Each Shining Hour (6 page)

Sunflower Miller

I
awoke early Friday morning, fed Rhett, showered, and decided to go over to the Depot Diner for a hot breakfast. I enjoyed being around the familiar faces down at the diner, but I usually sat at the counter reading the paper, content to eat alone. Yet when I arrived, the Depot was packed, a hubbub of clanging dishes, laughter, and animated conversations. Watervalley was slowly coming out of hibernation.

The counter was full, so I slid into one of the open booths that lined the front windows. I ordered coffee and breakfast and opened the Watervalley paper, blissfully enjoying what I considered a perfect world, privacy amidst a crowd of friendly faces. But my peace was short-lived. I soon had a visitor, one who brazenly decided to plop down across from me and invade my breakfast serenity.

It was Sunflower Miller.

John Harris had once told me that in this life some people need drama. As I recall, he was drinking Scotch at the time and I think he was generally referring to mothers-in-law. But for me,
that person was Sunflower Miller. Sunflower was Watervalley's self-appointed hall monitor.

She was also the town's original and only remaining flower child, who still wore tie-dyed shirts and drove an old truck plastered with peace stickers. Although widely known and accepted, Sunflower had been relegated to the margins of mainstream Watervalley. Nevertheless, she was completely at home in her own skin, content to march through her days guided by some inner desire to change the present world order. And unfortunately for me, she had decided that my medical practice was the appropriate starting place. Sunflower had a disdain for the medical community and chided me because I was a doctor, although I suspect she would chide a nondoctor if I were not around, just to stay in practice.

Since my arrival the previous July, she had been to see me several times, trying to persuade me to integrate her brand of holistic and herbal medicine into the clinic's practice. Typically, by the end of a conversation with Sunflower, I would be hoping someone would shoot me with a tranquilizer gun.

She had placed her elbows on the table and was resting her chin on her coupled fists. I looked over the top of my paper and studied her for a moment before saying with mild sarcasm, “Hello, Sunflower. By all means, have a seat and join me.”

“Your bedside manner needs some work.”

I was doing my best to offer her a glazed, uninterested expression when the waitress brought my breakfast, the country ham special.

“Hang around five more minutes and you'll feel the same about my table manners,” I said.

“Oh, by all means, Dr. Bradford, you go right ahead and enjoy your dead animal carcass. Don't let me interrupt.” I took her advice and swallowed a huge bite of ham.

She was a tall, lean, athletic woman of striking Norwegian features and looked almost two decades younger than her sixty-five years. She was a marvel, actually. In her unadorned, organic way she was markedly beautiful. Even still, time had left streaks of gray within her blond hair, now neatly pulled back into a long ponytail. Despite her penchant for no makeup and sloppy clothes, she retained a weathered prettiness.

A silent minute passed and clearly she wasn't leaving. “Sunflower,” I began, “why are you here at the diner? I thought you lived off a diet of tofu and dandelion fuzz.”

“Even vegetarians like coffee, Doc. Besides, Lida buys all her eggs from me. So despite your misguided culinary ways, at least your scramble there comes from free-range chickens.”

“You know, Sunflower, I make house calls. That sort of makes me a free-range doctor. Think I can get a little credit for that?”

She ignored this comment. “I've got something I want you to agree to.”

I took a sip of coffee. “I'm open to agreement, Sunflower, provided agreement is all that's required of me.”

“I understand the clinic is getting a new nurse. I want to team up with her and initiate some holistic health practices.”

I swallowed a bite of ham and egg and wiped my chin with my napkin. Then I spoke in a confidential whisper. “Sunflower, listen.” I paused for a moment, looked to the side, and then focused on her again. “Dear, I think your crazy is showing. You might want to go to the ladies' room and tuck it back in.”

Sunflower rolled her eyes. “Come on, Doc, we're on the same side here. I'm just trying to get you to use your powers for good rather than evil. You know, break the spell.”

I smiled and shook my head, continuing to eat. Despite her peculiarities, I liked Sunflower. She generated a kind of hypnotic
fascination. She did macrobiotic gardening and lived alone on a small farm not far from Watervalley Lake. The flower child movement had long since died out, as had most of the flower children, but Sunflower seemed to be waiting for a comeback.

“I'm a little more comfortable using a stethoscope than a horoscope,” I said. “Patient assessments are a complex business. It's not just a check sheet with the options of ‘will be okay, might get better, and circling the drain.'”

“Just hear me out, Doc.”

I exhaled a wearisome sigh. I might as well listen. Otherwise, she would keep up the verbal assault until only politeness prevented me from reaching across and smacking her. And probably more than she knew, I was actually in broad agreement with the concept of holistic care . . . that is, looking beyond just the sick or depleted body and equally considering the emotional, social, economic, and spiritual needs of the patient. The problem stemmed with the lack of boundaries with such an approach, a problem that quickly moved many holistic practices into the realm of quackery. I spoke with resignation.

“By all means, Sunflower, please do a tell-all of your sinister designs.”

“I know you won't agree to any homeopathic medicines. That's because the corrupt medical education machine has brainwashed you into believing in synthetic pharmaceuticals and Mercurochrome.”

“Not helping yourself here, Sunflower.”

“I want to begin a series of community classes and initiatives on proactive health management.”

“Such as?”

“Well, such as making lifestyle changes in diet, exercise, good
mental health, proper sleep, stress management, maybe even teaching a little tai chi.”

“Nothing wrong with any of that, except maybe the diet part. If you're thinking about convincing everyone to be a vegetarian, that's not going to fly in Watervalley. The people here think vegetarians are just lousy hunters.”

“Okay, I get that. But proactive health is a good thing. I want to meet with the new nurse to come up with a plan of action.”

I spent a moment considering her request. Watervalley could use more proactive thinking regarding healthy lifestyles, and rightfully, the clinic should be central to that effort. In my first six months I had focused on taking care of whatever came through the front door. But perhaps it was time to start thinking ahead.

“All right, Sunflower, here's the deal. Let's give the new nurse a couple of weeks to settle in. Then the three of us can put our heads together. As long as you don't start recommending some mélange of rosemary, mustard seed, and tree bark as a cure for arthritis, I'm generally okay with what you are recommending. Proactive medicine is a good idea, but I think it's going to be a tough sell here in the valley.”

“Good. And don't be silly, Doc. Everybody knows that a garlic rub gets rid of arthritis.”

“As well as anyone with a nose.”

Sunflower placed her hand over mine, offering me a rich, engaging smile. “This is a good first step. I can already sense you moving away from the dark side.” There was a seasoned cleverness to her delivery. Sunflower had an odd, appealing charm, a gift of smiling in an admiring, powerful way that would make any man think he was strong, audacious, attractive. Admittedly, myself included. She was such an odd quilt of eccentricities.

“Sunflower, sometime we need to sit and talk about you. And you can, you know, explain to me why you are the way you are.”

She grinned mischievously and began sliding out of the booth. “You mean, explain all my mystical powers.”

“Yes, and bring your magic wand for show-and-tell.”

“It's in the shop. How about some fairy dust?”

“That works too.” By now she was standing beside the table, preparing to depart.

“We'll talk in a few weeks,” I said.

“Thanks, Doc.”

As she exited, I couldn't help but notice a score of inquisitive glances and turning heads. No doubt, we were an odd pairing and those who had witnessed our brief conversation were curious to know more. So much for my private breakfast.

I finished eating and took my bill to the cash register. While she made change, Lida Wilkins, the owner, winked at me. “Looks like on the medical front, east just met west.”

I grinned. Lida was more clever than many realized. I grabbed my coat off the rack and was preparing to leave when she came up beside me. With her back turned so no one could hear, Lida made a most curious request, one I was glad to accommodate later that day. But first, I had an appointment with Oscar Fox's past.

The Old Bakery

I
arrived at the Hatcher Building a little before ten. As I pulled my Corolla into one of the parking spaces that lined the wide downtown street, Estelle's BMW eased in beside me. Connie sat in the passenger seat.

From our discussion the previous evening, I had learned that the Hatcher Building was an Italianate structure built in the early 1920s by Hiram Hatcher, a local lumberman turned merchant. Constructed of white limestone, it consisted of five storefronts with large arched windows framed with Doric columns. Stairwells between the storefronts led to professional offices on the upper floor, a design that had allowed the structure to be divided into separate pieces of real estate.

From what John had told me, after Elise Fox closed the bakery in the midsixties, the Farmers Bank bought the corner unit with the thought of putting a small branch office there. But for some reason, that had never happened.

As Connie emerged from the BMW, the heavy scent of her sister's perfume permeated the air like an invisible cloud. Connie
was fanning her face, wearing a sour frown and pinched nose. Estelle, on the other hand, was almost giddy with excitement. She nearly skipped around the front of the car, practically levitating as she headed toward the storefront. We all stood for a moment, peering in through the massive, dusty front windows. There was no sign of the banker, Randall Simmons. Connie looked at her watch and announced that she was going down the street to get something at Morrow's Drugs and would be right back.

Estelle and I stepped over to the entrance, where, just as John had noted, the words
OSCAR
'
S
BAKERY
were laid beneath our feet in small mosaic tiles that filled the space four feet out from the door.

“My, that is such beautiful work. I would hate to tear it up,” Estelle remarked.

“You could always change your name to Oscar.”

Estelle studied me with great concentration and I realized that she might be seriously pondering the idea.

“I'm teasing, you know,” I said.

Her animated smile returned and she flipped her hand at me. “Of course you are, sugar. It'd be much cheaper to replace the tile.”

I was searching for a response when a grunted “ahem” came from behind us.

It was Randall Simmons.

In his late fifties, Randall was a man of modest height, neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, and doleful eyes that gazed upon the world behind heavy, black-framed glasses. Sharply dressed in a conservative suit, he was the epitome of the emotionally detached banker. There was a clipped reserve about him, a smug politeness. He spoke with dry precision.

“Good morning, Miss Pillow. I see you've brought Dr. Bradford along.”

He extended his hand to Estelle and we all exchanged
greetings. Afterward, there was an awkward silence. Estelle and I stood frozen, uncertain of what should happen next. Randall was looking back and forth between the two of us, assessing us coolly. Having satisfied himself, he spoke with great control.

“Why don't we have a look inside?”

There was a methodic formality and importance in the way he unhurriedly produced a key and placed it into the lock of the large stained-glass front door. When the lock finally clicked, he pushed the door open and stepped back, allowing Estelle to enter first.

Once we were inside, it took little imagination to envision what a grand place this had once been. It had an old-world feel to it, a store where Hansel and Gretel might stop by on their way home from school. Although a thick layer of ancient dust blanketed everything, the room was trimmed in intricately carved chestnut woodwork. Beautifully crafted rosettes and elaborate corbels decorated the wood-paneled walls. Broad, sturdy wood columns rose to the ceiling, shouldering the exposed and ornately trimmed structural beams. The room was the definition of enchantment.

Estelle and I absorbed everything in silence and I could tell she was on the verge of exploding with joy. About five steps in she raised both hands over her cheeks and left them there as she continued to walk around.

A collection of heavy wood tables and chairs had been pushed into a corner and stacked in a random, untidy manner. Down the center of the store ran a travertine marble walkway bordered on both sides by rich but well-worn mahogany flooring. This led to a line of ornate display cases made of thin, delicate glass. A swinging door behind the counters revealed a sizable kitchen with outdated ovens and old butcher-block worktables.

The place had an aged, enclosed smell to it. The floor was cluttered with paper trash and a few pieces of broken glass. The light
fixtures had apparently been yanked from the plaster ceiling, with the remnants of old wires left dangling from the gaping holes. Other than the obvious wear and tear of age, the only other noticeable damage was five or six twelve-inch square holes that had been cut randomly in the walls and floors, without regard for the damage.

By now Estelle's eyes were like saucers, filled with pure inspiration and delight. I was beginning to wonder if I had set her pacemaker threshold high enough.

Randall had remained near the entry, standing as though carved from stone. He appeared to be consumed in some deep preoccupation and offered no commentary.

Estelle had stepped into the back room, no doubt assessing its potential as a revitalized kitchen. I stood in silence with Randall, who clearly felt no obligation to make small talk.

“I wonder what happened to the light fixtures and these holes,” I inquired.

He moved slowly deeper into the room and answered with the same enthusiasm as if describing a head of cabbage. “Probably vandals over the years. It's hard to say.”

“So, how did the bank come to acquire the property?”

“It, um, it was actually my father's idea. He was the bank president before me some years back. He wanted to put a branch office here. But, as you can see, that didn't happen.” There was an air of discretion to his tone. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

I pressed him again. “What do you know about the history of this place?”

He inhaled a long breath and spoke dutifully. “I'm told that it was originally a men's clothing store, back in the twenties. I think the Depression almost did it in. When the Second World War started and all the men went off to fight, it closed up. Oscar Fox
came to town in the summer of 1942. He bought this property in 1943 and spent quite a bit of money fixing it up.”

“I heard some stories about Oscar Fox. What happened to him anyway?” I was fishing, wanting to see if Randall's version of the story added anything new.

“He was a murderer, you know, and apparently a rather gruesome fellow. He and some stranger did each other in. My father knew him. Mr. Fox did business with the bank.” Randall's answer was oddly clipped. I wasn't sure what to make of it.

By now Estelle had returned from the back room looking so happy I thought she might start flying around the room like Peter Pan.

“It's perfect!” she declared. “I love it, love it, love it. When do you think the bank can get me a quote on what it might sell for?”

I could see Randall's neck stiffen. “We'll have to see. The bank hasn't actively tried to sell the property for some time, so I don't know what plans we have for it. Perhaps at the next quarterly meeting of the board we can get the real estate subcommittee to give a status report. I'm afraid it may take quite some time.”

He spoke with unruffled aplomb, with a cool air of authority. And just that quickly I could see Estelle begin to deflate. That was, until a firm voice from behind Randall broke the silence.

“Oh, I think we can do much better than that.”

It was Connie, standing calmly in the entryway, clasping her huge purse in front of her with both hands.

Noticeably alarmed, Randall turned toward her. It was the fastest he had moved all morning. In a single moment his superiority vanished and was replaced by a choking anxiety. He seemed at a loss for words. Connie's commanding voice and hard stare had melted him, had momentarily thrown him off-balance. Something
more than her stern tone was at work here. She had something on Randall.

But he recovered quickly and responded in a diplomatic albeit slightly wilted voice, “Yes, certainly. Let me see what we can do to expedite an answer.”

He glanced nervously at his watch. “Well, I really need to get back to the bank. Please feel free to take your time looking around. Just pull the door closed when you leave. I'll come by and lock up later.”

His composure once more in place, he offered a rigid nod and departed quickly.

Estelle couldn't contain herself any longer. “Praise Jesus, this is the place! It's just what I was hoping for!”

Her elation was contagious enough to bring a slight smile to Connie's somber face. But she responded with a shake of her head. “I don't know, honey. It's going to take a lot of money to fix this place up, not to mention the cost of buying the property.”

Estelle was undaunted. It was easy to see that she was all in: heart, soul, and retirement fund. “But it's perfect, dear. I know it, I just know it!”

Connie's smile was a blend of delight and resignation. “Well, okay, then. I guess if you're heading to the poorhouse, it's no big deal if you get there a day or two early.”

Estelle grabbed Connie's arm with enthusiastic authority. “Come on, sugar, let me show you around.”

Connie resisted. She spoke in a low, emotional voice, almost swallowing her words. “That's not necessary, honey. I know all about this place. I spent more hours here than I want to think about.”

Estelle gave her a puzzled look. “How is that?”

Connie's words were mixed with anguish and confession. “It was before you were born, and I was told never to talk about it, but Momma used to work here.”