by Jeff High
“Hi, Mrs. Thompson. Dinner certainly smells fabulous.”
“It’s ready. Plates are in the cabinet. Serve yourself up.” Her voice was as impassive as ever.
“Actually, if it’s okay with you, I was thinking about going out for a short run to unwind from the day. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble here, so would it hurt your feelings if I were to just heat some up later?”
Connie looked at me flatly. “If I were an eight-year-old girl I guess I would be crushed about right now. But since I’m past that, no.”
It was answer enough. In reality, I really just wanted to keep my distance from Connie’s critical air. “Okay. I’ll be back later and will fix a plate then. But thank you so much. I’m sure it’s all great.”
Her response was deadpan. “Mmm-hmm, it is.”
I nodded.
She continued, “Well, I’ve got to go. There’s Jell-O in the refrigerator. And, Dr. Bradford, make sure you bless your food before you eat.”
Again, I nodded obediently.
“I’ll be back in the morning around six thirty to get your breakfast. Put the leftovers away and leave the dishes in the sink. I’ll catch them in the morning.”
“Okay, sounds good.” I paused. “Do I get breakfast in bed too?” I was ineptly trying to dispense a little charm, to do something to soften Connie’s hard exterior.
She stared at me warily, offering only a noncommittal grunt. As she turned to leave, she said in the same breezy, lilting voice, “I’d say there’s a better chance disco makes a comeback.” With that she was out the door.
I went for a short run, showered, and returned to the kitchen. I filled an overflowing plate of food and ate heartily. It was heaven, absolute bliss. Despite her critical demeanor, Connie Thompson was quite the cook. I wondered if her delicious but calorie-laden meals had put her late husband into an early grave. It was probable, but I shrugged and filled my plate again, deciding it wasn’t such a bad way to go.
After dinner I got to work setting up my wireless network, eager to connect with old friends and to make sure the world hadn’t ended in the last twenty-four hours—the kind of news that probably wouldn’t reach Watervalley for another day or so. After a few short minutes I was online and bouncing around to some familiar sites.
Then an odd thing happened. A blip went across my screen, something I didn’t recognize. Maybe because I was in Watervalley, it hadn’t occurred to me to set up my Wi-Fi with password protection. As a precaution I immediately went to the DHCP clients table, the setting on my computer that revealed who was using the wireless network. My jaw dropped. Just that quickly, somebody had slid in on my network, potentially peeking into all my personal accounts. Not knowing what else to do, I reached over and pulled the power to the router, shutting the whole business down. I set up the wireless network again, but this time established password protection. It was odd, and a little unnerving. I checked and rechecked but no other users were getting access. Notably, somebody nearby was reasonably tech savvy. Perhaps Watervalley wasn’t as far off the grid as I had thought.
Eventually, I let the matter drop and made my way to bed. I had other concerns. Tomorrow would be my first day with patients, a reality that nagged at me with a small amount of trepidation. It was my debut as a real doctor.
CHAPTER 6
A Day with Patients
I awoke early and anxious, opting to take a morning run to start the day. As I passed them, the sleepy, majestic houses on Fleming Street spoke of old money from the town’s more robust years, when the railroad was still in operation. Within only a few blocks the quiet street gave way to a two-lane blacktop that shortly after became a country lane. On either side were broad, rolling pastures with grazing Holsteins, well-kept fences, cornfields, large gardens, white-painted hay barns, and boxy red tobacco sheds. From a distance came the low drone of a tractor moving about the fields. The sunlight spreading across the sloping hills gave me the sense I’d stepped into a different century, a faraway land. No doubt, Watervalley had a pastoral charm. It was a delightful start to the day. But it was short-lived.
Returning home, I noticed Connie’s car once again parked out front, filling me with a low apprehension. I stopped on the front porch, standing with both hands on my knees to catch my breath. From inside I heard a voice singing a vaguely familiar hymn in a rich, deep contralto. The voice was powerful, mesmerizing. Regrettably, my entry through the front door silenced it.
“Is that you, Dr. Bradford?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Thompson. Certainly smells good in here.” I was soaked with sweat.
She, however, stared at me dryly. The delight that a moment earlier was driving the song in her heart had been derailed on the way to her face. Nevertheless, it privately revealed something about Connie Thompson. It occurred to me that her scornful nature might be only a veneer.
“Hmm-hmm. Aren’t you just a daisy? Been swimming in the lake?”
“I went for a run. I do it every morning.” I paused to catch my breath. “In med school we called it exercise.” I couldn’t resist nudging her a little. “As your doctor, I would suggest that you consider trying it. A little running or walking could be a very healthy habit for you.”
“Humph,” replied Connie. “First of all, you’re not my doctor. Second, I’ve seen lots of people running. Never seen the first one smiling. They’re all wearing a pained look on their face. Soon as I see someone running and smiling, I’ll give your advice some thought.”
I couldn’t help but be amused. “Okay, fine—make a joke. But you know as well as I do that exercise is a good thing.”
She stared at me passively and then grabbed a towel to retrieve a pan of biscuits from the oven. As she continued with her breakfast preparations, she spoke generally to the room.
“Every fool knows that exercise is good for you, Dr. Bradford. But for a woman my age, running would accelerate my heart too quickly into an anaerobic rate. It’d also push me past my lactate threshold. Now, it’s possible I could convert lactate to pyruvate and use it to fuel the citric acid cycle or I could get rid of the lactate with the Cori cycle by converting it to glucose in my liver. But uhh-uhh—neither are good for a woman my age.”
She let that soak in for a heavy moment. Then she added in an unaffected and airy tone, “Any ol’ doctor ought to know that.”
For several moments I stood with my mouth open, speechless. “Whoa whoa whoa. Where did that come from?”
“Where did what come from?”
“All that. That talk of pyruvate and the Cori cycle. That’s not stuff you pick up while making casseroles.”
“Oh, that. Well, my youngest, Angelica, is a nurse and I used to help her with her studies when she came home on the weekend. Anyway, enough of this foolishness. Get your soaked, smelly self upstairs and get showered and ready for work. Otherwise you’re gonna be late on your first day with patients.”
It was clear that beneath the stern exterior Connie was subtly amused with herself. Her half smile had something of a forced, accommodating quality, the kind people use when they’re looking at ugly babies.
I was still dumbfounded, staring vacantly.
“Heavens, boy—shoo. Go defunkafy yourself!”
I looked back at Connie as I retreated up the back stairs. I could have sworn I saw a broad grin emerge across her face.
At ten minutes till eight I was out the front door walking the three blocks over to the clinic on Church Street. I passed through the Episcopal church parking lot, which, oddly, was filled with cars. I didn’t think much of it since churches often had breakfast meetings during the week for various committees or groups. But as I walked to the back door of the clinic, I noticed that the entire clinic lot was also full of cars.
Nancy greeted me with her normal hurried exuberance.
“Morning, Dr. Bradford. Big day. Big day today. Lots of patients here to see you. Lots of patients.”
From the rear entrance I stepped into the wide central hallway and stopp
ed short. The front reception area was standing room only with a mass of solemn-faced people peering back at me. A few low-toned conversations could be heard, but mostly they all stood grimly like a group of strangers at a train stop. I stepped back into the small rear entrance room.
“Ms. Orman, how many appointments do I have today?”
“Forty or so. We schedule them ten to fifteen minutes apart.”
“Oh,” I responded, only modestly relieved. “Must be a lot of family that came along, because it sure seems like a bigger group than that out there.”
“No, no, Dr. Bradford. They pretty much are all patients. The clinic has always had a policy of taking walk-ins since there’s really not any other place for them to go. So people come early to get their name on the list. First come, first served, you know.”
“And how many have signed up on the walk-in list?”
“Oh, about another thirty, so far.” Nancy grabbed my hand and spoke in an excited yet confidential tone. “People just can’t wait to meet the new doctor. They just can’t wait.”
I studied her for a moment, slowly taking a deep breath. I forced a smile and spoke with resignation. “Okay. Well, let’s get started.”
“Your first patient is here for his annual physical. He’s in room one and his chart is hanging outside the door.”
“Just a physical? Shouldn’t we be putting well-patient care off till we see the sick ones?”
“This one is kind of a special case.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Mr. McAnders is the oldest resident of Watervalley. He’s sort of the—well, the grandfather of the community. Letting him go first just seems like the right thing to do.”
I had to agree. But the idea of seventy-plus patients waiting had me on edge. In an effort to be lighthearted I responded, “Okay, then. But let me know immediately if anybody out there is bleeding, convulsing, or grabbing their chest.”
“Yes, Dr. Bradford,” Nancy responded, and half bowed in an act of obedience.
Outside exam room one I glanced at the chart. There was an obvious typo that showed the patient’s year of birth as 1912. This would make him almost a hundred years old. The little man sitting on the end of the exam table was clearly an octogenarian or better. He wore a flannel shirt and khakis and probably weighed no more than 140 pounds. As he turned his head, a pair of shining blue eyes glinted at me.
“Good morning, Doc. I’m Knox McAnders.” He held out a hand that wavered in space until I was able to set down the chart and grab it.
“Luke Bradford, Mr. McAnders. Good to meet you.”
Knox had a warm smile and remarkably smooth rose-colored cheeks. He had a full head of short, neatly cut white hair and bushy white eyebrows. But what struck me most was the clarity of his eyes, which were light blue with a perceptible mischievous spark in them. He seemed a man in which humor was never far away.
“Mr. McAnders, your chart says that you are ninety-nine years old. Is that correct?”
“Sounds about right. Way I see it, Doc, I got two choices: old or dead. So I guess I’ll just take old.” His mouth had a slight quiver when he spoke, as if his small, slightly protruding jaw had to get started before the words actually arrived.
“Well, you look pretty good for a man of your years.”
“Well, not really, Doc. If you want to see someone who looks good, you should see my dad. He’s the one who drove me here.”
He turned his head to catch my reaction. I was about to speak but stopped abruptly with an incredulous look. It was long enough for Knox to know he had successfully hoaxed the young doctor, even if just for a moment. I smiled and began to reach for my stethoscope.
“You had me for a second there, Mr. McAnders. Take a few deep breaths for me.”
“Ah, hell, Doc. Call me Knox.”
As I continued with the examination, Knox told me briefly of his family history. His father had immigrated to America from Scotland in 1898 at the age of thirty-eight. The high hills surrounding Watervalley reminded him of his native Highlands, so he bought land and began to farm as well as make Scotch whiskey on the side.
Knox also spoke about his older brother.
“His name was Cullen. I think he was born in 1900. When the Great War broke out, Dad couldn’t stop him from joining up, what with our Scottish cousins fighting the Germans. He survived the war but caught the influenza on the train ride back to Watervalley. He lingered for about a week, but it got the better of him. Everybody in the family took the flu, but Cullen was the only one who died from it. Broke my dad’s heart. Three boys from Watervalley were killed in the Great War, but two times that died of the flu epidemic of 1918.”
I remembered studying about the Spanish flu, which had devastated millions. But its history was long in the past. Knox’s other comment intrigued me. “So your dad made Scotch?”
“He did up till the war. When my brother died, my mother and her Presbyterian roots somehow convinced him that the making of spirits had brought calamity on the family. So my dad shut it all down. Silly, I guess. But that’s just how tragedy affects people. They look for something to be the cause.”
I nodded, understanding Knox’s words better than he knew.
“My dad was also in the ice business. The farm has this big cave that goes into the rock face on Akin Ridge. In the winter he would cut blocks of ice out of the lake and store it deep in the cave. Then he’d sell ice all summer long. Something about the mineral content in that old cave kept it cold, sort of a natural deep freeze. He would have ice that never melted all summer and was still there when the first frost hit in October.”
Once again Knox paused. “A lot of old shafts in that cave. I think my dad stuck all his distillery stuff and whatever whiskey he was aging back in one of them and walled it up after Cullen died. Least, that’s what I heard. I was just a boy and had gone to Primm Springs to convalesce after the funeral. When I got back, the distillery was gone from the barn and my folks never talked about it.”
His story was interesting, but something more important was grabbing my attention. While listening to his heart, I was convinced I heard a slight irregularity.
“What do you do for exercise, Mr. McAnders?”
“I walk down to the high-water mark and back. It’s about a half mile from the house.”
“The watermark?”
“The river borders the northwest edge of the farm. There is a high rock bluff on the far side. Kids like to jump off of it. Dangerous, I think.”
Knox paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. I was fidgeting, but listened patiently.
“Anyway, when the big flood came in ’twenty-nine, the river rose thirty feet above where it is now. You can still see the watermark on that rock bluff after all these years. It colored the rock differently, like a paint line.”
Knox spoke on reflectively, but with clarity. “I remember it like it was yesterday. Rained for seven days. I was nineteen. Two weeks later the stock market crashed and the local bank failed. Had my savings on deposit there. Wasn’t much, but I never saw a dime of it. I was just starting to take over the farm from my dad. He died a week after Christmas, cancer in his lungs. Everything was ruined. Flood got two of our barns. We lost half our cattle. It was a bad time. But we got past it. So I like to walk down there and look at that watermark. It reminds me that you can get through anything. You just got to use your head and not give up.”
I smiled and nodded. It was time to move on. “Knox, sounds like you’ve had quite a life. Look, overall you seem fine but I want to run a couple of tests just to be sure. I’m going to get the nurse to do a twelve-lead ECG to see if it tells me anything more specific.”
“Is that where they strap those wires to me?”
“Yeah, it’s painless. It measures the electrical activity of your heart.”
Knox shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you think, Doc. I’m hoping I can hang on for a few more months till I reach a hundred years. The mayor’s told me we’
ll have a big parade to celebrate when the Fall Festival comes around.”
“Sounds like a pretty nice gesture.”
“Not really. It’s an election year. Mayor Hickman’s no dummy.” Knox’s eyes twinkled. He spoke confidentially. “Still, could be a good way to meet some women.”
I had to laugh. “Okay. But first let’s get that ECG done to make sure your heart’s up to all those celebrity moments.”
“While you’re at it, check my ears. I keep hearing rumbling sounds in the night. It wakes me up.”
This was odd, but not particularly alarming. “Anybody else hear these sounds?”
“I don’t really know. My grandson Toy lives with me and sort of looks after things. He drove me here this morning. I pay him a little. But he doesn’t get off his work shift till almost midnight. So sometimes it’s just me there. It’s only happened a couple of times.”
“Well, let me think about that a little bit. Meanwhile, I’ll get the nurse for that ECG.” I needed to move along. “If everything looks okay, I’ll see you again in about three months.”
“Good to meet you, Doc. If you’re ever out Ice Cave Road, drop in and see me. Name’s on the mailbox.”
We shook hands, but as I began to leave he spoke again.
“Doc, I’m glad you’ve come to Watervalley. I’m not an educated man, but I do read the paper. I figured there must be some reason why a summa cum laude graduate would come here. Can’t be for the money.”
He stared at me. His chin was firm but his eyes were soft, wise, discerning. I smiled and departed, quietly amazed at the uncanny, almost magical insight of this little man. His gaze had penetrated further than he knew. It had gone right through me and deep into the voices of my past.
CHAPTER 7
The Apple Tree
The balance of my first day with patients was long but uneventful. Determined to take my time with each one, I didn’t get home till after eight. Connie wasn’t there, but as on the evening before she had left an incredible dinner of meat loaf, potatoes, green beans, and chess pie. It was the best of all possible worlds—at least, all possible worlds if you had to live in Watervalley.