Each Shining Hour (18 page)

“Write this down, Randall. Dear Diary: Today, I pissed off the wrong guy.”

His point made, John straightened and surveyed the room. The men around the table huddled with downcast faces, their guilt easily read. Their small scheme of stagecraft had gone terrible awry. No one said a word. No one dared to offer a challenge.

John smiled and spoke in an almost kind, instructive manner. “Well, looks like we're done here, boys. Now, I'm going to leave and give you fellows an opportunity for some important personal reflection, during which time I recommend you rethink
your
agenda. Otherwise, rest assured, in due time, each of you will be on
my
agenda.” He looked at me, nodded, and then departed out the large door. Connie and I followed.

She was visibly shaken, her steps plodding as she progressed down the hallway, lost in hurt and confusion. John stopped her.

“Connie, I'm sorry. I had no idea Simmons would try to pull this stunt.”

“It's okay, John. I should have seen it coming. I appreciate what you did in there, but part of me wants to get away from this whole ugly business. Maybe it's the Lord's will that the bakery not happen.”

John's eyes tightened. “Connie, it's the Lord's will that a slimeball like Randall Simmons not get away with his shenanigans. I don't know what his motivation is, and frankly, I don't care. Just sit tight. The bank pays those clowns a goodly sum to sit on
the board, not to mention the prestige they think it gives their tender egos. I felt it my duty to let them know that's all going away if things don't change. I'm betting the dollar bill will trump whatever loyalty they have to Simmons.”

Connie stood silently with a downcast and ashen face. John, however, was hardened with resolve. It was only now, away from the tension and drama of the boardroom, that I realized I had witnessed something rather wonderful.

Days earlier, John had taken great delight in chiding and pestering Connie, teasing her in a game of one-upmanship. It was a match they had replayed over the years and a contest in which she invariably won.

But he stood before her now as a watchtower of strength, a champion against the petty injustices served upon her. Despite his cynical and brooding nature, John Harris had come down out of the hills, out of his self-imposed exile, and stood in the gap for Connie's sake. I had witnessed the return of the king. He was both fearfully and wonderfully made . . . but mostly, fearfully.

Connie shook her head. “I just don't know, John. I just don't know.”

His eyes grew soft and a confident smile emerged. “Don't worry, Connie. I do.”

Two hours later, I received a phone call at home from Walt Hickman. In a vote of eight to two the board had reconsidered Connie's request and had approved the immediate sale of the old bakery at the presently assessed value, no additional ten percent needed. Connie and Estelle could close on the property within the month.

The Getaway Car

O
n the following Tuesday I received an unexpected package. Oddly, it had been delivered to the clinic rather than to my home. The large yellow envelope had been sent certified mail from a law firm in Nashville. It concerned the estate of Mildred Strum.

Mildred had owned low-rent shanties and dilapidated trailer parks in some of the meaner corners of the county. She had died in December after a lifelong love affair with booze and tobacco. Known as a scornful old harpy, she'd had a hard, angry face that was invariably adorned with a dangling cigarette. When people talked to her, she regarded them with a rude contempt, as if they were a waste of her time. Everyone who did business with her eventually found some reason to loathe her, usually sooner rather than later.

When Mildred came to see me in October of last year, she was already dying of cancer and had defiantly accepted her imminent demise. She simply wanted something for the pain. She was my last patient of the day, and before writing a prescription, I told her to follow me to my office. Once there, I pulled out a bottle of
unopened Scotch that had been given to me and poured her a glass. She looked at me warily.

“What's this?” she asked.

“You said you wanted something for the pain.”

She chortled a throaty laugh and drank it.

I studied her for a moment. “Tell me about your pain, Mildred. When did it start?”

She poured herself another Scotch, drank it, and released a grunted smirk. “Fifty years ago.”

During the next hour, Mildred told me about her life.

“I never was very pretty and had a rough time of it in high school.”

She went on to tell me that her mother had left her dad when Mildred was little. Even still, her dad had done well and owned a lot of property. After she graduated from high school in 1965, he took her to Nashville and bought her a sports car as a graduation gift.

“It was going to be my getaway car. I was going to leave Watervalley for good and go get a job on the West Coast and live there forever. But two days after we bought the car, my dad had a stroke. I ended up staying here and taking care of him. I took over the business and the years began to roll by. When my dad died, I was almost forty. So I thought, ‘To hell with it,' and just stayed on.”

Mildred told me she had parked the car in their barn a month after they bought it and it had sat there ever since.

At my insistence, I followed her home that night to make sure she arrived safely. We walked to the barn and she showed me the car. I guess she saw the captivated look on my face, because the envelope I received on Tuesday morning contained a letter of explanation from the estate attorney, a handwritten note from Mildred, and the title to the car along with the keys. Mildred was giving it to me as a gift. I was ecstatic.

I called Chick McKissick, who agreed to meet me with the wrecker out at the Strum place later that afternoon. I asked him to wait for my call because there was something I needed to do first. Chick said that was fine.

I had arranged a meeting with Louise Fox to discuss the offer that Connie, John, and I wanted to make. At three o'clock I knocked on her front door. She greeted me with a frail smile.

“Hello, Dr. Bradford. Please come in.”

Louise Fox was a small, somewhat timid woman with a sweet face. She was in her early forties and the strain of her years had already placed fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Still, she smiled warmly and did her best to engage me graciously with what I suspected was a slender supply of strength.

“Thanks, Louise. I'm guessing Will's not home from school yet?”

“No. He'll be home in about thirty minutes.”

“That's good, actually. I wanted to speak to you privately.”

We sat in her modest living room and I described our proposed plan of assistance. At first, she refused, not wanting anyone to take on her burdens, but I persisted.

“Louise, we all go through rough patches. This is just to buy you some time so you can get this property sold.”

“I'm afraid I may owe more on it than it's worth.”

“Well, we can try. How's the job search coming?”

“A little slow. I've been working part-time at some of the shops and cleaning a few houses. Connie has been wonderful. She and her sister have offered me a position at the bakery when it opens, but that's still a few months away.”

The mention of the bakery stirred my curiosity. “Louise, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“I've only recently learned about Oscar Fox and the old
murder story. Has that been difficult? I mean, has his reputation been something of a cross to bear?”

“Sometimes. Maybe not so much for me because I married into the family. But I think it haunted my late husband. His family always insisted that Oscar was a righteous man and didn't deserve the blackening of his good name. Why do you ask?”

I smiled. “Oh, no reason. Just curious, I guess. So, do you and Will have a place to go from here?”

“We're trying to figure that out. My husband was an only child and his parents are deceased. My mother lives in Nashville, but she has only a one-bedroom apartment. There are some places here I might can afford. They're kind of shabby, but Will and I will make the best of it.”

My heart went out to Louise. She seemed so fragile and so poorly equipped to take on the hard challenges in front of her. Eventually, she agreed to our charity on the condition that she would pay us back when the house sold. Our conversation was cut short by the sound of Will's boots as he tromped through the front door.

“Hey, Dr. Bradford. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just talking to your mom.”

“About what?”

Will was a clever, perceptive fellow and I didn't want to divulge the truth about our conversation. I had to think fast.

“Well, I was asking your mom if you could go on a little adventure with Chick McKissick and me.” Louise's face was a question mark. Out of a love of cars, Will had often spent his afternoons hanging out at Chick's garage and the two of them were steady friends.

“It seems that I have been given a car, an old convertible that needs restoration. Chick is going to meet me with the tow truck to bring it back to his shop. Want to ride along?”

Will's eyes lit up with excitement and Louise readily agreed to my proposition. I called Chick, who said he would meet us at the Strum property, and we hopped in the Corolla and headed out there.

“So, what kind of car is it?” Will inquired.

“A 1962 Austin-Healey 3000 Mark II convertible. It has less than three thousand miles on it and I believe it is blue and white. I saw it once, but it was covered in dust.” I went on to explain to Will the story about Mildred Strum and how the gift had come to me.

“Yeah, she died not long ago, didn't she?”

“Yes. She has gone on to her reward, as they say.”

“From what I hear, I don't think she's finding it very rewarding.”

I looked over at Will and grinned. “Oh, and how is that?”

“Chick was talking about her down at the garage. He said she was as mean as a snake.”

I endeavored to be diplomatic. “I think she may have had that reputation. But looks like she wasn't all that bad. She left me this car.”

“Hmm, I guess. Anyway, from what I hear, she's moved on to a much warmer climate, if you catch my drift.”

I exhaled a short laugh. “Yeah, I get it.” Will stared out the passenger window and we rode for the next minute in silence. Then he turned to me.

“So, I hear you're dating my teacher, Miss Chambers.”

“That's the rumor.”

“That's amazing.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“With this old Corolla I figured you had a better chance of getting abducted by aliens than getting a date with her, or anyone for that matter.”

“Clearly you've underestimated my charm with the ladies. I can explain it if you'd like.”

Will stared out the passenger window again. “That'd be pretty good at generating a yawn.”

“Mighty big talk for a guy who still has footies on his pj's.”

Will snickered, enjoying this opportunity to rib me a little. He kept up the assault.

“So, is she a good kisser?”

“Will, you're being a little too chatty. Are you familiar with the concept known as the cone of silence?”

“Hmm. I'm gonna take that as a yes to my question.”

I ignored this. “Okay, buddy. Time for a subject change. You play any kind of sports, Will? You know, like basketball?”

“Basketball? Are you kidding? Do I look like I'm athletic? I've got about a three-inch vertical leap, and that's only if I lift one foot at a time.”

“I could teach you. I used to play a lot of basketball.”

“Maybe. Sports really aren't my thing.”

“So what is your thing?”

“Cars, computers. I like to write stories too.”

“Oh yeah, like the comic book about Captain Blue Jeans.”

“That, and other stories.”

“Really? What other kind of stories?”

“Stories about doctors who drive ugly cars and have girlfriends who are really good kissers.”

I pondered this for a moment. “Kinda walked into that one, didn't I?”

Will continued looking out the side window. “Surrrrrrre did.”

By now we had turned onto the long driveway of the Strum property. Already waiting on us, Chick was talking with an older
man who was the caretaker. He showed us to the barn and unlocked the latch to the large wooden door.

As he walked around the Austin-Healey, Chick blew out a long, sharp whistle.

“Mmm, mmm, Dr. B. This is one fine-looking piece of machinery.”

With its spoke wheels, chrome grille, leather interior, wood dash, and sleek racing lines, the car was definitely a classic beauty. I wiped away a thick layer of dust from the fender to reveal a swath of the original powder blue paint.

Chick spoke admiringly. “I looked up this model before coming out here, Dr. B. This baby has a top speed of a hundred and fifteen miles per hour and can accelerate from zero to sixty in eleven point seven seconds.”

“So what do you think, Chick? Can you get her running again?”

“I think so. But it's going to take some time. Lot of detail work.”

“Well, how about this. What say you put Will here on the clock in the afternoons to help you restore her and put it on my tab?”

Chick smiled broadly at Will. “What do you say to that, Will my man?”

“Sure.” During the brief time I had known Will, he had always been one to mask his emotions. Given our similar histories of losing loved ones, I understood this desire. But the look on his face was one of pure elation.

Amazingly, we were able to inflate the tires long enough for Chick to get the car safely loaded onto the flatbed of the tow truck. Will talked nonstop on the ride home, bursting with delight at his new project.

Mildred Strum had been a miserable old woman, but the gift of this car had brought a timely delight to Will's troubled life. The thought also occurred to me that come springtime a snazzy car like this along with a beautiful girl like Christine would provide me with some timely delight as well.

Truth be known, she
was
a good kisser.