Devil Entendre Page 7

  “We can wait outside until—”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  While fleeing it comes to her the life-threatening combo of pregnancy and advanced cervical cancer, however improbable, enabled her to circumvent the standard twenty-four-hour waiting period before undergoing an abortion procedure. But within her could be blossoming the daughter she always wanted, a tiny, nonjudgmental companion through good and bad, with whom she can share intimacies that exist beyond the variety expected by a significant other. Addy is positive she can do things right, ensure her child lives the kind of life she wishes she could look back on.

  The hope this can serve as her karmic “do over” fails to suppress a black voice deep in her bones telling her damaged goods only beget damaged goods.

  Addy finds herself alone in Cam’s apartment again, waiting. The sun forces its way across the sky, but its warmth fails to penetrate her despair. The only thing beating back terror and screams is the resolve drawn from a sense of purpose. This newfound purpose is death.

  Her eyes linger on the cracked, peeling oil painting hung above Cam’s dresser. It is not a uniform shape; supposedly it was painted on a tamandua anteater hide by one of Cortez’ conquistadors. It depicts Aztec priests cutting out a man’s heart atop one of their pyramids. The image, while in poor condition, is Cam’s favorite—and only—decoration. “A virgin,” he sometimes speculates while eying the prone man.

  In the drawers of the dresser she finds only jewelry, numbering in the thousands: rings, necklaces, anklets, piercings, bracelets. Some appear to be museum quality pieces. At the beginning of their courtship there had been visions of Cam on one knee at a romantic restaurant or scenic overlook, gazing up into her eyes while oozing the desire to bind them together forever. How many of these rings had he worn over the centuries, had others worn in betrothal to him, or would fit her if she desired them?

  “If marriage is a leap of faith,” her mother had told her, “parenthood is all about sacrifice. You’ll understand when you’re older and have somebody to love.” At the time Addy had taken the comment as a slight about what her parents perceived as the struggle to raise her. In hindsight, her mother had never been more prescient then at that moment.

  The Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver weighs down her handbag. Its bluing has been rubbed away in spots by years of use, and the grip is slightly deformed from seeing too much action, but the gun is in perfect working order. Her policeman neighbor assured her of this when he sold it to her.

  But the gun is only a last resort, she reminds herself, a fail-safe if things should go horribly wrong. She massages the side of her abdomen, wondering what else is growing within her since the decision to deny Cam his feedings. Damaged goods only beget damaged goods.

  “Why?” He is here already. “You’re in my home after four weeks when it seemed like you’d be, I don’t know, in Australia by now or something.”

  She exhales, all the doubt and tension flowing out of her now that the time to commit the deed has arrived. “Let’s go to bed, honey.”

  He hesitates, peers around her at the candlelit dinner setting on his night stand. “Really?”

  “Tonight I have a special treat for you.”

  With her touch the pregnancy hormones bleed comprehension through his skin, and a growl resonates in the pit of his darkness.

  The Curious Urologist

  If not for my bullheaded inquisitiveness the death sentence would not be mine, but there is no sense complaining, especially in light of the fact I can use what time remains to impart on you information regarding a certain—let’s call it abhorrence—requiring your attention. The details shall be conveyed in the most formal manner I can muster as a man of science, in order to supply whosoever reads this with sufficient information to bypass all investigation and get straight to the business at hand. Regarding the business at hand…you’d best stop by your local firearms merchant, or if you are not in the United States get in touch with your military/militia and allow them to see the matter through to its logical end.

  The instigator in the account of malignancy herein was a one Quartus Dilean Boedicher from the hills encroaching on Frostburg, Maryland. Actually, it is poor form to pin the inexorable unfolding of events on him as the true epicenter of abnormality lay thousands of miles distant. But as to Boedicher, his names were derived from the Bible: Quartus because he was the fourth child and Dilean for reasons taken to the grave by his parents. Poor old Boedicher was 53, a displeasingly gaunt specimen of the European lineage, hair mostly white save for dark veins of gray tainting his scalp in an off-center fashion. His eyeglasses were something forced on him I suspect, judging from their condition and the unfamiliarity with which he handled them. He wouldn’t be the first to wear glasses only when among educated types such as myself, or when brought before a judge. His color-drained beard evidenced a proclivity for tobacco products, and the state of his clothes revealed the use of a washboard.

  As for myself: I am a urologist, Dr. John Bouthiette Michaels, with a practice in Martinsburg, West Virginia. While not a Paris or Mexico City or Tokyo, Martinsburg is large enough that I see at least one case classifiable as “unique” every week. On reviewing the notes prepared for me there was no indication how aberrant the case of Mr. Boedicher would turn out to be. Innumerable conditions could present with the complaints listed. It is for cases such as these that doctors train to be sleuths as much as healers.

  Boedicher was at first reluctant to illuminate his personal details. It soon came out he was in fact a bit of a celebrity in his parts. In those rural outposts scarcely in firing distance of Frostburg he became the “globetrotter” and the “luck magnet.” But I am getting ahead of myself. He vaguely attributed the purpose of his appointment to inexplicable swelling and pain throughout the entire lower abdomen, with particular shooting pains through his testes, penis, and down along his inner thighs. In my line of work it is clear when patients guard details for reasons of embarrassment or liability or what-have-you, so without batting an eye I asked him quite frankly for the whole story.

  A sigh escaped his lips as if through a reed impaling his lung, wet and portending nameless doom. “S’like dis, doc. Th’hills’s where I’s from, an’time’s been tough fer us folk. Dem edge’cated uns ’roun’ Fro-burg n’Cumb-land dint git th’pinch ways we did. So’s I’s kep busy uppin’ my chalet like, gittin’ by offa can-bean—n’not th’fancy kine pack’d w’bacon lard—thinnin’ up ’til it’s like I’s tuh drink muddy water just’a cast uh shadow.

  “All’s a’sudden folks’s houndin’ on me. ’Boe-Boe, ain’tcha got no land wire? Stranger’s been a’callin’! Boe-Boe, get’cha post y’own dang self!’ Like I’s got time’n inclination ta up an’ learn letters n’alph’bets, o’greenbacks t’be phonin’ folks wit. Fin’ly some fagged-out type come a’knockin’, slick as snot and not half so greasy an’ me, I take’a lookit dat an’ decide t’be polite’s uh dog pissin’ on uh briar. Fool don’t care, he wit sum travel agency he says, n’I’s won uh ’dream holiday.’ I says, ’like Christmas?’ He says ’that’s European for vay-cay-shun’ so I’s like, ’oh, well, what kinda vay-cay-shun?’ Wit no crinkles in’is face he like, ’a spa!’ N’I’m like, ’a spa? Serious? I’m parta th’male species!’ Well, now, th’stranger don’t bat no eyes’t me, he jus’ says ’travel, lodging, food, and spa services at the world famous ice hotel are fully included for a value of over $5,000.’

  “Now he done lead w’dat fum d’git-go I’d a’been much oblige. Anyhows, I’m jus’ like ’I kin sells it fer how much?!’ But th’fella, he tol’ me ’no, it is non-transferrable, meaning it is in your name only.’ Don’t s’pose I’s even need t’tell ya dis ole fool ain’t dat much a fool, y’be knowin’ I’m a’git my five grand in vittles an’a eyefull o’dem airplane waitresses bendin’ over. Ain’t turn it down, nossir.

  “Ev’body�
��s got’imselves inna back-clappin’ mood all’s a’suddin. Dey’s all wanna buy uh round. Double stacks w’cheese, free. ’Boe-Boe, we’s known y’gone done it one day. Boe-Boe, y’da man.’ ’Cept m’cousin Fransarline. She say, ’When uh ass goes uh’travellin’ he never come back uh horse.’ So’s I say, ’Th’empty wagon rattle loud’st.’ An’she went ’er way an’ me mine an’ good riddence. White trash.

  “Anyhows. Long sto-ree short-like. I’s hit th’ground like to be colder’n uh well-digger’s backside. Uh-uh, nossir. Y’git n’dere n’it’s like walkin’ one o’dem fancy shoppin’ malls. Nice n’warm. Don’t nothin’ y’see make no sense, like how it ain’t no meltin’ in th’ palce ’spite it’s uh hotel made’o ice. Shee-it, crazy! It’s crazier’n uh one-eyed dog’n uh meat market! Tell you what. Mmm. Never seen no shapes like ’em, never need ta. Mm-mm-mmm. How’s half ’em things stay holdin’ up beats me black’n blue. Things shaped outta ice all over th’dern place.

  “’N’th’folks! Footloose’n fancy-free dress like dey’s not jus’ in th’gov’ner’s mansion, dey’s th’ding-dang gov’ner dey own selves! Mm-mm-mmm. Pretty fashion model types, even th’boys, but it weren’t no tinky-winky ones neither, all ’em look’d tuh hold they own in uh mano against mano sitchy-aytchun. Even though ain’t cold in’ere dey’s still white ’nuff tuh scare uh ghost. N’huge! Tall! ’Lympic b-ball team’d sign up even ’em woman ones. G’Lord All Mighty! Ain’t much’a ’em worker-types, though. Ones dey got’s busier’n uh one-arm paper hanger.

  “So I’s all settled n’thinkin’ maybe I should oughtta stay n’whatever crooked ways comes tuh mind. Well. Place’s creepy ’nuff, sure, but dey’s accomidations’s top-flight…’til deys wrangle me into that dag-blast spa. Uh-uh. Dey’s got ’em a hole n’th’river-ice, see? Put’cha innit fo’ sum ’skin cleansin’ action.’ Little eels swims all ’round nibblin’ off th’dead skin an’ whatnot. ’Cept one dem so-n-so’s got tuh sum unnatural hankerin’ where’s dead skin don’t gone do th’trick. Deys got’cha n’dere nekkid, doc. Dang-blang thang done work its way up my junk! My boy-hole! Gone made hisself a home where’s I keep my Mellow Yellow! ’Nuff t’piss off th’Good Humor man, y’ask me. Well, ain’t even gotta say I’s high-tailed it on outta dere like nobody’s bidness.

  “Thing is, doc, th’thing ain’t never done come out, an’ it’s tender sumthin’ awful. Mind doin’ th’honors?”

  I stood brooding, unmoved by the tale. “Where did you say this all occured?”

  “Spent me two days’n a’night dere’n cain’t quite git it proper…lessee…It’er Gooder Rat-somethin’.” From his pocket he withdrew a heavily-worn postcard folded in quarters. One side displayed a breathtaking frozen vista, while the other contained text:

  !YOU’RE A WINNER!

  !Free Spa!

  !Yttre Gudar Rastplats!

  !All inclusive Sweden!

  “I’ll admit…that’s a new one on me. My brother-in-law’s husband Danny spent some time in Sweden, graduate school I believe. Maybe he can shed some light on all this.”

  “Dunno, doc. Dey says th’place open las’ year. So?”

  Never before had I been confronted with such an awesome excuse to cover renal failure or some other systemic illness. While the level of detail painted a vivid picture the convergence of so many astronomically unlikely events—hillbillies cut off from the world finding themselves whisked to Sweden free of charge, dermabrasion via eel in an ice pond, and said creatures domiciling in human urethras—convinced me only of the deviant nature of whatever incident originated his malady. Some decadent behavior or another is responsible for more appointments than you’d care to know, and the more embarrassing the more elaborate the lie. When the source of his injury came to light I would surely have a story to top all others in the bar at the next American Association of Urologists Conference.

  Bearing this prize in mind I set to the examination process with renewed vigor, first seeking evidence of anemia or dehydration, which would suggest polyuria or renal failure. His lymph nodes were not enlarged, ruling out any obvious urological cancer. As one would expect I next palpated in search of abdominal aortic aneurysm or enlarged bladder—the latter of which might conceivably aid his story—but found neither. Bimanual examination by means of forcing his kidneys forward with a hand at the rear for probing with a forward hand yielded nothing. Application of pressure in the area of the renal angle proved no extra sensitivity of the kidneys. Abdominal percussion to locate an enlargement of the bladder, or ascites, revealed nothing. After informing him that I would attempt auscultation—and instigating the comment of “Um, doc, y’signin’ me up’n a’cult?”—I wished that I had not bothered, as the effort proved fruitless. In the operating theater across the street a urethral probe provided us digital images of…an empty bladder. Despite uncovering no sign of habitation, his urethra was clearly inflamed. During Boedicher’s brief recovery from the procedure I had some blood drawn just in case anything else might be revealed via lab work.

  Despite my patient’s vigorous protests I sent him on his way. There was legitimate work to be done, with genuine patients to attend to.

  Half a month marched by without my life’s full descent into the abhorrence for which there is no escape, no redemption. I am resigned to my own fate, but it is my resolute belief that it should be mine alone which compels me to continue the tale. It is with utmost effort the level of detail thus far in the story has been attained, for as we go along with life’s bullying rarely do we note the specifics, instead choosing to numbly shuffle along in whatever direction events shove us in.

  During the intervening weeks I had given little thought to Quartus Boedicher or his outrageous claims. Then the blood work came back. Nothing a urologist is trained to look for registered in looking over the results, but there was a Code 4684 cited repeatedly. Baffled by this lab jargon I dialed up Starstriped Diagnostics for an explanation, although I doubted they would fully come clean about any fouls-ups on their end. Not without a subpoena, that is. To my surprise the party on the other end of the conversation was pleasantly inclined to divulge their internal coding system, although how us clients were supposed to understand these codes is anybody’s guess. The use of Code 4684 meant an anomalous hormone detected, non-human in origin. Lack of further coding indicated it was not one of the synthetic hormones used in body building, nor those used in horse racing, nor the result of one of those mare sterilization pills given to women as part of a date rape cocktail.

  “People really do that?” I asked, incredulous.

  The Starstriped staffer sighed. “Permanently sterilizes victims so there’s no baby to provide DNA evidence. Men can be—” She caught herself, then continued with, “People can be real monsters sometimes. Anything else?”

  Responding in the negative I thanked her for her time, then attempted to go about my day. Part of me wanted to contact Boedicher, but with what? I had nothing concrete to say one way or the other. The presence of this hormone proved nothing. Perhaps some unapproved method of bulking up livestock was underway in the backwoods, or unforeseen consequences of consuming genetically modified meat were coming to the surface. Deciding it was time to consult an expert I dialed up Adhan Blackwell, an old friend of mine who had done well for herself over at the National Aquarium in Washington, DC.

  “Hey Addy, got a sec?”

  “Always. What’s up?”

  “It’s just that I need a little advice.”

  “Finally going to splurge on some guppies, huh?”

  “Actually, it’s a professional matter…”

  Withholding details from the case I inquired into the nature of eels. As it turns out eels are accustomed to burrowing as a means of taking refuge in sand, reefs, mud, and rocks. When not doing that they exist packed together in an “eel pit”—and more disturbing than that is the fact this is the real term used for
their habitations, conveying what a horrible impression it must make on the senses and sensitivities of those who witness such phenomenon. After birth they are transparent and flat leptocephali, then metamorphosing into glass eels and finally elvers before ultimately becoming adults…and on that note let’s hold the horses, or at least beat them thoroughly, because the sight of those elver scans Adhan forwarded to my e-mail was enough to make me instinctively cover my no-fly zone. The creatures looked like menacing, living pencils ready to stab into one’s urethra, rip the bladder’s sphincter asunder, cast aside comfort in favor of limitless agony. At that point I was thankful for abstaining from eel in the restaurants due to it being on the Greenpeace International “red list.” Who knows what urine tract that sushi roll emerged from?

  Ahdan and I went through our usual guff about meeting for lunch, possibly at the old post office pavilion, and how she would take me sightseeing around the Federal portion of Washington. At the time our words were earnest, as they always were, but we failed to act on them, as we always did. In retrospect it comforts me to know she was spared the possibility of being dragged into the abhorrence herself.

  But Quartus, poor old Quartus Boedicher…my attempts to follow up with him were in vain. There was no real contact information for him, as he had made painfully clear in his long-winded tale. When my receptionist came up empty handed, my staff ran out of suggestions, and my nightly sessions of internet sleuthing netted only sore eyes and poor posture, I decided to spend my Saturday afternoon poking about in the hills of Western Maryland. It wasn’t hard to find people who knew of Boedicher and his ill-fated trip to Sweden; the way those hill folk spoke of the man you’d believe he was ordained by the Almighty to lead us to our salvation. Of course, few of them had ever even been out of the cursed, verdant hollows in the shadows of the Appalachian Mountains, much less out of state, or even to the metropolises within two hours driving distance. Invariably, once they learned I was a medical professional they all had some ailment or another requiring immediate diagnosis, never mind the fact that I was trained primarily in urology. Fortunately for them I was able to identify a number of conditions, offer preliminary advice, and refer them to specific doctors. As to whether they followed through with the recommended short-term treatments or sought long-term assistance from the doctors suggested I cannot speak with certainty. I can say that only one was willing or able to provide correct directions to the “Boedicher Chalet.”