Duby's Doctor (8 page)

“But, how do you know that?” he pressed.

“Because Scorpios drive me crazy, now give it
a rest!”

They rode on in silence for several
seconds.

Then Jean reached out in naive fascination
and touched the hair at the nape of Mitchell’s neck. She wore it in
a plain, tight chignon as always, but after a long day like today,
wispy hairs slid from the bun to curl softly down the back of her
neck.

She flinched at his gentle touch and nearly
wrecked the car. “What are you doing?”

“I like your hair,” he said, all
innocence.

Mitchell brushed his hand away. “Don’t do
that. Did Hector teach you that? Don’t do that. Especially in a
moving vehicle. ...Or a parked vehicle. ...Any vehicle. Don’t do
that.”

Jean’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Is it a
rule?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s a rule. I’m not angry,
because you didn’t know, but now you know. It’s a rule. Don’t do
that.”

They rode in silence a moment longer, then
she said, “Thank you, Johnny. I like your hair, too.”

“You’re welcome,
Michel
.”

That night Carinne Averell sat staring into
her makeup mirror. Coming to a decision, she picked up the
telephone that lay on the vanity table before her. Quickly she
punched in a number. She waited. Someone answered on the other
end.

“Uncle Francis?” she whispered. “It’s me,
Carinne. I need to talk to you.”

“I can’t find it!” Trish shouted from the
depths of a walk-in closet elsewhere in Carinne’s suite.

Carinne shouted back, “Second drawer,
left-hand side! Way in the back!” Into the phone, she whispered, “I
have to get out of here, but they watch me every minute. Please
help me.”

From the other room came the sound of drawers
closing, opening, closing.

“I gotta go!” Carinne whispered. She hung up
the phone and resumed her posture as if the call had never taken
place.

Trish appeared in the dressing room doorway
with a lacy camisole in one hand. “
Voilá
! Thanks. I’ll get
it back to you before you know it.”

“Keep it,” Carinne said. “I hardly ever wear
it.”

Trish approached the vanity table. “Can I
keep this, too?” she said, and she slid a folded slip of paper
across the table at Carinne.

Carinne unfolded the paper slowly, even
reverently, knowing what she would see. When the drawing lay flat
before her, she touched it. “I had forgotten this.”

“That’s him, isn’t it,” said Trish. “The
chauffeur. The one with the boat. Your knight in shining armor.
That’s what the Captain America costume means, right? It’s a
caricature in a hero suit, but it’s him, isn’t it.”

Carinne crumpled the picture into a tiny wad
and dropped it into the wastebasket on the floor. “It’s an
imaginary character out of a cartoon. Can you help me get into my
dress?”

“Sure,” Trish said, moving to pick up the
dress lying across Carinne’s bed. Clearly the topic of Captain
America was off limits. “You’re going to look mah-velous,
dahling.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~

“You look mah-velous, dahling,” Mitchell said
to the handsome man reflected in a full-length mirror on Jean’s
bedroom door. “Here, let me help you with that.”

She crossed the room to take his tie from him
before he damaged his collar, the tie, or his fingers with his
struggling. She stood in front of him and attempted a Windsor knot
but immediately realized that would not work. She stepped around
behind him.

Standing on tiptoe, Mitchell draped the tie
around Jean’s neck. She dragged a chair close enough to stand on it
and, looking over his shoulder into the mirror, began tying his
tie.

“We need to take some pictures of you in your
first suit. Maybe. I guess. Okay, it’s probably not your first suit
ever, but you look good.”

His eyes met hers in the mirror.

“Nervous?” she said.

He almost nodded then held himself carefully
still while she adjusted the knot in his tie. “I think the last day
of school is even worst than the first,” he said.

Mitchell gave the tie a final pat, deemed it
perfect, and stepped away from Jean’s broad back with relief. Her
muscles ached from avoiding touching him while reaching around
him.

She stepped to his side and looked at the
pair of them reflected in the mirror. Her dress was simple and
sleek, showing off her curvy parts to advantage, but no one would
call it sexy.

Her outfit was the same pastel color as
Jean’s silk tie. After seeing the dress she had bought, he had
chosen his tie with an artist’s eye for symmetry in composition.
She was pleasantly surprised to note that his choice made them look
elegant; she had feared they would seem ridiculously cutesy.

Mitchell reined in the corner of her soul
that did the happy dance, thinking that the color duplication made
it plain to the world that she and Jean were “together” in a way
that, in fact, they were not. Stop it, she told herself. This isn’t
the prom, and we’re not kids advertising that we’re going
steady.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when, in
the mirror, she saw Jean take and hold her hand. She took a few
seconds to return his innocent smile and secretly enjoy his warm
grip. Then, she excused herself and left the room to collect her
purse and car keys.

Golden streams of light striped the dark,
crowded parking lot outside St. Luke’s Daycare. Inside, bulletin
boards and walls were decorated in a Graduation Night theme. Rows
of chairs faced a small dais where the ceremony had taken place.
Tiny caps and gowns were strewn on chair backs, and more than a
dozen five-year-old graduates surrounded cookie-laden refreshment
tables.

Parents and faculty mingled near their own
canapés table nearby. Mitchell met a massive, burly man at the
punch bowl.

“Nice ceremony,” the man said, saluting her
with his upraised punch cup.

Mitchell returned his salute with a smile. “I
truly have never seen anything like it. I didn’t know they made
caps and gowns so small!”

“Boy, the time goes, doesn’t it?” said the
man. “Seems like just yesterday they were learning how to walk,
saying their first words, making a mess with their food, learning
to go to the bathroom.”

“Ain’t it the truth!” Mitchell chuckled. “He
still forgets to flush – unless somebody dies.”

“Yeah, they all do, I guess.” The man
extended a hand to shake. “Dan Kavanaugh. Debbie’s dad. I’m sorry,
I didn’t get your name. Which one’s your kid?”

Mitchell was stunned. This behemoth was the
child abuser Jean had confronted? How was Jean still alive? Did
this gorilla hold a grudge? “Judas H. Priest,” she whispered, in
awe.

“Priest, huh?” said Kavanaugh. “Your kid must
take a lot of ribbing about that! Especially bein’ in a Catholic
school!” He chuckled.

Mitchell forced a smile. “Well, he, ah, he
can take care of himself. Nice talkin’ to ya.” She eased away into
the crowd.

Across the room, Sister Elizabeth had taken
Jean aside to present him a small gift.

“You’ve come a long way with us, Jean. We’re
very proud of you.”

“
Merci beaucoup
.”

“We want you to remember us, and when you’re
a famous artist, we will attend all your exhibitions and brag
shamelessly that we knew you when.”

“When what?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” said Sister
Elizabeth. “It means we will say we are old friends of yours.”

“
Oui
,” said Jean. “Bee-eff-effs. Best
friends.”

“Yes, best friends.” Sister Elizabeth
gestured toward the wrapped gift. “Now, open it.”

Jean unwrapped a Bible with the name
Jean
Deaux
embossed in gold on the leather cover. He lifted the
cover and found something handwritten on the flyleaf.

“Read it,” Sister Elizabeth said.

In his halting way, Jean read the hand
printed words. “He is be...be-come a new cree...creation. Old
things are passed away. Be...hold, all things are be-come new.”

Sister Elizabeth hugged him. “That’s you.
You’re a new person starting a new life. Goodbye, Jean. God bless
you.”

Hector lounged across Jean’s Teenage Mutant
Ninja Turtle® bedspread and watched Jean work at a painting on his
easel.

“Dinner!” came Mitchell’s voice from the
kitchen. “You guys wash your hands!”

As Jean began to clean his brushes and wash
up for dinner, Hector rose and walked closer to the new canvas.
Hector wiped his face, hairline to chin, with both hands.

“Why? Why do you do this to me?”

“What?” said Jean.

“I want this woman!” Hector growled.

“Take her,” said Jean, gesturing to the
painting. “I have others.” He made a circle with one hand,
indicating the many portraits on the floor, all around the room,
leaning against the walls.

Hector leered. “Dude, I would love to take
her!” he said, but Jean did not understand the double entendre.

Mitchell stood in the doorway of Jean’s room,
absently wiping a serving spoon on her apron. “I believe you’ll
have to explain your meaning, Hector. And I, for one, can’t wait to
hear it.”

Hector looked at Jean then shook his head and
told Mitchell, “Last year I explained to my brother-in-law how to
complete his income tax forms. The year before that I explained to
a very scary teacher how a Weimaraner ate my research paper. And,
the year before that I explained to my Jewish
abuela
how I
came to believe in Jesus. I’m pretty good at explaining
things...”

“But?” said Mitchell.

“But,” said Hector, “I can’t explain the
dating process to Jean. First of all, he don’t talk. I can’t teach
him how to woo the ladies with golden words if he don’t wanna
talk.”

“I agree he’s mostly non-verbal. But someone
as accomplished with the ladies as you are must have, uh,
techniques that you use when talking is, uh, inappropriate.”

“Nope. No, no, no,” Hector insisted. “I mean,
I do have techniques, of course. But, I’m definitely not the guy to
teach Jean about women.” He looked at Jean and back at Mitchell.
“You’re a woman, Doc!”

“Thank you, Hector. I’d like it better if you
wouldn’t sound so surprised,” she quipped.

“No, I mean, since you’re a woman, you should
explain to Jean about women. That’s all.”

“Ah,” said Mitchell. “And, what should I
explain about women?”

Jean inserted, “Stone says, ‘Women are The
Great E Nigma.’ What’s a nigma?”

“Who?” Mitchell cried in surprise. As far as
she knew, Jean had never even seen the rumpled senior agent, Frank
Stone. Now, he was quoting the man? Now, he knew the man’s
name?

Jean stopped cleaning his brushes, alarmed by
Mitchell’s tone. He looked up to see her advancing on him.

“What?” he said, befuddled.

“What did you just say about enigmas?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t mean to say it. It
just came out. I didn’t know it was a bad word. I’m sorry.”

Mitchell grabbed Jean by his shoulders as if
she would shake him – which, of course, she could not manage to do.
“Who is Stone?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. I didn’t mean it. I said I was
sorry,
Michel
. Please...”

“
Who is Stone?”
she shouted.

“
I don’t know!”
he shouted back. His
eyes jerked to all corners of her face, seeking a reason for this
unexpected drama.

Realizing that he was telling the truth,
Mitchell released her white-knuckled grip on his shoulders and drew
him into a hug. “I know you don’t, Johnny,” she said softly,
rubbing his back soothingly. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. It’s
okay.”

“I’m sorry,
Michel
,” he said
sincerely, though he didn’t really know why. He only knew she was
upset, unhappy all of a sudden. And, he had caused that, somehow.
He hugged her closer.

Mitchell and Hector both realized the hug was
taking on a new character. Jean shifted against her, looked down
into her face, and lowered his lips toward hers.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Mitchell spoke
quickly, broke contact abruptly, and hurried from the room.

Jean looked at the doorway and then at
Hector. Hector’s face showed approval and amusement, but Jean’s
showed only confusion.

When they heard the front door open and
close, Hector smiled broadly. “Guess dinner will be late.”

Outside, Mitchell strode beneath the banyan
tree canopy on a sidewalk corrugated by thick tree roots. Streets
were narrow in Coconut Grove, and the beams of mercury lights
fought their way from their tall poles down through thick foliage
toward the pavement with only intermittent success. Mitchell relied
on the light of her cellphone as she pulled a business card from
deep within the purse she had slung hurriedly over her shoulder on
her way out of the house.

She referred to the rumpled card and punched
a number into the phone. When she heard a click indicating the call
was answered, she did not wait for a hello. “You told me to call if
I got a name out of him, so I’m calling,” she snapped. “Would you
like to hear the name?”

A muffled grunt came through the phone.

Mitchell summoned all the irony she could
force into a single word: “Stone.”

She hung up. She didn’t even want to hear
whatever cockamamie response Frank Stone would spout. The man lied
for a living, when he wasn’t threatening or blackmailing.

She jammed the phone and business card into
her purse, adjusted its strap on her shoulder, and marched back
over the wavy concrete toward home. Whatever Jean remembered,
whatever she felt about Jean’s almost kissing her, and whatever
Stone would do or not do, Mitchell still had a dinner to serve.

Stone did not contact Mitchell in the weeks
following her call. She and Jean had relaxed and settled into a
routine of work-filled days, pleasant evenings, and carefully
separate nights. They never discussed the hug and near-kiss that
had almost raised their relationship to a different level.