by Nick Trout
But when I turn to Stash to see what the fuss is about, I can see he’s barking at the border collie standing in the window. Gilligan must be up on his back legs, front paws on the sill, his rooting snout sweeping heavy curtains off to one side. It’s the room to the left of the front door, the dining room.
He stays in the exact same spot where I left him. Standing at the dining room window, waiting for us to come home.
The exact same spot.
I lean over, plant a kiss on the top of Stash’s head, and I don’t care who sees me.
“Stash, stay. Mary, Mary,” I scream, charging up the driveway. “There’s something I forgot.”
Mary opens the front door, and I rush right past her, ignoring the mat, traipsing snow across the floor, entering the dining room uninvited while she’s fumbling for curse words.
This time, in true Wizard of Oz fashion, I pull back the curtain. Concealed behind the heavy drape, I discover the answer to my prayers. The elusive pathognomonic clue—the windowsill has been thoroughly gnawed and gnarled by canine teeth.
“What is it?”
The worn teeth—not a rock chewer, Gilligan’s a windowsill chewer.
I can’t speak, the smile on my face interfering with my ability to form words. Instead I do something wholly out of character for me. Blame the emotional upheaval of the day or the thrill of not sending a case to the evil empire. Maybe, most of all, blame the realization, the certainty, that I can do this. There’s something tangible about how good this moment can feel. Impulsively I reach my arms around Mary, hugging her so tightly her feet leave the ground as we spin like a whirling dervish.
“What the—”
“It’s the paint, Mary. The paint.”
“I can see that. The dog’s ruined that sill. I told you he gets separation anxiety.”
I check out the adjacent window—same thing.
“Old house, you said.”
“Yeah, so?”
Suddenly I can see it, the case unraveling, so obvious now.
“Those white flecks on his abdominal X-ray. They’re flecks of paint.”
Mary tilts her head to one side. “Wait. You said Gillie swallowed something metallic.”
“He did,” I say. “It’s lead paint. Common in an older house. It would have been picked up on a home inspection if you’d gone through a Realtor.”
I watch as the wheels begin turning behind Mary’s eyes.
“But Grandma left it to us. No inspection needed. I never even—”
“Why would you? It hit me when my dog started barking at Gillie standing in the window.”
My dog. How easily that rolled off the tongue.
“Chronic lead poisoning will make you lose weight and lose interest in food. Changes in mentation are common.”
Mary frowns. I really need to rein in my lexicon, I mean vocabulary.
“I’m saying it’ll make him act weird. Even cause seizures. He waits at the window, gets anxious, chews on the sill like an infant sucks on a security blanket, and gets his daily fix of lead. Gilligan is obviously in the forty percent of lead poisoning cases that don’t show basophilic stippling in their blood.” I continue to explain. “Little blue dots on his red blood cells—classic for lead poisoning. When you see them on a slide, you’ve got your diagnosis. But I didn’t see them. I ruled out lead when I should have kept an open mind. It was a stupid mistake. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. How do we treat it?”
Damn, and I was doing so well.
“I can’t remember. Something to do with thiamine injections. I’ll look it up. No point in making Gillie vomit. Keep him away from the paint for now, but you need to get rid of it. All of it.”
Gilligan has backed up in a corner, watching the show. I can’t tell if he’s expecting praise for his oral woodworking skills or denying culpability.
“You’re incredible,” says Mary, smiling before lunging at me with her own version of a celebratory hug. “Amy promised you’d fix him.”
This time around I bristle, but mercifully Mary makes it brief.
“I’m calling her,” she says, jabbing a finger in my direction. “Amy needs to know she’s on to something special.”
“I wish, Mary,” I say, faking a smile. “I wish.”
16
MY HEART IS SKIPPING BEATS, MY MOUTH REFUSES to generate saliva, and there are butterflies the size of bats flapping around inside my stomach. And please, before you label this as cute, nervous excitement regarding my rebound date with Dr. Honey, this is all about dread—tongue-tied, knee-knocking, “I think I’m going to be sick” dread—at the thought of unmasking Tommy Lovelace as her pesky rival from Bedside Manor.
There’s a bottle of red wine in the passenger seat where a labradoodle should be. So weird, the relationship between appreciation and loss, the “only realize what you’ve got when it’s gone” syndrome. In part I’m referring to Stash after leaving him home alone tonight. I’m sure he’s seated behind the apartment door, head angled up, waiting for my return (okay, I confess, I went back to check and he hadn’t moved). But I am also talking about two-timing Amy and the way we never had a chance to see if our sparks could catch fire.
This time there’s no pink Jeep parked in Dr. Winn Honey’s driveway. Charlie Brown took her marching orders and hopefully went over to Gabe’s without the need for a hot fudge sundae detour.
I turn off the truck’s engine, reach over to grab the wine, and catch myself in the rearview mirror. Can the man in the reflection go through with this? Maybe a little romance is a good thing: a much-needed escape from Amy and a way of softening the blow for being a vet and not a porn star. According to Charlie, her mother is usually more than willing and able when it comes to dating the opposite sex. I can practically guarantee the patrons of the Miss Eden Falls diner will know I spent the night long before I sip my mug of morning coffee. Dr. Honey is a beautiful woman (the word hot should be restricted to temperature). She’s intelligent and spirited, but let’s face it, I’m struggling for the superlatives that count because compared to Amy, she doesn’t have it. She simply doesn’t wow me, and I’m pretty sure she never will.
“Be gentle but be clear.”
I watch as my reflection winces. “Be gentle?” Please. This woman will go postal the moment I tell her who I really am.
“Okay. Get her drunk, slip it into the conversation, and run.”
“Is that you, Tom?” asks the slim silhouette standing at the open front door.
“Yes,” I shout, dropping down from the cab and making my way up the driveway. “Parked on the street because my truck has a problem with reverse. Didn’t know if you preferred red or white?”
“Someone hasn’t been doing his homework,” says Dr. Honey with a pout and a little offended shimmy of her head before smiling, reaching for the wine, and planting a kiss on my right cheek. “It’s on my profile. Good to see you again.”
I’m slow to let go of the pinot noir for so many reasons. Clearly Dr. Honey’s been listening to her daughter’s fashion advice—Levi’s that show off a waspish waist and long legs, a white cotton shirt, ironed into submission, open at the neck, drawing the eye to an ornate gold necklace and not her cleavage. The effect is conservative yet classy, and it’s disarming. No vamp or tramp. Why did I bring wine? It only adds to my deceit. Confess, Cyrus, here and now, on the stoop. At the very least I should hold on to the bottle in case I need something to defend myself.
“You okay?” she asks, ultimately snagging the bottle from my hand. “Looks like someone needs a drink. We’re in the kitchen.”
I follow, wondering if I’m meant to notice the Marilyn Monroe wiggle to her hips, and we arrive at the island soapstone counter. There’s a sweating bottle of Chablis, a breathing bottle of Bordeaux, and an assortment of cheeses, crackers, grapes, and cured meats on a Provençal platter.
“Lovely house,” I say, remembering this is supposed to be my first visit.
“Thanks. The only good thi
ng my ex had going for him was money. I got to keep it, but the mortgage is a killer on one salary.”
Ninety percent of pet owners fight more passionately for pets than money in a divorce.
Dr. Honey shrugs, raises the uncorked bottle of white in my direction, and I nod my approval.
“Your email the other day,” she says, beginning to pour, the bottle steeply angled, quickly filling the glass to the brim. I notice the pale lipstick smudge on the rim of her glass—clearly not her first. “You always so… formal?”
Stop wringing your hands and cut to the chase.
“Uh… I should… There’s something I have to explain.”
Dr. Honey passes me my drink.
“Yes, there is,” she says, chinking her glass against mine, a little yellow liquid slipping over the side, before taking a sip (make that guzzle). “The reason I make you nervous.”
I begin to mumble, proof positive of her effect on me.
“So… um…”
In her narrowing green eyes I sense concern tinged with vulnerability. It’s too cruel too soon. Better to wait for her blood alcohol content to rise to a more soporific level.
“Do you… model?”
She throws back her head, dazzles me with teeth, the muscles in her face relaxing with relief. Maybe I should have hit myself over the head with the wine bottle.
“The photos on the way in? Very observant. No, but that’s nice of you. They were part of a motivational plan after the divorce. Weight Watchers and six months with a personal trainer, proof of a before and after.”
She leans back against the island, rocking her pelvis forward.
“Before?” I stammer.
Dr. Honey laughs through her nose. “Oh, those are locked away in a safe deposit box.”
“And your daughter? No pictures?”
She takes another swig. The glass is half-empty.
“No recent pictures. Let’s just say the divorce and adolescence have taken a toll. My daughter’s a beautiful girl, but she’s not looking her best and refuses to have her photo taken. Please, try the prosciutto. It’s from this little Italian deli across the street from work. Really good.”
Dr. Honey pops a slice into her mouth and hands me a napkin. I act as though I didn’t notice her trying to change the subject.
“So there is an upside to working at Healthy Paws,” I say, cutting a slice of gorgonzola and thinking, Hey, if she wants to vent, relieved to unload what might be another useful tidbit of negative information, who am I to stop her before I make my announcement?
“Hardly. Though, assuming I keep my job, I’m supposed to be in Miami next weekend on the company’s dime.”
“Wow. Guess they can’t be that bad.”
“Yeah they can. It’s a conference for Healthy Paws veterinarians from all across the country. Held twice a year. Attendance is mandatory.”
“What is it, CE?”
She rocks back in her stance, puzzled by my understanding. How would a guy who reviews movies for a living know about continuing education?
I freeze, pretending to wait expectantly for an answer.
“No, it’s more like a cult. Total immersion and indoctrination, twelve hours a day for two days. Lectures on how to read the client, how to improve the client experience, how to project empathy, not just sympathy.”
“Sounds like psychobabble.”
Dr. Honey puts her glass down.
“Shake my hand,” she says, “like you’re meeting me for the first time.”
I surreptitiously wipe my palm across the back of my jeans, and we shake. She seems pleased.
“What?”
“Palm sideways, in the neutral position, eye contact, and a smile. Mutual respect and genuine friendship.”
Clearly these classes are a waste of time. And why is she still holding my hand?
“Watch out if I roll my palm on top. It says I’m a control freak. That’s why they call it the upper hand.”
I flash back to my first encounter with Dorkin, but manage to catch myself before using him as an example.
Finally she trades my hand for the wineglass.
“The main focus is how to squeeze more dollars out of every office visit. It’s brainwashing.”
“Will your daughter go with you?”
Dr. Honey flashes me a tight smile.
“Right now, I’m not sure she’d feel comfortable poolside in a bathing suit.”
Instead of a response, I tease a grape from its stem and think about Charlize and what really motivates her to overeat.
“Part of me envies those vets in Eden Falls.”
I jerk to attention. “Really?”
“Sometimes,” she says, crunching into a cracker and washing it down with the last of her wine. I wonder where her tolerance lies and whether she can be an angry drunk. “I’d kill not to have to milk my clients for every last dollar, to not have to see a new patient every seventeen minutes or else. What a concept, taking your time, really getting to know the animals and their owners. Probably end up making just as much money by earning trust and confidence.”
Amazing, she’s starting to sound like Lewis.
As she’s freshening her glass, I notice the reason behind my first visit to this house.
“What on earth is that?”
My performance may be wooden and hammy, but Dr. Honey follows my pointy finger in the direction of the recumbent feline next to the refrigerator. It’s hard to tell where the cat’s love handles end and the folds in her beany-bed begin.
“This is my soul mate, the one true love of my life.” She clip-clops over and scoops up the panther-sized creature, careful to bend at the knees. “This is my Marmalade.”
In her cradling arms, Marmalade’s high lipid content seems to take on a liquid state, her dimensions spilling in all directions, impossible to contain.
“Wow. Would it be impolite to ask how much he weighs?”
“Careful, Tom,” says Dr. Honey, nuzzling into Marmalade’s face but keeping her eyes on me. “You’re talking to a woman who used to be ‘big boned.’ All I’ll say is she’s closer to thirty pounds than forty.”
“Slow metabolism? Glandular problem?” I keep the phrase that’s a relief to myself.
“I wish I knew,” says Honey, putting Marmalade back down (I noticed her arms were starting to tremble from the effort). “I’ve spent a fortune on tests and everything has come back completely normal.” Her eyes begin to glisten, necessitating a reviving hand waft to settle her emotions. “What kind of a doctor can’t sort out her own cat?”
In the world of real dating this would be deemed a perfect opportunity to put a comforting arm around her. Naturally, I freeze.
“Based on what you just said, the problem can only be too much food and too little exercise.”
“Go on,” she says, clearly pleased that I’m taking an interest. “But keep in mind I’m the only one who feeds her. I know exactly how much she gets, down to the ounce.” Dr. Honey knocks twice on the closed pantry door. “No way she’s eating too much food.” She steps in close enough for me to smell the alcohol on her breath. “I’m fed up with talking shop. I want to hear something about you and those movies you get to watch for a living.”
“Well, it’s not really all that exciting.”
“Ah, come on now.” She loops a stray lock of hair behind her left ear, places her right hand flat on my chest. “Tell me about your last review.”
I remember what Charlie said and think about describing the plot of Pretty Woman. How far can I get before she figures it out? What if she’s amused, embarrassed but thrilled that I made the effort to find out her favorite movie? Once again, I’m still leading her on.
The clock’s ticking, and the cougar seems ready to pounce. Without preamble or plan, total desperation has me launching into a perilous stream of consciousness.
“Okay. It was a low-budget, independent film. First-time director working with what was essentially an improvised script.”
I drain my glass of wine in two big gulps, Dr. Honey encouraging me with “keep going” eyes.
“There’s this… single mom, and she’s a good person, you know, but she’s lonely and she’s been hurt. Her teenage daughter has some… issues. The kid binges on ice cream because it numbs the pain of abandonment.”
“Ugh, this sounds really depressing.”
“No, no. It’s more like a morality tale. See, there’s this unique allegorical character in the mix, a pet cat, and this cat is morbidly obese, yet her mother doesn’t care, because no matter what, she will love this creature unconditionally.”
She slams her empty glass down on the counter, and I’m amazed that it doesn’t shatter.
“Thomas, what’s going on here?”
Suddenly, I feel the shift from blurting out thoughts to genuine brainstorming, as the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
“Please, just give me a minute. It all makes sense. This mother’s been hurt, she’s in denial, but she knows there’s a Prince Charming somewhere out in the world, happy to make her pain go away, a knight in shining armor more accepting of a cute, fat cat than he ever would be of a weak-willed, fat kid.”
Flat palm on the chest tightens into a firm grip of my shirt.
“What’s this about?”
“I’m getting to it,” I plead, trying to back up as I spew sentences. “The plot gets really contrived when this stranger… truly, a well-intentioned man… gets caught up in the relationship, but by the time the credits roll, it’s all good… everything gets resolved.”
I’m buzzing with the excitement of the discovery I’ve just made.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re freaking me out and you should go. Now.”
It was the way Marmalade sat patiently in front of the pantry door when Charlie was around, as though the cat knew it would be worth the wait. Not so with her doting mom.
Dr. Honey’s furious and visibly creeped out by my performance (who could blame her?).
“Please, I’m leaving and I’m sorry, sorry in more ways than I can say. But the solution lies with why the cat was fat.”
“Get out,” she snaps.
My upper body makes to leave, but my feet haven’t moved.
