Each Shining Hour (29 page)

Birthday

S
unday morning I slept in. The eleven o'clock church bells woke me from a deep slumber and I sat straight up in bed in a panicked state. In two hours the guests invited to Connie's birthday party would be arriving and I had a lot to do to prepare. I took care of Rhett, showered, and scurried around making sure all was ready for the small gathering. The only interruption in the flow came shortly after noon when there was a knock on the door. It was Louise Fox.

“Hello, Dr. Bradford. I hope I'm not interrupting, but I wanted to give you this.” She held out an old envelope. “We're trying to get everything packed up and I ran across it in a box of things that had belonged to my husband's grandmother Elise Fox. It's addressed to Connie's mother, and, well, I just thought Connie might like to have it.”

It was a letter dated 1968 that had been returned to sender. I remembered Connie mentioning that Elise Fox had written to her mother shortly before Maylene Pillow died of cancer. But Maylene had refused to read it. I took the envelope.

“Thanks, I'll see that Connie gets it.”

Louise turned to leave. She was a good woman and I admired her thoughtfulness. I wished things could be different for them. I stuck the letter in a basket on the desk where I kept the bills. It would have to wait till later. Time was running short.

The party turned out to be a riotous affair. A delightful collection of friends, including the mayor, Walt Hickman, Chick McKissick, Nancy Orman, John, and several others, came together for a robust couple of hours to celebrate Connie's sixty years. All four of Connie's children called during the party to wish her happy birthday. They all lived in distant cities and at her insistence had not come since they were all scheduled to gather for a family reunion in another month. Estelle had outdone herself making a cake that could have fed half the county. She also reminded everyone that the grand opening of the bakery would be held the following Saturday, less than a week away.

“Everybody, be sure to come,” Estelle said. “There'll be lots of fun things to taste and free gâteaux.”

This comment piqued Chick's interest. “What's a gâteau, Miss Estelle?”

Connie answered for her. “It's a cupcake, but roughly translated, it's French for ‘I'm charging a dollar extra.'”

Chick cackled, and not to be outdone, he quickly typed something into his cell phone. “Well, next time you come for an oil change, I'll have to charge you for a”—he read the translation off his phone—
“‘changement d'huile.'”

Everyone laughed and toasted and told favorite stories. While Connie did her best to appear unmoved by all the fuss and attention, her irrepressible smile kept bubbling up. John endeavored to tease and cajole her, but her sharp retorts stopped him from getting the best of her.

We all had a grand time. But my enjoyment was tempered by a burning concern. Christine had not come. I suspected she was furious with me, and deservedly so. I needed to call her and make amends.

Still, I was surprised she would be inconsiderate to Connie, given that the gathering was really about her. I learned otherwise once all the guests had departed. Estelle had to run home because she had forgotten her blood sugar medicine, leaving only Connie and me to gather up the party remains and finish up in the kitchen.

I said, “Sorry about Christine. I'm not sure why she didn't make it.”

Connie gave me a surprised stare. “You don't know? Why, she called me earlier to apologize for not coming. Madeline was taking Grandmother Chambers back to the airport in Nashville this morning and asked Christine to come along. I thought you knew.”

“No, I didn't. But I'm glad she called you. It just didn't seem like her not to show.”

I tried to act as if the incident meant nothing, but I was sure Connie wasn't convinced. In reality, neither was I. I had left Christine to fend for herself at the dance in a lousy way. Medical emergencies took precedence, but I hadn't called and explained afterward. Part of the prom evening had been a dream, a near culmination of long-repressed feelings, a release of deep and tender desire. Yet it had ended in such a bizarre ordeal, an odd mix of disgust and revelation.

I needed to tell Connie, to speak of what I had learned. But the last two hours had been such happy ones that I thought it best not to ruin the moment. Even still, I knew that Connie was reading my thoughts; she knew that something was bothering me and struggling to find a voice.

A knock on the door made the decision for me. I left Connie
in the kitchen and answered it. Before me stood Randall Simmons. He spoke penitently.

“Dr. Bradford, I noticed Connie's car in the driveway. I was wondering if I might have a moment to speak to her.”

A voice behind me spoke firmly and coolly. “Show Mr. Simmons to the living room, Luke. I'll be right there.” Connie was standing in the hallway, stoic defiance etched on her face. She read my questioning look and nodded lightly. I did as she said.

Randall hobbled over to one of the large wingback chairs and plopped down in it. He was doing what I had told him the previous night he should do: confess and apologize to Connie. But on the heels of her birthday party, it seemed like rotten timing. Nevertheless, here he was. Truth, it seemed, followed its own clock.

Connie entered and sat on the couch across from him.

“I'm going to take Rhett out back and let you two talk,” I said.

In the backyard I tossed the tennis ball to Rhett, wondering what awkward conversation was taking place in my living room. After about thirty minutes, I heard a car start up in the driveway and walked to the yard's edge to see Randall leaving.

As I entered through the back door, I found Connie washing dishes at the kitchen sink. She didn't look up at me but only stared at the plates and cups moving from her hands to the drying rack. Her lips were puckered and pressed hard together in a mixture of bitterness and resolve, forcing her to inhale and exhale through her nose in deep, sullen breaths.

I moved close to her and casually leaned against the kitchen counter beside her, tilting my head sideways toward her as if to pry her gaze toward me. Without looking up, she continued to stubbornly and methodically wash the dishes and place them to one side. She was occupying herself, seemingly avoiding the tempest of emotions knotting within her. Eventually, despite her stern
countenance, large tears began to roll down her face, falling from the edge of her cheeks and into the dishwater. She made no effort to wipe them away.

Perhaps I should have spoken, but it seemed best to stand silently and reassure her with my presence. Welling up within her was all the grief, all the loss, all the accumulated years of petty injustices. And somewhere in the naked pain of her tears I saw a glimpse of Connie Thompson from decades ago: a vulnerable and excluded little girl, desperate to understand the unfairness and prejudice of the world around her.

Finally, she broke the silence. Remaining focused on the dishes, she lifted her quivering chin, and quoted Scripture in a low, determined voice. “‘I am not my own but bought with a price.'”

She stepped back, placed her hands on the edge of the sink counter, and leaned forward with her head down. I instinctively moved toward her and gathered her up in an enveloping embrace. She buried her face in my shoulder and wept, pouring out her heart like water from a vase. Her deep sobs washed over me, filling the room.

I shamefully realized that my thoughts of Connie's early years had been minted in my imagination, where I'd naively filled in unknown chapters of her life. I'd imagined those years as sweet, wholesome, protected. Instead, cruel and unjust acts had placed their stain upon her. Yet she had found the courage to rise above them. I saw with burning clarity that her tough exterior was only a facade to protect her tender and generous heart.

In time, she patted me on the back and stepped away, grabbing a paper napkin to dry her face.

“So, I guess he told you everything,” I said.

“Yes. Yes, he did.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize he would come to tell you today.”

“No, no. It's fine.” She continued to gather herself, occasionally offering a fleeting smile in that odd way people do after a good cry.

“Connie, can I get anything for you?”

She thought for a moment. “Yeah. You know what? I think I'd like to have a beer.”

My wide-eyed and amused face communicated my surprise. “Fair enough. Think I might join you.”

I grabbed two bottles from the fridge and we sat at the kitchen table. Connie took a long swallow.

“Ohhh, that's good. I haven't had one of these in a long time.”

“You do realize how badly I want to get my camera right now, don't you?”

“Not unless you're planning on taking a before and after picture of your broken arm.”

“Yeah, that's kind of what I figured.” I took a drink of my beer and we sat in silence.

“So, what happens now?” I asked. “You think you and Estelle will press charges?”

Connie shrugged. “For what? Randall didn't do anything but hurt himself.”

“I guess you're right. Still, it was a pretty desperate thing to do. Looks like John's making good on his promise to can Randall is what drove him to it.”

“We talked about that.”

“Really?”

“Umm-hmm. He asked me to forgive him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I would think about it. But I'll probably let him stay on.”

“You're kidding. Why?”

“Because it may be the right thing to do.”

“But, Connie, his family has been the cause of a lot of misery for you.”

“I know. I just need to think about it.”

A long silence ensued and I could only sit and stare incredulously. Connie finished her beer and began to talk, opening up about her life, unburdening the weight of cares that she had carried for so many years. I listened in silent fascination.

“Sometimes being me is not a rewarding experience. I know it sounds silly, but when I was a little girl, for the longest time I thought my name was Constant Grace, not Constance Grace. I thought Momma expected me to always be good, to always do the right thing, to act in every waking moment in obedience to God's will. So I did, and truth be known, a lot of times I didn't like it and I was actually pretty angry about it. But over time, I began to see that if I would just be a little patient, things had a way of working out. Not always as I wanted, but enough for me to believe it was true. And lo and behold, on my birthday here comes Randall Simmons, apologizing for the sins of his family, restoring the years the locusts have eaten.”

Her words made me remember the letter. I held up a finger to Connie, signaling her to pause for a moment while I retrieved it.

“Louise brought this by earlier. She said she found it among Elise Fox's things, while packing up to move.”

Connie examined it and immediately realized what it was. She looked at me with a curious face. “I'd like to open this.”

“I think you should.”

She nodded, tore open the seal with her finger, and unfolded the small note. As she silently read the words, a soft smile spread across her face. She finished and held the letter to her chest,
closing her eyes for a brief moment. In time she opened them and held the letter before her.

“I want to read this to you.”

“Sure.”

Dear Maylene,

I know that you are not doing well and I wanted to tell you some things that are important to me. For years Raymond Simmons pressured me to sell the bakery, but I refused. He knew that it was your hard work and friendship that kept the bakery and me going. I fell into some financial hard times and he forced me to fire you. I'm sorry. I didn't have the strength to stand up to him.

I have always lived under the shadow of my husband's death. I know Oscar had many secrets, but his love for me was not one of them. He loved me deeply and I miss him every day. Everyone thinks there were diamonds hidden at the store, but that simply wasn't true. Trust me, if there were, we would have found them.

The only diamond at the bakery was you, Maylene. You are a unique and wonderful and godly woman and I am thankful for the years of laughter and friendship we shared. I will always love you. Please know that.

Sincerely,
Elise Fox

Connie's face beamed with a sweet and grateful pride. “This is the best birthday gift of all.”

I smiled and squeezed her hand. “It's amazing, isn't it? All the things that have transpired because one man came to Watervalley and decided to stay.”

Connie shook her head. “I don't blame Oscar Fox. I don't guess he planned on falling in love with Elise, but it happened and it changed the course of his life. So he stayed and did everything he could to help those around him. And with the diamonds, he was just trying to undo some of the evil he saw happening in this world. He was a good man who was trying to do the right thing.”

She paused and pressed my hand in return. “Years from now, Luke, people will talk about you in much the same way.”

“I don't understand.”

“They'll talk about all the good you've done, about all the people you've helped, all the sickness you've cured. Seems like Oscar's life and yours share a lot of parallels. Both of you have made each day count for something positive in people's lives.”

Her words overwhelmed me. I sat silently.

“Thank you for encouraging Randall Simmons to come talk to me. I've got some healing to do and that's going to take some time. But I'd rather see him a changed man and us living in peace than him fired and hatred growing between us.”

I shrugged and smiled wryly at her. “How do you do that?”

Her response was reflective, gentle. “How do I do what?”