by Nick Trout
“Thing is, he said to get her sprayed.” Denise works a little attitude into her eyes.
Sprayed. I’m pretty sure that’s not quite what he said, but I don’t interrupt.
“Yeah right, like, how was I supposed to do that? I was a kid and my old man wasn’t going to pay for it. So I’d lock her in my room when she got horny. Worked fine, ’til I got roommates. They’re all in and out all day, you know.”
“And Tina got out and got pregnant?”
“Right. Bit like me, I guess.”
This conversation is becoming increasingly disturbing. It ignites the familiar itch at the back of my head.
“Doc Lewis took an X-ray of Tina’s belly two weeks ago. There’s only one kitten. He says it’s like, really big, and Tina’s pelvis healed crooked. She might not pass it on her own and I can’t afford a C-section. I don’t have a job and”—she taps her belly, flashes a phony smile—“guess who ain’t gettin’ one any time soon. Don’t have the money for my own baby let alone my cat’s baby. But I’m here, seeing you, ready to pay, ’cause she’s like my little sister, and right now, she’s the only family I got.”
Denise stares up at me with big, green, wet eyes. What’s with this preemptive crying over pets? Chances are Tina will be fine. Last thing I need right now is a reputation for reducing an impoverished pregnant teenager to tears. I grab a wad of tissues from a box on the counter, just in case.
“My old man kicked me out when he found out I was pregnant. There’s no father for the baby. This little cat has listened to my crap for years. She never once tried to get one over on me, never burst my bubble, she don’t give me lip, and she lets me think I know best, even if we both know I don’t. I need Tina and Tina needs me. I won’t let her down.”
Somehow she keeps the tears in check. Denise notices the unemployed tissues in my hand and appears to be puzzled.
“You gonna cry on me?”
I drop the tissues in the trash.
“Of course not. Don’t you have anyone to help you out? What about your roommates?”
“They’re all in Cancún. Planned the trip before I got pregnant. Guess who lost her deposit?”
I look at Denise and then look at Tina. “You two make quite the pair,” I say, running my hand along the cat’s spine and getting a little “up periscope” action from Tina’s tail. “Best keep our fingers crossed that neither one of you has to worry about a C-section.”
If Tina the cat gets into distress as she goes into labor, Doc Lewis is going to have to be the one to cut her open and deliver her kitten. As a veterinary student I never performed even the most minor of feline surgeries, let alone something complex like a C-section.
“Don’t worry, I’ll check in with Doc Lewis and let him know we’ve met. You have our number, and remember you can call us anytime, day or night, if anything starts to be a problem.”
“What am I looking for, again?”
Okay, I think I can rattle off some of the general signs of pending labor but I promise to check in on the veterinary textbooks and call Denise if I discover something useful. “Vaginal discharge. Pushing and straining without success. You know, bearing down. Getting weak, trembling, or vomiting.”
“Pretty much like me?”
“Correct. But I’m sure you’ll both be fine.” I offer Tina one more gentle pat to the head, pick her up, grunt at her weight as I place her back in the carrier.
“Let me walk you out to your car,” I say, carrier in one hand, offering Denise my arm for support as we waddle out to the waiting room, straight past a scowling Doris.
Denise points toward a surprisingly new, if dirty, VW Beetle. “I’m borrowing it while my friend’s in Mexico. It’s crap in the snow but it beats walking.”
I smile. I like Denise’s no-nonsense, what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude. Or maybe I relate to the pigheaded, stubborn spirit that has helped her to survive this much and get this far.
“Call me if I can help,” I say. And I actually mean it.
“Thanks,” says Denise. She looks up at me. “But what about paying for today’s appointment?”
After my encounter with Mr. Critchley, his grim fiscal forecasts and the clock ticking on my good faith payment, I can hardly believe that I’m standing here with this pregnant girl and her pregnant cat and the concept of money could not be further from my mind. I can almost hear Dr. Robert Cobb saying, Not so easy now, is it?
“Let’s sort it out next time. Promise to visit with Tina’s kitten and your new baby.”
Denise beams at me with so much pleasure it hurts me to watch, and I can tell, for the first time since we’ve met, Denise is vulnerable. In seconds, though, she’s scrambling for the car keys, confirming that she will visit, and rushing, as best she can, for the sanctuary of the bug.
Back inside the empty waiting room, Doris is still glaring. “She coming back in to pay or what?”
“Uh, no … she’s … in a hurry to get to a doctor’s appointment herself. I said we’d bill her. I’ll make sure Lewis knows.”
Doris has her arms folded across her chest, and I follow her eyes to the far wall, where she posted my payment in full notice. If only Doris had had the same attitude with Dr. Cobb.
“You probably noticed that she’s very, very pregnant. In her state, if she’s in a hurry to see her doctor, I thought it best to let her go.”
Doris’s eyes bore into mine, and there’s an unsettling grumble emanating from her throat. It is not of this world and it scares me.
I beam, to no avail, and back away, back through the exam room to the main workspace and “the library,” check up on dystocia in cats, and discover that everything I told Denise is accurate.
Doris pops her head around the door. “I’ll be back at two.”
“Thanks, Doris.”
“And this came for you.”
She hands over a large sealed envelope bearing my name. No stamps, no postmark. It’s been hand delivered.
“Who dropped it off?”
“No idea. Found it on the doorstep when you were visiting Harry Carp.”
She doesn’t wait around for me to ask why she didn’t give it to me sooner.
I tear it open, reach inside, and it’s like a jolt of electricity sizzles through my chest. I pull out a single sheet of paper, a printed online article, familiar and damning, pulled from the pages of an old issue of the Charleston Post and Courier.
CHARLESTON, S.C. (AP) — A Charleston man was forcibly removed from his place of employment after a skirmish with security.
Forty-year-old Cyrus Mills was terminated late Friday afternoon from McCall and Rand Pharmaceuticals, where Dr. Mills, DVM, had been working as their chief pathologist for the past two years. Deputies were called when Mills refused to be escorted from the premises. Neither Mills nor McCall and Rand would comment on the reasons behind the dismissal, however the South Carolina State Veterinary Board has suspended Mills’s license to practice pending further inquiries. No charges are expected.
I feel the boom of blood pulsing in my ears.
That’s it. No accompanying note, just a single sheet of paper. Five humiliating sentences marking the darkest moment of my professional career and a death sentence for Bedside Manor.
8
Eating lunch is out of the question, and why won’t Lewis pick up his phone? I’m pacing outside among the confetti of scorched dead butts, and it’s five after two before Doris strolls up the driveway. As soon as she’s in range she shouts, “Can’t find a file? Someone waiting to see you?”
There’s that wicked smile again.
“I need to reach Lewis. It’s urgent. You know where he went?”
Doris takes one last slow drag and holds it in deep. The crinkles around her eyes begin to spasm. “The private lives of the doctors of Bedside Manor are none of my business.”
Then she wipes the snow off her shoes and opens the front door. I join her in the empty waiting room.
“The word must be out,” she says,
removing scarf and mittens. “Tell you what, if anyone does show up, I’ll come and find you. Fair enough?”
I’m speechless. Not only does everybody know everybody in this town, they know everything that’s going on, and that includes me covering afternoon appointments for Lewis. For a second I wonder if Doris is behind the anonymous newspaper article. No, doesn’t make sense. If Bedside Manor fails she’d be out of a job, and from what I’ve seen so far she might have a hard time getting another one.
“I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
Even though I’ve acquired a golden shadow (Frieda insists we maintain some form of physical contact at all times), I pace the dining room, head swimming with candidates and motivation for bribery or revenge. I’ve got to keep it together, think rationally, and consider the evidence. The newspaper article was obviously downloaded from the Post and Courier’s Web site. Anyone with access to the Internet could have found it. No note. Maybe someone’s playing games, being vindictive, or wants to send a warning? Why not go straight to the State Veterinary Board? Two possibilities. First, the sender has no interest in the specifics of my license because he or she is simply after any dirt that will emasculate me and any prospect I have of selling Bedside Manor. Second, most blackmailers don’t go through the appropriate channels.
The package was hand delivered, so it is probably from someone local, and given the fact that this is only my second day on the job, it’s someone who’s been expecting me to turn up. Mr. Critchley from Green State Bank knew where to find me and he seemed disappointed not to be getting his claws into the property, but he never struck me as the extortion type. That leaves just about every pet owner in Eden Falls to whom Cobb bad-mouthed his only son. There must be plenty of his loyal clients out there—smarting from the way I abandoned him during his decline, convinced I boycotted his funeral, only turning up with an eye to making money—who would love to make me squirm before running me out of town.
Frieda catches my eye, like a kid making sure I’m watching what she’s up to. I remove my hand from her head, pause, and allow her a few seconds of disbelief before scratching her backside, my delinquent petting duty apparently forgiven because her tail perks up. I hate to admit it but it feels good to have the company of someone I can trust. She gives me her smile, and I wonder if she’s a dog who will always “seem” happy, no matter the circumstances. I can’t reciprocate, and it’s not just because of the anonymous article. For me to share Frieda’s happiness, I need to know she will be safe back where she belongs. Now seems as good a time as any. I pull out my cell phone and press redial.
I’m greeted by a different, smaller voice on the other end of the line, reciting the number before adding, “… This is Emily, speaking.”
“Hello, would it be possible to speak to Mrs. Small.”
“Mommy’s not here right now.”
There’s a silence because Emily knows it is my turn.
“Is your daddy around?”
“My daddy’s dead.”
I hesitate, missing my turn.
“Brendon’s in the shower. You want me to get him?”
Emily splits the syllables in Brendon, placing the emphasis on “don.” Is this Mr. Charcoal Suit? It could be a relative or a boyfriend but given my line of questioning, I’m betting the man in the shower is Emily’s stepfather.
“That’s okay.”
“Mommy went to Wal-Mart to put up some posters.”
I hate to ask the next question but I sense Emily hopes I will.
“What posters?”
“Posters of my dog, Frieda, Frieda Fuzzypaws. She’s a golden retriever.”
“What does she look like?”
Emily takes her time, as though she wants to get this just right.
“She’s eleven years old, golden, with gray around her mouth and eyes. She’s fat. That’s my fault. She has enormous fuzzy paws and that’s why I call her Frieda Fuzzypaws. Daddy brought me a picture book when I was little called Frieda Fuzzypaws, which is about a cat, but it turns out I’m allergic to cats, so we adopted a dog instead and Daddy let me name her.”
“I see.”
“She has a pink collar. It has her name on it. She’s very, very friendly. Mommy says someone will find her very soon.”
“Where is Wal-Mart?” I’m wondering if Mrs. Small will get back before “Bren-Don” gets himself toweled off.
“It’s in Patton. She should be home soon.” And then, as though she realized she has gone off script, Emily asks, “May I ask who is calling, please?”
I take a deep breath. It’s time to give Emily my cell phone number and have her mom call me back. It’s time for Anne Small to hear how the man of the house does not share her daughter’s love of Ms. Fuzzypaws.
“Emily, I need you to write down my number for your mom. Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Just one moment, please.”
The line goes silent and then she’s back. I recite the number.
“Have your mom call as soon as she returns, okay?”
“Okay.”
There’s a knock on what passes for my front door, and instinctively Frieda lets loose with a series of short inquisitive barks. I can tell Emily’s still listening and slowly the little voice gets even smaller as she says, “That sounds like …”
Though it pains me to do it, I hang up, lock Frieda be hind the kitchen door, and find Doris, still wearing her ski jacket, standing at the top of the private stairway to the second floor.
“Do I have a patient waiting?”
Doris huff s in disbelief, “I didn’t know you brought a dog with you.”
I want to tell her there are a lot of things she doesn’t know about me but she’s already moved on. “Doc Lewis dropped by and left these for you.”
She hands over two items, a folded piece of paper and a digital pager. I hesitate to take them, wondering why wouldn’t he deliver them in person. Then I read his note, written in chicken scratch cursive.
Dear Cyrus,
Sorry about the late notice but the wife suggested we treat ourselves, get out of town, catch dinner and a movie. To be honest, it’s been a long time since we’ve escaped from the practice, even for a few hours. We should be back by ten, eleven at the latest. I’m leaving you with the on-call pager. Doubt there will be anything to worry about. Most nights I forget I’m even carrying it. I’ll switch the hospital answering machine back to my home number when I get back.
Have a quiet night and many thanks,
Fielding
PS. See all the posters around town—now what?
I turn on the pager and slip it into my pocket. I can’t believe the way Lewis has abandoned me so early in my veterinary rehabilitation.
“As per your new instructions, Dr. Mills, these are for you.” She passes me a handful of “while you were out” phone messages. There’s one from Tidy Town Refuse Collection informing me that they will no longer collect our trash; one from Bank of New England offering the practice a platinum credit card; and one from Yankee Golden Retriever Rescue, suggesting I “be on lookout for a dog answering to the name ‘Fritter Frosty Pause’!”
“That’s their phone number for the last one,” she says. “Hope you can make sense of it.”
“That’s okay, Doris. I don’t suppose anyone stopped by to sign a euthanasia consent form?”
Doris’s glare makes me feel sorry I asked. “Naturally I would have informed you, Dr. Mills.”
She pretends to grovel, which only heightens my discomfort. We stare at one another. Maybe she’s hoping for an explanation, but at that precise moment I realize I must find a way to work with this woman, to use the talents Cobb saw in her to my advantage.
“After twenty years, I expect you know better than most how to separate the genuinely strapped for cash from the gratuitously delinquent. I wonder if you could compile a list of our clients with bad debt, dividing them into these two groups. And when I do see a case, maybe you could warn me which group the owner belongs
to so I know whether to get on them for money before they leave the building.”
Doris eyes me with even greater suspicion, mutters “uhhuh” as though she will be pleased to consider my request, and disappears down the stairs, Zippo and Marlboro in hand before she hits the bottom step.
I read the message in my hand one more time. For now Fritter Frosty Pause is safer staying with me than being reunited with certain members of her extended family. And then my cell phone rings.
“Lewis?”
After a pause a gravelly voice I recognize says, “You’re in this as much as me.” There’s a slow click, the line goes dead, and in my mind I see the man in the charcoal suit finding a note addressed to “Mom” with a number to call. Brendon Small is clearly a man on edge, a man who knows he’s made a terrible mistake, and quite possibly a man who’s found the kind of leverage in an old newspaper article he believes will guarantee my silence.
Rather than spending the evening alone, I decide to head into town and grab something to eat at the Miss Eden Falls Diner. Sitting alone might prove uncomfortable for some. Not me. Whether it’s a movie theater or table for one I really don’t care, so long as I bring along some reading material to fill the time and make me look like I have a purpose. Normally I’d grab a scientific journal, but my subscriptions have lapsed and I can’t afford to renew them. This forces me to dig out an old magazine from the waiting room—Field & Stream. Hey, the alternative was Ladies’ Home Journal.
If I’m being honest, Doris’s recommendation to act like a stranger has me worried. It makes me wonder exactly what and how much Bobby Cobb shared with his receptionist and his community. Cobb’s spin on our estrangement probably included something about me abandoning him in his hour of need, spurning every attempt he made to reach out to me. If the pet owners of Eden Falls have already bought into their beloved Doc’s side of the story, there will be no uptick in business, no bonanza of cash, no good faith payment, and my prospects for selling Bedside Manor are doomed. Trying to pass for a stranger might be my best chance to turn a profit and run, but it won’t fly. So let’s just say I’m headed to the diner out of curiosity with a hint of nostalgia, to see if any of the patrons recognize me as the momma’s boy who went there for lunch with her every Sunday.