Isle of Dogs (10 page)

Dr. Faux returned to his folding chair and asked Ginny how her dentures were holding up.

“The same,” she said. “And now and again I feel a bit squamish from when you pulled them last teeth the other week. I spewed up the evening ’fore last.”

“If you’re feeling nauseated and throwing up, it must be a bug of some sort,” Dr. Faux misinformed her. “And it sounds to me like your new dentures are clacking a little bit.”

“When the cream wores off, they do.”

“Well, if you need another tube of adhesive cream, you can pick up one while you’re here.” Dr. Faux hungrily ate a crab cake. “They’re in the middle cabinet in the examination room.”

Ginny silently watched him eat and began to struggle with deep resentment that was inching toward hate. She was a solid church woman and knew that hate was a sin, but she couldn’t seem to help herself as she watched the greedy, indifferent dentist stuff food into his mouth.

“I always thought you was the best I ever knew at teeth, Dr. Faux,” she finally blurted out. “But now I seen you for the truth, and you learned me we shouldn’t trust neither one nei-ther more. We’re of a mind what things you been doing on us. I’m just so out of heart about it, and was thinking as much when I was renching the dishes right afore I brung your dinner. We gave you all what we could, mostly food and good words, when you come here to help us, and then what you did! Why bimeby, you got aholt of each and ever one of us and mommucked up our mouths so you could get mor’n you was supposed to from the gov’ment!”

“My dear Ginny, you know that’s simply not so,” Dr. Faux said in a cajoling tone. “For one thing, government officials
audit dentists constantly and check for things like that. I could never get away with it, even if it would ever enter my mind. And I swear and kiss the Bible,” he tossed out one of the Islanders’ favorite exclamations, “that what I’m saying to you is true!”

“That’s all over!” Ginny declared, indicating she’d heard enough of his tales.

Huh, Ginny bitterly thought. A cold day in Heck it would be when some government agent took the ferry out here and tried to poke around in the Islanders’ mouths, looking to see if certain work had really been done or was necessary. She tried to pray away the hate in her heart by reminding herself that were it not for Dr. Faux, she wouldn’t have dentures or adhesive cream or free samples of mouthwashes. She supposed she would have no teeth of any sort, except for the real ones that Dr. Faux had claimed he had no choice but to extract because of abscesses, root fractures, bad enamel, an overbite, and she forgot what else.

“I don’t want to hate neither one,” she silently prayed, but reality settled on her like a huge stone she could not push away.

The truth, of course, was that she had been rather shocked to discover she had such major dental problems, but she had trusted Dr. Faux. The truth was, that up until a few years ago, her teeth were fine and people were always talking about her pretty smile. Why, she hadn’t had a cavity since childhood, and then suddenly, she didn’t have a single tooth left in her head. The more she brooded over this as she locked up the clinic and headed down the dark street, the more she began to entertain a host of poisonous thoughts about Dr. Faux. How many times had he told her that all of the Islanders were born with bad teeth and Tangier Disease due to
inbreeding
? How many times did she hear yet one more tale about someone’s fillings falling out or a root canal going bad or a crown that looked like a piano key cracking smack in half for no good reason?

Huh, she thought with gathering agitation and grief as she crossed the painted lines on Janders Road. Maybe they ought to hold Dr. Faux hostage until all of his teeth fell out. Maybe he ought to have clacking dentures that didn’t fit right and
caused a lot of gum soreness and missed meals. Maybe he ought to spy an ear of sweet corn and feel overwhelmed by nostalgia and loss, or be embarrassed when it sounded like he was playing the castanet while he talked on the phone.

“Honey, you look a norder! Why, you’re sob wet!” Ginny’s husband noticed that she was sobbing as she rushed inside the house and slammed the door.

“I want my teeth!” she cried out hysterically.

“You remember whar you laid ’em last?” he asked, as he began walking around, looking for the glass jelly jar she usually soaked her dentures in. “Well, I swanny!” he suddenly said as he put on his bifocals. “Durn if they’re not in your mouth, Ginny!”

A
N
H
ISTORICAL
F
OOTNOTE

by Trooper Truth

At a glance, it may not seem entirely honest of me to call this digression a footnote, because it should be plain to the reader that the text is not preceded by a number, nor is it at the bottom of a page.

However, a footnote doesn’t have to mean a reference designated by a number that we find in works of nonfiction, textbooks, and term papers. A footnote can also indicate something of lesser importance. For example, it could be said that until a few years ago, Jamestown was nothing more than a footnote in history, since most people believed that the U.S. really began at Plymouth and that’s why we celebrate Thanksgiving. Although schoolbooks still devote scant attention to Jamestown, at least our nation’s first lasting English settlement has made it into accepted educational writings and is not relegated to a footnote, literally.

In the high school textbook
The American Nation,
I’m pleased to report, Jamestown is discussed on pages 85 and 86. Sadly, however, my 1997 edition of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
offers only an eighth of a page on Jamestown and leads one to believe that there is nothing left of the site except replicas of the ships the settlers sailed on from the Isle of Dogs. The replicas are actually about a mile west of the original fort and are part of what is called the Jamestown
Settlement, which is also a replica, I reluctantly point out, but worth visiting as long as you realize that the first settlers did not construct the twentieth-century buildings, restrooms, food court, souvenir shops, parking lots, and ferry, any more than they sailed on the fabricated ships moored in the river.

I find it rather embarrassing that when you visit Jamestown, there are numerous signs directing you to the Settlement and only one or two that point you in the direction of the original site. So you can choose to visit the fabricated Jamestown or the real one, and many tourists choose the former because of the conveniences, possibly. Of course, when the Settlement was built, it was believed that the original site had eroded into the river, which explains why Virginia thought a fabrication was the best the Commonwealth could offer.

“The point is,” I said to my wise confidante, “people accept as truth things that are fabrications or at the very least can’t be proven,” and I went on to give my wise confidante the example of how Tangier Island supposedly got its name.

The story goes that when John Smith discovered the uninhabited island we now assume is Tangier but may in fact be Limbo, he was vividly reminded of a town called Tangier on the south side of the Strait of Gibraltar, in North Africa. He was thus inspired to name the new island in the New World Tangier Island, which seems an apocryphal tale to me.

“Tangier Island bears no resemblance to Tangier, North Africa,” I explained to my wise confidante, “and it makes me wonder if Smith was engaging in a little backward talk, assuming he ever uttered a word about any place called Tangier.”

“ ‘Ye spy the isle there?’ ” I said he might have asked while he was exploring in his barge. “ ‘It is most pleasant and does cause me to think of Tangier,’ ” I said he might have added with noticeable inflection and facial expression because he meant quite the opposite and was making a joke.

There are other theories that Tangier Island was named after Tangier, Morocco, based on information that some British soldiers stationed in Tangier set sail for America with their Moorish wives and settled on an island in the Chesapeake Bay some people believe was Tangier when the English military
withdrew its garrison from the Moroccan city in 1684. However, years later, people who called themselves “Moors” and lived in Sussex County, Virginia, denied that their Moorish ancestors had any connection to Tangier Island.

Who knows what is true? In fact, no one seems quite certain when Tangier was first inhabited, but there are accounts of patents of land being granted as early as 1670, and a much-disputed Tangier tradition has it that in 1686, John Crockett settled on a rise and raised livestock, potatoes, turnips, pears, and figs, and eight sons. The island began to flourish and gained the attention of warring factions during the American Revolution, when the British demanded supplies from Tangier, and the rest of Virginia responded by blockading the island and passing along severe threats from Virginia Governor Thomas Jefferson.

Meanwhile, pirates seized whatever they wanted and burned down the house of an Islander named George Pruitt as they cruised about, terrorizing a people who were too few and unarmed to defend themselves. As if that wasn’t bad enough, a boy named Joe Parks II was snatched by the British, conscripted and carried away, and all Tangier youth were forced into hiding. The Islanders had little choice but to decide it was better to openly trade with the enemy than to have their crops, property, and loved ones seized, and they began selling commodities to the British, to other Americans and pirates, and simply flew whatever flag was appropriate, depending on who was in the area. This survival technique has endured down through the centuries, and to me explains why the Tangier people of today suffer tourists on the island and ply them with crab cakes, trinkets, T-shirts, taxi service on the golf carts, and misinformation.

Dear readers, I’m asking you to interact with me by helping enforce the Golden Rule. Please! If any of you have suffered any suspicious or bad dental work performed by one Dr. Sherman Faux of Reedville, e-mail me as soon as possible. And if anyone happens to know the whereabouts of a female Boston terrier named Popeye, please let me know immediately! Like the dentist, the innocent dog has been spirited away and is possibly being held hostage somewhere. Unlike the dentist,
Popeye has never hurt or taken advantage of anyone and doesn’t deserve what has happened to her. If you have information about these crimes or any others—especially the recent vile murder of Trish Thrash—please get in touch.

Be careful out there!

 Major Trader was hunched over his keyboard like a turkey buzzard when Trooper Truth’s latest essay went up on the website at exactly three minutes past seven this Wednesday morning.

“What sort of nonsense is this?” Trader exclaimed out loud to no one but himself. “Naughty, naughty, Trooper Truth. We’ll see about you mucking up the Commonwealth’s revered history and asking the public to snitch for you!”

Trader bit into a jelly doughnut and wiped his thick fingers on his flannel pajamas as his wife stirred about in the kitchen, clanging cookware, rummaging and rooting through a cluttered cabinet for the frying pan.

“Do you have to make so much racket?” Trader yelled from his office on the other side of the spec house he and his wife would soon sell for a handsome profit.

Trader was very clever with his investments and had become a wealthy man over recent years. His modus operandi was simple. He would buy a lot in an exclusive neighborhood that did not allow spec houses. He would build a house, live in it for one year, then sell it, claiming that his position with the governor necessitated privacy and security, both of which were somehow violated, forcing him to move yet again. Although the neighbors had his scam figured out, no one could
prove that he was really building a spec house, even though each of the ten homes he had sold so far were identical and rather generic. Pointed letters from the neighborhood association had been ineffective and completely ignored, and Trader’s pattern had become an addiction.

He loved moving. Perhaps it provided the only drama in his otherwise artificial, mendacious life. Several months out of every year Trader ordered his wife about, supervising her packing and cracking the whip over his contractor’s spinning head, goading him into escalating the building schedule, all the while yelling “Hurry up! Hurry up! We’ve got to move in two weeks and the new house had better be ready! Don’t you screw with me!”

“But we haven’t even put the wiring in yet,” the contractor had pleaded with Trader just last week.

“How long can that possibly take?” Trader fired back.

“And you haven’t picked out paints yet.”

“Just use the same damn eggshell white you’ve used on the other ten houses, you fool!” Trader yelled over the phone. “And the same off-white Burbur carpet, you idiot! And the same brass Williamsburgy light fixtures, you ninny! And the same pulls and doorknobs from Home Depot, you meathead!”

It was vital that Trader play a sovereign role when he was in his own castle. The rest of the time, he was a toady for the governor and no one could possibly understand how hard that was on a man’s ego unless he had experienced it firsthand.
Do this, do that. Use a different word. Rewrite that paragraph. Oh, I changed my mind. Let’s tell the press this instead. Where’s my magnifying glass? Leave my office now! I’m not feeling well.

At least Trader’s demanding and unrewarding career had taught him the value of manipulation, revenge, and profiteering. Thanks to the Internet, it wouldn’t be long before he would be a self-made millionaire if his latest investment scheme was successful.

“Major? You haven’t told me which you’d like for breakfast. Sausage or bacon? Raisin toast or muffins? Grits with or without cheese?” his wife yelled from the kitchen as cookware clanged.

“What are you doing in there? Practicing percussion for the goddamn symphony?” Trader yelled back. “I want it all.”

Thank goodness their kids were off in boarding school and college and Trader didn’t have to listen to their noisy nonstop feet and grating voices. His wife was disruptive enough, and sound certainly carried in their new house just like it had in the other ten. Trader was getting close to fifty, and if all went according to plan, he could retire soon and focus on cyber crimes. Trader frowned, deep in thought, as he read the latest Trooper Truth essay again and then composed a provocative anonymous e-mail.

Dear Trooper Truth,

I am the great-great grandson of a Confederate spy, so maybe it is in my DNA (ha ha) to be unable to resist leaking intelligence. I say ha ha because I knew you would appreciate my witty reference to DNA since you have written about it before. I happen to have reason to know that the governor has no intention of trapping any speeders on Tangier Island. He could care less. His true motivation for launching VASCAR there was to create a mess that someone else would be blamed for. I’m sure you’ll want to mention that in your next essay. By the way, I was very sorry to hear about Popeye. Has it occurred to you that maybe someone stole the helpless little dog for a reason? And if someone has information re: Dr. Faux or anyone else, is there a reward?

Sincerely,
A. Spy

As usual, Trader did not intend to place a period after the
A
in
A Spy.
As usual, he clicked on the
SEND NOW
key before he could make the correction. The spec house filled with the greasy aroma of frying meats as he waited for Trooper Truth to get back to him.

“Breakfast is ready!” his wife shouted from the kitchen at the same moment his computer announced, “You’ve got mail!”

Dear Mr. A. Spy,

Citizens should be willing to tell the truth without being paid! And if you know anything about Popeye’s disappearance, you’d better tell me, or else!

Trooper Truth

“Well, well,” Trader muttered with a gleeful smile. “I do believe I struck a nerve.”

“Did you say something, Major?” his wife screamed over water drumming in the cheap metal kitchen sink.

“Not to you!” Trader thundered as he composed another e-mail.

Dear Trooper Truth,

I have heard rumors about who the dog’s owner was. Can that be a coincidence? You know, not everybody likes that woman, who shouldn’t be in the position she’s in to begin with. It’s a man’s world, right? By the way, does she have an unlisted address? I’m wondering how the dognappers found her house. And yes, citizens should be handsomely rewarded for helping the police.

Sincerely,
Mr. A. Spy

Andy was enraged as he tapped out a message back to A. Spy.

Dear Mr. A. Spy,

It is not a man’s world in the least, and if Popeye is the victim of some sort of political intrigue, I suggest you tell me what you know this minute. Don’t make me warn you again. And where her owner lives is none of your business. I’ll get back to you about the reward.

Trooper Truth

Andy sent the e-mail and waited for Mr. Spy to answer him. But the storm of e-mails flying into Andy’s cyberspace box were from other readers. Mr. Spy had signed off and was taunting him, Andy decided with mounting fury.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the times he had played with Popeye and had been licked by her. He could almost feel her sleek tuxedo coat and the baby softness of her pink belly, and how well he remembered the comforting sound of her toenails clicking across the hardwood floor back in the days when he had been a frequent visitor of Hammer’s.

Andy reached for the photo album on top of a stack of research books. He was going to find that dog if it was the last thing he did. He was concerned for Hammer’s safety, too. She did, in fact, have an unlisted address and was extremely careful to keep her personal life top secret. Only the police, her professional associates, and a few of her neighbors knew where she lived, and she never talked about Popeye or allowed the media to take the dog’s photograph. So how did the dog thief find Popeye unless the crime was, as A. Spy suggested, an inside job?

“Please be alive, Popeye,” Andy muttered as he found his favorite photograph of Popeye—the one of her in a Little Red Riding Hood winter coat. “Please don’t forget about Superintendent Hammer and me. We’ll find you! I promise! And just wait and see what I do to the son of a bitch who stole you!”

He scanned the photograph into cyberspace, and instantly, the image of Popeye filled his computer screen. He opened up his website program and typed in the caption: “Missing. Have you seen Popeye? Big reward offered!” If people were so lacking in character that they needed money to do the right thing, then Andy would play their little game. He edited the caption to say “HUGE REWARD offered,” and of course, the expected bogus responses came in immediately. People claimed to have seen Popeye wandering along the shoulder of the Downtown Expressway or in an alleyway or crying in the backseat of a suspicious car. If the price was right, other people wrote, they would give Trooper Truth clues about where Popeye was and why.

There was an outpouring of sympathy, too. Hundreds of readers offered their own sad stories of pets they had lost
since childhood. It was the most mail Trooper Truth had gotten so far, and Andy spent the entire day at his dining-room table trying to answer it and hoping that someone would come forth and say, “Hey, I took the dog because my kids wanted one and I couldn’t afford it. So I’ll meet you in some secret place and give Popeye up for a price.” Or maybe someone would write, “Look, it was a setup. Someone who hates Superintendent Hammer told me all about the dog and gave me the address and a small amount of cash. I realize now it was a mean, heartless act and I will be happy to give Popeye back as long as I don’t get in trouble and am rewarded.”

Sadly, there was no e-mail about the murder of Trish Thrash, or T. T., except for a short note from someone named P.J., who claimed that she used to play softball with T. T. and knew for a fact that T. T. would never willingly go to Belle Island with a man.

H
AVE
you lost your mind?” Hammer said to Andy over the phone at 6:00
P
.
M
. “I thought you were supposed to write only anti-crime essays. It’s bad enough that you’re straying from mummies to pirates, but now you’re pretending to be the SPCA!”

“Do you want me to take Popeye’s picture off the website?” He tested her. “I certainly can, but I thought giving it a shot couldn’t hurt anything. Maybe she’s still out there and someone will be tempted enough by the reward to give her back.”

“I just don’t know if I can stand seeing her in that sweet little red coat every time I log on to your site,” Hammer confessed sadly.

“When people avoid looking at pictures, it indicates that they haven’t healed. That’s why I never tear up photos of old girlfriends. If I can look at them now, then I’m okay. If I can’t bear to look at them, then I’m not okay,” Andy said.

“Well, leave her picture on the site, then,” Hammer said. “I’ll just have to get used to it. And you’re right, Andy, if there’s any chance Popeye might be found, we have to do everything we can. I thought you were supposed to stake out the governor tonight.” Her tone turned all business again. “And I’m not sure it was a wise thing to criticize him again in
your Trooper Truth essay. By the way, who is this so-called
wise confidante
you keep referring to?”

“Having a wise confidante gives me license to have dialogue and expository conversations,” Andy replied.

“Well, I don’t know who the hell
she
is, but no one is supposed to know you’re Trooper Truth, especially in light of this awful murder.” Hammer was brusque with him. “So I certainly hope you haven’t blown your cover over some so-called wise female confidante. And if you have, I have a right to know about it, even if I’m not the least bit interested in your personal life. Please don’t tell me it’s Windy.”

“Windy?” Andy was offended and changed the phone to his other ear. “I should hope you would think I have better taste than that.”

Hammer ended the conversation, which had gone on far too long, and hung up without saying goodbye. Andy sent one final e-mail, but this time he used his own screen name:

Dear Dr. Pond,

Just wondering if you’ve gotten those toxicology results yet? Remember, this is an extremely sensitive case, and I appreciate your keeping all details strictly confidential. And no, I can’t fix your recent reckless driving ticket. I suggest you go to driving school on a Saturday that is most convenient for you, and the points will be taken off your record.

Thanks and good luck,
Trooper Brazil

He logged off and put on his uniform, and within the hour was parking at Ruth’s Chris Steak House on the city’s south side, where he met Trooper Macovich, who had piloted the First Family in for dinner. The two of them sat in Andy’s car and watched the steak house’s front door, waiting for the governor to emerge.

“What’s it like flying them?” Andy asked as he gazed out at the gleaming Bell 430 helicopter that was painted gun metal gray with dark blue stripes down the sides and the seal of the Commonwealth on the doors.