by Dan Taylor
“I fell asleep during that documentary. And Ms. Smoulderwell doesn’t strike me as a woman who has compassion for the falling numbers of the clade Anthophila, sir.”
“Quite right, Tim. She doesn’t strike me as a woman who likes to wait, either. Just pay her a few compliments, make idle chitchat about something or another, maybe show her the new riding lawn mower, and then send her in.”
Andre dismisses him. Timothy sighs before closing the door.
Andre walks briskly over to the bar and puts his whisky down on the oak bar top, and then jogs over to the iron lung and climbs inside it.
A couple minutes later there’s a knock at the door. Unlike usual, she doesn’t wait for him to utter “come in.” She storms in. Her face red. Her gait open, almost striding. Andre’s no expert on the female of the species, but he knows when this particular member is upset.
Andre says, “Ms. Smoulderwell, I do hope the morning finds you well.”
“I’m pretty sure Jimothy just tried to make a pass at me,” she says.
“That was Timothy.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t tell them apart. Anyway, I just had the strangest conversation with that tiresome man.”
She storms over to the bar, takes a bottle of wine out of a refrigerator and pours herself a glass. She notices the whisky and frowns.
Andre asks, “How so, Ms. Smoulderwell?”
“As soon as I came in he started making inane conversation about the weather. It’s hot and sunny as usual, so the conversation stalled. He mumbled something under his breath, and then—you’re not going to believe this—he asked me if I’d done any sun bathing the last couple of days. He had this creepy look in his eye while he asked it.”
“Strange.”
She takes a large swallow of wine. “And that’s not the end of it. He then ignored my silence and the ice-cold look I shot him, and asked me if I preferred oil or tanning lotion. Even asked me if there was a man in my life who could help me, and I quote, ‘to smear it on your difficult parts?’”
Andre laughs nervously, then feigns exasperation. “I’ve told him a thousand times, ‘Never make small talk with the guests.’”
Gerry takes another large swallow of wine. “And I’m not finished there.”
Andre sighs silently.
Gerry continues, “I pushed him aside, having had enough, and tried to make my way to the billiards room. He got all panicked, made a real effort to block my exit, sexually harassing me almost, and asked me the strangest thing.”
Andre tries to sound cheery. “What’s that, Ms. Smoulderwell?”
“He asked me if I’d like to come out to the shed and have a ride on his ‘sit-on lawnmower.’”
“You sure he didn’t just ask you if you wanted to see it? And didn’t he say, ‘Riding lawnmower’? We have a new one of those. This whole thing could be quite innocent.”
Gerry takes a second to look at Andre, and then frowns, suspicious. “If it was all innocent, then how would you explain the next thing he said?”
“What’s that?”
“He said, and with that creepy look in his eye again, ‘I have no idea why the bees have stopped buzzing, because the nectar hasn’t dried up.’”
Gerry’s right. Andre has no explanation. At least not one involving his explaining the conversation was planned.
So all he says is, “How strange. I’ll have Jimothy answer the door next time.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
Years working with the lady and he’s never seen her this wound up before.
“Take a moment to calm down and then you can tell me whatever it is about Hancock you wanted to tell me,” Andre says.
“No need,” Gerry begins, then finishes off the wine in one swallow. She goes over to Andre. “I spoke to Hancock this morning. He’s quit.”
“What were his reasons? We spoke to him yesterday and he was fine. Why the sudden change of heart?”
Yesterday was the debrief with Hancock after his mission in Oslo. The man looked tired but relatively upbeat.
“He said, ‘Tell Andre I’m done with all that Agency bullshit.’”
“Mm, how trite.”
“He sounded drunk, too. Sounds like he might be off the wagon.”
“Strange. Never knew the man was on the wagon.”
“Not in a strict sense. The man has always had a problem with booze. We both know that. But he’s prone to binges lasting days.”
Andre thinks a second. “Must be this dreadful business with his sister.”
Hancock has a sister with multiple sclerosis. He had to rush off early from the debrief yesterday to attend to her.
Gerry looks momentarily confused. “Yeah, his sister. Right. Must be that.”
What was that? Had she forgotten about this dreadful business with his sister? It seemed so.
Andre says, “Maybe I should phone Hancock, see how he’s getting on?”
“I wouldn’t advise that.” The words were spoken casually but there was something in her demeanor.
She continues, “I think it’s better if we just leave him alone. He’ll get back in contact if and when he recovers. I’ve worked in direct contact with Hancock for years, and I know him to be the type that doesn’t respond well to his employer prying into his personal life.”
“But maybe we have a human resources obligation to at least reach out to him. If not that, then a responsibility as fellow caring human beings. We can at least send him a card of some sort.” He thinks a second. “Does Moonpig do cards for this kind of thing?”
“I think so. But you have no obligation as his employer to send one.”
“But surely, Ms. Smoulderwell, you have a heart?”
Gerry looks—what are the kids saying these days?—butt-hurt.
She says, “I care about Hancock as much as anyone…” Her voice trails off and she starts to make a noise like she’s gasping for air, as though something’s caught in her throat. And she starts wafting air towards her face with a rapid up-and-down movement of her hand. Andre’s about to call for Jimothy when the reason for her strange behavior becomes apparent. Tears start rolling down her cheeks.
Andre says, “There, there, Gerr—”
But she cuts him off, speaking as though shooting bullets from an automatic weapon. “I care about Hancock more than you could ever know, and I’m finding this whole thing with him and his sister so stressful. I barely slept last night for thinking about poor Hancock. It’s such a terrible, terrible, terrible shame that he would have to go through such a thing…”
Terrible spoken three times in succession and tears are all Andre can handle. He starts calling for Jimothy.
Gerry starts looking in her bag as snot and tears hang precariously from her face, threatening to fall on the wool carpet. With her attention fixed firmly on the contents of her handbag, Andre allows himself to wince.
A moment later the door opens and Jimothy pops his head in. “Sir?”
“Get Ms. Smoulderwell a handkerchief, would you?”
“One of the good ones, sir?”
Andre becomes agitated. “Yes, Jim. One of the good ones.”
Jimothy sighs and then runs off.
Gerry says, “It’s okay. I’ve found them.” She takes out an unopened packet of Kleenexes. Opens the packet, takes one out, and starts dabbing at her face with it.
“My apologies. I’ve gotten a hold of myself,” Gerry says.
“Good,” Andre replies. But he’s distracted. By what? A few things not adding up. The unopened packet for one. Her forgetting about Hancock’s sister another. Especially when considering that she stated she’d been worrying about Hancock the whole night.
But he wants to get rid of her before he thinks about it further. “Take the day off, Ms. Smoulderwell. Lunch with some of your lady friends, or whatever it is you like to do for emotional support. Come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She sniffles and dabs around her eyes with
the Kleenex and then leaves.
Funny business, that, Andre thinks.
A moment later the door opens and Jimothy pops his head in. He looks around and then says, “I guess you won’t be needing the good handkerchiefs then, sir?”
“No, Jim, I won’t.” Andre starts climbing out of the iron lung. Jimothy runs over, tries to help him, but Andre pushes him away. “If you want to help, send Timothy in here.”
Jimothy scuttles off, in search of his brother. And Andre goes over to the bar, pours himself a whisky.
He swirls it, breathing in its aroma, and then downs the glass. Then he thinks about the conversation he had with Jimothy while he was flossing. Then mumbles to himself, “No, you never know when there might be a rat turd in your tea.”
12.
I GET DRESSED and go into the living room, where Grace is waiting. It comes as little surprise that she’s nosing through my stuff. She’s on her haunches, looking through my record collection.
“Where’s your collection?” she asks.
“That is my collection.”
“Oh. I thought it was your dad’s.”
“Philistine. On that shelf is a collection of the finest jazz records ever recorded. The men who wrote the compositions standing on that shelf were some of the foremost musicians of their generation—”
She cuts me off. “Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch?” Then she pulls out the offending CD. “Nice.”
“That was a second-date present from Sandra.”
She turns and looks at me. “Who’s Sandra?”
“A lady who never had a third.” I go over to her and take the CD from her and place it back. “We need to get going. Something tells me we should have a greater sense of urgency than we currently have.” I go to the door and open it for her and call over. She stays where she is.
“Can we just play one song from the record? For old time’s sake?”
I sigh and close the door. “Will it get you out of the apartment?”
“Only if you rap along to it.”
“You don’t really get how negotiations work, do you, Grace?”
“I do. You find me hot and that means I can pretty much negotiate anything I want out of you.”
I can’t fault her logic. “How about I sit and look embarrassed as you try to pretend that you don’t actually like Marky’s white-bread rapping style?”
“White bread?”
“I heard it on The Wire, I think.”
“Isn’t it racist?”
“No. You can pretty much say anything you want about white rappers and it isn’t racist.”
She shrugs her shoulders, dropping the subject. “At least bust some moves for me.”
I could try to go through the theater of pretending I don’t know what “bust some moves” means, but she already knows I own a Marky Mark record, thus knows how whack I am.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” replies Grace.
“No.”
“Yes.”
We go on for a minute or so like this, going back and forth, so I’ll hop over this part, saving you the monotony.
I give in, figuring Grace can go all day like this. But I put a couple clauses in our verbal contract. “Okay, put it on, and I’ll dance. But I’ll only bust out my drunk-uncle-at-a-wedding moves, instead of my gonna-get-lucky-on-a-Saturday-night moves. And you have to promise that you won’t jump my bones as soon as you see my flow and snakelike hip movements. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Phew. I thought it might be a deal breaker, that last part.
She starts the record and I dance unselfconsciously. Dancing well is similar to being a children’s television presenter, Santa at the mall when there’s a distinct smell of Belgian beer on your breath, or the clown at your five-year-old nephew’s birthday party when hungover. The last two I’ve done, if you didn’t catch on from the level of detail. Anyway, back to the analogy. Yeah, dancing. You’ve just got to pretend like no one’s there, watching. When you do, you don’t feel like a dick, and you’re free to express yourself. Whether it be moving your limbs to the beat of the music, generally clowning around and blowing up balloon animals, or getting creative with excuses when the kid sitting on your lap complains about the “icky smell your breath has.” Cheap cologne is a good excuse, by the way, if you ever find yourself in that particular pickle.
“Wow, I’m impressed,” Grace says after the track’s finished.
“Told you. No idea where my God-given talent came from, but I have it.”
“Not that. I was surprised that a man who I find relatively attractive could turn me off him so much with a little dancing.”
“You’re playing with me.”
“I’m not. I’ve never been drier.”
“Eww, Grace. Not cool.”
“Did I go too far with the jokes?”
Those of you who know me, know that I’m the one who usually goes too far, making the girl say, “Ew!” Now I’m the one who’s saying it. Okay, who’s playing the joke on me? Who’s extracted my personality and put it into a female form with a nice set of brassier fillers, an ass that I wouldn’t mind slurping icecream sundae off, and a face that’s pretty but not attract-shit-from-every-roid-rage-filled-dude-at-the-bar pretty?
Me with a vagina: my perfect woman.
“Eww, Jake,” Grace says.
“What?”
“You mumbled something like, ‘Me with a vagina,’ as you stared into space.”
That sounded way better in my head. And I really need to stop thinking out loud. “I meant to say, ‘Be kind and…’”
“Yeah…? I’ve got time.”
“Be kind and…”
She mimes looking at her watch.
“Jesus, why does nothing rhyme with vagina?” Vagina and orange, the poet’s kryptonite.
“So you did say that?”
“No, I was hoping to turn my mumblings into a full rap composition.” Dr. Sarcasm is prepped and ready for surgery.
She raises an eyebrow, puts her hands on her hips.
Then I say, “Don’t worry. It was totally a compliment, the ‘me with a vagina’ bit.”
“It’s not really the compliment-er who decides that, but the compliment-ee.”
“Just shut up and get out the door before we both end up sounding like Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons.”
“Pop culture references much?”
“Out.”
13.
DR. EDDIE BARNES has just finished a difficult conversation on the phone with one of his new patients. Testicular cancer, mid-forties, coming to the end of the road in his battle against the disease. It’s won, and Mr. Hernandez wouldn’t accept it. Not that he could blame the man.
It’s Sunday, and Dr. Eddie Barnes should be teaching his five-year-old how to ride a bicycle, but thanks to the primary care physician from whom he took over, he isn’t.
Fuck. He hates this job already.
He took over from Dr. Jennings, a retiree currently sunning it up in Tunisia, of all places. The man left him a real mess: follow-up appointments for major illnesses neglected, patients educated with out-of-date advice for disease prevention and cure—a few patients have claimed that Dr. Jennings recommended snake soup as a cure for illnesses ranging from gout to “hallucinations not only of the mind, but of the spirit,” whatever that means—and general untidy administration. It’s clear to Dr. Eddie Barnes that Dr. Jennings was coasting those last couple months before he retired, leaving the doctor’s office with malpractice lawsuits lurking around every corner. And if they get enough of them, this thing could go class-action, finishing the office.
Dr. Eddie Barnes takes a second to procrastinate before looking through a few more patient files. He looks out of the window and sees his wife helping his boy Barney Barnes onto his bicycle. Curse Dr. Jennings.
He then starts looking through files again, finding nothing noteworthy: patients visiting regularly and being prescribed the appropriate medication or given the corre
ct advice.
Until he comes to a Jake Hancock. A patient who complained of “chest burning and blackouts,” and who was originally diagnosed with heartburn.
He slaps his forehead, then says, “Really, Dr. Jennings, heartburn?”
Wait a moment. There was a follow-up appointment. “Symptoms continued after being medicated with antacids.”
He says, “No shit, Dr. House.”
He carries on reading. “Sent for diagnosis at hospital: MRI, EKG, Stress test.” The list went on.
He’s about to wipe his brow and utter phew until he clicks on the attached file. The test results, which the patient hasn’t been informed about.
Suddenly how his kid’s getting on outside with only his mom to teach him how to ride his bike is the last thing on his mind. This isn’t good.
He picks up his phone and dials Mr. Hancock’s cell number. The recorded voice says that the cellular phone is no longer in use. Another fuckup. The contact details for the patient aren’t up-to-date. So he dials his home number. No answer. He can leave a message at least. With that done, he leans back against the backrest, chewing a fingernail. Mulling things over.
He tries to go back to checking patient files, but he can’t get this Mr. Hancock and his condition out of his mind. He picks up the phone and dials nine-one-one. Selects the ambulance service. He explains the situation to the operator, but gets the response he was expecting, that they won’t drive around Hollywood and the surrounding area looking for the man.
Nor will the police, though they will issue an APB. Fat lot of good that will do.
So he writes down Mr. Hancock’s address and gets out of his seat and rushes out of his office. He takes the stairs two at a time on his way down and sprints outside.
He’s in his car, engine revving, when his wife notices him. She comes over, leaving their son sitting on the bike in the middle of the road, and taps on the window, indicating for him to roll it down. He does, then she says, “You okay, honey? You look pale.”
“I’m fine. Just got some work to do.”