by Nick Trout
“She’s way down at the end,” says Garvey, but I’m distracted, checking out the animals segregated behind metal rails on either side of the central aisle.
There’s a spotted black and white sheep bearing four horns. It’s a Jacob, a breed thought to have originated in the Middle East around three thousand years ago. Nearby stands a small black cow with a band of white fur wrapped around her belly. She’s a belted Galloway. Her coat packs four thousand hairs into every square inch, making it highly resistant to severe cold. Aside from these useless factoids and an ability to identify obscure breeds, I haven’t thought about the diseases of farm animals since I was back in veterinary school.
“C’mon, Cyrus,” says Lewis, the two of them ahead of me.
I trot to catch up. “Are those pigeons, Mike?” I ask, pointing to the crossbeams near the ceiling. Hundreds of raucous gray birds appear to be roosting (and actively defecating) at the far end of the barn where we are headed.
“ ’Fraid so,” says Garvey.
“Flying rats,” says Lewis. “Best not to look up, if you know what I mean.” He doffs the peak of his cap. “You should have worn one of these.”
“But there’s so many of them. Are they a homing variety?”
“No idea,” says Mike. “But they’re good for business. Folks love having their picture taken with them. Sprinkle seed along your arms; see how many pigeons will land on you. Trey still holds the record—thirty-two. They seem to flock to him. Here she is. Dr. Mills, meet Ermintrude.”
In an isolated stall, walled off from the other cows by bales of straw and hay, stands a fawn-colored cow with black hooves and a dark switch of hair at the end of her tail. I’m guessing a Jersey, but what concerns me is the way she’s pressing her head into the wall. Based on the twitch and swivel of her leafy ears she obviously senses our presence, but it looks as if she’s consumed by the worst hangover of her life.
The three of us cozy up to the fence, resting our elbows on the top rail.
“I remember you telling me you like comparative pathology,” says Lewis to me.
“Me?”
“ ‘Disease is disease,’ you said, ‘whether you’re human or a duck-billed platypus.’ Well, here’s your chance with a Jersey cow. Ermintrude’s twelve years old and as you can see, she’s lost a lot of weight despite a good appetite. What disturbs me most of all is what’s happening inside her head.”
Lewis consults with Mike, something passes between them, and Mike claps his hands together and yells out loud.
Ermintrude startles as if she’s snapped out of a trance, ears twitching, all four legs scrambling and uncoordinated as she skitters across the slick mud, going down on her front legs, bug eyes rolling back inside her head, black to white and black again. She’s petrified and desperate to reach the sanctuary of the farthest corner.
“Not pretty, is it?” says Mike.
“How long has she been like this?”
Lewis does that thing with his upper incisor chewing on his lower lip.
“She’s only been this bad for a few days. Right, Mike?”
“Right. But she’s been acting weird for a while.”
“Weird?” I raise my eyebrows and give the farmer my best “you’re going to have to do better than that” glare.
“It started in the fall. Trey takes care of her, always has, and he noticed how she was… I don’t know… pushy, rough, even a bit aggressive, especially around feeding time. We thought she’s getting old, getting crotchety—hey, don’t we all?”
“Speak for yourself,” says Lewis.
“So we cut her some slack—until the incident in the petting zoo. Ermintrude’s been a permanent fixture for years, not least because she’s bombproof around screaming, pinching kids. But on this particular day she went postal on a five-year-old boy. Nearly kicked him into kingdom come. Trey saw it, but thankfully his mother did not. Otherwise, I’d be on the wrong end of a lawsuit for sure.”
“I know this is not your area of expertise, Cyrus,” says Lewis, “but I’ve seen how your brain works. You love the weird details about obscure diseases. Her calcium, magnesium, and glucose levels are fine. She’s never had a fever, her diet is good, her lymph nodes are normal, and her pupil reflexes are normal. Her most striking clinical sign is her sensitivity to sound and light—”
“And the way she’s become scary to be around.”
“What d’you mean?” I ask.
“Put it this way,” says Garvey. “You shouldn’t go in there unless you’ve been trained as a matador.”
“That’s right,” says Lewis. “I just wanted you to look at her, see for yourself, and maybe something will cross your mind that hasn’t crossed mine. I’ve tried changing her diet, I’ve tried antibiotics, multivitamins, dietary supplements, you name it. And I’ve ruled out pretty much every common cause of neurological disease I can think of.”
“She’s going downhill and fast. Look at her,” says Garvey. “If you can’t help her, Dr. Mills, and soon, she’s going to have to be destroyed.”
If I look anxious, I hope that Lewis and Garvey will think it’s just the burden of this responsibility. Truth be told, that’s the least of my concerns. Lewis is right, I’ve always been obsessed with the minutiae of bizarre diseases, and though I came here out of a sense of obligation to my colleague, secretly I’m totally intrigued by this case, even if it is a cow.
“I’ll do my best,” I say, and even to my ear, this reply sounds totally insincere. Perhaps that’s because I’m following my gut reaction, the knee-jerk response to what I just witnessed, Ermintrude’s hypersensitivity to any kind of stimulation and the way it’s identical to my recollection of a grainy video of similarly afflicted cows from Great Britain in the late eighties. Could the poor cow’s affliction have anything in common with her caretaker, Trey?
Afraid he’s not been himself lately. Acting a little weird.
What if Trey and Ermintrude have variations of the same disease? If so, and if this is what I think it is, the ramifications for me, Eden Falls, and a multibillion-dollar industry are incalculable. For one scary news cycle I might inadvertently steal more media coverage than the Kardashians. Air my suspicions to the FDA, prove them correct, and every single animal on this property will be destroyed before Garvey’s, this third-generation Eden Falls fixture, gets razed to the ground.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” asks Lewis with a smile. “You on to something?”
I shake my head. It’s scary enough even to think about my number one suspicion, let alone to air it. I’d best be wrong, because if not, Ermintrude, Trey, and Garvey’s farm will be a national sensation for all the wrong reasons.
5
TWELVE THIRTY AND THE MISS EDEN FALLS DINER is chock-full of a rowdy lunchtime rush intent on receiving sustenance. I reckon I’ll be lucky to catch sight of Amy, let alone chat with her. I attempt to flatten the top of my crown where an unruly cowlick always lurks, berating myself for not looking my best, when a bear claw lunges in my direction and grabs me by the sleeve.
“Cyrus, quick, take a pew.”
The order comes from Peter Greer, editor in chief of the Eden Falls Gazette, and a good friend and supporter of my late father and Bedside Manor.
I plop into the seat opposite him in a tight two-man booth. It doesn’t help that Greer’s a big guy, spilling over the red-checkered tablecloth between us to initiate an awkward hearty handshake.
“Marvelous to see you, old boy.”
“Is it usually this crowded at lunchtime?”
“Always a little argy-bargy around the trough in these parts. Not to worry, you get used to it.”
Did I mention Greer was English, complete with an accent posh enough to read the news for the BBC?
“How’s business?” he asks. “Thriving after my stroke of genius?”
Greer’s referring to last Saturday’s free clinic. It was his idea of a way to introduce me to the community.
“If I ignore the fact t
hat everyone thinks Bedside Manor offers complimentary pet care and we never ask for money, then business is booming.”
Greer leans forward, sweeps his hand back and through his dapper mane of hair.
“Look on the bright side, you’ve got the opposition well and truly riled.”
“The opposition? Healthy Paws?”
Greer chuckles. “Oh, it gets better, but did you order yet? You should, or it’s going to take forever.”
My waist-high view of the bar and other booths is blocked in all directions by a writhing sea of overinflated down jackets. Where’s the main reason I came here for lunch?
“There she is.”
Though seated, Greer’s height gives him an advantage as he waves for attention like he’s hailing a London cab.
“Here you go,” says Amy, sliding a plate across the table. “Bacon burger and onion rings on the side.”
“Marvelous,” says Greer, “and I wonder if my dear friend, Dr. Mills, might place an order too.”
Amy turns to me as though she never noticed I was there. No smile, no recognition. I stare into the magic of her distinctive eyes, rewarded with a blasé shrug.
“Um… what’s good?” I ask, unbalanced by her distance and impatience.
She leans closer. “What’s good?” she repeats.
I nod, but now I’m worried.
“Hmm, implicit in that question is the fact that you not only trust, but you value my opinion. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Greer?”
“Wholeheartedly,” says Greer, squirting ketchup onto his plate, onion ring in hand.
“It seemed like a simple question,” I stutter.
“But it’s not. It’s about personal taste, preference, and mutual understanding. Oh, I could tell you what I’m supposed to say, ‘Yes, the fish sandwich is fantastic,’ because the chef noticed the frozen cod has passed its sell-by date and wants to get rid of it, but I’m not that person. Now, if you want to know what I’ll be having for lunch because I like how it tastes, I’ll tell you the Greek salad.”
I glance over at Greer, who’s got the ring halfway to his mouth and looks afraid.
“Greek salad it is. And… thanks for the clarification.” I say this with an absolutely straight face and watch as Amy tries to work out if I’m being sincere. It takes a while but there’s a spark, the flicker of a weak connection between her lips and her eyes.
The crunch of the batter encasing the onion ring brings me back.
“My, my, that was rather strange. I take it the first date didn’t go well?”
I rock back in my seat. “How did you know I went on a date with Amy?”
Greer chomps into his burger, chews, swallows, and says one word. “Doris.”
It seems my failed attempt at a love life has become public knowledge thanks to my receptionist.
“It could have gone better,” I say, peeling off my gloves and jacket.
“Well, I wouldn’t be too concerned,” he says.
“How can you say that? You weren’t there.”
Greer speaks from behind his fingertips to spare me the sight of half-chewed food.
“Because Amy’s wearing lipstick. When she took my order she wasn’t. I suspect she’s powdered her nose just for you.”
This disclosure makes me smile, pleased enough to snag one of his onion rings.
“The evening was a disaster,” I say, drawing air into my mouth to cool off the steaming batter burning my tongue. “But it wasn’t all my fault.”
Greer’s got a red dribble of ketchup on his chin that’s hard to ignore.
“Go on,” he says, happy to bite and chew, waiting for my story. His air is attentive, one of an experienced Don Juan, eager to share his wisdom on how to properly woo a lady.
“Things were going well until Amy got a phone call and insisted she had to take it.”
“Obviously important.”
“Obviously. And exciting and flirtatious and highly amusing.”
Greer grabs a napkin and wipes his lips but misses the stray ketchup. “You were eavesdropping on a private conversation?”
“Of course not. The bar was noisy. She talked in a corridor outside the bathrooms, but I had a perfect view of her body language. Twirling her hair around her finger, playing with her necklace, getting all wide-eyed, even… giggling.”
Greer recoils, a little too dramatically. “Not giggling.”
“Hey, she’s never giggled with me. I can only assume this pivotal phone call was from an old flame and she was thrilled to reconnect. Even though she was on a date with me.”
“How do you know it was a man? How do you know it wasn’t a long-lost cousin?”
“Because I asked. She said it was someone from her past. Someone very special. Fine, but you leave me hanging for twelve minutes and then refuse to elaborate, that’s just plain rude. What?”
Greer looks appalled.
“Hence Amy’s lecture on the virtue of trust. Makes perfect sense.”
“Hey, I was nervous. I wanted the date to go well, to be special. But the place was a zoo, and to top it all, she was obviously far more interested in someone on the other end of a phone than she was in me. Believe me, I’m not a control freak. I don’t need to know every detail of her romantic past.”
“And what do you know about her past, romantic or otherwise?”
“Next to nothing.”
The ketchup finally dribbles onto a receptor that Greer senses, the napkin finding its target.
“Let me assure you she’s well liked in this community, not least because she’s taking care of her ailing grandfather, Harry. There’s no one else. Her mother ran off with some guy to Montreal, and her father died of carbon monoxide poisoning.”
Reading my horror, he adds, “Snowstorm accident. Few years back. Trapped in his car. Snow blocked off the exhaust pipe. Just went to sleep.”
“That’s awful.”
Greer nods and swallows his last bite.
“You two have more in common than you know. Parents are deceased or estranged and…”
“And?”
“You’re both… difficult to read.”
I think about this. He’s right, and I’ve got no comeback. However, I pick up on his use of the word both.
I lean in and lower my voice. “I’ve never known a woman like her. I’ve worked behind a microscope for the last fourteen years, and the only women I got to know were… well… straightforward, polite, scientific… okay, nerdy, if not demure. And southern women are just different. Tell you exactly what’s on their minds. Not that that made my love life any easier.”
Greer laughs.
“Let’s hope Amy likes mint juleps, otherwise you’ve got your hands full with a bird of another feather.”
“Glad you find this funny. My point is, if she’d rather be with someone else, then let’s not waste each other’s time.”
Suddenly Amy swoops in with my salad. “Who’s wasting your time?”
Her presence instantly shuts me down, my silence not helped by a guilty blush of embarrassment.
“Is it me or is it hot in here?” is all I can think to say.
Amy meets my eyes, and this time I sense she’s traded frustration for mischief. “It’s you.” She’s still holding the plate. “One Greek salad.”
I reach out to take it, the tips of our fingers touching, the contact a second more than necessary before she lets go. I thank her in a boyish whisper.
“You all set, Peter?”
“Stuffed like the proverbial pig. My compliments to the chef.”
Amy rolls her eyes. “Here’s the check. When you’re ready.” She slides a slip of paper across the table and disappears.
Greer snatches it up and hunches forward, elbows on the table, his face inches from mine, a green leaf-laden fork hovering between us.
“Take it from a man who knows a thing or two about women, this woman”—he thumbs over his shoulder—“is still interested in you.”
My lips work on a mouthfu
l of vegetation as I mull this over.
“If I were you, I’d ask for a second date, somewhere quiet and relaxed. For God’s sake, this time keep the conversation light. Seducing a woman is not a medical emergency. It’s rare for one’s services to be required stat or for the situation to necessitate a painstaking history of everything that led to this moment. Simply put, let her come to you. Believe me, women want to reveal themselves, but to get to the precious fruit inside, you must peel back the layers with skill and tact and patience. Remember, old boy, romance needs to be cultivated, nurtured, and never rushed.”
I stab a piece of feta and shake my head. All this from a man whose red silk boxer shorts were consumed by his mistress’s Labrador while her husband was out of town.
“What were you going to tell me about Healthy Paws?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s right.” Greer reaches for his wallet and deposits a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Got a phone call from a Mr. Guy Dorkin this morning, office manager over at—”
“I know who he is.”
“Huh. Well, Dorkin wants to follow your lead, wants to offer a free clinic and tour of his fancy digs over in Patton. Thing is, he wants to advertise in the Gazette. He’s trying to win over the pet owners of Eden Falls.”
I put my fork down. “What a total—”
“My thought exactly.”
“But you know Bedside Manor is hanging by a thread. We can’t afford to lose what clients we have left.”
“I know. But what am I to do? Dorkin wants a full-page ad to run this Friday.”
“Tell him he’s missed deadline. Tell him there’s no available space.”
“Too late. He dropped by in person. One of my lackeys already took his money.”
The curse slips between my clenched teeth.
“Sorry about that.”
“Not to worry,” says Greer, reaching across the table to pat me on the forearm. “I’m already working on a cunning plan. The Dork is going to rue the day he advertised in the Gazette.”
And with that, Greer eases himself out of the booth and, seeing Amy headed my way, winks and wishes me luck.
