One Shenandoah Winter

by Davis Bunn

  The light was so intense it threatened to blind him. But Nathan did not want to blink, for fear of losing the image. It was too perfect, too full of beauty to last. He felt the sudden urge to walk out across the surface, to reach into the impossible moment and take for himself a sliver of eternity.

  Silently Poppa Joe took his arm, and pulled him around to the right. Nathan let himself be led to a rock that stretched out like a granite throne over the water. He seated himself, feeling the cold bite through his trousers yet feeling that it was right to do so.

  Poppa Joe returned with old yellowed newspaper. He motioned for Nathan to rise, and settled it down beneath him. Of course the old man would have something ready. It was only fitting.

  He watched Poppa Joe pull two old cane poles from the brush and bring them over, and settle one into his hands. The old man eased himself down beside Nathan, reached into his jacket pocket, and brought out a filthy envelope. With shaking fingers he opened it and scrabbled through the dirt to pull out a couple of worms. Nathan watched as he fitted them on the hooks, and then with the old man he flicked his line out into the water.

  They sat like that and watched and shared both the silence and the morning. Nathan was the first to get a bite, and drew in the fish laughing and shouting. For some reason that particular sound was in harmony with the morning, as natural as the silence had been before.

  The morning grew brighter and warmer, and the mist evaporated, and the frozen whiteness melted, and the world returned to normal. Of course. Such perfection could not last. Not even here. But for the first time in his entire life, Nathan found himself believing that there really could be some place called heaven.

  They caught another three fish before Poppa Joe declared they had enough, that there was nothing like fresh-caught winter trout fried in bacon grease. And Nathan laughed again, feeling a joy he had been sure was lost and gone forever. He felt comfortable with it here, however, even though it was so alien to his world that he could not even name the sensation while it filled his heart. He could not express even his own name just then. But had he been able, he would have said he was snug within this rush of feelings because they were not his, but the morning’s.

  Nathan did not want to leave. Not even when Poppa Joe rose creaking to his feet and took the cane pole from fingers that had long since gone numb. Not even when Poppa Joe came back from stowing the poles and stood over him for a long moment.

  Nathan kept his face turned to the lake, touched now by a light breeze and by the strength of a real day, and wished there were some way to be the person he was right now for all time.

  Poppa Joe eased himself back down beside him, and asked in a voice as quiet as the breeze, “Seems to me you’re packing quite a burden, son.”

  It was perfectly natural to be called son at that moment. Perfectly natural to respond to the comment with a nod. Yes. Quite a burden.

  When Nathan did not speak, Poppa Joe did not press. Instead, he used both hands to ease his back, and gave a long sigh. “I was right here on this very spot, when I heard it.”

  Nathan knew he was being called back from wherever it was he had been. Knew and somehow did not mind. This was the man who had shared his most valuable possession with him. How could he object when he wanted to take it back. Nathan turned to the old man, content to say, “Heard what?”

  The clear blue eyes turned Nathan’s way. And there in those depths Nathan found himself feeling as though the morning mists had been captured, the mists and all the mysteries they had held, all the secrets.

  Poppa Joe finally replied, “I done heard the trumpets of Glory, son. Sat here and listened to their call. Last week it was.”

  It took a long moment before Nathan realized what he was hearing. “You mean you’re sick?”

  “Been sick many a time. Being sick is part of being alive.” The blue eyes regarded him, unblinking and calm as the day. “I mean I’m dying. The Lord has done called me Home.”

  Twelve

  On that journey, Richmond did not hold its customary charm for Connie. It was an old city, rich in history and heritage, and a welcome change from Hillsboro’s confines. If ever Connie were to leave her mountain town behind again, she would have wanted a small apartment in an old house. She particularly liked the area known as Windsor Farms, with its leafy streets and broad sidewalks and southern grace. A little time in Richmond was usually enough to give her a sense of quiet liberation. She could come here and spend a day or so on state business, and return refreshed and ready to constrict herself to the region that was as much a part of her life as the air she breathed.

  But not this time.

  Her activities were crowded with all she had hoped to leave behind. On Sunday she drove from meeting to meeting, yet heard little besides Dawn’s soft questioning tone and the doctor’s infuriating ways. She had planned to go see the new film West Side Story that evening, since it wouldn’t be coming to Hillsboro’s only cinema for months. But she had scarcely had the will to eat a bite of dinner before crawling into bed, more exhausted from the internal struggle than from her day’s work.

  When on Monday she attended the planning sessions with peers from other small towns she heard most clearly her uncle’s voice, which was most surprising of all, since Poppa Joe had no place whatsoever in these crowded city scenes.

  By lunchtime the voices left her no choice. She excused herself from the afternoon meetings and went back to her hotel room. Before she could argue herself out of what she was planning, she picked up the phone and asked the operator for Baltimore information. She then called the hospital’s number and asked for the administrator with whom she had dealt in the past, the only name she could remember without her file.

  “This is Margaret Simmons.”

  “You won’t remember me, Mrs. Simmons. My name is Connie Wilkes, and—”

  “Of course! You’re the city manager of Hillsboro.”

  “That’s a pretty grand title for a paltry town like Hillsboro, Mrs. Simmons.”

  “Please, call me Margaret. How is Nathan doing?”

  Now it was Nathan. She found herself stabbed by confused feelings and became even more cross because of them. “That’s actually why I’m calling. We need to talk.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “I’m coming up to Baltimore today. I want to see you.”

  “I’m extremely busy—”

  “Today, Mrs. Simmons. This afternoon. I’m leaving Richmond right now.” Connie put down the phone, picked up her purse and case, and headed for the door. It was time for some answers.

  When Nathan returned to the clinic on Monday, nothing had changed, yet nothing was the same. The morning light shimmered with the birth of new winter. The air vibrated with the power of all he had experienced. The atmosphere remained dense with the unspoken.

  At his request, Poppa Joe was due into town that afternoon. He had refused to come in earlier, saying simply that he had things to attend to, and Duke had agreed to go back up to collect the old man. After the time they had shared, Nathan had found himself unwilling to argue.

  It was hard to tell whether the morning cases held more surprises than usual. Or if a doctor more accustomed to general practice would have found them to be surprises at all. For the first time since his arrival, however, Nathan found himself seeing the faces behind the illnesses. Studying the people as well as the complaints. And wondering at the change this represented.

  His lunchtime habit was to go directly from the clinic to his home and back, avoiding all contact and holding fiercely to his privacy. But today he found himself letting his feet guide him through the town. The air was soft and cool and scented with coming winter. He could hear the river flowing back behind him, whispering to itself in the distance, full of all the secrets it had carried down from the hills.

  Nathan walked down Main Street, not really certain where he was headed, but content to walk and see what came. He felt the looks and heard t
he cautious distance in the townsfolks’ quiet greetings. There was no change in the guarded way they treated him, it was exactly the same as it had been the day before.

  Only this day it hurt.

  When he spotted the steeple, it seemed perfectly natural that his walk would take him by way of the church. Brian Blackstone was out front tacking green fir and holly branches over the church bulletin board. When he saw who was standing at the edge of the church lawn, he dropped his hammer and walked over.

  “It was such a beautiful winter’s morning,” Brian said in greeting. “I decided it was time to put up a few Christmas touches.”

  “The radio’s been saying the Christmas season has been around for weeks.”

  “Yes, well, up here we don’t always hold to city timing.”

  “I’m beginning to see that.” Nathan searched the brilliant November day for something else to say. The weather was both cold and hot at the same time, as the sun’s warmth shared the day with a growing chill. He squinted at the church, built in the same brick-and-stone fashion as his house. “Sure is a pretty building.”

  “Yes, this style is one of the things I love about our little town. I actually did some research about it. Many of the original settlers came from an area in England where there was a great deal of iron-laced stone. They used it to strengthen their brick structures, because the clay was not of very good quality. Brick-and-flint, the old English houses were called. Most of the oldest Hillsboro buildings were built with that same architecture in mind. Then after the turn of the century, the town became flush with new money, and went on another building spree. Thank goodness they held to the same old style.”

  “I like it,” Nathan said. This was the first time in quite a while he had cared enough to comment on anything beyond the essentials. “The look blends in well with the hills.”

  “It should. All the materials are native.” Brian’s gaze held a bit of the same penetrating quality as the old man’s. “How was your night up in the highlands?”

  The question should have surprised him, but for some reason it didn’t. “News gets around fast here.”

  “That kind of news sure does. Poppa Joe guards his privacy. I can’t recall the last time anybody was invited to share an evening with him. And the two of you, well, you’ve got to admit it makes for a remarkable combination.”

  The silence lingered as an invitation. Nathan knew he could turn away, and a part of him wanted to leave the questioning and the searching it urged within himself. But he couldn’t. He did not know why he felt drawn to the spot and the talk and the man. But he did. “It was . . . mysterious.”

  He glanced over, ashamed now that he had spoken at all. But all Brian did was nod. Once. A slow up and down, as though the word had registered deep. There was another long silence, then the pastor said, “I find reading the Bible is a good way to put reason behind the mysteries in life.”

  To Nathan it felt as though this was why he had taken the walk. As though he had been preparing for these words ever since he had left the lake and returned to the valley. Perhaps even before that. Which was why he had the strength to confess, “I’ve been seeing some cases that concern me.”

  “Ah.” Brian set down his handful of holly and his hammer. “Would you like to come inside?”

  “I’d better not.” Nathan glanced at his watch. “I need to get back to the clinic before long.”

  Brian nodded his acceptance. “When I was first starting off here at the church, the old doctor brought me in one day and said that in a town like ours, the doctor and the pastor needed to work hand in glove.”

  Nathan found himself surprised, not by the words, but rather by his own reaction. Last week the concept would have been reason for scorn. Today it was as natural as this warm-cold light. “There is the problem of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “Exactly what the doctor said. So he made me an unofficial member of the clinic staff. Sort of an unpaid adviser.” Brian showed his quick smile. “A lot of people around here 123 take it for granted that their pastor is the one man in town who doesn’t need to be paid for extra work.”

  Nathan allowed his concern to show. “There’s a man here in town with a worrying cough. Sounds to me like chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.”

  “I don’t know what those words mean, but I’d guess you’re talking about Frank Keegan. Sounds like a cranky cement mixer when he coughs from the back of church.”

  “Right. According to what he told me today, he’s had a productive cough for three months or more every winter for years.”

  “As far back as I can remember.” Brian’s smile was easier now, soft as the sun and glowing. “Don’t know what I’d do without him hacking to punctuate my sermons.”

  “You may have to do just that.” He said the words with the same cold force he always used for delivering such news. Only this time they stabbed him deeply. “Keegan reports that he’s carried this particular cough all summer long.”

  Brian sobered. “That’s right. He has.”

  “This is not a good sign. It means his lungs have become so weak they can’t easily ventilate. The fluids from last winter are still in there.” Wishing he could ease back, craving a way to say this more softly. “I’m fairly certain he will succumb to bronchial pneumonia before this winter is out.”

  Brian turned and inspected the autumn-clad hills. The colors seemed to dance like golden fairies in the mild highland wind. “I’ve known Frank Keegan all my life. He used to run the soda shop at the other end of town. Spent my first pennies on his cherry pop.”

  “I’m sorry.” Even that came out like a bark. One that had been there for years, only now it sounded alien. Only here it felt all wrong.

  Brian sighed. “The hillfolk call chest colds the old man’s friend, on account of how it welcomes them into death.” He turned his gaze back to Nathan. “Thank you for the news, friend. I will have a word with Frank’s family.”

  Nathan sought for more to say, but could only start for the clinic, shamed by his own failings and scalpel-sharp edges.

  “Nathan, wait.” When he turned around, Brian asked, “Back to what we were talking about earlier. Would you care to join me for study?”

  He managed a nod. Inadequate a response as it was, the movement brought a flash of pure delight to the pastor’s features. “That’s wonderful, friend. How about tonight after dinner, say about seven?”

  “Fine.” Nathan walked off, abashed at his paltry wealth of words.

  Yet the thought which carried him back to the clinic was of a single word. One twice spoken by the pastor. One which lingered in the air like autumn light, warm and friendly and cool and fresh. He found the word as strange as the comforting silence that held this town, as refreshing as the constant melody the river sang to his approach. Even the rushing waters seemed to echo the thought, the word, the pastor’s gift.

  Friend.

  Thirteen

  When Nathan arrived back at the clinic, a lovely blonde woman was leaning over the receptionist desk, smiling and chatting with Hattie. But as soon as his shadow appeared in the doorway, the young lady straightened and the smiles disappeared. The action clawed at him.

  “Oh, Doctor Reynolds. Your next patient is ready.” Hattie rose from her desk and ran a nervous hand down the front of her dress. “This is my daughter, Dawn.”

  He could not completely hide his surprise. Hattie was handsome in a strong way, with hollows like windblown hillsides sharpening her face. Dawn was another thing entirely, a truly gorgeous blonde. But her eyes held the level hardness of one long angry. There in her gaze Nathan recognized every brusque word he had spoken to Hattie Campbell.

  “The town is surely glad to have you around, Doctor Reynolds.” Dawn’s voice held the flat quality of a confidence far beyond her years. “Just exactly how long do you aim on staying?”

  There it was. The same question he had asked himself so often. All of the quiet chatter in his reception room halted instantly. The atm
osphere condensed into silent waiting.

  Nathan took a breath. And it was the breath that saved him. For there in the cramped reception room, filled by worry and illness, he did not smell the age of the house nor the antiseptic cleaner nor the medicines. Instead, he smelled the mountains. And he heard the river, and the mysteries that permeated down from the lake and the hilltop and the frosty winter sunrise to this little room, crowded with people and listening and need.

  “I don’t know.” There was no need for anything except the truth. And the first truth required a second. He turned to Hattie and went on, “I owe you an apology.”

  His words sounded gruff in his ears. Gruff and holding to the anger that had seen him through so much. Even so, surprise at his words pushed both women back a half-step. “Doctor Reynolds—”

  “I’ve brought a lot of battles up here with me.” Strange. Even though the mountain’s mysteries remained locked in the realm beyond words and understanding, his own internal struggles were surging forth, forcing him to speak of what he had harbored as secrets for so long. As though the two could not exist within the same soul, the secrets he had brought and the secrets he had found here. “But none of them were with you. I should never have treated you like I have.”

  “That’s right,” Dawn said sharply. “You sure shouldn’t have. My mama’s a saint, and you ought to treat her like one.”

  Nathan looked from mother to daughter, and for an instant stood at a distance from himself as well. He felt the anger surging, the desire to respond with a blast of his own. But he couldn’t. There was a new power there, one which struggled with unseen reins and held him back. He replied, “All I can say is, I’ll try to do better.”

  The room seemed to breathe easier, as though something vital had been witnessed and accepted. The daughter remained unconvinced, her gaze cautious and constrained.