Each Shining Hour (9 page)

“But why? What about the case interested him?”

“Daddy used to say there was a lot more to the story than people realized. But all I know is that Oscar Fox must have been a bad hombre. The story has always been that he cut that guy to
shreds. Anyway, If I'm not mistaken, those old files are in a box somewhere up in my attic.”

I made no attempt to hide my excitement. “Do you think you could find the time to dig that out and let me take a look at it?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“That'd be great. I would really appreciate it.”

“Give me a few days. It's up there somewhere, but it may take some unearthing.”

“Just call me. I'll be glad to come get it.”

I thanked her, walked her to the back door, and watched her leave. Returning to my office, I was nagged by a burning question. If the mysterious German had an autopsy report, then there should be an autopsy report for Oscar Fox as well.

I spent an hour thumbing through all the files from the 1940s but found nothing. The conspicuous absence of his autopsy file along with Lida's comment by her father that there was “a lot more to the story than people realized” deepened my consuming curiosity.

I pushed the file drawer shut and rested my arm atop the ancient wooden cabinet. I half wished the old walls could talk, and offer some insight into the missing chapters. But there was not a whisper. The only voices to be heard were the ones in my head telling me that something about the Oscar Fox murder story felt terribly wrong.

I closed up and drove home. Tomorrow was the 5K race, and Christine.

The 5K

T
he first invitations of daylight found me lost to the waking world, dreaming in a deep and forgotten sleep. Within the delicate chill of my upstairs room, I was snugly buried under my down comforter. The orange sun thinly crested the frozen rim of the far eastern hills, and inch by inch, the fresh new light reached across the bedroom floor, washing over my headboard, forcing my eyes open.

It was Saturday morning and the air was crisp, lively, charged with muted excitement. I placed my feet on the floor and stretched, extending my arms grandly overhead, squeezing out the stiffness of the previous night. I was consumed with a subtle and warming delight, an anticipation of what the day might bring—a day spent with Christine.

I had been unwilling to admit it even to myself, but ever since my conversation with her on Christmas Eve when she told me to give her a call sometime, my world had been infused with an unvoiced enchantment. In the quiet minutes of the day, Christine would drift divinely into my imagination, captivating me. I felt I
was on the approaching side of a grand journey, aware that larger forces were carrying me toward a future ripe with possibility. In truth, I barely knew her, and sought to dismiss these idle daydreams.

But it seemed the spell was cast.

I slipped down the back stairs that led to the kitchen for some toast and coffee, fed Rhett, and returned to suit up in my sweats and running shoes. Grabbing my keys, I stepped onto the front porch. Despite the brilliant morning sunlight, a light frost covered the ground. The cold was tolerable, but still strong enough to leach through my clothes. I had thought about driving but chose instead to walk the eight blocks to Courthouse Square, hoping to warm up my stiff muscles. Besides, my beaten-up, dirty, and dented old Corolla sat frozen and pathetic looking, as if the whole point of the thing was to get a laugh.

As I made my way down Fleming Street, I began to hear music in the distance. As downtown drew near, the sounds thickened in volume and variety, spilling into the morning air. By the time I reached Main Street, a block away from the courthouse, I was awash in an ocean of people, roaring music, boisterous laughter, lively conversations, the rich smell of coffee, and the captivating aromas of breakfast being cooked on outdoor griddles. After a week of slumber, Watervalley had come alive.

It seemed that I had arrived late to a grand party, a riotous outpouring of community filled with energy and celebration. Runners in all shapes and sizes were stretching, jogging in place, clustered in groups. The whole downtown was alight with the myriad pastels of winter coats. The courthouse lawn was bursting with colored banners, grill smoke, cacophonous voices. Old farmers and townsfolk in Carhartt coats occupied the benches. Some
amused themselves by whittling bits of wood, while others simply sat with smiles and folded arms, taking in the spectacle.

Beneath the surface chaos a diviner harmony was at work. Despite the cold and drab of winter, the people of Watervalley lived buoyantly. Their lives and livelihood were invariably modest, but they knew how to find joy among the mess and beauty of the common day.

Events like the 5K heightened their spirits. Smiles were everywhere. A salty wit and eager gossip permeated the air and excitement poured over everyone. These were people who welcomed one another with loud, uninhibited friendliness. As I made my way, they greeted me robustly, waving and shouting my name.

I found the sign-up table, had my number pinned to my sweats, and was handed a pair of purple plastic scissors in keeping with the “runs with scissors” theme of the race. I had been searching the crowd for Christine. I had to laugh. It seemed a rather unorthodox first date, one to which the entire town had been invited. But it was impossible not to enjoy the exhilaration and spontaneity. It wasn't long before I found her.

She stood in the middle of a throng of ecstatic, giggling schoolkids—probably from her sixth-grade class. They looked upon her with rapt attention. She was a rock star. She was laughing and teasing with them, smiling in pure delight. She talked to them in an easy voice of total acceptance, and I could tell they loved her for it. Her dark eyes and raven hair were made all the more radiant by the animation on her face. She was beautiful. I leaned against a nearby tree and watched.

She glanced up and saw me standing there taking in the drama of her adoring fans. Smiling sweetly, she sent me a nuanced look that asked me to give her a moment.

“Are you going to walk the race or run it, Ms. Chambers?” inquired one of the boys.

“I'm going to try and run the entire race, Edwin, but it's just fine to walk it. The important thing is to finish. There's nothing wrong with competition, but remember, our class goal is for everyone to complete the race. It's all for fun, okay?”

They nodded obediently. I think in reality she had them mesmerized. She could have told them to go rob the bank and they would have enthusiastically agreed.

“All right. Everyone go and have a good time. I'll see you at the starting line.”

She began to make her way among them, stopping to straighten a couple of winter hats. As she approached me, we both smiled.

“Morning, brown eyes. Nice speech.”

“They're great kids. So sweet. I love 'em.”

“Well, the feeling appears to be mutual. You're quite the celebrity.”

She seemed embarrassed by this. “Not really. I don't think it's me. It's just their age. They like having a young teacher. I bet you secretly adored one of your elementary school teachers.”

I reflected for a moment. “Not really. My sixth-grade teacher was about a hundred and twenty years old and smelled like Vicks VapoRub.”

She rolled her eyes at me without losing her warm smile.

“So,” I said, “I have a confession to make. Ever since our conversation the other night, I've been feeling under pressure to win this thing. But after hearing you talk to the kids about how it's all for fun, looks like there's no worry about you showing me up.” I was teasing her. I knew Christine had been an all-state basketball player and was no doubt athletic and competitive.

My comment invoked her rather cunning grin. She reached up with both hands to adjust the string on the hood of my sweatshirt. “Now, Doctor, surely you're not one of those guys who can't accept the idea of a woman beating him, are you?”

“No problem accepting that at all. I've known plenty of women who have wanted to beat me.”

“You know what I mean.”

I laughed. “So. Gloves off, then, huh? No holding back . . . mano a womano?”

Before she could respond, Mayor Hickman called over a bullhorn for all runners to assemble at the starting line. We had both turned to listen to the instructions. Now Christine looked mischievously back at me.

“Just don't be surprised if all you see at the finish line is my backside.”

“If that's the case, at least I'll certainly be enjoying the view.”

Again, she rolled her eyes. But her enticing smile lingered.

About one hundred runners assembled at the starting area in a somewhat orderly clump. There were four age brackets for the winners, ranging from eighteen to over sixty-five. Out of both courtesy and common sense, we instinctively organized ourselves with younger adults moving to the front. No one wanted to get run over.

Another one hundred or so kids, moms, dads, and others who were simply going to walk gathered behind us. Within this group were a number of colorful, whimsical, and intentionally tacky outfits. One woman carried a huge five-foot-long pair of scissors cut out of cardboard and wrapped in aluminum foil. Some of the high school girls wore brightly colored, striped socks under clunky Uggs. Even Hoot Wilson, a jovial and towering dairy farmer who had nearly died of cardiac arrest during my first week in Watervalley, lined up wearing cutoff overalls over bright yellow sweatpants.
I couldn't be sure if this was just for laughs or part of his normal attire.

Maylen Cook, the town barber, stood at the starting area holding a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun. Only in Watervalley. With his iconic hangdog face, Maylen counted off the start in his flat monotone.

“Runners, on your mark.”

Everyone in the front group glanced around in puzzlement. There was not a mark to be on. Maylen picked up on this, frowned, and spoke again.

“Okay. Forget that. Is everybody ready?”

The entire group leaned forward, tensing into a release position.

“Get set.” BOOM!

He fired the shotgun and we were off.

After two hundred yards a pack of about six of us moved ahead of the main group. Four of them were high school boys from the local track team who looked like they could run till February. Christine and I were the only ones in this lead group from our age bracket, twenty-one to thirty-five years. We settled into a steady pace and began the long loop around town. For me, it was time to think.

A 5K is three and one-tenth miles. An in-shape adult athlete will run at a pace of six to nine miles per hour, requiring somewhere between twenty to thirty minutes to finish the race. Some people in town knew I had played college basketball, but I had never revealed that in high school I had run track. Although it had been over a year ago, the last time I had run a 5K, my time was under seventeen minutes. I was a competitor on a completely different level. So, I had a decision to make.

I couldn't say I would enjoy losing, but winning this race was
not a big deal to me. I had nothing to prove. I just wanted to be with Christine. At the same time, I didn't want to look like I was holding back, sandbagging. I rolled this dilemma over and over in my head for the first minutes of the race, but had no idea what to do. I decided to stay in the pack and let things work themselves out however they might.

We were running at a little over a six-minute-per-mile pace and Christine was having no trouble keeping up. In fact, she was making it look a little too easy. She even took the lead for a short while, picking up the pace. She was testing the group, watching to see who responded and how. She was crafty.

Two miles clicked by and the main pack was now far behind us. Two of the high school boys started a kick and accelerated ahead. We let them go. The other two began to drop behind, seemingly content to finish at a steady pace. That left Christine and me running together. Another half mile passed, leaving only a final half mile to go. Admittedly, I was amazed. Christine was still moving fluidly and had finished the first two and a half miles in less than seventeen minutes. I stayed with her.

Again, Christine accelerated slightly, slowly pulling ahead.

She knew that if we were even for a final sprint, she would probably not win. So she had to put some distance between us, enough so that my longer legs couldn't overtake her in a final dash. With less than a quarter mile to go, she made her move.

I was astounded. Without ever looking back, she found another gear and began quickly to widen the distance between us. I let her go.

We had turned on School Street and there was now less than fifteen hundred feet to the finish line, the length of five football fields. Christine had pulled ahead by some fifty yards. Then, for the first time since she had accelerated, she looked back.

It was just a glance, but I knew what it meant. She thought she had me.

That's when something primal kicked in, some raw competitive instinct that was indifferent to the subtle complexities of relationships. It was time to make it a real race.

I pushed hard off my right foot, practically launching from it. I did the same with the left. Putting power into each step, I accelerated my pace. I was gaining rapidly. Whoops and yells began rising from the bystanders along the sidewalk. Foot by foot I was reeling her in, closing the gap. She continued to move effortlessly, but I was in a rhythmic gallop, shortening the distance between us.

At about a hundred yards from the finish line, I caught her. I moved past her, pushing ahead about ten feet. I began to ease off, feeling well in charge, preparing to coast into the finish and a chorus of cheers.

But the next thing I heard was not the crowd, but the blaring ring of my phone in the back pocket of my sweats.

It was a call from dispatch down at the fire station. With the clinic closed, calls were forwarded there for screening. Despite the celebration, the fanfare, the intensity of the race, and the thrill of the moment, I was still the town doctor. And I was on call. If I waited till after the finish line, I would miss it. So, I did the only thing I could do. I stopped.

In ten seconds, Christine won the race. I was glad for her, and maybe a little bummed. But I had done the right thing. The timing was lousy, but the call was important. It was the one I had been expecting.