The Splendor of Ordinary Days (26 page)

I tightened my lips and thought about Leyland's words. He knew nothing about me or the desires swirling around in my head. But admittedly, his insightfulness was daunting.

Still pretending to be amused, I spoke cautiously, politely. “So, Leyland, tell me your point here.”

He looked down for a moment, never losing his amiable smile. “The point, Doctor, is that in this life, just because you can doesn't mean you should.”

His words hung heavy in the air. He gazed into the patchy ­sunlight of the woods. “It seems that within us are deeply buried notions. They well up from some ancient, hidden, ­half-­forgotten, ancestral memory; they're woven into our very nature. Notions that we don't freely lay upon ourselves, yet notions that we feel we must obey. They confuse us, so we try to ignore them. But they hound us, chide us to weigh the moral quality of our actions.”

“Not exactly a popular sentiment, Leyland, but I guess there may be some truth there.”

He was half laughing under his breath. “The truth rarely gets applause.”

He eased himself back into the rocking chair. He began to talk about his life, of how his favorite sandwich as a child was buttered white bread, of how he loved to work with wood and stone to build things, and of how his education at Vanderbilt had taught him a love of poetry.

Most of all, he talked about the land, of how the soil was his eternal kinsman, of how a life tilling the earth fostered a kind of wisdom and strength, of how the land was always beautiful, healing, full of adventure. It seemed that his was a contentment to be envied, and I found myself wanting to understand what had given his life such satisfaction and ease; what had made all the difficulties and disappointments of life seem so distant. He was a paradox to me: a life that had so little, yet a mind that had so much.

The noon hour approached, and he stood and stretched. “Son, I need to move around a little. You want to take a walk in the woods with me? There's a creek nearby with large rocks that form some shallow pools. I like to go to the water.”

“Perhaps another time, Leyland. I probably ought to be getting back.”

“Come again anytime. I should be here. If I'm not, I'm probably somewhere else.” His eyes twinkled at his own humor.

I returned to the ­Austin-­Healey and waved to him as I departed. He held up a hand in reply. I was lost in thought and was a half mile down Beacon Road when I noticed the bag from Eddie's Quick Mart on the passenger side.

“Crap,” I said. I turned the car around and made my way back down Leyland's driveway. After parking, I reached into the bag and retrieved the five pieces of peppermint candy I had bought for him because he had asked me on my earlier visit if I had any. But he was nowhere to be seen.

I knocked on the door and called out, but received no answer. He had likely taken off into the woods and was out of earshot. I left the five pieces on his chair and headed back to town.

Vital Records

T
uesday afternoon, Connie stopped by the office with the list of names for my visit to the Tennessee Office of Vital Records. The statue company was pressing for the names to be engraved as well as for the final payment. After talking with Nancy Orman about Wednesday's schedule, I reluctantly agreed to drive to Nashville the next morning.

I had already made plans to take Friday off and finally go to Atlanta, meet with the moving company, and arrange to transfer some furniture from storage. This unwanted trip to Nashville only complicated the week. But it had to be done.

I left early Wednesday, hoping to return in time to take care of any patients and then later meet up with Christine. We hadn't seen each other since Saturday.

The morning air was cool and sunny. Telephone poles flashed by in an endless blur as the roadster hummed across the hills and farmlands. I was restless, lost in thought.

A strange feeling troubled me that I had missed or forgotten something, and I began to randomly replay the events of recent weeks. For some reason, my mind kept returning to Luther and his odd desire to hide his heroism. I couldn't get his quote from Milton out of my head: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Presumably, he'd been talking about Eli Yoder, and yet, Eli's service hardly involved standing and waiting. Luther was more clever than that. I was missing something.

In time, I approached the familiar skyline of Nashville and made my way downtown to the Central Services Building and the state's vital records office. After parking, I grabbed the folder and headed inside. An hour later, the task was done.

But I wasn't the same. It had been deeply sobering to read the death certificates of the seven men on my list. They had been faceless names in a file folder, but now I knew part of their stories, and my efforts had insured that their names would appear on the memorial. It had been time well spent.

The day had warmed up, so I took off my jacket before getting into the car. I was about to toss it into the backseat when I noticed the quilt still there, neatly folded. Sunlight shining through the side window fell upon it, illuminating the vivid green and red patterns. Numerous times I had thought to take the quilt inside after arriving home. But it hadn't happened because something about it kept nagging me, pestering my subconscious, pleading for me to recall some conversation, some buried realization.

Then it hit me. I stood there stunned for several lost seconds. My mind raced; searching, probing, connecting the dots. I shut the car door, walked back inside, and returned to the vital records counter. There was one more document I needed to see.

When I arrived in Watervalley later that day, I drove straight to the offices of the
Village Voice
. I found Luther at his desk, seated in the middle of the ­modest-­sized room cluttered with files, books, and old papers. He was reading something on his computer. I entered and shut the door behind me.

“Luther, we need to talk.”

He was unmoved by the intensity in my voice. “Do I have a choice?”

“What happened the night of the fire?”

“You care to be more specific?”

“July fifth, 1968. The fire out on Mercy Creek Road. What happened?”

There was a subtle stiffening in his posture. By degrees his eyes grew more sharply focused. “Why do you ask?”

“Just humor me, Luther.”

His expression turned crafty, undaunted. “We rode out there for nothing. The house on fire belonged to the Mennonites, and they didn't want our help. What of it?”

“Everybody knows that part. What I want to know is, what happened earlier that evening?”

Luther folded his arms and sat back in his chair. “I'm not sure I understand your question, Bradford.”

He was stonewalling. “I think you do, Luther. I think you remember it vividly. It was the night before you headed off to war.”

“Since you seem to be recently blessed with a dose of clairvoyance, why don't you tell me your theory?”

“Okay, fine.” Once again Luther was at his game of cat and mouse. “Let's just say I'm spitballing here, but I'm guessing you knew that house well. I'm guessing that you were there earlier that night. You're a lot of things, Luther, but you're not a liar. So tell me. Yes or no?”

His haughty manner hardened to a low anger. “Why do you want to know, Bradford?”

“Because I want the truth. Because I think there is more to this story than even you know.”

He stood heatedly and placed both hands on his desk as he leaned venomously toward me. “What do you mean, more than I know?”

“Just answer the question!”

“About what?”

“About what happened that night between you and Ellie Yoder.”

His face went pale. His tall frame wilted before me, and he slowly eased back into his chair. For the longest time he stared vacantly, resurrecting the memories of a past decade. Eventually, he sighed deeply.

“You really want to hear all this?”

“Sure.”

“Ellie Yoder and I had been secretly in love for years, ever since we were children. When we were kids, we promised to marry each other. That's why I know scripture so well. I was studying to become a Mennonite, so I could be accepted into their faith. When I moved to town, it was harder to see each other. We met secretly. We had been very careful, but I think Eli figured it out.”

“What happened?”

“The war, the draft. I got called up, and it was a little late to claim that I was a conscientious objector. So we decided that I would serve my time and we would marry when I returned. The house on Mercy Creek Road was to be hers. We were going to live there until I had a chance to build a house at Moon Lake. Then she died. I didn't find out until two months after it happened. My mother mentioned her death randomly in a letter. Even she didn't know about us.”

“So what happened that night, Luther? How did her house catch on fire?”

Despite his defeated tone, Luther scrutinized me sharply. “Bradford . . . I really don't get you. Why do you care?”

“For the moment, let's just say I'm curious and leave it at that.”

This seem to satisfy him. His reflective voice filled the room. “It was my last night before leaving for the war. After it grew dark, we met at the house. It was abandoned in those days, and her family used it for storage. We were both ­eighteen—­scared, uncertain, wholeheartedly in love. It was terrible. Somehow, we both had this desperate feeling we would never see each other again, that I would never return from the war. We were both in unexplainable tears.”

He paused and stared at me. “Can you imagine what that's like, Bradford? To have the one person who is everything in your life standing before you, and to somehow know that this is it. To have the dreadful knowledge that after you say ­good-­bye and turn away, you will never see them again?”

I let his question go unanswered, and Luther seemed to disappear back into his memories. “So, our emotions overcame us and we made love. We made love on a makeshift bed of burlap bags. At first we were both hesitant, unsure. Then one thing just led to another.”

I let his words settle. “And the fire?”

Luther made a despondent shrug. “Eli must have found out what had happened. If he confronted her, Ellie wouldn't have lied about it. All I can figure is that in his anger, he came sometime later that night and set the house on fire. He had been my best friend and was going to be my brother-in-law. I'm sure he felt betrayed. I'm sure he blamed me, and I guess he should have. We haven't talked since.”

Luther folded his arms and tilted his head to the side. He seemed oddly relieved to have finally told his story. “So when I came back, I fenced in Moon Lake. I wanted to close up the past, shut out all the memories. Shut out my shame.”

“Your shame?”

Oddly, Luther grinned. “You probably won't understand this, Bradford. It seems the world has changed. But back then, Ellie and I had some deeply held beliefs . . . beliefs that in our desperation, we threw aside that night. We were young, foolishly trying to live inside some idealistic bubble. Our passion overcame our convictions. I blamed myself.”

“Luther, why? You said it yourself. You were young. This was decades ago. Why bottle it up all these years?”

“I've never told anyone about why I fenced in Moon Lake or any of this because that would lead to questions. And one question would lead to another, and the last thing I was ever going to let happen was for anything to dishonor Ellie's memory.”

I nodded my understanding. “So when you quoted Milton the other day, were you talking about her?”

“She told me she would pray for me every day. Pray for my safe return. Whatever courage or valor I displayed in Vietnam was because of her. Because I knew her prayers were protecting me. She was so much better than me. She was the brave one, the valiant one. That's how she served.”

He looked up at me. “How did you figure this out? How did you know about Ellie and me?”

I thought about his question for a moment and then sat in the wooden chair across from his desk. “Because you told me.”

“That's not true. I never spoke of it.”

“Not all in one conversation, but in small pieces along the way . . . things you said.”

“Such as?”

I waited before replying, contemplating all the things I knew and what I was willing to disclose. “In one of our conversations about Moon Lake, Luther, you said you had fenced in Eden. You're well versed in scripture, so that told me you saw something in your past as a fall from grace. Then the other night when you talked about chivalry and making stupid mistakes, about how in youth there is no life beyond the moment, an odd thought occurred to me. As much as you seem to loathe the Mennonites, you eulogized Ellie Yoder.”

Luther nodded, but he was pensive, regarding me skeptically. “And you figured this out from that?”

I crossed my arms, deliberating. After several moments, I looked up at Luther and resolved to tell him what I had learned.

“There's more.”

“I don't understand.”

“I went to Nashville this morning to check on some records for the memorial project. While I was there, I looked up Ellie's death certificate. Being a doctor gives you certain privileges in regard to the Office of Vital Records, so I made a copy.” I retrieved the paper from my coat pocket and handed it to him.

“Ellie didn't die of pneumonia. She died of eclampsia. It's a complication of pregnancy.”

Luther's face lost all its color. “What are you saying?”

“It looks like you weren't the only one who didn't want to dishonor her name. As it's been told to me, Ellie went to live with Eli and his wife, Letta, shortly after he took his noncombat assignment. Apparently his service started right after you left for boot camp.”

Luther nodded, affirming my assertion.

“A couple of months after you left, Ellie must have realized she was pregnant and somehow let Eli know. My guess is the Mennonites can be a pretty strict bunch, and Ellie was certain to be disgraced. But apparently Eli loved his sister more than he hated her transgression. I'm guessing the three of them worked out a plan claiming that Letta was pregnant. Since Eli and Letta would be gone from the Mennonite community for nearly two years with no family nearby, no one questioned Ellie's going to live with them and helping out. Then again, maybe everyone knew, and this was how the situation was worked out. But that seems far less likely.”

“Are you telling me that Ellie and I had a child?”

“Yeah, I think so. I think Jacob Yoder is your son. At least, I'm pretty sure.”

“Based on what?”

“Genetics, Luther. Eli is ­color-­blind. I recently learned that Jacob is too. But color blindness is a ­sex-­linked trait; it comes from the mother, not the father. That means Letta would have to be ­color-­blind. Several months back, Letta instructed her grandson to go find a green and red quilt to give to me as payment for a house call. She's not ­color-­blind, but I'm guessing that Ellie was.”

Luther slowly nodded. “Yes, she was.”

“There's more. Jacob and his wife, Hannah, have a daughter who is eighteen. She's very striking. But unlike her parents, she's also very tall. I've seen her on only a few occasions, and each time I kept thinking she reminded me of someone. And then today, when all this started falling into place, it hit me. She is the spitting image of your mother from her debutante picture. She's tall and willowy with an almost haunting beauty about her.”

Luther leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and sat ­gape-­jawed in a mixture of astonishment and trepidation. “Are you certain about all this?”

“Not one hundred percent. Some of this is speculation. But for me, it all adds up.”

After what seemed an eternity, he looked at me with a face that was searching, reflective, and oddly, serene.

“Bradford, I have a son?”

“So it would seem.”

We sat in silence for another moment. There was little more to say, so I began to stand and make my departure. “Well, Luther. I'll uh . . . I'll let you get back to your day. And not to worry. I see no reason to breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Luther offered an indebted nod. Then, uncharacteristically, he rose from his chair, walked around his desk, and extended his hand. “Thank you. Thank you for coming and telling me this.” He looked down for a moment, his face penitent. “For some reason, Luke Bradford, you've been a friend, and I'm grateful.”

“Sure. Just thought you'd want to know.”

I turned to leave, but Luther stopped me. He stood for a moment, struggling to find the words. He seemed to have lost all of his haughty demeanor and spoke in a voice of complete contrition. “I'd like to ask you a favor.”