The Splendor of Ordinary Days (12 page)

I reached over and pressed my finger to her lips. “Hush, Chambers.” I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her back toward me, kissing her wet hair. “Just look at the stars.”

She settled back, her shoulders melting against me. We sat silently for the longest time, and I closed my eyes. It was a moment from a dream.

But a minute later, Christine leaned slightly forward and turned to me with a puzzled expression. “Luke, do you hear singing?”

Intruders

W
e both stiffened, endeavoring to be deathly still and listen. Christine was right. In the nearby darkness, the delicate tones of a woman's voice were drifting up from the grassy descent some hundred or so yards away. It wasn't like the man's voice that I had heard at the ruins. That one seemed to echo on the wind. This one had a lilting, earthy quality that cut through the still night air. We couldn't make out the words, but the tune was a simple and repetitive folk song. And it was growing louder, the singer coming closer.

We sat frozen, both of us momentarily unnerved at the thought that we were not alone. Admittedly, though, there was nothing threatening in the mellow notes. It occurred to me that whoever it was had no idea we were there. I pressed a finger to my lips and gestured for Christine to move around the side of the car with me. We crouched low near the door and listened. The woman's voice moved ever closer and was coming from directly in front of the ­Austin-­Healey. Suddenly it stopped and was followed by giggling laughter. A second voice, that of a man, joined the first.

I had heard enough. I stood up, reached across the dashboard, and pulled out the knob for the headlights. Illuminated some fifty yards away were the outlines of a man and a woman. The man held up his arm to shield his eyes, and the woman raised both hands to her mouth, muffling a gasping shriek.

“Who's there?” I called out in a firm, clear voice.

They stood still for only a split second before he grabbed her hand. They ran out of the path of the headlights and into the darkness.

“Hello,” I called out again, but there was no answer. By now Christine was standing beside me.

“Where'd they go, Luke?”

“I don't know. They took off. I think I scared them half to death.”

“Could you tell who they were?” Her voice still carried a slight tinge of worry.

“If my guess is correct, I think it was a couple of teenagers. They sure moved quickly. Did you not see them?”

“No, they were gone by the time I stood up.”

“So I guess you didn't see the way they were dressed?”

“What about it?”

“From the looks of it, they were Mennonites.”

We loaded up our things, and I drove the car slowly across the grass in the direction that they had fled. I was at a loss as to how the two of them had gotten inside the fence, thinking that the road gate was the only access. I soon had my answer.

The enclosed area including the lake encompassed eleven or more acres. I headed toward the encircling fence, some two hundred yards away. Once there, I drove along beside it. After a short distance, a small passage gate came into view of the headlights. I hadn't known there was a second way into the property.

I positioned the car's lights on it and got out to take a look. The ­chain-­link gate was three feet wide and tightly padlocked. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the metal ties holding the chain mesh had been removed, allowing for easy entry by simply lifting it up. Unless you looked closely, it appeared perfectly secure. Beyond the gate lay a path that was quickly swallowed by thick woods. The two Mennonite teenagers were nowhere to be seen.

As I was heading back to the car, something on the ground caught my eye. I picked it up and walked over to look at it in the car's headlight. It was a white handkerchief.

I got in the car and handed it to Christine. “They're long gone, but I'm certain they were Mennonites.”

“There are initials embroidered on this handkerchief,” said Christine as she held it toward the dashboard lights. “ELY.”

I shook my head. “No idea, except the ‘Y' could possibly mean Yoder. I was thinking the girl could be Jacob's daughter, but her name is Rebecca. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Excitement over.”

“What do you think they were doing here?”

I dropped my chin, giving Christine a disbelieving look. “Probably the same thing we were doing, sans the really cute ­two-­piece bathing suit.”

“So, you
did
like the bathing suit, huh?”

I thought about responding with some boyish, clever remark. But somehow, somewhere in the course of the evening, something had changed. Something in Christine's words, in her willingness, had placed an earnest solemnity upon me that I did not yet fully understand. Instead, I reached over, held her hand, and smiled warmly.

“Very much, Miss Chambers. Very, very much.”

A ­Well-­Kept Secret

T
he next few days passed like a blur. A work crew showed up at the Fox house next door and in the course of two days installed a crisp white picket fence around the backyard. Rhett was now the ­ever-­vigilant nosy neighbor, standing sentinel at the kitchen door and peering through the glass anytime Maggie was let out to play. I half expected to walk in on him holding a pair of binoculars, salaciously wagging his tongue, or tail, or both. He was apparently quite smitten.

Clayton Ross continued to come in daily for his dressing change. He was always polite and respectful, but quiet. And as the days passed, the fervor from Luther's article seemed to ebb, so I saw little point in bringing up the matter with Clayton. Still, sometimes at the diner I would overhear an occasional disparaging remark about the Mennonites.

Word was also getting around about John Harris's initiative to build a new war memorial, and the idea appeared to be enthusiastically and universally endorsed. Unfortunately, the memorial also provoked comparisons to those who had not fought in the last century's wars, the Mennonites, fostering a ­mind-­set of resentment that seemed to creep into the daily discussion. The majority of the townsfolk had tolerant and accepting spirits, but it required only a few malcontents to keep the pot stirred.

On the last Tuesday night of June, Connie cooked dinner for me. What had once been a daily ritual was now an occasional event. Her time was consumed with Estelle and the bakery, and my time was devoted to spending every possible minute with Christine. My house continued to be magically spotless and the laundry clean, but our meals together occurred infrequently. In some ways, Connie was my closest confidant, my best friend. So all day Tuesday, I was greatly looking forward to seeing her.

That afternoon I arrived home to a surprise. Both sisters had come for a visit. I remembered Connie's remark that the two of them had a Tuesday evening ritual of dinner and an Elvis movie. It looked like I was in for a night of great food and
Viva Las Vegas.

I found them in the kitchen engaged in an energetic conversation about their upcoming family reunion.

“Estelle, honey, what is wrong with you? What kind of woman goes looking for a man at a family reunion?”

“I didn't say anything about looking for a man. I just said I hope Cousin Flora brings her brother, Tyrell. She's related by marriage, so I think he's fair game. He's such a sharp dresser, and so polite.”

“Sweetie, I hate to break it to you, but Tyrell is not just a sharp dresser. He's also a hairdresser. Far be it from me to judge, but I don't think he's interested in female companionship.”

“Well now, that's where you're wrong. He was awful keen on me last year till that little accident.”

Although I had been standing in the kitchen during this conversation, neither of them acknowledged my presence. No greetings, no salutations, no change of subject. Yet, there was something wonderful in this treatment. It seemed that I was a family member whose arrival was not worthy of formal gestures.

Meanwhile, Connie continued to lecture her sister. “Sweetie, that was your own fault. If you hadn't been acting like the goofy fairy had just visited you, that accident, as you call it, wouldn't have happened.” Finally, Connie turned to me. “Luke, it's almost ready. Go upstairs and get yourself washed up.”

“Are you kidding? I want to hear the rest of this. What accident are you talking about?”

Connie gave her sister an admonishing glance and uttered a superior “Humph.”

Estelle explained, “It was just a little allergic reaction. I accidentally ate the wrong food.”

“­Umm-­hmm. Little, my foot. Your lips swelled up so bad, it looked like you had two hot dogs glued to your face.” Connie was erupting in laughter . . . so much so that she put one hand to her chest and the other on the kitchen counter to steady herself. “Sweetie, you know I love you, but for the life of me, your lips looked like a baboon's butt.”

“That's all in the past,” Estelle responded indignantly, clearly not sharing Connie's amusement. “Besides, I don't care what you have to say about it. I'm going to Nashville the weekend before the reunion and get me a mani, a pedi, and some new shoes.”

“What kind of new shoes?” inquired Connie.

“Some athletic shoes. I need to get some with lavender to match my outfit so I can play in the reunion volleyball tournament.”

Connie was aghast. “Volleyball! Girl, what are you thinking? You've got no business playing volleyball with your heart condition. Besides, I've seen chess players with better reflexes than you have.”

Estelle was not amused. “Talk all you want, big sister. Tyrell played last year, so this year, I'm playing too.”

Connie closed her eyes, shaking her head. The two were such an odd and entertaining pair. It was as though matter and antimatter had been born into the same family. Still, there was a secret warmth between them.

I washed up at the kitchen sink, and we sat down to dinner. Connie, who was the arbiter of all religious matters, said a lengthy prayer that included references to the Ecclesiastes passage regarding a time for everything. I half expected her to say something about there being a time to play volleyball and a time to refrain from playing volleyball. But thankfully, she fell short of that. Amen was said, and I grabbed my fork.

“So,” Connie began, “how are things at the clinic these days?”

“Mostly routine,” I responded.

“By the way, I heard Gene Alley on the radio today, talking like a magpie. Looks like he decided he had tortured Peggy long enough.”

“Really? So you think all that talking in song titles was some prank of his?”

Connie shrugged. “With Gene it's hard to say. That war wound to his head knocked out the last marbles he had.”

“Speaking of which,” I interjected, “John Harris came by today with a bunch of sketches for the design of the new memorial. He asked the art teacher at the high school to make it an assignment for her summer art class. One of them is really good. We'll probably use it.”

“What will it look like?” Connie asked.

“It's a statue of a young man returning home from war. He has an elated expression on his face and is holding a large military duffel bag. Since the memorial covers numerous wars and conflicts, he's dressed in civilian clothes because no one uniform would be accurate. The statue will be on a large square base where the names of those killed in action will be engraved.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Connie.

“Yeah, John is getting some estimates out of Nashville on the cost of doing the statue in bronze. Then the real fun begins.”

“How so?” inquired Estelle.

“Raising the money. I kind of dread that part.”

Estelle flipped her hand at me. “Oh, honey, you'll do fine at that. Just go chat 'em up a little. Take a few cupcakes along. That'll help loosen up their checkbooks.”

I didn't share Estelle's confidence. “Luther Whitmore's on my list. I don't think a cupcake will do much to persuade him.”

“I think you're going to have to try and overlook Luther's shortcomings,” Connie said in earnest.

“I don't think they make a ladder tall enough.”

Connie ignored my slight. “We're all God's children, Doctor, including Luther.”

“Yeah, well. Luther must be thinking God grades on a curve.”

Connie tilted her head and gazed at me above her ­gold-­inlay glasses. It was a familiar look of reproach.

“Okay, Constance Grace, what am I missing here?” I asked.

She took a drink of her tea before speaking. “People don't know it, but Luther is probably Watervalley's most decorated veteran. He served three tours in Vietnam and was wounded multiple times. Apparently, Luther did some pretty courageous things. Claire never told me what. Luther didn't want it known.”

“But why?”

“No idea.” Connie paused briefly. “There's something else. Claire told me that one of Luther's injuries . . . Well, how do I say it? One of his injuries left him unable to have children. Claire knew it and didn't care. She just wanted to be married and happy. Unfortunately, she had to choose between one or the other.”

I nodded, absorbing all that Connie had said. “I wonder why he hates the Mennonites so much.”

“No idea on that one either. Like we've talked about, Luther and his family used to live out there near the Mennonite community. I got the impression from Claire that Luther played with them when he was a kid. He practically grew up with them.”

I listened intently. There seemed little more to understand on the matter, and the conversation moved to other topics. Connie and Estelle left around eight, and I talked to Christine briefly on the phone. Around ten that night, I took Rhett out back for a final chance to do his business before bedtime.

As was my habit, I stared up at the stars and thought about the day, unable to get Luther out of my head. He seemed to have an insatiable appetite for ­self-­destruction, and I wondered if this fatal ­mind-­set had contributed to his valor in Vietnam. It seemed that somewhere along the way, something had happened to Luther to convince him that being alive was a punishment.

Satisfying my curiosity would have to wait.