The Splendor of Ordinary Days (25 page)

Pent Up

T
he following Saturday was the first of October and the Fall Festival. Ever since our engagement, Watervalley's regard for Christine and me was a testimony to the fabric of ­small-­town life. Despite their firm disdain for anyone who made claim to pretentiousness, the plain and simple people of the town still wanted their champions. It seemed that by rules that were undeclared and vaporous, they bestowed on certain individuals an elevated social regard. Typically this involved money and lineage, although education was also a wild card that granted social esteem. As a physician, I had experienced that since the first day of my arrival.

Over the past month, I had begun to realize that along with Christine's gracious nature and striking beauty, in the eyes of Watervalley she was viewed as having all the social trappings of heritage and wealth. We were seen as the perfect couple, and it seemed to be a great point of pride with the locals that one of their own had won the heart of the town doctor. We were treated just short of nobility, a status neither of us understood or desired. The townsfolk couldn't get enough of us. It was both a blessing and a curse. But on this day, the Saturday of the Fall Festival, it felt like the latter.

Throughout the day, a growing tension seem to expand between Christine and me, and we argued over small things that didn't matter. As we moved among the throngs of people, we were constantly corralled by ­well-­wishers who wanted to see Christine's ring, tease us about being engaged, and offer an endless encyclopedia of unwanted marriage advice.

By the time we arrived at the Fall Festival dance being held at the Memorial Building that evening, both of us were in a sour mood. Christine was distant, distracted, and my occasional inquiry as to whether everything was okay was met with immediate and curt dismissals. This fostered an impatient and brooding agitation between us. At the dance, the need to paint on a cordial smile for the endless stream of ­well-­meaning townsfolk only exacerbated the situation. After thirty minutes of relentless interruptions, Christine turned to me.

“Can we go? Just, you know, leave?”

“Okay, fine.” I set down my beer, took her by the hand, and we walked out. I didn't care about being at the dance anyway. But I was at a loss as to what could possibly be behind Christine's intolerant mood.

After getting into the car, instead of starting the engine, I draped my arms over the steering wheel. Fatigued and annoyed, I rested my chin on top of my hands. “So, what do you want to do?”

“I don't care.” Her clipped words were dispirited, frustrated. “What do you want to do?”

“I wasn't the one who wanted to leave the dance.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“Not particularly.”

“So, what's your point?”

“My point,” I said in a notably firmer but accommodating voice, “is that I don't care what we do. I'm okay with being at the dance; I'm okay with doing something else. I'm open. So, you just decide, and by golly, that's what we'll do.”

A tense silence fell between us. Christine stared ahead in a brooding preoccupation: ­tight-­lipped, pensive, caught in the shadow of some nagging worry. A moment later, she lifted her chin and exhaled deeply. “Let's go to your place and make love.”

My blurted response was immediate, skeptical. “Is that what you want?”

Her boldness faltered. “Yes . . . no . . . I don't know. Maybe.” She looked away. Her voice was timid, pleading. “Don't you want to?”

“Of course I want to. I wanted to make love with you the first time I saw you standing in your classroom door at school.” I paused a moment, shrugging slightly. “Of course, back then it was probably for all the wrong reasons. But now, well, now it's for all the right reasons.”

Her gaze probed mine. “Are there right reasons?”

“Sure there are.”

She looked down and nodded delicately, still preoccupied and reflective.

“What's wrong, Christine?”

As soon as I pressed the question, she immediately fortified herself again, painting on a ­fainthearted smile, speaking dismissively. “I don't know. I've just been a bag of emotions lately.” She sat, looking down. “All I know is that I love you very much.” Again, she exhaled deeply and spoke with quiet resolve. “Maybe you should take me home. I'm just not feeling great.”

“Tell me how you feel.”

She looked up at me, searching my eyes, and seemed instantly comforted by the deep well of devotion she found there. Her mood lightened. Smiling warmly, she ran her finger along the back of my hand. “That is, take me home . . . unless, of course, you really would like to go back to your place and make love. I mean, I brought it up. I guess I'm not being very fair to bounce you around like that.”

I almost laughed. Even I couldn't believe what I was about to say. “Christine, I'm pretty sure I'll hate myself in another hour, and I mean
really
hate myself. But, no. Not now. Not like this.”

I reached over and held the soft contour of her face in my hand. I wanted her to answer my question, to talk to me, to tell me what was wrong. But she closed her eyes and rolled her cheek into my palm, breathing out a low murmur.

It had been a difficult, confusing day. The night was unseasonably cold and Christine shivered. I reached into the small rear seat and grabbed the Mennonite quilt that I had left there weeks before. I unfolded it and put it around her, then started the engine, turned on the headlights, and headed toward Summerfield Road.

As we passed under the streetlights, I reached over to hold her hand. But instead, she took my arm and wrapped it in a yielding embrace, holding it securely to her and resting her head on my shoulder the entire way home.

I walked her to the door and we kissed good night. But in the embrace that followed, she held me tightly, as if afraid to let me go. I was content to hold her as long as she wished. But in time, she took a deep breath of resolve, said good night, and disappeared behind the large front door.

The next morning, I texted Christine to see how she was feeling. Minutes later, she responded with a brief message. “Much better. Still sleeping. Will call later.”

I was encouraged, thinking that possibly her curious malaise from the previous day was now past. Perhaps it had been a combination of weariness and stress mixed with who knew what. I had to laugh at myself. I worked all day, every day, in a building full of women. How come I still understood so little about them?

I gathered my coffee mug and stepped outside to take in the splendor of the unseasonably warm fall day, all the while thinking of Christine, ruminating on her offer of love the previous evening, toying with it, pondering it, and in time, becoming obsessed by it. The idea was consuming.

On the one hand, our restraint seemed absurd. We were in love, for heaven's sake, and engaged; fully committed to each other. A desire for total intimacy was completely natural. The previous evening's discord had precluded the possibility and had spoiled the moment. Even so, the thought of making love lingered. And that thought was powerful, delightful, and, more than I wanted to admit, irresistible.

I grew restless and wanted to get away, take a drive. After changing clothes, I grabbed my keys, started up the ­Austin-­Healey, and headed out to the countryside. I drove for nearly an hour, aimlessly traveling the remote roads of Watervalley until I found myself on the east road headed toward the woods and Leyland Carter's secluded shack.

On the way, I made a brief stop at Eddie's Quick Mart to grab a soft drink and a couple of other items. The landscape on the east road seemed tangled and disfigured, broken up by overgrown, sagging fences and cluttered with the occasional abandoned building and weedy parking lot. In time, I was swallowed by thick woods.

I traveled down Beacon Lane and turned at Leyland's mailbox. After stopping in the small clearing in front of his house, I cut the engine and stepped toward the porch, calling out in a loud voice, “Leyland! Hey, Leyland! It's Luke Bradford, the doctor. Are you home?”

I waited and heard nothing. The house had the same deserted appearance as on my last visit. Curtains still tightly covered the windows, and now a few errant tree branches had come to rest on the roof, providing a pocket for the accumulation of fallen leaves. I called out again, but there was still no sound save for the sporadic creak of the rocking chair, stirred by the occasional wisp of warm breeze. Otherwise, a heavy stillness permeated the air.

I walked around the side of the house, and toward the back, where I found a ­1970s-­vintage Ford truck parked in the weeds and gravel. It was beaten up and rusted.

The small back stoop was partially covered in leaves and adorned with an old pair of work boots that appeared to have been left in the weather for quite some time. I knocked loudly on the back door and still heard no sound. I thought about calling out again, but at this juncture, it seemed pointless. Leyland wasn't here.

I leaned on the fender of the truck for a few minutes and breathed in deeply of the rich, musty woods. Shafts of morning light filtered through the remaining leaves, warming the small backyard and illuminating small patches on the forest floor. The day had a dreamy, ethereal feel to it, and there was something comforting in the incredible silence. Even so, my thoughts troubled me. In time I ambled back around the house, looking down to carefully place my steps among the rocks and tall weeds. I was almost to the car before I heard Leyland speak.

“What's your hurry, Luke?”

He was sitting in the rocking chair, just as he had been in my previous visit. He was wearing a heavy, ­waist-­length farm coat.

“How do you do that?”

“And what would that be?” His face was framed in the same grin as before.

I stepped onto the porch, folded my arms, and leaned my shoulder against the near column. “How do you sneak out here without making a sound?”

“Old is not the same as rusty, my boy.”

I looked away, amused and not surprised that I wouldn't get a straight answer from him.

“What brings you out on this fine Sunday morning?”

“Seemed like a nice day for a drive. Catch a little fall color.”

“You wouldn't have headed out the east highway for that.”

“Yeah, but then I couldn't check up on you, could I?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you're a fine man for doing so.”

“Since we're on that subject, tell me, Leyland. How have you been?”

“Pretty fair, pretty fair. I woke up aboveground this morning, which always makes for a good day.”

“Can't argue with that, I guess. Are you getting along okay out here by yourself? You have everything you need, like food and medications and that sort of thing?”

“Seem to be. The well pump still works, I still hunt in the woods some from time to time, and I get to the store when I need to. And not to cut down on your business, Doc, but I feel fine. Don't take any medicine.”

“Well, okay. I guess my work here is done.”

I suspected Leyland knew I was joking, but he played along for sport.

“Ah, hang around. I'm sure you can think of another question or two.”

I nodded and surveyed the nearby woods, which now seemed to have a warmth and brightness.

“If you don't mind my asking, Leyland, what do you do for entertainment?”

“Don't mind a'tall. I read, I listen to the woods, and when I get lonely, I hum a little tune.”

I knew that for many of the older citizens of Watervalley, the pace of life was rather slow. But Leyland took this concept to an ­all-­new level, completely detached from the fervor of the larger world. Still, he seemed content. “Well, I tell you, Leyland, I might get some of your well water before I go. Seems to keep you healthy, wealthy, and wise.”

“Healthy and wise, maybe.”

We shared a brief moment of mutual understanding before Leyland spoke again.

“So, what's troubling you today?”

I tightened my gaze at him. “And why do you think something is troubling me?”

“You seem wounded.”

I stiffened slightly, amused and curious. “I don't think I follow you.”

“When you were walking around the house just now . . . you seemed wounded.”

I stood there with my hands in my coat pockets and shrugged. “No, Leyland. I feel fine.”

He rubbed his mouth as if he had just finished a meal. Then he stood and, after steadying himself on the porch railing, he looked at the woods, seeming to search for a memory. “One time when I was a boy, I went with my dad to the store. It was a general merchandise where they sold everything: food, hardware, even clothing. Every time I had been in that store, the owner had told me to get a piece of peppermint candy out of the big jar. But for some reason, this time he didn't. Now, my dad needed a certain kind of rope. So he and the proprietor went back into the storeroom to look for it, leaving me all alone and standing next to that great big jar of peppermint candy.” He paused a moment. “So, I had a decision to make. I knew I could take a piece and no one would ever miss it.”

“But technically you thought that would be stealing,” I said.

“Maybe, maybe not. The store owner had offered in the past.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I took the lid off and put my hand in the jar. Then, after a moment, I just stopped. I pulled my hand out and put the lid back.”

“Then what happened?”

“They came back out from the storeroom. My dad bought his rope. We left.”

“And that's the end of the story?”

“Pretty much.”

“Leyland, I think you lost me somewhere. I don't believe I see the connection between that story and your thinking that I look wounded.”

“Because as we rode back home, I had the same look on my face that you did a few minutes ago. I wanted that piece of peppermint. It had been offered in the past, so I thought I could easily justify having it. I chose not to, and it was the right decision. But I had missed out on something really delightful. And frankly, I felt wounded.”