Ask Bob: A Novel

by Peter Gethers

  Anna got the next job offer. A design firm in Tulsa, Oklahoma, wanted her to start immediately. I did my best to smile and be supportive, but the invisible thought balloons floating above my head filled with images of cattle and buffaloes requiring urgent veterinary treatment and women in floral stretch pants trying to get me to sign on to a committee to make automatic weapons mandatory in every American household. I had a difficult time pretending that this was a future I could get excited about. Fortunately, Anna turned that job down as quickly as I’d rejected Miami, Ohio.

  My father told me what a mistake we were making. “You go where the work is,” he said. My mother sided with him. “What, she can’t be close to her family? What kind of way is that to live? You’re acting young and stupid. Call them back and take the job in Ohio. She’ll get used to it.”

  The only person who told me we were doing the right thing was Ted, which made my knees quiver. For some reason, he’d taken to calling me once or twice a week, starting four or five months after we’d left L.A. I knew something was wrong. At thirty-two, Ted was floundering. Life had begun to move too quickly for him; he didn’t seem able to leap aboard and be a real part of it. It was clear that I was suddenly some kind of lifeline. He was trying to reach back into the past, but the past was no longer much of a tether between us, so I kept things as superficial as possible. That was easy, because with Ted any attempt at digging beneath the surface was dangerous. (Think Laurence Olivier and Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man with Ted’s psyche the fresh, raw nerve in Hoffman’s tooth.) So whenever I asked a question, which was rarely, I never pushed for real answers because I knew Ted was never going to give me real answers. Keeping things superficial was easier than severing the relationship; it avoided family arguments and rifts and lectures and taking sides and lots of hurt feelings. On the other hand, it meant he was still a part of my life, and that made me uneasy. It was like building a house on a fault line. At any moment, the beams and rafters could start to shake and serious damage could be done.

  Anna and I, meanwhile, were certain that the good life was tantalizingly close. The perfect opportunity was just around the corner—we just needed to hold out a little longer. Sometimes, late at night, in bed and wrapped in each other’s arms, we would confess our fears that we’d spend the rest of our lives broke, homeless, and with fewer job opportunities than George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life. But mostly we were excited, and in our mid-twenties, excitement—even if it included the possibility that we could fall off a cliff—was what we wanted. We didn’t want to settle. We didn’t want a routine existence. We didn’t want to be real grown-ups yet. But we both knew that when the call came, we’d be ready.

  Let’s face it: Sometimes it pays to be young and stupid. A month after we rejected the two less-than-perfect jobs in favor of the unknown, I got a call from a vet I’d met at Cornell when she’d guest lectured at the veterinary school. Her name—I swear to god—was Dr. Marjorie Paws. She was sixty-eight years old and had a private practice in New York City, in the West Village. Her specialty was retinal degeneration in dogs, but she was as pure an old-fashioned generalist as I’d ever met. She could talk for hours—and did!—about the skin texture of cats (their skin is one-sixteenth of an inch thick, less than half the thickness of a dog’s skin, thus making them far more susceptible to burns and abrasions from collars). She’d made a nearly lifelong study of cat litter and the deadly ingredients in processed pet food and the connection between tooth decay and diseases of the immune system in various species.

  I’d been assigned to look after her during her three-day visit to Cornell—drive her around, take her to and from the lecture hall, show her around campus. On the second night, she invited me to dinner and we split a bottle of white wine (this after she’d downed two double scotches on her own) and talked until well after midnight. I told her all about Anna and described exactly what sort of career I imagined for myself; she was so warm and disarming that she made me feel I could be completely open with her. And she was just as open in return. She’d never married, but she told me about several romances (some old, some recent) and regaled me with stories about her patients (the people as well as the animals) and her life in Greenwich Village.

  Marjorie had grown up in Hungary and still had a slight Hungarian accent, even though she’d come to Brooklyn when she was ten. She was about five feet tall and rather squat, with wrinkled skin. She wore garish gold jewelry, and her teeth were yellow from years of smoking. What made her my hero, though, was that she spent a big chunk of her income on season tickets to the Knicks. By the end of the night, I’d practically fallen in love with a woman more than forty years my senior and about half my height. She was smart and charming and, except for the nicotine-stained teeth, she had pretty much led the life I was hoping to lead for the next half a century or so.

  I hadn’t seen Marjorie after that night, nor had I thought much about her. But one afternoon, as Anna and I were eating a late lunch—grilled cheese sandwiches, which was as gourmet as Anna got—I answered the phone and heard Dr. Paws’s gravelly voice.

  “Heller,” she said. During her visit to Cornell, she had only called me by my last name, so I knew exactly who it was.

  “Dr. Paws. How great is this, hearing from you?”

  Anna snorted and iced tea almost came out of her nose. I’d told her about my evening with this wonderful woman, and though she appreciated my enthusiasm, her own excitement was overwhelmed by how funny she thought the name Paws was.

  “Yes, it’s nice talking to you too. I got your phone number from the university. Why are you home in the middle of the day?”

  “Because I’m having lunch. And ’cause it’s better than all the other places I could be, I guess.”

  “And what are those other places?”

  “You know—the racetrack, an opium den, Republican headquarters…”

  “You’re not working?”

  “No. Well, I had an offer but…” I thought about explaining the problem with Miami, Ohio, and decided against it.

  “Would you like to be working or are you happy just staying home? And why are you having lunch at three in the afternoon?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I know about working. I don’t know about lunch. We just weren’t hungry until now. But I’d definitely rather be working than eating a grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “I thought you loved my grilled cheese sandwiches,” Anna said. I waved at her to pipe down.

  “Would you like to be working in New York, Heller?”

  I froze, afraid to answer. I had the distinct feeling that if I moved or said the word “yes,” she’d start laughing and hang up.

  “Are you there, Heller?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you nodding?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, it’s very hard to actually see nodding over the phone, but I imagine you’re a little excited at the idea of working with me.”

  I nodded again.

  “Are you nodding again?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s the deal. I want you to come to New York and be my junior partner. I don’t want to work so hard anymore. I’ll still work hard, just not so hard. You’ll do all the things I don’t want to do, especially in all the shitty hours when I don’t want to do them. Do you understand?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I can teach you everything I know, and you can try to make me laugh on occasion.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did I tell you I own the building where my practice is?”

  “You did.”

  “I live above the practice. In this beautiful apartment. Very spacious. Beautiful fireplace. It’s a brownstone, and I live on the second and third floors. An outside stairway leads down to a beautiful garden.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It is. There’s also a lovely two-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor. Not fancy but very charming. I rent it out. It pays for almost half the cost of
the entire building.”

  “That sounds nice, too.”

  “Oh, it is. It’s all superb. Except for a shitty little one-bedroom apartment on the top floor. If this were Paris, it’d be a chambre de service. Or maybe even a garret. But whatever it is, it’s small and shitty. But it’s also free. That’s where you and Anna will live. Her name is Anna, correct?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Anna.”

  Anna looked up at the sound of her name but remained silent. She knew something momentous was happening, but she didn’t want to break the spell by speaking or making any sudden movement.

  “Are you almost finished with your grilled cheese sandwich, Heller?”

  “I’m done.”

  “So what do you have to say?”

  “First … well … oh my god, does this sound good.”

  “And is there a second?”

  “Kind of. I mean, not really.”

  “I’m already learning that in Heller language that means yes. So go ahead. You can ask me whatever you want.”

  “Why me? How do you know I’m good enough?”

  “Because you drink very well and you’re an excellent driver. And I did do my homework. You come highly recommended. You were right to turn down Ohio. This will be much more fun.”

  “What? How’d you know about Ohio?”

  “Heller,” she said. “It’s a small world, the world of dogs and cats and hamsters. We know what’s out there and who’s out there. And I also know you’re drawn to my holistic, naturopathic approach, and you’d be surprised how many people think I’m … how should I put it…”

  “A kook?”

  “No, that’s a little too harsh, but thank you very much. I would say ‘outside the mainstream.’”

  “That’s a better way of putting it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t you want to, you know, test me out or anything?”

  “Oh yes, good thinking. Let’s discuss hip dysplasia.”

  “Right now? On the phone?”

  “What better time? Unless you have to make yourself another grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “No, no. Now is fine.”

  “How about Anna? Does she need another sandwich?”

  “No, she’s fine. She’s eating some ice cream now.”

  Anna cocked her head, mouthing the words “What the hell?” Then she whispered, “Tell her it’s chocolate chip.”

  “Anna says to tell you she’s eating chocolate chip ice cream.”

  “Excellent choice. Mint or plain?”

  “Mint or plain?” I asked.

  “Plain,” Anna said, and I relayed the information into the receiver.

  “Ah,” Marjorie Paws said. “Not quite as good. But still good. So what are the symptoms of hip dysplasia? What would you look for?”

  “A reluctance to walk up stairs, difficulty standing up, discomfort while walking or running.”

  “Are those certain indications of dysplasia?”

  “No. It could be other degenerative diseases. Even Lyme disease.”

  “So what’s the first step?”

  “A radiographic diagnosis.”

  “And conventional medicine would treat it how?”

  “Conventional medicine says it can’t be prevented and its degeneration can’t be halted. So they use painkillers to treat the symptoms of inflammation and pain, and surgery to change the angular dynamics of the joint. Maybe even a full hip or socket replacement.”

  “And if one were to avoid that conventional treatment?”

  “Um…”

  “How about a bio-nutritional analysis?”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well … that would allow us to see all of the dog’s imbalances, not just his hip condition. In a lot of hip-dysplastic dogs there are imbalances in the pituitary gland in the brain, which controls growth factors in the body. There’s usually a need for adrenal support, too.”

  “What supplements would you prescribe?”

  “Potentially AR-Ease for arthritic symptons, Cosequin, chondroitin sulfate…”

  “That’s enough.”

  “There are other things that can be done.”

  “I know. I mean, that’s all I have to hear. When can you start?”

  “When do you want me to start?”

  “I’ll have the shitty little apartment cleaned out in two days. And I’ll repaint, just because I’m so good-hearted.”

  “What happened to the person who was working for you up till now?”

  “He went to Ohio. Took the job you turned down. I think the poor guy actually thought he was on his way to South Beach. By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late.”

  * * *

  So Anna and I went to New York, which was where we both wanted to wind up. We were thrilled that we didn’t have to spend years working our way there. Thanks to my ability to drive slowly and safely, coupled with my talent for drinking with elderly female veterinarians, we were suddenly heading for our dream destination.

  New York had always been my ideal city. I used to love coming to visit my dad when I was a small boy, and I still get a tingling sensation at the memory of seeing the skaters in Rockefeller Center and being overwhelmed by the size of the movie screen at Radio City. Later, visiting Ted, I delighted in all the things most people complain about when they bash the city: the heat, the congestion, the honking cars, the rude waiters. I never failed to feel the electricity when I stepped out onto the streets of Manhattan, and I grew up thinking of it as a kind of paradisaical haven that would safeguard me from the boredom of normal life. I don’t think Anna had quite the degree of faith I had in the city, but she, too, aspired to be worthy of it. It is, for a certain kind of person, the ultimate testing ground, and we were both eager to put ourselves to the test.

  The fifth-floor garret in Marjorie Paws’s brownstone was as small as Marjorie had said it was, but not nearly as awful. In fact, it was wonderful—charming and in a perfect location on Greenwich Avenue. Right below us lived Florence and Isaac Schmidt, Marjorie’s tenants. In their early sixties, the Schmidts were exceedingly nice and kept to themselves. Our first day in the building they knocked on our door, welcomed us, and Florence said, “Feel free to borrow anything you want or ask if you need anything. Other than that, you’ll probably never see us unless we bump into you in the stairway.” Isaac added, “We’re extremely friendly, but we have plenty of friends and have no desire to make new ones.” I immediately fell in love with them.

  Marjorie lived below them. Well, she actually lived and slept in the second-floor apartment, which was orderly, comfortable, and inviting, especially the lovely garden, which she tended fanatically, and the outdoor patio. She also had the third-floor apartment, but she didn’t exactly live in it. It was part office, part research lab, and part storeroom; it also served as a guest room for the occasional relative, out-of-town friend, and anyone who seemed to need shelter for the night. There were papers everywhere, and odd pieces of furniture positioned in apparently random order. There were framed photos of people I’m not sure even she could identify, odd bric-a-brac she’d bought over the years at flea markets, and New York Knicks paraphernalia on the walls and the fireplace mantel and draped over couches. Marjorie used a Walt Frazier jersey as a throw on her favorite easy chair; I would often find her sitting there in the evenings with her reading glasses on, cloaked by an orange-and-blue number 10, perusing various causes of canine gingivitis or feline renal disorder.

  To the left of our building stood a pizza parlor, and the aroma of baking sauce, cheese, and dough wafted up to our windows day and night. To our right was another residential brownstone, this one with a small store on the ground floor providing computer services to the technologically incompetent. One of the two guys who ran the place had more acne than I’d ever seen on a human being over the age of sixteen. The other one had body hair of early caveman proportions. They were both very spacey and even nicer than they wer
e spacey, and it didn’t take long for Anna to get them to agree to take in deliveries for us when the clinic was closed (their working hours seemed to be approximately twenty-four hours a day). In exchange for that great convenience, I said I’d treat their pets for free; they didn’t have any pets but they assured me they’d take me up on my offer if and when they ever took the plunge. Anna responded by offering to design and decorate their office, which looked like a dumping ground for anything computer-, phone-, or electronic-related. They looked at Anna as if she were a madwoman—and made it clear they thought their tiny, gadget-filled space was as Eden-like as one could get in this life.

  Anna and I got settled quickly. Within days we came to understand that Marjorie was not only the perfect landlord, she was also the perfect boss and a completely delightful person. She and Anna became very close; I became her friend and disciple. Some people might have wanted more of a separation between work and home, but I never did. I didn’t think there was a separation between the two.

  My first week at the clinic, someone brought in a kitten that had been put in a shopping bag and left in the street. The bag had been tied with ribbon so the kitten could breathe but not get out. Marjorie was in the process of posting a sign saying, FOUND: INCREDIBLY CUTE KITTEN. WHO WANTS HIM? when I stopped her. At first she didn’t say anything; instead, she just watched me as I eyed the cat, who was orange and white and scruffy and meowing his head off.

  “We get a lot of these,” she said. “We get three-legged dogs and cats people have tried to drown. We once got a Vietnamese pig that some asshole tried to sell to a restaurant in Chinatown, figuring they could stick it on the grill and make it disappear. You can’t take them all in.”

  “How many have you taken in?” I asked.