Each Shining Hour (10 page)

From Morning to Eden

“I
s this Dr. Bradford?”

I was fighting to catch my breath, making for a broken response. “Yes, yes, this is Luke Bradford.”

“Hi. This is Ann Patterson, the agency RN. Did I call at a bad time?”

I lied. “No, no. It's fine. Just . . . hold on one second.” I stepped across the sidewalk into a nearby front yard to escape the noise and arriving runners, and also to find a little oxygen. “So, are you in town yet?”

“Actually I arrived early yesterday afternoon. I thought I'd take a day to get my bearings and settle in before I called.”

For some reason, I found this amusing. “You may have allotted too much time. You can see all of Watervalley in about thirty minutes.”

“Oh, I drove out in the countryside also, to, you know, check out all the landmarks.”

I let this comment pass, unsure what landmarks there were to
see. “Okay, good. I guess you found the Society Hill Bed and Breakfast without any problem?”

“Yes. I'm there now. I walked downtown earlier to go by the library and stumbled into the big goings-on. Watervalley's quite a lively place.”

I almost laughed out loud at this. “Well, not to worry. It'll calm down pretty quickly.”

“Oh, and I met Lida Wilkins yesterday afternoon. She said she had just come from seeing you.”

“Yes, that would be right. We met over at the clinic. She had a couple of questions for me.” I knew Ann's comment was likely motivated by a desire to establish familiarity and find common ground, but I was quick to dismiss a conversation about Lida, given all that she had told me. “So, Ann. Do you need anything?”

“No, I'm good. I was just calling to see when we might get together and go over things at the clinic.”

“How about tomorrow, say, one o'clock?”

“Perfect. I've got more exploring I want to do anyway. So that works fine.” I wasn't sure what exploring she had in mind, whether it was antique stores or hiking trails, but it didn't matter. I was hoping to enjoy my day with Christine and was relieved that this timing worked for Ann as well. I gave her the address of the clinic. We ended the call and I headed toward the finish line to find that Christine was walking toward me with her hands on her hips, trying to catch her breath. She wore a flushed and worried face.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. The call was one I needed to take, but not an emergency.”

Her expression of concern melted away to one of resignation and frustration. “You had it. You had the race won.”

I shrugged and smiled. “Maybe, maybe not. It's not a big deal.”

We walked together back toward the finish line at the south end of Courthouse Square. After crossing under the banner, we stepped over to the side to avoid other runners who were newly arriving amidst rounds of cheers, whoops, and applause.

Christine turned and studied me for a moment, searching my face. Then she shook her head and shoved my right shoulder lightly with her hand. “Ugh! Don't be so nice about it.” She was teasing me. Her elfin smile was warm, inviting.

“Hey, you ran a great race. You had every right to win. But if it will make you feel better, I guess I could tear up a little.”

“Maybe. Let me think about it.”

She stood shaking her head, mystified, as if she couldn't find words for her thoughts. Meanwhile, I was captured in the net of her adoring smile. For me, looking at her was far better than winning any race.

“Well, all I can say, Luke Bradford, is that you fooled me by jogging so slowly down Summerfield Road every morning.”

I shrugged again. “Sometimes, it's all about taking in the view. Oh, speaking of which, that last shot at the end of the race was pretty fabulous.”

“Stop while you're ahead, Doctor.”

I grinned, holding up my hands in surrender. “Okay, just saying.”

She smiled, reached over, and took my elbow. “C'mon, sandbagger.”

We walked back to the finish line to watch the rest of the competitors.

“Is it okay if I wait here for a while?” she asked. “A lot of my kids will be finishing soon and I want to cheer them on.”

“Sure, of course.”

One by one the children in her class crossed the finish line,
their faces glowing. I walked over to grab a water bottle from the concession table and was soon engaged by several of the older citizens, who were only too happy to enlighten me with a litany of their ailments. Their complaints usually involved bodily functions, the kind I really didn't want to discuss openly. I kindly and diplomatically responded with as much discretion as one can have in the middle of a crowd. All the while I was glancing over at Christine.

To my delight, I noticed that she was doing the same, randomly turning and looking for me within the noise and throng. Eventually, the conversation around me drifted from health complaints to gossip about whose cow had died and whose tractor had broken down and who got what Christmas gift. I had long ago learned that in Watervalley a sympathetic ear was an essential medication.

Yet despite the clamor, the cheers, the wispy smoke, the cold, fragrant air, and all the chaos and celebration around me, it seemed I was caught in another world, one of coded glances and knowing smiles. From across the distance Christine and I maintained a patient, tender accounting of each other. Her eyes told me volumes. I could sense the affection in her gaze, the unvoiced apology for being so occupied by her students. I gazed back at her sympathetically. I understood. It seemed that as doctor and teacher we belonged, in part, to those around us. But the warmth of her delicate smile floated words into the air that only I could hear. The day had magic.

Eventually, all the runners and walkers completed the race. A short awards ceremony followed, in which the winners received plastic medals and were handed checks. In turn, each winner graciously offered the check to Cynthia Robbins, the Watervalley Elementary School principal. All of them, that is, except for the
winner of the fifty-something bracket, who demanded a kiss from her first. I was somewhat taken aback until Christine whispered, “That's her husband.”

The couple's quick and impromptu smooch was met with a grand round of applause along with a few whistles and lighthearted catcalls. Cynthia extended thanks to all those involved and with that, the event began to wrap up. A few people lingered, but soon most everyone headed to the warmth of their cars and homes.

It was almost noon. Now that we had the opportunity to talk, it seemed that Christine and I were at a loss for words. Silence ensued, and I was anxious to fill the void.

“So, any thoughts about what you would like to do with the rest of the day?”

Christine looked at me quizzically. “Gee, I don't know. What did you have in mind?”

“Hey, my mission is to fulfill your every whim.”

“You sure? I can be pretty whimsical.”

“Duly noted.”

“Come on. Walk me to my car. I left my grandmother in it.”

“What? Your grandmother's been sitting in the car this whole time?”

“Hey, it's okay. I left a window cracked.”

Christine continued down the sidewalk, but I stopped, staring at her incredulously. She was grinning. She pivoted and began walking backward, facing me with an impish smile.

“I told you I could be whimsical.”

I smiled and resumed walking. “Okay, Chambers. You got me on that one.”

We leaned against her car and talked for several minutes, each of us awkwardly searching for a means to continue our time
together. Nevertheless, our options on a cold December day in Watervalley seemed few.

“I have an idea, Luke. Why don't you come out to the house? I can show you around. It'll give you a chance to channel your inner farm boy.”

“Okay. Sure. Don't know about the whole farm-boy-channeling thing, though. I'm not certain that frequency exists.”

Christine smiled, again shaking her head. “I'll see you in a little while.”

She drove off and I walked briskly back to Fleming Street, took care of Rhett, had a shower, and within an hour was pulling the old Corolla down the short farm lane that served as Christine's driveway. It seemed I had looked upon this place a thousand times, even memorized it, but always from afar. Now it was no longer a vision in the distant countryside. It was an inviting pathway opening grandly before me.

The broad yard was surrounded by a crisp, orderly picket fence. Decades-old boxwoods aproned the deep front porch. The white clapboard farmhouse was generous in scale, with massive brick chimneys bracketing either end. Toward the rear stood the garden, now fallow in the sleep of winter. Farther behind were several brightly painted red barns, a weathered gray silo, and neatly fenced-in lots. In the distance, Holsteins huddled tightly, standing on a thin veneer of frozen mud around a large round bale of hay.

The deep, sumptuous smell of woodsmoke hung in the air. As I shut the car door, Christine appeared on the front porch dressed in a flannel shirt and blue jeans. While her years in Atlanta had cultivated a well-scrubbed urbanity, below the surface was an earthy, sensuous woman who was at ease in the open fields, in the wooded hills, and with the work and rhythms of the farm. In my
enchantment, she seemed to me to embody all that was resilient, strong, and good about rural life.

She leaned against one of the porch columns and waited for me with folded arms and a warm smile. I was sliding into my winter jacket as I approached the broad steps.

“Good. You wore your boots,” she said.

“Can't very well see a farm in flip-flops.”

“Mmm, you are a quick study. There may be a farm boy in there yet.”

I climbed the steps and stood next to her, crowding slightly into her space, wanting to draw close to her. We were filled with subdued but spontaneous smiles for each other.

“Well, brown eyes . . . hello again.”

She tilted her head, communicating something of a low censure. But the radiance of her smile sent a different message.

“Come on inside. I'll get my coat.”

The spacious and graceful entry hall was paneled in rich mahogany with a high ceiling and a well-seasoned and handsome wood floor. To the right was a large entry into the dining room mirrored by a similar large entrance on the left to a sizable living area. Farther down the broad hallway on the left was a wide and well-crafted staircase that rose to a shoulder-high landing before turning to the right and ascending to the second floor. Christine gently grabbed my arm.

“Come this way.”

We stepped into the large living room. With its immense fireplace and soaring ceiling the room had a stately feel to it. Yet it was also warmly filled with all the things of home . . . paintings and photos that covered the dark paneled walls, vases and lamps that were elegantly arrayed on small tables, and massive windows
framed by thick, plush curtains. There were deep, leather sofas and side chairs in soft, colorful fabrics, baskets filled with magazines, and books stacked neatly on various ledges. The room had an understated formality yet felt graciously comfortable, rich with the fragrance of accumulated years and a whispered quality of enduring affluence.

Perhaps it was an extension of Christine's easygoing nature, but this home exuded a loving, breathing presence, a sublime, embracing warmth. Within these strong walls a relaxed and inviting welcome poured over me. I had been in Watervalley for nearly half a year, and yet at this moment, I felt I had finally arrived. After so many months of knowing Christine only from a distance, to now be so delightfully in her presence, to be so intimately brought into her private world, was nothing short of pure enchantment.

That was, until Christine's grandmother entered the room.

Life on the Farm

I
n her midseventies, Mattie Laura Chambers was a small, rugged woman with a tight-lipped toughness about her. She was standing in the kitchen doorway with her hands on her hips and wearing a heavy farm coat, brown dungarees, and rubber boots. Despite a face that held the weathered lines of many seasons, she was staring at Christine with an absorbed adoration. The same look, I imagined, she had when she first saw the newborn Christine twenty-eight years ago.

But when she glimpsed me standing across the room, all that glowing adulation vanished. Instantly her expression turned to loathing, the kind of look you give someone who's about to testify against you in court. A moment earlier I had been in a trance, absorbing the captivating air of the living room, blissfully drifting in rural dreamland. Her glaring regard brought me back to reality. I wanted to speak, but her withering stare calcified the words in my throat.

“Oh, Grandmamma! There you are!”

Turning toward Christine, Mattie's hard face transformed again to ardent devotion. Christine put her arm around her grandmother and ushered her toward me.

“Grandmamma, this is Luke Bradford. He's the new town doctor. Luke, this is Mattie Laura Chambers, my grandmother on my dad's side.”

“Good to meet you, Mrs. Chambers.” I mustered all the courtesy I could but had the odd sense I was exchanging cordialities with a bobcat, an unhappy one.

Christine's grandmother looked at her, confused. “Isn't this that Jasper Smoot fellow?”

“No, Grandmamma. This is Luke. He's new to town.”

Mrs. Chambers studied me again. Her neck stiffened and her mouth puckered, as if I were emanating a bad smell. “Humph, you sure? Could have fooled me.”

Christine and I exchanged glances, but she seemed oblivious to the lethal flashes of dislike that her grandmother was shooting at me. I broke the silence.

“Well, again, it's good to meet you, Mrs. Chambers.”

After a sullied stare, she finally spoke with a perfunctory nod. “Yeah, same here.” She struck me as a woman of few words, someone you half expected to spit decidedly and with enthusiasm after each pronouncement. Given the way she was dressed, she looked like she'd just come in from the barn, where I could easily imagine she had been smacking the bulls around, for practice, just to remind them who was boss.

“Luke, I need to run upstairs and get my coat. I'll be right back.” Before I could think of any plausible reason to follow her, Christine was gone. I smiled at her grandmother, who once again stared at me as if she wanted to debone me.

“So, I understand you're visiting from Florida?” I said.

Behind her thin lips she began to roll her tongue around in her mouth, contorting her face into a series of sharp, pinched grimaces. She ignored my question.

“Just what have you two got planned, Jasper?”

I disregarded the name. “Oh, I think we're just going to walk around the farm. Seems like a nice way to spend an afternoon. Um, by the way, the house is really lovely.”

She folded her arms and continued the silent twisting gnarls of her mouth and tongue, chewing her cud, sizing me up.

“Mmm-hmm, well, just watch yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“Eh, you heard me. Just because you've become a doctor now, Jasper, don't try any funny business.”

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it, uncertain how to respond. “Mrs. Chambers, I'm not sure I understand what you mean.”

She stepped toward me and assumed a conspiratorial tone. “Listen up, Jasper. I've got a rifle, a shovel, and a hundred acres out back. I'll drop you like a deer. Now do you get what I mean?”

I was frozen, unsure whether to agree, argue, or wrestle her to the floor. Fortunately, Christine's footfalls sounded on the stairsteps and in an instant she was in the room, smiling and glowing. We departed through the entry, but I remained visibly rattled. My exchange with Mattie Chambers had taken only a few minutes, including a couple to get over the shakes, but it left me subdued. As we began crossing the field toward a large barn, Christine took notice.

“You're awfully quiet all of a sudden. Are you okay?”

“Oh. Sure. Sorry.” I walked a few more steps. “Your grandmother, she's, um, she's pretty interesting.”

“Yeah, she's great, isn't she?”

This was a dicey moment. I was certain that the words “clueless” and “Christine” would not be a welcomed combination, but it was clear we were living in two distinctly different realities. In months past, I had accidentally insulted Christine's mother . . . an
innocent but stupid mistake. I sure wasn't about to disparage her grandmother, whom she so clearly adored. I avoided the question.

“You're certainly the apple of her eye. She did seem a little confused, though. Who is or was Jasper Smoot?”

Christine glanced over to read my face. At that moment, jealousy was the last thing on my mind. But something in her look telegraphed that she might be wondering if that was behind my subdued mood.

“He was a friend back in elementary school. He had a little crush on me and rode his bike out here a few times when we were about twelve. I think he lives in Memphis now and has three kids. Anyway, Grandmamma never cared much for him.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that.”

This time it was Christine who filled in the silence. “You're right, though. She has a small touch of dementia and does seem to get confused easily. Mom's a little concerned about her going back to Florida alone.”

“Speaking of which, where is your mom?”

“She ran into town to get a few things. She's doing so much better, thanks to you.”

A month earlier, through a chance meeting at the local grocery, I had diagnosed Christine's mother, Madeline Chambers, with a vitamin B12 deficiency, something that her physician in Nashville had missed. After several months of poor health, she had made a remarkable recovery. She was a petite, handsome woman with the gracious refinement of a banker's daughter. I had never met Christine's deceased father, but given the grit and independence of her grandmother, I could easily discern the parental influences that had endowed Christine with the curious mix of graceful poise and farm girl toughness.

“Well, I'm glad. I like your mom.” My answer was not
motivated by some inclination to ingratiate myself, but from genuine experience. I had met Madeline Chambers only once, but she had engaged me with the reserved charm and delight that seemed imbued in Southern women of her generation. She had that rare gift of meeting you with authentic interest and you couldn't help but feel warmed by her presence.

“Well, she certainly likes you,” Christine replied. “She'll hate that she missed you.”

I didn't respond because I was still thinking about Grandmother Chambers and her gun, hoping she would miss me as well.

Soon, however, we had distanced ourselves from the house, out of range for even a crack shot. My mood lightened. “So, tell me about this place, farm girl. So far I've seen horses and cows. I know you ride one and milk the other, but I get confused which is which.”

Christine smiled and stepped carefully through the dewy field grass. “It's a dairy farm, though not as big a production since Daddy died. The farm foreman, Mr. Pilkington, and his wife pretty much run the place now. They've been here as far back as I can remember. There's a white frame house on the back of the property where they live. He must be in his sixties by now, but spry as ever and tough as nails. We're not related, but he's always been like family.”

We entered a large barn with a wide central hallway.

Towering thirty feet high to the ceiling were neatly stacked bales of hay, round ones on the left and square ones on the right. The frail warmth of the barn was thick with pungent aromas. Dank earth, manure, farm feed, salt blocks, old fertilizer, and diesel fuel permeated the air and mingled with the rich, honest aroma of hay. It was wonderful, sensuous, intoxicating. It enveloped me with a sense of drowsy calm.

We ambled to the far end of the barn, where there were several horse stalls and some open bays filled with tools, dusty stacks of
wood, old sawhorses, and a large tangle of baling twine. A light was emanating through the chalky glass of a closed door toward the end of the hall. As we approached, I noticed a small sign plate that read
TACK
ROOM
. Inside, someone was humming. Upon opening the door, we found a small man sitting on an overturned five-gallon bucket, meticulously working on a leather bridle. He rose and took off his cap, a vestige of old manners.

“Mr. Pilkington, hello. How are you this afternoon?” Christine asked.

“Fine, fine, Christine. And who's your gentleman friend?”

“This is Luke Bradford.”

“Yes, yes, the doctor, no less.” He greeted me with a toothy grin, vigorously pumping my extended hand. His delighted voice had a raspy, nasal quality.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Pilkington.”

“Heavens, young man, call me Angus. Christine's never changed the habit from when she was a little girl.”

I nodded. “Christine is showing me the farm. We didn't mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all. Not at all. Just piddling with this bridle. One of the straps is coming undone. Needs some stitching. Anyway, just as well you found me. I've got to be getting the cows gathered for milking here directly.”

The tack room wall was filled with tools for working harnesses and leather. Several saddles rested on neatly built railings and in the corner was a small wooden desk with various catalogs and medicine bottles lined up across the back. Above it, a long shelf was crammed with ribbons and trophies.

We talked for another few minutes. Angus was a clean, tidy little man with an alert, intelligent face. Like so many of the small-scale farmers I had come to know in the area, he seemed to desire
little beyond his isolated fields and barns, living an orderly, well-scrubbed, and simple life. I would come to learn that Amelia, his wife of nearly forty years, sometimes worked alongside him in the milk parlor. They had no children, save for their “adopted” Christine, but seemed content to enjoy the animals, the gardens, and the ebb and flow of the farming seasons.

We were interrupted by a high-pitched whinny.

Angus grinned. “Sounds like Aragon knows you're here.”

I looked at Christine. “Aragon?”

“My horse. He was given to me when I was thirteen, during my Tolkien phase.”

“Okay. Good to know.”

The three of us stepped down the hallway to the adjacent stall, where Christine opened the half door and walked fearlessly up to the massive animal. Her family had raised quarter horses for years and the sight of her delicate hands firmly holding the harness of this huge creature showed a different side of her. The soft, confident tone of her voice revealed an unabashed understanding and connection between the two of them. In that moment, as in so many others, she was unspeakably beautiful, an enchanting mix of reserve and refinement coupled with the bounding healthiness and open hardiness of the farm girl.

“I think he'd still give you a gallop around the farm if you wanted it,” Angus remarked.

Christine continued to rub Aragon's long neck. “He probably would, the old dear.” She looked affectionately into the horse's large, brooding eyes. “Those days are past, though, aren't they, big fellow?”

“Albert taught her to ride,” Angus explained. “She was a natural. Won all them blue ribbons on the wall in there.”

“Albert?”

“Albert, her father.”

Angus stood admiring the two of them for a moment. He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “Young fellow, looks like you may be getting upstaged. Why don't you come and help me with the milking? That'll give you a real taste of life on the farm.”

Christine peered around Aragon's head with a face of innocent inquiry, one that asked if I was interested in this offer. I was not a stranger to the outdoors, and being on the farm was delightful, but milking would push my comfort zone.

“I, um. I think I may have to pass on that. I don't really speak cow.”

Angus laughed heartily, slapped me on the back again, and departed. I walked over and rubbed Aragon's neck, lightly patting him on his shoulder. He was a beautiful animal despite the slight protrusion of bones that revealed his advanced years. He turned and looked at me from the great depth of his brown eyes, assessing me. It seemed something I had grown accustomed to on this day.

“He's not near as rambunctious as he used to be,” Christine offered.

“I'd say that's a good thing.”

“It is. He almost trampled one of my previous boyfriends. But not to worry. It was years ago when I was in high school. He's calmed down a lot since then.”

“The horse or the boyfriend?”

“Hmm . . . I'm guessing both.” She rubbed Aragon's long neck for a few more moments. “Come on, Luke, I want you to meet someone.”

We walked to the dairy barn, where the black-and-white Holsteins had been gathered into a narrow fenced area awaiting their turn in the milk parlor. All, that is, except for one. Standing in a small enclosure on a modest lot near the barn was a single
Holstein whose straddled legs held up a bulbous, sagging frame. She stood munching on some dangling hay and for all practical purposes looked like a fixed statue, as if the apparatus of bones and muscle was no longer capable of movement.

“This is Princess Bess, the oldest milk cow on the farm. She's almost twenty years old now and produced milk for over eleven years. But she's no longer a milker.”

“I'm not sure I understand. I thought being a milk cow was like being in the Mafia. You know, once you're in, you're always in.”

“No, silly. Of course she's still a milk cow. I meant she no longer milks since she no longer has calves. Normally after they are not milking anymore, the best farming practice is to sell them. But we keep her around because she was my dad's favorite.”