by Jeff High
“What are you going to do?”
“Not sure yet.” I looked down at the desk at the remaining folders.
“Wow, this is unbelievable. How did you figure all this out?”
I smiled at her and shook my head. “I think the real question is why didn’t I suspect something sooner. Things have been odd with Will and his mom for quite some time. I should have known.”
I stared at the files a moment longer. “Listen, thanks for coming up here with me. I just wanted a witness to what I thought I was going to find. Keep this under your hat if you would. I’m going to have to let Sheriff Thurman know, but I’ve got some things to think through before that happens.”
Christine nodded. With the rapid events of the night, I had thought of nothing else but the actions before me. Only now did I begin to absorb the full delight of her presence. Wearing no makeup to speak of and dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, she was still hypnotically gorgeous. The moment was filled with a clumsy tenderness between the two of us. Deep, deep inside me, I wanted to embrace her, give in to the incredible attraction I felt for her. To my delight, I saw something vulnerable in her eyes that spoke of the same desire. But I let the moment pass.
I inhaled a deep breath and pursed my lips. “We better get back downstairs.”
We found Connie dusting the furniture in the living room, keeping a watchful eye on Will. The three of us discussed the situation and agreed that Connie would stay. She would call me if need be when Louise woke up. Otherwise, after daybreak, she would call some members of her church to come help out.
Together, she said, with simple, unemotional resolve, her church group would work with Louise to help her get her life back in order.
Christine and I walked onto the front porch together. The rain had moved out and stars glittered faintly in the early morning sky. It was slightly past four and both of us needed sleep.
The moment was awkward. I spoke perfunctorily. “Thank you again for coming over and helping out. It made things a lot easier.”
“Sure. I ran into Connie at school on Friday and told her about Will. I asked her to let me know if she heard anything.”
The comment caught me off guard. “You ran into her at school?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Did she say why she was there?”
“I think she’s still active with the PTA. It’s nothing unusual to see her doing volunteer work.”
“Oh, okay. Of course.” Knowing Connie as I did, I found the timing suspect and I wondered if she had dropped by the school with another agenda. But Christine’s answer seemed innocent enough. I smiled. “Okay, then. Thanks again. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I stepped down the sidewalk and turned toward my house, but noticed that Christine had not moved.
“Luke.” Her voice was crisp against the cold air. There was a subtle, pleading quality to it. I stopped, exhaled deeply, and turned to face her.
“Yeah.”
“I need to tell you something.”
I walked back toward her. “Okay.”
“I need to thank you. You were right.”
I looked at her quizzically. “About what?”
“My mom. Turns out the problem was B12 absorption. She got a shot, a large dosage. The difference is amazing. So I wanted to thank you.”
As she spoke, she drew near to me. The cold induced us to move even closer, pooling our warmth. There was a gentle, beseeching quality to her voice. We were separated by mere inches.
I nodded. “I’m glad she’s doing better. Thanks for letting me know.” In the shadowed glow of the streetlights, the tender outline of her face appeared fairylike, perfect. I wanted to draw closer still, but my head said no. I was leaving town soon, so what would be the point? I smiled, nodded, and turned away.
As I walked up my porch steps, I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. Only a few hours earlier, my heart had been drawing me away from Watervalley and my head had been imploring me to stay. Now it seemed the two had flip-flopped. Things could change so quickly.
CHAPTER 30
House Call
I awoke shortly before eleven the next morning and immediately checked my cell phone on the bedside table. There had been no calls. Apparently, Connie had handled everything. I looked out my side bedroom window at the Foxes’ house. Several cars were parked on the street and in the driveway. The people of Watervalley in all their plain and simple decorum had gathered around the family in crisis next door to me. Some were carrying in groceries, others bringing dishes of food. Some were even raking up the leaves long left from the fall season, while others hauled off bags of trash. It was a marvel. A spontaneous outpouring of dutiful rescue carried out with little fanfare or fuss. Watervalley had wrapped its arms around my troubled neighbors.
The downtown church bells started their usual musical prelude shortly before eleven, signaling the call to worship. It seemed that on Sunday the ceremony of life in Watervalley reached its fullness. These were not people who suffered from the pitfalls of negotiating a world of changing and uncertain values. The Sabbath established a time of order and focus. Yet clearly spiritual observance was not confined within sanctuary walls, as demonstrated by all that was happening at the Fox house. What for months had been a dark, quiet place of gloom, secrets, and fear was now a whirlwind of hope, life, and renewal. In their straightforward and unsophisticated way the people of Watervalley possessed an unbounded spirit of charity and, when called upon, the magic of a collective heart.
As I pulled back the bedroom drapes, the sun was bright, pristine. The night’s rain had washed all the dreariness from the world. The day was brilliant with a feeling of optimism and expectancy. I stared toward where the downtown buildings and steepled churches stood in stately radiance, like a framed still life painting. The musical chimes from the nearby church continued their song.
The prospect of leaving my job, of leaving Watervalley, brought a new focus to my thoughts. For months I had tempted myself with daydreams of life beyond the town. This glorious morning should have held a fabulous sense of contentment, but it fell short. I still wanted an explanation for the influenza outbreak.
Being the town doctor was the one role I had fully claimed in Watervalley. I didn’t want this failure with the flu epidemic to define me, to overshadow my time as their doctor. As I began to think over all that had happened, it seemed I was standing before a great puzzle.
The Sunday morning sun cascading through my bedroom windows faintly illuminated everything, creating an ethereal light. It rendered an elegant, delicate softness to the room. Old conversations, random moments, subtle observations began to stream through my head. I ambled downstairs to the kitchen, poured a glass of juice, and fed Rhett. Then I realized I’d left my cell phone in the bedroom. The musical prelude to the church bells wound down. I moved toward the stairs, thinking, connecting. Then the church bells began their long solemn bongs marking the eleventh hour. As the first of them pealed, I took the first step up the stairs. My mind drifted back to my first day with patients.
Dr. Bradford . . . First patient is a physical, plaid shirt . . . Scotland, 1860, older brother named Carter—no, Cullen . . . war, train.
The second bell sounded. I ascended another step. I convalesced at Primm Springs . . . Presbyterian roots . . . Scotch . . . Distillery gone from the barn.
The third bell rang. I took another step. I hear rumblings at night . . . Grandson lives with me now . . . I walk down to the watermark . . . Use your head and don’t give up.
My mind drifted to other worlds, different days, buried memories. As the bells rang out, I stepped upward methodically, rhythmically.
Hundred-year-old Scotch, a pretty prized possession . . . water of life . . . toxicum . . . family.
The bells continued to ring and I climbed the remaining steps to the top of the stairs. The sunlight beaming through the windows created a visible shaft of light. In the still air I could see a thousand particles float
ing randomly, effortlessly, yet somehow with a sense of order. I was mesmerized. A thousand dots without connection, yet still they created a pattern. My mind drifted further back.
The large chair in the living room, the men in suits, the light through the transom window. Aunt Grace, crouching beside me . . . You and I are a family now, Luke . . . we’re family.
Somewhere within the endless miles of synapses, dendrites, and neurotransmitters of my brain the dots were trying to connect. All I had seen, had heard, had lived over the last months was pushing to the surface. Instinctively, I knew that somewhere in the tapestry of my days in Watervalley there was an answer, a hidden explanation of the epidemic. Yet pieces were missing. Strangely, an odd word bubbled into my thoughts, a word that had no connection to my medical training, my hours spent poring over textbooks, charts, lecture notes. It was a word surfacing in my consciousness as having a place, a key: reawakening.
A blaring noise shattered the moment. My cell phone blurted a long, shrill ring, startling me. I glanced at it. I knew the number.
“Hello.”
The raspy voice on the other end was gravelly, weak. “Doc, you think you could make a house call?”
“What’s wrong, John?”
“I could give you a long list of symptoms, but to cut it short, I think you can bet your ass I’ve got this flu. How soon can you get here?”
“Let me stop by the clinic to get a few things and I’ll head right out.”
“That’d be good, Luke. And bring a gun, ’cause if you can’t make me better, by damn I want you to shoot me.”
“Yeah, I’ll bring some medicine too and we’ll figure out whether or not to use the gun.”
“Thanks, Luke. Get here as quick as you can.”
I grabbed my coat and keys and raced out to the car. I made a quick stop at the empty clinic and then headed up into the hills. The whole time I wondered how in the world a recluse like John Harris could have come in contact with the flu.
Knocking on John’s front door elicited no reply. I turned the knob and stepped inside.
“John?” Still no one answered. Small alarms were beginning to go off in my head. My senses sharpened. With a hurried pace I stepped through the front hall toward the back living room.
“John?” I heard a low moan coming from the kitchen. Moving toward the sound, I found him in pajamas and a bathrobe sitting on the floor with his back to the refrigerator. He was holding a plastic bag filled with ice to his head. He spoke without opening his eyes.
“Hey, Doc. You bring that gun?”
“Yeah. But it’s just a Winchester replica air gun. It’s only good for making people get their butts up off the floor.”
John opened his eyes to look up at me and then closed them again. A forced smile crossed his face. “You may need to give it a try. I don’t think I can move.”
I smiled and extended my hand. “Come on, bubbles. Let’s get you to a chair and take a few vitals.”
Together we managed to get John into one of the large chairs in the den.
“John, I guess I’m a little shocked. I didn’t think you could get sick.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re so crotchety I assumed even germs didn’t like you.”
He grinned weakly. “Yeah, yeah, sawbones. Kick a man when he’s down. I guess I had it coming.”
I listened to his chest and methodically checked him over. The assessment was obvious. Like so many others in Watervalley, John had the flu. His temperature was not as outrageously high as some I had seen, but it was high enough for me to be concerned. I gave him an antipyretic to bring his temperature down and an antiviral that was having mixed results against this particular strain. It was the best I had to offer.
“So when did all this start?” I asked.
“Sometime yesterday afternoon, I guess. Got a headache first.”
“Did you go to the bank, the grocery—anywhere in the last few days where you might have come in contact with anyone?”
“Nope. Haven’t been in town since Tuesday. Went to the Co-op.”
I thought for a moment. It made no sense. The disease had a pattern of presenting itself quickly after exposure, usually within twelve hours. John’s situation simply didn’t fit.
“And you didn’t notice anything before yesterday? No aches, chills, nothing?”
“Nah. At first I thought it was just a little bit of a hangover. Got a little sloshed Friday night but I felt fine in the morning. It was noon when the headache started.”
John’s story reminded me of my own Friday night escapade. “Yeah, I sort of ended up off the wagon on Friday myself. Thought I’d drown some of the misery of the week, so I dropped by the Alibi—you know, the roadhouse on the north side of the county. Get this—Toy McAnders is the one who ended up giving me a ride home.”
Despite his malaise, John perked up slightly. “Did he now? Interesting. He offer you some of his Scotch?”
I was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
John’s face told the story. He had mistakenly divulged a little-known confidence, but it was too late to retreat. He leaned toward me, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Look, Doc, here’s the deal. After Knox died, Toy’s curiosity got the better of him, so he got some bolt cutters and a flashlight and started exploring back into the old ice cave. Found an old mortared stone wall that had fallen in.”
John’s words revived a vague memory. “You know, the day I examined Knox he mentioned to me that he had heard some rumblings coming from the old ice cave. Didn’t think much of it then, but now it makes me wonder.”
John continued, “At any rate, seems that Toy stumbled across his great-grandfather’s old disassembled distillery. The copper was all bent, so it was no longer usable. What he also found were some two hundred plus bottles of Scotch, made around 1910 by the old distillery master himself.”
“I’ll be darned. So the old legend is true.”
“Very true. I got word of it through the grapevine, so I called him to see if I could buy some from him. He hemmed and hawed about it at first, said he really wasn’t interested in selling them. But finally we cut a deal. I bought two bottles from him a week ago, two hundred bucks a pop. I opened up the first one Friday night, and I gotta tell you, worth every penny.”
John coughed sharply and reached for the glass of water on the table beside him. “I tell you what, Doc. Those two bottles are in the cabinet beside the fridge. There’s an unopened one in a brown paper bag. Take it. We’ll call it payment for the house call.”
I started to refuse, Scotch not being to my taste, but ultimately I agreed for no other reason than to avoid an argument. John slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes.
“Look, I think you could use some rest. I’ll get out of here so you can go to bed.”
John nodded. Slowly he stood up and began walking with unsteady steps toward the hallway and his bedroom. He cleared his throat, speaking again in a coarse voice. “Thanks again for the pills. I’ll let you show yourself out. Oh, and don’t forget your Scotch. Cabinet next to the fridge.”
He disappeared down the hallway, where I heard the bedroom door shut.
I was confident he would be fine, but I made a note to call tomorrow just to check in. In the kitchen I found the upper cabinet containing John’s liquor. The McAnders bottle was unmistakable, having a yellowed paper label with a partially faded MCANDERS carefully stamped in the center. Below the name were the numbers “1910,” handwritten with a charcoal pencil. The bottle was still covered in dust and had a sticky film. Beside it was the second bottle John had mentioned, still in the paper bag. I grabbed it, shut the cabinet, and headed back to the front door.
As I passed back through the den to get my coat, something on the coffee table caught my eye. It was a high school annual, the Watervalley Signal, dated 1968, opened to a picture of the cheerleading squad. I recalled from past conversations that 1968 was John’s senior year, so I couldn’t resist scruti
nizing it for a brief moment. I picked up the inch-thick book and thumbed through the black-and-white pictures.
The cheerleader picture listed Molly Cavanaugh as the captain. She was an absolutely beautiful girl, shapely yet small in stature with an incredible smile. No doubt it had been easy for John to fall insanely in love with her. Her twin sister, Madeline, was not a cheerleader, but I found her in the pictures of the science and math clubs along with a gangly John Harris standing in the back row. There were also pictures of him on various ball teams.
I was about to return the annual to the table when a full-page picture of John caught my attention. It was an acknowledgement of him as the salutatorian. Curious, I turned to the previous page. Wearing pointed glasses, neatly combed hair, and a white sash across her chest was the valedictorian of the class of 1968. Her face was much thinner then, but even as a youth her pleasant expression had a critical, discerning quality. The caption read “Constance Grace Pillow,” the woman I knew as Connie Thompson.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” I whispered. Putting the annual down, I shook my head, picked up my things, and shut the front door behind me.
During the drive back to Fleming Street, my mind was caught up in a cyclone of whirling thoughts. Connie Thompson being valedictorian of her class made all the sense in the world—I had no doubt she was that smart. What didn’t make sense was why she had never gone off to college. I remembered from months back John telling me there was someone in Watervalley much smarter than him. I shook my head and grinned.
“Unbelievable,” I said.
I drove mindlessly down the winding curves, lost in thought about John. Clearly he had the flu, yet he hadn’t been anywhere for several days, which meant it had had a slow onset. That didn’t make sense. Maybe he had picked up a different strain. I kept trying to wrap my head around all the facts, connect the dots, but the result was more questions, more uncertainty. I came out of my fog only to realize I was sitting in my driveway, the motor running. I might be leaving Watervalley, but this damnable epidemic was not leaving me. I wanted an answer.