by Nick Trout
I shake my head, break his grip, and disappear upstairs.
Armed with the two props I’ve yet to hang in the exam room, I step into a waiting room that resembles a rowdy neighborhood party. A turbulent throng of chatty strangers is peeling off coats and scarves and hats as they surrender to their own warmth and bonhomie. Though the rumble of conversation is punctuated by the occasional yip and bark, even the canines on leashes and in arms appear to be enjoying themselves. I glimpse the back of a scarlet macaw on a shoulder, a trio of seated gray-haired ladies, cat carriers on laps, sipping glasses of white wine, and there’s a young man in white shirt and black bow tie, working the crowd, offering finger food from a silver platter. There’s no one I recognize and no one seems to be checking me out. I’m without a pet, a gate-crasher, and therefore best ignored.
“Ah, there you are.” Lewis has me by the arm. “Let’s make a little room for you at the far end. What have you got there?”
I’m about to tell him but someone’s saying hello, wanting to shake his hand. Hovering and awkward, I turn to face the crowd and this time I recognize a bobbing blond beehive. Doris is everywhere, buzzing from one person to the next. And everywhere she goes she leans in close and whispers in ears, causing smiles to evaporate, causing hands to fumble for wallets and hunt for checkbooks. What is she saying? What is she up to?
Lewis is free again, guiding me through the masses and into what available space remains near the storage room door. He beckons me close. “You ready?” He leans back, studies my face. “Stupid question. You’ll be fine. Remember, don’t think, feel.”
I get raised eyebrows, his version of “am I right or am I right” and he’s straight into, “Ladies and gentlemen …” The crowd begins to settle. “Ladies and gentlemen, dog lovers and cat lovers, thank you for—”
“Where’s the love for the parrot?”
There’s a ripple of laughter, and I wonder how many of them are already drunk.
“Let me try that over. Ladies and gentlemen … pet lovers …”—smiles, murmurs of approval—“thank you for joining us tonight as we celebrate a new beginning for your home town veterinary practice, Bedside Manor.”
A round of applause and there’s another cha-ching from the doorbell. I wish I could tell you it’s another pet owner, but it’s not. A few in the crowd notice my reaction and turn to see “what” not “who” must have walked in—my personal grim reaper, Mr. Critchley.
“Before I hand you over to a man who has already proven himself capable of delivering a kitten and a baby with equal aplomb….”
There’s a whoop, a whistle, heads turn, and this time I follow the stares to find Denise Laroche, blushing but unable to conceal a proud smile as she rocks her swaddled baby on her shoulder.
“… I must say a special thank-you to Peter Greer of the Eden Falls Gazette”—polite applause—“and the wonderful generosity of Ginny Weidmeyer for providing the drinks and snacks. Thanks, Ginny.” Cheers all round, more vigorous clapping, and once again I follow the direction of nodding heads and jutting chins to find Greer and Ginny at the way back, waving away the gratitude.
“So, without further ado, it is my great pleasure to formally introduce to you Dr. Cyrus Mills.”
Lewis gestures to me, backs away, and gives me a hearty go-get-’em thumbs-up before he disappears behind the door that leads directly to the central work area.
Nice time to abandon me. Don’t think; feel. Feel what? Like I need to run? Like I need to vomit?
“Um, thank you for coming this evening …”
There’s a cry of “speak up,” a “can’t hear you,” and a throaty bark of disapproval that I instantly recognize as belonging to Greer’s terrier, Toby.
“… Obviously, I … um … I had no idea about …” I see heads tipping back to drain drinks, heads scanning left and right, looking for more mobile refreshments, the telltale murmur of people already losing interest. My knees are shaking, I don’t know what to do with my hands, and I think I’m about to have a nosebleed.
“I wanted to … I’d like to take this opportunity to share something … something that might come as a surprise.”
As if on cue, the examination room door bursts open and I catch sight of a stupefied and practically airborne Brendon Small hurtling into the masses followed by a collective gasp, followed by a squeal of delight and then cheering and laughing and finally more than enough chatter to totally drown me out.
I’m left hanging for a full minute before Lewis emerges from the mayhem. “Sorry, Dr. Mills, we couldn’t keep your surprise waiting any longer.” Then addressing the room, “This afternoon, Dr. Mills found a dog wandering the trails behind the practice. Mr. Small was kind enough to drop by and confirm that she is his missing retriever, Frieda.”
A gap in the crowd opens up, enough for me to see Brendon Small holding the other end of the dog’s leash, Anne Small, on her knees, hands in supplication, tears running down her cheeks, and Emily, her little arms wrapped around the neck of her golden, tiny fingers laced together, the grip sure, as though she will never let go.
Lewis glances over at me. “Looks like the lost dogs of Eden Falls have found themselves a new Patron Saint.” And in his smug grin, his flashing brows, I suspect that finding Brendon in my exam room was the icing on the cake. Getting Anne and Emily Small to come this evening so he could return their lost dog had always been part of his master plan.
A new Patron Saint. If Lewis’s intent is to pass the baton, no one notices my fumble. Everybody’s back has turned my way and they miss my grimace of unworthiness, of remorse. There’s the flash of a camera and the chink of glasses. It’s as though my speech is over, as though finding Frieda was the surprise I spoke of, a surprise the citizens of Eden Falls would obviously prefer over listening to me stutter and ramble. It’s time to set the record straight.
“I’ve got two things I need to share.” I’m shouting, the noisy heckler, spoiling the show but impossible to ignore. “The first is a series of photographs.” I hold up the collage from the basement, high over my head like a banner. For now I have their attention, though expressions appear more puzzled than interested. Mr. Critchley, standing at the way back, is the exception. His chin is raised, eyes narrowed, as though he is above all this, the excuses, the empty banter, because the time has come to pay up or suffer the consequences.
“Some of you will recognize the woman in the pictures, but I’m sure all of you know the man in the central photo with the little boy on his lap. Please, pass it around and take a closer look.”
I hand out the collage, and there’s another chime from the shopkeeper’s bell, a collective glance back, but this time, when my eyes discover the target of their shared curiosity, I’m left staring and then they’re left staring at me.
It’s Amy.
Instantly three thoughts flutter across my mind. Mentally I grab the first, a question, a curious but nonchalant “hum, what’s Amy doing here?” This gives way to an impulsive, “wow, Amy looks great—the way she’s done her hair, that hint of makeup accentuating her eyes and lips.” But this is rapidly followed by a scream of, “oh my God, Amy’s here, dressed for dinner, for dinner with me at seven thirty and I’ve totally forgotten about our date, and Mr. Critchley is here to claim his pound of flesh, and there are all these drunken people staring at me, expecting me to examine their pets for free.”
I look into the crowd. I look at Amy, the picture of me on my father’s lap heading her way. I wanted to tell her tonight, tell her how wrong I have been, but not like this. I wanted to tell her in private, in increments, in carefully constructed sentences that give me my best chance to explain.
It’s too late. There’s no turning back. I reach for the FedEx package sent from Charleston, open it up, and pull out a framed sheet of paper.
“They say … they say there’s only one thing certain in life and that’s death. I think they’re wrong. I think there are two. Okay, death, but also, regret. You know what I’m talking
about—the things you never did, the things you never said, the things you wish you’d never said. It’s not a question of if you will regret, it’s a question of when. Trouble is, for most of us, these two certainties—death and regret—come as a package deal, and by then it’s too late.
“The other thing about regret is the way regret means you care. That’s what makes Bedside Manor one of the biggest regrets of my life. I’m not talking about the way the building’s falling apart or the outdated equipment or the bad debt or the financial screwups, I’m talking about what counts, the Bedside Manor that you know will be here every time you walk through that front door with a sick animal. That certain something is here because the woman in those photos, Dr. Ruth Mills, helped keep it alive. That certain something is here because the smiling man with the half-closed eyes, your Doc Cobb, always took his time, always made time, kept his focus on his patient and not on the dollar. As for that little boy on his lap, well, that little boy will always have regrets, but I want to assure you that he’s committed to keeping that certain something you cannot see, cannot measure, cannot buy, cannot fake, and cannot ignore about Bedside Manor alive. That little boy is Bobby’s son, Cyrus. It’s time for that little boy to pay his respects. Here, tonight, I am so very proud to tell you, that little boy is me.”
I hold up my framed veterinary degree for everyone to see, the one given to Dr. Cyrus Cobb, and despite everything that’s happened, I brace for the collective gasp, for people to put down their glasses, drop their half-eaten chicken satay or shrimp cocktail in the trash, grab their leash or cat carrier and storm off in a show of solidarity to the former deity of Bedside Manor.
But as I look around the room, for the most part, people’s expressions remain essentially unchanged. Maybe they already knew? Maybe they just don’t care? Maybe it doesn’t matter to them in the way that it matters to me. You see, it’s not enough to be Bobby’s son. When you’ve got this much catching up to do, you’ve got to flaunt it.
Among the masses I glimpse the shiny bullet head of Chief Matt. He turns my way, looking even more confused than normal. Then I notice the faces of three people in particular—Lewis, Peter Greer, and Ginny Weidmeyer—heads held high, eyes and lips connected by a smile I last saw in my mother, like the smile of a parent humbled by the achievements of someone they love.
Then, from one end of the room to the other, I bob and weave and get on tippy-toes until my eyes finally meet Amy’s, trying to get a read on her reaction to my speech. Was she shocked by my change of heart about my father? Was she disappointed because I couldn’t talk about it when the two of us were alone? The waiting stretches until she simply turns away, breaking the connection, pushing her way through the front door and out into the lot.
I’m after her, jostling through the crowd, throwing out random apologies and “excuse me’s” and I’m halfway there when I’m jerked to a complete stop by none other than Lewis.
“Cyrus, your father would have been so proud of you. And …”
I should be thanking him, letting everyone know how much Lewis has done for me, but there’s Critchley at the back of the room, beckoning me with an insistent claw, like it would be foolish of me to ignore him.
“Sorry, Lewis, but could you fend off Mr. Critchley for a few minutes? There’s something I need to do.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I keep squeezing, nudging, and ultimately shoving my way through the crowd.
Out into the night and there she is, across the lot, unlocking her SUV.
“Amy. Amy, wait.”
I’m shouting but Amy totally ignores me, hopping into the driver’s seat.
“Please,” I scream, halfway across the slick asphalt, doing my best Bambi impersonation. “Don’t go. I screwed up. I should have faced my past. I should have talked things out with my father when I had the chance but I never did.”
The driver’s-side door is ajar, as though maybe she’s listening. I survey the lot to make sure we’re alone. “Thing is, I’m a loner. I’m … I’m not good at expressing what’s inside. Sometimes I wish I were more direct, like you, but I’m not.”
Get to the point, Cyrus.
“Look, I want you to know … I want you to know I’ve ditched my pride. If I could have kept Bedside Manor alive I would have stayed.”
To my relief, Amy begins stepping back out of her truck. I push on. “I had … well … hoped, perhaps you and I could …”
That’s when I notice that she’s clutching a large plaid blanket in her hand. And, once again, I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion.
“It’s Clint’s favorite blanket. We forgot it last night. I was just bringing it in for her. What do you mean, you would have stayed?”
“Cyrus.”
The scratchy holler comes from behind me. I spin around and spy the familiar orange dot glowing in the darkness.
“Cyrus. Doc Lewis says he needs you. Says it’s urgent.”
I think Doris referring to me by my first name is more frightening than the prospect of confronting Mr. Critchley.
Turning back to Amy, I say, “Um … look … I want to explain everything. You still want to grab something to eat, later?”
Amy hesitates, her expression giving nothing away. I’m rooted to the spot, more paralyzed than frozen, my heart in limbo.
“I’d love to,” she says.
She could have said “of course” or “sounds like a plan,” but she slipped in that word, love. For a reason?
“Assuming you stop gawking at me and get on with seeing all your new clients.”
My tongue is Super Glued to the roof of my mouth. Then she smiles and I want to hug her, no, I want to kiss her, but I dare not push my luck.
“Cyrus, did you hear what I said?”
For a woman with what must be a limited lung capacity, Doris has a surprisingly commanding voice. I slip-slide my way back to the front door.
“Thanks, Doris.”
Arms folded across her chest, cigarette bobbing between her lips, she almost lets me go. Almost. I’m halfway through the front door, and though her words are muffled by the sound of the crowd, I swear she says, “Nice speech.”
I look back but fingers like tarantula legs alight on my shoulder.
“Dr. Mills, you had me worried,” says Mr. Critchley. “I thought you might be running away from your responsibilities.”
Neither of us smiles, and I realize he’s not joking.
“Did working a Saturday make all the difference? Mr. Greer’s article mentioned a free clinic, so I assume you must have already met your financial quota for the week.”
Critchley’s confidence that I have failed almost seeps from his pores. I feel the room full of pet lovers at my back. Yes, many of them will have been drawn by the freebies—the booze, the checkup—but, bottom line, they were drawn to Bedside Manor because this practice has always been rooted in how much it cares about the animals in their lives.
“Do we really have to do this here? Right now?” I’m almost whispering, wanting to spare my clients more than myself.
Critchley doesn’t even deliberate. “I think it best to get this over, don’t you?” Then, barely able to contain his smile, he says, “Don’t make me ask for the check.”
Anybody who tells you money is the root of all evil doesn’t have any.
“What did you say?” Critchley asks.
I look away and feel the pull of the old imaginary itch at the back of my head. But this time I resist it, meet the attorney’s weaselly eyes, and say, “I don’t have it.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I said I don’t have it.”
“Yes you do, Cyrus,” says Lewis, suddenly at my side, handing me a check and a pen. “It’s all filled out, you just need to sign it.”
In a daze I scribble my signature and hand it over.
“What?” Lewis’s question could be aimed at either Critchley or me. My expression is rooted in confusion. I imagine Critchley’s is rooted in skepticism.
&n
bsp; “Don’t worry, the check won’t bounce,” says Lewis. Then he gestures to Doris as she steps back inside. “Our … office manager … assures me that she has taken in more than enough money in outstanding debt just this evening to easily cover our first payment.” And then, though I’m sure Lewis means it in the nicest possible way, he slaps the defeated attorney on the back and says, “Cheer up, Mr. Critchley. If the folks of Eden Falls are happy to support Bedside Manor, perhaps you should as well.”
Critchley looks like a man who bet all his money on black just as the roulette ball lands on red.
“Mr. Critchley, I didn’t know you had a pet?” It’s Ginny Weidmeyer to the rescue, and based on the speed of the attorney’s recovery I can only assume that the Weidmeyer estate gets a lot of personal attention from the folks at Green State Bank. “Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?” She gestures to the waiter, but Peter Greer arrives first with Toby in his arms. Perhaps Greer has discovered Ginny is a free agent. Perhaps the Jack Russell will lunge for Mr. Critchley’s jugular. Much as I’d love to find out, I step back and pull Lewis to one side.
“What are you doing? We don’t have the money.”
“Yes, we do,” says Lewis. “I just made sure Doris worked a little harder on the bad debt.”
“How?”
“By convincing her she’d be unemployed if we didn’t come up with the money. You said it yourself, no one knows better than Doris which clients are stalling, hoping we’ll go belly up. And who do you think was feeding Bobby Cobb with all the details of daily life in Eden Falls, the ones he always seemed to know, the ones that made his care feel that much more personal?”
Doris. Everybody knows everybody in Eden Falls.
“If you know who’s planning on buying a new car, if you know who can afford to get her nails done every week, you know who can pay their vet bill. And let’s not forget the seedy details certain pet owners might prefer to keep quiet.”
“Sounds a bit like blackmail.” I catch a glimpse of Doris in the crowd. She must have heard me because her look says I will need to be punished. “But let’s call it strategic commerce.”
