Read Malpractice in Maggody Online
Authors: Joan Hess
Malpractice in Maggody (11 page)
From the journal of Alexandra Swayze:
Lloyd, if you ever read this, I want you to know that I hold you alone responsible for the degradation and humiliation I shall suffer in the next several months. Should I survive, I will have a new will drawn up that gives my entire estate to a pro-life organization. I hope you and Patricia will be satisfied with the painting your Aunt Bess did of the sunset over the Potomac. I believe it’s in the attic somewhere.
This has been the third day of my “voluntary” incarceration. Breakfast is brought to my suite each morning by what I presume is an illegal alien. I then go to a private session with Dr. Zumi, who is the son of immigrants from India. Frankly, these third world types should never have been admitted into the country. When the day comes that I am officially in the minority, I’ll move to a remote South Seas island. Dr. Zumi has thus far been very mild, merely encouraging me to talk. After that, I meet with the personal trainer, whom I can only describe as an aged hippie. I smelled marijuana smoke on his clothing, and this morning his eyes were oddly bright. Dr. Skiller has tried to convince me to try acupuncture, but the very idea of someone inserting needles in my body makes me queasy. I did agree to instruction in yoga, although I find the concept ludicrous. Why would I want to cross my legs and chant gibberish? A total waste of time, but then again, I don’t have much else to do.
Yesterday while I was having lunch in my suite, Dr. Stonebridge dropped by. He mentioned his long friendship with the Reagan family, so I was inclined to like him. After he left, I rested, then had a second exercise session and swam a few laps in the pool. Later, I shall have dinner here and read until I fall asleep.
I have not yet been introduced to my fellow inmates. The maids refer to them as Miss D, Mr. M, and Dr. D. I caught glimpses of the first two. Neither was familiar. I suppose they’re pop stars or TV actors. We are not, by the way, allowed to have newspapers or watch any of the cable news programs. Yesterday evening I declined to watch some frivolous movie in what is called the day room. I may well be able to recite the entirety of Henry James before I am released.
As for this ridiculous business of my addiction, I am now being obliged to swallow more pills than ever. I am somewhat shaky and nauseous as my intake of Percocet and Vicodin has already begun to be decreased, but Dr. Zumi has promised that the process will be very gradual and relatively pain-free. I can sense that Dr. Skiller does not agree with his plan; she positively glowers at him at times. Then again, she glowers at me all the time, and has made it clear that she objects to my philosophical positions on social programs. These bleeding heart liberals are incapable of rational intercourse, and would much rather sniffle about the plight of the downtrodden and spend tax dollars to make amends, as if the rest of us should accept responsibility for these people’s laziness. Some of America’s greatest leaders came from humble backgrounds yet made something of themselves by hard work, sacrifice, and dedication.
Late last night I felt the need for fresh air, so I slipped out of my room and started in the direction of the door to the pool and garden area. I was surprised to see a light on in the office in the reception area, and I heard voices. I hesitated, but before I could decide how to proceed an orderly swept down on me and escorted me back to my suite. I must mention it to Dr. Stonebridge when next I see him. If one of these illegal aliens has been bribed to allow a member of the media access to the private files, I shall leave immediately.
From the journal of Dr. Shelby Dibbins:
Allow me to point out once again that I am paid in gold ducats to write my books. Why in hell’s name should I waste my time writing in this cheap little notebook as if I were a school child?
Although presumably this is confidential, I have no doubt that one of those subservient spies will be sent to fetch this should I ever leave the room. Which I will not do for the next eighty-odd days. I have made it perfectly clear that I am at this despicable gulag under protest, and cannot be held should I decide to leave. That would be my agent’s worst nightmare. I do hope that she is so fearful of losing her commission that she cannot sleep. Perhaps she’ll develop ulcers and migraines, along with anxiety attacks in the middle of a meeting. Warts and pimples. An uncontrollable compulsion to burst into tears while negotiating contracts. Revenge by any other name would smell as rancid.
Gulag Maggody. After all, there is a chainlink fence topped with barbed wire, and a guard with a dog who prowls the perimeter after dark. Padded footsteps in the hall at night, and on two occasions, hushed arguments and muted sobbing. Perhaps the other inmates are plotting to escape.
Dr. Gandhi was not pleased when I made it clear that I refuse to go to his office for daily head-shrinking. Let the mountain come to Mohammed. Walter, the physical trainer, was less than pleased, but does he really think I’d put on shorts and a tank top in order to sweat? He comes here each morning and afternoon with his barbells and other peculiar devices, and pleads with me. I stare at him until he slinks away like a mangy cur.
Dr. Stonebridge is another matter. He is suave, almost obsequious, but with the intensity of a megalomaniac. He described various medical procedures to assist in my weight loss. I objected, having always had an aversion to scalpels and needles, but he merely nodded thoughtfully. It will make for an entertaining battle.
The food merits nothing more than contempt. I expend more calories swallowing various pills and tablets than I consume from the twigs and leaves that comprise my meals.
So I am doomed to stay in this suite for three months. A far cry from my home, with its lush gardens and views of the ocean from all the rooms. My golf cart to putter around the grounds. My king-size bed with black satin sheets. My kitchen, where Pietro strives to add the perfect pinches of herbs to enliven leg of lamb, veal scallopini, osso buco, fettuccine with alfredo sauce and a medley of freshly picked vegetables, the rum torte, the silky chocolate mousse, the tangy lemon sorbets and—
I am torturing myself. I will acknowledge that my weight has gotten a bit out of hand, although I am still more than capable of promoting the new book. I am, after all, a professional. What’s more, should the bastards in New York renege on the contract, I shall sue their Yankee asses until they’re reduced to bloodied piles of diarrhea.
Ruby Bee replaced the receiver and tried to think what to do. It might have helped to talk it over with Estelle, but she hadn’t shown her face for five days. She wasn’t dead or anything like that; Roy Stiver had mentioned only yesterday that she’d stopped by to browse. Ruby Bee knew darn well that the only reason Estelle would do such a thing was to spy on the bar & grill. And the day before that, Eula and Lottie had come by for lunch and mentioned seeing her at a flea market in Hasty that very morning. They’d sort of raised their eyebrows and waited for Ruby Bee to say something, but she hadn’t obliged them with anything more than a grunt.
And Arly wasn’t exactly dropping by to chat these days. She’d come in to eat every now and then, but always when it was crowded and it was all Ruby Bee could do to keep dishing up blue plate specials and filling pitchers of beer. Probably on purpose, she thought with a sniff.
That meant she was going to have to decide for herself. She’d been uneasy about what might be going on at the Stonebridge Foundation, but after listening to Mrs. Jim Bob, she was downright worried that something truly wicked was going on out there. According to Mrs. Jim Bob, everybody in town had a gun handy in case some crazy man came crashing into their home. Children weren’t being allowed to walk to school alone or ride their bicycles. Women were making their husbands put extra locks on their doors and windows, and stay home at night.
Ruby Bee had never owned a gun, and she disremembered the last time she’d fired one. She had a baseball bat behind the bar, and another one under her bed out back. As for locks, well, folks didn’t break into houses in Maggody. They didn’t have to, since most everybody kept a spare key under a flowerpot or on the sill above the door.
It was a darn shame the New Age hardware store had gone out of business, she thought. She could have at least bought a couple of sliding bolts or a chain. And where in tarnation was she supposed to buy a gun, especially since she didn’t know one blasted thing about them? She sure couldn’t go asking Arly.
The rest of what Mrs. Jim Bob had said was equally troubling. She’d gotten it into her head that the Mexicans living in the Flamingo Motel knew what was going on at the foundation—and were even participants in satanic rituals, she’d whispered darkly. The reason they were there was to spy on the community, to see who might be easy to drug and carry off to be mutilated and eventually sacrificed on an altar.
Ruby Bee hadn’t seen any suspicious behavior since the staff from the foundation moved in. They kept to themselves, never venturing into the bar for a beer or something to eat. They had a grill at the end of one of the buildings, and sometimes she’d see a few of them cooking on it and gabbing at each other. Part of the deal was that Ruby Bee didn’t have to clean their rooms. She’d shown one of them, a stout woman with a grim face, how to use the washer and dryer in the back room. Every day one of them would run a load of sheets and towels, or skirts and trousers, then hang them on a makeshift clothesline by their little grill. None of them ever smiled or spoke, and Ruby Bee’d given up on trying to be friendly.
But the idea of sneaking into their rooms when they were gone didn’t seem neighborly, and there was no telling when the van might show up. There were always two or three of them hanging around outside or in their rooms with the curtains drawn.
She could make an effort to try to talk to them, she supposed. Take them a pie or a plate of cookies, and see what they said. The lady doctor had said none of them spoke English, but Ruby Bee found that hard to swallow. Everybody could speak English, even the Buchanons that lived out in the booger woods. It might not be educated English, but Ruby Bee had learned over the years how to communicate with truck drivers so drunk their tongues hung down to their knees. And that Mexican who owned the Dairee Dee-Lishus had an accent, but she could understand him just fine.
It was too bad she’d have to do it by herself, but she couldn’t hardly ask Estelle, who’d proved herself to be a mean-spirited, narrow-minded bigot. Why, if they gave out ribbons at the county fair for such things, Estelle would come strutting away with the blue. Until she came to her senses, she could just skulk around town and go off to flea markets by her lonesome. Ruby Bee knew for a fact it wasn’t much fun without someone along to discuss the value of a chipped vase or a stained teacup. Estelle could stew in her own juices, for all Ruby Bee cared.
In the meantime, though, she figured she might ought to look into buying a gun. Roy was sitting out front of his shop, waiting for a tourist with more money than sense. She decided to take him a piece of chocolate cake and find out what all he knew about guns and how to go about buying one.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Jim Bob as he came in through the back door.
Mrs. Jim Bob was seated at the table in the sunroom. “I do not care for foul language in my own home. That sort of crudeness is best left at the trailer park or the pool hall.”
He took a deep breath. “Why do you have that gun on the table?”
“I’m cleaning it,” she said. “I found it in the garage, and it was covered with dust and oily grime.”
“So you’re cleaning it with Windex?”
She began to buff it with a rag. “I’m certainly not going to have it inside in this filthy condition. It’s looking quite shiny now, don’t you think?”
Jim Bob nearly tripped in his haste to duck behind a chair. “Don’t point that thing. It could be loaded.”
“Really? How would I be able to tell?”
“When you pull the trigger and my brains splatter out of the back of my head. Put it down—okay?”
Mrs. Jim Bob reluctantly placed it on the newspaper she’d spread on the tabletop. “There’s really no reason to have it if it’s not loaded. Bring home some bullets this evening.”
“Who are you aimin’ to shoot?” he asked nervously.
She crossed her arms and gazed at him, her eyes narrowed in speculation. “I haven’t decided just yet. Do you have any suggestions?”
Jim Bob wondered if she’d been nipping on the bottle of whiskey he’d hidden in a toolbox in the garage. Dearly hoping she wouldn’t shoot him in the back, he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Where’s that chicken we had last night?”
“On the top shelf,” she said, “and the broccoli casserole is next to it. Does it ever occur to you to look for something before you ask me? I rarely go to the trouble of hiding food in cabinets or under the sink, you know. I put your socks and underwear in the same drawers, and hang your shirts in your closet. Clean towels, soap, and spare rolls of toilet paper are in the linen cabinet. Your fishing gear is in the garage. Your boots are in the hall closet. It seems to me that after thirty years you might have begun to figure this out.”
“Yeah, right.” He set the bowls on the counter and got out a plate and fork. “If you don’t know who you’re going to shoot, why’d you bring the gun in here? What if Perkin’s eldest finds it and shoots herself in the foot? We could get sued.”
