Each Shining Hour (15 page)

Open for Business

“W
hat in the world do you make of this?”

Christine shook her head. “I have no idea.” We were both equally dumbfounded.

The star was old and tarnished, with no way of telling how long it had been there. I knew of only one or two Jewish families in the area, and being so small, Watervalley didn't have a synagogue. As well, I was fairly certain that the Hebrew families I knew of had come to Watervalley within the last few years and would not have known Oscar Fox. The whole business was odd.

I returned the chain and star to its place on the headstone and we clumsily worked our way through the tangled vines and darkness to the car. We made a quick stop in town at the grocery, yet all the while, both of us were awash in uneasiness, wrestling with the same unanswered questions.

I pulled up to Christine's house and killed the engine. We sat for a moment, staring at each other, consumed in a fog of uncertainty. I realized that we each knew what the other was thinking.
Christine shook her head. “Yeah, that was all just . . . I don't know, weird, wasn't it?”

Preoccupied, I simply nodded. I didn't want to admit it, but Oscar Fox and I having the same birthday and being the same age invoked a haunting stir of thoughts. I generally didn't consider myself superstitious. I was a doctor, for heaven's sake, and by practice and training approached the world pragmatically. Even still, the similarities were peculiar and unsettling.

“Luke?”

“Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought for a moment there.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“Sure. I mean . . . is that okay? Because the last two days have been, well, wonderful. But I don't want to crowd out all your time.”

“I didn't say I was going to answer.”

“Right, okay, fair enough.”

“Brrrrr. It is so cold. Listen, you don't have to walk me to the porch.”

“Are you kidding? I'd be missing out on the best part of the day.”

Christine's smile turned delightfully elfin. She leaned over and once again, just as earlier in the day, grabbed the open sides of my coat. She spoke carefully in a low, hushed voice. “Okay, then. Why don't we say good-bye right here?”

I whispered in return, “Why don't we say good-bye both places?”

*   *   *

I
drove back to Fleming Street, took care of Rhett, and was in bed early that night. Tomorrow the clinic would be open for business, and despite my casual prediction to Ann, I feared it might be a busy day.

Monday morning the weather turned uncharitable. A harsh, cold wind complained outside as I made coffee and toast. At my
insistence, Connie was taking some time off, but candidly, I was looking forward to the holidays being over and getting back to our joint routine. I had grown to depend on her to keep me focused.

I arrived at the clinic at seven thirty, and just as on the day before, Ann was early, waiting for me in her SUV.

We went inside together and I introduced her to the clinic's small staff, including Nancy Orman, the office manager and receptionist, and Cindy and Camilla, the two middle-aged sisters who acted as the lab tech and phlebotomist respectively. They greeted Ann warmly, told her how glad they were to have her join the staff, and politely inquired about where she was from. Ann engaged them with courteous reserve. As kind as she was, I could sense that she still kept her distance. Admittedly, I understood this, given that she was an RN traveler and not expected to put down roots.

There was already a small crowd of walk-in patients, most of whom had winter colds, along with one or two of my geriatric patients, who had minor complaints or needed prescriptions refilled. Ann and I worked through these quickly, and to my delight, she easily caught on to the routine of meeting patients, taking their vitals, and asking the right questions. By ten thirty we had finished the last one and had retreated to my office to discuss a few details.

Moments later, Nancy simultaneously knocked and stepped through the doorway. “Dr. Bradford, Lester Caruthers is here.”

“Is he bleeding?”

“Don't think so.”

After a short deliberation, I asked her to put him in exam room two.

Lester worked on the loading dock at the Farmers' Co-op and had a hard, bony face that only a dog could love, a nearsighted one at that. In his forties, he had a lanky build and a mop of hair that was usually covered by a faded John Deere hat. His large discolored
buckteeth protruded prominently from a mouth that was perpetually in a casual gape. I had come to know Lester over the past months as a likable soul with a mind that was happily not burdened by pondering any of life's complex dilemmas. His goal was just to get by.

On his previous visits I had stitched up some small cuts and scrapes. For farmers and laborers in Watervalley, it wasn't uncommon to acquire a few scars and even lose a digit or two along the way. But Lester's injuries were invariably self-inflicted and usually preceded by the comment, “Hey, hold my beer and watch this.”

“Ann, no need to take vitals on this one,” I said.

Her gaze sharpened under her wire-rim glasses.

“Lester is something of a special case. Just um, follow my lead.”

We found Lester sitting on the exam table wearing blue jeans and his best Bud Light T-shirt. I introduced Ann and proceeded to ask him what seemed to be the problem.

“I'm feeling rough, Doc, really rough. I can't concentrate worth a flip. I think I need some more of them pills.”

I rubbed my chin and nodded thoughtfully. “I see. And when do you notice this lack of concentration the most?”

“Mostly at work. But sometimes, you know, just all the time. It's rough, I'm telling you.”

I responded with a low hum, again pondering his response with great deliberation. “Well, Lester, let me check a few things.”

I proceeded to examine his ears and his eyes, and listened to his chest, careful to avoid the pungent waft of his rather noxious breath. All the while, Ann stood by, discreetly observing our exchange. I finished and once again stood rubbing my chin and deliberating.

“Gee, Doc. What do you think? I mean, it ain't like it's rocket surgery.” Lester had a prodigious capacity for mixing figures of speech.

“Lester, you may be right. Hold on and I'll get you some of those pills. Ann, go ahead and take Lester's temperature and blood pressure just for good measure. I'll be right back.”

She nodded. I returned shortly with a small, yellow plastic pill bottle on which I had taped a written label. Ann volunteered that his temperature and pressure were normal.

“Lester, take one, and only one, of these every morning. You should be fine.”

Lester readily agreed. I patted him on the back, telling him to take care. He departed and Ann and I returned to my office.

“What in the world was that all about?” she asked.

“Oh, that's just Lester. He's an okay guy, just a little high maintenance.”

“And the pills?”

“Lester came in a few months back wanting me to write a prescription for those ‘special pills.' I looked in his file and noticed that several years back someone had prescribed Adderall, thinking he might have ADD. Adderall is amphetamine salts, so I'm sure Lester got a delightful buzz off of them.”

“So you're aiding his addiction?”

“Hardly. The only thing Lester is addicted to is the path of least resistance. I hear he has a rich uncle somewhere, so probably the two most important words in his future are ‘estate sale.' Besides, he doesn't have ADD, he has LOA.”

“LOA?”

“Lack of ambition.”

“I don't understand. You're giving him a Schedule II drug because he's lazy?”

I laughed. “No, of course not. I gave him a prescription bottle full of Tic Tacs.”

“Tic Tacs? That's not going to cure anything.”

“Apparently you didn't smell his breath.” I leaned back in my chair. “Anyway, Lester seems happy, I'm happy, the Tic Tac company is happy. It's a win-win.”

Ann lowered her chin, folded her arms, and stared at me incredulously. After a moment she shook her head and laughed out loud. “Wow, and I thought I'd seen everything.”

I answered drily, “Welcome to Watervalley.”

We talked casually for the next half hour. Ann's mood grew lighter. She seemed more relaxed. I suspected she was deciding Watervalley might be a good fit for her. I was thrilled. She also began to volunteer a little about her past, revealing a rather salty wit.

“Yeah, I was married for thirteen years. Been divorced for about the same number. No children, thank heavens. The world doesn't need any more like him.”

“So how did you meet?”

“Through a mutual friend who I never speak to anymore. Anyway, my ex drove a beer truck.”

“Hmm, well. At least he had that going for him.”

Ann laughed at herself. “Yeah, he smoked, he drank, and he made funny noises under his arm. Who wouldn't fall in love with him?”

Our exchange was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The door swung open and the visitor stood grandly in the doorway. To my delight and surprise, it was John Harris. Again, this was a first. Over the months I had known John, I had never seen him at the clinic. Now he had breached the city limits for the fourth time in a week.

“Hey, sawbones.” As soon as he spoke, he noticed Ann sitting in the chair opposite my desk. “Hmm. Looks like I'm interrupting. I'll come back another time.”

“Don't run off on my account, Dr. Harris,” injected Ann.

At first John stood quietly. Then he took a few steps into the room, assessing Ann with a collected reserve. It was clear he took her comment as something of a challenge. “Good to see you in your nursing uniform, Ms. Patterson. It changes you, makes you look so civilized.”

Despite this understated jab, Ann didn't miss a beat. “Thank you. I'm thinking a muzzle would do the same for you.”

John grinned. He seemed to enjoy the retort. He walked over and leaned his backside against the front edge of my desk so that he might face her directly and tower over her. For a brief moment, they glared at each other. But the air between them was more of a smirking tartness than a boiling animosity.

“Tell me, Ms. Patterson, does your parole officer know about your hostile tendencies?”

Ann coolly assessed John. She was straight-faced, but subtle lines of amusement were forming around her eyes. “You don't have a whole lot of friends, do you, Dr. Harris?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Wow. Shocker.”

It was time to intervene. “Ahem. Okay, kids. If this keeps up, I'm going to have to put both of you in time-out.”

Ann smiled at me and stood, squaring herself in front of John. She pulled back her small shoulders and stared at him, her intelligent and crafty brown eyes radiant behind her glasses. “No need, Dr. Bradford. I've got some things I need to tend to. Just let me know when you want him to leave and I'll throw a stick out the front door.”

She lifted her left eyebrow, offering John a superior glance. Then she turned and walked out, closing the door behind her. Meanwhile, I couldn't help but notice John's intense focus. He tilted his head down as she departed, clearly admiring the movement of her modestly rounded backside.

With his arms still folded, he turned to me, shrugged, and took a seat in Ann's vacated chair.

“What in the world is with you two?” I asked.

John leaned back, locked his hands behind his head, and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. “Ahhh. Hard to say. I think the woman's crazy about me. Keeps her from acting in a normal way.”

“John, I think we need to find you someone with the same mental disorder you have. That might work better.”

He laughed, dismissing the subject. “Sawbones, I had to run into town and I recall you said something yesterday about the Fox family. What's on your mind?”

“Oh, good, glad you asked. Let me make a quick phone call. If it's okay, I want to discuss this with you and Connie together.”

I dialed Connie's cell phone and she agreed to meet at the house in a few minutes. John said that was fine and departed, noting that he would see us there shortly.

Before leaving, I touched base with Ann to make sure she was okay. She was engaged in a lively conversation with the staff in the break room, acting right at home. Oddly, I noticed that the conversation dropped off the second I entered their company. She and Nancy assured me they had everything under control and would soon be closing for the day. It was, in fact, New Year's Eve. I nodded and returned to my office to grab my coat. As I walked out the back door, I was certain I heard John Harris's name spoken by one of the animated voices echoing down the hallway.

I drove to Fleming Street hoping John and Connie would be open to my little scheme.

A Good Idea

A
s I pulled into my driveway, I noticed Will Fox bundled up and sitting on the bottom step of the metal fire escape on the side of his house just across the low stone wall that ran beside my driveway. Judging from its weathering, the metal stairwell had been there for many years. It led to Will's upstairs bedroom window and its presence struck me as oddly symbolic. Escape seemed to be a recurring desire of Will's life. Despite the cold, he had a large notepad in his lap and was holding a pen with a gloved hand. He was an odd kid.

“Hey, Will. Whatcha doing?”

He looked up at me slowly with discreet, probing eyes. “Writing a comic book story about a superhero.”

“Sounds fun.”

Will returned to his pad, slowly etching words on the page.

“Comic books have lots of pictures. You going to draw those too?”

He remained focused on the pen and paper. “Wendy Wilson said she would draw the pictures if I write the story.” Wendy was
Hoot Wilson's daughter, a bright and cherublike girl. Both of them were in Christine's sixth-grade class.

I spoke in a haughty voice. “Sounds like an equitable collaboration for this artistic enterprise.”

He grinned without looking up. My choice of high-flown words was intentional. With his imaginative and clever intellect, Will seemed to enjoy being regarded as something more than a guileless child.

“We'll see,” he said.

“What's the name of your superhero?”

“Captain Blue Jeans.”

“So, he goes around fighting evil with denim?” I couldn't help noticing the new pair of jeans that Will was wearing. It was likely the prize gift of what had been a meager Christmas for them.

Will peered up and regarded me with muted annoyance. “No, that's just what he wears. His brain has special powers. He uses it to help people.”

“What kind of special powers?”

“Not sure. It's a work in progress.”

“I see. Well, don't get too cold out here. Is your mom home? I notice the car is gone.”

“No, she went out. She didn't tell me, but I think she went to the cabinet factory to apply for a job.”

I nodded and exhaled, my breath visible in the cold air. “Good for her. Maybe something will work out.” I was thinking of Estelle's offer about working at the bakery and made a note to remind her to consider talking to Louise. “I'm home for the day, so if you need anything, come get me.”

I walked to my porch. Will sat in the cold, silently lost to everything around him, carefully writing words that I suspected were driven by a desire to be transported to a world without the loss, the
fear, the uncertainty of the one he and his mother shared; one in which he was Captain Blue Jeans with the ability to make their lives whole again. Will wasn't guileless, but he was still just a boy.

I made coffee and within minutes both John and Connie arrived, bringing with them an electric, mischievous mood that banished my brooding over Will. They shared the teasing banter of two people who had been rivals and friends for many years. It seemed that my presence had served as a needed common denominator between them, the link through which decades of unspoken respect and understanding could find a voice.

I poured coffee and we gathered at the kitchen table.

“Constance, I see you're still driving your old Impala,” John said. “Don't you think it's time to turn that 2001 in for a 2002?”

Connie cut her eyes at him and responded in her standard detached, breezy voice. “My little blue baby runs just fine, John Horatio Harris. Apparently, some of us are more interested in substance than show.”

“Wow. You know, Connie, a lesser man might be hurt by such an insinuation.”

Connie stirred her coffee. “Mmm-hmm. Well, I doubt you'll be tearing up, since I'm pretty sure there's not a drop of water in you.”

John grinned and winked at me. He continued with the attack. “Luke, did you know that when we were in high school, Connie was a great dancer? She could do them all: the Frug, the Freddie, the Loco-Motion, and whoa baby, could she ever do that deep shoulder shimmy.”

A tight-lipped grin inched across Connie's face. “Just keep it up, John. I'm about to put more doo-wop on you than the Del-Vikings.”

John sat back and folded his arms, snickering.

I looked at Connie incredulously. “Is this true, Connie? You were a big dancer? How long ago was this?”

Connie responded dolefully, “Never mind. It's ancient history.”

“Define ancient.”

Connie was unfazed by my enthusiasm. “Long before your time. You know, back when we used to chase the great herds across the plain.”

I was fascinated. “I'd love to see that. Could you show me some of your old moves?”

“Hmmm. Let me think of a good time for that. How about never? Is never good for you?”

“You're not denying it, though? You used to be a great dancer?”

John blurted out, “Absolutely, she was. She was practically a Rockette.” He leaned forward in his chair and took Connie's hand, assuming a voice of feigned concern. “Constance, I think it's time to have a little confessional here. Go ahead. Just get it out. You'll feel better.”

Connie leered at John for a brief moment; then she gushed a sly laugh and shook her head. She again stirred her coffee, gazing at it impassively as she spoke.

“Well, there may be some truth that back in the day I might have been known to have a little rumble and rhythm. But unlike Peter Pan here, there came a time to grow up. I don't do much dancing anymore.”

I looked back and forth between the two of them.

John held up his hands. “What can I say? She was the dancing queen.” He sat there with a grin of smug triumph, a grin that didn't go unnoticed by Connie.

“John Harris, you might want to think about wiping that look off your face, 'cause I'm fixing to bring down the thunder.”

John's snickering erupted into outright laughter. It was contagious. Connie put her hand over her mouth and laughed so hard her shoulders began to shudder. I thought she might cry.

Eventually they calmed down. They were generally aware of the Foxes' financial situation, so I filled them in on some specifics I had learned.

“After everything came out about the break-ins, I met with Louise, Will, and Sheriff Thurman about making restitution. Louise let slip that they were three months behind on their mortgage and facing foreclosure. So here's what I want to do. I want to buy them some time. If each of us covers two months of the mortgage, that will get them caught up and give them three months to maybe get the place sold. I want to do this discreetly, because I don't think Louise will allow it if she knows.”

“Why is that?” John inquired.

“I don't think she's too proud, but I'm guessing she doesn't want anyone to take on their burden. It'll be easier if it's done before she knows about it. So, that's my plan. What do you guys think?”

Connie and John glanced at each other. They responded simultaneously, “Sure.”

“Okay. Good. Here's the other thing. I've got a rough idea about the amount, but I won't know exactly until I meet with Randall Simmons. I'll catch him later this week and give him a check and will let each of you know after that.”

John nodded. “Humph. Good luck talking with that stuffed shirt. It's not a given he'll cooperate with this idea.”

I shrugged. “I don't think he'll have a choice or will care so long as the bank gets its money. But I guess we'll see.”

Connie interjected, “John, not everybody dispenses charm as astringently as you do.”

“That's not true. Once people see things my way, I'm quite easy to get along with.” He sat for a moment longer, reflecting. “Well, sawbones, I guess you're as good a man as any to talk with Simmons. I'm sure you can impress him with your dandyism.”

Connie's neck stiffened. “Dandyism? Good heavens, man. Who talks like that?”

Connie's quick jab put John off-balance. “Hey, I'm just trying to be part of doing the right thing here.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear it. I realize that when it comes to doing the right thing, you're certainly out of practice.” Connie grinned. She had wasted no time resuming the offensive. Before John could respond, she turned to me.

“Luke, I think this is a fine thing to do. But on your salary, are you certain you can handle it? I'm sure John and I can cover if need be.”

“Oh, I might have to take in laundry to make a little extra money, but yeah, I'm good.”

John weighed in. “Connie, the man's a doctor.”

“Mmm-hmm. And he works hard these days, which is more than I can say for some.”

“Well, now listen, hard work and more hard work got me where I am today.”

“That's true, John. Of course, in your case I presume you're referring to someone else's hard work.”

He grinned. “That's just a technicality.”

Connie returned her focus to me. “Again, Luke. I think it's a fine thing to buy the Foxes some time. God is many things, but punctual usually isn't one of them. So he stirs our hearts to do his work. Granted, when it comes to finding hearts he had to put on his bifocals to find John's.”

John absorbed this for a moment. “Hmm. I was going to come back with a crushing metaphor, but suddenly nothing comes to mind.”

I shook my head and smiled at the two of them. They were an
endearing yet contentious pair. There was between them an odd standing of affection and competition. I thanked them, filled with the conviction that what we were doing could be a huge help to Louise and Will.

John pushed away from the table. “Well, boys and girls, I need to get back to the house.” He paused and directed his comments toward Connie. “I have work, real work, that needs to be done.”

“My, my, my,” she responded. “Must be time to organize your sock drawer again. Be sure to put on your hernia belt.” She grinned at me, nearly winking.

John stood and stretched, smiling from ear to ear. “Luke, just let me know. I'll get you a check.” He smiled warmly at Connie, who was still seated. “Constance, always a pleasure.”

She spoke in a voice of genuine affection. “You drive carefully, John.”

After he departed through the front door, Connie turned to me. I detected a slight darkening in her mood.

“Luke, I'd like to ask you a favor.”

“Sure. What's on your mind?

“The bank board is meeting on Thursday to discuss selling the old bakery to Estelle and me. She's going to be out of town, so I'm meeting with them myself. I don't think it's going to be a problem, but I haven't told her about it. I know I should and I'm not sure why I haven't. But I want you to come with me. I guess I can handle my own with that bunch, but it might be nice to have a little moral support.”

“Sure, absolutely.” I was more than willing to go with her. But the nature and tone of her request spoke volumes. John had told me that Connie was the bank's largest stockholder, so I expected she had some sway. But something suggested that she had doubts.
Even though Randall Simmons had cowered before her at the bakery, the bank boardroom was his home court, a place far less predictable. Her anxious face communicated as much.

“So, the plan is to move forward with the bakery?” I asked.

“Lord willing.”

She still had reservations but was resolved to help her sister. It seemed a good time to draw her out.

“You've never talked much about Estelle. Tell me about her.”

Gradually, her face eased into an expression of muted pride. “Estelle's always been kind of a wonder to me. She's got this unvanquished spirit about her, always fascinated with whatever the day brings. That girl could enjoy the scenery on a detour.”

“So, what was it like when you were kids?”

“Estelle was only four when Momma passed away. With almost ten years between Estelle and me, I was more mother to her than sister. Anyway, we were pretty poor, so we had to find ways to entertain ourselves.” Connie's face grew soft, transformed by her memories.

“Seems like we spent all our free time either playing hopscotch or reading books down at the library. We didn't have a lot of things and you learned that what you didn't have, you did without. Estelle was smart, smart, smart. But she couldn't stay focused on anything for more than five minutes. She could have been the poster child for ADD if we had known about it then.”

“Has she ever run a business before?”

Connie smiled warily. “Oh, yeah. I wasn't kidding when I told you she once had a business painting happy faces on people's toenails. Poor Daddy. I think he was her biggest customer.” She paused for a moment.

“Anyway, she went to Vanderbilt on a full academic scholarship, studied chemistry because it was the only thing that halfway
challenged her, and stayed on and eventually got a full professorship. She taught there for over twenty-five years.”

“So, she never married?”

“No. I guess Estelle was pretty much married to her work. She's diabetic and always had that heart condition, which I guess is why she's the way she is . . . wanting each day to count for something.”

Connie stared out the window into the crisp midday light. She sighed and spoke with a cautious resolve. “Anyway, looks like the Pillow women are back working in the bakery business.”

I knew Connie was referring to her mother and I wanted to ask her more. But I had seen the pain on her face the other day when she had told her mother's story. It was best left alone.

She rose from the table to take her coffee cup to the sink. “You sure you don't want me to make you some dinner for later?” she asked.

“No, I'm good. I'll probably get a pizza, watch some football, and call Christine a little later. She took her mom and grandmother to Nashville today, some kind of girls' shopping fling.”