by Janet Leigh
She pointed at the small square timer I had in my right hand, and sure enough, it was making a beeping noise. Paulina is one of those people who use every body part when engaging in conversation.
“Oh, right. I’m on my way in now.”
“That is so awesome!” she exclaimed, waving her hands in the air and giving me a double fist pump. “Because Mr. Crane doesn’t like to be left on the needles past the allotted time.” She gave me a perky smile, turned, waved, and headed in the direction of the front office. Off to sprinkle some merriment on the next unsuspecting person.
I entered the acupuncture room, and to my surprise, the lights were blazing. The room was devoid of the soft relaxation music and the smell of essential oils. Instead, an aroma of acrid body odor curled around the room, strangling any aromatherapy that lingered. The patient was not lying on the acupuncture table but sitting upright in a chair across the room. He was a large, heavy man. His dark hair was overgrown and unkempt, and he had a scraggly beard that extended past his chin. His beady brown eyes, hidden under a jungle of eyebrows, looked me up and down as I approached him. A black Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt stretched across his protruding belly, hanging on for dear life to his love handles and a pair of faded blue jeans cut off above the knee, exposing his tree-trunk legs.
“Hello, Mr. Crane, I’m Jennifer. I’m going to remove your needles today.” I placed my paperwork on the counter to prepare the cotton balls with alcohol.
“You’re late,” he bellowed. “My timer went off three minutes ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, giving him a sweet, comforting smile. His arms and legs were pinned up with needles, but he managed to flick a hand at me. I took that as the carry-on sign and proceeded. I began removing needles from his left arm and tried not to gag at the odor he emitted. His eyes followed my every move.
“So are you from Coffee Creek?” I asked, trying to make conversation while I counted the needles I was removing.
“Don’t talk to me; you’ll lose count.”
I shrugged and got down on my hands and knees to remove the needles from his bulky legs. His skin was covered in small pustules I assumed were some kind of psoriasis. The skin on his legs was taut like an overstuffed sausage. I was sure that when I pulled a needle out, his leg would deflate like a leaking balloon. When I removed the first needle, a drop of blood formed at the small hole, threatening to drip down the patient’s leg. I quickly dabbed it with the cotton ball. Each needle had the same response. By the time I got to the second leg, I had gone through six cotton balls. As I was applying pressure to the latest bleeder, I looked up at Mr. Crane. His weight and size seemed to amplify his breathing, and his birdlike eyes stared down at me. A sleazy smile crept across his face, and I followed his gaze to my chest. The gap in my scrub top gave him a perfect view of my cleavage. Since the only bra I had clean today was a fluorescent yellow Victoria’s Secret push-up bra, my girls were sitting up perky on their little spandex shelf, illuminated in the glow from my bra like the sun reflecting off the space shuttle. I felt the color rise into my face, and I adjusted my position to block the view. Mr. Crane licked his lips, and I quickly stood up to start on the arms.
After I finished removing and disposing of the needles, I said, “There you go, Mr. Crane. I’m sorry Su Le had an emergency, but she would like to see you back in”—I consulted the chart—“five days.”
“Are you going to be here?”
“I work every day, Monday through Friday,” I replied, trying to be as perky as Paulina.
“Good, I’ll be here when I get here.” He pulled his bulk from the chair and exited the room, leaving his stifling body odor behind.
After my encounter with Mr. Crane, I helped Mary in the front office, scheduling patients and calling insurance companies to verify patients’ benefits. Elvira, the collections CA who normally calls the insurance companies, was out sick today. I feel like the insurance companies breathe a sigh of relief when I call, because Elvira is an ex-guitar-playing truck driver. She is about six feet tall, curses like a sailor, and I’m pretty sure she has more than one tattoo. Eli hired her because she needed a job, and Eli is a sucker for a woman in need, no matter how gruff. She doesn’t take no for an answer, which is a good quality when trying to collect money. Eli told me his collections doubled after he hired her. I would hate to see the body count on the patients who refused payment.
My stomach was grumbling, which meant it was time for lunch. The good thing about Coffee Creek is there are at least four good local restaurants within walking distance. Eli came sauntering in, stood behind me, and gave my shoulders a massage rub. One of the many benefits of having a chiropractor for a brother. Mary finished checking out the last patient of the morning, and Eli asked, “Anyone up for the Pitts today?”
The Pitts was a barbeque restaurant located on the opposite side of the square. “Sorry, Dr. Cloud, I have to run errands at lunch today,” Mary said. “My husband, God rest his soul, left some loose ends I need to tie up today.” Eli and I made the cross sign as all good Catholic children were taught when referring to the dead. Mary’s husband had died a few months ago after a long battle with lung cancer. He was Mary’s fifth husband and she swore he was the last, but I heard through the grapevine that she was seeing Mr. Covey who owned the hardware store. If Mary came back from lunch with a hammer, I was putting my money on husband number six.
I grabbed my purse and waited while Eli locked the office door. I was glad Paulina also had errands at lunch. She was so bubbly that sometimes my brain needed to take a break from Princess Perky.
Eli and I walked the block to the Pitts. The smell of barbeque met us halfway there, and I floated the rest of the way, not even bothering to window-shop as we passed Baubles and Beads, one of my favorite boutiques. Eli was telling me about our mom’s latest client. Our mother’s job as a cookbook editor connects her with many well-known clients. She told us every celebrity wants to write some kind of book, and the easiest one to hire a ghost writer for is a cookbook. Like Kris Jenner really wrote her own cookbook. Go figure…
Her newest client has his own cooking show but keeps setting things on fire. She was in Dallas trying to put the final touches on her manuscript for his third cookbook when he asked her to have a taste of the flaming cherries jubilee for inclusion in the book. Mom set the manuscript on the counter and two seconds later, poof! The manuscript and the tips of Mom’s fake fingernails were on fire. Eli was very comical relaying the latest mishap to me, and my inner voice was tsking me for not calling my mom. Working with the WTF was going to take some juggling so I wouldn’t forget to call my parents.
We entered the small hash house, my Steve Stone leather biker boots with the tough-girl studs and black stacked wooden heels making a clicking sound on the rustic, hand-scraped wood floors. Eli and I walked up to the counter and ordered two barbeque sandwiches, chips, and root beers. Blake Shelton’s latest hit played from the antique jukebox in the corner, and I doubted Caiyan would ever eat at a place like this. I wondered if he even liked barbeque. My inner voice agreed that maybe I should get to know him a little better outside the sheets.
“Jen.” Eli nudged me with his elbow.
Eli had collected our root beers, and the cashier was trying to hand me a square tile with a number six on it for our order.
“You just put this number in the holder on the table, and we’ll bring it right out when it’s ready,” she said.
I knew the drill. We had eaten here many times, but my mind had wandered off, and Eli looked at me a little concerned. We sat in a booth across the room, and I placed the number in the tall holder in the center of the table. The small place was decorated with pictures of old Western movies, memorabilia from the local high schools, and past events that made Coffee Creek a small friendly town
“You seem a little out of it lately,” Eli said, giving me a brotherly stare of concern.
�
�I’ve just been busy.” I took a pull off my root beer and changed the subject. “What’s up with Mr. Crane?”
Eli shrugged. “He’s a mess. Diabetes, high cholesterol, weight issues.”
“Yeah, I can see that. I felt like he was sneering at me the entire time I removed his needles.”
Eli picked up a red crayon and began doodling a tic-tac-toe board on the paper tablecloth. I chose a blue crayon and proceeded to match his Xs with my Os. “Mr. Crane has some pretty deep issues. I tried to get him to try chiropractic because his spine looks worse than a Kansas City twister, but he refused and agreed on the acupuncture.”
The server delivered our sandwiches, and Eli beat me in tic-tac-toe.
“Next time I’ll send Elvira in with him. He’s probably not someone I want you to be with in close quarters.”
“He is kind of creepy,” I agreed. “But I want to do my job, so if I need to help Su Le, that’s OK.”
“I’m glad you’re trying to work at the CA position. I know you would rather be selling shoes—or at least buying them.”
“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to make a living.” I smiled, finished my sandwich, and drew out another tic-tac-toe board. If Eli only knew the half of it.
Eli headed back to work, and I stopped off at Baubles and Beads to pick up a little gift for my mom. If she’d dyed her hair brown, she might need a little pick-me-up or an intervention. She was always the first one to object when I wanted to turn my dishwater-blond hair a few shades darker. The shop’s door gave a tinkle as I entered, alerting the sales clerk that a new customer had arrived. The scent of hazelnut coffee and vanilla drifted around the store, creating a warmth, as if you were receiving a hug as you entered.
The clerk behind the desk, a woman in her midfifties with a cute red pixie cut, looked up from polishing a silver cuff bracelet. “Hi, Jen. Can I help you today?”
“Just browsing, Helen, but thanks.” She nodded and went back to her polishing. Beautiful paintings and tapestries hung on every available wall surface. Tiny chandeliers and large ornate light fixtures dangled from the ceiling, adding sparkle and glam to the historic building. Overstuffed accent chairs adorned with chenille throw pillows were scattered throughout the store, providing an ambiance of comfort. I rummaged through a table display of scarves, but nothing caught my eye. Admiring a few paintings, I made my way to the back where the discounted items were kept. A pair of silver French candlesticks stood on a mahogany credenza. I reached for one, and it was heavier than I had anticipated. These would look really good on Mom’s dining table. The price had been marked down twice but was still a little steep for my budget. I never bought her a housewarming gift, so I hefted the pair up to the counter. Helen set the polishing aside and was enthusiastic I was buying instead of browsing. I also found a pair of dangling silver earrings, and while Helen was wrapping the candlesticks in Bubble Wrap, I eyed the cuff bracelet Helen had been polishing earlier. The little voice inside my head hollered, You are such an impulse shopper—you do not need another bracelet.
Helen bagged up the candlesticks and said, “It would go really nice with the earrings.” She paused as she slid the earrings into a small brown sack to show me how they complemented each other. She was right.
I ignored my inner voice. “I’ll take them,” I heard myself say as I handed over my credit card. I checked my phone for the time. Damn, I was late for work. The fretting over the bracelet had made me lose track of time. I should have bought the damn thing, fretted later, and then returned it. Now I was going to have to get a lecture from Mary about my punctuality. I thanked Helen and power walked around the square to the clinic. The candlesticks were quite heavy, and as I was looking down, adjusting my bags, a body came hurriedly out of the new plastics center. Wham! We ran smack into each other, and as I looked up, I realized it was Mr. Crane. The hairs stood up on my arms, and I felt my heart rate increase.
“Mr. Crane,” I said in no more than a whisper. He stood, his body odor oozing out around him. At that moment I knew exactly what a cootie was, and Mr. Crane had expunged his all over me. We were eye to eye. His massive girth disguised his stature. His beady eyes stared as if he was planning his next meal. A small smile crept into the corner of his mouth. I sidestepped around him and scooted on by, taking refuge in the comfort of Mary’s voice telling me I was late as I entered the clinic.
Chapter 7
Friday came faster than expected. The clinic kept me busy and kept my mind off the upcoming “training session” at Gitmo. Thankfully, I didn’t see Mr. Crane again. Su Le had a family emergency and had to make a trip to Shanghai. Her acupuncture patients were rescheduled for the following week. I breathed a sigh of relief as I picked up Gertie on Friday afternoon from SMU to catch a bite before I left for training. She came out of the library wearing a red lace long-sleeved top covered by a black leather vest and black cargo pants. Her hair was French braided on one side and circled the back of her head, finishing into a braid with a leather tie on the opposite side.
“Is that the new dress code for library aides?” I asked as she got into my car.
“It’s my Katniss Everdeen look.” She flipped the visor down to get a view of her look in the mirror. “There’s this guy in my History of the Ages class who’s really into The Hunger Games.”
“Does he know you’re hunting him?” I joked.
“Not yet, but he asked if I would e-mail him the last lecture notes, so…I’m making progress.” She flipped the visor back into position, and we motored off down the street to our favorite French bistro.
Gertie was foregoing her weight-loss shake for a spinach quiche, and I had just taken my first bite of chicken pasta when Gertie asked, “Any word from Caiyan about our double date?”
“No, I haven’t heard from him all week,” I replied, mouth full of food and thankful my taste buds operated normally. It was scrumptious. “He did say he was out of town on business.”
“Dang, don’t you think that’s weird? Where can you go that you can’t call someone for a whole week?”
I knew one place, but there was no way he could travel. The next moon cycle wasn’t until mid-December.
“I was hoping we could go somewhere fun,” Gertie said. “I’m so bored when you’re gone.” She made a pouty face, and I couldn’t help but laugh because before I started this travel thing, she was never home when I was home. We worked opposite schedules, and she usually hung out with her friends from school. I agreed with her; it was odd I had not heard a word from Caiyan. I rolled the thought around in my head as I finished my pasta. Maybe Jake would have a few answers, but I hated asking him because our past history just made things awkward. He didn’t approve of my relationship with Caiyan, the playboy. He would much rather I have a relationship with Jake, the playboy. Jeez, men just made life complicated.
“You’re doing that thing with your hair.” Gertie pointed her fork at the strand of hair that I was twisting in between my thumb and forefinger. I immediately dropped it. “You always do that when you’re worried.”
“No, I don’t.” My inner voice was nodding her head in agreement with Gertie.
“Yep, you do, and if I had a hot piece of meat like Caiyan and he wasn’t calling me, I would be worried, too.”
“Thanks for your concern, but I’m not worried,” I said and blocked the mental picture of my inner voice running around with her pants on fire.
Gertie shrugged. “Just saying.”
My phone gave a ping. I retrieved it from my handbag and read the text from Jake: “See you in an hour.”
I sighed. “Looks like we got to go.” I held my phone up so Gertie could see the text. “The boss man is making sure I won’t be late.”
Gertie finished her quiche, and we got a couple of sweet teas to go. “If you see Brodie this weekend, tell him I said hey.”
I was sure Brodie didn’t need any training, but
I agreed anyway. As we got into my car, I thought I saw Mr. Crane drive by in an old Cadillac Seville. The car sloped to the driver’s side, looking off balance as it drove off down the street.
“What’s wrong?” Gertie asked as I slid behind the wheel and buckled my seat belt.
“Did you see the guy in the Caddy that just drove by?”
“No, was he hot?”
I gave Gert an eye roll. “Definitely not.” I put the key in the ignition and waited for Gertie to buckle up. As I started to back out, here came the Cadillac again. I slammed on the brakes, throwing Gertie forward and spilling some tea on her lap.
“There!” I pointed as the car went behind us. She snapped her head around to get a better view of the driver.
“Oooh gross! He’s not cute at all.” She wiped up the tea with the corner of her shirtsleeve.
It was him. He kept his face straight on as he passed, trying not to draw our attention, but I knew it was him.
“He’s a patient at the clinic. And I’m not supposed to tell you that with the privacy laws and all, but he kind of creeps me out.”
“Like who am I gonna tell?” Gertie said more than asked. “He looks creepy.” She made an ugh face, and I laughed, nodding in agreement, but that gnawing feeling I get when something’s not quite right had me wondering about creepy Mr. Crane.
I arrived at Gitmo at precisely fifteen after six. I didn’t want Jake to think I would come when called, so I took my time getting ready. Since I can’t travel with any extra clothes or personal items, I had to ship a few things via FedEx and send a list to Jake’s assistant, whom I referred to as Ms. Beotch. Not because I was jealous, but because I knew they had a fling going before he knew I had a fling going with Caiyan. Jake and his double standards, jeez.