by Jeff High
“What about them?”
“I think they peaked in middle school.”
“I’m not sure what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying your housekeeping habits are a train wreck, and pretty soon this is no longer going to be my station.”
I fell back in my chair, somewhat stunned. “Well, thanks for the subtlety.”
"Now don't be getting all riled up. You're a handsome man, Luke. You're tall and good looking. You've got an easy smile and can be quite charming when you choose. So, along with being the town physician, people naturally want to do for you."
“Gee,” I responded skeptically. “I’m not so sure about all that.”
“Well, I am sure. So, listen. You know I care deeply for you. But you need to hear me out. You’re a doctor, Luke. And not just a good one but a brilliant one. God gave you this...not that you’ve figured that out and shown Him any gratitude... but anyway, you’ve lived on your own for quite some time. For most folks, and especially men, when they live alone like that, they get the sincere notion that they’re quite easy to live with. And in your case, not only have you lived alone, you’ve lived a lot of years without a woman’s touch in the home.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning your domestic practices have suffered. Sometimes I’m amazed you know how to walk upright. And living with two dogs hasn’t pulled up your average either. Not that I’m judging, mind you.”
"You sure? Because whole sections of that sounded like judgment to me."
“All I’m saying is that before you bring a woman into this house, I think you need to contact Mission Control because you are nowhere near ready for lift off.”
Admittedly, I was mildly indignant at Connie’s assertion. “Give me one example.”
“Just last week I noticed you were wearing what you found in the dirty clothes hamper that morning. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I was going to get away with it and not have to explain it to anyone,” I said defensively.
“And you need to learn how to pick up after yourself. The ability to create clutter may just be your superpower.”
“I never have trouble finding what I’m looking for. Besides, I do my own laundry from time to time.”
“I’ve noticed. The other day there was enough fluff in the lent trap to make a cushion.”
“I cook, too, I’ll have you know.”
"Umm-hmm. And according to the neighbors, you must be using the smoke alarm as a kitchen timer."
"I get a lot of interruptions."
Connie was unamused and fastened upon me a sharp, penetrating stare whose clear intent was to decompose me. I held up my hands in a gesture of capitulation. “Okay, fine. Out with it. Let’s hear this roster of villainy.”
By now she was in high gear, her voice both animated and matter-of-fact. It became readily apparent that this was a conversation she had begun long before she arrived this morning.
“For starters, apparently you expect the laundry fairy to pick your pants up off the floor. And your shower. I’ve never seen anything so filthy. I’d rather take a sponge bath on a garbage barge. There are bacteria in there big enough to be domesticated as household pets."
“Not everybody sees dirt on the sub-atomic level that you do, Connie.”
“Are you kidding me, Luke Bradford. You don’t notice an accumulation of dirt until it’s large enough to pot a plant in it. And your bedroom. Did someone set a bomb off in there? With some photos and the completion of a few online forms, you could qualify for federal disaster relief.”
“A little disorder breeds character.”
Humph,” Connie retorted. “I may have to spray the whole upstairs with disinfectant because of all the character that’s breeding up there.”
I stared at her blankly, speechless. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Admittedly, my standard of cleanliness wasn’t that of a surgical field. But neither was it the floor of a fraternity house bathroom. I folded my arms, mildly peeved. “How does this happen? One minute I’m a happy guy with bowl games and Cheetos and the next instant I’m assaulted by the Germ Gestapo.”
Connie regarded me with a puckered and reproving face. Her voice was both authoritative and instructive. “Luke, this could be one of those times when keeping your mouth shut might be your greatest accomplishment.”
I ignored her. "Hey, all I'm saying is that I think I'm a reasonably clean and tidy guy. I'm busy. I'm a doctor for heaven's sake. It demands a lot of my time. So, on balance, I need to be appreciated and understood.”
“Could have fooled me,” Connie breezed to the general air. “The way you’re acting I was thinking you needed to be swaddled and burped.”
I wanted to come back with a clever retort, but nothing came to mind. “So, what’s your point?”
"The point, Luke, is that since both of you have full-time jobs, you need to rethink the distribution of labor. Keeping up a house involves a lot of repetitive, unglamorous tasks. But you can punch above your weight if you work together.”
“Such as?”
The words began in a high-pitched voice and nearly exploded from her. “Such as? How about this! Learn how to fold laundry, lower the toilet seat once in a while, and for heaven’s sake figure out why God invented coasters. Be thoughtful and pick up around the house from time to time. Help with the dishes. Change out the bag in the vacuum.”
I sharpened my gaze. “What bag?”
Closing her eyes, Connie slowly shook her head from side to side. An agonizing silence ensued. I impatiently drum rolled my fingers on the kitchen table. There was an element in the mix of this entire conversation that didn't fit. Finally, a simple reality washed over me. I leaned toward her.
“Connie, is there something else bugging you here?”
“You mean other than your occasional holiday from hygiene?”
“This is about you and me, isn’t it? It’s about us no longer seeing each other on a regular basis.”
Connie stiffened. “Of course not. You’re just trying to change the subject to save your own skin.”
“Why shouldn’t I. I'm very attached to it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Look, Connie. I’m sure there is some truth in all the things you’re telling me. But Christine and I are both adults. We’ll figure things out. Meanwhile, you need to realize something. I know you’ll no longer be the housekeeper. That will be a change. But one thing will never change, and I want you to hear what I’m saying... plain and simple. You will always be Connie Thompson, my surrogate mom. That’s not going to change.”
Connie pressed her lips hard together and nodded lightly. Then suddenly, her face began to crumble. It would seem that I had hit the mark. She exhaled a deep sigh, and a large tear emerged in the corner of her eye. I was quite moved, especially since, as much as I adored her, I didn't think she had a drop of water in her. She wiped it away and stiffened her back in a gesture of determination. "It's just that I want you and Christine to be happy. I want this marriage to be beautiful for the both of you."
“Look, Connie. Obviously, marriage is going to be a brave new world for both Christine and me. But we love each other deeply. We’ll be fine.”
She paused for a moment and focused her gaze out the windows toward the backyard. "Marriage isn’t just about love, Luke."
I stared at her curiously. “You’re kidding, right?”
She looked down for a moment, reflecting. “I wish I were.” Then she took my hand. “Listen, Luke. For centuries people married for economic and political reasons. It wasn’t romantic, but it was a union that both parties understood. Now people marry solely on the impulse of love because they want to make a nice feeling permanent. Now I’m not saying that love is a bad thing because Lord knows it’s not. But it’s an emotion, a feeling. And a marriage based on feelings has largely been spared the need to justify itself.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, two young folks say they love
each other and think marriage will be a breeze. It isn’t. All that love does is give marriage a chance. Beyond that, it’s nothing but an optimistic, big-hearted roll of the dice.”
“So, what makes marriages last?”
“Compatibility. That’s what makes a marriage endure. Love is the fuel that makes two people look for ways to stay together. Compatibility is the achievement of love. It's not a prerequisite of it.”
Connie patted my hand. “I love you, Luke. You and Christine are well matched. I know you two will be happy. But as your surrogate Mama, I can’t help but want to give you some advice along the way.”
I looked down and smiled, somewhat embarrassed by Connie’s unfiltered forthrightness. “Well, by all means, Constance Grace. Feel free to toss out any words of wisdom.”
She nodded her understanding. “Just tell her every day that you love her, thank her every day for the things she does, and never go to bed angry.”
“But what if what I do to make her angry happens after we get in bed?”
Connie’s tender countenance de-glossed. “Luke Bradford, you are such an adolescent. I’m fixing to put you in the freezer and make a big kidsickle out of you.”
She shook her head and quickly regained her tone of lecture. “Meanwhile, I’ll be anxiously awaiting the dawn of a new era in the tidiness department. From now on we’re going to do a weekly clean-up-after-yourself report card and put it under the little pineapple magnet on the fridge.”
The problem with what Connie said was that I knew she wasn’t kidding. I appreciated the marital advice, but this seemed to be taking things a little far. Nevertheless, I held my angst in check and spoke with effusive diplomacy. “What would I do without you?”
Connie rose from her chair and whispered under her breath. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.” An amused silence fell between us, and my thoughts drifted to a different matter.
“Connie, tell me what you know about Hiram Hatcher.”
Chapter 13
HIRAM HATCHER
CONNIE'S EYES TIGHTENED. She scrutinized me for a moment, no doubt, curious. "Well, he was long before my time, mind you, but I do know a little bit about the man. He came to town in the early twenties when the phosphate boom happened. I think his family had been in the mining business in Maine; granite if I'm not mistaken. So, he knew a lot about excavating and quarrying and made a fortune, although, I think he showed up with quite a bit of money."
“Why is that?”
“A year before his phosphate business was up and running, he was highly involved in real estate development. From what I understand, he came to Watervalley in a pretty big way. He bought a vacant block of downtown and built the Hatcher Building on half of it. As you know, sister Estelle’s bakery is in one of the shops of that original building. The other half was a warehouse, but it was torn down in the fifties. He even built his own railroad line up to Nashville to ship the phosphate. They took the old track up years ago. It’s now Leipers Creek Road.”
“Wow. He built a railroad?”
"Phosphate was big money. It was during that time that a lot of folks like Hiram Hatcher moved in and built those huge homes up on Society Hill, although it wasn't called Society Hill back then.
“What was it called?”
"Bootlegger Hill. Some of the old folks around town still call it that. Society Hill levels out on top to a pretty broad area. But the backside beyond that leads into a mixture of deep hollows and sharp ravines with lots of caves in them. For decades, all of it was thickly wooded, and it was common knowledge that several stills were tucked away back there. The hollows made it easy for bootleggers to hide their operations and, if need be, escape by the old logging roads. When the phosphate boom came, folks cleared out the level woods on the front side and built houses; the Hatcher estate being the grandest of them by far. I've been told that the original estate had hundreds of acres. I think it's only a fraction of that now. But even after all these years, the ravines and hollows behind it have remained untouched, and the woods have retaken everything. There are no roads, and no one lives back there. I think some out of state trust owns it."
“When did the name change from Bootlegger Hill?”
Connie paused, entertained by some private amusement. "Not sure exactly when, but I do know why. It seems that several of the local blue bloods wanted to build new houses up there as well, especially after the Hatcher estate was built. Needless to say, the name ‘Bootlegger Hill' was a problem for the culture crowd."
“So, what happened?”
“During the twenties, some of the ladies of the town formed a book club that met every month in the huge parlor at the Hatcher estate. I think Lida used that room for the lobby and dining hall, but the book club still met there every Tuesday afternoon even when she had it.” Having been in the magnificent room the previous day, I knew exactly what Connie was describing. But I made no acknowledgment of this to her.
“I’m guessing Hiram’s wife was part of the group?”
“No chance of that. To my knowledge, Hiram Hatcher wasn’t married when he lived here. I think he was just very involved with the community and had offered his home as a meeting place to get in good with the locals. Since the ladies met in that grand mansion, their husbands started to teasingly call them the High Society Book Club. The name stuck, and the area became known as High Society Hill. Over time the ‘High’ was dropped.”
“If he wasn’t married, why did he build such a big house?”
“Who knows. Hiram liked to live large. The story goes that he always had a ton of out of town guests and threw big parties all the time.”
“So, what became of Hiram Hatcher?”
“Don’t really know. For some reason, he left town rather suddenly sometime in 1927 or 28. There’s always been a rumor that he murdered a woman up in the old mansion one night in a drunken fit.”
“Really? Who was the woman?”
"No details on that either, but it couldn't have been anybody local since no one turned up missing. Some say a girlfriend out of Nashville or someplace farther who had come to visit him for a few days. The rumor goes that he buried her in the backyard or under the floor in the basement. Then again, there's no reason to believe that anyone was ever murdered there in the first place."
“Well, still. That’s genuinely creepy.”
"Sure is. Anyway, he sold the phosphate company to some of his competitors. Several weeks after he left, big trucks showed up and moved everything out of the house. To my knowledge, Hiram never came back to Watervalley again. Several months later the place sold to a banker in Nashville but then the depression hit. The house was boarded up and sat empty for years. Over the decades, it changed hands several times, but nobody's ever restored it to its former glory. Lida converted it into the Bed and Breakfast fifteen or so years ago and had done what she could to bring it to at least a shadow of its original state."
I nodded, assimilating everything Connie had said with what I had learned. I was puzzled. “And no one knows why he left?”
"Hard to say. Hiram was a pretty smart entrepreneur, and it seems that everything he touched turned to gold. Maybe he read the tea leaves about phosphate and got out. The boom ended a few years later."
I stared at her curiously. “So, how do you know all this about him?”
She shrugged. “Most of this is common knowledge. I remember my grandfather, Rayford Coleman, talked about him when I was a child. Evidently, Grandpappa knew him.”
“Interesting. Did he do business with Hiram?”
"No. Grandpappa Rayford was an A.M.E minister. When he and Grandmamma moved here, he was fresh out of seminary. He said that Hiram was a generous soul and had quietly given a lot of money to help construct his church building; a pretty big gesture for a white man to do at the time."
“Sounds like Hiram had a little saint in him.”
Connie mildly winced. "I'm not sure I'd go that far. Hiram was a businessman and knew how to spread money around to bring folk
s into camp. I'd always heard that he had a lot of influence with the local politicians as well as with law enforcement."
“Why would he need that?”
“No idea. Apparently, he was a man with big ideas and that was how he got things done.”
Having said this, she lowered her chin, regarded me sternly, and spoke with the unqualified authority that’s usually the preserve of KGB interrogators.
“Now, Dr. Bradford. I have a question for you. I got a text from Christine after the Christmas Eve party wanting to know if I knew where you were. You want to explain yourself on that one?”
Christine hadn’t mentioned this. Apparently, during my lengthy absence that night, she had innocently touched base with Connie. This was a conversation that was best avoided.
“Not really.”
Connie was undaunted. “Also, a little bird with a deputy’s badge told me your car was seen rolling through downtown after midnight. That’s the opposite direction from Christine’s place. Seems to me there’s a story here.”
I had forgotten about the traffic cams downtown. My solitary car rolling through at that hour had probably piqued the interest of whoever was staffing the night desk at the sheriff’s office. I sighed. “Yes, Mrs. Thompson. There is a story here.”
Perhaps I simply needed to unburden my curiosity. Perhaps there was something larger about Matthew that I wanted to understand and could not do on my own. Or, maybe I knew that Connie was discreet and would eventually leverage the truth out of me anyway. I folded. For the next several minutes, I gave her a full accounting of the events of Christmas Eve, save for the peculiar incident on the lawn and Emily House's relationship to Hiram Hatcher. Connie listened silently, contemplating all that I said. When I finished, she asked a rather odd question.
“So, you say that Matthew went downstairs to check on his children and left you alone in the third-floor library?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”