“Trust me,” I said, sliding my hands under the hem of a flouncy skirt, the one that vaunted Clara’s spun-out legs, which happened to be the first thing I fell in love with about her: those legs. Those persuasive legs, which she wrapped around me then as if she knew all along this hang-up I had with her legs. She did it on purpose: the skirt, the legs, Maisie in bed earlier than was the norm so she could catch me before my evening torpor set in, the three beers I’d already consumed starting to slow my movements, to have their way with my mind. She pressed her lips to mine, kissing me deeply and completely, as I buried myself into her, trying to think about Clara and only Clara. Clara wanted me in a way that only she had ever wanted me. She gave my life purpose and meaning.
I drew back and stared at her then with ambitious eyes, eyes that would convince her we had money to spare, my intransigent movements trying hard to elicit a sense of power and greed rather than what it really was: burgeoning despair. “We have money,” I whispered into her ear, and in reply she let out a long, euphoric sigh that had nothing at all to do with money. Nothing at all. I was the only one still thinking about the grill and money. “Plenty of money. Money to spare,” and for a bat of an eye I imagined Clara and me as Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson, making love on straps of hundred dollar bills.
But of course we don’t. We have no money. Not then and not now. Not enough, at least.
And it’s not just thanks to Dr. Shepherd, either.
In the last six months, four new dentists have moved into the area, and competition is fierce. Add to it the impact of social media, all these Moms of such-and-such groups on Facebook recommending doctors and dentists to their thousands of online pseudo-friends. Just one person has a bad experience at my office, and within minutes, three thousand people know about it. Clara follows these groups online, so it isn’t a groundless fear; it’s genuine. She showed me a post months ago, a mother complaining that my hygienist Jan was snarky with her child. The truth of the matter: she was, but she needed to be, as the little boy had a series of cavities lined up between his teeth and refused to sit still as I injected him with shots of Novocain. Jan wasn’t out of line, but she was firm. There were seventy-some comments on the woman’s Facebook harangue, all recommending new dentists around town, words like caring and compassionate peppering their replies, none of which pertained to me.
Clara and I dismissed it at the time, until the coming weeks when patients started dropping like flies.
Though I didn’t tell Clara about this. I didn’t want her to worry.
I also didn’t tell Clara that I sneaked into her Facebook account when she was fast asleep, and pulled up the same group account. There was a poll running, about which doctors and dentists the ladies of town most preferred. Of the twenty-plus dentists listed, I was ranked number eleven. This didn’t bode well for a successful business.
The top-ranking position went, of course, to Dr. Shepherd.
In the middle of the night while she was sleeping, I managed to figure out how to hide these group posts from Clara’s newsfeed.
And now, standing there in an empty exam room, Connor asks, “What are you going to do about this, Boss?” as The View breaks for commercial and the TV screen fills with an ad for some revolutionary cleaning product, which promises to get through even the most uncompromising mildew and mold. Daytime TV. He sits upright in the chair, idle, waiting for me to reply. What are you going to do about this, Boss?
Boss. The very word galls me. When business is going well, Connor and I are partners, but when it’s not, I’m the boss and it’s my problem to solve. That’s why my name is on the front door. I cut the checks, I pay the bills. I’m the one who put my entire life on the line for this, the one who stands to lose it all.
I sit down on the hygienist stool and sigh. “I don’t know,” I admit, rubbing my forehead and asking, “What do you think we should do?”
He admires himself in the mirror. “That’s what I asked you.”
The problem with Connor is that he hasn’t changed a bit since he was twenty-three; he’s still the same guy I met in dental school, often moseying through the office doors ten minutes late, bleating about the enormity of his hangover and how much he had to drink the night before. He’s a loose cannon, which, at twenty-three, made for a good time, but at this point in my life makes him a liability. Our friendship has been petering out lately, many heated conversations ruining what was once a strong bond—another thing Clara doesn’t know about, because I don’t want her to worry, and also because Clara loves Connor almost as much as she loves me. Almost.
The days have begun stretching longer, whole chunks of time where Connor—Dr. C, as he’s favorably known by the clients and staff—and I sit twiddling our thumbs, watching daytime TV. I’ve dropped an innuendo here and there about how stupid it is having two dentists around with nothing to do. I’ve made comments about how these days, there’s really only enough work for one dentist, not two. I hoped that Connor would catch my drift and start looking for a new job, but so far he hasn’t taken the bait. Instead he’s said something useless like, “You’ll figure it out,” or, “I’m sure the answer will come to you,” and even though it frustrates me to no end, I’m not sure I have it in me to lay him off, if that’s what I need to do.
Clara adores him. Maisie, too. He’s on his best behavior any time he sees them, fawning over Clara’s latest hairstyle or Maisie’s new dress, presenting them with gifts. But Connor also has a temper and a habit of drinking too much. I could easily fire him for a whole host of things, but there’s a part of me that’s worried it might throw him off the deep end if I do. I’ve watched Connor give a crippling uppercut to some guy, all because he’d taken his stool at a bar when Connor was gone three minutes to piss. It had nothing to do with the stool itself, but the girl on the other side of it, five foot nine with long brunette hair, eyes like chocolate and a skirt so short she might as well have left it at home. Connor’s date who some other guy dared to flirt with while he was gone. At twenty-three, I might have watched on, applauding, but, now, instead I heaved Connor out of the bar before they could call the police.
He’s a loose cannon.
And I never want to be on the receiving end of that uppercut.
I brought Connor on board when business was booming and I had a ton of new clients, who I barely had time to see. I did it as a favor to him, and also to me. I’d tried expanding my hours to accommodate patients with long workdays like mine, but it took its toll. I was tired, grouchy and only saw Clara for about an hour a day when one or the other of us wasn’t asleep. I wanted better for our marriage. Her father had been a workaholic when she was a girl. Mine had, too. They were the kind of men who were home for dinner—sometimes—and around on the weekends on occasion. Clara and I hardly ate dinners together, and conversations were limited to the essentials: Can you pick up milk on your way home? Did you mail the mortgage payment? I didn’t want my children growing up wondering all the time when I’d be home, whether or not I’d be at their soccer games or school plays. I wanted them to know I’d be there.
And so I hired Connor, and we divvied up the work. Connor took half of the patients, and the practice continued to expand. Now, I could be home more for Clara and Maisie, and be the husband and father I always wanted to be.