The Splendor of Ordinary Days (9 page)

The Statue

I
had met John Harris a year ago, soon after my arrival in Water­valley. I remembered the day well because he almost shot me. I had taken a hike into the hills and stumbled upon his apple orchard. John, a brooding recluse at the time, had thought I was trespassing. In all fairness, the rifle he was pointing at me was actually a BB gun. Ours was something short of a spontaneous friendship.

In time we had grown to like each other and shared a bantering camaraderie. John had a PhD, was a retired chemical engineer, and was quite wealthy. Tall, modestly handsome, and muscular for a man in his late fifties, he possessed a subtle yet powerful charisma. He had grown up in Watervalley and had been a tireless community leader until two years ago when his wife, Molly, died of cancer, sending John into a time of bitter isolation and alcohol abuse.

However, in recent months he had undergone a significant transformation. He had gradually reengaged in the life of the town, slowly put his anger and heavy drinking behind him, and kindled a romance with the clinic's staff nurse, Ann Patterson. Still, he was a man both loved and feared. While he was a strong individual capable of great generosity, he could also be tough and intolerant. On more than one occasion I had seen him use his commanding presence, brilliant mind, and acid tongue to lay waste to those foolish enough to cross him.

He was also Christine's uncle.

John was seated in one of the wingback chairs facing my desk and rose when he heard me enter. But after two steps I stopped in my tracks, not believing what I was seeing. John, who perpetually wore a farm shirt, jeans, and work boots, was dressed in paisley shorts and a polo shirt. This was a rift in the order of the universe.

“Hey, sawbones. Want to see something interesting?”

“I think those shorts have already accomplished that for me. It's like seeing John Wayne wearing ­flip-­flops.”

“Yeah, smart-ass. Get your giggles over with. I've got a photo I want to show you.”

Ignoring his comment, I was still a little taken aback by his outfit. “I'm guessing you and Ann have plans for later?”

“It's five o'clock, sport. So actually we have plans for right now. She told me to give her a minute. Take a look at this.”

John handed me his cell phone to show me a photo he had taken.

“Isn't that the courthouse square?”

“Yeah, and all those fragments you see are what's left of the statue of
The Grateful Farmer
.”

Decades ago, a statue had been built on the courthouse lawn of a man in overalls holding a handful of vegetables. The statue commemorated one of Watervalley's own, who had been named State Farmer of the Year. I had never paid it any serious attention.

“What happened to it?” I asked.

“Lightning strike from the storm.”

“You know, there was a huge flash that hit nearby last night. I bet that was it.”

“Cracked it into more than thirty pieces.”

“Wow. Well, that's a shame. Guess the farmer's not too grateful anymore.”

“No, but everybody else is.”

“Why is that?”

“The statue was well intended, but it's always been somewhat of a community embarrassment.”

“How so?”

“You've never looked at it closely, have you?”

“Not really.”

“You know how the guy is using both hands to hold a bunch of vegetables about waist high.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you ever viewed him from behind, the way both of his hands were together at that level, it looked like he was holding something else.”

“Oh, so it looked like Watervalley's version of one of those Italian fountains?”

“Yeah, right there on the courthouse lawn too.”

I handed the phone back to him, and he studied the picture, lost in thought.

“So, John. I guess I'm a little curious. As fascinating as this bit of trivia is, I'm not sure why it was significant enough to take a picture and show it to me.”

John looked at me shrewdly. “I've got a really great idea.”

“What? You going to suggest they put up a statue of you?”

In a show of easy manners, John didn't miss a beat. “Oh, it's a given that the town will put up a statue of me at some point. The only question is whether or not they'll spring for having it lit up at night.”

“I expect nothing less.”

“No, sawbones, I've got an idea that's been long overdue. I want the town to build a memorial to all the soldiers from the valley who have been killed in combat. You know, a war memorial.”

“Hmm. Nothing wrong with that. But isn't the memorial building downtown a, well . . . memorial?”

“Sure. But the hall was built in the twenties as a dedication to all who served in the Great War. Nothing has been done since then. I'm just guessing, but I bet there are more than fifty men and women from the valley who have died in wars over the last century. Something, somewhere, should have their names on it.”

I nodded in agreement. “Seems like a grand idea. What's your plan?”

“The town doesn't have much money for this kind of thing, so we'll have to solicit private donations, probably through some kind of ­fund-­raising campaign.”

“Sounds good. Except, was there a significance in your use of the word ‘we'?”

John's face eased into a sly grin. “I want you to cochair the campaign with me.”

I didn't immediately say yes. Perhaps I should have, but instead I hesitated. I couldn't think of a more worthy project, but in truth, I knew this effort would swallow a fair amount of my time and that was one thing I was pretty selfish about. The years in med school and the long hours during residency had put me on a treadmill that required every spare minute. Now, the demands of being Watervalley's only ­full-­time doctor and my romance with Christine filled my days, making me reluctant to readily commit.

But there was a pleasant warmth in John's persuasive charm. He persisted, and I knew I had no choice. “Well . . . sure, okay. Put me in, coach.”

Having attained my agreement, he was all business. “Good. We'll need to form a committee and get a consensus of what the memorial should look like, put together an estimate, and start to round up donors. I can connect with the mayor to streamline any city council issues. There are a limited number of deep pockets in the county, so we'll have to hit them all up to give till it hurts.”

I grinned. “That includes you, I presume?”

John smiled. “Heck, sawbones, I may even give till I'm middle class.”

Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door and Ann entered, smiling warmly at John. He grinned and winked at me before turning to Ann, “Thanks for stepping up, sport. I'll be in touch.”

The two of them left, and soon afterward I locked up. I had been up since four a.m., and it had been a long day. But I smiled all the way home. Connie was making dinner.

Life with Connie

N
ormally I would arrive home to find Connie with her apron on and in the kitchen, rattling pots and pans and cooking in high gear. Instead, she was in the living room watching a movie. Rhett was sitting in rapt attention, also focused on the TV screen.

“What gives, Connie T? Don't tell me all those millions I'm paying you are not enough?” This, of course, was said in jest. Connie Thompson was a wealthy woman, having made a fortune from investing her deceased husband's pension in the stock market and in the local bank. I did pay her a modest wage for her services as cook and housekeeper, but she helped out more as an act of kindness and friendship than out of any need for money.

Connie looked drily up at me and spoke in her usual breezy monotone. “Humph. You'd have to give me a raise just to get me to ‘not enough.' Anyway, there's a chicken casserole in the oven if you're hungry.”

“Sounds good. What are you watching?”

She held up her hand for me to be silent, focusing intently on the scene playing in the movie. After a moment, she reached over, grabbed the remote, and turned it off. “­Mmm-­mmm-­mmm. That Denzel Washington. Now, that's a man who could make a girl lose her principles.”

I feigned shock. “Why, Constance Grace Thompson. I cannot believe my ears. I'm shattered, just shattered. Should I call Pastor Dawson and activate the prayer chain?”

Connie regarded me coolly above her ­gold-­inlay glasses. “Keep your shirt on, Doctor. It's not like Denzel's gonna be dropping by the house.”

I laughed and followed her to the kitchen. “So, are you telling me there's a man who could use sex to get what he wants?”

She responded flatly. “No. I'm not saying that at all.”

As she carried the casserole to the table, she spoke again, this time with blunt authority. “Besides, men don't use sex to get what they want. Sex
is
what they want.” With that, she grabbed a plate and began to serve, her chin judiciously elevated.

I grabbed a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge, and we sat down to dinner.

“Go ahead and eat, Doctor. I've already blessed it.”

I nodded obediently.

“So, how's everybody at the clinic today?”

“Tired and not very motivated after being up part of the night.”

“Speaking of not being motivated,” Connie said in a decidedly lecturing tone, “I noticed you didn't make your bed this ­morning. Now, I'm not your momma, but it seems to me you're getting a little sloppy in your bachelor ways, don't you think?”

I rolled my eyes and mumbled under my breath, “Not my momma, huh? Walks like a duck, talks like a duck.”

“I heard what you just said,” Connie declared sharply.

“Me? I didn't say anything.”

“Humph. Keep it up, Doctor. When I'm done here, I might just reach over there and smack you.”

“I look forward to that.”

“Humph,” Connie grunted again. “The point is, this house needs a woman's touch. I've taken you to raise as long as I can. It's time for a handoff. You need a woman around here to keep you straight. I'm thinking Christine Ann Chambers could do the job just fine.”

“I'll ask her to fill out an application.”

“Don't start with me, Luke Bradford. You know what I'm talking about.”

Even though I tended to keep my feelings private, I was amused by Connie's bluntness. I chose to disregard her inference of matrimony. “Connie, I'm not sure I get the logic of making my bed. I mean, after I take my shoes off, I don't retie the laces.”

Connie stared at me deadpan, shaking her head. “You know, sooner or later we all have to be ­grown-­ups. Don't you think it's time you took a turn?”

Ignoring her question, I told her about the destruction of the statue and John's plan for the new memorial.

“­Umm-­hmm,” Connie mused. “I heard that lightning got it.”

“Yeah, he wants me to cochair the drive to raise money for the new monument.”

“Sounds like a good character builder.”

“I'm sure you're right. It's just that every time I've done something that's supposed to build character, I've regretted it.”

Connie offered no response.

“Hey, why don't you cochair it instead of me? You and John would make a great team.”

“Why, Doctor, I wouldn't know where to begin to fill those big floppy shoes of yours.”

“It's just that it's a busy time, and I'm, well . . . I'm kind of at an awkward stage.”

“And what awkward stage is that, the one between birth and death?”

“Very funny.”

Continued complaint seemed pointless. “Anyway, it is what it is, and it's the right thing to do,” I said with resignation.

“That statue was dedicated to Wicky Willoughby,” Connie added. “He was the State Farmer of the Year in 1955.”

“Wicky, huh? Weally?”

Connie scowled. “Just keep it up. I'm fixing to grab the broom and come at you piñata style.” She took a bite of casserole, quite pleased with herself.

“Pretty lofty talk for a woman who not ten minutes ago expressed a willingness to acquire a little carnal knowledge with a certain movie star.”

Connie stopped in midchew and shot me a withering stare. “Denzel, Dr. Bradford, is ­off-­limits. You need to leave him out of this.”

I smiled, and we both ate in amused silence.

“I heard about Chick and Maylen and the Ross boy getting burned. Are they going to be all right?” Connie inquired.

“Yeah, I think so. What a strange night, though.”

“How so?”

“That whole business about the fire truck going out to the Mennonite community. You always seem to have the skinny on everything, Connie. Have you heard anything more about who made the phone call?”

“Just that it was a young woman. There hasn't been a fire call out to the Mennonite community in decades.”

“You know, speaking of which, I passed an old ­burned-­out house on Mercy Creek Road on the way to see Jacob Yoder yesterday. The place sits in the middle of a beautiful meadow. It was sad, such a beautiful homesite, but it's been abandoned.”

“Mercy Creek Road, hmm. I think I know the place. It burned back in the sixties, and if I'm not mistaken, the volunteer fire ­department was called out on that one too. It's on the fringe of the Mennonite community, and one of the nearby farmers called it in.”

“I think that's right. While unwrapping her grandmother's china, Christine found an old newspaper article about the fire that she gave to me. I wonder who owns that place now?”

“Probably one of the Mennonite families.”

“Really? Seems strange to leave it abandoned.”

“Don't have an answer on that one. The Mennonites are pretty frugal, and they buy up property for their children to live on later. I guess that place hasn't been needed yet.”

I shrugged. “Guess not.”

“Anyway,” responded Connie, “that storm seemed to wreak havoc on a lot of folks' lives. There were power outages and trees down everywhere.”

“Yeah,” I chortled. “I had a pretty strange case today that was storm related.”

Even though it was stretching ­doctor-­patient confidentiality, I went on to tell Connie about Gene Alley's visit.

“­Mmm-­mmm,” she said. “So Gene's back to talking in song titles again, huh? That boy needs a genetic do-over. He should have orange cones placed around him.”

“So he's done this before?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well, even so. I feel kind of bad about it. Part of me wanted to keep talking to him to see what he would say. But he and his wife came to me for help, and it's just not my field of expertise. I don't think I did him much good.”

“Don't beat yourself up, Luke. Gene has a bout of this malady every six months whenever he takes a notion to irritate Peggy. For years she talked about divorcing him, thinking she could trade up. I think that ship has sailed. She'll complain as long as she has anything resembling a puppet of an audience. You're just a new set of ears. It'll pass in a few days, and he'll be back to his slightly wacky self.”

We finished dinner. I helped Connie clean up, and she left shortly before seven.

Afterward, I took Rhett out to the backyard to survey the garden that I had planted a few weeks earlier. It was my first foray into growing vegetables, and I was quickly learning that gardening was twenty percent inspiration and eighty percent perspiration. Weeds were everywhere. I pulled a few but soon quit, taking on a stoic attitude of survival of the fittest, tomatoes versus dandelions. Rhett gave me a disapproving look.

“What are you staring at?” I said. He continued to regard me with a droopy and dour disdain. The cloudiness in his right eye seemed more pronounced. I would need to get Karen Davidson to check it out.

By eight thirty, I was showered and ready to hit the sack. Maybe it was because of the unusually early hour, but as I lay in bed that night, the sounds of the street took on an unfamiliar restlessness, an almost brooding malevolence.

In the watches of the night, when my body was drinking deeply of ­much-­needed sleep, the press wheels of the Watervalley newspaper were roaring in high gear. The buried anger of events from long ago was preparing to find a voice.