by Nick Trout
I wonder if Fido’s pacemaker also comes with a soothing doggy massage.
“The days of James Herriot are over. He’s dead and buried, and with him went his fossilized style of practice.”
There’s a hand squeezing my shoulder. I flinch, but he won’t let go. “It’s survival of the fittest, Cy, a dog-eat-dog world. Healthy Paws can offer you a path forward. Keep this place. Just operate with a different business model.”
My eyes slide left and focus on his hand like it’s a hairy tarantula.
“Don’t say a word, just promise me you’ll think about it. Here, take my card.”
He reaches into his overcoat pocket and pulls out a business card. I stuff it in the front of my chinos without even looking.
“Cell number’s on the card. And check out my Twitter account. Fifty-eight followers can’t be wrong.”
He’s backing up toward the front door, unwrapping a stick of Juicy Fruit and jamming it in his mouth. Why do I wish he’d found something more carcinogenic, like chewing tobacco? Extending the thumb and pinky finger of his right hand, Dorkin mimes a telephone while mouthing, “Call me,” before disappearing through the chiming front door.
4
WATCHING AS DORKIN’S BLACK AUDI SPINS OUT of the lot, I smell the nicotine before I feel Doris’s presence by my side.
“Piece of work, isn’t he?” Doris looks as though she can will his car to crash with her eyes. “Vulture. Bided his time. Waited until your father was ready for the hospital before swooping in. He called it a mercy offer, an act of charity for a practice about to die. You believe that?”
Now she’s looking at me, and for the first time it’s a different type of scrutiny. Her defiant streak has been directed elsewhere, at a common enemy, and I am being invited to join the rebel alliance. It feels like an olive branch, even if it comes with a painful reminder of my failings as a son.
“He still wants me to sell. Funny, last week his offer came with all kinds of stipulations—in particular, decent monthly production figures. Now he can’t wait to get his hands on the place.”
Doris reaches into the pocket of her ski jacket and pulls out her Zippo lighter and pack of Marlboros. “That’s ’cause you’ve got him rattled.” And then, after a beat of deliberation, “Some folks must be saying nice things about you.”
This last remark comes out as more of a statement than a compliment, as though by stressing the “some” she wants me to know she’s an undecided juror. Doris and I have a long way to go to achieve a decent thaw. Still, I’ll take it. I watch the craving ignite in her eyes as she plucks a cigarette and tamps it down on the lid.
“Well, Dorkin’s going to be disappointed. I’d rather burn the place to the ground than become a disciple of the Church of Healthy Paws.”
Doris pulls tightly on the invisible drawstring of her sticky orange lips, forming an uneasy pout. “I’ve been here before, with your father. You ready for payback?”
I drift off, working on a slow, gravelly Russell Crowe impersonation from the movie Gladiator. “And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.”
“What you goin’ on about?” says Doris, showing me her unlit cigarette and heading for the front door.
I clear my throat without explaining. “Hey, what happened to that guy with the standard poodle?”
She shrugs. “No idea. Dog felt better or maybe his owner got cold feet about seeing you?” The bell chimes and she catches herself. “Eleven o’clock. Dr. Lewis wants you to meet him at Garvey’s. Remember the way?”
“Of course.”
“The farmhouse, not the main entrance.”
“Got it.”
And that’s when she relinquishes a scary, lemon yellow smile. “And Dr. Lewis suggests you bring your wellies.”
Whether Doris believes no explanation is needed or merited, I cannot tell, but I’m seriously worried. The prospect of what awaits me actually makes her giggle like a naughty schoolgirl.
EDEN FALLS is a “blink and you’ll miss it” kind of place. No stop signs, no lights, no reason not to keep going. In fact, Main Street might be more accurately labeled Only Street. But Garvey’s Nursery and Garden Center lies on the other side of a covered bridge on the far side of town, which is more than enough time to try calling Amy. Once again, it goes to voice mail. She must be screening my calls. I’m about to hang up, try back later, but even as I’m justifying my cowardice, I realize that’s precisely what she would expect. Now might be the moment to be something I’m not—unpredictable.
“It’s me.” This time I overpower my insecure desire to clarify that “me” is Cyrus. “Thought I might drop by the diner at lunchtime. Not sure if you’re working, but if you are, great. If not…” Keep going, easy-breezy. “Then… no problemo.” No problemo? What idiot says no problemo? “Hey, I’d love to try to get together again sometime.” Better, upbeat but still casual. And then a thought hits me. “Think of it like me coming home to Eden Falls. It’s all about second chances.” I pause for a minute before pressing End.
What’s gotten into me? I should be scheming for ways to beat back an imminent attack from Mr. Guy Dorkin. Instead I’m obsessing over a woman I barely know. Worst of all, I spent a restless night convincing myself that my decision to give up my former life in Charleston, to return home and breathe new life into Bedside Manor, was in no way influenced by something as cliché as an attraction to a potential mate.
In a moment of clarity, I tried to break Amy’s spell by deconstructing the elements of her allure. Unfortunately her selflessness is hard to overlook. Here’s a woman happy to put her education on hold (she was in a master’s program over at UVM) and work a minimum wage job at our local diner in order to be there for her dying grandfather. There is, however, no denying her acerbic “take no prisoners” tongue, with words unleashed like bullets from an Uzi. Some say she speaks her mind. If I’m being honest, I think she speaks her heart. And yes, her facial features bear the perfect symmetry of an attractive woman, excluding her heterochromic (one’s blue, one’s brown) but no less hypnotic eyes, while she conveys an outward indifference to her looks. In another world this woman might not give me the time of day, yet here, in the northernmost reaches of rural Vermont, her beauty is not a tool to use or flaunt. If anything, she brandishes it like a test, daring you to look deeper.
Obviously, women are not my area of expertise. Taking this dare went against my better judgment. When I open up, I do so in carefully controlled increments; however, Amy makes… made me want to try. Okay, it’s a ridiculous reaction to a woman I barely know from a diner and from being trapped with her in an X-ray darkroom, but I stopped redacting the bits of me I didn’t want her to see—yes, even the intangible, emotional bits—because I could sense the possibilities. In short, I let down my guard.
I check the screen on my flip phone—plenty of battery and a decent signal. No excuses. Clearly this preoccupation with Amy is pointless. Best to go back to what works—clinical objectivity. Take in the bigger picture, weigh the options, spot the distractor, discard, simplify, and move on.
The vehicle in the cracked rearview mirror caught my attention long before the covered bridge. It’s a gray minivan; and though the funhouse reflection makes it tricky, I’m pretty sure I can make out two figures inside—one white and one black. They’ve been on my tail since I left Bedside Manor, keeping a safe distance but now I’m certain I’m being followed. Two thugs looking to collect on one of my many debts, or a pair of contract killers hired by Dorkin? I indicate right at the sign for Garvey’s. The minivan slows down then drives on, past the entrance. Maybe I’m confusing paranoia with astute observation.
In Back to the Future, Michael J. Fox used a DeLorean sports car as a time machine. My version is Dad’s old Chevy Silverado truck, but it delivers me to a Garvey’s far different from my childhood memories. For starters, the numerous post-and-beam buildings and glinting greenhouses are new, creating the sense that Garvey’s is a little village rather than a loc
al store. This was the place Mom and I would visit for apple picking, hayrides, Halloween pumpkins, and our Christmas tree. Now it looks more like a theme park—a Disney version of Vermont.
The once run-down miniature golf course has been artificially enhanced by water fountains and an Eiffel Tower. Remnants of the seasonal maze that used to stand in a field of fitful cow corn has gone, replaced by a wall of twiggy but manicured privet more suited to an English stately home. There’s a building devoted to skiing and snowboarding equipment and one for fishing and hunting supplies. The rusty swing-set and slides have given way to a state-of-the-art playground, the need for a dab of Mom’s spittle or a tetanus shot traded for hand sanitizers at the entranceway.
As I curb crawl past the petting zoo, a young mother carrying a toddler in her arms delivers the kind of death glare she might reserve for a suspected pedophile. She’s obviously misread my look of surprise. Run-down stalls, a pigsty, and barbed wire have been superseded by imposing barns and white picket fencing. In the background I can still make out the remnants of the original farm—stanchions for livestock, silos, a milking parlor—but everything is conspicuously shiny, not a rusting piece of farm equipment or an abandoned tractor tire in sight.
When the asphalt of the neatly plowed and salty parking lot ends, the wheels of the Silverado lock into the icy ruts of a trail leading directly to the farmhouse. Lewis’s empty vehicle is parked out front, and I pull up alongside. As usual, I make sure there’s plenty of room to turn around without the need to back up. That’s because Dad’s old truck might be the only part of his legacy that always looked forward—its reverse gear doesn’t work.
It’s one of those bleak, pencil lead–gray mornings; the threat of more snow hangs in the bitter January air like a raised dagger poised to descend. Direct sunlight has been banished, and that’s why the man in the sunglasses, who comes crashing out of the house and charging my way as I pull on a pair of my father’s green Wellington boots, instantly strikes me as strange.
“No. No,” he screams, hands waving over his head as though I’m about to step on a land mine. “No solicitation. Not here.”
Feet rooted to the spot, I raise a “I come in peace” wave that he chooses to ignore, almost barreling into me.
“Which part of private property don’t you understand?”
The man has receding dark hair, center-parted and gathered in a ponytail, as though he’s determined to keep every filament left on his head. The Kirk Douglas dimple chiseled into his chin is striking, but it’s his mirror aviator sunglasses that have my attention. I haven’t seen a pair like these in years. In my mind I flash to the prison guard in the Paul Newman movie Cool Hand Luke.
“I’m Dr. Mills, from Bedside Manor. I work with Dr. Lewis.” I gesture to Lewis’s truck as though this inanimate object will substantiate my claim. “Lewis asked me to meet him here to see a case.”
For what seems like an eternity we stand there, inhaling each other’s breathy clouds, the man apparently derailed by my explanation. He’s about my height, six feet (like most men of five feet, eleven inches, I prefer to round up). I have no clue what’s going on behind those mirrors, but without warning he winces and pounds a clenched fist into the center of his forehead.
“You got anything for a migraine in that bag of yours?”
He’s noticed I’m carrying my late father’s “doctorin’ ” bag.
“Might have some Advil.”
I swing the bag up on my thigh and open it up.
“Don’t bother,” the man snaps. “Took eight hundred milligrams this morning. Didn’t touch it. Got something stronger?”
“Afraid not,” I say, beginning to notice an aroma hanging in the condensation between us. It’s striking, the sweet smell of nail polish remover that is characteristic of a specific clinical disorder called “ketosis.”
The man curses and stamps one foot into the snow like a warning from an angry goat. He’s only wearing slippers.
“Test your glucose level this morning?” I ask.
The man eases his head back ever so slightly, but it’s impossible to tell if he’s impressed by my deduction. Blowing off ketones in the breath suggests poor glucose regulation, probably because he needs artificial insulin. Given the man’s skinny build and the presence of visible scar tissue on the tips of his fingers, I’d go with juvenile diabetes, the scars the result of decades of monitoring his blood glucose with daily, tiny, painful pricks.
“Course I did,” he snaps. “This”—he drills a forefinger into his temple—“has nothing to do with it.” Then he growls, scoops up a snowball, and pounds it into his temple, holding it in place, savoring the temporary relief as a trail of icy water runs down his wrist and forearm.
“If it’s that bad, Mr.… Mr.…”
He makes no attempt to bail me out.
“I’d suggest a visit to the hospital.”
Off in the distance two men are headed our way. One of them is Lewis.
“Ah, there he is, I won’t bother you any…”
But Mr. Ponytail is no longer listening. His back to me, he lopes off to the sanctuary of his house. The hostility and the social miscues make me wonder if he has some mental health issues and fears getting caught talking to a stranger.
Lewis saunters over, dressed like a farmer from central casting—ruddy faced from the cold, wearing a flat cap and green Barbour jacket.
“Cyrus, this is Mike Garvey Junior.”
“Nice to meet you,” says a heavyset man in a Blue Jays baseball cap. He also has that Kirk Douglas dimple in his chin.
We shake hands.
“Was that your son I was speaking with?” I ask, gesturing to the house, catching sight of a shadowy figure at the screen to the front door.
Mike Garvey Jr. waves, but the shadow disappears.
“Yeah. My son. Michael Garvey the Third. We call him Trey. Afraid he’s not been himself lately. Acting a little weird.”
“Doris mentioned the incident in his truck,” says Lewis. “When does he get his license back?”
“Never lost it,” says Mike, and then to me, “He failed a sobriety test, but his blood alcohol level was zero. Chief Devito had to let him go.”
Interesting.
“Maybe your son’s odd behavior reflects a problem regulating his diabetes,” I say. “How old was he when you got the diagnosis?”
Garvey considers me, his expression caught somewhere between worried and impressed. “Two. But he never said he was a diabetic, did he?”
Lewis sees where this is going and begins to grin. “Told you he was smart, Mike.”
Mike looks unconvinced.
“Maybe,” he says. “But you can talk to Trey. Get right next to him. Not so easy with Ermintrude.”
Ermintrude.
Lewis’s grin refuses to wane.
“I’m sure Cyrus would be happy to take a look,” he says, and they both turn to me.
“Sure,” I say, sounding anything but.
Mike leads the way around the back of the house and down a trail plowed through the deep snow toward the main farm buildings that lie beyond the public’s reach.
“Lewis tells me it’s been a while since you lived in Eden Falls.”
“Twenty-five years,” I say.
“Ah, back when my old man was running the place.”
“He was a smart man, your father,” says Lewis. “Saw what was going to happen to dairy farms in this part of the world and did something about it.”
Garvey cringes at the compliment, and for a few beats the only sound is the satisfying squeak of compacted snow under our every footfall.
“Guess so,” he says, “at least he started out that way. Dad pushed the all-natural angle, the antibiotic-free milk, cheese, and yogurt long before it was popular. And no one was trying to sustain rare breeds of cattle, sheep, or goats. Throw in organic fruit and vegetables, expand into plants and trees, and he reckoned he could keep doing what he loved, keep farming, keep working.” Garvey forc
es a laugh and shakes his head.
“Garvey’s is part of Eden Falls culture,” says Lewis as we walk three abreast.
“Oh yeah,” says Garvey. “If you like mini-golf and a petting zoo. Dad got out because of falling milk prices. Cost him more in fuel and fertilizer than he could make in milk. Started selling off the herd, looking at other ways to work the land. Hey, now it’s mine, I’m no better. See over there?”
He points to a clearing in the hillside.
“If we’re still in business this time next year, I’ll have a tow rope and floodlights, and with luck, kids will be tubing down there all night long. Not exactly my idea of farming.”
“Maybe not,” says Lewis, “but it’s definitely mine.”
Lewis catches my skeptical glance.
“It’s true. I never liked farmwork. Hated the economics of whether a cure could be justified versus cutting your losses at a slaughterhouse. Garvey’s is different. What’s not to love when farm animals turn into pets?”
Pets? Now he’s got me worried.
“This place has certainly undergone a major facelift since the last time I was here,” I say.
“Had to,” says Garvey. “Department of Public Health and Safety insisted on some of the upgrades. Insurance helped out when we took a hit from Hurricane Irene, but most of this is thanks to an equity loan from Green State Bank.”
Ah, Green State Bank and the charming Mr. Critchley.
“I’m afraid the public likes its slice of farm life sweet smelling and pretty on the eyes. Here we are.”
We’ve passed a row of stables (I’m relieved Ermintrude is apparently not one of the giant Clydesdale horses housed there), and Garvey leads the way into a large, airy barn. It’s like walking into an animal husbandry class—steamy livestock busy chewing cud mixed with that authentic aroma of mud, manure, and damp straw bedding. The place is bright and warm, the V of the ceiling a good twenty feet overhead. Our presence incites a chorus of bleats and moos reminiscent of kids singing the Old MacDonald farmyard nursery rhyme.
