by Nick Trout
Eventually I locate “The Master’s Lodge,” though the word lodge feels far too crude and earthy for the classic multigabled Colonial the Haggertys call home. I park out front. There’s light behind drawn curtains in several rooms.
Maybe Dr. Haggerty is home?
Encouraged by this prospect, I grab my bag, select one of the three possible front doors, march up the salty walkway, and knock. The door yields into my first rap, opens a couple of inches, and Puck comes bounding toward the crack, barking with junkyard ferocity.
“Hello, it’s Dr. Mills,” I shout, reassuring the black Lab that I’m friend not foe. “Anybody home?”
I’m standing in a large vestibule featuring a freestanding staircase and an extravagant crystal chandelier. From somewhere on the second floor I hear Crystal shout, “Go on through, Doctor, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I feel my earlier optimism waning as Puck adopts the role of butler and leads the way toward the back of the house. He deposits me in an expansive kitchen, trots over to his bed in a little breakfast nook, pads around, and lies down.
Is he weary of yet another gentleman caller?
As I vacillate over the option to bolt, my eyes fall upon what I can only describe as a smoking gun: an uncorked bottle of Veuve Clicquot on ice and two champagne flutes.
Stop jumping to conclusions. Concentrate on the Lab who loves lingerie. “What’s happening, Puck?”
I park myself on the floor next to him, struck by the difference in his demeanor. Crystal Haggerty was right. Puck acts like a different dog at home. The cordial and chirpy “Fatador” from my exam room has morphed into a mopey and withdrawn husk of his former self.
Though he’s reluctant, I get Puck to his feet so I can examine him properly, and this time I appreciate some significant bloating of his belly, up front where his stomach lies. He actually grunts when I press too hard, which is probably as vocal as this indomitable creature ever gets.
I kneel-walk my way around to Puck’s blocky head and get totally suckered into feeling sorry for him. It’s the way he stands there, pathetic, jowls hound-dog floppy, eyes sad and waxy, like he’s fed up with feeling seasick and why can’t we head back to shore?
That’s when I register the approach of clicking high heels on hardwood floors, rummage for my stethoscope, shove the buds in my ears, close my eyes, and twist my features into my best imitation of concentration as I listen to Puck’s lungs.
In order to sell Bedside Manor I am prepared to endure a certain amount of humiliation, but that does not include spending the rest of tonight locked inside Mrs. Haggerty’s love dungeon. I become aware of her presence, very near, almost hovering over me. Head bowed, out of the corner of my left eye, I catch sight of a glossy black stiletto. If the shoe is a harbinger for what lies above, this isn’t good.
Deep breath. Open your eyes and look up.
“Be a love and zip me up?”
From my submissive position, practically genuflecting, I’m forced to take in the view. If she were some twenty years younger and about to visit a Vegas nightclub, then I’m sure she’s appropriately dressed. But for Eden Falls? Her black cocktail dress is all about plunging down and rearing up, clearly designed to emphasize an oversize bosom and shapely legs. Did Mrs. Haggerty select this particular outfit to intimidate me? Should I defuse the situation, nip any sexual tension in the bud, suggest she rethink the sheer black nylons failing to disguise the cottage cheese cellulite of her thighs?
I scramble to my feet as she twirls around, theatrically, clearly with the goal of inviting compliments. As it is I’m unable to speak. For some reason I had assumed that when a woman uses the phrase “zip me up,” she’s looking for help sealing the awkward last six inches at the top of a dress. Silly me. When Crystal Haggerty turns around, the entire length of the zipper lies undone. And what is just barely passing for a dress filleted open, reveals an abundance of skin, lace, and frilly straps.
I feel like Dustin Hoffman to her Anne Bancroft in The Graduate.
Do you find me undesirable?
Oh no, Mrs. Robinson, I think you’re the most attractive of all my parents’ friends.
“Whoa, there, Mrs. Haggerty, this is entirely inappropriate.”
She spins back to face me, and I watch as her woozy aura of flirtation and fun melts away, replaced by a slap of humiliation and outrage.
“Don’t lecture me on what’s entirely inappropriate, Doctor, assuming I should even call you doctor.”
I gesture with open palms of surrender. “Please, I have no desire to upset you.”
Her laugh is sharp and piercing. “As far as I can tell you have no desire period. My friend Stephanie was right. She read about you in the Charleston papers and not in a good way. Wasn’t hard to discover your license is not only from out of state, it’s currently suspended.” A sly menace slithers into the fine cracks around her eyes and lips. “So, I must assume you’re here to see me for reasons other than curing my poor dog.”
“You sent the anonymous packages?”
Her knitted brow gives me her answer. Great. So if it wasn’t Crystal Haggerty then there’s still someone else out there hell-bent on my personal destruction.
Crystal straightens her spine, puffs out her chest, and raises her chin, as though this posturing alone will rejuvenate her confidence and sexuality. “Look,” she says, taking a step toward me. “I don’t have to be at this charity event for another hour and a half. Think of this as a wellness visit, a way of improving client relations.” Another click, another step closer. “What I know about your past is simply … an insurance policy. Useful to have, but probably unnecessary.”
“Mrs. Haggerty, I will not …”
And at that precise moment, Puck, bless his heart, drops his head, stretches out his neck, and yaks up an enormous wad of wet and foamy, discolored fabric. The noise is so gut-wrenching, the smell so fetid, the deposit so bizarre, it instantly shatters what little mood Mrs. Haggerty has so desperately been trying to create.
“What is it?” asks Crystal, with a fresh awareness of the real world, as though she’s totally sober after a disappointing night out.
I leap to the dog’s side and pat his head to reassure him that it’s okay, in fact, it’s more than okay. It’s perfect. And then I take a closer look at the item that has been hiding in his stomach. “Not sure,” I say, grabbing a pair of latex gloves from my bag o’ tricks and putting them on. “Do you have a trash bag I can use?”
She clip-clops over to a drawer as I pick at the item like I’ve discovered a washed-up creature in the surf. It’s large and folded on itself, but as I open it up, it quickly becomes apparent that it is, after all, a single, intact, undigested piece of intimate apparel.
“Dear God” is all Crystal Haggerty can manage as she joins me in a silent moment of homage to the ingestive prowess of the Labrador.
“That’s one way to put it,” I say. “It must have been lodged in Puck’s stomach for quite some time. It was only a problem when it blocked the outflow, causing the rest of the stomach contents to come up. Thank goodness he finally managed to get it out.”
I can’t tell whether she’s nauseated, in shock, or panic-stricken. And that’s when it hits me. I know exactly where this particular item of underwear came from.
“Red boxer shorts. And no ordinary pair of boxer shorts. Silk, no less.” If she detects a smugness to my tone, I really don’t care. Like I told Harry Carp, I’m not big on fate or destiny, but if “coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous,” the convenience and harmony of this discovery threatens to make me a believer. “And they’re big, very big,” I say, letting this fact blossom in our shared silence, along with the unspoken observation that these shorts could in no way fit her puny husband. “And what’s this?”
I peel back the elasticized waistband to reveal a label, expecting to find something like Hanes or Fruit of the Loom or Calvin Klein. Instead I read out loud:
“Marks & Spencer. Never heard of t
hat brand before. You?”
“I’ll take that,” she says, quite forcibly.
“No, I don’t think so.” I snatch the garbage bag from her hand and deposit my soggy cache and soiled gloves inside. “You don’t have to believe me, but they were wrong to take away my license. You see … I don’t plan to stay in Eden Falls … but I imagine you do. My scandal promises to be a flash in the pan compared to yours. So … let’s just say this is my insurance policy.”
Though I deliver my reprisal with queasy trepidation I can’t tell whether she finds me infuriating or masterful. Eventually she concedes a deep nasal inhalation. “I’ve changed my mind about this evening. This … development, has been a little unsettling. I’m afraid my husband will have to cope on his own.”
I try to act understanding, grab everything, and head for the front door, leaving her in the kitchen.
“Just a moment,” she cries before I can make my exit.
Half a minute later, Crystal Haggerty joins me in her hallway. She’s slipped off her heels and lost so much more than height.
“I’d like to settle up. For everything.” She reaches forward and hands me a check. I notice it’s from her personal account and it’s for far more than the cost of a house call.
“This is way too much, Mrs. Haggerty.”
“Not at all. Let me know if it doesn’t cover how much we already owe Dr. Cobb.”
I take in the check and all its lovely zeros. Hush money. It’s not nearly enough to keep Mr. Critchley and Green State Bank off my back, but it’s definitely going to make a dent in his first payment.
I study Mrs. Haggerty, who is looking penitent and far more worried about me destroying her life than the other way round. I think back to what Lewis said in the basement, describing her as gregarious rather than immoral. It’s risky, it’s giving up my advantage, but in the end I trust Lewis. I pocket the check and hand over the garbage bag.
“I’m pretty sure Puck’s going to feel a whole lot better. A bland light diet for the next few days will help settle his stomach. Please tell your husband to stop leaving his boxers lying around. Okay?”
And I can tell her indebted smile isn’t holding back the phrase I will. Instead, it’s stopping her from saying Thank you.
The Band-Aid on my index finger is the forget-me-not that makes me smile. My first professional war wound. The old Toby is back, nailed me when I went to take his temperature. Broke the skin, spared the knuckle, but guaranteed to leave a scar. I wonder if Amy will notice? Despite the absence of a whip, wooden stool, and a safari outfit, I manage to coax Toby outside for his evening constitutional (I imagine this is how Greer would describe it) and lure him back into his run with the promise of dinner. Leaving the terrier to chase the metal bowl around the floor, sounding like a cowbell, I fire up my laptop and hook it up to my new Wi-Fi and Google:
“Marks & Spencer label.”
“British retailer, Marks & Spencer sells clothes and food, headquartered in London.” British, just as I expected. The owner of the stray silk boxer shorts, hastily discarded and presumably consumed by Puck during a steamy rendezvous at the Master’s Lodge, has to be none other than the clandestine Don Juan of Eden Falls, Mr. Peter Greer.
Let me be clear: I have no intention of ever using this information. It’s none of my business. But Lewis is right; I don’t want to lose Bedside Manor. And before you think I’ve finally cracked and gone all sentimental, this revelation has nothing to do with the emotional upheaval of returning home or preserving my father’s legacy. Chances are I’m going to fail, that Mr. Critchley will have his pound of flesh before the weekend’s over, and I’m okay with that, so long as I get a fair fight. I’ve always believed that inevitable failure is the best incentive to succeed. But if Greer thinks he can sell newspapers and gain notoriety for breaking a scandal and exposing an unlicensed veterinarian, then he needs to know that I’m also armed with equally dangerous and incriminating material. It’s like Sean Connery says in The Untouchables, “They pull a knife, you pull a gun.” So what if my gun happens to be a pair of gastric-juice-covered boxers from En gland?
Amy must have come back while I was out because Clint’s run is empty. I check in on Tina, get her fed and watered, change her litter box and towels, and gently pat a satiated kitten tummy. With the damning photocopied articles on the counter next to the phone I make my call. “Hello, Mr. Greer, sorry to be calling so late but I got tied up by a couple of house—”
“How is he?”
“He’s great. Just ate dinner.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You can swing by and pick him up anytime.”
“He’s fully recovered?”
“Yes.”
“Did he try to bite you?”
“No, he succeeded in biting me. Keep him away from macadamias and he’ll be fine. Did you sort things out with your neighbor?”
“I’ve already instigated a cunning ploy to achieve a lasting peace with Sam. Amazing what a bottle of single malt will do.”
Though there is absolutely no hint of deception or relish in his voice, though it speaks volumes about my inability to trust, I still feel the need to dig and prod.
“How’s the article coming along?”
“Smashing. I think you will appreciate my surprise.”
Surprise.
“It’s bold, it’s creative, and it’s tailor-made to appeal to the pet owners of Eden Falls.”
“Mr. Greer, I’ll be blunt. I’ve received a number of … correspondence, containing some … well … details from my past … details that suggest someone wants to discredit me. They were sent anonymously but they were meant to send a message.”
“And you think I sent them?”
“I’m asking.” I’m treated to a hiss of disappointment.
“He said you could be a willful and suspicious bugger.”
“Who said?”
“Your father, of course. Last time I saw him, Bobby and I chatted about you and Bedside Manor.”
“What about me? What about it?”
Greer laughs, as though once again, my questions prove him right. “He made me promise to help you out, if you ever came back here. Do you really think I would deprive this town of the veterinarian who not only saved my dog’s life but also stopped me from making a complete arsehole of myself by wrongly accusing my neighbor? I may be daft but I’m not stupid. And anonymous, not my style. If I dig up a relevant skeleton, you’ll be the first to know.”
Relevant. What does he mean by relevant?
“Mark my words, you’re going to look back on what I’m about to set in motion and say ‘Greer’s a bloody genius, putting this practice back on the map.’ ”
I don’t know what to say.
“You familiar with the SAS, British Special Air Service? Bit like your Navy SEALs?”
“Not really.”
“They have a motto—Qui audet adipiscitur.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It means ‘who dares, wins.’ Think of it as my inspiration.”
Now he’s got me seriously worried. “Not sure I’m the daring type,” I say, stopping short of admitting, but I do like to win. “All the same, thanks, Mr. Greer. I appreciate it. Toby’s ready when you are.”
“I’m on my way. And it’s Peter, dear boy, Peter.”
I hang up. Perhaps it would be best to let Crystal Haggerty fill him in on the benefits of going commando.
18
What’s wrong with me? It’s precisely 9:32 in the morning and though I could pretend to be scrutinizing a patient for possible skin cancer, let’s call it as it is, I’m sprawled across the couch, content to pet Frieda. As the captain of a sinking ship I should feel trapped but strangely I feel liberated. From the moment I came back to Bedside Manor I’ve never felt alone. Sure, the captivated creature staring up at me has helped, but there’s this awareness of being a small part of something bigger. And though that “bigger” might well be bigger debt or bigger personal degradation
, it might be bigger reach. It might be a sense that compared to where my life has been headed, I’m finally doing something worthwhile.
“Dr. Mills, you planning on working today?” Forget the courtesy of a knock on my door, Doris shouts from the bottom of the stairway. “Two clients are here to see you.”
It’s tricky extricating myself from the retriever, and my bounty of golden hairs insists on coming with me as I rush downstairs and into the waiting room. I glimpse Doris, already outside, pacing. Who knows where her trail of frosty condensation ends and the toxic fog begins. But the two individuals seated on opposite sides of the room take me completely by surprise.
“I’m not saying he’s cured,” says Ethel Silverman, actually laying her hand on top of Kai’s head. “But I am saying he likes this new diet of yours. Makes him less itchy. Smells a whole lot better as well.”
I squat down to rassle with the periwinkle-eyed husky. Funny how I don’t hesitate anymore. Kai looks great, those reptilian patches around his ears and muzzle beginning to fade away. Best of all, I can tell how he relishes a physical contact that is so much more than relieving an itch.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Mrs. Silverman.”
“Take it any way you want, young man. I’m only here to get more food.”
And, as if on cue, Doris is generous enough to give up some of her valuable smoking time by joining us.
“Doris, would you mind grabbing a bag for Mrs. Silverman’s dog food? Thank you.”
Doris glares at me, as though I ordered her to fetch me a coffee or a birthday present for my wife. The two geriatric ski bunnies huddle, winterized to look like Michelin men, sharing whispered disapproval of a man with the audacity to act like he’s cured Ethel’s dog. They make for a daunting duo.
