by Nick Trout
13
IT IS TIME TO ADMIT IT—I’M FORMING A DANGEROUS attachment to this funky-looking doodle. My revelation occurs the moment we turn left out of the parking lot. Stash sits in the Silverado’s passenger seat, one eye on me, one eye on the road, and into my head pops an awareness of… concern. I’m concerned that I can’t provide this animal with a seat belt or some other dog-appropriate safety device in the unlikely event of an accident. Is feeling a burden of responsibility part of falling in love?
We’re heading into town, my phone already against my ear, calling Lewis.
“Where are you?”
“Sitting with my wife, having a coffee. Busy appointments? Need me to come in and give you a hand?”
Damn. How does Lewis do that? I want to be angry at him for mobilizing the computer geek behind my back, but he’s the dutiful husband, spending time with his dying wife, happy to hop to if I need bailing out.
“No, no, it’s slow.”
I glance over at Stash. I’m getting less creeped out by the constant scrutiny, though his look might be more “hang up and drive already.”
“Sorry to hear about the guy with his labradoodle. You taking on another lost dog, Mr. Patron Saint?”
Lewis is referring to the moniker, the lasting tribute, my father acquired—the Patron Saint of Lost Dogs. When someone came across a stray dog or if a dog needed to be adopted because its owner was relocating or lost a job or died, the late Bobby Cobb posted its picture on a wall in the waiting room and made sure it found a good home.
“We’ll see,” I say, wanting to get back on topic. “Gabe dropped by. The kid who’s good with computers.”
“Really? Find anything?”
Amazing. No apology, no backpedaling for sending a minor on a counterintelligence mission. I press on as best I can, explaining Dorkin’s little scam.
“What were you thinking, asking a kid to go cyber-snooping? What if he got caught?”
“He said he owed you. Asked if we wanted help setting up a practice web page and he’d do the work for free.”
“So you suggested the veterinary equivalent of Wikileaks?”
“He was the one who mentioned hacking. Took me a while to realize this had nothing to do with horses. I thought it might give us some ideas about how Bedside Manor might compete. Know your enemy. Never imagined he’d find anything useful. Believe me, Dorkin’s playing dirtier than us. You catch this morning’s Gazette?”
“No.”
“Grab a copy. And be sure to thank Peter Greer next time you see him. Dorkin must be furious.”
What has Greer done now?
“Let me think about what to do with Gabe’s information,” says Lewis. “I’ll be in shortly.”
We hang up, and since I’m passing the gas station, I pull over, eager to grab a copy of the newspaper to see what the fuss is about.
The one gas station in Eden Falls is the sort that only offers full-service pumping. A kid bundled up like Shackleton darts around, popping gas tanks, topping off, running back and forth with credit cards.
I find what remains of a parking space next to their Himalayan snow pile, get out, and order Stash to stay. Beyond the pumps and the forecourt is a one-story building divided into two parts. To the right, a mini-mart where, in addition to jumbo bags of Doritos, two-liter bottles of soda, and all the ice-melt, antifreeze, and snow shovels I could ever need, I’m hoping to find a copy of this morning’s Gazette. To the left, bays of jacked-up cars and trucks float above men in dark blue jumpsuits. Country music plays in the background, accompanied by the rev of an engine, the rattle and hum of a torque wrench, and the echo of expletives. The place exudes a heady mix of oil, exhaust fumes, and testosterone. That’s when I recognize one of the mechanics coming my way.
“Doc, everything all right?”
It’s Drew, Mary’s husband. He’s wringing some sort of pale cloth in his hands and it’s hard to tell where the oil ends and his fingers begin. But hey, the guy can actually speak.
“Thought you were seeing Gillie this morning. Something about an X-ray?”
“Right,” I reply. “Of course.” Of course I totally forgot that Gilligan the neurotic collie was coming in for an abdominal X-ray. And of course Drew can tell I forgot. “Doc Lewis is expecting him,” I lie. “Just picking up a Gazette.”
Drew gives me the slow-nod treatment, and for a second we both study the fascinating scuff marks on his steel toe–capped boots.
“Sorry about the advertising,” he says.
“That’s why I’m getting the paper.”
Drew looks confused and points toward the gas pumps. “Those ads.”
At each of the four pumps, above the price of gas, are glossy posters of adorable and painfully cute dogs and cats imploring their supermodel owners to take them to the best vets around, to Healthy Paws, “For those on all fours.” Their Patton phone number is prominently displayed.
“Tried telling my boss…”
Though Drew natters on about the merits of supporting local businesses, I’m not really listening because an enormous, brilliant white Humvee has rolled into the lot. The tinted driver’s side window powers down, and a voice orders, “Fill her up with premium.” I can see two men inside and there’s a lot of hand gesturing going on, direct eye contact and flying spittle. The man in the passenger seat is a stranger. The man in the driver’s seat is the same handsome devil who held a limp and smitten Amy in his powerful arms the previous night.
“… anyway, I tried. So we’ll hear from you later?”
The guy driving the Humvee certainly could be Italian, in a stereotypical perfect-stubble, man-whore, Lamborghini-driving, “bellisimo bambini” kind of way. Is Drew waiting for an answer?
“Right. Yes. Speak to you later.”
The mechanic ambles away, shaking his head, probably thinking he should have gone straight to Healthy Paws.
I’m frozen to the spot, unable to resist the allure of the ugly white whale of an SUV. Obviously the two men inside are fighting, and I’m reminded of something Doc Honey mentioned in her email: real men speak with their hearts, not their hands.
In order to eavesdrop and gather some useful intelligence I start to cross the court, closing in on the Humvee, only to be yanked through one hundred and eighty degrees by the long arm of the law.
“Thought it was you,” says Chief Devito, steaming coffee cup in his free hand. “You get anywhere with that trick dog, Hash, or whatever it’s called?”
About to correct him, I think better of it.
“No. Nothing. How about the owner?”
The chief puffs out a plume of condensation in disgust. “It’s like the guy never existed.”
I try not to smile, but Devito reads my pleasure. Then he looks past me, noticing the white Humvee.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy I saw out with Amy from the diner?”
I turn around, attempting to look like I don’t know what he’s suggesting, as the monstrous SUV drives away.
“Funny, ’cause someone told me you two were dating.”
The chief raises his cup to me, savoring the last word as he heads back to his truck.
Nothing left but to buy a copy of the Gazette, join Stash in the Silverado, and discover what the fuss is about together. I find it on page seven, flashing back to my conversation with a tetchy, combative Dorkin. This explains everything.
Healthy Paws invites you to our Open House and Free Clinic.
Come see the fucture of veterinary medicine.
Whether you’ve got a pocket pet or a Great Dame, your satisfaction is our guarantee.
Free lice and tick shampoo for all our pet-loving pubic.
The Germans coined the word schadenfreude, which means pleasure derived from someone else’s misfortune. No one ever said schadenfreude leads to good karma. That’s why I shouldn’t be smiling, but I am, all the way to The Inn at Falls View.
During my recent nocturnal visit, I never appreciated how classy the hotel looks in
watery winter daylight. Elegant might be a better word, the front of the historic building defined by a façade of seven ornate two-story colonnades to create a classic New England porch and deck with views of what was once a spectacular series of waterfalls. Thanks to a rock slide eighty years ago, the “fall” is little more than a trickle of its former self, a forgettable sightseeing opportunity. The inn, however, has clearly put some work into landscaping. If global warming ever kicks in, I could imagine myself in a rocking chair on the deck, sipping on a sweet iced tea, surveying their beautiful gardens. For now, I’ll have to make do with spying a row of bright red poinsettias in hanging baskets.
Having noticed a PETS WELCOME sign, Stash and I park the Silverado, and this time the two of us stroll through a dark, expansive foyer, ignoring the wood-beamed ceiling and the cozy allure of a crackling log fire. We cross a football field–sized oriental rug and walk up to the reception desk.
“Cyrus, here again so soon. Need a Bloody Mary?”
Santa Hemingway seems to think I’ve got a drinking problem.
“No, sir. Stash and I thought we’d bring you a present. And by present, I mean a cure for Henry’s nose. By Stash and I, I mean the dog I’m… fostering… for now.”
“Wait. Cure?”
I explain my findings from the slide, the theory about the mouse bites, the reason why the previous treatments failed, and why this one will work. George listens in rapt silence, like there’s going to be a test afterward.
“Unbelievable. Un—”
Just as he’s about to split the word with what I fear might be a celebratory expletive, a couple of guests walk by and Santa doffs an imaginary cap before wishing them a pleasant day of… what? Igloo building? Ice sculpting?
Depositing the package containing the ointment on the reception counter, my hand is snapped up before I can have it back and subjected to a vigorous pumping. Then, as if this level of gratitude simply won’t do, George comes around, pinning me in a bear hug, ignoring my stiffness and refusal to offer more than a halfhearted back pat. Stash stares up at me. I wonder if he knows an attack word that might allow me to escape.
“Can’t thank you enough,” says George, holding on to me at arm’s length, his eyes glistening with tears. “Seriously. Hey, that reminds me, you got a minute? There’s something I want to show you.”
George leads the way through a door behind the reception desk, down another corridor, and into the same room as before, the one with the bank of video monitors.
“The other night you asked me about a white Humvee.”
George starts playing with a mouse, pulling up images, consulting a handwritten note on a piece of paper.
“Did your guest find her missing jewelry?” I ask.
“About five minutes after you left. Here it is.”
I look at the screen, at a still image from a ceiling camera obviously placed at one end of a corridor.
“I wouldn’t normally do this sort of thing, and I don’t need to know what this is about, but you’ve gone out of your way for Henry, so here goes.”
George clicks the mouse, and a couple in conversation emerges from a room. The door is checked to make sure it is locked, and then the man offers the woman his arm, the gesture theatrical, formal, like a father offering to walk a daughter down the aisle. The woman takes his arm, the man, looking straight ahead, says something, and the woman’s head snaps backward before she doubles over. It’s more than laughing—she’s breathless: she’s cracking up. She’s Amy.
“This is the owner of the Humvee. This is Marco Tellucci.”
George freezes the image, Tellucci caught in an Armani-handsome pose—almost dashing—wearing a closed-lip smile as though he’s so subtle, so amusing, he doesn’t need to laugh at his own jokes. In the still, I catch a glint of light from a tear next to Amy’s right eye, her brown eye, from laughing so hard.
“They came from room 21, a suite, nice king-size bed. And that’s Amy, from the diner in town.”
I struggle to make my sharp intake of breath not sound like a gasp. “Looks like they know each other pretty well,” I say, striving for disinterest, knowing I come across as aggrieved.
We bid George farewell, and I manage to keep my mouth shut until we’re back on the highway.
“I can be witty,” I tell Stash. “I may not have his looks or money, but I’m pretty sure there are some women who think I’m amusing.”
I glance over at the dog riding next to me. Stash keeps his eyes straight ahead and locked on the road, a gesture I, in my vulnerable state, interpret as him saying, “Dream on, buddy” or “Some women, but not the one you really want.”
I shudder. What’s gotten into me? I’m seeking advice on a floundering love life from a dog. Is it possible my relationship with Amy is over even before it got started? Or, once again, am I simply jumping to the wrong conclusion? Snap out of it. I’ve come too far to click my heels and mutate back to being a cloistered introvert. There has to be a logical explanation.
I flash to Leonardo DiCaprio in The Beach, falling in love with the French girl who already has a serious boyfriend. When you develop an infatuation for someone, you always find a reason to believe that this is exactly the person for you.
I mean, it makes perfect sense that Amy might have a suitor or two waiting in the wings, poised to snap her up. As far as I know I’m still a contender.
Maybe it’s time to step out of my comfort zone. If this is the kind of man Amy usually prefers, then she needs to know that there’s more to me than meets the eye.
Hanging on to the steering wheel, I fumble for my cell and dial her number.
“Hey, it’s Cyrus, where are you?” Careful, too probing. “I mean, how are you this fine day?”
“I’m… good. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just driving back from a house call. Hideous nasal deformity in a cat. I… I… was thinking about you.”
“Really. You see a hideous nasal deformity and think about me. You saying I should get a nose job?”
“What? No. Of course—”
“So when are we going to graduate from ice cream to something slightly more… romantic?”
What? Is she asking me on a date? And if so, what’s with Tellucci?
“You mean no jimmies with rum and raisin?”
“Exactly, but maybe we could keep the rum.”
Forward and flirtatious.
“Um, that sounds great. How about finally grabbing something to eat at The Inn at Falls View?”
This is where I had originally planned to take Amy on our first date, but the offer gets away from me before I realize this is Tellucci’s home base.
She hesitates, eventually stretching out the word sure and sounding anything but. It’s enough to make me not ask, “When?”
I can’t help but notice how Stash has his head down and neck outstretched. His abdominal muscles appear to ripple. Either he’s getting motion sickness or my side of the conversation is making him nauseated.
“You know, I bumped into our resident detective this morning. He says he’s seen you out and about with a male model.”
Okay, so I made that bit up, but I need to gauge her response.
“Devito’s an idiot. Like I said, this was all in the past. Time to stop being so inquisitive, Cyrus, and let it go. I’m serious. It meant nothing.”
It meant nothing. Isn’t that what adulterers say about casual sex?
“Besides, I hear I’m not the only one working on a new relationship.”
It didn’t take long for the gossips of Eden Falls to have me sleeping with Winn Honey.
“You still there?”
“Please, relationship is too strong a word,” I counter, “and only applicable if prefaced with the word business.”
I count five Mississippi’s.
“I meant the black dog, the one belonging to that John Doe. Who did you think I meant?”
The laugh on the other end of the line tells me two can play at this game.
“Wow, someone’s fallen in love.”
I hear a voice in the background.
“Sorry, Cyrus, got to go. Harry’s calling. Promise I’ll be free one of these nights. So make this dinner date happen, okay?”
She’s gone before I can clarify whether “free” means available or liberated. Either way, I’m certain Amy wouldn’t want me to ask.
THE DETOUR back to Bedside Manor adds fifteen minutes to our ride. Let’s call it clinical research, for there’s a particular piece of property I need to check out.
The house stands alone, set way back from the road, and appears to be a fine Frank Lloyd Wright reproduction. This is the home of Trish, daughter to Mavis Peebles, sister (so to speak) of Crispin, the stuffed Labrador.
For half a minute, Stash and I survey the property. Amy’s right. I am inquisitive. I’ll even accept stubborn and relentless. But there are times when this approach to life can come in handy. And maybe this is one of them.
Back inside the truck, I dig around for two vital pieces of equipment—a snow brush with ice scraper (widely unavailable in South Carolina) and an empty plastic grocery bag.
“Time to test a certain somebody’s immune system.”
The passenger seat of the Silverado is proof positive that my late father transported a large number of pets. The upholstery resembles a calico seat cover of assorted colors of canine and feline fur. Thick nylon bristles make quick work of gathering a sizeable CSI pile of hair and dander that I bag and stuff inside the pocket of my pants.
“And from you, I need a little saliva.” I hold out my hand in front of Stash’s mouth. “Stash, lick.” Nothing. “Stash, lick.” Not a flicker in his eyes. Either this is not in his repertoire or, more likely, I’m using the wrong language.
