by Nick Trout
“Are you sure you’re not married?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Hmm.” Once again she dazzles me with her smile. “You are very different, Thomas Lovelace. Strange name, but you have my attention.”
“And you mine,” I say, getting up. “So… um… email me, and I hope to take you up on your offer real soon.”
At least at her house there’s no risk of being unmasked as Cyrus Mills.
“I’m not kidding,” I say, standing to shake her hand. And then, as a melding of truth and flirtation comes to mind, I can’t help but add, “There’s so much more about you I want to discover.”
Thursday
8
I DIDN’T EXPECT TO SEE MARY FROM THE DINER quite so soon, but thanks to her tangerine hair, she’s the first (and only) person I recognize in a rowdy waiting room. It’s Lewis’s morning to see appointments, and sometimes it feels like we are polar opposites when it comes to our appeal as veterinarians. Lewis consistently packs them in with his magnetic attraction whereas I keep them away with my magnetic repulsion. Still, five minutes ago, I was the recipient of an unusual greeting from the bottom of the stairway to my apartment.
“Hey, you awake up there? You’ve got one waiting.”
Ah, Doris, my cup of morning cheer, what would I do without you?
I grab the file on her desk (it lies alone, crisp and thin, adjacent to an imposing tower of case files for Lewis) and march over to Mary, trying to get a read on her impassive features. What if, after I left, Doc Honey asked her about the mysterious Tommy Lovelace? Is my cover blown? If so, how much did Mary share with Amy?
“He’s outside in the car,” says Mary, as soon as I say hello, “gets easily stressed.” She sticks her head out the front door and yells, “Drew! Drew, come on.”
A redheaded man steps out of a pickup carrying a border collie in his arms like an awkward piece of furniture, and I usher the three of them back into the work area, making my apologies, claiming our other exam room is undergoing renovation (or at least it will if the practice can stay in business until the end of the month).
“This is my husband, Drew. He’s apprenticing as a mechanic at the gas station down the road,” she says, making the introduction sound like an apology for the calloused, oil-stained hand that reaches out for the greeting. It’s heavy on crush, light on shake, the dog perfectly still in his arms. By still I mean rigid, as though the creature’s been stuffed or needs to be defrosted. When Mary said stressed I think she meant scared stiff.
“And this is Gilligan,” says Mary as Drew finally places the timid creature on the floor. The collie comes to life, running on the spot, a cartoon dog scratching for traction on the linoleum, scampering behind Mary like a shy child hiding behind his mother’s skirt, or, in this case, black jeans.
“Come on out, Gil, come on.”
Best I can tell, Gilligan is a handsome tricolor of black, tan, and white, with pricked attentive ears. His bushy tail is so tightly curled underneath him it practically screams “don’t even think about taking my temperature.” He won’t allow me to make eye contact, burying his head into the back of Mary’s knees. Perhaps Gil thinks if he can’t see me, I can’t see him.
“Very smart breed,” I say.
“I know,” says Mary, clearly taking this as a compliment.
“Fastest time to open a car window by a dog.”
She looks confused.
“A border collie called Striker,” I say. “Just over eleven seconds.”
Mary consults with her husband, her expression suggesting they should leave while they have the chance.
I press on. “What’s going on?” I ask, picking up pen and paper to take some notes when, as if on cue, Gilligan decides to give his version of the story. In the style of a cuckoo clock striking the hour, a snout pops around Mary’s leg to deliver a snappy, ear-piercing bark.
I reel, a little theatrically, but get no response from either Mary or Drew.
“I’ll start at the beginning,” says Mary, as Gil lets rip with another bark. “Drew and I have been married about six months.” Bark. “Few weeks after the wedding, we moved into my late grandmother’s house.” Bark. “Before that, Gil was fine, right?”
There’s a pause, and Drew nods as Gil, the canine metronome, times another yappy keening to perfection. Seriously, he has to be cracking 120 decibels, easily. His bark’s a health hazard, but worst of all, and what leaves me speechless (and presumably hearing impaired), his owners don’t seem to notice. They don’t even blink.
“Ever since we’ve moved he’s been acting weird.” Bark. “Both of us work, and it’s like he has separation anxiety.” Bark.
I narrow my eyes, wince, and press my index finger deep into my ear canal, to no avail.
“He stays in the exact same spot where I left him.” Bark. “Standing at the dining room window, waiting for us to come home.” Bark. And then, finally, my features having contorted past “unpleasant wince” and ending at “unbearable torture,” she says, “Is there a problem?”
The welcome silence hangs in the air between us. Seconds pass without a bark, and I get to savor the after hiss ringing in my ears.
“Sorry, just, um, having a hard time concentrating,” I say. Mary looks at Drew; they share a shrug and a frown and both come back to me looking confused. “Gil’s barking.” I feel like I’m explaining the punch line of a joke. “It’s quite…” Careful, Cyrus, don’t offend. “Extraordinary. Don’t want to miss anything important you might say.”
“Right,” says Mary, stretching out the syllable as though totally on board, making eye contact with Gil while placing an index finger to her shushing lips.
“Really? That’s going to silence your bad-mannered dog?” I want to say, but I bite my tongue and brace for the pending rupture of an eardrum.
“He’s not eating much, and he’s losing weight, don’t you think?”
Drew nods but remains silent, and, to my amazement and relief, so does Gilligan.
“Then this time yesterday morning, he had like, I don’t know, like a seizure. Scared the crap out of me. That’s when I talked to Amy, and she said you’re the man to see.”
Was this the last time Mary spoke to Amy or was there a gossipy update regarding my “date” with a beautiful woman?
“When you say seizure, what do you mean?”
Mary deliberates, the recollection visibly upsetting. “He was lying on the kitchen floor, legs out straight and stiff, out of it, and he’d wet himself. I kept calling his name, and it was like no one was home. That look in his eyes, I’ll never forget it, it was like…” A tear gets away from her right eye. “It was like he was dead.”
I glance over to Drew, wondering why he’s not putting a consoling arm around his young wife’s shoulder. I read sympathy but reckon there’s a blue-collar emotional toughness holding him back.
“So you never actually saw Gil shaking or trembling or flailing?”
“No.”
“And how long did it take him to get up and back to himself?”
“Maybe half an hour. He was staggering at first, out of it, like he was really frightened.”
All this time Gilligan has been watching me while his body remains neatly concealed behind Mary’s legs.
“Okay, let’s have a look at him.”
I step forward and to one side, coming around Mary as Gil makes an equal and opposite maneuver so he can remain invisible. I catch myself, change direction, and we repeat our dance, Mary our maypole in the middle.
“Drew, perhaps you could lend me a hand.” An oily, calloused hand.
Seconds later Gilligan has been corralled as Drew kneels on the floor beside me. Based on the man’s pallor and freckles, I’m betting on an Irish heritage, cheeks guaranteed to light up red with too much sun or too many pints. His dog is compliant but clearly terrified. I don’t need a stethoscope to determine his heart rate; I can see it thumping against his rib cage like it wants out. And forget about palp
ating the contents of his abdomen. Gil’s tummy is rock solid, constantly bracing for a sucker punch to the gut. I do, however, make two meaningful discoveries. The nerves from Gil’s brain that control blinking, seeing, swallowing, licking, smelling, and, sadly, barking all appear to be in full working order. But I have a problem with the color of his gums.
“Perhaps you can help me lift his tail so I can take his temperature,” I say, remembering one of Lewis’s favorite tricks. If you don’t know what to say or do, take a rectal temperature, it will give you a few extra minutes to think.
For a while Drew and Gilligan engage in their own version of Greco-Roman wrestling until the mechanic pins him and the collie submits to my thermometer.
Here’s my problem. As a veterinary pathologist, I’ve always had a direct, physical path to the diagnosis. I was like the detective who always got his man, the culprit tried, convicted, and behind bars and I never had to worry about the motive. Now, in my second week of pretending to be a real veterinarian, unsolved cases are beginning to stack up. Ermintrude the crazy cow, Marmalade the fat cat, and now Gilligan, the neurotic collie. Yes, I’ve got clues, but I don’t have nearly enough evidence to convict. I’m all speculation, hot air, and theories, surrounded by anxious relatives desperate for results. Where are all the easy cases? Where are the fleas or the worms when you need them?
“One oh three point two. To be honest, he’s so nervous I’m surprised the glass didn’t melt.”
“What do you think?” says Mary, petting Gil as if she’s offering an apology for the violation.
I take a deep breath. “His gums are too pale. He’s anemic.”
“What? Why?”
“Three possible reasons. Losing blood, not making enough blood, destroying blood.”
“So which one is it?”
I consider what I’ve got to go on. No appetite, weight loss, seizure, and anemia. Each problem has dozens of possible causes—put them together and the permutations are endless.
“Not sure,” I say, but as she deflates, I rush to add, “but I intend to find out.”
Rather than relieved, Mary seems cagey. “Sounds expensive,” she says. “What’s your best guess?”
That’s when I wonder if my referral from Amy was grounded in a respect for my clinical prowess or recognition that, in certain circumstances, I can be a soft touch. Happy to get extra hours at the diner, husband’s an apprentice, lucky enough to be given a house to live in—more than enough clues to know money’s tight.
“Tell you what, let me get a blood sample and I’ll look at it myself. Hopefully I’ll find the answer and save you the cost of sending it off to a lab.”
They check in with one another, there are nods of approval, and the deal is sealed by a complimentary yip from Gilligan.
Despite the collie’s fear and unyielding full-body rigidity, I get the necessary blood and see them out, Drew, as talkative as ever, offers a grim nod and a grungy handshake; Mary smiles, thanking me and insisting, “Amy was right,” as Gilligan yanks her through the front door.
Right about what? Right to suggest I see her dog? Right about me being a bit of a nerd? She’s gone before I can ask. At least that’s my excuse.
With the purple tube of the blood sample safely inside my breast pocket, I head back into the work area, only to find Lewis perched in front of our microscope. He looks up as I approach.
“What, you think you’re the only one who knows how to use it?”
“No, of course—”
“Look it.”
Lewis gestures to the eyepieces. I take a peek and remark, “Otodectes cynotis.”
Lewis shakes his head in frustration. “Keep it simple, Cyrus. Plain speak. ‘Ear mites’ makes a lot more sense to most people.”
I straighten up, close my eyes, and wipe both hands down my face. “Right now I’d love to make a straightforward diagnosis like ear mites. Seems like every case is a mystery wrapped inside an enigma. I’m used to working for private diagnostic and pharmaceutical companies with deep pockets. Our clients demand quick answers or cheap solutions, preferably both, with nothing more than a laying on of hands.”
Lewis gets to his feet. He’s not much taller than a racehorse jockey, so I know he’s used to angling his head way back to make eye contact.
“Trust me, folks will find a way to pay. What you need to worry about is how to spend their money. You might prefer to run every test in the book, but the best clinicians learn how to play the odds, cut the fat, and get to the answer by the shortest possible route.”
“That’s what worries me,” I say.
As always, Lewis stands way too close for my comfort. I brace for some sort of physical contact. Oh, for a return to the eighties fashion of oversized shoulder pads to buffer these touchy-feely moments.
“You ever play Clue as a kid?” asks Lewis.
I flash to the classic children’s board game, laid out with the cards and playing pieces on our dining room table, Mom sitting opposite. Did my father ever join us?
“Of course.”
“Good. And I’m betting not once did you give up and open the black envelope because you couldn’t wait to know whodunit?”
My silence gives him my answer, and there it is, the hand squeeze to the shoulder.
“Cyrus, you’re blessed with an amazing clinical memory, remarkable, if bizarre, observational skills, and okay, your logic can be a little eccentric at times, but start playing this new game and, while you’re at it, enjoy yourself.”
I try to twist my lips into something approaching a smile.
“Hey, I meant to tell you, I had a visit from Mr. Guy Dorkin of Healthy Paws yesterday.”
“Yes, Doris told me.”
Silly me, of course she did.
“She also mentioned you had a phone call from an irate Dr. Honey. You know this woman is speaking in Eden Falls this coming Saturday?”
Hmm, now that’s interesting. No doubt Ethel Silverman will have informed Doris that I was spotted in the diner last night with another woman. However, the fact that I am not being directly linked to Dr. Honey suggests Ethel did not know who she was.
“I do, and I did. I met Doc Honey for coffee last night. Turns out she was put up to the phone call by Dorkin, for losing a case to Bedside Manor. But I don’t think she’s a bad person.”
“Ah, that’s who you were with.”
Of course he heard. This town is way too small.
“Yes, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep that between us.”
Lewis narrows his sage gray eyes.
“Would that have anything to do with a certain waitress at the diner?”
“It would have to do with a desire for a measure of basic privacy. If you must know, I was tricked into a rendezvous. Long story. But I thought meeting Dr. Honey might provide valuable insight into what makes Healthy Paws tick and how we can overcome their assault.”
“Wait up, why would Doc Honey reveal their secrets to the enemy?”
“Valid question,” I reply, “but it’ll have to keep. Did you know they have hidden cameras in their exam rooms?”
“Yes. They claim it ensures optimal customer service. What it ensures is that every vet follows the script, maximizes every billable opportunity. Big Brother is watching your every move so if you try to give a client a break, cut a diagnostic corner, you’re busted on candid camera.”
“That’s unbelievable. And what’s with this noncompete clause?”
Lewis rocks his head side to side. “Sadly all too common these days, but less so in a rural community like ours. Did she mention the range and the time?”
“No,” I reply, not sure what he’s referring to.
“Usually two years and thirty miles. Regardless of whether she gets fired or leaves voluntarily, the clause intends to prevent her working as a vet for two years within a thirty-mile radius of Healthy Paws in Patton.”
“Wait. What if you’ve got kids in a school system? What if your spouse has a job nearby?
What about the mortgage on your house?”
“Unless you’ve put an awful lot of money aside, time to sell what you can and ship out.”
“Wow, that sounds harsh.”
“That sound is the juggernaut of corporate veterinary medicine, more than happy to mow you down. What else did your Deep Throat share?”
I flash to All the President’s Men. Follow the money.
“That’s a work in progress.”
Lewis furrows his bushy brows. “My advice is to be careful. Dr. Honey may be finding out more from you than you from her. Remember, she works for Dorkin, and Dorkin plays dirty. If Bedside Manor’s going to survive, we might have to get down in the dirt as well.”
“What are you saying?”
“That kid, the computer whiz from the other night? Perhaps he could hack into a certain computer system that tells people how to act like a veterinarian.”
“That’s got to be illegal.”
“Cyrus, I’m seventy-three years old, and as far as I’m concerned something is only illegal if you get caught.”
I straighten up and blow out a disapproving breath.
“Hey, I’m floating ideas here,” says Lewis. “Ignore me. You getting anywhere with Ermintrude the cow?”
There’s a moment when I think about sharing my suspicions about the diagnosis from hell. But although it’s based on some troubling evidence, it’s still circumstantial. Until I build a better case, I’d just be fear mongering.
“Still working on it,” I say. “You got other cases to see?”
“Unfortunately,” Lewis replies. “Don’t suppose you could pick up one or two of mine? The wife’s seeing a doctor at noon, and I’d like to be there.”
“Sure,” I say, “happy to. How is Mrs. Lewis?”
Lewis smiles the smile of a man whose love for his wife hasn’t wavered in over fifty years.
“She’s good. Told her all about you. Perhaps you could visit sometime. Bring Amy.”
And with that he disappears back into the exam room, the throwaway line a carefully lobbed grenade, his passive-aggressive way of saying, “Sort out whatever’s going on between you and Amy and make it right.” Even if I know how, I wonder if I’ll get the chance. It’s quite possible my date with Doc Honey has turned her into Miss Scarlet, intent on killing me with the lead pipe.