“Umm,” Beck starts. He looks to me for help. As if. “Right,” he continues. “Well. Our friend here is sick. We think. I mean, he is, clearly. Look at him.”
The vet—who I choose to believe is in the middle of surgery, and not some ritualistic sacrifice with a host of bloodthirsty minions from the bowels of hell—shifts her focus to Walt. I watch her eyes as the situation dawns on her. Yes, I want to say. We come bearing humans. Please don’t Sweeney-Todd us. The looks on our faces must be obvious—she gazes down at her clothes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she laughs. “You guys have a seat. Lemme get cleaned up, I’ll be right back.”
The two of us ease Walt into a chair. He’s still moaning, but to his credit, he’s dialed it down a few notches since the truck. I sit next to Beck and stare him down.
“I saw it on an episode of Seinfeld,” he says, avoiding eye contact.
I say nothing.
He shrugs. “Forget it, you’re probably too young.”
“For what, reruns? I’ve seen Seinfeld, man.”
“Well, did you ever see the episode where Kramer found a dog who had a cough that sounded exactly like his?”
I tilt my head, hold back a smile, and for a second, we just look at each other. “So—I think my best course of action here is to just, you know, let the ridiculousness of that sentence marinate.”
Now Beck is holding back a smile. “Ditto.”
Together, we hold back smiles, marinating in the ridiculousness of our sentences.
I cross my arms. “Anyway, I’m still mad at you.”
“For what?”
“For what?” I mimic.
A few minutes later, the vet returns, and if I was scared of her before, I’m terrified now. Her hair is down, a beautiful mocha with just the perfect amount of wave. She’s turned in her surgical garb for a purple fitted blouse, with a giant bow at the neck, a black pleated skirt—not too short, but short enough—and a pair of Tory Burch flats. Her face, free of animal blood, has that natural sort of put-togetherness only another female can see through. The outfit is complete with a dazzling smile—in Beck’s direction.
“Sorry about before,” she says, circling the desk. “I was doing an emergency splenectomy on a seven-year-old lab after a tumor, possibly caused by hemangiosarcoma, ruptured the spleen. Poor thing had a distended belly, pale gums, the works. Anyway, the spleen had to go, obviously, and sometimes, you pull that sucker out, and”—she puts her fists together, then explodes them, complete with sound effects—“blood . . . everywhere.”
I look at Beck and remind myself to work out some secret signal for future predicaments such as this, something that means get me the hell outta here.
Beck stands up, reading my mind. “Well, we don’t wanna interrupt or anything. Sounds like you got your hands full.”
“Oh, the dog died,” says the vet, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You’re golden. I’m Dr. Clark, by the way. Or just . . . Michelle, if you want.”
For a beat, no one says anything. Walt’s voice comes quietly, surprising us all. “Your dog died?”
Somehow, the kid is able defuse even the strangest of situations with nothing but blind innocence.
“Michelle,” Beck cuts in, “this is Walt. We think he has food poisoning, or something, and the . . . people clinic is closed for Labor Day weekend.”
Walt, still slightly hunched in his chair, seems frozen in this girl’s presence. “You’re really, really pretty,” he says. He points to her shoes. “Shiny shoes.” He points to her face. “Shiny teeth.” He lowers his hand, nods. “I like your shininess.”
Dr. Clark tilts her head, smiles, and—curses, even her smile is solid. Kneeling down on one knee, she puts an arm on Walt’s shoulder. “That’s so sweet of you, honey. I’m sorry to hear you’re not feeling well. What hurts?”
Walt touches his head. “I’m not all wrong anymore, but my head is. My head hurts.”
Dr. Clark looks up at Beck, as if I’m not sitting right next to her. “Vomit or diarrhea or both?” she asks.
“Umm, neither,” he answers.
“Really?” She takes his pulse, then stands and helps Walt out of his seat. “Come on, honey. We’ll be right back, guys. Make yourselves at home.”
“You smell shiny, too,” says Walt, disappearing with Dr. Clark into the back.
Beck falls into the chair next to me, leans his head back, and closes his eyes. “I’m exhausted.”
“Sleeping in trucks will do that.”