You Want More Page 25

  Not until I had graduated from college with a few degrees—my father had told me to get my fill of education before coming back to run the family river rock business—did I understand the backtracking to Mr. Henderson’s makeshift crematorium: My father wanted a sign from the Otherworld, just in case his final plan bordered on meanness or immorality.

  I’m not sure what we spread down by the Unknown Branch of the Middle Saluda River. It’s not like I shadowed my father for two days. I imagine he flung plain hearth ash down on the ground. At the post office, though, my father told Randy the post office guy, “They all weigh the same. You can weigh one, and the postage will be the same on all of them.”

  There were six manila envelopes. Randy said, “Don’t you want return addresses on these?”

  “I trust y’all,” my father said. “I trust the postal service.”

  To me Randy said, “You applying to all these colleges?” He sorted through the envelopes. “I guess you are, what with all these admissions departments.”

  I said, “Sorry,” like a fool, for the words of the Henderson girls rang in my ears still. I’d learned long before not to contradict my father. A man with a river rock business doesn’t keep many belts around. I could go throughout life saying my father never spanked me, but I couldn’t say that I’d never been stoned, in a couple of ways.

  Driving back home my father said, “She got her wish. She finally got to attend all those art schools.” Then he pulled off to the side of the road, past a short bridge. Beneath it ran a nameless creek. I got out, too, and together we took drywall buckets out of the back of the truck, trampled our way down the embankment, and scooped up smooth rounded mica-specked flagstone, each one the size of an ice cube, each one different in glint.

  VACCINATION

  MY DOG TAPEWORM JOHNSON NEEDED LEGITIMATE veterinary attention. It had been two years since she received annual shots. I read somewhere that an older dog can overdose on all these vaccinations, and I have found—I share this information with every dog owner I meet—that if you keep your pet away from rabid foxes, raccoons, skunks, bats, and people whose eyes rotate crazy in their sockets, then the chances of your own dog foaming at the mouth diminish drastically. I also believe that dogs don’t need microchips imbedded beneath their shoulder blades if you keep the dog leashed or in the house, or with the truck windows rolled up when you drive around showing the dog farm animals living in pastures. I brought this up to Dr. Page one time, back four years earlier when Tapeworm Johnson was somewhere between eight and nine. Tapeworm showed up at my door one morning, back when I was married and living in a regular house, her ribs as visible as anything you’d order down at Clem and Lyda’s Barbecue Shack off Scenic Highway 11, her paw pads split open from, I assumed, days traveling from wherever her conscienceless owner dropped her off. Tapeworm looked coon or bird dog mostly, though she’d never pointed over the years I’ve known her, which might explain a stupid hunter letting her loose, without a collar, and so on. Seeing as nothing seemed hopeful in the marriage, I let the dog inside, took her to Dr. Page’s ex-colleague Dr. Lloyd Leck—who overdosed on horse tranquilizers a while back, though people in the community say they were only ostrich tranquilizers seeing as Dr. Leck dealt with the more entrepreneurial ranchers who’d moved in to raise emus, llamas, and the like—and Dr. Leck said the dog had tapeworms. When I had signed in I put “Jane Doe” down for Tapeworm Johnson’s name. When we scheduled a second visit for a month later, so the dog could put on weight and get vaccinated for diseases I felt sure got made up by either the American Veterinary Association or the Dog Pill and Serum Manufacturers of the United States, I told the vet to put down “Tapeworm” for a name, what the hell. There are worse possible names. The dog could’ve been diagnosed with some kind of blocked urethra, or mange.

  I have a medical doctor I call Bob. I have an ophthalmologist I call Henry. There’s a chiropractor who lives a mile down the road from me in one of those fake log houses built from a kit. I call him Snap-Crackle-Pop when I come across him at the barbecue shack. I refer to professors as teachers, which seems to piss them off. I went to college with our governor, and I call him Fuck-twig now, just as I did back then. So in case anyone thinks I disparage veterinarians—who have to know all the bones of about every animal ever invented, not just the two hundred six of humans—understand that I call Dr. Page Dr. Page, and before he couldn’t take it anymore and offed himself with giant bird tranquilizers, I called Dr. Leck Dr. Leck.

  Tapeworm got out of my truck without any aid, and she led me to the clinic’s door. One woman sat in the waiting room. She said, “Look, Loretta, you have a friend! Look at the pretty doggie!” in a high-pitched voice normally used by mothers talking to non-verbal babies, or school nurses to special ed first graders who shit their pants and wished that they hadn’t. We have a lot of problems these days, and I think that making it a felony to speak in such a manner might eradicate gun violence in the future.

  When I signed in I looked down to read “Holly” for the owner’s name, and “Loretta” for her dog. Under Reason for Visit Holly had written “Toenails.” Under Tapeworm’s Reason for Visit I wrote down “Change Oil Filter.” I figured someone later would see it, and then ask Dr. Page if she could check the Jack Russell’s oil.

  I felt Tapeworm tugging toward Loretta, and when the two dogs’ noses touched they wagged their tails. Holly said, “See? They can be friends.”

  I said, “That’s good.”

  Holly said, “Janie said she’s running late. She’s back there in surgery. Somebody’s dog got shot in the eye. Can you imagine? Janie said it’s an emergency, and that she’s going to have to amputate the eye.” Holly looked normal and friendly enough. She might’ve been late-thirties, and wore hippie clothing that somehow matched—a thin cotton lavender skirt, a black and gray tie-dyed sleeveless blouse, those sandals that cost way too much money because they supposedly offer arch support. If I ever meet a podiatrist I think I’ll call him or her Sole Brother or Sole Sister, like that.

  I didn’t think “amputate” was the correct term for an eyeball, but didn’t say anything. Holly wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t shave her armpits, which didn’t bother me seeing as the majority of women living on this planet—contrary to popular American Christian belief—didn’t shave anywhere, just like most men. Holly had her hair braided three times in long pigtails, which made me scared that she might have been one of those Second Ready people who’d moved into the area, ready in a second for the Second Coming. I figured a Second Ready woman might keep three braids in homage to the Trinity.

  “Homage” might not be the correct term. For some reason, I said, “I’ve known one-eyed dogs and they get around fine. They adapt.” I sat down on the bench perpendicular to Holly. Our dogs continued to be friendly.

  “I’m Holly and this is Loretta,” she said.

  “Hey, Holly. I’m Edward Johnson. This is Wanda.” Who’s going to tell a braless woman you got a dog named Tapeworm? Wanda was my ex-wife’s name.

  “I’ve never seen you here,” Holly said. “You look like a level-headed person, and I’m always on the lookout for level-headed people. By level-headed, I mean people who love animals and maybe don’t record reality TV shows to watch over and over.”

  I thought about fake-speaking in tongues, but the last time I’d done that as a joke somebody called 911 and said I underwent an epileptic seizure. This happened at a hardware store when an employee told me that if God wanted a nut and bolt to rust together beyond loosening, then I shouldn’t interfere with WD-40.

  “It would be kind of a coincidence if you and I came into a vet clinic at the same time more than once,” I said.

  Holly said, “Ed or Eddie? Or Edward, all the time?”

  “Edward all the time.” I didn’t say how Wanda wasn’t Wanda all the time. I kind of daydreamed way ahead to Holly calling for Tapeworm—“Wanda! Wanda! Wanda! Come here, Wanda!”—and how I’d have to say how the dog must’ve lost her hearing.


  Holly slid over on her bench in my direction. Tapeworm began panting, and then jumped up beside me. I looked over to the counter and wondered if Dr. Page no longer had a receptionist, then figured that maybe she needed help in the surgery room. Holly said, “Edward. One time I was with my boyfriend—I don’t have a man in my life anymore, maybe because of what I’m about to tell you—and I called him Edward out of nowhere, just like in that Led Zeppelin song, you know, about calling out a different guy’s name. I didn’t even know anyone named Edward back then. Maybe I was having a vision about the future.” She smiled. “I got a tattoo of two dung beetles going up the back of my thighs. Maybe one day I’ll go to Africa and see some real ones.”

  I made a mental note to open my dictionary to the “non” section when I got home so maybe I’d finally learn the correct spelling of “non sequitur.”

  I said, “I got one of a chameleon, but it keeps changing colors and blending right in with my skin.”

  Dr. Page—maybe every veterinarian in the world—didn’t have much taste or imagination in art. She’d gotten a new Norman Rockwell reproduction, her ninth, and it involved a dog and a little boy, like the others. If I were a veterinarian I’d nail Jackson Pollock posters on the wall so people would think, Well, at least my dog didn’t look that bad after getting hit out on the highway. There were also rows of Hummel-like dog figurines placed in a shallow figurine display case, DogFancy and Bark magazines scattered about, and a Canine Weight Guide chart tacked to the door that led into the examination rooms. The TV remained tuned to Animal Planet. An upright plastic holder housed pamphlets for lost pet medical insurance.

  “We should go out and get some coffee afterwards,” Holly said. “We could drive over to Laurinda’s diner. We could sit in the parking lot and let our dogs play together.”

  I had work to do. I said, “Okay.”

  “We should go out and get a drink.” Holly looked at her wristwatch. “I’ll be in there five minutes. How long will it take for Wanda? As long as she’s not getting an operation, let’s say fifteen minutes. And then by the time we get to, say, Gus’s Place, it’ll be eleven. That’s not too early. Gus lets dogs come inside.”

  Dr. Page came out wearing a surgeon’s shower cap. She said, “Hey, Edward. Hey, Tapeworm Johnson.” She looked at Holly and said, “Come on back. Now, who is this one?”

  Holly didn’t say anything about the Tapeworm Johnson reference. She drug Loretta into the back. I stood up, let go of Tapeworm’s leash, and went outside to look in Holly’s car. She drove a VW Bug, of course. She left the windows down, which meant—in my mind, at least—it was okay for me to look in her backseat floorboard and glove compartment for pharmaceutical evidence in the way of lithium. I found dog hair. I’m no forensic evidence expert, but I felt pretty sure that I discovered wiry white hair, long copper hair, short black hair, short gray hair, long liver-colored hair, and so on. It didn’t all come off of Loretta, is what I’m saying. Did I want to spend an afternoon with a crazy dog woman? That was the question.

  I found Grateful Dead cassette tapes and CDs. At first I thought I discovered a roach in the ashtray, but upon smelling it—then eating it—I learned that it, more than likely, ended up being the remnants of a hand-rolled American Spirit cigarette. Did I want to get involved in any way with a woman addicted to the evils of nicotine—like I’d been addicted with cigarettes all the way up until the day after Wanda took off, leaving me alone with Tapeworm?

  I wanted to find a grocery list, but didn’t find one. I wanted to find a couple books. If she had a copy of Don Quixote I’d’ve thought that I’d finally met my soul mate. If she had a number of those self-help books, or memoirs written by the brainwashed cast of aliens involved in the Bush administration, I’d’ve known to’ve brought a wooden stake along with me to the bar. But I found no reading material. Did I want to sit around in a bar with two dogs that might’ve been as literate as Holly?

  I got out of the Volkswagen, reached the veterinarian’s front door, turned around, rolled the windows up all the way on my pickup, and locked both doors so no one could rifle through my belongings. When I got back inside the waiting room I found Tapeworm stretched out on her back legs, eating all the dog biscuits in a bowl between the registration ledger and a doorknob used to tether a dog. Tapeworm turned her head, kept her mouth open, and looked at me with bird dog eyes that said nothing but, “You caught me. I’m sorry, but this is who I am.”

  I said, “Bad dog, Wanda.”

  HOLLY CAME OUT with Loretta and right away I noticed not as much clacking on the tile floor. That Dr. Page must be the queen of clipping dog nails, I thought. Holly said to the vet, “I’ll see you next week to do the hind nails.”

  “Okie-dokie,” said Dr. Page. She didn’t wear the shower cap anymore. To me she said, “Come on back, Edward.”

  I said, “I owe you some Milk Bones.”

  “I’ll be at Gus’s Place. Come on down there, Edward,” Holly said. She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek—Who does that? When did women start kissing strangers on the cheek?—and patted Tapeworm on the head. The dog Loretta licked Tapeworm on the muzzle.

  I tried to say, “I might not be there seeing as I have some honeysuckle to gather,” but couldn’t get it out. I’m no psychologist, but maybe I didn’t want Holly to know that I wove baskets for a living. Oh, I can do sweetgrass or river-cane or white-oak or even pine-needle baskets, but my best work—and the ones that sell at craft shows and galleries—is honeysuckle vine. I learned how to do it from my father’s sister. She spent time in a nuthouse down in Milledgeville.

  Tapeworm led me into the examination room. Dr. Page kept a frightening poster up on one wall of dog eyeball scenarios, like glaucoma in various stages. I didn’t like it. On another wall she kept a poster of a normal dog’s alimentary canal, above a poster of dog mouths with tooth and gum diseases.

  I said, “Tapeworm’s fine in all ways except the shots needed.”

  I’d had dreams about Dr. Page, I have to admit. Who has dreams about his veterinarian? I wondered if my dog had veterinarian dreams. I know that we always see dogs paddling their paws and whining in their sleep, and we say, “Hey, the dog’s dreaming about chasing rabbits.” Maybe they’re not. Maybe our dogs dream of running away from veterinarians.

  I had dreams of Dr. Page wearing, you know, more of a traditional French maid’s outfit than the blue pantsuit that she always wore. In one dream Dr. Page took out a special metal comb and ran it through my hair as I froze on the metal examination table. In another, Dr. Page announced, “Heartworm!” like that.

  “What a day. Goddamn,” she said to me while checking Tapeworm’s coat.

  I wondered how many veterinarians, percentage-wise, weren’t Christians and used the Lord’s name in vain, as I felt that they should seeing as too many people abused God’s supposed creatures. I said, “It’s okay, Tapeworm,” and lifted her to the table. To the vet I said, “Is it really ‘amputate’ an eyeball?”

  “That woman’s insane, you know,” Dr. Page said. “Did you have enough time to talk to her? Did you gather that she’s crazy?”

  I shrugged. I shook my head. “What?”

  “Absolutely out of her mind. I’m scared of her, to be honest. If I could ever find a receptionist again who could be pleasant to people, I’d pay double just to have someone in here with me at all times.”

  What kind of segue did I have to offer? I said, “My aunt spent some time in a mental institution in Milledgeville, Georgia. Nowadays they’d say she was bi-polar, but back then she was known mostly as completely nuts by people in my family.”

  Dr. Page listened to Tapeworm’s heart and lungs with a stethoscope. She checked her ears and said, “I bet your aunt wasn’t convinced that government officials try to embed microchips into her.”

  I said, “No,” not making a connection between Holly and microchips. I thought of my aunt. We used to go visit her in the hospital when I was a kid. She called my father—her brothe
r—Elvis Presley. She tried to strangle my mother one time, screaming out, “I am not a vessel for your sticks and stones, I am not a vessel for your sticks and stones!” That might’ve been the last time we visited as a group. My mother called her sister-in-law a “basket case” over and over to anyone who’d listen. I didn’t get along very well with my mother—she forever contradicted Dad, and belittled him whenever possible, bringing up how no one in my father’s family could be trusted, what with the crazy gene—and maybe that’s what drove me toward basket weaving, out of meanness, shortly after I graduated college with a degree in journalism, and shortly after my father shoved a garden hose in his muffler and led the business end into the cracked open window of his Buick. I said to Dr. Page, “Are you kidding me?” and tried to make eye contact without imagining her in a French maid’s outfit.

  “That wasn’t even her dog,” Dr. Page said. “She goes around picking up strays, getting them shots, then dumps them back out. Or she offers to bring her neighbors’ dogs in to get their toenails clipped, whatever. And then she gets in here and asks that I scan her body for computer chips she’s convinced have been implanted by the FBI.” She picked up her handheld scanner. “I scan the stray to make sure it’s not a lost dog, and then I scan Holly.”

  I said, “Man.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and knew ahead of time what my next dream would involve with my veterinarian.

  Dr. Page replaced the scanner and picked up a syringe. “This is for rabies and parvo, plus a new strain of canine polio that’s going around.” At least that’s what I heard. It was something that I didn’t believe really struck down dogs. Tapeworm didn’t flinch, though I held her muzzle shut just in case. Dr. Page said, “How old is Tapeworm now?”

  “Between twelve and twenty,” I said.

  “What a good dog,” she said. Then, in that voice that’s used by people who need to live where my father’s sister spent most of her adult life, Dr. Page said, “Who’s a good girl? Yes! Yes! Who’s a good girl? That’s right—you’re a good girl.”