More Things In Heaven and Earth

by Jeff High

  “Wow. Don’t sugarcoat your insights on my account.”

  John cut his eyes toward me, his face a haughty smirk, his words delivered with an almost amused detachment. “You can rest your ass assured on that, sport. Besides, it’s not just the steeple people down there. I don’t like the people of Watervalley in general. For the most part, their minds either jump to conclusions or don’t move at all.”

  “Are you saying they’re a bunch of racists or rednecks? Because I haven’t seen any of that.”

  “No, for the most part they’ve pretty much gotten the news that Lee has surrendered. They’re simpletons, that’s all.”

  “And you know this because . . . ?”

  “Because I grew up here. Graduated high school here. It’s where I met Molly. We came back for a few years in my late thirties, when I ran one of the local manufacturing plants. In those years I was in the thick of it—Chamber of Commerce, school board, Athletic Boosters, Boy Scouts. Hell, I even sang in the choir. It was just the two of us, so we pretty much devoted all of our time to the community. We were immersed in all things Watervalley.”

  “So I take it you have no children?”

  John hesitated before answering. “We wanted to, but that never worked out.” He let that comment hang briefly in the air before continuing. “Anyway, eventually I took an assignment overseas. But Molly always wanted to return. It was home to her. So we bought this property. I took early retirement four years ago and we moved back. So, yeah, I’ve spent a lot of years in the company of the good citizens of Watervalley.”

  “I get the impression something specific happened?”

  John stood quietly. “Ah, it’s a long story. And I don’t like long stories.”

  I let it remain at that. We stood in the breezy shade of the yard and, for the moment, I was mesmerized by the sweeping splendor of the valley. Even through the heat and haze of the July afternoon, the details of the lake, the town, the distant rolling fields, and the far hills held the mind captive, no matter how often or intently one looked upon them.

  I found myself trying to fill in the blanks about John Harris. But I was uncomfortable in asking any more personal questions. Without doubt, there was a smoldering intensity about him. I had my own misgivings about where my life was at that point, but they were nothing like what I sensed in him. His was a soul burning with conflict.

  He clicked his tongue in an unspoken signal to move on.

  “Come with me, Doc. I’ve got a little something I need to do around the greenhouse.”

  I followed. “You need some help?”

  “Nah. Bring your water and you can park it. You can sit and we can talk of many things.”

  I responded casually, “‘Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.’”

  John walked on ahead of me. Without looking back, he immediately added, “‘And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings.’”

  We exchanged wry grins but did not break stride or speak another word along the path to the greenhouse. As with much of the encounter, the exchange had served as a weighing out, a testing of each other’s complexity. The ability to quote lines from Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass registered an understood mutual approval.

  When we arrived at the greenhouse, he pointed toward a small shaded bench a few feet away.

  “Take a load off, Doc. I’ll be right back.”

  He stepped inside and emerged a moment later with a shovel and a wheelbarrow. He went on to explain the need to dig a small trench along the side of the structure to cure a drainage problem.

  “I meant to get to this sooner, before the ground got hard. But so much for that.” He placed the shovel in the grass and stepped on it with the full weight of his right foot. The ground gave way with a firm crunch, his satisfaction reflected in his demeanor. He popped the slice of earth up and tossed it into the wheelbarrow. Placing the shovel for a second time, he repeated the process.

  “So what was it like growing up here?” I asked.

  He reflected on the question for a moment, still focused on the shovel. “It was a small town, just like it is now. There weren’t a lot of things to do. You could drink some beer, or you could drive a car fast down Beulah Road, or you could take a girl out to Moon Lake and try to get somewhere with her, which you generally never did. And of course that made you feel pretty stupid. It was not, I imagine, quite like growing up in Buckhead.”

  I smiled. “So you heard.”

  “So tell me, Luke Bradford—why did you become a doctor?”

  I pondered the question. “No one reason, I guess. I played a little college basketball, but that was never a viable career option. Studying medicine came easily to me. I could help people in practical ways. The money’s potentially good. And besides, my dad was a doctor. I guess I never seriously considered being anything else.”

  “Rumor is you finished top of your class.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the rumor.”

  John stopped and leaned on his shovel, assessing me directly. “Oh. So you’re pretty smart, huh?”

  “Smart enough, I guess. At some point I’d like to do research. But seems that getting some practical experience is what’s in the cards right now.”

  He placed the shovel on the next bit of unbroken ground and resumed digging. “Not smart enough to keep your ass from landing in a place like Watervalley.”

  “There are financial reasons as well as some other commitments. It’s complicated. Besides, looks like you’re here too, and I’m not the one digging the ditch.”

  A smile forced its way across his face.

  I spoke again. “What did you used to do anyway? You know, what was your career?”

  “I have a PhD in chemical engineering. I worked for DuPont. I did some university teaching on the side. I helped write a couple of textbooks. I own a few patents.”

  “Okay, I’m impressed.” This explained some unanswered questions. From the beginning, John Harris’s rustic appearance had an underlying sophistication to it. So it came as no great revelation that he was a learned man. Clearly I was talking with someone who could claim significant accomplishments in a very complex field.

  John spoke again. “Yep, along with my deft shovel skills I can tell you the recipe for the covalent bonds of a dozen different polymers.”

  “Is that why you think so little of Watervalley’s collective IQ?”

  John methodically continued to work the shovel. “Glad to see you picked up on my frequent use of the term ‘idiot.’ That pretty well sums it up for that bunch down there. That is, of course, with one notable exception.”

  “You saying there’s someone smarter than you in Watervalley?”

  Again, John stopped and leaned on his shovel, giving me a curious look. “You don’t know, do you?” He seemed surprised. “You’ll find out soon enough, sport.”

  The afternoon moved forward. We talked leisurely on a number of subjects that hovered mainly around the categories of news, weather, and sports, the typical safe topics of new male acquaintances who want to avoid confrontation that might surface from the world of ideas. I suspect we both held a private wish to find common ground.

  The sun’s gradual decline toward the west had spread long fingers of shade across the lawn. Cooler breezes occasionally fluttered, bringing some welcome relief from the afternoon heat. A little before six, I asked John to give me a lift back to my car.

  We walked to the large garage where John housed the old farm truck I had seen him in at the County Line Market. Next to it were two Mercedes Benzes, the only two that I had seen so far in Watervalley. The first was a long black sedan, clearly less than a year old. The other was a vintage two-seater with the top down. It was a 280SL Roadster, luxurious red with a creamy white interior. I gawked for a brief moment until John spoke flatly.

  “Forget it, sport—we’re taking the truck.” He went inside to get his keys and returned along with a small, partially filled paper bag that he placed on the
seat beside him.

  The first mile or so of the drive back was along a chert top. I sat mesmerized by the uncanny familiarity of all the dust and honeysuckle along the roads that traced elusively into the far contours of Watervalley. The sounds and smells were stained upon me from the earlier years of dust and ditches and the endless drone of gravel battering the bottom of my father’s truck in north Georgia.

  Deep within I knew I had become a doctor because of my father. But, unlike me, my father had loved the rural life. And, unlike John Harris, my father had been a soft-spoken, straightforward man of simple components. John was not made of the normal elements. He was of heavier stuff on the periodic chart: isotopes susceptible to imbalance, inclined to volatility, and in danger of combustion. I liked him, but I remained guarded.

  Eventually, he turned onto a paved road and angled the truck left toward the downhill run into the valley. The surface was roughly patched and was bordered by unkempt fencerows, woods with rocky outcroppings, and an occasional trailer complete with old cars and pastel flamingos serving as yard art. After another ten minutes of silent travel, we reached the outskirts of town.

  When we arrived at the lake parking lot, John pulled the truck to a stop, leaving the engine running. Then, with an uncharacteristic politeness and an engaging look, he turned to me and extended his hand.

  “Luke, really good to meet you. Come back up anytime.”

  I returned the handshake warmly. It had been a good afternoon. “All right. Same here. And I will.” I paused for a moment. “I’ll also stay clear of the orchard. Don’t want you shooting me.”

  John returned a thin smile and a nod. I climbed out of the truck and shut the door. Across the heat of the gravel lot, the lake spread motionless, placid. A sudden curiosity hit me and I leaned one arm into the open passenger window.

  “Hey—got a question for you. What is the story with that old bandstand? Everything else in Watervalley seems pretty well kept up, but that old place is being left to rot. Seems odd.”

  John’s demeanor began to change. Something was welling up from deep within and he focused intently through the truck windshield toward the old structure. A smoldering and fiercely restrained anger was leaching through. When he finally did speak, his eyes never moved from their hard glare at the distant bandstand.

  “To understand the answer to that question, Dr. Bradford, you’ll have to take in a little more of the oxygen of Watervalley. You’ll have to breath in the stupidity of the air that seems to have permeated the minds of the fair citizenry.”

  I glanced momentarily back at the bandstand and spoke again through the open window. “Okay, sorry I asked that one. Thanks again for the ride. I’ll drop in sometime.”

  “Hey, Doc, don’t forget this.” John tossed me the brown paper bag he’d left on the seat beside him. I caught it in midair. With a sly, mischievous grin, he put the truck in reverse and within seconds was gone from sight.

  Inside I found the apple I’d picked up in the orchard. I laughed at John’s cleverness, climbed into the old Corolla, and headed home. Connie would be waiting.

  CHAPTER 9

  A Strange Boy

  As I entered the front door I could hear Connie in the kitchen. There was the predictable sound of dishes clanging and cabinet doors closing, but I also heard her half of a robust telephone conversation.

  “Yes, Estelle, I hear what you’re saying.”

  There was a pause while Connie listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Yes, yes. I know all about not sitting in the judgment chair. But all I’m saying about that woman is this: nobody can be showing that much leg in church and expect to be getting guidance from the Holy Spirit.”

  There was another pause, but by this time I had entered the room. Upon seeing me, Connie spoke up immediately.

  “Estelle, honey, I’ve got to go. Dr. Bradford finally got home and I need to get dinner. From the looks of him, he could use it. We’ll talk more about this later.” She hung up the phone on the wall cradle and stared at me, her chin slightly raised with her normal look of placid disdain.

  “Take your boots off outside, Doctor.”

  “Oh, sorry.” I halted in midstep and walked backward on tiptoe to the front porch. Somehow Connie Thompson could invoke a debilitating fear in me. Upon reentering, I was determined to strike a friendly chord with her, to see if I could bring her under the spell of some Luke Bradford charisma.

  “By the way, Mrs. Thompson, I want to thank you. I noticed you did the laundry today. That was very kind of you.”

  Her response was deadpan. “You’re welcome, Doctor. Now quit your schmoozing and get washed up before your dinner gets cold.”

  I shrugged, defeated. “You know, Mrs. Thompson, over the years I thought I had developed a workable capacity for dispensing a little charm and wit to, you know, kind of win people over. That doesn’t seem to be working here.”

  This actually elicited something close to a smile from her. She spoke in a relaxed voice. “Charm and wit’s got nothing to do with being housebroke, Doctor, unless you know how to charm mud stains out of the entry rugs.”

  I nodded and went to the refrigerator to retrieve one of the beers left from my infamous purchase at the County Line Market. Not finding them, I said, “I had some beers in here. Do you know where they are?”

  Connie stared at me impassively for a moment, then began to gather her belongings to leave. “They’re in the cabinet beside the sink.”

  “Why are they up there? They’ll get hot in the cabinet. You can’t drink beer that’s hot.”

  Connie’s voice remained flat. “That’s why they’re in the cabinet. There’s a pitcher of tea in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”

  I stared at Connie for a moment, then shrugged my shoulders, deciding to let it go. “Okay. Well, thanks for dinner. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Connie gave a perfunctory nod and turned to leave. But she paused at the kitchen door, obviously pondering something. She turned back to me.

  “Dr. Bradford, I don’t like to pry, but I’m curious. Those two pictures beside your bed—the one of the couple and the other of a woman in the convertible. Are they your people?”

  “Yeah. The couple is my mom and dad. It was taken a month before they were killed in a car accident. I was twelve.”

  “And who is the other one?”

  “That would be my aunt Grace. She raised me after they died.”

  At first Connie said nothing, but she looked at me reflectively. The firm lines of her face had slightly melted away and she nodded at me with eyes that now seemed patient and undemanding. Then she spoke softly.

  “You have a restful evening, Doctor. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  After eating, I grabbed my glass of tea and headed to the backyard to enjoy what was left of the day. In the quiet of the evening I thought of Aunt Grace and how much I missed her now that school was over. Although she had never married, she did not fit the spinster librarian stereotype of an old maid. Tall, elegant, and athletic, she dressed fashionably, traveled widely, and entertained with ease in the opulent social circles of Buckhead, our family having been part of that community for generations. I sat quietly in the warm air and thought of the day of my parents’ funeral.

  Luke, you’re going to live with me now. I can never be your mother and father. We both know that. They’re gone. So we will have to be family. I love you, sweetheart, and we’re going to be just fine.

  Even now I remember her words vividly—she’d said “we” instead of “you.” I think secretly she was talking to herself as well—that she was just as scared as I was. Not that she didn’t love me; she never made me feel that. But she was scared about becoming a parent to a heartbroken twelve-year-old, scared about making the right decisions. My aunt’s voice—soft, sweet, compassionate—had not matched her appearance. She, on the other hand, was a perfect blend of long, slim, sophisticated lines and an austere nature. She had been in the dining room g
oing over papers with men in suits, discussing the affairs of my newly dead parents. She had come into the living room, where I was sitting, and had crouched down beside the large chair so she could talk to me at eye level. In years before, I had always been afraid of her, but now she seemed gentle, vulnerable.

  She died of breast cancer two months before I started med school. She was only fifty-eight.

  An odd noise brought me out of my thoughts. I looked around but saw nothing out of order. I did my best to discount it, but there was no denying the feeling of another presence.

  Instinctively I turned my head to gaze up at the maple tree in the adjacent yard. Two eyes behind thick glasses were staring intently at me. It was a boy of about twelve sitting motionless on a limb, wearing a white bicycle helmet and a solemn, inquisitive expression. I stared at him for a minute in much the same way I would have examined an unusual rock formation. It was the boy who broke the silence.

  “You like to think a lot, don’t you?”

  “Hello to you too,” I responded. “How long have you been up there?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, no. I guess not.” I stood for a moment, replaying the last few minutes in my mind, quickly assessing whether I’d done any brainless acts. Somehow the last few days had reinforced the idea of doubting myself first.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” the boy said.

  “What question?”

  “The question about thinking.”

  “Oh, that one. Well, I don’t know. Sometimes I sit and think, and sometimes I just sit.”

  The little fellow continued his emotionless stare.

  “You know,” I said, “it’s a little creepy to have someone sit and watch you like that. What are you doing up in that tree anyway?”

  “Sitting and watching.” A slight grin was now forming in the corners of his small mouth.

  “Who would have guessed?” I responded dryly. “Why aren’t you riding your bike or something?”

  “Haven’t got one.”