Brightleaf Page 3

  I get another idea. “How about Pink Stuff? Or Pinky?” I steal another glance at him in the mirror and can tell that he isn’t a Pinky. “Too sissy, huh? I know what you’re thinking; Pinky is about as girlie as Champagne.”

  I drive along wracking my brain for variations of pink. Fuchsia. Rose. Coral. Salmon. I flip on the radio. Pretty soon I catch myself humming along to an old Cranberries song. Cranberries make me think of a bladder infection. After that, a Billy Joel song comes on and I start thinking how I’ve always thought Billy Joel was an ugly man, so it’s very good he’s got singing going for him. Then another old song starts playing: Leave those kids alone. The fact that Pink Floyd comes on the radio at this very moment tells me that the Lord is with me. This is Divine Providence if I’ve ever heard it.

  “How would you like me to call you Pink Floyd?” I ask the dog in the backseat. As if finally I’ve thought of the finest name a dog could want. The dog plants his paws on the door handle and presses his nose against the window, so I push the window control on my door panel and roll his down. He sticks his whole head out.

  “How about Pink Floyd?” I call back to him. But he just sniffs the air like it’s sweeter than sirloin. “I guess we can take out the Pink part,” I say. “Plain old Floyd? I had a grandfather named Floyd. It’s a family name and fairly manly.” The dog’s ears are flapping in the breeze, his tongue is hanging out, and it looks like he’s smiling. I take that as a yes.

  The newly christened Floyd is sitting in the great room of my house. He has already scampered around the whole downstairs, sniffing and whimpering, clacking his little toenails all over my hardwood floors. He has finally given up trying to find something that smells familiar or edible and decides to sit and rest a minute.

  I pull out the phone book and sit on the sofa with my cell phone, preparing to make a few calls when Eleanor walks in the house with her arms full of shopping bags from Williams-Sonoma and Nordstrom.

  I say to her, “I thought you already spent up all that money.”

  “Nooo!” She smiles and tries to give me a confident look that says, I have lots of money left over from my trust fund, seeing I spend no money on food because I live on laxatives, iceberg lettuce, and coffee. And I save money by renting the room in your boarding house, thus making a sacrifice in my quality of life so that I can help you reach out to all the poor, lost, hurting souls out there.

  At least I assume that’s what she’s thinking.

  Eleanor’s way of helping people is buying them goods that they could never afford otherwise. It’s not like she’s going out and buying Cadillacs for listless crackheads or anything, but if I see her give another homeless person a blender (so they can make smoothies) or a shoeless person a vacuum, I might just have to take her down. Nevertheless, I find myself unable to speak to her on the subject, seeing that it makes her happy, especially since she’s attracted an adoring fan base over at the homeless shelter. But her giving isn’t always innocent. She’s aware that she makes people feel beholden to her.

  “Maaavis!” Eleanor screams, like Mavis is her own personal servant. “Come see what I bought. Help me get these bags up to my room. Cute dog. MAVIS!”

  “I’m sorry!” shouts Mavis from the kitchen. “But Eleanor babe, I’m working on somethin right now.”

  Mavis is probably feeling guilty for saying no because this very moment her bed is draped in a new down comforter, courtesy of Eleanor. Eleanor rolls her eyes and stomps upstairs, carrying her own bags.

  I’ve got calls to make, so I ignore Eleanor’s unChrist-like behavior.

  “Hello?” says a man’s voice. “Peticures Doggie Stylists. How may we help you today?”

  “Yes,” I say, “Do you dye dogs?”

  “Dye? No, ma’am, we only do highlights.”

  “Do you know anyone who does dye dogs?”

  “I can’t say there’s much of a demand for it here in Brightleaf, but you’ll probably find some groomers in Greensboro who can help you. If the dog has a graying problem, you could always try Miss Clairol or Lovin’ Care, and wash that gray right out.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I say, and set the phone down.

  I look at Floyd. “Miss Clairol, huh?”

  “Did I hear Eleanor say, cute dog?” Mavis is looking through the kitchen door at Floyd curled up at my feet. He has switched positions at least ten times in the last fifteen minutes.

  “Hey there, baby, where’d you come from?”

  Floyd lifts his head and whimpers. He can spot a softy.

  So can I.

  I seize the opportunity and say, “Mavis, you will not believe what all I’ve been through this morning. I rescued this dog from an abusive owner. See, I spotted the owner kicking it at the park on my way to the preschool. You can imagine the horror I felt and prayed that somehow I could find a way to help this poor creature. Lo and behold, on my way back I noticed the dog making a run for it. I simply slowed down the car, leaned over, and swung open the passenger door and said, Hop in, my man to Floyd here, and he jumped in and we were off.”

  “Floyd? That’s his name?”

  “Well, yes, I took the liberty… Mavis, I need your help. His owner may come around searching for him, so we need to disguise him.” I pause and then add for good measure, “The man looked like a real pervert, too.”

  Mavis nods with gravity in the same way she would if we were protecting a battered woman. “Know just what to do. A few boxes of Rit Dye should fix him. Here, give him to me and rest assured,” says Mavis.

  “Rit Dye?” I ask, kind of dubious. “Isn’t that stuff for dyeing old blue jeans?”

  “I swear by it. Rit’s good for anythang needin a little pick-me-up,” she says. “Take a box of red. You’re fixin to go to a party and only have you an old blue dress, right? Drop that blue dress in a bucket of hot water with a red packet, pull it out an hour later, and you got you a new purple dress. Then dip your little fanger in the bucket of red and rub it on your cheeks and lips, and baby, you got yourself some make-up won’t come off, no matter how drunk you get, how hard you cry, or even if you get locked outside and have to sleep in the bushes. You wake up from that night and look like a thousand dollars.”

  “Is this your personal experience?”

  “I ain’t done that in years, darlin. Anyway, I got a question,” says Mavis.

  “What?”

  “How bout a small tattoo?”

  “Tattoo?”

  “You know, for Floyd here.”

  “That might be considered animal cruelty.”

  “Not a real one. I mean one of them fake tattoos. The rub-on kind.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Oh, goody,” says Mavis, clapping her hands. “Come on now, Floyd baby.”

  She may have some strange ideas, but I love that woman. Okay now, I just have one more call to make that I’ve been avoiding.

  “Hello. Gentle Care for Gentlewomen,” answers a woman’s voice.

  “Hi, I need to make an appointment for a mammogram. No, I’ve never had one. A what? No. I guess I should do that, too, then. I prefer a woman doctor. Is that possible? Mary Beth Green. Ten a.m. on Tuesday? Thanks so much.”

  I have to hand it to Mavis for doing such a professional job on Floyd. Even though the color she used was Midnight Black he turned out more of a deep blue, which is quite attractive. Mavis was worried that if she used more dye she might blind Floyd, or give him brain damage. On Floyd’s shoulder is a little shaved patch plastered with a rose tattoo. The dog looks ready to jump on a Harley and ride down to Daytona.

  “Floyd could use a leather jacket,” I say.

  Floyd’s been with us for three days now and is stinking up the whole downstairs. Mavis says that’s because he’s been eating like a horse but is too nervous to relax his bowels. I think he’s traumatized after his rescue and being in a strange house, not to m
ention getting a new hairdo. I need to think of a way to help him relax. All he really needs is a familiar setting to do his business.

  The Jersey Guy should be at work while Floyd has a rendezvous with his old yard. I rub Floyd’s little curly head and tell him it’s gonna be all right and carry him out to the car. We ride with the windows down so Floyd’s gas won’t kill us both. As we approach Floyd’s old neighborhood, it’s apparent he knows exactly where he is. As soon as he catches a whiff of it, he jumps up with his paws on the back window and whimpers like dogs do when they’re riding in a car and get close to an old stomping ground. When I open the door, he bolts down the street to the Jersey Guy’s yard but cannot make it to the grass, so begins to make his debut as Floyd the Dark Blue right there on the driveway.

  Floyd takes his time, too. Even though I’ve been standing here waiting for him for maybe thirty seconds, it feels like he’s been hunched over forever.

  Hurry up, Floyd. I’m antsy to get us back in the car. Then out of the blue I hear this buzzing sound. It is the buzzing sound associated with electric garage doors. The Jersey Guy’s garage door begins to slowly creak upwards. I start to panic. An ignition starts, and the rear end of his Lexus begins to appear under the rising door. Floyd is not quite finished.

  “Floyd. Come. Come here now! Hurry!”

  Floyd is not coming.

  “Floyd, come!” I whisper as loud as I can. “Champagne!”

  He has finished the deed, but won’t come. He just looks at me, like he’s deciding. Weighing his options. Should he stay here with the Jersey Guy, or should he go with his kidnapper? When the Jersey Guy sees his dog has been dyed blue, he’ll call the cops, and it will be all over the Brightleaf Daily News that someone vandalized the Jersey Guy’s dog. Me and Mavis will go to jail. Mavis will be cleared, and I alone will rot in prison forever.

  The garage door is all the way open. I turn and start sprinting towards my car. I am busting my butt to get my keys out. My hands are shaking, and my brain is in full throttle freak-out mode. I pull out my sunglasses, shoving them on my face, keeping my head turned away from the scene unfolding behind me.

  The Lexus begins to back out of the garage. I can’t look. I won’t watch. I reach my car and open the door and am shocked when Floyd hops up onto the front seat. I turn to look back at the Jersey Guy’s house. His car has backed out all the way onto the street, with one long brown tire mark going down the driveway. Then the Jersey Guy drives away.

  Floyd looks at me expectantly, panting, his tongue lolling out, with a huge grin on his face. He knows he was playing me back there. I pull a dog biscuit from the glove compartment and hand it to him, my heart still beating through my eardrums, and say, “You did good, Floyd.”

  6

  The Gynecologist

  I stand in my bedroom, wearing only my bra and underwear, debating what to wear to my doctor’s appointment today. I decide against a dress because when they ask me to take off my shirt for the mammogram, I’ll have to take off the entire thing. So I opt for a shirt that buttons up the front and a skirt, just in case.

  I am paranoid of hidden cameras. I don’t really believe that a female doctor would have hidden cameras for depraved reasons like a man doctor might, but mainly to catch women stealing stuff, like alcohol prep pads. Those are handy. I think women in general just like to snoop—to open drawers real quietly, look inside and close them again. My own curiosity is kept in check by the fear that there are probably hidden cameras everywhere.

  I read on the Internet once that a lawyer had hidden cameras planted in the toilets at his office. Recording from inside the toilet. I wondered what he did with those videos. Like come home from a long day in court, microwave a Lean Cuisine, loosen his tie, and relax on the sofa to one of those videos? A good rule of thumb would be to inspect a lawyer’s toilet really closely before you hire him.

  I’m in the waiting room of the Gentle Care for Gentlewomen office. I spend twenty-five minutes filling out the required paperwork, then pass it back to the receptionist. The name of this place cracks me up. I admit, the Gentlewomen part initially drew me in, but it still strikes me as strange because I know a lot of women who are seriously not gentle. Women who could put a flying monkey in a full nelson. Where do those gals go for OB/GYN? Nurse Ratched?

  The walls are painted a soothing mint green and hung with framed photos of waterfalls and gurgling brooks. I’m aware the photos and the color scheme are all about promoting a feeling of peace and safety. It works for me. I pick up a Town and Country, immediately flipping to the pages where they show all the filthy rich brides and grooms whose parents threw them multi-million dollar weddings. I find this fascinating. Sometimes I’ll look at each couple and try to figure out what will go wrong with their marriage. It’s not that I want these marriages to fail; we just know they do based on statistics. So it’s fun to kind of be a sleuth in the beginning. You can always see when a groom thinks he’s big stuff and might have an affair. Or is already having one. Or the bride is all into Herself. I don’t get to investigate this too long before a nurse calls me.

  “Mary Beth Green.”

  I’m glad to get this over. The nurse leads me to a room and hands me a paper gown. “Take off your clothes and put this on. Dr. Dorrie will see you shortly.”

  “All my clothes?”

  The nurse nods and gives me this look like she wants to ask what rock I just crawled out from under. Feeling dehumanized, I comply. The room is freezing. I fight the thought that there are hidden cameras in the ceiling vent. Dr. Kelly, what did you get me into? Why do I need a pap smear anyway? People who don’t have sex don’t need those. I doubt nuns are subjected to them. This is only my second time visiting a gynecologist. I avoid the gynecologist like some people avoid the dentist. But for all I know, there’s a giant fungus taking root inside me. Some kind of conspiracy my body summoned against me for never introducing it to a male. I hate the way it sounds, too. Pap smear. Smear is such a negative word. For example, The teacher spent a portion of her day cleaning smeared boogers off desks. Or, The girls had a combination of blood and mascara smeared on their faces at the end of the fight. Smear is never used in a pretty way.

  I begin my wait for the doctor.

  It’s taking a while.

  I lean back and close my eyes. The icy air blowing through the vent is probably channeled straight from Antarctica: Special Delivery to doctors’ offices across the globe. From The Coldest Place on Earth!

  When I get cold, I go into hibernation mode. I can’t help it. My eyelids are heavy, and I feel myself nodding off. A faraway voice calls my name. I’m like Sleeping Beauty dreaming in the Enchanted Castle, and my prince is standing over me, waiting to kiss me back to life. So I open my eyes, and there he is, just as I imagined he’d always be, with serious brown eyes, concentrating on me. Like I am his only reason to live. This must be what love feels like.

  I whisper, “My prince.”

  “Prince, like the singer?” he says.

  Then I realize I’m not dreaming, but awake. And a man is watching me be half-asleep and half-naked.

  “Hello, Ms. Green,” says the man. “Getting some shut-eye, are we? I apologize for the wait.”

  It takes me a few seconds to remember I’m in a doctor’s office. And the doctor is standing over me. He’s got the white jacket and all, stethoscope dangling from his neck. Wiping his eyeglasses on his coat before settling them on his face. Smelling like he just braved a hurricane of coffee and soap.

  “I’m Dr. Dorrie,” he says, extending his hand for a shake.

  I slowly sit up, unfolding like a rusty beach chair, and extend my hand. My heart is still pounding because of my dream, and I feel so exposed. He looks friendly enough. In fact, I feel like I already know him. But I was expecting a woman. At least I asked for a woman doctor.

  I sit up a little straighter, pulling the gown around me, careful not t
o tear the paper, and focus my eyes on him. Then it comes to me that I actually know this man, and not just from my dream. A combination of embarrassment and anger starts forming in my throat and cheeks. I frown at him, searching for words.

  “Ms. Green? Are you okay?”

  I nod, thinking I should grab my clothes and run.

  “Will this be your first mammogram? You seem really nervous,” he says, looking at his chart, briefly glancing up. “It won’t be so bad. We are very proud to be one of the few OB/GYN offices in North Carolina to offer this service in-house. You indicated that you’d prefer a female physician, so it looks like Dr. Salander will be seeing you. Unfortunately she is running behind today so I thought I’d stick my head in the door and introduce myself, go ahead and get the ball rolling by addressing any concerns you may have. Will you allow that?”

  I nod.

  “Everything seem relatively normal?”

  “Normal?”

  “Normal, as in menstrual cycles, or irregularities of that nature.”

  “Oh.” I nod again while he writes on my chart.

  “Is there a particular reason why we are seeing you today? Or is this your yearly?”

  I don’t want to tell Dr. Dorrie about the Dr. Kelly Challenge or that I don’t normally have a yearly, but I just say, “Yearly.”

  “Okay. Great. In that case, Dr. Salander shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  I nod at the man I just called my prince. I could cry. I’m naked, talking to the Jersey Guy about my period. His dog is stashed at my house.

  “And if we need to contact you concerning any of the results, when would be best—morning or afternoon?” He writes on a pad of paper. “Afternoon? I’ll put a note in your file.”

  When he finishes making notes, he sets down my file and turns his gaze on me. He doesn’t look unkind, or even weary. In fact, he’s got a freshly showered, first cup of coffee, inquisitive expression, like the day is new and there’s so much to learn.