing a paper napkin to dry her face.

  “So, I guess he told you everything,” I said.

  “Yes. Yes, he did.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize he would come to tell you today.”

  “No, no. It’s fine.” She continued to gather herself, occasionally offering a fleeting smile in that odd way people do after a good cry.

  “Connie, can I get anything for you?”

  She thought for a moment. “Yeah. You know what? I think I’d like to have a beer.”

  My wide-eyed and amused face communicated my surprise. “Fair enough. Think I might join you.”

  I grabbed two bottles from the fridge and we sat at the kitchen table. Connie took a long swallow.

  “Ohhh, that’s good. I haven’t had one of these in a long time.”

  “You do realize how badly I want to get my camera right now, don’t you?”

  “Not unless you’re planning on taking a before and after picture of your broken arm.”

  “Yeah, that’s kind of what I figured.” I took a drink of my beer and we sat in silence.

  “So, what happens now?” I asked. “You think you and Estelle will press charges?”

  Connie shrugged. “For what? Randall didn’t do anything but hurt himself.”

  “I guess you’re right. Still, it was a pretty desperate thing to do. Looks like John’s making good on his promise to can Randall is what drove him to it.”

  “We talked about that.”

  “Really?”

  “Umm-hmm. He asked me to forgive him.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I would think about it. But I’ll probably let him stay on.”

 
; “You’re kidding. Why?”

  “Because it may be the right thing to do.”

  “But, Connie, his family has been the cause of a lot of misery for you.”

  “I know. I just need to think about it.”

  A long silence ensued and I could only sit and stare incredulously. Connie finished her beer and began to talk, opening up about her life, unburdening the weight of cares that she had carried for so many years. I listened in silent fascination.

  “Sometimes being me is not a rewarding experience. I know it sounds silly, but when I was a little girl, for the longest time I thought my name was Constant Grace, not Constance Grace. I thought Momma expected me to always be good, to always do the right thing, to act in every waking moment in obedience to God’s will. So I did, and truth be known, a lot of times I didn’t like it and I was actually pretty angry about it. But over time, I began to see that if I would just be a little patient, things had a way of working out. Not always as I wanted, but enough for me to believe it was true. And lo and behold, on my birthday here comes Randall Simmons, apologizing for the sins of his family, restoring the years the locusts have eaten.”

  Her words made me remember the letter. I held up a finger to Connie, signaling her to pause for a moment while I retrieved it.

  “Louise brought this by earlier. She said she found it among Elise Fox’s things, while packing up to move.”

  Connie examined it and immediately realized what it was. She looked at me with a curious face. “I’d like to open this.”

  “I think you should.”

  She nodded, tore open the seal with her finger, and unfolded the small note. As she silently read the words, a soft smile spread across her face. She finished and held the letter to her chest, closing her eyes for a brief moment. In time she opened them and held the letter before her.

  “I want to read this to you.”

  “Sure.”