The Fullness of Time--A Novel of Watervalley

by Jeff High

  But I was on edge.

  In time I gathered my coat and mindlessly made my way to the backyard, hoping the cold might help me find clarity to the muted confusions of the day. It was not to happen. The dim night sky, fretted with stars, seemed to close; crowding my head and pressing the weight of my muddled thoughts heavier upon me. I returned inside and went to bed. But the ghosts of indecision continued to whisper, to confound and torment me. Sleep that night was both uneasy and broken.

  Despite the toss and turn of the small hours, I awoke to a brilliant morning of golden light that fell slantwise, clean, and cold across the hushed, frost-laden yard. The chaotic voices of the night seemed washed away. The day had an air of expectancy, a fresh, brisk vitality. I took care of the dogs, ate a light breakfast, and went for a morning run. Often, I would take the boys with me. But this morning, I chose not to, wanting the freedom to clear my head. Afterward, I showered and in the fog of the bathroom mirror decided that, along with the dogs, I had become quite shaggy. It was time for a haircut.

  If gossip was Watervalley’s largest industry, then Maylen’s Barbershop was the home office. Located downtown just off the square, it was a simple one-room structure made of concrete blocks smothered in fresh white paint. Inside was old and rustic but spotlessly clean with a lone barber chair in the center on an ancient wood floor. An odd assortment of benches and seats lined the four walls. Except for the updated Farmer’s Co-op calendar, the room probably looked just the same as it did when Maylen first opened over thirty years ago.

  I liked Maylen Cook. He was of modest height, loosely jointed, and slim; belonging to that odd fraternity of Southern men who simply had no backside. A well-worn belt kept his pants clinging desperately to his bony hips. Despite his lanky, lean build, Maylen had uncharacteristic heavy jowls.

  Adorned in a short-sleeved barber’s shirt with a banded collar, he had droopy eyes and a stoic countenance that gave the impression he was thoroughly bored with life. But nothing could be farther from the truth. He was gifted at listening, had an insightfully clever mind, and a quick-witted sense of humor. And while it was never my habit to hang out at his shop, there was always a sense of anticipation and amusement whenever I went. My day was off to a good start.

  I collected my things and headed out the front door both light-hearted and energized, unaware that the untroubled clarity of this early hour would soon be shadowed.

  I drove downtown and parked nearby. Upon entering I was greeted with a heavy chorus of "Hey, Doc" from the nearly full room. The air was permeated with the smell of Pinaud's Aftershave and the thick earthy smell of the farmyard. Most of the men wore overalls and flannel shirts accessorized with camo in the form of a hat or a coat or both.

  An unwitting patron would walk into this packed house and abruptly leave, thinking his turn would be hours away. But I had long since learned that Maylen’s shop was an unofficial men’s club; a sanctuary from wives and a hub for news. The only open seat was the barber chair itself, a good sign. After pausing and casting an obligatory searching glance around the room, I was met with a spontaneous response of pointing fingers and kindly voices saying, "you're up doc.” As I settled in, Maylen gave his barber sheet a ceremonial unfurling pop and proceeded to drape it around me.

  There was an unexplainable ease of mind that always prevailed upon me at Maylen’s shop. The room was filled with a comfortable camaraderie that was relaxed, good-natured, oftentimes salty, and invariably bathed with the plain and honest bluntness of the rural mindset. There was a mix of age, but most of these fellows were old farmers who had reached a hearing-impaired mass, leaving many of the conversations to sound like amiable shouting contests. They were a jovial bunch; telling stories, stomping their feet, and laughing themselves into various levels of coronary failure.

  And perhaps the best part of it all was that, contrary to urban stereotyping of small towns, on occasion, the local mechanic, Chick McKissick and other men of color hung out at Maylen’s just to enjoy the banter and robust companionship. Chick’s brother had a barbershop over on South Street, so everyone knew he was not there for a trim. And rather than casting a cloud of hushed silence over the room, Chick’s random appearance would create a cacophonous explosion of warmth and humor.

  Someone from beyond the valley would be aghast at the uninhibited exchanges that followed. Hilarious and rhapsodic conversations ensued that openly teased about ethnic differences in food, and music, and language; topics that would have been considered offensive in the city and its façade of cultural homogeneity. But here I had learned that for the most part, there was a deep, abiding bond among the people of Watervalley, irrespective of color. The challenges of weather and crops and the inherent sparsity of rural existence had forced both a familiarity and a dependency. These men served together as volunteer firemen, watched their children play ball together, shared their gardens, served their country, and in many cases, worshiped together. They had their differences, but it seemed that most had gladly moved beyond the harsh vestiges of past decades. Because of the long years of genuine friendship and respect that existed between them, they would laugh and needle each other on a level that few outsiders could understand.

  Ironically, the one person whose presence invoked a mild censuring of the conversation was me. The rural culture seemed to automatically pay an unspoken homage to my profession. Despite knowing practically all these men on a first name basis, they seemed to be on their better behavior when I was around...at least, for the most part.

  As Maylen began to clip away, the first hot topic of conversation had to do with Lester McFall’s plans to paint his tobacco barn green. The majority seemed quite certain that it was God’s will that a tobacco barn should be painted red, provided God had had the benefit of tobacco farmer decorator training. This was a serious matter to the group and from the intensity of the conversation the continuation of democracy as we knew it depended on the outcome. Apparently, the fashion sensibilities of the average Watervalley farmer were surprisingly high.

  As soon as the barn discussion ended, Abner Dooley held up a wobbly finger and said, “Hey, hey. I’ve got a story to tell about an old barn.” A collective moan reverberated around the room. Abner was a rickety little octogenarian who had random teeth and a tendency to spit when he talked. He was likeable enough, but his anecdotes tended to lose track and take forever to finish. His tale began about a barn but ended up being about catching a catfish the size of a small submarine. Somehow, along the way, an alien sighting got involved. The story had a plot that even Tolkien couldn’t follow.

  Meanwhile, I had fallen under the trance of the steady clip-clip of Maylen's scissors. My eyes had closed, and I was drifting. Then through the fog, I heard someone mention the name, Matthew House.

  My head popped up so quickly that Maylen almost skewered one of my ears. He took quiet notice, but let it go at that. Apparently, during my momentary snooze, someone had walked in with a hot off the press copy of the Village Voice, the Watervalley newspaper. On the front page was Matthew House, giving a $3,000 check to Mayor Hickman to help underwrite the Annual Run with Scissors 5K planned for the following Saturday; an event that raised money for the elementary school. The story was read aloud and met by an affirming crowd of raised eyebrows and nodding heads. This was followed by a healthy round of accolades and admiring praise for the new innkeeper. It seemed that between his humble appearance on Christmas Eve and this grand act of generosity, Matthew had transformed his status from one of suspicion to celebrity.

  Inwardly, I was stunned. This was completely counter to the secretive and secluded Matthew that I had come to know. He hadn’t mentioned anything about so openly engaging with the community. I guess I should have felt happy that he was being seen in such a high regard. But I wasn’t. In truth, I was dumbfounded and now more skeptical than ever. Matthew’s actions struck me as both astute and calculated. By his own admission, he had no intentions of opening the inn anytime soon, so his immersion into the public
goodwill at this point was fiercely suspect.

  Then again, in a week his children would be attending the local elementary school, and perhaps this was his way of responsibly enlisting himself into the process. Through it all, I remained silent. I was confused more than ever about Matthew, yet convinced of one thing. He was shrewd. He may not have been impressed by money, but he certainly understood its uses.

  In time, the talk of Matthew diminished, and the group turned their focus in a new direction; me. Even though months away, my upcoming nuptials were fair game for taunting. The usual one-liners emerged quickly; about how a bachelor never makes the same mistake but once and, that instead of getting married, I should just find a woman I hate and buy her a house. But the discussion took a definitive downward spiral when Vernon Boshers entered the conversation.

  Vernon was a squat, chunky little man who owned the coin-laundry adjacent to the barbershop. With his round face and perpetual clownish grin, he was a loud, ill-mannered, lout whose vacant intellect had remained undaunted despite years of Maylen’s quick-tongued censure.

  In his typically blunt and bloated fashion, Vernon began to boast about the number of times he and his wife found connubial bliss on their wedding night some decades ago. Then he proceeded to prod the other rustics into his game of braggadocio, and quickly the topic evolved into numerous claims that were beyond the realm of absurd. Having effectively stirred the pot, Vernon stared in my direction with his half-idiot grin, clearly wanting me to weigh into the conversation. But Vernon held no spell over me, and I remained coolly silent.

  All the while, Maylen clipped away with a hangdog face of bored disdain. Having no luck with me, Vernon turned his verbal assault on him; badgering Maylen to quote some statistic regarding his wedding night activities. For the longest time, Maylen ignored him. His face remained expressionless, save for the eventual pursing of his lips, the closing of his eyes, and the slow, tired shaking of his head. But Vernon was relentless and continued to press him.

  Eventually, the entire barbershop was held in attention awaiting Maylen’s response. Finally, he paused his cutting, exhaled a long sigh, and turned to Vernon, speaking in a weary monotone that suggested he was talking to a mentally challenged goat.

  “We only did it once, Vernon. My wife wasn’t so used to it.”

  Amidst the roar that followed, Maylen turned back to me, politely used his thumb to reposition my chin, and then continued with the methodic clip-clip of his scissors, his tired expression never changing. Soon after, I paid and left.

  Maylen was the highlight of my day.

  During the brief hour, while having my hair cut, a cold front had moved in, leaving the sky grey and overcast. Even though the clinic was closed, I spent the balance of the morning and afternoon in my office, going through old files, reading a few articles, and generally squandering away the day. It seemed that spare time and I had become strangers and, having suddenly been afforded so much of it, I was at a loss with what to do with myself. Instinctively I defaulted to the rituals of my daily life, using work and the opiate of responsibility to fill the empty hours.

  A large part of me wanted to call Matthew or just randomly stop by his house under the guise of checking on his burn. But in truth, my real curiosity was about the $3,000 and his sudden audacious entrance into the public eye. I chose to do neither.

  Later, Christine and I talked briefly on the phone. After that, I gathered the dogs and threw the ball in the backyard until the last light of evening faded. Just as the night before, I was burdened with my thoughts and sleep was elusive.

  During the week of the holidays, I seemed to have lost the faculty of estimating time. Unconsciously, the days passed and slipped into January. My movements were driven more by habit and custom rather than purpose. And yet, during every moment of the day, part of my mind was held captive, constantly and silently preoccupied with the horrendous decision before me. But despite this constant torment, I held my silence, attempting to pour myself into the oblivion of work in hopes that somehow, the events of my ordinary life would provide certainty as to which future to choose.

  During this time, the decay had begun. With each passing day, by modest degrees, I was confronted more and more by the smallness of my life. From this grew a slow resentment that was blind and instinctive; secretly nurturing a sticking bitterness that tainted everything. I was less patient, less caring, quicker to anger. Sometimes my private irritation seeped to the surface, blooming darkly on my face. Friends and loved ones took notice, occasionally making pensive and concerned inquiries. But my answers were dismissive and evasive, and I would quickly assume a more light-hearted demeanor.

  In this fashion, I muddled through the cold, cloudy days that followed the new year, holding on to the reckless notion that once I had passed the tombs of winter, all would be clear. I saw little of John and even less of Matthew. Connie and I would talk on occasion, but I was detached. I knew she was troubled about me, yet she never pressed the matter. It was around Christine that I presented the greatest counterfeit of my true thoughts. I was determined not to upset her until I was sure of my own head and heart.

  In hindsight, holding everything in...keeping secrets from everyone, proved to be remarkably stupid. Unwittingly, whole parts of my world were quietly careening off course. Then, late one afternoon at the end of January, I received a most peculiar phone call.

  Chapter 20

  PHOTOGRAPHS

  WHY, THANK YOU, POLLY. As a doctor who is hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt and who has focused his entire life on knowledgeably caring for the sick, mending wounds, and listening to the concerns of his patients, I welcome insulting remarks about my shirt.”

  Polly had been primly sitting on the exam room table and talking non-stop while she surveyed the room with a detached and ponderous air. But after absorbing my comment, her neck stiffened. The sarcasm in my words had bled through a little too thickly. Her bristled response was both haughty and wounded.

  “Well, I didn’t realize that I was rubbing an open nerve. I was simply observing that your tie didn’t seem to match. My dear Clayton, the late Mr. Shropshire, always wanted me to pick out his ties. He thought I had an impeccable eye for fashion.”

  I ignored her. After retrieving my pen, I scribbled out an anti-anxiety prescription to accommodate this week’s edition of Polly’s endless ailments. Perhaps it had been the doldrums of winter or the dreary continuum of work separated by nights of insufficient sleep, but I had grown weary of the likes of Polly and numerous other patients whose problems were largely between their ears.

  In the Watervalley school for scandal, Polly was the headmistress. Her visit was just another episode of rant and gossip mixed in with some fabricated malady. It seemed the discontent of others was her greatest amusement. When that was not accommodated, she held no qualms at manufacturing misery for whoever crossed her path. Apparently, this morning had been my turn.

  I handed her the prescription and, after grunting a salutation, I exited to my office and dropped into my chair, exasperated. Altogether it hadn't been a bad day, and I was determined not to let Polly's visit put me in an ill humor. I swiveled around to face the large windows behind me. Outside the world was already on the cusp of darkness and I blew out a long sigh. Another gloomy winter evening had arrived. Nancy Orman timidly took a half step through the door to tell me she was shutting everything down. I told her that I would soon follow. I stood, gathered my papers, and retrieved my cell phone from my overcoat pocket. I was about to call Christine when I noticed that a voicemail had been left. It was from Matthew House.

  Curious, I returned to my chair. Matthew had left a message asking that I give him a call, or better yet, drop by when I had a chance. There were some things he wanted me to see. He further explained that the matter was nothing urgent. I was about to dial his number but then, thought better of it. For some reason, I wanted to mull it over. I gathered my things and locked up. On the way home, I called Christine.

&n
bsp; Despite the magic of being engaged and in love, our lives still included the mundane. Work, feeding dogs, shopping for groceries, and paying bills were still part of the daily and weekly regimen. Still, we managed to see each other on most school nights to grab some food, catch up, and of course, talk about the wedding, which now seemed to be costing about the same as an aircraft carrier. I was delighted to hear her voice, but it soon became apparent that seeing her that evening was unlikely. She had a huge stack of papers to grade, another task of the daily grind.

  I sat in my driveway, and we talked for a full fifteen minutes. I didn't want to let her go. But in time we said our goodbyes, and I walked to the front door, and the familiar sight of two wet noses pressed to the living room window. The boys always lifted my spirits.

  The two of them would come skidding into the front hallway in DEFCON Five, full-alert mode. After an obligatory head rubbing there would be a slippery gallop to the kitchen where both would sit in frozen obedience and stare at the back door in rapt attention. Once I had opened it a minimum of six inches, there followed an explosive muscling dash outside that held all the reckless abandon of a prison break.

  While they darted around the backyard with random stops to take care of their business, I would fill their dinner bowls and place them on the porch. Ninety seconds later the bowls would be empty, and a less intensive reconnaissance of the rear domain would resume. After a lengthy playtime, I would call them back in. Rhett would quickly oblige. Casper, however, would ignore my calls and continue scampering around the backyard, tenaciously following some unidentified scent. Lecturing Rhett about how “He’s your son. You need to fix this,” did little to improve the matter. Inevitably I would have to venture into the cold and be Casper’s personal guide to the back door.