The Splendor of Ordinary Days (8 page)

“It's those damn Mennonites. It's their fault, and they're gonna pay.”

EMTs, DOA, and DRT

I
had no idea what Clayton's father was talking about. The incident had cast a pall over everyone's mood. Faces were now brooding, preoccupied. The headache and exhaustion from a long night remained. I did a final exam on Chick and allowed him to go home with a long list of instructions and an insistence on follow-up.

I did the same with Maylen. But as he was readying to leave, I stopped him. “Maylen, you know everybody in town. Who was that Ross fellow, and what was that all about with his father?”

As was his way, at first Maylen simply stared at me with a wooden face and doleful eyes, thinking before responding. “That's Cal Ross. He's not intentionally mean, Doc, just not inclined to show any restraint. He'll cool off.”

“What was that about the Mennonites?”

“The first call we got last night was about a barn fire out Gallivant's Crossing. Turned out to be in the Mennonite community.”

“Who made the call? I didn't think the Mennonites had phones.”

“We don't know. It was a woman on a cell phone. Dispatch tried calling back, but nobody answered. Still, we had to respond. There was a fire, but it was just an outbuilding at the Yoder place, under control long before we got there. Meanwhile, a second call came in regarding the fire at Dora Mae Taylor's place, clear across the county. By the time we arrived, the barn was mostly gone. It all happened pretty fast. Every fire seems to have a tipping point. Clayton was too close when the barn collapsed. If we'd gotten there sooner, it might not have happened. Maybe Clayton wouldn't have been hurt. So I'm betting that's what Cal was mad about.”

“Thanks, Maylen. I'll call you later to check in. Get some rest.”

I went to the lavatory to wash my face, now feeling the fog and headache that accompanied too little sleep. When I arrived at the break room, Clarence and Leonard were engaged in a robust conversation. Nothing seemed to faze these two. The paramedics had a private language of their own, ­stand-­ins, acronyms, and subtleties about things that only they understood. Clarence was in rare form, chiding his partner.

“Preacher, I think if you had given Mr. Calli mouth-to-mouth, you might have saved him from being DOA.”

Preacher was Leonard's nickname. Leonard Lee Lineberry was tall and lanky with a perpetual toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth. He used to be called Triple L, which I'd assumed was derived from his name, but I'd learned more recently that it stood for Lounge Lizard Leonard. In his younger days, he had been a ­low-­end ­honky-­tonk crooner, fashioning himself as a Porter Wagoner wannabe. It was also rumored that he had been something of a ladies' man, although to look at Leonard now, I was certain that the ladies must have been under the influence to have earned him that moniker.

Somewhere along the way Leonard had had a road-to-Damascus conversion and started his own church called the Whosoever Will, Full Gospel, Praise Band Church. A couple of years ago the church had changed its name to the Love From Above Chapel and become a small independent congregation on the outskirts of town.

Leonard spent a lot of time studying the Bible. He believed there were secret messages hidden in the text and symbolic meanings to the numbers found in scripture, even the ones at the bottom of the page. Still, something of the oily lothario lingered in his demeanor. I got the sense that he was a man for whom hair care was still an important priority.

“Oh Lordy be,” responded Leonard in his amiable, drawling voice. “I thought Dora Mae was having a conniption. I walked up and there was Mr. Calli, stiff as a flagpole. Dora Mae was moaning and wailing and a-LJ-ing, wanting me to do something for him. But I'm tell you right now, it wasn't no resuscitation situation. Mr. Calli wasn't DOA. He was DRT. They wasn't a thing I could'a done to save him.”

This set off some minor alarm bells. “Leonard, whoa. Explain what you just said. What are LJ-ing and DRT? And who's Mr. Calli?”

Clarence intervened. “LJ-ing is yelling ‘Lord Jesus,' Doc. Preacher don't like to use the Lord's name in vain.” The two men shared rather pious, confirming nods. Clarence continued. “DRT means ‘dead right there.' And Mr. Calli is Dora Mae's calico cat.”

“Oh,” I responded in relief. “A cat. Well, that's too bad.” I walked to the counter to pour a cup of coffee. Leonard spoke reflectively.

“Dora Mae thinks the lightning got him, but there wasn't a singed hair on him. He was nigh on to fifteen years old anyway.”

“Leonard, how do you know so much about Dora Mae's cat?” I inquired.

“My cousin, Tommy Dean Lineberry, lives in a trailer down the way from Dora Mae and does odd jobs for her. She's in her seventies and lives out there alone. She puts up with him despite his drinking.”

“Leonard, I don't think I know Tommy Dean.”

He leaned back and rubbed his chin. “Oh, I'd say Tommy Dean's in his early fifties now. He never quite found his depth, you might say.”

Clarence took a sip of coffee. “There's quite a few Lineberrys out in that part of the county, ain't there, Leonard?”

“Yeah, but I'll tell you,” he responded, “Tommy Dean's a true-blue Lineberry.”

I was only half listening to the conversation, but Leonard's comment piqued my curiosity. “What do you mean by ‘true-blue Lineberry'?”

“Well,” said Leonard, pausing for effect, “it's like this, Doc. Before they was married, Tommy Dean's daddy was a Lineberry and Tommy Dean's momma was a Lineberry. So Tommy Dean, he's a true-blue Lineberry. He's Lineberry all the way to the bone.”

I nodded, doing my best to feign an innocent and nonjudgmental face.

“Now, don't be getting the wrong idea, Doc. It was just a coincidence. They wasn't even second or third cousins. 'Course, you wouldn't know it by looking at Tommy Dean.”

“Leonard, I think I already know more than I want to.”

They finished their coffee and departed. It was only six thirty; the clinic didn't officially open for another hour and a half. The rest of the staff had already left, so I locked the doors and returned home to clean up before starting the day.

When I pulled into my driveway, my ­thirteen-­year-­old neighbor, Will Fox, was holding Rhett on a leash, and I was at a loss as to how my crafty dog had gotten out. It was only after I stared for a moment that I realized my mistake. The dog Will was holding was definitely a golden retriever of similar size and shape, but it wasn't Rhett.

“Hi there, Willster. Who's your new friend?”

“This is Mattie,” Will responded, pleased and proud. “We just got her yesterday.”

“­Fine-­looking gal. Where did she come from?”

“Lawrenceburg. There was an ad in the paper. The family was moving to Nashville and giving her away to a good home. I've been wanting a dog, so Mom agreed.”

Will was a bright and clever, albeit peculiar, boy. I liked him. We shared a quirky friendship. He had lost his father to an accident more than a year ago, just as I had lost my parents when I was twelve. An unspoken bond of understanding existed between us.

“Well, I'm sure Rhett will be ecstatic to have a play friend.”

“That's why I told Mom I wanted a golden.” Will paused a moment and then added confidentially, “Don't worry, Dr. Bradford. She's been fixed.” He made a gesture of quotation marks with his fingers.

Somehow the idea of discussing sex with a ­thirteen-­year-­old, even sex among pets, felt awkward. I answered stiffly. “Well, I'm sure they can, um, enjoy a kind of austere and cerebral relationship.”

“I think the word you're looking for is ‘platonic.'”

“Shut up and take your dog inside.” I winked at him and smiled as I turned toward my front door.

“See ya later, Dr. B.”

“You too, Willster. I'll let Rhett know the good news.”

Rhett greeted me at the front door with a wagging tail and his tennis ball in his mouth, something he never did first thing in the morning.

“Well, hello, Mr. Perky. Looks like somebody saw the new neighbor out the window and wants to show off a little.” I reached down and rubbed his ears and, for the first time, noticed that his right eye was cloudy. I took the ball, along with a little associated slobber, out of his mouth and waved it from side to side to watch his eye movements. He followed it with rapt attention, but admittedly it was a poor test. I shrugged, unable to tell anything more, and set the ball aside.

Luther Whitmore, Eli Yoder, and now my own dog. Everyone around me was going blind, and the day was just getting started.

Patients

I
was late getting to work that morning because I decided to walk the six blocks to the clinic. The day had a pristine, ­well-­scrubbed feel that comes after a rain. Walking gave me time to think.

While I enjoyed my life in Watervalley, some days I saw myself as a stranger in a strange land, more of a curious and amused observer than a participant in the life of the town. The clinic had proven to be a small stage with an ­ever-­changing cast of players as patients came and went. All the emotions of the human ­experience—­courage, joy, fear, sorrow, hope, depression, heartbreak, and of course ­humor—­were part of the daily theater. And admittedly, I loved my work . . . at least for the time being.

Privately, I still held tight to my dream of doing medical research. And despite my ­long-­standing habit of emotional detachment, my life here had taught me that I inevitably cared deeply for those around me. Today would be one in which comedy and tragedy would be deceptively entwined.

I entered the back door of the clinic and slipped into my office before suiting up in my white coat and working my way through the already full exam rooms. Nancy had placed a stack of notes on my desk regarding phone calls and a list of the day's appointments. I glanced at these quickly, taking particular interest in the findings from the final lab test on Clayton Ross. It was for a blood alcohol level, and the result was difficult to believe. I thought about this for a moment and then mentally filed it away.

My first patient of the day was Beatrice McClanahan, a pert and lively little woman with a cheery, grandmotherly disposition. Beatrice drove an old Country Squire station wagon, wore brightly colored cotton dresses, and, I was certain, lied with impunity about her age. Beatrice said she was pushing seventy. I was certain she was pulling eighty. I glanced at her chart and shook my head. She had come to the clinic for an eye exam.

Watervalley had an optometrist named Gordon Kelly who came in one day a week, if that. Gordon was in his early seventies and liked to fish. I began to secretly wish that Karen Davidson would forgo being a veterinarian and practice optometry instead. How much difference could there be between the two professions?

I quickly learned that Beatrice wasn't there voluntarily. Apparently the sheriff, Warren Thurman, had found her driving on both sides of the road a little too often and was holding her license until she had her eyes checked. As I entered the exam room, Beatrice was sitting primly in the chair with her hands in her lap. She was wearing a bright red cloche hat, and her eyes sparkled behind her emerald green ­cat-­eye glasses. She smiled sweetly at me with all the polite innocence that a crafty octogenarian could muster.

“Good morning, Beatrice. How are you?”

“Oh my, Dr. Bradford. It's so nice to see you.” She conspicuously placed a strong inflection on the word “see.” Beatrice thought she was working her magic. I smiled pleasantly.

“What seems to be the problem today?”

“Oh,” she said with ­wide-­eyed naïveté. “I just have a little piece of paper I need you to sign.” She handed me the documents from the sheriff, which included a police report. I knew what the sheriff was up to. Anyone who had seen Beatrice out driving with her hands locked at the ten and two positions and her nose barely level with the steering wheel would be at a loss as to how she stayed out of the ditch. Whenever anybody in Watervalley saw the old Country Squire coming, they automatically gave her a wide berth and sometimes even pulled off the road altogether. Warren was trying to find a polite way to keep Beatrice from driving.

I rubbed my chin and feigned ignorance. “Beatrice, tell me what brought this about?”

“Well, I'm not really sure. Warren seems to be concerned about my driving. He pulled me over Thursday afternoon, and for the life of me I don't understand all the fuss. He even had a deputy drive my car while he drove me home, entirely against my will.”

“It says here, Beatrice, that you were swerving all over the road.”

“Why, that's just silly. I veered out of my lane for only a second,” she declared diplomatically. “Besides, there was a bee in my car. I tried to explain that to Warren, but he just had a bee in his bonnet.” She finished with an authoritative nod.

“I see. Beatrice, it also says here that Warren suspected the presence of alcohol.”

She flipped her hand at me. “Oh piddle. That was just Listerine.”

I was doing my best to keep from laughing outright. I knew that the sheriff was too nice a fellow to administer a sobriety test to a kindly ­eighty-­year-­old woman on the side of the road. “And the empty liquor bottle the deputy found under the seat?”

Beatrice looked away, speaking innocently. “Why, I have no idea how long that's been there. My late husband, Henry, must have left it.”

“Hmm. So, Beatrice, you don't drink?”

She hesitated and stared at me for a moment before speaking in a voice of polite contrition. “Well, Dr. Bradford. Don't misunderstand. I love Jesus, but I do drink a little from time to time. It helps keep me regular.”

I nodded, offering no response. Beatrice regained some of her pluck and continued. “Anyway, I think Warren is just overreacting, don't you? He even accused me of trying to bribe him.”

“Bribe him?”

“All I did was offer him some chess pie and told him we should just forget the whole thing.”

“Chess pie, huh?”

“Why, yes. Can you imagine? He acted like I was trying to slip him a roofie.”

I wanted to laugh so hard, I could pop. I covered my mouth with my hand. I knew from Beatrice's chart that she was beyond passing any eye exam, despite corrective lenses. Still, I also knew that the inability to drive would mean the loss of freedom and independence. I would have Nancy work with her to coordinate community resources and relatives to help her with daily living. It was a tough choice, but the right one.

However, apparently Beatrice mistook my silence for agreement. She smiled winsomely, reached into her bag, and produced a small ­foil-­covered plate.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “I brought you some peanut brittle. It's homemade.” She discreetly placed an ink pen on the top and handed the plate to me.

She wasn't very happy when she left the office. Maybe I shouldn't have kept the pen.

Thankfully, the rest of my appointments were routine. Except for Gene Alley, my last patient of the day.

Gene worked as a disc jockey at Watervalley's only radio station, WVLY, “the Voice of the Valley.” Years ago, he had taken a piece of shrapnel to the head in Vietnam. As part of his treatment, the army had placed a small metal plate over his parietal bone, the upper rear part of the cranium. I had been told that Gene had always been a little goofy, even before the war, but in the intervening years his ascent into the world of wacky had become legend. Any conversation about him always ended with the statement, “That boy's just not right.”

Including my residency at Vanderbilt and my time as the physician at the Watervalley Clinic, I had a few thousand exams under my belt. I had seen some rashes that bordered on outright icky, heard abdominal sounds that needed an exorcist, and even had a patient who wanted a pill for her allergy to squirrels. However, my discussion with Gene topped all of those.

Ann had already taken his vitals, which all seemed fine. However, beside the “reason for visit” section, she had written the words, “the storm.” Ann was nowhere to be found, so I shrugged and proceeded into the exam room, where Gene's wife, Peggy, was with him, wearing a face of pallid worry. Conversely, Gene was relaxed with a bemused smile. My confused look was difficult to mask.

“Gene, Peggy, how are you doing today?”

Peggy responded immediately. “Only so-so, Dr. Bradford. It was the storm last night. It got him going.”

“Going . . . as in how?”

“He started doing it again.”

“Doing . . . what?”

Peggy pursed her lips and cast a worried glance toward Gene. She spoke with a mixture of fear and frustration. “He's talking in song titles again.”

“Did I hear you correctly? Song titles?”

“Yes, song titles.”

“Gene, is this right?”

He nodded sheepishly. “‘True.'”

I paused, regarding both of them cautiously. “When did this start?”

“‘In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning,'” he responded.

“And you think the cause is . . . what?”

Gene shrugged, a childlike smile still etched on his face. “‘Thunder and Lightning.'”

I held up my hand and released a muted laugh. “Okay, hold it. I feel like I'm the setup man in a comedy routine.”

Peggy responded flatly, “Tell me about it. I can't make him stop. Everything I say comes back with a Top Forty response. We just go . . .”

“‘Round and Round,'” blurted Gene.

Peggy closed her eyes, and her head sank to her chest in resignation. “Dr. Bradford, do you think he's . . .”

“‘Crazy,'” Gene finished. He sat there with a complacent, vacant stare.

Peggy was looking for an answer, and I had nothing to offer. I turned and grabbed one of the exam room chairs, pulled it in close, and took a seat. I was stumped. I wanted to think this was just a hoax, but that seemed unlikely. I knew of no mental disorder into which this symptom neatly fit, nor was I a psychiatrist by training. But Peggy was staring anxiously. I had to try something.

“Gene, I'm going to ask you some questions. Tell me what pops into your head.”

He nodded in agreement.

“How are you feeling right now?”

“‘Under Pressure.'”

“Okay, so when you heard all the thunder and explosions last night, what did it make you think about?”

“‘It's the End of the World as We Know It.'”

“Right, so you were scared?”

Gene nodded. “‘I Fall to Pieces.'”

This was getting nowhere. I began a different line of questions. “Gene, when you get scared like that, does it cause you to drink?”

“‘One Thing Leads to Another.'”

I scratched my head, trying hard to appear serious. “And does the drinking help calm you down?”

“‘Whatever Gets You Through the Night.'”

I exhaled a deep sigh. “Okay. Let's try something else. Gene, I want you to concentrate. What was the one thing the storm last night made you think about?”

“‘Stayin' Alive.'”

It seemed hopeless. Gene was answering my questions, but only by channeling everyone from Patsy Cline and the Fixx to the Pointer Sisters and the Brothers Gibb. Sitting there with the face of an amused simpleton, he seemed to be enjoying the conversation immensely. I leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded.

“Unbelievable,” I exhorted.

Peggy shot me a look of disbelief.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot. . . . That's a song title too, isn't it?”

I crossed my arms and studied both of them. Physically, Gene was fine; oddly, he seemed aware of his own malady, but unable to do anything about it. There could be no sure diagnosis. Nonetheless, I wanted to provide Peggy with some encouragement.

“Guys, I don't have a ready answer for you. It all points to some kind of ­post-­traumatic stress event triggered by the flash and noise of the storm. I'm not well versed in treating that. My best advice is to take it easy for a couple of days. I can write you a prescription for a sedative if you think that will help. But if this . . .” I paused, unsure how to define Gene's ailment. “If this situation persists, I will need to refer you to a specialist. I wish I had a better answer. But that's my game plan for now.”

They both nodded. Peggy responded with a weak ­thank-­you. As they left, Gene winked at me. I'm not sure what he meant by it, whether it was a gesture of confidentiality or just easier than saying, “‘Happy Trails to You.'” I stayed seated in the exam room chair, both fascinated and frustrated. Soon afterward, Nancy found me.

“Dr. Bradford, John Harris is waiting in your office.”