by Bruce Jones
Richard’s mouth opened in a silent O as if trying to form words. “…something about…about…”
…Yap-yap!…
Richard scratched absently at his itching bald spot. “Oh shit…”
“What?” from Maser. “We all know about your bald spot.”
“Maze, it was a dog. The thing was a dog, I’m sure of it!”
“A dog.”
Richard nodded.
“A talking dog.”
Richard nodded rapidly. “I know it sounds nuts but that’s what it was. And, oh shit, I remember now! It stood there at the foot of my bed all drippy and nasty on its four rotting legs and it said—it asked—“Room for three in there?”
Which caused both of Maser’s brows to go up. “In the bed?”
Richard shrugged, blowing out pent-up breath, looking both relieved and a little exhausted. “I guess. What else?”
Maser sat back.
Blinked.
“Wow. That’s some image, Rich. You and Allie and the devil dog from hell.”
Richard flopped back again in his own chair. “You’re telling me.” He held a hand up eye-level, palm down and flat, scrutinized it. “Look at that—hand’s shaking just thinking about the cocksucker.”
He sat there gazing at his hand a moment with dull fascination, then his eyes snapped over to Maser’s. “So. What now?”
Maser was already turned sideways in his swivel chair, black file cabinet open, bottom drawer pulled, licking his fingers as he flipped through manila folders.
“You know,” Richard smiled sarcasm, “some professional people use these new things called computers…”
“It’s down. Need an updated model anyway.”
“Yeah. They make ‘em that way. Built-in obsolescence. Every six months, like clockwork.”
Maser drew out a yellow folder with a pink plastic filing tab. He stood up. “Now we take your fat little file and your fat little ass over to Topeka General and irradiate your brain.”
Richard groaned, slumping in his chair. “Why do we have to do that, Bobby?”
“Because I’m a highly respected professional with a wall full of credentials and framed sheepskins, and I say so. My opinion happens to be held in great esteem in this town.” Maser snapped his fingers at him. “And give me back my plastic monster. That happens to be a mint condition original.”
* * *
When they were all through with the tests, Richard sat in a different anteroom in a different medical facility; Topeka General this time. They had the best CAT scan in town and Maser didn’t seem to want to wait to drive the hour to Kansas City for a slightly better one, even though his professional status probably could have gotten KCMF to juggle their schedule and get Richard in that very day.
Richard sat there alone now on the ante room’s steel table in his hospital johnnie staring at the squares of linoleum flooring thinking: Jesus, I’m a jerk.
The door opened and Maser came in reading a clipboard as he walked, flipping over pages without looking up, and asked Richard, “How we doin’?”
“Jesus,” Richard told him from atop the steel table, “I’m a jerk.”
Still not looking up from his clipboard, Maser plopped into the single straight back chair against the little anteroom’s west wall and threw out his legs expansively, like he used to do in the old tree house. Not the kind of casual gesture—Richard guessed—he’d use in front of every patient. “Tell us something we don’t know,” Maser quipped, still flipping pages.
“It’s true,” Richard told him. “You broke schedules, didn’t you?”
Maser didn’t look up.
“You broke appointments and messed up your day to take the afternoon and attend to me, right?”
“Juggled a little is all.”
“Bullshit. Juggled a lot.”
“Not a big deal,” Maser sighed.
Richard nodded. “What about the nineteen-year-old blonde, the one with the rack?”
Maser let the papers flutter back in sequence and looked up from the clipboard. “Yeah, well, that one you owe me for. We got problems, bucko.”
Richard had been waiting for it. Was glad it was finally out in the open. “Cancer’s spread to the brain, huh?”
Maser stared at him a moment, then began flipping back through the clipboard sheets as if looking for something he couldn’t find the first time, only Richard got the feeling he had done in more than twice already somewhere else, maybe the lab or his office. “No. Your brain is good. For a moron like you, anyway…”
Richard shrugged from his table. “So, what then?”
Maser studied the clipboard. Too long, it seemed to Richard. “Maze--?”
Maser looked up quickly as if just now aware of Richard’s presence. He had a funny look on his usually unfunny face. “Think we’re going to have to draw blood again.” And he went back to his clipboard.
Richard frowned. “More blood? What’s going on?”
Maser studied the sheets in his hand.
“Hey!”
Maser glanced up with that you-still-here look again.
“Maze, you wanna put down the goddamn clipboard and tell me what’s going on, please?”
After a moment Maser finally did, even stuck the clipboard up on the table with the glass jars of cotton balls and tongue depressors. Above them hung a long plastic chart of the male human’s internal organs. It reminded Richard of that see-through “Visible Man” kit he’d had as a kid--pink and blue plastic guts you could take out and play with. Maser fell back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “I’m not sure,” he said with measured deliberation.
Richard closed his eyes a moment in great patience, making a horse-whinny sound through flubbery lips. “Maze, you can’t tell me anything worse than I already—“
“Hey. Dick-weed. It’s me. When have I ever held back? Huh? Don’t go fucking insulting me, Rich.”
Richard opened his eyes to find his childhood pal looking hurtfully petulant, an expression that made him look young for a moment, even more like the childhood pal he’d known. “Whoa. Easy, Maze. You’re pissed, ole buddy! What is it? What’s the problemo here, ‘Ender?”
Maser stared at him a moment, seemed to regain his composure, then reached into his smock’s breast pocket and pulled out a card and a Bic pen. He began to scribble. “Found some weird shit in your blood. I want you to go over to St. Joseph’s, have them do your blood work there.”
“Bad ‘weird shit.’?”
Maser’s pen froze over the card a moment, then continued jotting. He’s clearly irritated, Richard thought, about something.
“Not bad for you, no.”
“Well, who then?”
“For the staff here if they fucked up like I hope they didn’t.” He shook his head absently, glancing over at the clipboard again. “Doesn’t make sense, really. We’ve used fresh needles here even before the AIDS thing…”
“What doesn’t make sense?”
Maser looked back at Richard, started to say something, stood up instead and handed him the little card. “I’ve already called St. Joseph—they can see you at three—the address is there. Bill Philips is in the same building, one floor down. Good dentist. You’re to see him at three-thirty.”
“You’re sending me to a dentist now!”
“Don’t be late.”
Richard took the card with some ruefulness and a lot of chagrin. “Because he’s squeezing me in, right?”
Maser grabbed the clipboard with an impatient gesture. “He owes me one. More than one.” He turned and opened the door. “Now get dressed and get outta here, I’m sick of looking at your sorry ass.”
“Shit,” Richard remembered suddenly, “I walked over.”
Maser turned back. “You walked? Why, for chrissake?”
Richard shrugged into his shirt. “It was a nice day, okay? Thought I’d get out and smell the fresh air. While I was still above ground to smell it. Jesus, Maze!”
Maser sigh
ed, fishing in his pants pocket. “You really are a gigantic pain in the butt. No wonder Laurie Seasons dumped you…”
“Hey, that’s hitting below the belt.”
Maser threw him a ring of keys. “My Lexus is around back. The silver one in the ‘Doctors Only’ lot. Try and bring it back with all the hubcaps, huh?”
“Thought you guys all drove Cadillacs...”
“Fuck you very much.”
“Listen, Maze—“
But Maser was already starting out the door. “I know--you ‘appreciate it.’ I’m a ‘true friend--a gentleman and a scholar.’ I find any dings in the chassis, Denning, and you’re snail food.”
Richard hitched up his pants smiling, grabbed the keys, and stuck the little card in his pocket.
* * *
He got his new blood test drawn at St. Joseph’s Hospital in only fifteen minutes, and got to Dr. Philips D.D.S. waiting room early. He sat there by the little table piled with out-of-date issues of Dental Health and People and Sports Illustrated and filled out the dental form. He hadn’t gotten around to seeing a dentist since he and Allie had come to Topeka from California and he was overdue anyway.
…nice rationale, Richo—the truth is you didn’t plan on pursuing the act of dental hygiene the moment you discovered the cancer…
True, he told himself, but we wouldn’t want me six feet under in my little pine box with a head full of cavities now, would we? Not when teeth and bone are the only part of this mortal coil we don’t eventually shrug off.
He hesitated when he came to the little box on the form marked INSURANCE.
He had none. Their Writer’s Guild West insurance had lapsed two months ago.
…you gotta actually write a screen or teleplay eventually, hotrod, to earn the insurance for it…
The little that Allie had made so far hawking real estate helped, but she didn’t get on the firm’s insurance for another couple of months, if she managed to keep the job that long. The truth was, they had pretty much let it go. Really brilliant, he thought, skipping the little box with his pencil and moving on down to ANY KNOWN ALLERGIES: almost sixty and without insurance. Should have thought of that before you got the Big C.
Dr. Philips’ dental hygienist—young enough to be Richard’s daughter and clearly aware that they were working Richard in on a moment’s notice--smiled sweetly nonetheless and ushered him into the room and a fat, lounge-like chair and pinned his bib on him and asked him if he’d like anything to read (got anything current? Richard almost asked but, under the circumstances, thought better of it) and promised that Dr. Philips would be with him in just a moment and left him there in the fat lounge chair beside the white porcelain spitting bowl and all the nice shiny, Inquisition-type equipment, little wheels and pulleys and menacing points which promised hours of white knuckle, armrest-clutching fun.
But Dr. Philips, also young enough to be Richard’s heir, entered smiling, looked at Richard’s chart and did not bother with any of the cunning little Medieval torture devices, just using a small silvery mirror and a miniature ice hook. He probed and poked and told Richard what a great doctor Bob Maser was and how he wished he could get him away from the golf course and onto the squash room, and when he had time, Richard should really think about coming in for a good cleaning, there was some tartar build-up on this number two molar and an old crown here that’s beginning to fail, but that Richard had a nice even bite and could thank his lucky genes for that. Finally young Dr. Philips put down his silvery mirror and tiny ice hook and handed Richard a paper cup to wash and spit with and announced, smiling, that Richard was the proud parent of a new tooth.
Richard looked up blank-faced.
It was quiet in the little room except for the swirling gurgle of the porcelain spit bowl.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Dr. Philips smiled.
“At my age? You’re joking. Is this something you and Bobby Maser cooked up?”
Maser clicked off the irritating dental lamp and pushed it from Richard’s grateful eyes and smiled a white smile of carefully nurtured bicuspids, placing his dental tools somewhere behind Richard. “It’s rare but not without precedent. It’s been known to happen. How long since you had your wisdom teeth pulled?”
Richard had to think about it. “Long time. Just after college, I think.”
Maser nodded, unconcerned. “And you did have all four taken out, right?”
“I thought so…”
“Well,” Maser told him, unfastening Richard’s bib and pumping the lounge chair upright again, “you may have to pay for at least one pulling all over again, unless of course this new one comes in at a proper angle and doesn’t crowd its brothers—you’ve got quite a bit of gum area behind that number three so I’d say the odds are about even.”
Richard couldn’t get over it. “But…I mean, aren’t I kind of old to be growing new teeth?”
Philips nodded a shrug, and began scribbling on a prescription pad. “Rare, like I say, but it happens. God works in mysterious ways. We’ll keep an eye on it. Meanwhile,”—he tore off the top sheet and handed it to Richard—“here’s something to numb the birthing pains.” He bent forward in a lowered, conspiratorial voice. “Or the over-the-counter stuff is just as good—and cheaper! Look for oil of cloves at your supermarket pharmacy. Little amber bottle.” He stuck out a hand. “Richard, my pleasure! Got a root canal that won’t wait! Say ‘hi’ to Bob Maser for me, will you?”
Richard thanked him, came round the corner and found there was no charge waiting at the front desk. He thanked the nurse with mild embarrassment and got out of there.
Walking down the medical building hallway past drinking fountain alcoves and other doors with other doctorly names followed by strange letters of credentials, Richard probed his sore gum thoughtfully with his tongue, thinking maybe he actually felt the sharp beginnings of a just-emerging tooth there at the center of the most tender area.
He shook his head in wonder. A new tooth!
“I’ll be frugged,” he said to the empty hallway.
And it occurred to him he’d been using that childhood phrase a lot of late.
SEVEN
When Richard pulled Maser’s Lexus back into its private parking space behind the medical complex he was surprised, upon looking up, to find John Scruge coming out of the double glass doors to the back lot.
“Hey, Scroogie! What’re you doing here?” Richard climbed smiling from behind the Lexus’ leather-wrapped wheel. “Secret meeting of the Deadenders in Maze’s office?”
Scroogie signaled and came across the cooling macadam toward him. The sun was dipping behind the screen of maples at the end of the complex, soon to be pinking the western sky. “Richo m’lad! Jesus! You sell a new book or something?” nodding at the Lexus’s door as Richard slammed it behind him (“Just leave the keys under the visor,” Maser had told him—“and don’t lock me out, dip-shit.”)
“Nah,” Richard said, shaking hands with Scroogie in the parking lot. Shaking hands--something they’d never have done as kids. Punched each other’s arms maybe, a sucker-feint to the gut, but never anything as formal as a handshake, “just borrowing Maser’s ride. Had some blood work done over at Topeka General.”
Scroogie leaned forward with a smile and breathed heavily in Richard’s face, and Richard caught a faint but distinct whiff of gin. He grimaced slightly, unreasonably disappointed. What did he care if Scroogie took a little nip in the afternoon? It was none of his business.
Scroogie eyed him with concern. “What’s wrong with Maser’s lab for blood work?”
Richard shrugged. “I dunno,” not wanting to get into it, “computer glitch? What’re you doing here? Another script for Viagra?”
“Hey, fuck you, the old pencil’s as sharp as ever.” Scroogie slapped his considerable gut. “Even with the excess baggage preceding the runway.”
“So--?”
Scroogie looked mildly chagrinned. “Acid fucking reflux. Believe that shit? And you
know how much I love Mexican food.”
“I know how much you love food period.”
“Yeah, well I gotta lay off the hot stuff for now. The Maze has got me on Nexeum. Is getting old just the shits or what? I mean, is it just the complete shits?”
“The shits it is. Wanna give me a lift home? I walked over here to Maser’s office this morning in a burst of exercise optimism.”
Scroogie’s eyes lit with pleasure. “Great! You can keep me company, I walked too.”
Not what Richard wanted to hear.
He wanted to get home for some reason—put this scalp-itching, new-tooth, weird-blood work day behind him. He wanted a drink. And the company of himself.
But he nodded companionably at his old buddy and they started off across the lot.
Still a nice day, but growing hotter. Probably too hot to make the walk home all that comfortable. His scalp itched. He’d be damned if he’d scratch it.
Off in his own world, Richard didn’t realize how quiet he’d been until Scroogie glanced over at him.
“’—and both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black…’” Scroogie quoted. Richard said nothing. Frost was the last thing on his mind.
“What, Denning? You plotting again? Deep thoughts?”
Richard smiled wryly. He wished. “Scroogie, did you ever own a dog?”
It just sort of popped out. It was what he’d really been thinking about, not his itchy scalp.
“A dog? Yeah, a couple over the years. Labs. Good hunting dogs. Last one died about…I dunno, a while ago, why?”
“No, I mean when we were kids. You didn’t have a dog back when the Enders were running around, did you? I keep thinking—“ but he shook that off quickly, “--anyway, you remember having a dog back then? You or one of the other guys? Used to trail around after us?”
Scroogie seemed to pause, then slowly shook his head as they turned into the alley to Topeka Blvd., but he stopped in mid-shake, brows knitted, to think about it a second. He seemed disturbed.
“Yeah?”