Brightleaf Read online

  Mary Beth

  I’ve got four kids packed into the Subaru, one in the front and three in the back, and we’re bound for Toddlers Are People, Too. The biggest pain about driving the carpool is strapping those toddler boosters in every single school day, but like I said, I just want to lend a hand. Dr. Kelly is on the radio, and I’m fixing to see what kind of advice she’s gonna give to the woman who just called in. The Doctor Kelly Show is like Jerry Springer, only you don’t have the advantage of actually seeing what the guests look like. On television, when the guests come traipsing out on stage, the audience immediately knows they’ve got a special case on their hands. The anxiety starts building the moment you lay eyes on the puny, goateed boyfriend. It seems like the boyfriend isn’t fully formed yet, like he’s stuck in some kind of metamorphosis between tadpole and man. Then the wife or girlfriend stomps out looking like a sumo wrestler, wearing a bikini top and low-slung shorts, with a bunch of Chinese letters tattooed across her chest. A lot of people get real emotional about Asian lettering, as if anything written in Chinese must embody all that is peaceful, or yin yang, or feng shui, but for all they know, that tattoo says something real terrible in Chinese, like “puppy eater.” I’m just saying, if I need an interpreter to read it, it’s not gonna get permanently stamped into my skin.

  Dr. Kelly’s latest caller says, “Dr. Kelly, my husband is paralyzed from the waist down. I feel like he should help with the dishes since his arms work…”

  I can’t stand it anymore. I click off the AM station and push in my Linda Ronstadt’s Greatest Hits tape. I fast forward to my favorite song and start singing, “You and I travel to the beat of a different drum, Oh, can’t you tell by the way I run, every time you make eyes at me.” I belt it out to the toddlers, while they clap their chubby hands. “And I ain’t sayin’ you ain’t pretty, All I’m saying is I’m not ready—” When I’m distracted by something in my rearview mirror. Linda and I are going to have to pick this up later because I’m being tailgated again. By the same individual as always. At the red light, I stop and he stops behind me. I put the car in park, roll down the windows, and remove the key. In the words of the monkey from the Lion King, It is time.

  I turn to the toddlers and say, “Just a minute. Miss Mary Beth is gonna take care of a little business.” Then I shut the door and walk to the driver’s side door of the car behind me, and rap firmly on his window. He looks at me over his glasses and rolls down the window.

  “Hello, Dr. Dorrie,” I say. “Fancy seeing you here at the light, so close behind me.”

  “Do I know you?” he asks.

  I keep my composure, even though he does indeed know me. He’s seen me in nothing but a paper gown. I realize he’s got several mental hurdles that must affect him every minute of every day, so I help him by removing my sunglasses and say, “I’m one of your patients, Mary Beth Green.”

  “Cape Cod?”

  “Nooo.”

  The light turns green and the cars behind us start honking, and driving around us. About that same time Dr. Dorrie’s face breaks out into this huge smile and he says, “Juuust kidding. How could I forget you? Getting enough sleep these days?”

  “What?”

  “You were catching some winks when I walked into the exam room. Remember?”

  I shake my head and I say, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep if you didn’t make me wait so long in a freezing exam room. In a paper gown. Ya’ll should get some real robes. Or fur coats. It’s way too cold in there. Anyway, I could have fallen off that examination table and cracked my head wide open.” Then I take a deep breath and continue. “Also could you please not follow me so closely? It makes me nervous.” There, I said it. It feels so great to tell Dr. Jersey that he is the one who is making me wait, that he is the one who is causing me distress. It’s not the other way around, like he always acts. My face is hot and my heart is pounding.

  Dr. Dorrie takes off his glasses, wipes them, and puts them back on, like he’s thinking. Then he says, “I didn’t realize you felt unsafe during your appointment. I’ll talk to Dr. Salander about putting some pads on the floor, or maybe employing the belt to strap you in. We don’t normally use that, because patients are more comfortable without it, but I never thought much about the possibility of women falling off the table and injuring themselves. The patient’s comfort and safety is a high priority for us. Cotton robes are also a good suggestion.”

  I nod and feel myself softening. Good God. Where is my resolve?

  I hear myself saying, “I probably wouldn’t have fallen off, since I’ve got very good slumbering balance, but others may not be so lucky.”

  Dr. Dorrie smiles and says, “Not everyone has good slumbering balance.”

  I can’t help but notice how smooth his face is and what a pleasant smile he has. I need to get a hold of myself. I remind myself of all those New Jersey line-breakers, and shake my head in disgust.

  Then he says, “Hey, it’s been great talking with you. I’ve gotta get back to the office, but thanks for the good advice. Also, you should get your lights fixed. It’s very dangerous like that. I can’t tell when you’re gonna slow down, so I end up having to slam on brakes every few seconds.”

  “My lights?”

  “Yeah, both your brake lights are out. I just realized I’ve been behind your car on countless mornings on my way to the office. Sometimes I leave a little later to avoid you. Weird.”

  “It is weird,” I nod, twisting my keys. “Small world.”

  “So it’s a good thing you stopped,” he says. “And I’m glad to know it’s you driving the car instead of some neurotic road-rager who might shoot me or slash my tires.”

  I laugh a little too hard and say, “Me too. I’m glad it’s just me.” Then I remember it’s not just me. “The toddlers!” I run and jump in my car, put it in gear and crawl to the preschool, taking back streets. I look in my rearview mirror. Dr. Dorrie is following me. When I pull into the parking lot of Toddlers Are People, Too, he salutes me. As he drives away, I wonder if he was serious when he mentioned strapping me to the table.

  11

  Brightleaf R.F.D

  June 14, 1990

  Dear Diary,

  Like on the Andy Griffith reruns, R.F.D. stands for Rural Free Delivery. In other words, B.L.T.-- Boring Little Town. Grandmother took me shopping at Dundy’s for a few things, but what I wouldn’t give for a new baby doll dress and a pair of acid washed jeans. I won’t be caught dead in the Little Mermaid swimsuit she picked out for me. She told me all the other swimsuits were too immodest for a girl my age. Forget the Brightleaf pool this summer. Grandmother has no cable, so there’s nothing to do but watch PBS and Lawrence Welk reruns on the local channel. That’s why I’m up here, writing again. Sometime I guess I’ll confess the Huey Incident. I would probably still be secretly in awe of Huey if he didn’t get too big for his britches and muscle ahead of me in the cafeteria and take the last chocolate pudding. Huey probably saw me standing there and said to himself, There’s that slow girl I beat on field day, so I’m going to get in front of her. That decided it. I did not secretly want to know how strong Huey was anymore. The harelip lost its charm. Grandmother is knocking and wants me to go to a flea market with her and her old lady friends. The flea market beats watching the white guy with the afro paint pictures on public television. The Huey Incident will be continued….X

  12

  Share Group #2

  Mary Beth

  It’s Wednesday night again. We finished eating and are pulling chairs around for Share Group. Those who didn’t come for dinner are just arriving. Angus is here. His eyes are more bloodshot than usual. Jimmy, Winslow, Mavis, Eleanor, Vanessa and Ned are sitting in the circle. Vanessa is smiling and showing off the new gold star on her front tooth. She comes here once a week and cleans the whole downstairs, mops, dusts, and kills spiders. She won’t accept a dime for her work. I’d be mor
e than happy to pay her because this is a woman who knows how to clean. Finding good household help is like stumbling upon a diamond in a pile of zirconia. Vanessa could definitely be one of those angels.

  We sit down and prepare to free our minds to share when the doorbell rings. No one rings the doorbell here; everyone just lets themselves in. I start worrying it might be the police catching up with me about a dognapping. Eleanor hops up to answer it, and I pour myself another cup of coffee.

  We hear Eleanor and another voice echoing in the foyer, then footsteps in our direction. I hear a man’s voice saying, “I heard you give regular tours.”

  “I’m not sure, but I can ask Mary Beth,” says Eleanor.

  Eleanor walks into the room followed by Dr. Dorrie. I about drop my coffee cup on the floor. He looks clean and fit in blue jeans and a t-shirt. He walks towards me with his hand out-stretched for a shake and says, “Mary Beth? Right?” Then he realizes there is a circle of people staring at him.

  “Whoops,” he says. “Looks like you guys are having a meeting. I didn’t realize it was this organized when you invited me.”

  I cannot believe my eyes. The Jersey Guy is here. In my very home. Floyd’s home. I invited him.

  Boy, am I in trouble.

  Flustered, I say as cheerfully as I can, “Why yes, Doctor! So glad you came!” I shake his hand.

  “You mentioned something about an open house on Wednesdays, so I thought I’d check it out,” says Dr. Dorrie.

  I totally doubted he would come.

  I look around the room, hoping to God that Floyd stays put, wherever he is. I say, “Everyone, this is the Jers—Dr. Terry Dorrie. I met him the other day and invited him to come over and see the house.”

  “Hey Doc, have a seat,” says Jimmy pulling up a chair.

  “Thanks,” says Dr. Dorrie.

  “Dr. Dorrie, we were just getting ready to have our Share Group session,” I say. “This is normally what we do on Wednesday nights. I guess I didn’t make that clear.”

  “It’s Terry,” he says. He sits down halfway, like he may not stay and says, “Is this group therapy or something? I can come back another time if you want.”

  Here is my chance to send him on his way, to save my butt, to make sure Floyd is nowhere around next time he comes.

  “No, no,” I say. “This is not professional group therapy. You’re welcome to stay, and afterwards I’ll show you around.”

  “Great.” He sits back down and gestures for me to carry on.

  I take a brief moment to explain the rules of Share Group again, and we begin in silence. I have trouble relaxing. I want to shoot out of my chair, find Floyd and stick him in the backyard with a muzzle. I decide he’s probably sleeping in Mavis’s room, so I look at my scripture verses on the wall and wait for someone to say something.

  “So what kind of doctor are you?” asks Winslow. “Academic or medicine?”

  “Medical,” says Dr. Dorrie.

  If he’d said gynecologist, everyone would automatically conclude he’d seen me naked.

  “What kind of medicine?” asks Winslow.

  “OB/GYN.”

  All eyes turn on me.

  Vanessa says, “Mary Beth, you pregnant?”

  “I am not pregnant. I assure you I am not.”

  “Did you think you was pregnant? I never even knew you had you a boyfriend.” She scans the circle, trying to figure out if I could be dating one of the men present: Angus, Jimmy, Winslow or Ned. Certainly not the Jersey Guy. Everyone else starts looking around too. Wondering.

  I say, “Remember when I shared how I was going to get a mammogram? The one Dr. Kelly begged everyone to get?”

  Automatically everyone stares at my breasts. Now I’m positive everyone thinks Dr. Dorrie has seen me naked. The men are all kind of smiling. And so is Dr. Dorrie. Then I say, “Well, ladies, ya’ll need to go get one, too. And hurry up.”

  “I hope it ain’t too late to get that shirt, This Mamma Got Her Mammo,” says Mavis.

  “If it’s too late, you can have mine,” I say.

  Things get quiet again.

  “I’ve had irregular pap smears for the last ten years,” Eleanor says, staring at the floor.

  Winslow says, “I could help you get them more regularly. I’m a doctor.”

  “Psychologists don’t give pap smears, you warped thing,” says Vanessa.

  Mavis pipes up, “Well, you’d probably be more regular if you ate somethin more nutritional than coffee and lettuce.”

  “Your irregularity could be caused by a number of things,” says Dr. Dorrie. “Who’s your gynecologist?”

  “Patterson.”

  “Is Dr. Patterson concerned about this?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” says Eleanor.

  “Tell you what, let’s talk about this later. Maybe I could call Dr. Patterson and we could discuss it, if it would help you feel better. I believe we can get to the bottom of this.”

  “No pun intended,” mumbles Winslow.

  I feel bad for Terry Dorrie. I bet he’s wondering what kind of Confederate freak show he’s wandered into. I’ve got to think of a way to change course. But before I say anything, he sneezes twice.

  “Bless you, Dr. Dorrie.”

  “Thankyaaa-choo! Achoo!”

  “Catchin cold?” asks Mavis.

  “I don’t think so. I felt perfectly fine when I walked in. You must have a pet of some sort here. I’m highly allergic to animal dander.”

  Mavis opens her mouth and says, “As a matter of fact, we’ve got ourselves a poor little poodle we saved from an abusive pervert. Only, the Poodle Almanac says poodles is one of the least allergic dogs in the world.”

  “’Cause poodles don’t shed!” says Jimmy.

  “The Poodle Almanac says that poodles do shed,” says Mavis. “Their hairs just don’t fall all over the floor like a lot of animals’ fur does. It stays on them. The old fur sticks to the dog. But that don’t mean it won’t make somebody start sneezin.”

  “An abusive pervert?” says Terry Dorrie.

  Mavis says, “Mary Beth is a hero. She brought him home, and he was white–”

  “White with fear,” I cut in and give Mavis a look. “Yes,” I continue. “Poor Floyd was white with fear when we found him.”

  “How can a dog be white with fear?” asks Dr. Dorrie.

  “Well, Terry, you’ve got to be a dog lover to detect a certain pallor about them at times. The whites of their eyes are…whiter, more gel-like.”

  “Gel-like, ay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I just learned something new. You know I had a poodle myself, and he was white, except not with fear. Just white. He got out of his fence and I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.”

  Now, as if on cue, Floyd begins to whimper at the kitchen door. Great.

  “That must be the fearful one now,” says Dr. Dorrie, laughing. “It’s okay, you can let him out.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I say. “Floyd is petrified of strangers and he might pee on the floor.”

  “Nonsense,” says Mavis. “Floyd ain’t never met a stranger.”

  With this, she opens the swinging kitchen door. Floyd stands there with his new Midnight Blue hairdo and looks at Dr. Dorrie.

  “I may be allergic,” says Dr. Dorrie, “but I’ve definitely got a way with dogs. So it’s Floyd, huh? Come ‘ere Floyd,” he calls, patting his knee.

  I give Floyd a look that says if you go to him I’ll tie bows in your hair.

  Floyd ignores me and streaks out of the kitchen in a blur of blueness right onto Dr. Dorrie’s lap.

  “Hey boy…wow, you’re fast. Almost as fast as my dog. Maybe faster.”

  Dr. Dorrie scratches behind Floyd’s ears, and his eyes land on the rose tattoo.

&n
bsp; “What? Is this dog a member of the Russian Mafia?”

  Floyd whimpers and licks Dr. Dorrie’s hand and face and sits in his lap until Dr. Dorrie breaks out into a full blown sneezing attack and has to place him on the floor.

  Around nine, we call it a night. Before Dr. Dorrie goes home, he bangs on the banister a little to see if it’s hollow and then pokes his head in the kitchen to say good-bye to Floyd, promising to bring him a doggie treat on his next visit.

  Next visit? Why would he come back?

  Tonight was a close call.

  A strange night, too.

  13

  Doyle Stubb

  Mavis

  Manchild, he done gave up on me cuz I quit talkin to him. He’s got hisself a new love now. Eleanor done made the mistake of feelin sorry for him and bought him a iPad to get him real professional, so he could get a regular job. First he watched a whole bunch of porno on the iPad, then he hocked it at the pawn shop. It sure did make him feel loved to get a present.

  I’m fixin the food for the Share time when I hear Dr. Dorrie talkin out in the Great Room. “Hey there, Yankee!” I yell out the kitchen door. “Come on in and make yourself at home.”

  I told Dr. D he can call me Trailer Trash, since I like to call him Yankee. But he gets this real bothered look on his face and won’t do it. Last time he said, “Mavis, I could never call you that. Trash should never be applied to anyone.” (He takes it real serious.) “If I had to call you Trailer anything it’d be Trailer Treasure.”

  That’s real sweet and all, but he’s got to learn to take a joke. Loosen up, baby. And if you’re gonna give me a nickname with Trailer in it, I’m very partial to Twilight Trailer cuz I did read them Vampire books. And they was gooood.

  Dr. D swings open the kitchen door. He’s been comin to the Share Group for a few weeks now and taken to comin early to help me fix supper and set up the furniture. He’s got on a t-shirt and jeans. He likes to pull up a chair at the kitchen table and talk while I’m cookin. He’s told me a little about hisself.