On Call Collection

by P D Singer

  “Is that a politically correct term?” I had to twit him.

  “No. You don’t mention that I called you that and I won’t mention how you got soppy and called me ‘darling’ last night.”

  I groaned. “So my brain disconnected from my mouth. Explosions in the groin will do that.”

  “They teach you that in medical school?” He laughed, rising and opening drawers for fresh clothing. Some socks came out and my cat Harpo jumped in. Instead of chasing him out, Dante left the drawer open for my blobular cat, all sixteen pounds of him. The critters had the run of his apartment on the upper floor of the old house that contained his vet practice. Except, thank goodness, for the ball pythons and the tarantula, which stayed in their tanks.

  “They taught me a lot of stuff.” I got out of bed to cuddle him from behind, rubbing his belly very nearly the way I rubbed the cats’.

  He turned in my arms to face me. “Best get into the shower—we have a longer drive than usual.” I collected the one pair of brown socks and shut the drawer. Harpo must have tired of the unsteady footing among the balls of socks.

  I got a little groping in while running the sticky roller over Dante before we left. His navy blue pinstripe suit collected evidence of cat ownership, as did my brown worsted wool. “If we wore nothing but gray, we could save some time on this task.”

  “Boring.” Dante swiped the roller over me, making the contents of my pocket rattle. I’d left a prescription pad in there; no point in unloading just for church. He adjusted the knot on my salmon checked tie and brushed his lips across mine. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

  We spent the drive down to the east edge of town with Dante filling me in a little more about where he’d grown up. “Park Hill is a stately old neighborhood; a lot of the houses date back to the twenties and still have enormous boilers for heating. There’s some smaller fill-in houses and some scrape-offs that won’t last much longer. The northern edge is rougher, always has been, as long as I can recall, but you don’t hear so much about trouble there anymore.” He glanced over to see my reaction to the reality of his life.

  “Sounds like an interesting place.” His stories weren’t helping my yo-yo of emotions, though it was something different to concentrate on than whether or not his father would speak to me this time.

  “It’s a city neighborhood—a lot of stuff going on.” He looked back at the road. Okay, I was a small town boy, where everyone knew everything about each other, good or bad, but that’s because there were fewer of us. This was the same thing, I suppose, on a bigger canvas.

  “Anyway, there’ll be a collation after, where everyone will be salivating after one or the other of us, so brace yourself, unless you actually kiss me in front of everyone.” He laughed. “If we were playboys, we could have different dates every night with the ladies of the congregation.”

  “I’m taken, thanks.” I had to pat his knee.

  “Me too—just saying.”

  Turning off the main thoroughfare at a corner with a large chain drugstore on the corner, we came upon a stately grey stone church of simple design; the huge elms shading it must have been saplings when the neighboring Art Deco houses were built. Clumps of people of every hue but all in Sunday best clothing swept toward the steps and open double doors, hailing each other and occasionally Dante. I received some speculative looks and handshakes before we reached the pew where Dante’s mother was holding court.

  Elegantly clad in a royal blue suit and a frothy confection of a hat, she graciously held out a hand to me. “How good to have you worship with us, Keith.” Dante’s father gave me a sideways look and a less effusive greeting. I sat, letting Dante buffer me from his parents. He chatted with them, only minimally engaging me, giving me the opportunity to look around. About half the ladies sported fanciful hats. This had to be the Basilica of St. Milliner the Divine. I kept that politically incorrect thought to myself. Dante had a way of making me rethink some of my less suave jokes.

  The service started at last, not as unfamiliar as I had feared, though the choir, as integrated a group as the congregation, was the most in tune of any I had ever heard. Stand up, sit down, sing, be exhorted to good—all familiar. Dante’s sonorous voice beside me led me through the needed responses.

  Sneaking a sideways look at Dante and his parents, I caught their love and pride over their family’s newest addition. Dante’s cousin, whom I had not yet met, and her beaming husband brought their tiny baby forward for her introduction to the congregation, and that’s when I saw Dante’s father double over, his face ashen.

  “Psst! Dante!” I elbowed his attention away from the font. His eyes widened, taking in his father’s distress and mother’s panic. “Let’s get him out of here!” With one of us on each side, we managed to extract him from the pew and mobilize him down the outer edge of the sanctuary, Mrs. James following. “Where?” I hissed.

  “The quiet room.” Dante steered us to the soundproofed area, which mercifully contained no howling infants. We set Mr. James down, and I started my assessment.

  “Chest,” he was able to tell me. “No,” when I asked about arm pain, history of kidney problems, “yes” for high blood pressure, which worried me. Still, the constellation of symptoms I was afraid I’d find was not there, and his pulse was only mildly elevated. His age worried me less than his genetic background, because African-Americans have some significant cardiovascular risks. I’d try something that would differentiate between what I thought he had and what I feared he had, before we called 911.

  “Dante, how fast can you get to that drug store? If the pharmacy’s open, have them fill this.” I whipped out the prescription pad I’d carried along by accident and wrote a script. “Get some antacid, doesn’t matter what kind, diphenhydramine liquid, and the lido if they’ll fill it. Then we’ll know.”

  It was a small eternity before Dante returned from the two block round trip, but Mr. James didn’t deteriorate, giving me hope. His wife held his hand, giving me imploring looks to “Do something” while I kept count of his pulse, which stayed lower than bigger problems would bring it. “This is what they’d give you in the ER, sir.” I folded a stray pledge card into a crude cup, poured a big slosh from each of the three bottles, and held it to his lips.

  He drank, and the effect was apparent in a scant minute. “What was that, Keith?” Mr. James sat straight, his color returning, to all effects a new man. I suspected I was speaking to someone else—he’d called me by name, a first.

  “We called it GI cocktail, and it’s a quick differential test for heart attacks versus severe heartburn.” I capped the bottles, marveling at the lack of label on the lidocaine. Had Dante threatened or sweet-talked the pharmacist? He was pretty persuasive. “Did you eat something recently that triggers heartburn for you?”

  “Well… I had some of Ellen’s chili from last night, just for a snack….”

  “Dad, you ate Ellen’s thermonuclear chili!” Dante was aghast. “I can’t eat that without pain!”

  “It’s good though.” Father and son exchanged sheepish looks that told me to lay in a couple of bottles of this and that for when they next ate Ellen’s cooking. He turned to me. “Thank you, Keith. We aren’t going to miss the entire service.”

  We had missed most of the christening, but unfortunately, we got the entire sermon, which the four of us listened to in the quiet room. “Love thy neighbor as thyself” was the text, but I thought we were all doing pretty well before the minister started talking.

  Later, at the collation, Mrs. James watched with an eagle eye what her husband served himself, and introduced me to everyone who came near as “her son Dante’s friend.” Mr. James sidled back toward the buffet and some of the previously forbidden items landed on his plate. I surreptitiously transferred the bottle of antacid from my pocket to his, earning a wink. Dante and I made our exit, after duly admiring the baby who was the center of today’s attention.

  “You’ll both be back next week?” Mr. James clasped Da
nte’s shoulder; Mrs. James kissed my cheek.

  Dante let me answer. “Yes, we will. Thank you.” I shook Mr. James’ hand, glad that his grip was strong and his bearing upright, delighted beyond words that his distress had been nothing worse than heartburn, and grateful, too, that he was willing to have me around. Dante had a firm place in my heart, and I didn’t want to make him choose between me and his family.

  “That could have been a lot worse.” Dante aimed us back up the highway after the collation.

  In so many ways. “I’m glad it wasn’t.”

  “I’m glad you were there to take care of Dad.” He pulled into the crushed stone driveway in front of his practice and home. I was beginning to feel that it was my home, too, although my cats and I travelled back and forth to my increasingly unused apartment.

  “So am I.”

  “I think he likes you better now.”

  “A bit.” I squeezed Dante’s thigh, mindful that I had bought my acceptance with professional coin, but still pleased that his family’s moment had not needed to be interrupted with sirens and paramedics that were in the end unnecessary.

  We stripped off our suits and didn’t bother putting anything else on, stopping to hold each other tightly and exchange some melting kisses. The skivvies might be coming off in a moment, once I’d nuzzled him again, or we might put on jeans and do some chores, but strange noises from the dresser distracted us before we made a decision.

  The wooden chest shook, and weird howls emanated from its depths. Dante and I looked at each other, perplexed, and then at the possessed furniture. Gingerly, Dante pulled open a drawer.

  Nothing happened, then the chest shook again. He shut it faster than he’d opened it.

  Dante pulled open the next drawer, revealing nothing but socks. Again the shrieks resounded, louder now. Dante shut the sock drawer, and reached for the next set of knobs.

  He had to really tug, because this drawer was loaded with shirts and sixteen pounds of angry tabby cat. Harpo leaped out and began to alternately berate us and lick his rumpled fur. With an aggrieved glare, he gave his side one last lick and marched from the room, I meant to do that radiating from him.

  “He must have squeezed down one drawer and then I shut him in.” Harpo really hadn’t been in the socks when I closed that drawer.

  “I have had enough surprises for one day. I’m going back to bed.” Dante peeled down the gray athletic underwear that hugged his nice butt. “Come with me.”

  We snuggled up, ready to resume the sleep we’d interrupted for his family. I had one arm thrown over his chest and my nose squashed against his neck, and a couple of cats using us for hammocks, about as comfy as I’ve ever been. About halfway to slumber, I almost didn’t hear Dante speak.

  Just before he fell asleep, he mumbled, “Think your folks will like me?”

  On Call: Wildlife

  The bell at the clinic door bonged—but why now, when Dante and I were only seconds from escaping for the evening? Dante and I cowered in the surgery.

  “Please, Dr. James has to fix him, he just has to!” The familiar breaking tones of a young boy pleading with the receptionist came only too clearly through the swinging door. This was becoming a ritual: Eugene Moore would show up with a big covered basket, bearing some wounded wild thing. Dante would either do some repairs to the poor creature or gently put it out of its misery. It had been nearly two weeks since the twelve-year old had turned up with a wounded fox for which we’d held a requiem.

  Of course, he’d come in at five p.m. on a Friday afternoon. I’d gotten out of my own office at four, a small consolation for being on call this weekend. Right now, I wasn’t sure who had the worse hours: a family practice physician, or a small animal vet, but I was leaning towards Dante just at the moment. It wasn’t my receptionist who was being begged for aid by the pubescent Doctor Doolittle.

  “He’s back. I wonder what he’s got this time,” Dante whispered. Eugene turned up every time he feared his low-tech veterinary skills wouldn’t save the patient.

  “Could be anything with fleas,” I muttered back. “Considering he collects them along a busy city street cloaked as a country lane.” Dante’s practice was in a house about two blocks off the main drag. The surgery was on the ground floor, Dante’s home on the upper floor.

  “Ain’t that the truth. The construction on Kipling is forcing the traffic over here. Too bad the critters find out about it the hard way. Come on, Keith; let’s go see what he’s got.” Dante gave me a clandestine kiss before heading to the door.

  Arguing that the critter was uninsured would get me nowhere, nor would pleading dinner plans. It was part of Dante’s charm that he’d help others when the need arose, although for some reason, need frequently arose around him. He could make the same claim about me. I shut up and followed, evening plans pushed to the back of my mind.

  “Hey, Eugene, what do you have?” Dante took the basket, which was starting to shake. “It seems pretty lively.”

  Or mad, I thought. Maybe the mystery organism was small with blunt teeth.

  “I don’t know if it’s a weasel or a ferret, but it’s long and bendy. It just got hit by a car, and it bounced,” the kid sniffed. “And then it lay still.”

  “It’s not still now, Eugene. I don’t think we should mess with it. It’s a wild animal and it will be totally terrified if I touch it.” Dante put his hand over the flaps of the basket to keep the inhabitant from escaping prematurely.

  “Can you just look? Please? What do you think, Dr. Hoyer?” The kid turned serious eyes on me, slowing me up when what I wanted to say was “Let’s let the damn predator go!”

  What came out of my mouth was “Maybe if we get some halothane in there before we open the basket, it will be sedated enough to handle.”

  “Have fun, guys.” Amanda, the receptionist and vet tech, had sworn “never again” to Eugene’s projects after a bad encounter with a bat. She waved and headed out; it was after five.

  Domino, one of Dante’s resident cats who had the run of both upstairs and downstairs, sidled by, interested in the denizen of the basket. He rose and sniffed. The basket gave a good shake. A hiss escaped both parties and Domino was gone. Smart cat.

  “Good thought.” Dante led us through the swinging doors into the surgery, where he’d put me to work. Four years of med school had turned me into a half-assed vet tech, or so he’d informed me after I’d gotten dragged into yet another emergency procedure. I worked for kisses, I’d told him, so what kind of help can you get for that?

  He set the basket down on the surgery table. “Keep the basket shut; we’ll drip the anesthetic in through the crack.” A layer of wicker didn’t seem like nearly enough between my hand and an angry weasel; the shaking and hissing were growing exponentially.

  Measuring out what would be an iffy dose of anesthesia under any circumstances, Dante returned in time to see our plans go up in shards of wicker—the hinge on one of the flaps gave way. A long skinny shape slipped out and ran.

  It shot toward a rack of cages against the wall, creating total havoc among the creatures inside. Howling, mewling, and terrified yips greeted the wild invader. The situation wasn’t improved by three humans floundering around madly, trying to get out of the way of the teeth. Perhaps it could have gotten under the cages, but noise convinced it safety lay elsewhere. Perhaps on the other side of Eugene, who wisely vaulted to the exam table. Dante evaded the wrong way, and if I wasn’t making some really undignified noises of my own, I’d tease him about yelling when Angry Weasel made a brief trip up his trousers to about knee height.

  The damned thing caromed around the room, looking for some kind of refuge, when Dante had the first really good idea in this entire debacle. He opened the sliding glass door, offering the creature a way out. I encouraged it with a broom hastily grabbed from a corner. Sweeping our unhappy guest in the right general direction gave it the message—the critter shot out into the back yard. Maybe it would keep going until it reached its de
n, or possibly Nebraska. Shutting the door on our unwilling patient, Dante heaved a sigh of relief.

  “It must have just been stunned.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a sleeve, though his dark features still had a slight shine. I loved that look; I’d have to kiss him all over the gleaming spots, once I was no longer pink from the exertion.

  “Do I still have to cut the lawn tomorrow?” Eugene asked, hopping off the table. A twelve-year-old’s budget and hefty vet bills brought him into frequent contact with Dante’s lawnmower.

  “After that, I think you’d better edge, weed, and get the neighbor’s yard, too.” Dante was still breathing hard and a small pulse jumped in his throat. At Eugene’s crestfallen expression, he softened. “Just mow.”

  “Okay.” He must have thought Dante really meant all that extra work, because he brightened way up. Dante’s next words dimmed him again.

  “Also, any more small potentially violent creatures have to arrive in a proper cage, for everyone’s safety. Remember the bat?” We all recalled the bat—we’d had to extract Amanda from under the desk once we’d captured Little Dracula. There had been promises of a cage then. “Or I can’t treat your critters, and you shouldn’t be handling them unsafely, anyhow. You’ve got a big heart, kiddo, but you have to be sensible about this. You understand?”

  Eugene nodded. “I’ll get a cage, and I’ll come mow tomorrow about nine.” He grabbed the basket, which whiffed unpleasantly of the weasel and was now useless for picnics. “Thanks for trying, Dr. James.” He showed himself out.

  One the door clicked shut behind him, Dante came for a hug. “That kid’s charity cases are going to be the ruin of me.”

  Literally, I thought, mulling the image of the weasel running up his leg, and the laughter grew until it couldn’t be stifled any more. What came out sounded like “Snork!” and in spite of my resolve and knowledge, it just kept going until Dante was laughing with me. “You do a terrific Weasel Dance,” I finally choked out.