The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (21 page)

“Mr. Greer.”

“Peter.”

“Peter, I … appreciate the compliment, but please, don’t pass me off as a wannabe obstetrician. I did what anyone would have done in my situation.”

Greer grabs a nut. “Let’s come at this from a different angle. What do you think you bring to Eden Falls? What makes you a better veterinarian than old Doc Cobb?”

“I doubt anyone could be a better veterinarian.”

I could pretend I was sucking up, but the words are out before I can think, and I’m surprised by how easy they are to say.

Greer smiles, as though that was the right answer.

“How do you feel about … something like … Doc Mills may be the new, younger face of Bedside Manor but he’ll be maintaining the same Doc Cobb excellence in veterinary care that the pet owners of Eden Falls have come to know and love.”

“Sounds great. In fact,” I say, taking this as my cue, “I’d really appreciate anything you can do in this article that will improve business.” Sensing the value in showing deference to the local legend himself, I go so far as to add, “It’s hard enough filling Cobb’s shoes, let alone being an outsider.”

Greer tips his head back and raises his glass. “Absolutely. Be my pleasure.” The rest of Greer’s red wine vanishes down his gullet and he reaches for the bottle. He tops me off even though I’ve barely touched a drop. “You know, when I first came to town, I made a big effort to connect with the community. It might be helpful for you to offer some sort of outreach to the pet owners of Eden Falls.”

This sounds worrisome. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You know, something to kick-start interest in you and the practice.”

“I thought that’s what you might do with this article.”

“Of course, old boy, but words on paper don’t necessarily translate into traffic through your waiting room. Have you thought about sponsoring a Little League baseball team?”

“Can I be honest?” I ask.

Greer puts his pen down, eases back in the love seat. There’s a blur of motion and white light and Toby is curled up in his lap, managing to look angelic.

“I’m not sure the business will be able to survive until the spring.”
We might not survive past the end of the week
.

Greer sucks down a sharp intake of breath, closely followed by another mouthful of Malbec. “I see. Then we’re going to have to get a bit more aggressive. How are you at public speaking?”

I’m speechless. I hope this is all the answer he needs.

“Hum. That’s too bad. I’m sure you’d find a receptive audience at the Knights of Columbus or the Rotary Club.”

Greer jabs a finger at me like he knows the answer in a game of charades. “Open house. Set the place up so that you give guided tours of the facilities, no, better still, a behind-the-scenes tour of what it’s really like saving the lives of our beloved pets. Throw in some cheap plonk, microwave a few frozen hors d’oeuvres, and Bob’s your uncle. The place will be hopping.”

I’m petrified.
To my right you can see our empty medicine cabinets and empty dog runs and straight ahead you’ll appreciate our fine collection of antiquated and poorly maintained equipment. Best get an X-ray now while stocks last
.

“What?” he asks.

“No … it’s not a bad idea … it’s just that …”

Greer sighs, narrows his eyes to slits, and I can’t tell whether he’s peeved or about to get more probing. “Look, if Bedside Manor really is hanging by its short and curlies, it might be best to tell your story to a paper with a bigger readership.”

“No.” The speed and volume of my response can only corroborate how much I have to hide. I try to rally. “I’m not one for bragging. Blame my southern sensibilities.” And thinking about the safest way to get my message across I add, “If Lewis trusts you, I trust you to help me keep Robert Cobb’s Bedside Manor alive.” I instantly feel the guilt of leaving out the last five words of this sentence—
so I can sell it
.

I can’t tell if Greer knows more than he’s letting on or thinks that I do. Let’s hope he’s not tight with Mr. Critchley from Green State Bank.

“Well, I’m awfully grateful for the exclusive. Give me a day or two and I’m sure I can come up with something brilliant to expand your clientele.”

“The sooner the better. Appreciate it,” I say, grunting with the effort of evacuating the chair and scrambling to my feet. “Thanks for the wine, but I really should be going.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. Perhaps another time.”

“Definitely,” I say, watching as Greer pats his thigh and Cujo junior leaps into his arms.

“Now, if you could be the one to find that missing retriever,” he says, glancing at the poster on his desk as we walk by, “you’d be all set, as they like to say in these parts.”

“Frieda Fuzzypaws,” I read, as if for the first time, wondering what Greer can tell me about Brendon Small.

“You must have seen the posters?”

“Yes. Did the dog run off?”

“So I was told. Daughter’s all upset.”

“It’s a kid’s dog?”

“Present from her late father. Died a few years back. There’s a stepfather in the picture now. Nice enough chap. Been out of work for a while though. I heard rumors of the bank foreclosing on their house.”

Nice enough chap
. Nice enough to threaten blackmail to buy my silence over Frieda?

“It’s dreadful,” says Greer. “Hard to imagine any dog could survive outdoors on nights like these.”

We’ve made it to his front door.

“Have to ask before I let you go, you rather I not mention your relationship with your father?”

My immediate
For god’s sake, no
, reaction contorts my face.

“What ever you think to boost business.”

Greer seems pleased, but whether he’s pleased with my answer or the effect his question has had on me, I cannot tell.

“Very good. And don’t worry, mum’s the word on getting fired from your last job in Charleston.”

It’s a totally different diner this evening with the exception of the one constant I was hoping for. The rush is over and the place lacks the clamor of competing conversations and the collision of chopping cutlery, but I spy Amy, wiping down the farthest table. To my delight, she smiles as soon as she sees me.

I pretty much have my choice of where to sit. Two older gentlemen, who are tucking into slices of lemon meringue pie, with what’s left of a six-pack on the table between them, occupy one booth, and a redheaded man has his back to me, elbows on the bar, chatting to the solitary cook between aggressive bites of his burger. Nevertheless, I’m drawn to the same seat I occupied last night.

“Here you go, cream no sugar, right?”

Before I’ve had a chance to sit down, Amy slides a fresh cup of coffee across the table.

“On the house,” she whispers.

I must look confused.

“What? Don’t tell me you want decaf.”

“No. That’s great. But you didn’t have to …”

She makes sure her back is to the cook and brings an index finger up to her lips.

“What can I get you?”

I pick up the menu and try to read. She’s right beside me, her multicolored eyes watching my every move. All I see are words and numbers.

“Any chance of a cooked breakfast?”

I look up and dare to take her in. She’s exactly the same, and so is her effect on me.

“Of course. The works?”

I manage to nod.

“We don’t got no grits, mind,” she says in a passable southern accent. There’s that smile again, and before I can answer she’s gone. I watch as she gives the cook my order and the redheaded man turns to check me out. He’s eyeballing me like I just asked for prime rib, but I’m distracted by the marking on his face. It’s more port wine mask than port wine stain. Nevus flammeus, a vascular malformation of the skin. Present at birth, per sis tent through life.

I’d almost chickened out on a return trip to the diner after Greer’s revelation about investigating my background. He swore he simply typed my name into a search engine and up popped the
Post and Courier
article on my eviction from McCall and Rand Pharmaceuticals. The bit in flashing neon lights about a suspended license went unmentioned, but he calmed me with assurances that folks from Eden Falls don’t stalk newcomers online. I drove away believing Greer was not the kind of guy who would stuff a printed version in an envelope and hand deliver it to Bedside Manor. At least I think I did.

One of the beer drinkers lets out a raucous belly laugh, and now I wish I’d drained my glass of wine with Greer. If I’m going to be irrational and irresponsible enough to try to talk to Amy I’m going to need all the help I can get. I don’t do “cool.” Never have. I’ve spent the better part of my adult life avoiding this kind of situation, and on those rare occasions where I’ve weakened, I work hard to keep the conversation on any topic except me. It’s like driving at night and always using your high beams—when you dazzle and blind it’s difficult for others to see what really lies behind the light. Okay, maybe not dazzle.

“Here you go. Let me know if you need anything else.”

A steaming plate of scrambled eggs, grilled bacon, sausages, and hash browns slides in front of me, together with four slices of whole wheat toast.

Amy disappears before I can thank her. Damn. I should have had something ready to say. Disappointed, I unfurl my paper napkin, grab my cutlery, and with the first slice of sausage on its way to my mouth, she’s suddenly back, sliding into the seat on the other side of the booth.

“I have to ask …”

My fork hovers in the gap between plate and open mouth. Amy places the fingers of both hands on the edge of the table (she bites her fingernails), leans forward, and says, “I heard the rumor.”

She knows. She knows about the way things ended up between my father and me.

“And what I want to know is,” she pauses, and seemingly deliberating over every word, asks, “were you scared?”

Scared. Scared to abandon the only relative I had left in the world. Scared to come back here. Scared to try my hand at a new job. Scared to practice without a license.

Thankfully, whichever way I interpret the question, the answer is always the same. “Yes,” I say. “Of course.”

Amy bows her head, but I make out the slightest upturn of her lips. She gets to her feet and double pats the table. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Why do you ask?” This time I catch her before she goes.

She meets my eyes, and they seem so serious. “ ‘Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.’ ”

In the pause of my trying to decipher what she said, she’s off and busy again, refilling an aluminum canister with fresh paper napkins. She doesn’t return to my table until I’ve finished eating.

“I thought you might have come back sooner.”

“Really? Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who actually likes their waitress to wait until they have a mouth full of food before she asks,
Is everything okay?
Come on, this is a diner.”

Her words buffet me like a squall.

“What you said earlier, was that from a movie?”

“Shakespeare,” she says. “
Timon of Athens
, if you really want to know. One of his more obscure plays. What, you don’t think a waitress can be educated?”

I don’t think she’s angry. I think she’s trying to tease me.

“No, no, no. Just never heard of that one, that’s all.”

She places her hands on her hips. “And you, an educated man.”

Say something. Stop staring.

“You really should order some pie tonight,” she says, saving me from myself. “The lemon meringue is fantastic.” And then, “Maybe I’ll bring two forks.”

“Please,” I say, with the conviction of a shy boy, and pray she doesn’t interpret it as a lack of interest. Left alone I have a minute to endure an internal tongue-lashing. What am I going to say? If I have to talk about Shakespeare it’s going to be a short conversation.

A thick triangular wedge slides in front of me—sticky yellow on the bottom, crispy white floating on top. Amy sits opposite, hands me a fork, and takes the first bite. “Go on. Try it.”

I do as I’m told.

“Really good.” I realize too late that I have shown her a half-chewed mouthful of food.

“Did your mother teach you those manners?”

The shock of this question flashes across my face as though she’s talking about Ruth. I try to recover with a hand over my mouth and a quick apology. Maybe she didn’t notice.

“Funny that you should choose this particular booth two nights in a row.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, sure to swallow first.

“Because this was Doc Cobb’s favorite seat. Nice guy.”

I flash my eyebrows and skewer a second fork load. “Beloved, apparently.”

She winces. “Hate that word. So overplayed. It’s almost as bad as
closure
or
empowered
. And don’t get me started on
literally
or
like
.”

I’m not sure whether to agree or not.

“I did a degree in English literature,” she says. “Hence the quote from Shakespeare. I’m trying to finish up a master’s degree at UVM. Creative writing … So, you ever feel as though you’re playing God?”

“Are you always this direct?”

“Would you prefer we talk about your accent, our weather, if you miss wearing your seersucker suits and your penny loafers? I’m sorry, but if something’s worth saying, I’ll say it. Just the way I am.”

For a man who savors privacy and avoids confrontation, both past and present, the discomfort distorting my smile must be obvious.

“You’re from South Carolina,” Amy says. “Big deal. This is Eden Falls. Take you less than a minute to get your bearings. So let’s get to the good stuff. Last night, Denise Laroche, what you did was straight out of an episode of
ER
. I want to know how it made you feel.”

Now I get it. The “scared” reference was about delivering Denise’s baby. I jumped to the wrong conclusion, again. I put down my fork. This question I can answer. “Humble. It made me feel humble.” But then something dark inside me adds, “Are you disappointed? Would you rather I told you it was no big deal?”

She makes a snapping sound with her mouth, as though the morsel was particularly tart.