The Fullness of Time--A Novel of Watervalley

by Jeff High

  Unfortunately for me, and maybe for Matthew as well, I had a job to do. I was responsible for pumping the pipe organ.

  Years ago, the Episcopal church had retrofitted the massive old organ with an electric motor that filled the pipes with air. But it had gone out during the rehearsal earlier that afternoon. I knew this because I was there, leaning against the rear wall, waiting while my fiancé, Christine, practiced with the choir. The original pump handle was the only back up left. The second the organ motor went out, I should have backed up and left also.

  Suddenly, all eyes were upon me for help. In truth, I wanted to say no, to make up some excuse, to devise an outright fib if need be. But then I would be telling a lie in church, which –I’m quite certain –doubled the fines. So, even though I held the esteemed position as the town doctor, was a Summa Cum Laude graduate from Vanderbilt University Medical School, and privately thought of myself as a reasonably important guy, the whole choir and apparently, the Holy Ghost as well, thought otherwise. The lowly, laborious, sweaty task of pumping the pipe organ had fallen to me.

  But the real problem that evening was Sadie Jean Armstrong, the Episcopal Church organist, who insisted on playing a closing anthem while everyone departed. A lovely idea except for the fact that no one was leaving. The Watervalley locals, who inherently possessed a certain carefree attitude to time, even on Christmas Eve, were all standing in the aisles; laughing and chatting and enjoying a bit of gossip about relatives, or the weather, or “how’s your back.” So, there I was, trapped, pumping away at the long wooden handle like a galley slave.

  And for some reason, Sadie Jean wouldn’t quit playing; impulsively pounding out one Christmas Carol after another. My attempts to get her attention proved useless, receiving only the occasional indifferent glance. A slow, dreadful realization washed over me. This was payback for recent events.

  Sadie Jean was an accomplished organist and knew all the hymns by heart. But she was old enough to have gone to the prom with Eisenhower. Until recently, she had been driving an ancient Buick that was about the size of a river barge, a car that was easily recognized around town by the permanently flashing left turn signal. After the third rear-end collision in as many months, I had performed an eye exam on Sadie Jean, determining that she was so blind she couldn’t tell whether the car in front of her was using its brake lights or perhaps was on fire. At my recommendation, the family had taken her car keys. So as sweat rolled down my face, Sadie Jean played away, occasionally grinning at me under a thin veneer of smug politeness.

  Simultaneously, I had to bear witness to Matthew’s desperate plight. As soon as the final “Amen” was said, Polly Shropshire, who was a WFF snob by marriage, approached him at Socialite warp speed. Within seconds she had him cornered with the deft skill of a seasoned sheepdog. Polly was a rotund, difficult, and meddlesome old bird who wore heavy face powder and colorful but ridiculous hats. With her rather high-brow, haughty voice she had the uncanny ability to talk without ever moving her jaw or lips. Under different circumstances, a wooden dummy was the only thing separating Polly from a life in show business.

  Others milled around, hoping for a chance to politely welcome the new innkeeper. But Polly, with her probing inquiries, was undeterred. Being the first to have the skinny on Matthew would be a grand coup, and she felt it her calling to vet this newcomer properly. The little people could just wait.

  Under Polly's incessant questioning, Matthew's face looked like he was passing a kidney stone. His entire body language spoke of naked discomfort, as he did his best to edge away graciously. I began to feel a collective embarrassment for Polly's brashness and the impression she was making. Some of the crowd had cleared out, but there was still a considerable group seeking an opportunity to speak to him.

  These were the everyday people of Watervalley. People who were not too good or fine or proud and who, unfortunately, unlike Polly, shied away from any hint of rudeness. Painfully, she remained insolent to everyone else, and her imprudent inquisition continued. The situation was getting out of hand. I searched for Christine to possibly intervene, but she was nowhere to be found.

  Then a miraculous parting of the “imminent-social-disaster” waters occurred. Emerging from the crowd was the one person in all of Watervalley who had the panache, the harmony of exchange, and the natural elegance needed to properly handle this awkward situation with delicacy, ease and grace; the one person of refined etiquette who could gently and judiciously find just the right words to intercede on Matthew’s behalf...my housekeeper, Connie Thompson.

  Connie was a lively, robust black woman with a brilliant mind, a no-nonsense demeanor, and a heart of gold. She was also surprisingly and decidedly wealthy. In this small town, she was beloved by most and feared by many. She was a force to be reckoned with.

  Still in her choir robe, Connie walked up to Polly, quietly took her by the arm, and spoke in a soft, instructional voice. "Polly, sweetie. I don't know if you heard that little buzzer go off, but your time is up."

  Polly was aghast. “And what are you saying?”

  Connie tightened her grip, remaining calm and firm. “I’m saying we’d all like to have the opportunity to meet this nice gentleman. Come along, dear and let some of the other folks introduce themselves.”

  This choice bit of guidance served to finally unhinge Polly’s padlocked jaw, which dropped so hard her pearls rattled. “Why, I’m simply trying to make Dr. House feel welcome!”

  With quiet authority, Connie led her away. But I could see that she had grown weary of Polly’s resistance. “Umm hmm, I’m sure you are, honey. But I’m thinking you look a little hungry. Might be a good idea for you to go swallow a great big bite of ‘hush.’” Then, for added emphasis, Connie dipped her chin and peered over the top of her gold inlay glasses, making missile-lock eye contact.

  Polly’s mouth quivered indignantly. She stiffened her neck, trying to regain her fortitude. But ultimately, she withered under Connie’s stern glare. Incensed, she spoke defensively. “I was just asking him a few questions. I don’t see the harm in that.”

  As they moved out of earshot, Connie released her and spoke in a kindly and engaging voice. “Why Polly, darling. There’s no harm in that at all. But if you truly want to know so much about him, invite him over to dinner so you can get to know him on your own time.” Having said this, she de-glossed into a breezy monotone: "Knives and forks will be on hand, and you can dissect him properly." Connie's eyes tightened, accentuating her point. Polly bristled but kept her silence, further wilting under the scrutiny. Satisfied, Connie nodded and turned away, but not before energetically remarking, "By the way, sweetie. Love your hat."

  Meanwhile, Sadie Jean had played her way through a fourth Christmas Carol and seemed to be gleefully itching for more. She was canvassing the room like she might start taking request from the crowd. Enough was enough. Before she could start a fifth, I stepped away from the handle, waved, and spoke quickly. “Well, it’s been fun. Have a Merry Christmas!”

  She was caught off guard with a gape-jawed face that quickly hardened into a baleful and disgusted stare. Indignantly, she snorted and played on. Within seconds the notes faded. The pressure in the bellows was exhausted. It didn’t matter. So was I.

  Grinning complacently, I kept walking. But Sadie Jean was not to be outdone. Coolly, she reached over and pushed a button on the electronic console beside the organ, filling the church with music...something she could have done a hundred and fifty organ pumps ago. While the sound system played “The First Noel,” Sadie Jean was having the last laugh. The little Christmas witch.

  By now the remaining crowd had loosely formed an ad hoc column leading up to Matthew. While one by one the kind people of Watervalley greeted him with polite courtesy, his two children clung closely behind him. The exchanges were brief and affable, driven by a sincere desire to welcome him to the community. Curiously, however, Matthew handled it well. He managed to put on a face of appropriate cheer and, despite his previo
usly reserved nature, it was clear that he was practiced in social exchange. There was about him a kind of pleasant warmth that easily received the widely varying train of well-wishers. I stood at a distance and waited.

  But a moment later I was surprised by someone embracing my right elbow. It was Connie. Staring straight ahead, she held my arm and spoke in a voice rife with mirth. “My, my. You were awfully cute up there pumping on that handle. Reminded me of a monkey grinding an organ. Would it be okay if I called you ‘Monkey Boy’ for the rest of the holiday season?”

  “Funny. Would it be okay if I made a Piñata in your likeness?”

  “Humph,” Connie giggled, delighted with herself. “Cool your heels, doctor. I’m only teasing. Estelle doesn’t have a patent on having a little fun sometimes.”

  Estelle was Connie’s flamboyant and colorful younger sister. Normally Connie was quite starched and serious, making the two of them polar opposites.

  “Yeah, well... sometimes I have a hard time remembering if you’re the good sister or the evil one.”

  Unaffected, Connie responded casually. “Careful, doctor. Don’t make me have to smack you in the Lord’s house.”

  “Hey, by the way, nice save earlier with Polly Shropshire.”

  She shook her head. “Poor, poor, Polly. She’s got more issues than Reader's Digest. I remember when she first moved to town after marrying Clayton, God rest his soul. Despite his family name she's never felt like she belonged. First thing she did was claw her way into the High Society Book Club. Over the years she's been President of the Junior Auxiliary and Chairman of the Benefit Ball. But none of that's ever made her happy. Now she just hands out misery like they were complimentary breath mints."

  I grinned and folded my arms. We fell silent, content to observe Matthew until the crowd thinned. I felt for him. Being new to Watervalley could be daunting. I knew from experience.

  “I guess I was lucky, Connie. I had you to hold my hand those first few months.”

  “Humph,” she replied. “Say what you will about the hand holding, doctor. But you and I both know it had more to do with you being all ogle-eyed with a pretty brunette. In fact, as I remember, she cast her little spell on you exactly one year ago tonight, out on the front steps of this church.” Connie snickered, proudly content in the unquestioned truth that I had been thoroughly love-struck by Christine Chambers.

  I responded coolly. “Eh, maybe.” But who’s to say it wasn’t that world-famous Connie Thompson cooking. If you hadn’t been around my diet would probably consist of peanut butter and Milk Duds.”

  Connie nodded, regarding me with a sullen, sideways glance. “Might be more truth to that than should probably be told. Which, by the way, reminds me. Given your upcoming nuptials, you and I need to have ‘The Talk.’”

  I turned toward her, searching. “The Talk?”

  Connie was aloof, staring straight ahead. "Umm-hmm. The Talk."

  “What do you mean, ‘The Talk?”

  She crossed her arms. “I mean just what I said, ‘The Talk.’”

  I rubbed my chin for a moment. "Okay, Connie. I’m not sure whether I've mentioned this in passing but, I'm actually a licensed physician. So, I think I've already got a pretty good handle on the whole ‘The Talk' subject matter."

  “Oh, good heavens! What is it about men that automatically reduces every conversation to the topic of sex?”

  “Are you allowed to say that word in church?”

  “Knock it off, doctor. ‘The Talk’ is not about sex.”

  "Okay. Gee. Ceasefire.”

  I exhaled slowly, thinking. I had no idea. “Well, if that’s the case, then what is it about?”

  Connie turned and lifted her chin, appraising me stiffly through her glasses. Her only response was a curt, “You’ll see.”

  I shrugged. “I think I’d rather not. This is starting to sound like the mother of all teachable moments?”

  Connie’s stiff demeanor melted. She smiled and spoke instructively. “Well, my, my, my. Nothing gets past you. And here I thought your IQ was barely room temperature.”

  We again stood silently, taking in Watervalley’s grand welcome to Matthew House. “So, what’s your opinion of the new B&B owner?” I inquired.

  “Too soon to tell. Seems to be a little introverted for the hospitality business. Something’s not right there.”

  “Oh, good grief. Not you, too?”

  “What?”

  "The poor fellow likes to keep to himself, so that translates to there being something wrong with him."

  “No. That’s not it.”

  “What then?”

  “Not sure. But I’ll figure it out.”

  I let the conversation stand at that, unconvinced of Connie’s assertion. My attention was drawn to Matthew’s children. “Beautiful little boy and girl, don’t you think?”

  Connie nodded. “They certainly are, even if they are dressed like they come from the land of misfit toys.”

  “So noted.”

  With growing curiosity Connie began to watch the two children who once more were buried in a private conversation, quietly pointing to distant corners of the choir loft and sanctuary before whispering behind a cupped hand. Something in their actions was mesmerizing. Connie was being drawn in.

  Following the gestures of their small fingers, she began searching the high rafters for the object of their secretive exchange. But there was nothing to be seen. It was all just an endearing game of imagination typical of young children. Connie, however, seemed to have other ideas. Her gaze tightened, and she smiled sweetly and cleverly, lightly nodding her head in a manner that I would be hard pressed to explain.

  The line had finally dwindled, and I started to migrate toward the end. But something in Connie had changed. She hesitated and spoke abruptly. “Luke, I’ll make my introductions later. Why don’t you stay and speak to Matthew? I’ll go on over to your house and start getting everything ready for the Christmas gathering.”

  “You sure? I'm guessing Christine, and her mom have already headed that way. They’ve probably got things under control.”

  "No. I'll visit him later. But I think it's important that the two of you meet."

  I deliberated. She was stonewalling her true thoughts. Her behavior was odd, off balance. But I knew it was useless to press her and gave her an easy out. “Oh, I get it. I know what you’re up to. You haven’t wrapped my Christmas gift yet.”

  Immediately, her prior uneasiness vanished into a breezy indifference. “What makes you think I got you a gift at all?”

  I took her arm in escort fashion, and we ambled up the aisle. “Because, Constance Grace Thompson, it’s common knowledge to everyone in the valley that you completely and absolutely adore me.”

  She was unaffected, offering only a dispassionate “humph.”

  "I know, I know...sometimes you get a little mushy, and it's embarrassing, but I realize you simply can't help yourself. It's just your bubbly nature."

  Connie rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you a gift of fifty dollars right now if you’ll just shut yourself up.”

  I ignored her, continuing with great ceremony. “And, even though that tough exterior of yours could probably deflect a small caliber bullet, we both know that you’re a caring, considerate person; the kind who takes gift giving seriously...selecting something that is unique, tasteful, and, in my case, absurdly expensive.”

  Connie remained unaffected. “I see. Any other details I should consider?”

  "Hmm, age-appropriate, too, I guess."

  We had reached the narthex doors. Connie spoke dryly. “Then I’ll be sure to get you some crayons and a coloring book.”

  “Okay. Good talk.”

  She stepped away, smothering a cunning grin. “Let me know what you think of our newcomer.”

  Chapter 3

  INTRODUCTIONS

  BY THE TIME I RETURNED to the front of the church, the last well-wisher had bid goodbye. A few volunteers were working their way through the p
ews, re-shelving the hymnals and collecting the random programs that were left behind. Matthew was down on one knee preparing to button his daughter's coat but rose as I approached.

  "Hi. I'm..."

  “Luke Bradford,” he said, finishing my introduction for me.

  I stopped abruptly and smiled, slightly surprised. “Yes, that’s right.”

  He held out his hand. “Matthew House.”

  We shook. “I believe it’s Dr. Matthew House, is it not?”

  He shrugged in a gesture of deflection. “Technically, yes. But that’s not too important here. I um, I was a language professor.”

  I nodded my understanding. “Welcome to Watervalley.”

  "Thank you. It's good to be here finally."

  "Getting settled in, I hope?"

  He hesitated. “Um, yes. Yes, we are.” There was a noted brevity in his response, leaving a void in the exchange. I filled in the silence.

  “Well, Watervalley’s not exactly Charleston, but it grows on you.”

  He responded with an amiable nod but offered nothing else. I leaned to the side to catch a glimpse of the twins. Instinctively, Matthew understood my inquiry and brought them around in front. "These are my children, Adelyn and Andrew." He rested his hands on the back of their heads and spoke in a voice that was patient and undemanding. "Guys, this is Dr. Bradford."

  I bent down, resting my elbows on my knees. “Hi, I’m delighted to meet both of you.”

  They responded with a cautious “Hi.”

  Up close, the twins were even more enchanting. Despite their tempered reserve, both had faces of radiant life. I smiled, and as I stood, the daughter tugged on her father's sleeve. Her voice was soft and lilting, with music in it. "Daddy, can we go walk through the benches?"

  “Sure sweetheart. Just stay where I can see you.”

  They scampered off like limber little elves.

  “They’re quite beautiful.”

  Matthew looked down, clearly warmed by my comment. “Thanks. They’re good kids, but very independent. They can be a handful.”