I spent most of Sunday trying to learn how to take care of a dog, seeing as pets don’t come with an operating manual.
First, there was the matter of getting to know Pete’s palate. Silly me, I had assumed that all dog food was created equal; that you simply stuck a bowl of mystery meat in front of an animal and he’d eat it. So I went to the supermarket and bought several cans of Alpo. Pete, it turned out, didn’t like Alpo. I went back to the supermarket and bought a bag of Gravy Train. Pete didn’t care for Gravy Train either. I went back to the supermarket a third time and bought some Kibbles and Bits. Pete wouldn’t touch the stuff. Utterly frustrated, I opened the freezer, nuked a Lean Cuisine and said, “Here. Try this.”
Pete ate every morsel of the frozen dinner. I was relieved that I had finally found something that pleased him.
The second thing I learned about Pete was that he was a klutz. I mean, the dog was incapable of watching where he was going, particularly when it came to his tail. After a mere twenty minutes in the house, he had knocked over knickknacks, toppled lamps, sent plants to the ground, you name it. He also had a habit of running into me. I’d be standing in the kitchen, minding my own business, when he’d come barreling into me, like a football player making a tackle. I sensed that he didn’t mean me any harm; he was just exuberant in a way that I had always longed to be.
Most bizarre was his clingyness. He seemed hopelessly attached to me, as if I’d been his master for years instead of thirty-six hours, and would follow me from room to room, sniffing and scratching and begging to be played with. If I went to the bathroom, he’d sit there guarding the door, and when I’d come out, he’d rush at me, curling himself around my legs and nuzzling me. It was oddly flattering. I had never inspired that sort of devotion in anyone and wondered what I had done to deserve Pete’s.
On Monday morning I made a doctor’s appointment. No, not for Pete, for me. I was hoping against all hope that my “condition” (what else could I call it?) was physical, not metaphysical. So I called the office of Dr. Henry Messersmith, my internist, and asked if I could see him right away.
“What seems to be the problem?” asked his nurse.
“I might have a brain tumor,” I said.
Well, what was I supposed to say? I’d heard that people with brain tumors go through personality changes. Maybe they also take on strange powers, I thought. Like being able to make a tire go flat just by wishing it.
The brain tumor thing got the nurse’s attention because she didn’t even put me on hold the way she always did; she said I could come and see the normally booked-solid Dr. Messersmith that very afternoon.
But first I had to sit through Charlotte Reed’s ritual Monday morning meeting at Home Sweet Home. Yes, once a week, from nine until ten, Charlotte held us all hostage in her corner office, which was decorated in early shabby gentility and reeked of her scent: stale Nina Ricci. I know. Nobody wore Nina Ricci anymore. But, as I already told you, Charlotte was an anachronism. If something was over, she was just discovering it. She still called suitcases “valises” and stereos “Victrolas” and thought a microwave was a type of home permanent.
On that particular Monday morning, we were all gathered in her office, sipping tea and filling each other in on new listings, sales, or closings. In addition to Charlotte, there was Althea Dicks, the sourpuss; Deirdre Wyatt, the beauty queen; Frances Lutz, the ranch specialist; and my best friend, Suzanne Munson, the menopause expert. There was also June Bellsey, a part-time agent at Home Sweet Home. June’s husband, Lloyd, was a famous defense attorney who regularly and with obvious zeal represented celebrities—movie stars, sports legends, business tycoons, etc.—accused of heinous crimes, usually murder. What’s more, Lloyd Bellsey often appeared on network news broadcasts as a “legal analyst,” and had even written a best-seller in which he recounted his most celebrated cases. Needless to say, June didn’t have to work, as she never ceased to remind us. She could have stayed home eating bonbons all day long. But no. June wanted to be independent, have her own career, earn her own money. I don’t think she sold a single house in the nine years that I’d worked at Home Sweet Home, but she never missed one of Charlotte’s Monday morning meetings. They were her chance to drop the name of some celebrity she’d just met through her husband. I always pretended to be impressed. And why not? The only celebrity my husband knew was Chrissy Hemplewhite.
Before the meeting began, everybody was asking me about the dramatic change in my appearance—what I’d done to my hair, how I’d managed to lose weight so quickly, whether I was taking diet pills. Only Charlotte didn’t seem to notice that I looked different. When she saw me she smiled and told me to give her regards to my parents. My parents had been dead for seven years.
“Now, ladies,” she said, calling the meeting to order. “Who has something she’d like to discuss?”
June raised her hand.
“Yes, June?” said Charlotte.
“Lloyd told me that Sylvester Stallone is thinking of selling his place in Miami and buying here in Banyan,” June announced.
“Sylvia who, dear?” Charlotte asked.
“No, not Sylvia. Sylvester,” June said impatiently. “Sylvester Stallone. You know. Rocky.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I believe that the fellow you’re talking about passed away some time ago,” she said. “Pity, too. After all those lovely movies he made with Doris Day.”
“No, that was Rock Hudson,” June corrected Charlotte. “The actor I’m talking about played Rocky, the boxer who…Oh, never mind.”
“My God, if Stallone moves here, it’ll be the end of life as we know it,” Althea scowled.
“Come on,” said Deirdre. “I think he’s adorable. A real cutie-pie.”
“He’s also rich,” added June. “Think of the house he’ll buy. And before you know it, his friends will want to buy in Banyan, too. Home Sweet Home will become the realtor to the stars.”
“Just what Banyan Beach needs,” Althea snapped. “Stars. Doesn’t anybody realize that if Stallone moves in, Madonna will be next? And then where will we be?”
“Selling a lot more real estate,” Suzanne replied. “Luxury real estate. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Not a thing,” Frances chimed in. “I, for one, would be happy to sell Madonna a house.”
“Barbs would probably be the one to sell her the house,” Deirdre said with a touch of sour grapes. “She’s on a hot streak all of a sudden. She covered for me on Friday afternoon and ended up with the $700,000 customer I should have gotten.”
“I was due for a little good luck,” I pointed out. “Besides, Deirdre, I was doing you a favor by taking floor duty, remember?”
“Ladies, ladies,” Charlotte interrupted. “Let’s try to stick to our agenda, shall we? June was telling us about the movie actor. What was his name, dear?”
“Sylvester Stallone,” June answered.
“Does he play golf?” asked Suzanne.
“Probably,” said June. “Why?”
“Because there’s a $4 million house coming on the market in Cotswold Cove, that new golf community on the Intracoastal. It’s glitzy enough for a movie star.”
“Cotswold Cove? Give me a break,” I groaned. Like many of the so-called “country club communities” that had sprouted up across South Florida, Cotswold Cove took its name from merry old England in an effort to appeal to people who admired all things old and staid and yet lived, wore, and drove all things new and flashy. The place was a joke, especially the houses. You would think that, for $4 million, you’d get a house of true distinction, a property that afforded complete and total privacy. Well, not at Cotswold Cove. The residents there didn’t want privacy or distinction. What they wanted—and got—was a Levittown for exhibitionists. Every single house looked exactly like the one next door. What’s more, the houses were so close together you could hear the messages on your neighbor’s answering machine.
“Let’s wait and see if Sylvester Stallone actually shows up in Banyan Beach,” Frances suggested. “He could decide to stay in Miami after all.”
“Miami,” Althea sniffed. “That’s what Banyan Beach is becoming. Another Miami. The crime, the traffic, the pollution, the—”
“This is still a beautiful town,” Frances protested. “I don’t know why you’re always so down on everything, Althea.”
“Beautiful town? Don’t be naive,” Althea said, looking first at Frances, then at the rest of us. “Haven’t you all seen what’s happened? Haven’t you?”
“No, what’s happened?” Charlotte asked, totally bewildered by Althea’s ravings. To her, Banyan Beach would always remain an unspoiled, picture-perfect paradise. In a way, I envied her ability to distance herself from reality.
“I’ll tell you what’s happened,” said Althea, growing more and more angry. “Banyan Beach is going to hell. Little by little. Inch by inch. I don’t know exactly when it began or why. But I do know that while we weren’t paying attention, while our backs were turned, the devil came to town and decided to make it his own.”
Suzanne and I looked at each other and started to giggle. Obviously, Althea was more than just grumpy; she was certifiable. A lunatic. She reminded me of those holy rollers who rant and rave about the devil on Sunday morning television. And then I remembered that her father was an evangelist who claimed he could heal people if they paid him $150. In cash. In advance.
“Go ahead and laugh,” Althea sneered at us. “There will come a time when you’ll see that I’m right. You’ll think about the fact that the murder rate has gone up and the beaches have eroded and the river has become polluted and you’ll say, ‘Althea Dicks knew what she was talking about.’”
“Have some more tea,” Charlotte said to Althea. “It will calm your nerves, dear.”
“My nerves don’t need calming,” said Althea. “I’m just trying to make a point.”
“What point? That the devil is behind all of Banyan Beach’s problems? That he’s living right here in our little town?” Suzanne said, trying to keep a straight face.
Althea nodded.
“I bet he lives in Cotswold Cove,” I said between snickers. Charlotte’s Monday morning meetings were always a little bizarre, but not this bizarre. “I bet he’s the one who’s putting his four-million-dollar house on the market. He wants something bigger. He’s dying for a trade-up.”
“Either that, or he’s unhappy with the golf course there,” Suzanne suggested. “It does get crowded on weekends.”
“Maybe he lives in your building, Suzanne,” I said. “Didn’t you tell me that one of your neighbors never leaves home without his pitchfork?”
“Fine, Barbara. Make jokes if you want to,” said Althea. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t,” I said, stifling a laugh.
I leaned over and whispered to Suzanne, “There are times when I’d like to put a muzzle on that woman.”
Suzanne giggled and was about to respond when Althea began to speak—but all that came out of her mouth was a croak.
She cleared her throat and tried again, but her voice was so hoarse we couldn’t hear her. Only seconds before, she’d been going on and on about the devil. Now, all of a sudden she couldn’t talk at all.
“Sounds like you’ve developed a case of laryngitis, dear,” Charlotte said, patting Althea on the shoulder.
Suzanne looked at me and raised her eyebrow.
“Didn’t you just say you wanted to put a muzzle on Althea?” she whispered to me.
I gulped. “I did, didn’t I?”
Suzanne nodded and then smiled weakly. I couldn’t help noticing that she moved ever so slightly away from me.
Dr. Messersmith had been our family doctor for years, so it was only natural that I would seek his advice about my curious condition. He was a highly respected physician in town and projected a real air of authority and competence. The only problem with him was that his office was as busy as a golf course on Saturday morning. There were always zillions of people in the waiting room and no matter how early you got there the good magazines—not to mention the chairs—were all taken. So you ended up spending an hour trying to find something reasonably entertaining about Popular Mechanics, and then the nurse would finally call your name and lead you into an examining room. You’d take off your clothes, anticipating Dr. Messersmith’s imminent arrival, and wind up staring at his diplomas for another hour. Then he’d march in, clutching your chart in his scrubbed and gloved hands, and before you could get out a single syllable, he’d take a phone call. You’d sit there on the examining table, feeling insignificant, shivering in your skimpy little hospital gown, the backs of your legs sticking to that god-awful wax paper, while he’d be gabbing with some other doctor about Mrs. So-and-So’s gall bladder.
“Hello, Barbara,” he said when he entered the examining room smelling faintly of rubbing alcohol. He was a rather imposing figure—tall, terrific posture, gray-haired, bushy eyebrows. “What can we do for you today?”
“I haven’t been feeling well,” I said.
“Really? You look awfully well,” he said. “You’ve taken off a few pounds, I can see. And the hair’s different, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, but I don’t feel well,” I said.
“In what way?” he asked.
“Well, it’s sort of hard to—”
The phone on the wall buzzed. Dr. Messersmith picked it up and, after instructing his nurse to put the call through, began to discuss the gastroenterological side effects of erythromycin.
“Now then, Barbara. You were saying?” he said after hanging up the phone.
“I was saying that I’m not myself. I think you should give me a blood test, take X-rays, do a CAT scan, the works.”
Dr. Messersmith eyed me. “Is there trouble at home?” he asked, his tone becoming paternal.
“Yes, Mitchell and I are splitting up. But my marriage has nothing to do with this. I really am sick.”
“Tell me your symptoms.”
I took a deep breath. “My short-term memory is gone,” I said, thinking there was a possibility that I had colored my hair, taken diet pills, undergone cosmetic surgery, and bought a dog, but didn’t remember. “And I’ve been having—”
The phone buzzed again. This time, Dr. Messersmith was lured into a conversation about carpal tunnel syndrome.
“You’ve been having what?” he asked when the call was over.
“I’ve been having thoughts…What I mean is, I seem to…Well, let’s just say I believe that I can make things happen.”
“Excellent,” said Dr. Messersmith with a big smile. “That’s just what I like to hear. It’s very important for people to feel a sense of empowerment, especially in this modern age where we have so little control over our lives. Bravo, Barbara. Bravo.”
“No, Doctor. This has nothing to do with empowerment. I feel totally impotent about my own life. Yet at the same time, I’m under some sort of delusion that I can cause things to happen to other people. Bad things.”
Dr. Messersmith stepped back to look at me. “And so you think you have a brain tumor? Isn’t that what you told my nurse?”
“Yes. Is there any way you could check it out?”
“Are you having headaches?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“Seizures?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“Yes. Occasionally.” Whenever David Bettinger touches me, I thought but didn’t say.
The doctor buzzed for his nurse. She took my temperature and blood pressure and asked me to give her a urine sample. Then he examined me. He listened to my heart, palpated my abdomen, felt my neck for lumps, shined a little light in my eyes, and inserted a tongue depressor into my mouth.
“Say ‘Aaaaah,’” he commanded me.
“Aaaaah.”
Dr. Messersmith pulled away from me, a look of dread on his face.
“You saw something?” I asked with alarm.
“No, I smelled something,” he said. “Did you by any chance have Brussels sprouts for lunch today, Barbara?”
“No. I didn’t have lunch at all,” I said.
He made notes on my chart and continued with his examination. When he was finished, he told me to get dressed and meet him in his office.
“What’s your diagnosis, Doctor?” I asked as I sat facing him across his desk. I prepared myself for the worst.
Dr. Messersmith didn’t answer me. Instead, he scribbled something on the top sheet of his prescription pad and handed it to me.
It read, “Dr. Louise Schaffran,” along with a local phone number.
“You want me to see a specialist?” I asked.
He nodded, his expression somber.
“Is this Dr. Schaffran a neurologist?” I asked, still clinging to my brain-tumor theory.
He shook his head.
“A throat specialist?” I asked, thinking of the reaction people were having to my breath.
He shook his head again. I was becoming a little exasperated.
“Look, Dr. Messersmith. I’d rather not play twenty questions. Why don’t you just tell me what Dr. Schaffran’s specialty is.”
“She’s a Freudian psychiatrist,” he replied. “A very fine one.”
I sank back into the chair.
“So I’m having a nervous breakdown, is that it?” I said.
“Well, I didn’t find anything physically wrong with you during my preliminary examination,” he said.
“Yes, but you didn’t—”
“You mentioned that you and your husband have broken up. You were married for several years, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t think that has anything—”
“And the last time you were here you told me that there were problems at work, that you were concerned about your ability to earn a living as a real estate agent.”
“Right, but what’s happening to me now isn’t—”
“Call Dr. Schaffran, Barbara,” he cut me off. “She’ll be able to help you.”
Sure, doc, I thought sourly. Keep me waiting for two fucking hours and then pass the buck.
Dr. Messersmith reached for the phone on his desk and dialed. Obviously, my audience with him was over.
“I hope your damn phone goes dead,” I muttered under my breath as I left his office.
I was halfway down the hall when I heard Dr. Messersmith shout, “What the hell’s the matter with this phone?”
Nervous breakdown my ass.