by Nick Trout
Next morning, at nine on the dot, I stroll downstairs to the waiting room and make a peculiar yet gratifying discovery—there’s a client waiting to see me. And that’s when I notice Doris, my steaming cup of morning cheer, not behind the reception desk but strolling back and forth outside the front door. Unbelievable. She’s already on a smoke break. Now I know why she’s permanently wearing a ski jacket. It’s not that the reception area is too cold for her, it’s because she spends more time outside than in, sucking down cigarettes.
I greet the client, assure him I won’t be a moment, and head outside.
“Nice job on the roof,” says Doris. She winces into a drag, jabbing the glowing end of the cigarette in my direction. Paradoxically she cocks her little finger, like an English lady drinking tea.
I follow the red dot of her laser beam and glance back at the house. The ice dams. After my interview with Greer and my disastrous encounter with Amy, I completely forgot about getting rid of the fresh snow with the rake. Thankfully, it looks like Lewis did not.
“You do realize there’s a client waiting?”
“Yes, Dr. Mills. You’ll notice his file has been waiting for you on top of the reception desk.”
I’m not good at glowering but I try my best.
Doris shifts what little weight she possesses from one foot to the other. “The Wi-Fi people said they’d be by this morning.” She prefers to say “whiffy” to “Wi-Fi.” “And Mrs. Haggerty left a message. Wants you to see Puck again.”
I think about this. I can convince myself that blood tests and X-rays on her lingerie-swallowing dog make for good medicine, but if I’m honest, with time running out, I’m desperate enough to perform any kind of money-making diagnostics, even if the woman scares me to death.
“Tell her she should bring him in,” I say, without explanation and head back inside. This time I notice Frieda’s “Missing” poster. I put it up on Cobb’s Wall of Fame. So what if the golden Amelia Earhart is upstairs dozing in front of my refrigerator.
I pick up the file. Damn, another disappointing Post-it note—$!
“Mr. Minch.”
“That’s Dr. Minch.”
The man correcting me is a stout fellow who is unwilling to meet my eyes. There’s a cheap cardboard cat carrier in his right hand.
I close the door behind us in the exam room. “My apologies, Doctor, what can I do for you?”
Dr. Minch places the carrier on the table between us, wheezing with the exertion. “Neutered male cat. I’m guessing ten or eleven years old, give or take. I adopted him as a stray a few days ago. He has a sarcoma between his shoulder blades.”
His synopsis of the creature inside the box is monotone, matter of fact, but he and I both know the word sarcoma was slipped in like a secret handshake, enough insider jargon to let me know he’s probably not got a PhD in engineering. How long can I last without asking?
“A sarcoma?”
“Correct.”
Dr. Minch has little spittle bubbles at the corners of his mouth.
“Is this … speculation … based on prior experience?”
Something lights up in Minch’s piggy eyes. “There’s a discreet, firm, nonfluctuant, nonpainful mass, approximately one-by-one centimeter in size, symmetrically aligned between the dorsal spinous processes of the scapulae. Now you tell me, Dr. Mills, what else might it be?”
I’m not loving his condescending tone. He already strikes me as the kind of man who carefully lists his credentials when he sends a friend a birthday card. Nothing will annoy him more than my refusal to inquire about his doctorate. Having said that, Minch’s lexicon sounds dangerously familiar.
“May I have a look?”
Minch hesitates, lifts a brow as if to say “you don’t believe me,” and then, almost begrudgingly, extricates a ginger tom from the carrier.
“Does he have a name?”
“As I mentioned, he’s a stray.”
I nod, pick the cat up, and inspect under his tail. I will the feline not to have a penis, to be female, but Minch is correct, neutered male. I palpate the curious lump between his shoulder blades. The cat couldn’t care less. It is exactly as Minch described—no heat, no pain, no redness—just a firm, abnormal lump in a potentially awkward location.
In our game of clinical chess, I decide to draw out his queen.
“You suspect a vaccine-associated sarcoma?”
He offers me a squishy, shar-pei smile and counters with a smug, “Wouldn’t you?”
I think about this. Common injection site, and the tumor is thought to be associated with the aluminum adjuvant in rabies and feline leukemia vaccines. Minch’s diagnosis appears to be legitimate. “Do you mind if I borrow him for minute?”
Minch huffs, though that may just be the way he breathes, as I pick up the cat and head back to the work area.
“What’s happening with Clint?” asks Lewis, his back to me as he stands over the sink, washing up. He’s been performing surgery, spaying a cat for one of Doris’s friends.
“I’m hoping Harry will bring her in later. Any chance you could feel a lump for me? I think I’ve got a vaccine-induced sarcoma.”
Lewis dries his hands on a paper towel, squeezes the ginger tom’s nodule between finger and thumb and, without saying a word, produces a strange-looking handheld device that he proceeds to pass back and forth over the lump like he’s casting a spell. Each pass induces a flashing red light and a high-pitched ping.
“Microchip. Look at it. Your stray has an ID number.”
Incredible. How did Lewis know?
“So I’m feeling … what … scar tissue around the chip?”
“Exactly. Easy mistake. I’ll call the recovery service and they’ll call the owner. Have the Good Samaritan leave the cat with us. You sort out Frieda?”
“Not exactly. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated? Really? Do I want to know about your interview with Greer?”
“It went okay. He seems keen to help. Mind if I borrow your scanner thing for a second?”
“Be my guest.”
Back in the exam room Dr. Minch stands precisely where I left him, hands clasped together in front of him, offering what I’m sure he considers to be a superior smile, when all I see are slits and folds and creases.
“A little surprised not to see your degree prominently displayed, Dr. Mills.”
“Haven’t got round to unpacking it yet,” I reply, knowing full well that it still sits at the back of my closet in a rented apartment in Charleston, not least because it bears the name Dr. Cyrus Cobb.
Minch concertinas his chin, as though he accepts my excuse. “You concur with my diagnosis?”
Unsmiling, I take the scanner and do Lewis’s magic wand trick on the cat purring in my arms. There’s a satisfying drama to the sound-and-light special effects. “No, Dr. Minch, I’m afraid you’ve unearthed a totally benign, totally normal, identification microchip. Thanks to you, I can get this cat back to his rightful owner.”
I’m not sure the muscles of Dr. Minch’s face are strong enough to distort the overall ambivalence of his features into visible happiness. My good news is greeted with barely a twitch. He could be upset about giving up his adopted cat, but I doubt it. Whether you’re a pet lover or not, thwarting cancer is usually cause for celebration. In Minch’s case, I think he’s unhappy to be proven wrong.
“Very well. Then I’ll leave him with you.” My reward is a clipped nod, the certainty that this visit is pro bono, and like that, Minch lumbers for the door. I should let him go, but I can’t stand the not knowing.
“Dr. Minch. Forgive me for asking, but what’s your area of specialization?”
Minch doesn’t stop, and for a second I wonder if this is how he’s going to punish me. Finally, over his shoulder, he mutters, “Veterinary pathologist. Did the path work for Doc Cobb. Perhaps I’ll do the same for you.” And then, from the far side of the empty waiting room, the dig he’s been holding in reserve, “If you’re ever busy
enough.”
I watch him go, unruffled by the insult but perturbed by the man’s choice of career.
“You never said Minch brought the cat in.” Lewis comes up behind me. Still holding the cat, I have to take a step back to look him in the eye.
“You know him?”
“Of course,” says Lewis. “Excellent pathologist.”
“Really. He looks old enough to be retired.” And then, remembering whom I’m speaking to, I add, “No offense.”
Lewis laughs. “He’s only a couple of years older than you. Make you think twice about a doughnut with your coffee.”
I don’t know what to say, and it has nothing to do with the way obesity can mess with the aging process. It’s Minch’s personality that I’m struck by. Pompous, snippy, and sour. Would I have even noticed before returning to Eden Falls? Was this a glimpse into my own pathetic future? Am I a double cheeseburger a day shy of becoming another Dr. Minch?
“He didn’t appreciate your trick with the scanner.”
“No,” says Lewis, “sometimes it’s hard to be proven wrong. Especially when it gets rubbed in your face.”
I appraise Lewis with a cynical squint to make sure he’s still talking about Minch.
“By the way,” he says, “the recovery service called right back and gave me the name of the owner. She’s very grateful. Hand him over. I’ll drop him off on my way to visit Mrs. Lewis. You need anything?”
“No. Thanks. Puck Haggerty’s coming back in, so I should check out some stuff on GI disorders.”
“Good idea. Keep your focus on the dog and maybe Crystal will stop focusing on you.”
Why does Lewis make this sound as though I need “sexual harassment in the workplace” training? I ignore him, disappear into the soothing civility of a textbook, and don’t even hear the chime of the shopkeeper’s doorbell.
“She’s here,” says Doris. “Wanted to wait in the exam room.”
“Okay. Any other cases coming in that you know of?”
She shakes her head. And then, as I take my first stride toward the room, she adds, “No need to worry about being disturbed.”
With my back toward her I allow myself a half-smile. She’s good.
Inside my exam room I’m assaulted by an awful new smell—the usual antiseptic overpowered by an intense and sickly, fruity perfume. Like last time, Puck barrels into me, looking for a pat, a scratch, or a wayward T-bone steak. However, it’s Crystal Haggerty who has my attention. It’s not her hair—coiffed, and down over the shoulders of her white silk shirt, unbuttoned enough to highlight a thick gold chain. It’s not her jeans—I’m no fashionista, but they are far too tight and unflattering for her figure, making her ample thighs look distinctly thunderous. No, it’s the way she’s leaning into the table, cursing, obviously in distress and apparently giving me the finger.
“Goddamn contacts,” she screams, and only now do I see the tiny transparent disk on the end of her middle finger. “Feels like there’s a rock in my eye. Could you take a look?”
“Oh, I really don’t think I should—”
“Please,” she begs as a dirty line of mascara bleeds down her right cheek. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t so painful.”
Sighing my displeasure, I step in close, uncomfortably close, last dance close, in order to inspect her cornea and sclera. “Do you mind if I lift up your eyelid?”
“Not at all,” says Crystal Haggerty, the element of fear and discomfort suddenly gone.
Even without a penlight I can appreciate how her conjunctiva is genuinely inflamed. “Is this redness new?”
“No idea,” she says.
“I’m just wondering …”
“What?”
“Well,” I say, “there’s the possibility of an infection.”
“What kind of an infection?”
“Oh … I don’t know … something like a virus. Perhaps a herpes virus.” If Crystal Haggerty were a cat, feline herpes virus might be the first thing that comes to mind.
Mrs. Haggerty leans back. “Herpes! In my eye! I can assure you I’ve not been looking for love in the wrong places!”
“No, no, it was … just a suggestion. Actually, humans can’t catch feline herpes virus, and in the same way, you can’t give herpes to your cat. Assuming you have a cat.”
Judging by the look of dismay on Mrs. Haggerty’s face I should shut up.
“Please.” I gesture to her, thinking it might be best to finish my examination. In order to rule out a corneal scratch I have to move in so we are almost cheek to cheek. Slowly I become aware of the way Mrs. Haggerty makes her body interlock with mine.
“Have you been experiencing any dryness?”
I feel her lips brushing against my earlobe as she pauses and then whispers, “Not at this particular moment.”
When I finally work out what she’s actually referring to I jump backward like I was hit in the chest by a defibrillator. My God, this woman thinks she can act like Kathleen Turner in Body Heat, only without the body.
“Lighten up, Dr. Mills,” she says, as if insulted. “I’m teasing.”
“Right, of course,” I stutter.
She bows her head, takes a second, and then, with chilling detachment, comes back at me with, “But if I’m not, I have a sneaking suspicion you can keep a secret.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“See I called my friend in Charleston, Stephanie, she of the Tibetan terriers. Which practice did you tell me you worked at?”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s right. Yet Stephanie swore she’d heard of you. Are you famous, Dr. Mills? Or infamous?”
She makes the latter sound far more exciting.
I dither. “Neither.”
“Maybe you’re being modest?”
I say nothing.
“Either way, I’m still waiting to hear back from her when she’s discovered more. You okay? Only you’ve turned quite pale.”
Crystal Haggerty delights in the effect her threat has on my physiology. Thankfully Puck comes to my rescue, inserting himself into the gap between us, his nose in my crotch a welcome alternative to what she might have in store for me.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Haggerty. Now, if you don’t mind.” I squat down and begin palpating Puck’s fat Labrador belly, wondering whether I’ve finally reached my low point, forced to satiate this woman’s sexual advances in order to buy her silence over my suspended license. Am I that desperate, and if so, is it about the money or saving Bedside Manor? “Everything feels fine,” I say, standing up, careful to keep the dog between us.
“It’s only because he gets excited in here.”
I can almost see the wheels turning in Crystal Haggerty’s cougar-ous mind as she works on a suggestive addendum like “he’s not the only one” or “it must be the company.” I cut her off .
“Are there any poisons that you know of on the school premises?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Is Puck on any other medication?”
“No, nothing.”
“Will you let me take some of his blood?”
“Why?”
“Because it will tell us whether he has a metabolic disorder or not.”
“You think he does?”
“No idea, ma’am. That’s why I want to do the test.”
Crystal Haggerty gently traces back and forth across her lips with the very tip of her index finger. “Let’s say it comes back normal. Then what?”
“Then Puck has to have a problem with his stomach, his small intestines, or somewhere else in his abdomen.”
“I’m telling you, this is about something he shouldn’t have eaten. It always is.”
Dietary indiscretion. Typical orally fixated Labrador. “When did you last feed him?”
“About half an hour ago. He threw up around eight this morning. I felt bad for him, so I fed him again.”
“How much did he eat?”
“About two cups of dry food. You were hungry, weren’t yo
u boy?” Puck circles around to Crystal for a scratch, and for a second I’m worried that I’ve lost my wingman. Fortunately he circles back.
This history of a sizable recent meal is not what I wanted to hear. “I had hoped to take an X-ray of his abdomen, but it’s likely to be a waste of time and money with a stomach full of food.”
“Do you have a portable X-ray unit?”
Am I overreading an unsaid inference in the question? Does Crystal Haggerty suppose my seduction will be inevitable if I make a house call?
“No, Mrs. Haggerty, I do not.”
Then my mind does a funny thing, flashing back to her last visit, to the way she became flustered when her husband suggested Puck’s problems started after he returned from a conference.
“Has Puck ever stayed with a friend?”
The question catches her off guard.
“No.”
“Have you used a pet sitter?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because I suggest you confer with your husband as to whether any of his undergarments are missing.” The fact that this particular line of questioning visibly unsettles Mrs. Haggerty makes me push on. “If you prefer, I can call him?”
She must know far more than she is letting on, however my “touché” moment is interrupted by a commotion in the waiting room, and when I investigate Peter Greer comes at me, carrying a lifeless creature in his arms. “I think he’s been poisoned. Is he dying?”
Truth be told, Toby the terrier does look fairly close to death, so much so that I dare reach into the hammock of the editor’s big hands and place my thumb and fingers over the dog’s heart. The beat is weak and way too fast.
“I found him in the kitchen, out cold by the doggy door. He can’t stop trembling.”
I turn back to Crystal. Puck sits at her side, calm, almost respectful, as though the Labrador senses there’s an animal with a bigger problem than his.
“Sorry, I need to deal with this.”
“Of course,” says Crystal, waving away the need for an explanation. “I’ll be in touch.” But as Puck makes to leave, Crystal fails to hide the discomfort, the uneasiness that passes between her and Greer. Their exchange seems overly formal and intentionally distant. What’s that about?
