by Jeff High
I walked toward the bar, my head down, my gaze sliding from side to side. I received random nods from a couple of men who looked vaguely familiar. I shouldered my way into an opening at the bar. This was a coarser side of Watervalley: large, leather-necked farm and factory workers with powerful arms, ball caps, and scraggly beards. The room had a gamy body smell: unwashed, surly, thick with testosterone. The women tended to be large hipped in tight jeans and low-cut tops, their faces faintly lit from the glow of cigarettes. I ordered a beer. The band blared out a booming song, thick with metal guitars and the unmistakable twang and yodeling vocals of rockabilly country. I settled on a bar stool and drank my beer. The crowd was rough and the band wasn’t exactly good, but at least I wasn’t alone.
By the end of my fourth beer, I was floating. It was a delicious feeling. I turned sideways to the bar, leaned on one elbow, and surveyed the room, which was a roaring chaos of conversation, music, movement. On more than one occasion, women walked by and smiled. Some were in their twenties, some in their thirties, all of them almost pretty, with well-painted lips and ample curves. One or two even called me by name, giving me the mixed satisfaction of realizing that even here I was known. I smiled and nodded, but showed no interest in pursuing an encounter. I just wanted to unwind and not be alone. For tonight, romance was a distant third.
The throbbing waves of music drowned out any conversation short of yelling. Everyone was full of easy laughter. Two of the more attractive women in their mid-thirties came and posted up next to me at the bar. Hellos were exchanged, but I left it at that. The woman standing beside me was drunk, talking nonstop to her equally drunk friend. She was loud, animated, thick tongued, and bumping into me constantly.
Several pairs of the rural hopefuls approached the two and engaged them to dance. The women were experienced flirts. There was a predatory look about them, a knowing confidence that foretold their mastery of the slow seduction. Skilled in the easy taunt, they yielded only measure by measure to the advances of the rustics in the room, exploiting them for drinks, dances, laughter. From what I could see, their male counterparts were willing dupes.
I drank another beer. The sounds of the room began to blur. The words around me began to lose discernible meaning. Syllables were running together. Some of the men interested in the two women began to crowd my small stretch of the bar. I silently but firmly shouldered against them. This invited some less than friendly responses, but eventually the offenders backed off, returning their attention to the women.
My mind spun in a world of its own. The scene was amusing, a distraction, but ultimately it was just static. I became detached from the noise, the fever and intensity. The earlier euphoria induced by my plunge into numerous beers had now passed and I stood dispassionately at the bar, confronted with the smallness of my life. Within, I was smoldering. A voice inside told me I was getting far too intoxicated, but I was beyond caring. The music blared, the room began to spin, the chaos continued. I ordered yet another beer.
I looked sullenly at my glass and drank it down in one tilt. As I finished draining it to the bottom, a viselike hand grabbed me firmly on the shoulder. I released the mug, almost causing it to go tumbling across the bar. My large frame tensed and I began to turn to confront the aggressor. The hand held me firm, steadying me. It was a calm voice that spoke.
“Careful, Doc. This old wood floor can be slippery. Don’t want you falling.” It was Toy McAnders. I turned unsteadily and faced him. Toy stood at arm’s length, but was now holding my right biceps in a rigid grasp. He looked at me with an easy smile. There was nothing confrontational or threatening in his tone or body language. Rather, he engaged me as if we had long been on friendly terms. It worked. I relaxed.
Toy’s smile was infectious. I gave him an affable grin and held out my hand. He took it and we shook. Even in my semi-blistered state, I couldn’t help but notice that Toy had an abundance of sheer presence, a confident intensity about him. Even through the fog of beer and noise, I felt a release, an enjoyment at being so openly and kindly engaged.
“So, this place your hangout?” I spoke in a half yell.
Toy grinned and shook his head. “Not really. At least, not that often anymore.”
I smiled. I felt light-headed, had lost any measure of focus because of Toy’s abrupt entry. I leaned back against the bar.
“Well, drink a beer with me,” I said.
Toy’s easy smile remained in place. Again he shook his head. “Nah. Not tonight, Doc. I’m more of a Scotch man myself. Might say it’s in the blood.”
I stood still for a moment. Might say it’s in the blood. The words were calling up a memory, some conversation from the past. But the alcohol tripped me, redirected me. I couldn’t focus. He was speaking to me again. I regained orbit.
“What say we get you home, Doc?”
I gave him a calculated look. Part of me was still floating; the beer had seen to that. The other part of me was rational, discerning, albeit unable to control the world swirling around my senses. I stared vacantly at Toy for a moment. Finally, the rational voice won out. He was right. It was time to go.
I nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
“Let me have your keys, Doc. Buddy of mine’s going to drive your car. You can ride with me in the truck.”
I understood and began walking toward the door, completely forgetting about closing out my tab. Ever since Toy had grabbed my shoulder, the bartender had been standing across the bar from the two of us quietly taking in the exchange. Toy watched me walk away. When I paused, he turned and looked at the bartender. Both shook their heads. Toy placed two twenties on the counter.
“Thanks for the phone call, Eddie. I’ll take him from here.” The bartender returned a deadpan nod, scooped up the money, and headed toward the cash register.
Outside, the frozen air jolted me to consciousness. For a short moment I thought I could drive myself. But in an instant Toy was beside me, asking for the keys. I handed them over. He took the car key from the ring and walked over to a small fellow wearing a blue jean jacket and ball cap. There was a short exchange that I couldn’t discern; then the other fellow nodded and departed into the shadows of the parking lot in the direction of my car. Toy returned.
“This way, Doc.”
I climbed into what was clearly a brand-new extended-cab truck. Toy fired up the engine and pulled onto the gravel road. The noise and flashing neon of the roadhouse faded in the dark behind us.
Only a few words broke the silence of the trip back to Fleming Street. Although my bearings were a little disrupted, I felt certain that we were in the general vicinity of Ice Cave Road.
“If I’m not mistaken, your place isn’t too far from here, is it?” I asked.
Toy looked over at me, his face illuminated by the glow of the dashboard lights. “If you turn right on this next road up ahead, it’s about a mile down on the left.” His manner was not clipped or unfriendly, but rather dutiful, as if he was patiently fulfilling some service he felt compelled to satisfy. We rode for a few more miles. The cold of the December night had wrested the beer’s dizzying effects from me and I was beginning to feel the drain of pure exhaustion. Even in this clouded state, a curiosity held me.
“You work at the cabinet factory, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sure do.”
“I hear they shut things down because of all the people out sick.”
“Half the people on my shift are out with it. More on the day shift.”
“But you haven’t had any problems with it? I mean, it’s not like you haven’t been exposed.”
“Well, knock on wood, I guess, Doc. I’ve felt fine.” We rode on in the darkness. Soon enough the frozen streetlights of Watervalley could be seen in the distance. Toy guided the truck effortlessly through the few turns to Fleming Street, pulled up in front of the house, and stopped the engine.
“You okay from here?”
I nodded. “Oh, sure, sure.”
I held my hand out to him. “Than
ks a lot, Toy.” I paused. “Appreciate it.” I pursed my lips, knowing full well that I had been done a considerable favor. Headlights pulled up behind us as Toy’s friend arrived with my car. He turned into the driveway and cut the lights and engine. Toy took my hand in a firm shake.
“Not a problem. You’ve taken good care of my people, Doc. Everybody deserves the right to blow off a little steam every now and then. Given the week I imagine you’ve had, you deserve it no less than anybody else. Grab some sleep.”
I nodded, not sure what Toy meant by “my people” but not really caring in the moment. The dreadful beginnings of a monster headache began to creep between my temples. I opened the truck door to exit, and as I did I noticed something roll to the ground that had been stuck between the seat and the door. I reached down to pick it up, steadying myself on the truck frame. It was a small stuffed animal, a brown dog, well worn and fuzzy threaded, with two shiny black button eyes. I held it for a moment, then handed it over to Toy.
“I’m guessing this is yours?”
Toy stared at the object in my hand, his face revealing a brief second of fluster. He collected himself, smiled, and reached for it.
“Thanks,” he said, offering no further explanation. By now the other fellow was standing at the truck door, waiting to get in from the cold. He handed me the Corolla key. I thanked him and stepped aside. The truck rolled away.
Once inside my house, I went straight to the kitchen. Rhett followed me at a soft, lowly pace. Grabbing some Tylenol and a large glass of water, I stepped out to the back porch. My mind was racing. My head was pounding and my throat tugged with a mix of nausea and exhaustion. The evening was now a blur and I was a little mystified as to exactly what had just happened with Toy McAnders.
High above me, the moon had drifted behind the tall trees, giving the stage to thousands of stars. I exhaled deeply and steadied myself on the porch railing, realizing that perhaps I was still drunker than I’d thought. Sleep was now my beloved friend, my escape from misery, loneliness, and the incomprehensible frustration of my life in this town. It was well past midnight. I returned inside to climb the back stairs and fall into bed.
It had been a grand experiment for me, trying to be a small-town doctor. But through the maze of fatigue and lingering alcohol, I knew that it simply wasn’t going to work. I didn’t fit in and I didn’t want to be here. It was time to face that reality. My days in Watervalley were all but over.
CHAPTER 28
High-Water Mark
I was floating in the outer regions, that blissful suspension between sleep and wakefulness, stepping quietly, curiously into an April day of my youth. Light and shadows played across a soft, familiar lawn. Adult voices spoke distantly, calmly. Childish laughter, young, sweet, and innocent, drifted intermittently through the air. The rich smells of freshly mown grass, fruit tree blossoms, and warm sidewalks danced deep within my senses. Balmy breezes poured past. It was a world of tender images: soft, pristine, affectionate.
Then she shook me, hard.
I awoke abruptly. Connie was standing over me with a face of scornful judgment. Her lips were pressed firmly together yet still moving, as if chewing on words that were in danger of erupting. I rubbed my face and eyes, bringing her into focus.
“What time is it?” I asked.
She continued her incessant glare, standing straight-backed with hands on her hips. Then she grunted a deep “humph” and walked in a soldierly step to the windows, where she threw back the curtains, letting in what bleak midday sun could be brought to bear on a December day.
Her words were tart, unsympathetic. “It’s time you were out of bed. That’s what time it is. And why does this room smell like a brewery? Did you bathe in it last night?”
I looked over at my clock. It was a quarter past noon. Reality of time and place sank in. I had slept fully clothed. I sat up in bed and looked at Connie as if her words had fallen to the floor and never reached me.
“It is Saturday, you know.”
“People have been trying to get ahold of you for the last four hours. You don’t answer the phone or the doorbell, so I get called to come over and make sure you’re okay.”
“You may report that I am just fine.” I put my feet on the floor and sat for a moment, the fog of sleep lingering. “Anyway, who needs me? I’m not on call this weekend. Any emergencies are supposed to be referred to Regional Medical.”
“That’s all fine and good, Doctor, but a lot of folks don’t see it that way. You’re their doctor. They want to see you. And what sort of foolishness did you get into last night, ending all tanked up?”
I was now fully awake. Deep within me, the frustration that had been smoldering for the last weeks finally found a voice. “Let it go, Connie.”
“Let what go?”
“Your sermon. Let it go. I don’t want to hear it. I’m done.”
“Whatcha mean, you’re done?” Connie was forgoing her usual perfect diction.
“I mean I’m done. I’m quitting. Monday morning, I’m turning in my resignation so they can start looking for someone else. Everything about my life in this town has been a failure. I don’t understand the people, I don’t fit in, and now everybody wants to blame me for this epidemic. And the worst of it is, by damn, they’re right. The paper said it. I don’t have a clue what this flu is or where it came from. So, short of the joy of walking around with everyone looking at me like I’m an idiot, I really can’t think of a good reason why I should stay. I’ve tried, but my heart’s not in this place. I’m not doing these people any good. So, yeah, I’m done.”
Connie spoke her words rapid-fire, on full automatic. “Luke Bradford, that is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard you say. I know every now and then we all climb fool’s hill, but right now I’m thinking you want to be king of it. You’re all down on yourself and wishing away for the sweet by-and-by when what’s really got you is the nasty now-and-now. Lying up here in your man cave is not going to fix anything. Besides, you’re all wrong about the people of this town. They like you just fine. It’s not them; it’s you. You’re just like John Harris and his rock wall. You’ve built one around yourself. Not a wall people can see, like he’s got, but a wall just the same. These people care—they care about you—but they’re also respectful. If they think you want your distance, they’ll let you have it. But it doesn’t mean what you think.”
Perhaps I should have felt defensive, incensed at her words. But deep down I knew that much of what she had said was true. I had built a wall and I was to blame. But blame wasn’t the issue. I certainly wasn’t blaming Watervalley. I just wanted to leave. Mentally, I was already in another time zone.
“Look, Connie. I know you’re smart, maybe even scary smart. But you’re wrong about this. You don’t know everything about my life, my thoughts, my loneliness. Watervalley’s a great place; it’s just not a great place for me. I don’t fit in here, and, frankly, these people deserve better. So in the end, I don’t want to be here. I’m not a small-town doctor. It’s that simple.” I spoke the last sentence slowly, announcing each word firmly, deliberately.
Connie stood for a moment. She stared at me, looking deep into my face. Eventually, she nodded in resignation.
“You’re right. I don’t know your life. I don’t know how hard it has been. I just know that right now people are scared and they need you. But I guess we all have to decide our limits.” With that she walked from the bedroom and back down the stairs. I could hear the echo of her footsteps traversing the front hall and the careful shutting of the front door. I walked to the windows, pulled the drapes together, and lay back down on my bed, wishing for sleep.
I lay in a half daze for another hour. Rhett had come and propped his chin next to my pillow. We were both hungry. The December day I saw through the kitchen windows was bleak, gray, cold. I fed Rhett, then heated some leftovers, piecing together enough of a meal. I thought about suiting up in my running clothes and going out for a long run, but I didn’t want t
o be seen or engaged by anyone. I wanted my own space. I thought about Connie’s words about John Harris and laughed it off, even though there was an aspect of John’s life that I envied. John had bought himself the benefits of space, solitude, security. Yet without Molly, he had lost his rudder. Then again, I well knew, everyone adapted and grieved in his own way.
I drifted around the house. Lying on the couch, I caught up on some old magazines and watched some TV. Rhett was my steady shadow, dropping his ball at my feet several times, innocently beseeching me to come play. I rubbed his head and apologized. I just wasn’t in the mood.
By half past five it was already dark and I was hungry again. I warmed up some soup and made a sandwich and fed Rhett his dinner. Afterward, I grabbed a quilt and fell asleep on the couch, the exhaustion of the week and the previous night’s escapade still drawing against my energy. When I awoke, it was ten thirty at night. I was restless and knew that downtown would be quiet now, all the shops long since closed. I changed into my jeans, grabbed my coat and ball cap, and headed out the door into the dark and dispirited evening.
For several hours I walked the downtown streets of Watervalley. My path held no pattern or direction. I moved randomly from street to street, passing the Co-op, the Society Hill Bed and Breakfast, the old high school, the Depot, Chick’s garage, all the churches, the radio station, Maylen’s Barbershop, the Merchants Bank, and seemingly dozens of other buildings, names, and signs that had been burned so deeply within me over the last half year. Each yielded up faces, names, conversations, and illnesses that I had carefully logged away. People whose lives in some small way I had mended. People whose stories I knew. But ultimately the streets were filled with nothing but my uncertainty about the future.