The Splendor of Ordinary Days (24 page)

Making Amends

T
he best way to find Levi Beiler was to first talk to Jacob Yoder. Before Clayton arrived later that afternoon, I took some time to think about how I might approach Jacob. My eyes were drawn to the quilt he had given me. It was still draped over the arm of the office sofa where I had tossed it several months ago. With the onset of cooler evenings, it would be much more useful on the couch at home. So I walked over and was tucking it under my arm when there was a knock on the door. Clayton had arrived.

At first he regarded me with a rather stiff and awkward military politeness. We made our way to the ­Austin-­Healey, where I laid the quilt on the small backseat. Clayton was quickly enamored of the sporty roadster. As we headed out of town, he seemed to relax.

“Man, this is quite the car, Dr. Bradford. How fast will it go?”

“You know, Clayton, that's a good question. Can't say I've ever tried to figure it out.”

“Ah, probably just as well. If the sheriff catches you speeding in this thing, he'd probably throw your can in jail.”

I spoke slowly. “Yeaaaaaah, I heard he does that.”

He chuckled, making a grand nod as he gazed out the window. “That he does, Doc. That he does.” An easy smile was etched across his face.

“Hey,” he said, “I understand congratulations are in order. I hear you're marrying Christine Chambers.”

“That would be true. And thanks.”

“She was a senior when I was a freshman.”

“So was she a pretty girl back then too?”

Clayton gave me an incredulous look. “Are you kidding, Doc? Look, she's your fiancée and everything, so I'm going to watch what I say here, but you can be she sure wasn't ugly.”

I laughed. “Okay, good to know.”

By now we were well into the open countryside. The day was warm for September. Decked in our sunglasses with the top down on the convertible, Clayton and I shared an unspoken exhilaration. He was six years my junior, but we enjoyed the camaraderie of two guys in a sports car cruising down the open road.

I half yelled above the rushing air, “I admire you, Clayton. This is a good thing you're doing.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it feels right. Dr. Davidson encouraged me to do it.”

“I'm glad you two are talking. Seems like that's been a good thing.”

“Yeah, I gotta tell you, though, Doc, I've been through some stuff. But Dr. Davidson, she's seen some real crap.”

“She works around cows. That's not too surprising.”

Clayton looked over and smiled. “Nah, I'm telling you. Some of the things she's told me, jeez, I don't see how she got through it.”

“Well, I'm coming to realize that Karen Davidson is tougher than the two of us put together.”

Clayton nodded, his expression galvanized in agreement.

We had been traveling down Gallivant's Crossing and made the turn onto the narrow passageway of Mercy Creek Road.

“I don't know where Levi Beiler lives,” I said, “but my plan is to go find his future father-in-law, Jacob Yoder, and ask for directions.”

Instinctively, I slowed the car to a stop as we passed the small meadow with the old ruins. Something about it still seemed covered in essential wonder. Absorbed in thought, I looked over at Clayton, speaking hesitantly.

“Clayton, I'm going to ask you a question, and you're going to think I'm nuts.”

He grunted a shallow laugh. “Doc, we're in pretty bad shape if I'm the sane one in the car.”

“Here's the thing. You've spent a lot of time outdoors in the woods and fields of the valley, right?”

“All the time.”

“Have you ever heard singing in the wind sometimes?”

His response was immediate. “Sure.”

“Really?”

I turned to him, and he shrugged lightly. “Yeah. I remember even when I was a kid, I would be hiking across some field and I'd hear singing in the distant hills. The first time it happened, I ran home and told my folks.”

“And what did they say?”

“Well, my dad thought I was imagining things. But my mom told me all kinds of old stories about how some people swore they could hear voices in the wind. I don't know. It's just Watervalley, I guess.”

“So this happened to you more than once?”

“Oh, yeah. Quite a few times over the years. And you know, it was never creepy or spooky. It was always pleasant and peaceful. Mostly folk songs. Sometimes it was old hymns. Why do you ask, Doc? Have you heard them?”

“Yeah, I have. What's that all about?”

“Beats me. My mom's always been kind of a religious person. She said they were angels, people who died with music still in them. And by music, I think she meant life.” He looked out the window for a moment, seemingly uncomfortable with his own words, then turned to me with a shy uncertainty. “Kind of corny, I guess. I don't know, seems as good an explanation as any.”

“Hey, works for me.” I put the car back in gear and we pushed onward.

We topped the last hill before Mennonite country, and once again I was taken by the tranquillity of the pastoral scene before me. The houses were modest and cozy with orderly, unadorned yards that stood in the shadows of great barns. And gazing upon this quaint landscape, I became strangely aware that the Mennonite tempo of life was grandly measured by seasons and years and not by minutes and moments. Something in me envied them. I knew their work was hard and their days long, but admittedly, I was still fascinated by the certain rhythms of their world.

I pulled down Jacob's drive and parked some distance away from the house.

“Might be best if you sit tight for a moment while I find out where Levi Beiler lives.”

Clayton nodded.

As I approached the house, I noticed that the boy of about twelve whom I had seen on my previous visit was washing apples in a large pail on the front porch. Upon seeing me, the limber little elf took off toward the barn. I slowed my approach, calculating that he had gone to bring back Jacob. Soon enough, five men in a tight group emerged from the barn and briskly made their way toward me.

This was not what I had expected, and I found their approach intimidating. Their determined gait continued, but as they drew closer, Jacob recognized me. An easy smile spread across his face, and without him saying a word, two of the men whom I did not know headed back to the barn. It was as if Jacob governed them unconsciously. Under their broad hats, I finally recognized the two men who had remained with Jacob as his father, Eli, and Levi Beiler. The boy who had retrieved them had followed at a distance.

As they approached, I noticed them scrutinizing my car in the distance. Eli had a sour face, and Levi wore an expression of strained uncertainty. They stopped some ten feet away and stood waiting in a patient silence while Jacob continued forward, greeting me in his familiar warm and reserved manner.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Bradford. You have paid us a visit.” It was his curious way of invoking an explanation.

“Yes, Jacob. Good afternoon to you as well.”

I went on to explain the purpose of the call. Pointing toward my car, I detailed Clayton's desire to apologize for his actions. Jacob nodded soberly. A knotty silence fell between us. He politely lifted his hand toward me, a gesture requesting me to stay while he walked back to the other two men. A huddled conversation ensued, and they looked at one another apprehensively, asking questions in a chorus of low voices. Finally, Levi and Jacob walked back toward me.

“What is the young man's name?” Jacob asked.

“Clayton Ross.”

“Can you ask him to join us?”

“Sure.” I turned toward the ­Austin-­Healey and signaled to Clayton, who got out of the car and began to make his way toward us. Levi stepped forward to meet him.

The two met some fifty feet away. Clayton extended his hand in greeting and, after a moment's hesitation, Levi took it and the two of them shook. At first they were awkward, uncertain of what to say or how to behave. Their conversation wasn't audible against the low breeze, but soon enough it was clear that Clayton was speaking in earnest. Levi was offering slight nods of his head in understanding.

Jacob's voice drew my attention away. “It is a fortunate thing that you have come, Dr. Bradford.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“I think it is time for Father to come and pay you a visit about his eyes. He has agreed.”

We both turned toward Eli, who still stood a short distance away, staring at us with folded arms and a slightly sullen face.

I half whispered under my breath, “You certain about that?”

“Quite certain. Would Thursday afternoon of next week be an appropriate time?”

“I'm sure we can work it out. Come around three.”

He nodded at me and then toward his father, who clearly understood what had just transpired.

As I turned back toward Clayton and Levi, the two of them were shaking hands again and walking back toward us. At this same time, I heard feminine voices emerging from around the back corner of the house. It was Jacob's wife, Hannah, and their daughter, Rebecca.

They had been thick in conversation as they turned the corner, unaware of Clayton's and my presence. Upon seeing us, they halted immediately. Rebecca had been smiling at something her mother was saying, but when she saw her fiancé talking with Clayton, her expression froze. They were now casting uneasy and troubled looks at each other.

Jacob gave Rebecca a reassuring nod, a simple sign that seemed to convey a full exchange of information. They approached cautiously. By now Jacob and Levi had joined us.

I introduced Clayton to Jacob, who regarded him with polite reserve. To his credit, Clayton spoke a respectful apology to Jacob, who in turn responded with a somewhat stoic but appreciative nod. An uncomfortable silence followed. It seemed our business was finished.

Simultaneously, Clayton and I both began to step away, but Jacob stopped me. “One moment, Dr. Bradford.”

Clayton touched my arm. “I'll see you at the car, Doc.”

Jacob turned toward his wife. “Hannah, bring a few of the apples.” She walked to the front porch where a number of freshly cleaned apples sat on a table next to the water bucket.

Meanwhile, Levi shook my hand and stepped away toward Rebecca. As he approached, her mouth edged into a tender smile. And as I stood there and watched the two of them, an image was flickering in the shadowy corners of my mind. There was something about Rebecca that I was trying to recall. But whatever it was, it drifted just beyond the threshold of memory. I only half heard Jacob speaking to Hannah.

“Those are the red ones, aren't they?”

She was handing me four large, beautiful apples. I took them from her, but I was still lost in a mild fog. Something in my speechless and curious face prompted Hannah to politely explain Jacob's question.

“Jacob is like his father and has difficulty seeing certain colors.”

I now realized my rudeness and thanked them profusely. Jacob thanked me as well and noted that he would see me the following week.

I returned to the ­Austin-­Healey, and we headed back to town, talking easily about sports, the weather, and cars. But the entire way, I was plagued with the notion that somewhere in the exchange between Jacob and Hannah there was something I had missed.

House Call

R
hett was now a regular fixture over at the Fox house, especially during the day when he and Maggie and their brood would eat, sleep, and frolic in the backyard. He seemed to be taking fatherhood in stride, generally lying with his head on his paws while some of the youngsters climbed over him during play. He was learning that parenting was not for those with short attention spans.

The puppies were now almost four weeks old, making more pressing the need to discuss future homes for them. Louise and Will wanted to keep one, and I was vacillating about keeping one myself. Two others had been spoken for: Hoot's daughter, Wendy, wanted one, much to Will's delight, and Nancy Orman, the clinic's administrator, also wanted one, saying that she and her husband had always loved golden retrievers. But that left two in need of homes.

Thursday morning I stopped by the diner and took my regular seat at the counter.

“Lida, you look like you are about to levitate. Have you been smoking some of Sunflower Miller's special tobacco?”

She winked and poured me a mug of coffee. I feigned a tone of further concern. “It's okay. You can tell me these things. I'm a doctor, you know.”

Lida was incandescent. She leaned across the counter and spoke in an excited whisper. “I'm closing on the sale of the B and B this afternoon.”

“Congratulations. I guess your Charleston buyer came through?”

“He sure did. Wonderful fellow. His name is Matthew House. He's a widower with the cutest ­eight-­year-­old twins, a boy and a girl. He looks to be early thirties, pretty close to your age. I think you'll like him.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh, it is. He doesn't take possession until the first of December. Meanwhile, I've got to start moving everything out.” She leaned even closer, cutting her eyes sharply. “Maybe I can get Casper the friendly ghost to move out too.”

“Lida, Karen Davidson said something to that effect. Can't say I much believe in ghosts. What's the deal here?”

She shrugged. “Eh, let's just say that the old place has some ­long-­term nonpaying guests.”

“Fair enough. Does the new owner know about this?”

“First thing I told him.”

“And?”

“He just laughed. He shook his head and said, ‘Lady, I'm from Charleston. We've got so many phantoms floating around, we set extra plates at the dinner table.'”

“Lida, I'm happy for you. And I look forward to meeting the new owner.”

I finished breakfast and headed to the clinic. It turned out to be a hectic day. Even so, we managed to stay on ­schedule—­running late was one of my pet peeves, although the people of Watervalley didn't seem to mind either way. They kept a more tolerant pace and seemed to enjoy chatting in the waiting room, sharing a little gossip along with a few germs and the occasional virus.

However, one ­late-­afternoon patient, Luther Whitmore, didn't show. He had a follow-up appointment for his macular degeneration. It was out of character for him to miss and not phone. So around six o'clock that evening, after finishing the day's paperwork and follow-up phone calls, I sat at my desk for a moment and brooded.

Luther's nonappearance troubled me. He was a punctual newspaperman. As much as I didn't like him, his blowing off an appointment sent a message. And I was his doctor.

I exhaled a deep sigh, knowing what I needed to do. But before grabbing my keys, I pulled open my ­bottom-­left desk drawer and grabbed the bottle there. I locked up and headed over to his house.

As I parked in Luther's driveway, the last thin traces of daylight were slipping westward, leaving his imposing home in a cloak of gloomy shadows and sad whisperings. I stood quietly, absorbing the unsettling dreariness that permeated the air, before walking around the side of the house to the attached garage, where Luther typically found refuge from the boredom of his evenings. My intuition proved correct. I found him sitting on a folding chair near the partially open garage door, smoking a cigarette and staring vacantly into the oncoming darkness. I stopped a step or two away from him. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward me.

“Hello, Bradford. For some reason I thought I might be seeing you this evening.”

“You missed your appointment today, Luther.”

“So I did, so I did. Is that why you've come?” His question seemed in earnest, lacking its usual acidity.

“Not really. Just thought I'd drop by to get a dose of your charm.”

“Sarcasm, eh, Bradford? Gee, that really hurt my feelings.”

“For some reason, Luther, I don't take you for one of those tormented, ­thin-­skinned guys.”

He ignored me. “What have you got there?”

“Whiskey. It was a gift given to me last Christmas and has been sitting in my desk. I'm not a bourbon guy. It's Jim Beam, your brand of choice.” I handed the bottle to him. This act of kindness seemed to throw him off his normal invective. With his cigarette locked between his knuckles, he rose from his chair to retrieve an empty Mason jar from a nearby shelf and poured a good two inches into it.

“So, what's on you mind?”

I folded my arms and shrugged, a gesture of honest confession. “Just checking in. Hoping to talk a little.”

“How much time you got, Bradford? There might be a whole lot of words in this bottle.”

“Luther, you mind if I push the garage door open a little more?”

“Suit yourself. But if all the cigarette smoke gets out, it will spoil the ambience.”

In one tilt he drank a full inch of the whiskey and returned to his seat. I grabbed a small wooden chair, turned it away from Luther, and straddled it with my arms draped across the back.

“Look, Luther, I'm pretty sure we're not going to be tight chums any time soon. But the simple reality is this: you are one of my patients.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning my job is to give a damn.”

Luther rubbed his chin slowly, assessing me in the dim light. “Yeah, I'll give you that, Bradford.”

There was an accommodating tone to Luther's voice. His acknowledgment that he'd been expecting me spoke volumes. He was an intelligent, calculating man, blessed with a shrewd and detached ability to predict the actions of those around him. Something in Luther knew I would come . . . wanted me to come. Maybe, just maybe . . . Luther wanted to talk.

He held the Mason jar at eye level, studying it for a moment before taking another large swallow. Exhaling a contented sigh, he spoke lightly, clearly in a good humor. “Sort of brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘Beam me up.'”

The last of twilight had faded, and we sat there in the black cloak of evening, illuminated only by the pale glow from neighboring houses.

“Luther, you want me to turn a light on?”

“Nah. I like the dark, Bradford.” He put out his cigarette, crushing it into a small ashtray. “You were orphaned when you were twelve, weren't you?”

“Yes, I lost my parents, but I had an aunt who took me in and cared for me. Why do you ask?”

Luther had discerned my guarded attitude to his question. There was an obliging element to his response. “The point is, Doctor, everybody's life is a story. You just have to look for it. That's why I like the newspaper business. People don't just want information. They want a story.”

“So, Luther, tell me your story.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, my job is to give a damn.”

He scratched his chin, amused. “You already know my story.”

“No, not really. All I've got is information. You grew up on a farm, you lived in town as a teenager, and then you went to Vietnam, where, I might add, you were highly decorated. But you came back different. You fenced in Moon Lake and took over running the paper. And somewhere in the middle of all that, something happened. So, Luther, you can tell me to piss off like you have before, or maybe you can help me understand the larger story here.”

Luther exhaled and leaned forward in his chair. Somehow over the course of my repeated visits it seemed that he had found in me a worthy delegate of his deeper reflections, a side of him that he kept carefully protected from the larger world. As he had done in July, he spoke with a moving eloquence, a somber and powerful voice that pierced the darkness.

“There's nothing unique about my story, Bradford. I came of age in the sixties, and the sixties were a troubled sea filled with wreckage. We were drops of blood upon the water, pulled apart by a world bound in fear, an unsettled and anxious generation split between old principles and new social and moral awakenings. Some of us stayed home and protested. Some of us went off to war. All of us left behind a past that was forever lost. We arrived in Vietnam believing in so many ­things—­country, patriotism, service, ­God—­and upon our return, we believed in one thing and one thing only: nothing. It was a wretched deterioration. First came disenchantment, then despair, then apathy. When it was over, there was no hero's welcome, no glorious return. America was indifferent; heaven was empty. It left us with hearts that would always know hunger.” He paused before adding a final assertion to his soliloquy. “Hearts that would be forever stained by our stupid mistakes.”

“How so?”

Luther sat brooding for a moment. When he finally answered, his words were grim, naked, penetrating. “In our hot youth, there was no life beyond the moment.”

With that one comment, he had departed from a general summation about his generation. It was a small crack in the door to his personal life. I spoke innocently, endeavoring to hide my deeper interest. “Tell me what you mean by that, Luther.”

My voice seemed to awaken him from some lost pocket of memory. From his ­hunched-­over position he sat upright in his chair, stiffening his back in a gesture of resolve. “Oh, it doesn't matter, Bradford. The human mind's ability to adapt is formidable. We all came back and went about our days, our work, our lives, discreetly hiding our scars, covering them with the raiment of society.” He took another large drink from his glass and sank back into a despondent brooding.

Once again Luther had been evasive, and I realized that my earlier assumption about his wanting to talk was wrong. I rose from my chair. “I think I've had all the fun I can stand for one evening. Call the clinic tomorrow and reschedule your appointment. We need to monitor your condition. Can't do that if you don't come see me.”

“Bradford, I almost like you. Stick around and have a drink. We'll toast something.”

“And what would we toast to?”

“To war and men and honor. To chivalry and when knighthood was in flower.” He paused briefly to ceremoniously hold up his glass. He slurred drunkenly, halting over his words. “In fact, we'll do a toast to all the knights: the Teutonic Knights, the gin tonic knights, and the Three Dog Nights.”

I smiled at Luther's cleverness and made one final probe into his well of secrets. “Luther, speaking of war and honor, why is it you don't want anyone to know about your medals of valor?”

At first he glared at me as if the question maddened him. Then his eyes drifted away, his face sullen. “Because, Bradford, the things I did in Vietnam, the acts of valor, as you call them, I didn't do them alone. . . . ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.'”

I had no idea why he was quoting Milton or what it meant, and I saw little chance that he would explain further. “Call the clinic tomorrow. I'll toast to that.”

I walked through the shadows to my car. Something about being with Luther always left me feeling empty, as if he drained the light and life out of me. And his talk of war and honor and chivalry made no sense. Still, I wondered about him. I had always thought the war had stained him with a lifetime of bitterness. I had assumed that in his youth, since he had believed so much, had trusted so much, the disillusionment of Vietnam had stripped him of all that he had previously held in wonder, leaving them ugly and common. And yet it gnawed at me that there was something more, some grand regret that haunted him.

As I walked up my porch steps under the stars of late September, one thing Luther had said still rang true. I didn't just want information; I wanted the story. I didn't realize at the time that in his own way, Luther was trying to tell me his.