By Russell Thayer
“Doctor Vatel will see you now, Miss Davis.” The receptionist wrinkled her aggressively tweezed eyebrows. “What’s it been? Two weeks?”
“Where’s Doctor Dymple?” asked Gunselle from her green leather chair.
“He quit. Couldn’t take it anymore.”
“That old cream puff couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding,” said Gunselle as she closed a tattered copy of Good Housekeeping. All the sharp pain in her hip came rushing back as she hobbled down the white hallway on piss-yellow linoleum toward a dark-haired man with a pointed Van Dyke beard.
“Good afternoon, Miss Davis,” he said as she approached the examination room. “I’m Doctor Vatel.”
The new physician wore a white smock and carried a file folder under his arm. Such modern touches intrigued Gunselle after fusty old Dymple in his tweed waistcoat. After closing the door, the doctor took her arm and helped her onto the padded examination table.
“I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” said Gunselle, tucking dark brown hair behind her pale ear. She guessed the new doc was in his forties. The overelaborate beard made him seem older.
“Doctor Dymple told me before he retired that you were his most frequent patient.”
“Doctor Dymple will be day-drinking from here to the grave,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” asked Dr. Vatel, taking a seat and opening the folder. He looked at Gunselle over the top of his glasses.
“It’s all there in my medical records.”
“Dr. Dymple never took notes during your visits. All I’ve got here is a record of your last tetanus shot. There’s a referral to a dental surgeon from two years ago. A long list of the dates you visited the office. No pertinent details at all.”
“Doctor Dymple and I came to an agreement about details,” she said.
“You and I are not coming to an agreement about details. I’m your doctor. I expect you to tell me everything. No secrets. Is that understood?”
“That sounds like an agreement about details.”
“Very well.” Dr. Vatel seemed to be waiting for her to tell him something.
“Look, Doc. A guy knocked out my front tooth. That’s what the referral was for. I surprised him at his home. Late at night. He swung at me out of fear. Didn’t do him much good, though. Write that down.”
“I will, but first let’s take a look at that bothersome hip. I assume that’s what brought you in today. Lie flat, please.”
Gunselle scooted back on her elbows so her head could rest on a little pillow. After she raised her skirt, the doctor whistled.
“Thanks,” she said. Men usually liked what they saw.
“That is a nasty bruise, young lady.” He gently lifted her leg and moved it back and forth in the air. “How did you acquire the injury?” he asked, one of his thick eyebrows raised, punctuating the question.
“A muscle boy hit me with his automobile”.
“I’m sorry to hear you were in an accident.” Dr. Vatel looked at the ceiling as his fingers palpated her groin.
“He hit me on purpose, Doc. But I got him in the end.”
“What does that mean?”
“Do you take your Hippocratic Oath seriously?”
“I do.”
“It means he won’t be lying in front of you like this unless you moonlight at the city morgue.”
The doctor made eye contact for a second before gently bending Gunselle’s knee. His brow crumpled with apprehension.
“Does that shock you?” she asked.
“I treated Marines on Iwo Jima. I’ve seen my share of dead bodies.”
“Me, too,” said Gunselle. “Mine show up in Oakland, for the most part.”
“I don’t think the hip is broken,” said Doctor Vatel. He stopped his roving fingers at her calf. “Good heavens.” The corners of his mouth turned downward. “How did you manage to do that?”
Gunselle raised her head to see which scar he was looking at. It was the livid red one. Four inches long.
“Broken bottle. That’s a funny story. Happened during a vacation in Havana. Got into a fight with a young woman from Chicago. Gorgeous blonde. Magnificent skin. I thought she was my friend, but she lost her head.”
“Did you not have the wound sutured at the time?”
“I don’t trust tropical docs, Doc, so I had a hotel maid bandage the leg for me. It grew together eventually. No harm done.”
“Do you mind if I give you a general examination while you’re here.”
“Go ahead.”
“Remove your dress, please.” The doctor pulled a three-panel screen around to the side of the table to give Gunselle some privacy. She listened to him scribbling notes as she undressed. When he finished with his pencil, he folded the screen and tipped it against the wall while she waited on the edge of the table in matching black bra and underpants. Dr. Vatel slipped a cuff around her biceps, plugged a stethoscope into his ears, then did a little pumping.
“Your blood pressure is very good,” he said as he removed the cuff.
“Best in the business,” said Gunselle.
Dr. Vatel then moved the bell of the stethoscope to a spot just inside the upper edge of her lacy brassiere.
“My friend Martine says you won’t find a heartbeat.”
“You’re alive.” Gunselle watched his eyes stop at a spot just above her right hip. He lowered his chin. “How did that happen?” he asked, running a finger across the indented scar.
“Christmas Eve party got a little out of hand. Host’s wife plugged me with a shiny little .32 she keeps in her purse. If I’d known that, I might not have sat on her husband’s lap all evening.”
“That’s a delightful story,” he said, then cleared his throat.
“My fault, really. I don’t generally mess around with married men.”
“I commend you.” He was wearing a ring.
Gunselle rolled onto her left side and pulled down her black underpants to expose a blemish on her rump. “Slug from a .22 made that hole.”
“Does another sordid story come with it?” he asked, looking at the wall, possibly regretting the medical diploma which hung there.
“Sordid? Not really. A lawyer signed a statement he shouldn’t have. Men went to jail. I was hired to pay him back. I kept the pistol as a memento.”
“Are you some kind of gangster’s moll?” asked Dr. Vatel, perspiration beginning to show on his forehead.
“Me? I’m not bound to any man,” she said. “I’m my own moll.”
“Did you have these gunshot wounds properly cleaned and treated at a reputable hospital?” asked Dr. Vatel as he stroked his pointy beard. “Were you questioned by the police on either occasion?”
“No. I go to a private clinic for my gunshot wounds. The old swindler reeks of loco weed, and has probably been disbarred, but he’s cheap. Do you have a private clinic in your home?”
“His license to practice medicine was revoked.”
“Huh?”
“Lawyers are disbarred. How fresh is that wound under your breast?”
“Maybe three weeks. Dymple dealt with that one during my last visit.” She touched the healing mutilation. “Almost punctured my lung. Broke a couple ribs.”
“A knife broke your ribs?”
“He kicked me a few times while I was on the ground. Swiped at me with his knife after I booted him in the jewels. Then I beat his skull in with a rock.”
“Miss Davis.” Dr. Vatel closed his eyes, lowered his chin, and took a deep breath. “That’s too much detail.”
“Hang in there, Doc,” she said. “It’s our first visit.”
“How is the bone healing?” asked Dr. Vatel as he placed his fingers on Gunselle’s ribs.
“Ouch.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek.
“Just doing your job.”
“Did you pull the sutures out yourself?”
“Of course.”
“What do you tell people about a laceration like that?”
“Who’s there to tell? Nobody sees my scars. Just my mirror. Doctor Dymple. Now you.”
“There’s no man in your life? No children?”
“Just me.”
“Are you content with that?” asked Dr. Vatel, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.
“Don’t start head-peeping, Doc. You won’t like what you see.”
“Then let’s talk about your general health habits. Do you smoke cigarettes?”
“Not anymore. Slows me down when I run. And one little cough can give a girl away if she’s hiding behind a stack of lumber.”
“Certainly. Yes. That’s very true, I suppose. So…” he brushed his hand against the side of his head. “Other than running, are you getting any other exercise in your daily routine?”
“I’m pretty good at smashing a golf ball. I go dancing in the Fillmore every Friday and Saturday night. If I’m not working. Oh, and I go to the gymnasium at City College twice a week to lift barbells.” Gunselle crooked her arm to make a muscle.
“It shows,” said Dr. Vatel.
“I can carry 180 pounds for three blocks before dumping it into the trunk of an automobile.”
“That’s impressive.” He wiped his temples with the handkerchief. “And your diet? Are you eating for health?”
“What curious questions, Doc. Your predecessor never asked about my personal life. Smoking. Exercise. Or what I eat, for Heaven’s sake. He just stitched me up and sent me on my way.”
“Emphasizing a healthful lifestyle tends to keep people out of an expensive doctor’s office.”
“Healthy living isn’t going to keep me out of your office.”
“Decent living might.”
“Good one, Doc. Anyway, this indecent girl drinks a bottle of red wine most evenings with a rare steak and green salad. No fattening potatoes for me. Fruit for breakfast. Usually have a slab of ham with mustard and cheese on rye bread for lunch.”
“All very well,” said Dr. Vatel as he closed his folder and put down his pen. “You’re in fine physical condition, Miss Davis, for a woman of thirty-one, considering all the bumps and bruises.” He looked down at the notes he’d been scribbling. “Do you ever think about dying.”
“I think about death all the time, Doc. But dying is for suckers.”
***
After storming into the doctor’s waiting room, Gunselle slumped onto one of the green leather chairs. She held a bloody handkerchief against her hairline, near her right temple.
“Do you have an appointment, Miss Davis?” asked the receptionist.
“Jesus Christ, Fran. Do I look like I had time to make an appointment?” Gunselle grabbed a metal wastebasket and threw up into it.
“The doctor is with another patient,” said the receptionist. “You might have a concussion. I’m calling for an ambulance.”
“If you pick up that phone, I’ll break your arm in half.”
An elderly woman seated across from Gunselle put her hand over her mouth.
“I don’t think that tone of voice is necessary,” said the receptionist.
“Then tell him I’m out here.” Gunselle glared at the old woman.
“Doctor Vatel has moved to another clinic.”
“That chicken-gutted sugar lump. Where did he flee to?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“Well, fetch me the new one.”
The receptionist got up from her gray metal desk and trotted down the hallway. Gunselle leaned over the wastebasket on her lap. The receptionist trotted back at the same pace.
“She’ll see you in the other examination room.”
“Thanks. I’m a little woozy. A dame?”
“Doctor Smith.”
The receptionist helped Gunselle to the examination table. Gunselle let her replace the sopping handkerchief with a clean pile of gauze.
“That’s a nasty wound,” said the woman.
“You should see the other guy,” said Gunselle. The receptionist rolled her eyes.
In a few minutes, Dr. Smith appeared. She wore a skirt and flat shoes under her white smock. Pale eyes peered at Gunselle through silver-rimmed spectacles. A tight brown bun adorned the back of her head. It was as plain and serious as her face. The woman appeared to be in her late thirties.
“So. You’re the unruly Miss Davis,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I’ve been wondering when I’d encounter you. You cause a lot of turmoil in this office.”
“And turnover.”
“The turmoil and turnover are both ending today.” The new doctor hooked a stool with her shoe and rolled to Gunselle’s side on wheels. She opened a drawer in the table to reveal medical paraphernalia “Tell me what happened.”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Everything,” she said, lifting the gauze with a frown of concern. “Doctor Vatel told me what to expect.”
“An ape clonked me with a tire iron.”
“Why didn’t he finish you off when he had the chance?” she asked, reaching into the drawer for an ophthalmoscope. She waved it in front of Gunselle’s eyes.
“I like you, Doc.”
“Simple question. Why didn’t he finish you off? You were at his mercy.”
“Well, after knocking me down, he put a knee on my chest and his fingers around my throat.”
The doctor bathed the wound with antiseptic liquid.
“The floor of the garage is dirt,” Gunselle continued. “I threw a handful in his face. He got blind. I got busy.”
“Busy with what?” asked the doctor as she dried the area around the wound with a gauze pad.
“That same tire iron.”
“He deserved it,” said Dr. Smith, with a faint smile. “But don’t they all?” She dug around in the open drawer. “I’m going to give you a shot of procaine to numb the laceration. It looks like you’ll need four or five sutures. You’ll be back in action in no time, but there will be a scar.”
“Won’t be my first. Were you in the army?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“There’s something warlike about you.”
“You have no idea what I had to go through to get where I am. I could have used your services on numerous occasions.”
“Believe me, I have an idea. And an even better idea. You’re a doctor. Do you play golf?”
“I do. When I find a partner who can keep up with me.”
Gunselle reached into the breast pocket of her blouse. She pulled out a calling card and handed it to the woman.
“That number rings at a private answering service. Call me when you want to knock the ball around. Or if you discover you’ve got a rat problem. I check for messages every day.”
Doctor Smith slipped the card into the right breast pocket of her white smock. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. From the left pocket, she removed a card of her own.
“This number rings at my home,” she said, sliding it into Gunselle’s pocket while staring at her with dramatic emphasis. “Call me the next time you bump your head after hours. I’m discreet, but not cheap. The best never is.” Then she winked.
“Don’t I know it,” said Gunselle, closing her eyes as the needle hovered, feeling the wink like a tonic.
Bio: Russell Thayer’s work has appeared in Brushfire, The Phoenix, Tough, Roi Fainéant Press, Cirque, Close to the Bone, Bristol Noir, Apocalypse Confidential, Hawaii Pacific Review, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, Pulp Modern, and Outcast Press. He received his BA in English from the University of Washington, worked for decades at large printing companies, and currently lives in Missoula, Montana. You can find him lurking on Twitter @RussellThayer10
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