First off, Dr. D was going to be an architect. He went to some fancy design college in Chicago. But when his mama, who he was devoted to, got real sick and died of some kind of lady cancer, he decided to go into medicine. Doc’s a natural born gynecologist. That lady doctor who works with him is for prisspots, like Mary Beth. But for folks like me who would much rather have a man gynecologist, he is happy to oblige. Don’t be gettin no strange notions – Dr. D is professional.
Some thangs I learned about Dr. D: He grew up in New Jersey. They don’t drink sweet tea up yonder. Dr. D is divorced. He was once married to a lady who ran out on him. She wrote him a note sayin how she needed some adventure and left him her dog.
Doc thinks he’s helpin with supper by bringin over kitchen tools. So now I got me a new garlic press, meat thermometer, apple corer, egg timer and a julienne maker (whatever). Stuff like that. I always says thank you, but I don’t have the heart to tell him I won’t never use any of that junk. What I want to say to Dr. D is, Get your sweet buns down to the Sam’s Club, and pick me up a jumbo bag of instant mashed potatoes, a fifty-pack of frozen burgers, and a ten-pound bag of shredded cheddar. Now that would make sense.
Sometimes when we’re sittin around the table talkin, Eleanor sticks her skinny head in the door and looks. If Doc’s in the middle of sayin somethin, he shuts right up sayin what he was sayin and turns to Eleanor in a doctor-like way and says, “Well, hello Eleanor. How have you been feeling lately?”
Eleanor says she’s doing okay and tries to hang out and be a part of what we were doin. She fixes a cup of coffee and tries to look casual and all. She sits down at the table like she’s sayin, I’m cool to hang out with. But Dr. D usually turns toward her like she’s a patient, and he’s waitin to hear her tell what all she’s ailin from so he can write her a prescription. Doc means well, but Eleanor don’t like to be taken like a science project.
The thing I find strangest, Mary Beth don’t never come into the kitchen and chat with me and Doc. And he has plenty of questions about her.
“You need to ask Mary Beth them questions.”
Winslow coughs and pants his way into the house. I can hear him clear from the kitchen. I walk into the livin room and behold him in his tan joggin outfit, sweat rollin down the sides of his face, chokin like he’s fixin to pop a hairball. He holds up a hand and motions for me to hold on till he catches his breath. Then he reaches in his pocket with the other hand and pulls him out a cigarette.
I cross my arms and wait for his coughin to die out. Then he lights up. Mary Beth don’t like people smokin in the house, but I ain’t the smoke police.
“You better quit that before you have a heart attack.”
He takes a drag and shakes his head.
“I ain’t talkin about smokin. Quit that joggin.”
“I need to do it,” he says after blowin out smoke. ”Keeps my heart and lungs strong.”
“Hmpf. Smokin and exercise don’t mix.”
“Actually, Mavis, you ought to seriously think about going out for a jog yourself.”
“I suspect you’re thinkin more about how my girls here would look bobbin up and down in a tank top than my general health.”
“It would be a pleasure to have a jogging buddy,” says Winslow. “Especially an attractive older woman like yourself.”
“Older woman, my ass,” I says ”I ain’t got but fifteen years on you.”
Winslow laughs and jerks into another fit of coughin.
Most everyone is startin to trickle in the house for the sharin time. The ones that didn’t come for supper is settlin themselves down, includin Doyle.
Doyle! It’s his first time, and he just sorta slipped in without anybody seein him. But here he is, lookin like he’s gettin ready to do somethin otherworldly. I’ve only met the man one single time in my life, but I feel like he’s one of the most unusual people I’ve ever met. If he had him a fan club, like Michael Bublé, I’d be his biggest fan.
I says, “Why Doyle Stubb, you sly thang. How’d you get past the security?” I point at Floyd, who’s prancin around the inside of the circle gettin friendly with everyone. It’s a joke about Floyd being security.
Doyle smiles with his tiny lips and looks at me real cheerful outta the good eye and says, “Perhaps the dog is more selective than you think.”
I swear, that man is cool as all get-out.
“Doyle, what do you mean by selective?”
“Have you ever seen the dog shy away from anyone?” he asks.
“Come to think of it, Floyd won’t go near Manchild. What are you gettin at? Floyd reads people like you read them groceries?”
“Dogs are quite different. Their animal instincts work constantly, which humans, although we possess them, don’t normally allow to operate.”
“So you think Floyd’s got ESP?”
Everybody, except Mary Beth, who’s in the kitchen, quits talkin and listens to Doyle.
“When I approach a home,” says Doyle, slowly movin his hands like he’s touchin an invisible wall, “I prepare myself for the possible presence of an animal by letting my defenses down and opening my senses up to them.”
Now he’s usin his hands to stir the air, and he’s sniffin like he’s a hound dog, his mustache twitchin.
“Your Floyd accepted my spirit and was immediately aware I was no threat to his home.”
“You can do that stuff, Floyd?” I says, lookin at Floyd like he’s a real genius.
Floyd chews his bottom.
Winslow says, “Yeah, I do that, too.” He starts coughin like he’s got another hairball, but really he’s just tickled with Doyle talkin all serious that way about Floyd.
Mary Beth looks real surprised when she walks outta the kitchen and sees Doyle Stubb bein the center of attention. “Well hello, Mr. Stubb,” she says. “Fancy seeing you here. It’s been a couple of weeks. I hope your mother is well.”
Doyle says, “Thank you for inquiring after mother. She’s fighting as valiantly as anyone who cannot remember her own name. I sing Barry Manilow to keep her spirits up, and at times she joins in. To hear her sing ‘Copacabana’ would bring tears to your eyes.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” says Mary Beth.
“Your concern is touching.”
“Well, how in the world did you find the house, considering I don’t quite remember giving you directions?”
Doyle says, “My dear, I had no problem finding you, as I could not help but notice the large can of wasp spray in your cart at our last meeting.”
Mary Beth looks worried.
Doyle keeps on talkin, “Also, the presence of five packages of toilet tissue and several large frozen lasagnas provided me with a route.”
“Do tell,” says Mary Beth. She crosses her arms.
Doyle’s lazy eye looks at the ceiling, and his regular eye looks at me. He says, “I looked for a house with a large porch, simply because wasps enjoy making nests in them, and a home that is big enough to warrant five bathrooms, as well as a large crowd of people to whom the lasagnas would be served. Several homes fit the description, but then I saw the poodle on the porch, which corresponded to the bag of pet food for ‘small and toy-sized dogs.’ It was slightly more than a lucky guess.”
Mary Beth has a pretty strange look on her face, but she says, “Everyone, this is Mr. Stubb–”
“Call me Doyle. It is a pleasure to meet you all.”
“Doyle is new to Brightleaf, but it looks like ya’ll have already met him.”
“Hey, Doyle.”
“What’s goin’ on, Doyle?”
Doyle shakes hands with Jimmy, Winslow, Vanessa, Ned and Terry.
“Doyle is a particularly talented man,” I says. Mary Beth rolls her eyes at me, but I think these folks have the right to know a sensation is in their midst.
“Oh yeah?” say
s Dr. D. “What are your talents, Doyle?”
Doyle is just standin there chewin on a carrot stick, his tiny lips movin like a rabbit. He don’t look like a master at nothin.
I says, “I ain’t never seen a man who can mind read like you see in them alien movies, but Doyle is the closest thing to it, next to a real life alien.”
“Why thank you, kind lady, that was quite poetic,” says Doyle.
Mary Beth
I’ve never seen, nor heard, Mavis so touched by a person in all my life. I sincerely hope Doyle is not a cult man because if he happened to form his own religion, Mavis would be his first follower. Then I’d lose my cook, but not before Doyle wielded his power to get his eyeballs in my pantry and discover all my secrets. The thought that he could steal my identity just by peeking at my canned goods...
“Well I sure do wish you’d show everyone some of the thangs you can do,” says Mavis. “But I guess you’d have to follow every one of us around the supermarket, like you did with me and Mary Beth.”
“I was fortunate enough to glimpse your purchases at the checkout,” says Doyle, smiling, “but I’m quite astute at reading grocery lists, as well as receipts.”
“You need to get you a job with the police,” says Mavis. “Crime solvin. Lord, I’d love to know the kinds of foods a killer would buy.”
“What can he do, exactly?” asks Winslow.
“Doyle can tell your fortune just by lookin at all the stuff you buy. Right Doyle?” Mavis says.
“Particularly food stuffs, but not limited to,” says Doyle, nodding.
Mavis whispers in my ear that it would be very dramatic if we let Doyle do his thing. I’m not sure about any of this hanky-panky, but Mavis reminds me of my scripture on the wall about strangers maybe being angels. So I give a reluctant nod.
Now she goes and whispers in Doyle’s ear. Doyle’s lazy eye looks like it’s assenting and gearing up for action.
Mavis takes charge and says, “I want all ya’ll to fish around in your pockets and pocketbooks and find you a grocery list or a receipt, if you got one. Put your name on it, and pass it to Doyle here.”
“I’m doubtful,” says Vanessa.
“Just you wait,” says Mavis.
Jimmy says, “I’ve got a receipt from last month. It’s kind of crumpled, though.”
Vanessa says, “Why you got a receipt in your pants pocket from last month? Don’t you wash your britches?”
“Why wash them? Paint won’t wash out.”
Eleanor says she lost all her shopping lists.
Everyone else passes lists or receipts around to Doyle. He pulls Vanessa’s out first and studies it.
“Ah, here’s a woman, fastidious and tireless, with a heart as golden as her tooth. You will begin a new business venture in the near future. And I see you writing your memoir, which is to be well received. House cleaning will be a thing of the past. I assume that is your current occupation, my dear? You will live long and enjoy your grandchildren, who will bring you nothing but pride.”
Even though Vanessa is a black lady, you can tell she’s blushing. She asks, “How do you know I clean houses? There ain’t no cleaning supplies on that receipt.”
“Ahhh,” says Doyle, holding up a finger. “No cleaning supplies, but a pair of rubber gloves, a Martha Stewart Living Magazine, and a Soap Opera Digest. The digest tells me the most about your schedule. That you keep up with the soaps, but can’t always. Living is known to be a most un-relaxing publication, as it is full of tips on how to keep your home and domestic duties seamless, orderly, and immaculate. Individuals as tireless as yourself flock to it. Oh, my dear. This receipt is rich. The bag of dried kidney beans, the pound of turkey bacon, the jar of pickled beets.”
Vanessa has the most curious expression. She holds out her hand for her receipt and puts on her reading glasses for a closer look. She shakes her head and smiles.
Next is Ned. Doyle takes longer to analyze Ned’s receipt. He stands there eyeballing each item, then looks up at the ceiling, then at Ned. Finally he frowns and says, “This is dark. Perhaps I should deliver your reading in private? Conversely, you may prefer the presence and comfort of friends. Which do you desire?”
Ned makes this goofy, thinking face, pretending to be scared and all. Then he relaxes and says, “Naw man, hit me. I can handle it.”
Both of Doyle’s eyes focus steadily on Ned. Then, holding his G.P. receipt with two fingers, Doyle says, “A love for video games and syndicated television will quickly bring doom. However, I see there’s a strong chance of success if you can break the addictions. And I mean, IF.”
“Cool!” says Ned, more excited than anyone should be. “How’d you know that, dude? Like, what food do I buy that tells you that stuff? Like ‘doom’? How sick is that!”
Then Ned hugs Doyle. You can tell by Doyle’s response, he isn’t normally hugged at times like this.
After Ned’s hug, Doyle regains his composure and says, “If you are truly curious, it is your purchase of multiple packages of Hot Pockets, combined with boxes of frozen yam patties. Hot Pockets, as a regular meal, are an indicator of a serious gaming addiction, while frozen yam patties are an unnatural product made to appear natural, thus the parallel with television—it will never be reality, no matter how strong a bond you feel with a particular character.”
“Hot Pockets and yams? Hmmm. But what about the success?” asks Ned.
“Frozen spinach. No one but successful persons eat spinach. Albeit frozen, it’s spinach, nonetheless.”
“Spinach it will be, then!” says Ned, throwing his arms wide.
Doyle pulls out the next list, and it’s mine.
“Hmm. I’ve seen these groceries before.”
I say, “Yes, you saw similar groceries in The Grocery Palace when you met us. Our list rarely varies, Mr. Stubb. And you already used them to tell Mavis her fortune, remember?”
“I do remember. Ah, yes indeed. I could tell that day something was awry as I studied that particular grocery cart. Now I understand. I had joint groceries before my eyes.”
“Joint groceries? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I experienced interference from your part of the list. A cross-frequency that puzzled me then but is clear now. And I’m seeing you. I see that you are a deeply religious woman but hypocritical at times.”
“Oh, really?”
“Hmmm,” Doyle continues. “Generally accepting of most individuals, yet your heart is divided.”
“Divided? I assure you I have a single heart and mind, Mr. Stubb.”
Doyle smiles with his teensy lips.
“On the contrary, my dear, your heart is divided between desiring love…and rejecting it.”
Somebody gives a low whistle. This is so embarrassing. I neither desire nor reject…what? Love? Give me a break.
I cross my arms, and say to Doyle ever so sweetly, “My goodness, Mr. Stubb. I can’t even begin to think what on that grocery list would cause you to formulate such a crazy conclusion.”
Doyle keeps on smiling in this sly way and says, “Half and half.”
“Half and half?” I say. “Come on, Mr. Stubb, everybody buys half and half. Many of them are happily married people. Or dating, or something.”
“Good lady, I would never fabricate such a thing. My gifting is partly scientific, one of the criteria being The Combination. I view the half and half in concurrence with the other products you chose. We all choose certain products for particular, or even peculiar reasons, Ms. Green. So to answer your question, my dear, your list is individual only to you.”
Whatever. This uninvited person is inventing stuff about me in front of the whole Share Group. I will stay calm. “Okay, I hear you. Thanks for your interpretation of my groceries, whether we agree on them or not. Anybody dare to go next?”
“It happe
ns to be the doctor’s turn,” says Doyle, “if he is interested.”
Dr. Terry Dorrie looks game. “What will it hurt? Fire away.”
“All right, good doctor,” says Doyle, holding his receipt.
Doyle eyeballs the receipt and looks at Terry thoughtfully. Looking back at the receipt, Doyle begins to grin. He smiles as wide as he can (which isn’t very wide because his mouth is baby doll size).
“Very interesting, indeed. So interesting I’m not sure if I should say.”
“Say! Say! Say!” yells Jimmy.
Terry looks genuinely worried. He says, “Either you see or you don’t.”
“Oh, I assure you, I see,” nods Doyle.
“Give me back my receipt,” says Terry. And he snatches it from Doyle’s fingers.
Yay, Terry! Way to fight back. Except that…he really did snatch it. He did not ask for it, hold out his hand or any of that. It was more like the action of a child who wants to protect himself from…what?
Mavis says, “Doyle, why you smilin and not tellin? That might-could make a person feel bad.”
It looks to me like Terry isn’t up for Doyle to tell, anyway.
“Hey, no fair,” says Jimmy. “We want to know. C’mon, Doc, what could be so funny or so bad about you? Maybe he was gonna tell us what you and Mavis are cooking back in the kitchen all the time. Or maybe you’re a serial killer!”
Everybody laughs.
“Let’s go, Doyle,” says Winslow. “Hurry up so you can get to Jimmy and me.”
Winslow wants his groceries read real bad.
Terry stands up. “I need to get going. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
This grocery reading business was a bad idea. As I originally thought. I hate it that a Share Group meeting upset someone. That’s the very opposite of what we hope to achieve at our meetings.
Mavis and I follow Terry to the door.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “This didn’t really turn out as I planned. I mean…I had no control. I am so sorry you were offended.”
Terry opens his mouth to say something but stops.
Mavis says, “C’mon Doc. Nobody’s thinkin nothin bad about you. Everybody knows we ain’t lovers. But I wouldn’t mind it a bit.”
Brightleaf Page 6