by Nick Trout
“HERE, DR. MILLS. Dr. Lewis told me you wanted to help him out, so I picked this case especially for you.”
Doris smiles as she hands over the file, a smile borne of genuine pleasure. It’s unnerving. I must be walking into a trap.
“Henry,” I call, keeping a wary eye on Doris.
“Over here,” says a man with a full head of white hair so curly it reminds me of Shirley Temple in Heidi. The man’s beard is just as white, but the length more Hemingway than Santa. Still, he’s packing enough pounds to make some extra money during the holiday season.
“You must be the new one. Heard about you. I’m George Simms; Henry’s in the carrier.”
George pumps my hand, and once again I make my apologies for using the work area instead of our “other” exam room that still bears a striking resemblance to a storage closet.
“Haven’t seen you at the Inn yet.”
“The Inn?”
“The Inn at Falls View. I own the place,” says George. “Stop by, have a welcome drink on the house. And Chef’s great. Though I leave him to it. I’m more comfortable with the bar and the front desk. Make sure our guests are happy. Should I let him out?”
“Sure.”
George places the carrier on the floor, undoes the latch, and a miniature black panther yawns, stretches, and leaps onto a counter next to him.
“See the problem?” asks George.
“Can I assume it’s the pink lesion on the tip of his nose?”
“Lesion.” George grins. “If by lesion you mean the hideous deformity masking Henry’s handsome features, then yes.”
Henry has his back to me, tail up, busy investigating this new landscape. Finally, a problem I can solve, a physical abnormality I can see, touch, define, and treat.
“How long has he had it?” I ask.
“Months.”
“Really?”
“Saw your father about it several times, Doc Lewis as well. Still growing. Getting bigger and uglier every day.”
“Let’s back up a little. Henry’s what, an indoor cat?”
“Indoor and outdoor. Twelve years old and still a great mouser. Not a rodent on our premises, though he does have an annoying habit of bringing back his kills and leaving them on the doormat.”
I watch as Henry leaps over a sink and discovers the microscope with much cautious sniffing and the occasional lick.
“And what’s he been treated with?”
“We’ve tried creams, pills, and injections. Antibiotics, antifungals, steroids. Nothing’s touched it.”
We’re having this conversation, but we’re not looking at one another. We’re both tracking the black cat with our eyes like he’s an inquisitive toddler, disaster imminent.
“Has it been biopsied? If it’s a tumor, I wouldn’t expect any of those treatments to make much of a difference.”
George chuckles. Definitely a Santa, he’s got the “ho ho ho” down pat. “I’ll be honest, Doc. Henry has certain… issues, when it comes to veterinarians.”
And suddenly all I can see is Doris’s nicotine-stained smile.
“Henry’s smart, and he can tell the difference between being petted and being examined.”
Henry begins swatting at a box of lens tissues, and I notice his paws.
“I see he’s polydactyl. His paws. Extra toes.” It’s a genetic mutation. Normal cats have eighteen toes. Polydactyl cats can have as many as twenty-seven.
“That’s right,” says George. “I believe Hemingway was a big fan.”
“Yes, sir.”
Maybe George does prefer to impersonate a certain author from Key West.
“Well, I appreciate the warning,” I say, picking up a clean towel, “but I’m pretty sure I can handle a kitty cat, even one with extra toes. If I wrap him up, swaddle him nice and snug, I’ll be able to take a closer look.”
“You’re the professional,” says George, stepping back as I unfurl my makeshift cape, ready to bring it on. “Only don’t look directly in his eyes.”
I do a double take. “Why not?”
“Just don’t, is all.”
Could be tricky, I think, given the location of Henry’s problem on the tip of his nose.
Henry remains perched next to the microscope, grooming his neck in long, languorous licks, the barbs of his pink tongue catching in his fur. He seems totally unfazed until I close the distance between us to less than ten feet. That’s when the grooming stops. I look back at George.
“What are you doing?”
He’s zooming in with his cell phone, filming my examination. “Never know, might make you famous on YouTube. Go on, get in the frame.”
Rather than lunging at Henry head-on, I come in at a tangent from his right side.
Male cats are more often left pawed, just like more men are left-handed.
Five feet away and the cat’s ears begin to flatten.
Thirty-two muscles control the feline outer ear, whereas only six control the human’s.
Using an oblique glance, I can see the lesion—fleshy pink, moist, and bulbous. It’s as though the cat’s wearing a red clown nose to impersonate Rudolph.
“Should exfoliate nicely,” I whisper, inching forward.
“Exfoliate?”
Will I ever learn to stick with layspeak?
“If I can touch a microscope slide to his nose, I guarantee some of the cells from the lump will stick to the glass and I’ll be able to make a diagnosis.”
“Can’t wait,” says George, for all the wrong reasons.
This is it. This is the point at which I must commit to the capture and restraint of the mutant beast. In my left hand I brandish the towel like a net. My right hand is ready to lunge, to scruff the back of Henry’s neck, evoke memories of kittenhood, the sense of submission, of being carried around by his mother.
What follows is brief and noisy, but I’m the one screaming, not Henry. Though I’ve always thought I possessed quick, if not catlike, reflexes, it takes a feline to prove my reactions are pathetically slow. Henry nails me with a swat I sense rather than see, the pain of claws piercing flesh delayed until I stagger backward, a towel pressed into the bloody scratches on my forearm.
“You were lucky,” says George, switching off his phone, his tone disappointed. “Didn’t get you with his teeth.”
I huff. “More than one way to skin a cat,” I say, washing my wounds in antiseptic solution. “Time for a little chemical restraint.”
George comes at me, suddenly animated, waving his palms in my face. “Sorry, Doc. No can do. Henry’s got a heart condition. Doc Cobb tried to knock him out one time and nearly lost him. Scared me to death.”
“There’s always a risk with anesthesia, Mr. Simms, but based on this display I’m not sure we have a choice.”
George sighs, studies the floor, and smooths down his beard. “To be honest, I brought him in today to give you, or should I say Bedside Manor, one last chance. In case you knew what it was just by looking at it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“See, I was thinking of going over to that big practice in Patton. I told them about Henry and how he might need sedation or anesthesia, and they promised me he’d be fine. Said they’ve got these fancy monitoring devices, use them to anesthetize cats older than Henry all the time. You don’t have anything like that here, right?”
“No, but… they promised, eh?”
George fidgets, refuses to meet my eye. “Look, I’ve always been loyal to Bedside Manor, but I’ve got to do what’s best for Henry. Could you give me a referral?”
I finish drying off my arms, but the scratches continue to weep tiny tears of blood. Will Healthy Paws stop at nothing to increase their caseload? As far as I’m concerned the doctor who says he never makes mistakes is either lying or an impostor. And the doctor who promises something more than to do his or her best is asking for trouble.
“Here’s what I’ll give you, George—my promise that I’ll diagnose Henry’s problem without resor
ting to sedation or anesthesia.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“No idea,” I say, more angry than defiant. “But my promise is just as valid as theirs.”
George waits a beat, tips his head back. “Tell you what, I’ll give you to the end of the week. No diagnosis and I’m taking Henry to Healthy Paws, referral or not.”
And with that, St. Nicholas scoops Henry into his arms, deposits the cat in front of the open door of his carrier, and, after a moment of consideration, Henry chooses to stroll inside and lie down.
“Deal,” I say, shaking his hand and leading him back into the waiting room, just as there’s a strange trilling sensation in my pants. It’s my cell phone; not a call, but a text.
Hey, want to get together this afternoon? Take me on a date?
Panic might have set in if the text had been sent from Doc Honey. Instead I succumb to shock—it’s from Amy.
9
THOUGHT YOU MIGHT APPRECIATE SOMEWHERE A little quieter,” says Amy as I hold open the door to the so-called Scoop-Shack. “January in Vermont; won’t get much quieter than an ice cream shop.”
We step inside one of those new buildings on the Garvey estate—half a dozen plastic tables and chairs sit empty, hedged in by glass-fronted refrigerators displaying assorted quarts and pints of sorbet, gelato, frozen yogurt, and ice cream. There’s the sweet tang of vanilla in the air and the cheery flamingo pink and azure blue paint job does its best to help me forget the season. Finally we’re alone, without distractions, and all is right with the world.
Amy takes off her scarf and unzips her jacket. “If we’re frozen on the outside, might as well try on the inside, yeah? Oh, and if anyone asks, I was never here.”
Is she embarrassed to be with me?
“What, you think this just happens? My trainer would kill me.”
Amy drags the back of the tips of her fingers down the contours of her hips and thighs, showing off her figure, the defiance in her heterochromic eyes tempered by the flash of a smile.
“Flavors on the left, fixings on the right,” she says, pointing to a chalkboard behind the main counter. “Ignore the politically correct lingo—small batch, fresh, organic—who cares, this place makes the best ice cream sundae you will ever eat.”
“I remember. Can’t believe they’re still open year-round. Maybe you could grab us a table and I’ll see what I can rustle up.”
“Cookie dough, hot fudge, nuts, but hold the whipped cream and the cherry.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, guided by a big white pointy finger and a sign that reads ORDER HERE. There’s no one behind the counter, but there is a small brass bell next to the till, the words “ring me” taped to the handle, Alice in Wonderland style. I ring, and from somewhere out back an old woman wearing tortoiseshell glasses, a red felt beret, and black fingerless gloves appears. Ringlets of long gray hair spill around her ears; cavernous laugh lines frame a wide mouth. Her chin may be free of the Kirk Douglas dimple, but she’s not fooling me. The genes in this family are as strong as they are distinctive. This has to be the matriarch of the family—the original Mrs. Mike Garvey.
“Yes, dear.”
I place our order (I’m going with chocolate chip, and yes to the whipped cream) and watch as Mrs. Garvey flexes her Popeye forearms.
“You sort out Ermintrude?” she asks, head down, scooping away at the fluffy innards of a stainless steel container. “Saw you out back with Mike and Doc Lewis the other day.”
Silly me. Apparently no introduction needed.
“Not yet.” But then, thinking about the tragic case of their Jersey cow, “Maybe you can help? Don’t suppose you remember where Ermintrude came from?”
“Of course. She was born here. We imported her mother, Clover, from a farm in Canada.”
Since Eden Falls is less than twenty miles from the Canadian border, “importing” livestock is just a technicality.
“Clover lived to be fourteen.”
“Not a bad age,” I say.
“No… but now that I think about it, she started acting strange as well. Nuts on both, right?”
“Right. How do you mean, strange?”
“Mike would know better than me, but… jumpy… ornery. Your father put her out of her misery.”
Note to self: check with Doris and see if the late Doc Cobb kept records on Garvey’s livestock.
“Do you happen to know if he performed a postmortem?”
“Yes, I do, and no, he didn’t,” she says, almost sounding offended. “My late husband butchered her himself. Trust me, nothing went to waste. Nothing. There you go.”
Mrs. Garvey buries a plastic spoon in the heart of each sundae and slides the cups my way.
For a second I totally ignore her, lost to bullet points of this new information—Canada; offspring; nothing went to waste. Sadly, the checks keep filling the boxes for my dire diagnosis.
“Did Clover have any other calves?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, telling me how much I owe her.
What if Clover is patient zero?
Distracted, I root around in my pockets for cash and pull out the voucher Charlie Brown gave me—buy nine sundaes get one free.
“This any good?” I ask, sliding it over, followed by a five-dollar bill.
“Certainly,” says Mrs. Garvey. “You a friend of Charlie Brown?”
“How did you know that?”
She lets her chin rock back into the fatty wattle of her neck. “This time of year, not many folks fill up one of these cards. Charlie’s in here pretty much every day after school. I’ve tried to push the low-fat yogurt, but she won’t listen. Too bad. Lovely girl. Here’s your change.”
I take it, but drop the coins into the tip jar. Charlie Brown, a pretty but sad teenager finding solace in ice cream. Struggling to deal with her parents’ divorce? Is she overweight because her mother wants to abandon her, or does Doc Honey want to abandon her because she’s overweight?
“Thanks,” I say, picking up the cups and heading for Amy. Then a scary thought crosses my mind and I turn back. “When you said nothing goes to waste, you didn’t mean that you actually”—I want to say “ate” but instead go with—“consumed your cow Clover?”
“Sure did. Burgers, steaks, roasts, you name it. A little on the tough side, but nothing a slow cooker can’t tenderize.”
“Got it,” I say, but I’m not thinking about farm life and tough times and making the most of what you have. I’m thinking about Trey, Mike Garvey III, and this improbable but irrefutable link to Ermintrude.
“You took your time. Has my sundae turned into a frappé?”
“Sorry, just chatting with Mrs. Garvey is all.”
“Ah, the overpowering allure of another older woman?” she says, taking her first swallow, savoring the moment before eyeing me (blue eye only). Another? Why do I feel as though this might be a reference to Doc Honey?
“No, the Garveys asked me to help them out with a sick cow.”
Amy’s right, this sundae is unbelievable.
“Farm work? Wow, Bedside Manor is in trouble.”
I swallow my mouthful too fast and wince with the brain freeze.
“Left alone, I think we’ve got a chance. But right now our problem is the competition.”
“Healthy Paws? Their practice name is almost as bad as yours.”
She scoops another spoonful of frozen heaven into her mouth. I catch myself staring.
“That guy you pointed out the other night,” I say. “Their office manager, Dorkin, you know much about him?”
“The guy with the freaky laugh?”
“Yeah, like a cross between a hyena and a braying donkey.”
“More like a braying ass. He dropped by the diner a couple of times a few weeks before your father died.”
That must have been when Dorkin was badgering the old man to sell the practice.
“Totally self-absorbed.”
“How so?”
“The clothes. T
he car. The tips. This one time, he claimed he had a lecture to give at some conference in Vegas, wondered if I wanted to join him for the weekend.”
I try not to imagine Dorkin’s paintbrush whiskers tickling Amy’s rosebud lips, but she’s already read my agitated features.
“Please, give me some credit. He’s like a seventies porn star.”
Just then the door swings open and in walks Trey, ignoring the floor mat, work boots stomping a slushy trail toward the counter. Amazing, he’s still wearing his Cool Hand Luke sunglasses.
“Ma,” he screams. “You back there? Ma?”
Grandma Garvey hurries over as best she can, and Trey, clearly aware he’s not alone, frantically urges her to come close so he can whisper.
“Does Trey always wear those glasses?” I ask, keeping my voice down.
“No idea,” says Amy, leaning in. She’s close enough for me to smell the soap on her long, pale neck—lavender. “He’s always been, well, different. The mirror sunglasses only add to his mystique. Probably wears them to make you focus on your own reflection and not him.”
My spoon hovers in front of my parted lips. Focus on your own reflection and not him.
“What?”
I want to kiss her (even more). “You’ve given me a fantastic idea.” I push back in my chair and make to rise. “Just need to find out where he got them.”
“Sit. I can tell you. Fancies Convenience Store, this side of the diner. Got a rack full up front near the checkout. Five bucks a pop, but I’m guessing no need to rush. Pretty sure they’ve only sold one pair.”
Amy angles her head back toward Trey.
“Good to know,” I say, settling back down.
“That’s it? No explanation?”
I smile and scrape my spoon around the inside of my cup, trying to capture every last dreg.
Amy holds her own spoon upside down on her tongue for a second, biding her time. “My friend Mary called. Tells me she brought Gilligan in to see you.”