Harp on the Willow

by BJ Hoff

  He could tell the boy’s next words were uttered with some difficulty. “I’ll find a way to pay you when I can.”

  Daniel regarded him with interest, realizing he could grow to like the boy. “You can pay me, for now at least, by carrying out my instructions and making sure your sister gets proper care.”

  The boy gave a short nod. “You’re Irish.”

  Daniel nodded. “I am.” He was well aware that his own accent was still noticeable, despite his years in the States. It also occurred to him that he would have been only slightly younger than Rory Flynn when he and his mother made the crossing. The thought warmed him toward the boy even more.

  For a moment Rory looked uncertain, and then he wiped a quick hand down the side of his trousers and extended it.

  Daniel accepted the youth’s handshake with pleasure, for he imagined that that calloused young hand was neither casually nor often offered.

  As he drove the buggy out of town, Daniel gave vent to the melancholy that had been crowding in on him ever since he’d ridden into Owenduffy.

  “Well, boy,” he said to the big Newfoundland perched on the bench beside him, “it’s this kind of place—and this kind of night—that ought to make us mindful of just how well-off we are, I expect. Not much of a life over here, especially for young ’uns like the Flynns. Not much of a life at all.”

  The Newfie shook his shaggy head in tacit agreement and then hefted his sturdy shoulder against Daniel’s as if to comfort him.

  It was Daniel’s way to make prayer a part of his treatments, and almost straightaway he began to lift Molly Maureen Flynn and her protective older brother to the Lord, for surely those two could use more help than they were getting.

  He didn’t stop praying until he reached home, where he took a long look around his surroundings with a bit more appreciation than usual.

  SIX

  SUNDAY SPECIAL

  Oh, the comfort—the inexpressible comfort, of feeling safe with a person—having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out.

  DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK

  The merciless heat had finally broken, leaving the valley not exactly cool, but somewhat cloudy and pleasant. So pleasant that Daniel decided to walk to church Sunday morning, accompanied by Sarge, of course.

  At the Methodist church, he slowed down as much as possible without making himself conspicuous. If Serena had returned from Buckhannon by now, perhaps he’d meet up with her before she went inside.

  For a moment he was tempted to go inside rather than continuing on to the chapel but then decided that would be conspicuous. He could hardly sneak into a church sanctuary other than his own just to manage a moment with Serena.

  All the same, he did slow his pace considerably, coming to a complete halt when he met Stephen and Esther. She was glowing like a young girl, while Stephen clutched her arm as if he feared she might topple over if he let go.

  Miss Gladys Piper was just pulling up in her buggy—which she drove herself, as always—so Daniel hurried to help her out and escort her to the church door.

  “I can’t think why you simply don’t join us,” she said somewhat sternly before going inside. “Reverend Jeffords does tend to run on at times, I’ll admit. Nevertheless, he usually delivers a fine sermon.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he does, Miss Gladys, but I’m kind of settled in at the chapel now. Perhaps I’ll pay a visit one of these days, though.”

  On his way down the steps to reclaim Sarge, he greeted Lida Broomhall and J.D., whose shirt collar looked to be starched so stiff it threatened to choke off his windpipe.

  “You’re goin’ in the wrong direction, Doc!” boomed J.D.

  “I’ve heard that before,” Daniel rejoined with a wave, not stopping to talk, since he was already running late for his own worship service.

  “No Serena this morning, Sarge,” he told the Newfie as they trotted on down the street. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  Sarge chuffed softly as if to acknowledge his own disappointment, and Daniel put a hand to his companion’s silky head, rubbing his ears a little before parking him in the lobby beside the church door, where he would faithfully wait until the end of the service.

  Not for the first time, he congratulated himself for having the good sense to choose a dog with such a sensitive spirit.

  Sandy MacIver, in Daniel’s opinion, was an inspiring man, in or out of the pulpit. He was also, in addition to being his pastor, Daniel’s closest friend in Mount Laurel.

  As Daniel sat listening to the concluding remarks of the morning message, he felt genuinely blessed and uplifted by the worship service. While Sandy’s sermon wasn’t the sole source of the blessing, it was certainly a vital part of it.

  Sanderson MacIver was a sinewy Scot with a neat mustache and a watchful gaze, a man whose easygoing manner might have caused him to appear somewhat ineffectual to those who didn’t know him. Because Daniel did know him, he was keenly aware that there wasn’t a fellow in town more capable of exerting his influence or changing minds and hearts than the wiry redhead who occupied the pulpit of the Mount Laurel Chapel every Sunday.

  Sandy—who refused to countenance the title “Reverend” when applied to himself or anyone else—was a man whose intelligence was surpassed only by his compassion and kindness. A man as quick to weep with his flock as he was to celebrate with them. A man who extended as much grace to nonbelievers as he did to the most faithful churchgoers. And a man clearly on intimate terms with the God he served so enthusiastically and wholeheartedly.

  He was also, Daniel had come to realize, a man who kept the door firmly closed on his own personal struggles. Even to his friends, although he had shared at least a part of his story with Daniel.

  There was sorrow behind that door, Daniel knew. An old sorrow, a long-standing, never-quite-healed sadness that accounted for the air of reticence and the occasional moodiness that seemed to shadow his friend.

  Long before Daniel first arrived in Mount Laurel, Charlotte MacIver had died giving birth to the child for which she and Sandy had hoped and prayed for nearly ten years. The infant, a boy, had also died.

  Daniel had witnessed much tragedy in his years as a physician, but he could only imagine Sandy’s grief. To lose both wife and a long-awaited son at the same time had to be almost more than a man could bear.

  Sandy had never remarried nor shown any inclination to do so, although Daniel was fairly sure that he was viewed as a highly eligible prospect by a number of single women around town—not to mention their mothers, who would like nothing better than to see their daughters wed to a fine, upstanding man of the cloth like Sanderson MacIver.

  On that infrequent occasion when he voiced this conjecture to his friend and pastor, however, it was quickly pointed out that a bachelor physician might prove just as desirable a target for some matronly matchmaker as an unmarried clergyman, and that perhaps Sandy ought to bring his good chum, Daniel, to the attention of some of the more determined ladies and their unmarried daughters.

  This usually put an end to Daniel’s fun, at least until next time.

  In the midst of his musing, Daniel suddenly realized that those around him were rising for the closing hymn and benediction. As he scrambled to his feet, he glanced up at the pulpit and saw from the look of wry amusement on Sandy’s face that he’d been found out for his wandering thoughts.

  He grinned back and then jumped right into the final chorus of “Just As I Am,” with a little more verve than was his habit.

  His pastor merely lifted a knowing eyebrow and went on singing.

  Some months ago, Helen Platt—of Helen’s Mountain Inn—had dubbed them “The Bachelor Brigade.”

  Daniel Kavanagh, Sandy MacIver, and Lawrence Hill—doctor, pastor, and newspaper publisher—now sat at their usual table by the window, enjoying the “Sunday Special” of glazed ham, corn bread, and sweet potatoes. Three unmarried men, each a professional, each still young enough that their single status was not necessar
ily a permanent condition.

  A fact that Helen seldom missed a chance to point out.

  The only other bachelor in Mount Laurel—at least the only other one old enough to shave and young enough to bother to do so—was Bernard Cottle, proprietor of the local shoe shop. The threesome had invited Bernie to join them on more than one occasion, but the somewhat shy, bookish Bernie seemed to prefer the company—and understandably, the cooking—of his mother.

  It wasn’t that Bernie was standoffish or overly particular. But Josephine Cottle made the best black walnut cake and the most sinfully delicious custard pie in the county. Having sampled both of these delicacies at various town socials and church functions, Daniel figured it only stood to reason that Mrs. Cottle would also set a savory Sunday dinner table.

  That being the case, he had long accepted Bernie’s ongoing refusals as the wisdom of a man who had better choices.

  Although Daniel spent more time with Sandy and felt closer to him, he also liked and genuinely respected Lawrence. The handsome, silver-haired publisher of the town newspaper was Mount Laurel’s most sophisticated resident.

  Having tired of the hassle of city life some years before the war, Lawrence had uprooted and moved to Mount Laurel, seeking, in his own words, “the luxury of a peaceful place and a slower pace.” He had bought the then struggling newspaper from its elderly owner and set about turning it into a fairly prosperous weekly that served not only Mount Laurel but most of Randolph County as well. As a pastime, he wrote political articles for one of the New York City magazines, but the Public Sentinel received the best part of his time and energy.

  Daniel, at thirty-four, was the youngest of the three, and, in his own judgment, the least cosmopolitan. He felt quite certain that Lawrence had never had any rough edges, and if Sandy ever had, he’d clearly lost them by now.

  As for himself, he couldn’t quite shake the image of a rawboned Irish immigrant boy still trying to grow into his own skin. No small undertaking, he reckoned, since he stood a good six feet four and had the long arms and “generous” feet of a plowboy.

  “So, Daniel. I hear you’ve expanded your practice.”

  Daniel frowned at Lawrence’s remark. “Expanded?”

  The other took a sip of coffee. “Word has it you made a visit to Owenduffy the other night.”

  Daniel stared at him. “How in the world did you hear about that?”

  Lawrence shrugged. “No secrets in a small town. Besides, newspapermen are unconscionable snoops, you know.”

  “Well, even for Mount Laurel, my comings and goings aren’t exactly news,” Daniel groused. “Or at least I shouldn’t think they would be. But, yes, I did see a patient over there Friday night. A little girl.”

  “Where was the company doctor?” Sandy put in.

  “Most likely where he usually is,” Lawrence replied sourly. “Either on a binge or sleeping one off.”

  From what Daniel had heard, Bevins didn’t just indulge himself with the occasional binge. He simply stayed drunk most of the time. But Daniel kept that bit of gossip to himself.

  “So how did you come to step in for him?” Sandy asked.

  Daniel told them then about Molly Maureen Flynn and her brother, Rory.

  “Bad situation,” said Lawrence when Daniel had finished his account. “But it may have been a mistake for you to go over there. The company doesn’t take kindly to interference from outsiders.”

  Daniel looked from Lawrence to Sandy, who lifted his eyebrows in tacit agreement.

  “The child was seriously ill,” Daniel said slowly. “Apparently, Dr. Bevins was nowhere to be found. What would you have done?”

  “Probably the same thing,” Sandy admitted, while Lawrence merely shrugged.

  “But that doesn’t mean the company will see it that way,” added Sandy. “They won’t hesitate to take you to task. Or try.”

  “Well, they can take me to task today if they like. I plan to check on the child again later this afternoon.”

  Lawrence shook his head. “Better leave it alone, Daniel. Those company bosses can be a tough bunch.”

  Surprised at his friends’ comments about what Daniel considered a purely natural response to a call for help, he laughed a little. “What do you think they’ll do to me? Impale me on my own scalpel? I didn’t abduct the girl. I simply examined her and gave her some medicine.”

  After a pause, Sandy said, “Just be careful, that’s all. I don’t think you realize how territorial the coal company is. You may think we’re making too much of this, but—”

  “I know you’re making too much of it,” Daniel told him. “And quite frankly, I couldn’t care less what the coal company thinks. If they’re that concerned about who takes care of their people, then maybe they ought to consider hiring on a new doctor. One who can be found when he’s needed.”

  Daniel squirmed a little at what sounded, even to his own ear, like a touch of self-righteousness. But from what he knew—admittedly gleaned for the most part from rumor and fence post gossip—the situation with the company doctor was an ongoing problem. The man was supposed to be looking after the miners and their families. A full-time job, or at least it ought to be. Bevins, however, was reputed to be entirely indifferent to his responsibilities and made something of a mockery of the profession with his bad behavior and his indifference toward his own patients.

  Worse still, Daniel wondered if the man might not be downright dangerous—a threat to those he did treat, given the tales about his often being thick tongued and bleary eyed in the middle of the day. The idea of a man like that treating the critically ill—a child like Molly Maureen Flynn, for example—chilled his blood.

  The thought of the little girl he had promised to look in on made him push back from the table and get to his feet. “Well, this has been pleasant as always, fellows, but I have to be on my way.”

  “We don’t mean to pick on you, Daniel,” said Lawrence with a rather sheepish smile. “Just looking out for your well-being, you know.”

  Daniel shot him a wry look as he retrieved his wallet. “And I appreciate your concern, Lawrence. I would never take lightly the wisdom of your advanced years. Or my pastor’s sage advice.”

  Lawrence curled his lip, and Sandy grinned as Daniel gave them a wave and headed off to pay his bill.

  SEVEN

  SERENA

  And O! She was the Sunday

  In every week.

  AUSTIN CLARKE

  If Daniel had left Mount Laurel when he’d planned to, he might have missed Serena.

  As luck would have it, though, he forgot his medical bag on the kitchen table and had to go back inside to retrieve it. Sarge leaped from the buggy to follow, only to be sidetracked by a devilish tomcat out on an afternoon foraging expedition. By the time Daniel reclaimed the big Newfie—much to the relief of the cat, no doubt—it was almost half an hour later than he’d planned to start for Owenduffy.

  He glanced back at the house before they neared the edge of town. He had chosen the site not only for the exceptional view of the surrounding mountains and the river, but also for the way it overlooked the valley and the town itself, just below the ridge. From his vantage point, Mount Laurel took on the appearance of a hand-hewn miniature village, each piece carved with the same excellence and minutiae of detail the tragic Friedrich Willmar had applied to the artistry of his carousel.

  Most nights he fell asleep staring at the moon-silvered slopes of the hills while listening to the river run its languid course down the valley. And almost every morning, except in bitter weather, he would walk to the edge of his property, a mug of coffee in hand, and feast his eyes on the town and the mountains he had come to love with an almost proprietary kind of affection, as though a part of his very soul were somehow bonded to his surroundings.

  He liked living where he did, pressed against the hillside at the tip of Mount Laurel. Some of his patients seemed to think he ought to keep residence at his office, probably so they wouldn’t have to go too
far in search of him if he happened to be needed. But Daniel had never much liked the idea of living where he worked. He seemed to need at least the illusion that his profession and his personal life were separate.

  The truth was that it was difficult if not impossible to separate his personal life from his work. It sometimes seemed that almost everything he did was somehow wrapped up in the practice of medicine.

  No doubt that made him a very dull fellow. At least his friends seemed to think so. They liked to nag that he should join them more often for “recreation.” Daniel was just as fond of telling them that he did not consider sticking a hook through a helpless worm simply to entice an equally helpless fish a particularly civilized form of recreation. Nor did bringing down a tree squirrel with a hunting rifle relax him. Not a bit.

  If he found some perverse form of relaxation in inflicting pain on one of God’s creatures, he would tell them, he might just as well lance a boil or set a broken bone. At least he got paid for that kind of “amusement.”

  The afternoon sun seemed to brighten considerably as he caught a glimpse of Serena Norman’s fussy little buggy parked in front of the schoolhouse. It brightened still more when he spied Serena herself striding down the boardwalk in front of the building.

  He pulled up behind her buggy, ran a hand through his hair, and jumped down to meet her. She smiled, and he figured he was grinning like a lovesick schoolboy. But then, Serena ought to be used to that by now. She had the same effect on most of the male population in town.

  “Isn’t she something now?” he observed to Sarge, who leaped from the buggy and would have galloped full bore toward Serena had Daniel not restrained him with a hand on his head. The Newfie looked at him, but only for a second or two before returning his full attention to Serena.

  By the time she reached them, Daniel’s mouth was almost too dry to speak, and his voice actually cracked when he tried. “I was wondering when you’d be back.”