“When he finally hit water, I bet George was really excited.”
“He was. He’d been diggin’ a couple hours when from the side of the well, down low, he noticed a real small trickle, so small that you ’bout couldn’t see it. Four years, he’d been diggin’. That was the first sight of water he saw.”
“I bet he called for Lizzie to come see.”
“No. He kept it to hisself. The next day, when he climbed down in that well, the floor where he was digging was a little damp. By the end of the day—he let his other work go that day—it was muddy. He knew he was close, but still he didn’t tell Lizzie. He had in mind a surprise. When he came in for dinner, she noticed that his boots was wet, and she questioned him about it. He told her he’d spilled water on them when he was washing up.”
Rochelle poured Crow a second glass of tea.
“That night, George could hardly sleep, he was so excited. Next morning, he got up way before Lizzie did, when it was barely getting light outside, went out to the well, and climbed down inside it. And after just an hour of work, he found himself standing in six inches of water.”
“Did he go get Lizzie then?”
“No, not then. What he did was creep into the house, careful not to let the screen door slam. He got a teacup out of the cupboard, run back out to the well, and filled the cup with water. Careful, so as not to spill it, for his hands were shaking something terrible, he carried it back into the house, knelt down beside the bed, woke Lizzie up, and showed her that cup of water.”
Rochelle sighed. “What a sweet man. He must have loved her so much!”
“Yep,” Crow went on. “George had dreamed of that moment for four years. The thought of bringing her that water was with him ever time he got down in that hole and picked up his shovel. The smile on her face was what he had waited for.”
Rochelle sighed again, enthralled by Crow’s romantic tale.
Crow pushed his plate back and drained his glass of tea. “Honey, I’ve got to get on home, but before I do, I’m gone let you in on a little secret that most women don’t know. My great-grandpa George weren’t all that special.”
“What do you mean? He spent four long years digging a well for his wife!”
“Naw, now listen up. Sugar, most ever bit of what a good man does is to please his woman. He may not dig her a well, or build her a mansion, or fight her a bear, but when he puts in overtime at work, feeling like he’s come down with the flu, it’s with her on his mind. When he’s barely twenty years old and spends his Saturday mowing the yard, putting a new seat on the toilet, and changing the oil in the car, he’s doing it for her. When he goes to the store because the baby got the diarrhea and needs diapers even though the score’s tied and it’s the bottom of the ninth, he’s hoping she’ll smile at him when he gets back. I’m telling you, a man won’t let on, but pleasing his wife is the thing he wants most. That’s all great-grandpa George was looking for when he spent four years diggin’ that well that right now is sittin’ in your backyard.”
Rochelle couldn’t think of what to say.
Crow scooted his chair back. “Now. How much do I owe you? Reckon you got change for a hundred?”
That evening after dinner, Rochelle asked Rocky to walk out with her so she could take another look at the well. Even in the twilight, she could see that he had repaired the rotten frame around it and had hung a shiny new bucket from a strong new rope.
“Looks nice,” she said.
Rocky dropped the bucket down, let it fill, and then slowly pulled it up. “I took a sample in to be tested. Turns out this is good water. Pure enough to drink. Want a taste?”
“Sure.”
Rocky dipped his cupped hands into the bucket and raised them to Rochelle’s lips.
Water dribbled from his fingertips down her chin.
“Good?”
“Very. Best water I ever tasted.”
He smiled.
She smiled.
THEY TELL ME that it is good water indeed.
2
HOT DOG’S ON THE HOUSE
“WHAT A PRETTY PIECE,” gushed clinic nurse Janet Evans. “Esther, have you seen this?”
Esther Vaughn, the clinic’s receptionist and farsighted, good-natured expert on most everything, pushed her reading glasses up on her nose so as to better study the tiny stitches. “I’m telling you. I’ve done a good bit of needlepoint myself, but never anything so intricate as this. Lots of work goes into a piece like that.”
“Five months worth. That’s how long Miss Annie said it took her to make it.” Dr. Sarah Strickland, sole physician at Ella Louise’s Family Medical Clinic, held the framed needlepoint at arm’s length to see the full effect.
“Miss Annie gave it to you? Just now? What a sweet woman.”
“Bless her sweet heart.”
Indeed.
At the conclusion of her regular checkup, Miss Annie Wall, arthritic, diabetic, and experiencing what unfortunately looked like early symptoms of Alzheimer’s, had thrust the unexpected gift upon Dr. Strickland. Sarah had responded appropriately, gently hugging Miss Annie and thanking her profusely. Yet though the tangible expression of Miss Annie’s gratitude truly touched Sarah’s heart, its message rankled.
“Goodness! Where you gonna hang it, Dr. Strickland?” asked Janet. “In the waiting room?”
“Not there,” said Esther. “Way too much stuff cluttering up those walls already. I say we put it in the main exam room. There’s that blank spot over the scales. Folks could use something nice to look at while they wait for you to give them the bad news!”
Janet giggled. “I say we hang it in the hall—next to the chart racks.”
“I think there’s a nail in my desk drawer. Want me to get the hammer, Doctor?”
“Wait just a second,” Sarah hedged. “Let’s don’t hang it quite yet.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Umm . . . ”
“Don’t you wanna hang it?”
“Umm . . . ”
“Maybe she wants to take it home and display it in her house.”
“Why, of course! What are we thinking? I’ll wrap it up nice so the frame won’t get scratched.”
“Be cute in your den.”
“Or in your bedroom.”
“Perfect in your entry hall.”
The truth?
The sampler would hang in none of those spots.
Sarah appreciated the lovingly crafted, gold-framed sampler. She did. She admired the workmanship. She liked the colors. She even thought the border design was especially nice. And she loved Miss Annie. What Sarah was less than crazy about was the sentimental, carefully stitched message.
It made her wince.
God Couldn’t Be Everywhere
That’s Why He Made Mothers
Mothers.
Always there for their kids.
Always smiling.
Never too busy to bake cupcakes, read storybooks, or play cars.
Never tired, never irritable.
Never on call at the clinic.
Never, ever divorced.
Dr. Sarah Strickland, despite a calm professional manner, despite her competence and her compassion, grieved over what she perceived to be her numerous maternal failings. Becoming a single parent had never been in her plans.
Bless Miss Annie’s sweet heart, indeed. Sarah did not need a needlepoint reminder of what she could never be.
Sarah tucked the framed gift into her tote bag. It’ll make a nice Mother’s Day gift for my mother, she mused with a bit of sarcasm. Mom never worked outside the home. Mom never got divorced. Mom’s parenting skills put June Cleaver to shame.
After her 3:00 appointment Sarah called to check on her twelve-year-old twins. This was the first summer that she’d allowed the boys to stay at home without a sitter. Though they groaned at her repeated safety instructions and reminders not to open the door to anyone while she was gone, and though they told her over and over again that they were not babies, S
arah was worried about them.
And called them. At least every hour or so.
“Everything okay, Josh? Good. You had lunch? Kevin too? Potpies? You ate them frozen? Honey, you’re supposed to cook them in the microwave! I’m not sure they’re safe to eat like that. Was the chicken cooked? Are you sure? Okay. Clean up your mess. Put your dishes in the washer. Let me speak to Kevin.
“Kevin? You all right? Good. Nope. No swimming until I get home. About six. Did you get your chores done? All of them?
“What about Georgia? Did you feed her? There’s a fresh bag of dog food in the garage. Feed her first, then bathe her. Yes. Today. Before I get home. Georgia had better be clean when I get home or there won’t be any swimming. I mean it. See you in a few hours. Love you. Bye.”
Janet and Esther, whose kids were all grown up, eavesdropped, stifled giggles, and felt sympathy for their boss. Both of them remembered the trials they’d been through when their kids were at home and they were at work.
“I used to worry all day that they’d set the house on fire or something.”
“My two used to fight. I’d just pray every hour that they wouldn’t draw blood.”
“Your boys will be fine,” they assured Sarah after the frozen potpie incident. “It’s good for them to have a little time by themselves. Helps them to grow up and be independent. Don’t you worry. Take care of your patients. If one of your boys calls and it can’t wait, we’ll come and get you.”
But it wasn’t a call from one of the boys that precipitated Janet and Esther scuttering like flustered hens into the exam room, where Dr. Strickland was tending her last patient of the day—a skinny little man who had a big wart on the second finger of his left hand.
“Excuse me,” Janet said to the patient. “Dr. Strickland, you better come here.”
“What’s the matter? Copy machine acting up again? Can’t it wait?”
“No. Copy machine’s fine. There’s an officer here. He says he’s just come from your house, and he needs to see you right now,” Esther said.
“Mr. Stevens,” Janet told the befuddled and already disinfected patient, “can you wait just a minute? Here’s a magazine for you to read. Dr. Strickland will be right back.”
When Sarah saw the uniformed officer standing in the waiting room, nervously shifting from one foot to the other, holding his hat in his hand, she knew deep within her heart that her worst fears were about to be confirmed.
The news had to be bad.
I should never have left the boys alone, she thought. I should have made them go to day care no matter how much they protested. What was I thinking? Fact is, I should have let the practice go for the summer and stayed home with them. But then how would I have kept us afloat financially? This is what I get. I should never have agreed to the divorce. That’s it! No. I should have never married their father in the first place. Why, I should have become a teacher instead of a doctor! Teachers have summers off. What kind of a mother leaves her babies alone at home in a world full of violence and crime?
Keeping her panicked thoughts to herself and feigning a physician’s well-practiced calm, Sarah looked the officer in the eye and asked right out, “Tell me. What is it? Are my boys hurt?”
“Ma’am,” said the officer, “I don’t know anything about your boys.”
“You don’t! Then who does?”
“Ma’am, I’m here about your dog.”
Her dog? Her boys? What was going on?
“I’m the new animal control officer. Todd Scutter. Moved here with my wife, Patricia. I don’t deal with boys. Just dogs. Cats too. Well, and rabbits sometimes. Even a snake or two on occasion . . . ”
What? The boys were okay? Professional calm forgotten, Sarah sank into a chair. Esther got out a manila folder and fanned her while Janet went for a glass of water.
“Uh, ma’am, do you live at twelve-thirteen Garden Patch Road?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then I’ve got the right person. Seems we’ve got us a little problem. It’s not that there’s no ordinance against keeping your dog on the roof of your house, but ma’am, your poor pooch is barking her head off up there. Pitch of that roof’s pretty steep. Isn’t much in the way of shade. I don’t think she’s too happy, and neither are your neighbors. Three of ’em called city hall to fuss about it. I tried the doorbell at your house but didn’t get any answer.”
No answer at the door. Of course. Both boys knew better than to answer the door when she wasn’t home.
Wait a minute. There was a dog on the roof of her house? Georgia? What was Georgia doing up there?
“Someone told me you would be working here, so that’s why I’m calling on you at your place of business. Ma’am, do you think you could find some other place to keep your dog?”
You bet she could.
After finishing up with Mr. Stevens’s wart (“Put antibiotic ointment on it twice a day and keep it covered with a bandage. Sorry you had to wait.”), Sarah drove home. Sure enough, perched on the roof of the house, alternately whining, panting, pawing, and barking, was poor Georgia. Unable to lie down without losing her balance and tumbling to the ground, she nervously paced back and forth. Though she looked completely worn out, when she saw Sarah, her stumpy tail began to wag.
“Hold on, girl. Just give me a minute, and I’ll get you down.” Sarah got a ladder from the garage, leaned it up against the side of the house, climbed to the top, and brought the shaky-legged dog down to safety. Sarah released Georgia into the fenced backyard of the house, then waved at the nosy neighbors across the street.
Engrossed in a video game, Kevin and Josh didn’t even look up when Sarah walked into the house.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Can we go swimming now?”
She turned off the game.
“Mom! Why’d you do that? I was way ahead.”
“Why you got a mad look on your face, Mom? We did our chores.”
“We cleaned up the kitchen.”
“Picked up our clothes.”
“We even gave Georgia her bath.”
“And where is Georgia?” asked Sarah.
“Uh-oh.” The twins looked at each other.
“Just a second, Mom; I need to get something from outside.” Kevin got up to go outside.
“Too late. I already got her down. Can you tell me how exactly Georgia got up on the roof?”
“We put her there.”
“Guys, why would you do that?”
“You told us to bathe her.”
“You said she had to be clean when you got home.”
“So we put her up there to keep her from getting dirty.”
“Did you smell her, Mom? She smells pretty good.”
“For a dog.”
After a moment’s pause, Sarah’s tense shoulders relaxed. The furrow in her brow smoothed. The churning in her stomach slowed. She bent and gave her boys big hugs before allowing that Georgia did indeed smell pretty good.
For a dog.
THERE WOULD BE TIME to correct their misdeed. Time for Sarah to teach her boys yet more stuff about safety and pet care and how they must never, ever climb on a ladder when she wasn’t home.
But all that would have to wait for another day. On this one, Sarah, like Georgia, was simply going to enjoy the exquisite feeling of having her feet set back on the ground.
3
LET HER EAT CAKE
“CHAMBER OF COMMERCE. Yes. Yes. Can you hold on a minute, please?” Faye Beth Newman held her freshly manicured hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Mayor,” she hissed, “it’s Windell Minter. He wants to know if you’re still here.”
“What does he need?” Mayor Tinker already had his coat on. The phone had rung just as he was about to leave the office an hour early, which, forever mindful of giving a day’s work for a day’s taxpayer pay, he never, ever did.
“Says he needs to talk to you about getting a permit to
build a slide of some kind.”
Shoot. Today was Mayor Tinker’s wife, Tiny’s, birthday. He’d hoped to get home from work before she did so that he could have dinner ready when she drove in. He’d had it all planned since last week. Pork loin, red potatoes, asparagus, sugar-free buttermilk pie. All of her favorites. Taking Windell Minter’s call would mean a delay of no telling how long. Feeling guilty, he shifted from one foot to the other and looked at his watch.
Ten till five.
Then without giving Alfred the chance to decide, Faye Beth spoke into the phone. “Windell, I’m sorry, but you’ve just missed the mayor. He had some business to take care of and left early. How about I put you down for first thing in the morning? That will be fine. Okay. I’ll sure tell him.” She hung up the phone.
“Faye Beth—” the mayor began.
“Shush. Get yourself out that door. Go on now, before Windell drives by and sees you’re still here. You’ve put in at least forty-five hours this week already—what with city council and library board meetings. It won’t hurt a thing for you to scoot out early. Why, if they paid it, the city would owe you overtime. Go home. Make Tiny a good dinner. Tell her that I said to have a happy birthday. You baking her a sugar-free cake?”
All the way home, Mayor Tinker stewed. A slide? Whatever did Windell Minter want a slide for? He was a bachelor with no kids. Even if he did have kids, they’d be too old for a slide. Best Mayor Tinker could recall, Windell didn’t have any young nieces or nephews either. And what was the deal with Windell thinking he needed a permit? Why, nearly every third house in Ella Louise had a minivan parked in the driveway. From where he sat, looked like the one command from God that young couples of Ella Louise had taken to heart was to be fruitful and multiply. Minivans were what mamas and daddies these days used to cart their kids from one place to another. And anyone with sense would know that where there’s a minivan, there’s gonna be a Sears Best swing set—with a seesaw and a slide—set up in the backyard.
A permit? For a slide?
Faye Beth must have heard Windell wrong.
But she had not.
Watermelon Days and Firefly Nights: Heartwarming Scenes from Small Town Life Page 2