Without remorse, my alarm announced the arrival of seven AM. Seven would have been sleeping in two years ago. Two years ago, I lived in Maumelle, a 20 to 30-minute drive to my practice in downtown Little Rock, depending on traffic. But now, living in a loft directly over my clinic, seven arrived earlier each day. The seven & sevens I knocked back at McKeen’s last night weren’t making it any rosier. I flopped an arm to the other half of the bed without opening my eyes. It returned the same report it always did—no Alexis.
I stood groggy-eyed in my bathroom, replenishing the Earth with last night’s fluids, my best effort at recycling. I zombie-walked into my loft’s tiny living room/kitchenette to make myself a cup of ambition and burned my finger on a match lighting the gas stove. With the coffee going, I spied a box of Sugarfield Sugar Cookies on the counter. I raised an eyebrow’s worth of breakfast hope, but it was empty. I chunked it at the trashcan, knocking it over and spraying my floor with beer cans, banana peels, and coffee grounds.
I scanned the fridge. A half-eaten lemon-glazed bundt cake sat on the rack below a spoiled bottle of milk. “Winner-winner,” I mumbled, grabbing a dirty fork from the sink. After a cursory rinse, I stabbed it into the cake and got a crunchier sound than bundt cake ought to have. I picked off the green spots and dunked a piece into my coffee.
Standing at my loft’s window, I sipped nasty coffee and stared at the April morning. 1952 Little Rock stared back.
I glanced a moment at the bareness of my tiny kitchen table. There’d be no birthday cake when I returned up the stairs after work, no one to light candles, no one to sing, no wife to kiss, no rug rats excited that Daddy’s home. I’d had none of those things for two long years—not since my arrival.
Freshly showered and dressed in coat and tie, I opened my front door and stepped onto the landing overlooking the clinic below. I heard the patients checking in downstairs, a full day’s work ahead. My gaze turned longingly to the loft door opposite mine, just as it had every morning since Sally had left. I closed my eyes and inhaled, but after four months, her lingering combination of cigarettes and perfume had vanished, just as she had.
I rubbed my temples, reliving the shouting match we’d had. She’d gone out of her way to make me feel welcome, not just as my clinic receptionist but as my best friend since I’d landed here in 1950. She’d wanted more from the get-go, but I’d kept her at arm’s length. Like everyone else in this decade, Sally had no idea I had a wife, two kids, and a laminated Blockbuster card dated 2004.
Secrecy had been my go-to strategy. Thrust over half a century into the past without friends, family, or cash; the less you say, the better. How I’d gotten here, how we’d met, and how I’d been able to practice without a license was a long story, a novel unto itself. But none of it mattered today. Today, everything was lost—not just Sally, but my family back in 2004 as my last-ditch effort to travel home had failed. There was nothing left to do but soldier on. Go see patients. Another joyous day of figuring out how to be a 1950’s eye doctor without antibiotics, steroids, lasers, or anything useful. Head hung low, I descended the turns of the black iron spiral staircase into the circular depths of the inferno. If I’d actually read Dante back in college instead of putting the moves on my girlfriend’s roommate, I might have gotten the metaphor.
A pot-bellied forty-two-year-old met me at the bottom of the stairs. “You look like death warmed over,” Ronny said, handing me two aspirin and a glass of water.
“Shut up.” I downed the pills, followed by the chaser. “And thanks for the cure-alls.” I rubbed my head. “I’d kill for a mocha and a Pop-Tart right now—and it’d be justifiable homicide.”
Ronny squinted. “What the heck’s a Pop-Tart?”
“Pure Heaven in tinfoil.”
He shook his head. “You’re an odd man. If anyone ever tells you different, they’re just being nice. By the way, happy birthday. How old are you, anyway?”
I shrugged. “Negative 19.” I rubbed my head again. The truth hurt as much as the math.
Ronny’s eyes lit up. “Hey, man, check this out.”
I held up a hand. “Dude, I told you, no more pictures of your dog. Don’t care that your momma knitted you guys matching sweaters.”
Ronny huffed, “That wasn’t it, smart-ass.” He subtly pushed his dog photos back into his pocket. “Check out the dude across the street.”
I closed my eyes. “Leave me alone, man. I’ve got a massive hangover and patients to disappoint.”
Ronny sighed. “Melvin, you’ve moped around for the last two years and haven’t been on a single date, except with Sally, which we both know weren’t date-dates.”
My eyes perked up. “Have you heard from her?”
He shook his head. “She’s gone. You need to move on, man. Get out there.”
“Leave me alone.” I turned, but Ronny grabbed my arm and pointed to the window.
“Seriously, check out the guy in the dark green sedan. I swear he was there yesterday, too. And look at the butts below his car. He’s gone through a pack and a half.”
I squinted out the window, recalling my run-ins with the Arkansas Medical Licensing Committee and the Detroit Mafia—one of which gave me grave concern. “Who do you think he is?”
“Dunno, but I don’t like it. I’m going to go ask him.”
I planted a hand on Ronny’s chest. “Hold up, partner. Have you never heard a Jim Croce song?”
Ronny pushed my hand away. “Who?”
“The guy who preaches not to mess with strangers. Let it go. Besides, don’t you have work to do, fitting glasses, convincing customers they look great in overpriced frames?”
“If a doctor I know would prescribe a pair every once in a while, then yeah, I would.”
***
Around eleven, I pulled a new chart—a work-in. I knocked and opened the exam room door. “Hi, I’m Dr. Napier. What can I do for you?”
The man folded a leg across his lap, wrinkling his worn brown suit, a suit not too flashy and not too cheap, one that could disappear in a crowd, the white Honda Accord of 1950s men’s wear. “Just a check-up. Worked here long?”
I shrugged. “A little while.” The man seemed friendly enough, but there was something off-putting. I noted the nicotine stains on his fingers. Nothing strange about that in this decade. Maybe he smelled, but after two years here, I’d become nose blind to cigarettes. “What kind of work do you do, Mister”—I scanned his one-page chart—“John Smith?”
“What’s that got to do with an eye exam?” Smith asked with a thin smile.
I smiled back. “A man’s work affects the body. Body affects the eyes.”
Smith gave a cold, hard stare. “I do a little of this, a little of that. I see you’ve got a new receptionist.”
“That’s true.” I checked his vision.
Smith’s eyes trained on my hands as I reached behind the exam chair and tilted him back. I grabbed a bottle from my desk and hovered over Smith. “Just going to give you a little—”
He clamped my arm. “What’s that?”
I showed him the bottle. “It’s 4% cocaine. It’ll numb your eye for this test. Trust me, you want it.”
Smith released his grip and settled back into the chair. “A little coke? Sure. Let me know if you’ve got leftovers when we’re done.”
I pulled a shiny silver tonometer from a small wooden box and placed it on each eye, adding tiny weights to measure his eye pressure, then tilted him back up. “No problems there,” I said. I wheeled the slit lamp table toward his chair. “How did you know about the receptionist? Isn’t this your first time here?”
Smith flashed a grin of dentures, a grin not old enough for loss from tooth decay. “Brought my mom here a while back. Your last receptionist was hard to forget. Was she your girl?”
I chuckled. “No. Place your chin in here, please. Thank you. Let your forehead push all the way into the strap. Great. Just look straight ahead.” As I fine-tuned the slit lamp to look inside his eye, I shuddered. What stared back was nothing—a lifeless eye drenched in darkness. The pupil had taken a beating: misshapen, immobile. The longer I looked, the more I felt a shadowy ooze pouring through the scope toward me.
I shook the feeling off and examined his other eye. It, too, was a picture of trauma. How he was seeing 20/20 was beyond me. And like the right, the cavern inside Smith’s left eye reflected a bored predator’s soul, an absence mixed with a craving for—something. I pulled away from the slit lamp as quickly as I could and felt nauseated.
“Any idea where she ended up?” Smith asked, leaning back.
“Who?” I placed one hand on the other to hide my tremor.
“Your receptionist, the one who left.”
“Sally?” I blinked a couple of times. “Really couldn’t say.”
Smith’s dead eyes narrowed. “That so? Hard to believe she wasn’t your girl. A man in your position and a girl like that.”
My trembling ceased. I leaned back on my exam stool and folded my arms. “A girl like what?”
Smith shrugged. “Come on, doc, pretty little blonde number with plenty up top? Kind that could rev you up without trying?” He winked. “I like that, and I’m betting you did, too.” He picked at the dirt under his fingernails. “Maybe I ought to look her up. She feisty, doc? Cause I like feisty. The name was Sally, right?” Smith’s dentured grin spread as he watched my ears burn red. “Are you sure she’s not your girl?”
I stood and opened the door. “We’re done here. Don’t think I can help you, Mr. Smith.”
Smith nodded as he slithered out. “People do say that—at first. Rarely turns out to be the case, though. See you around, doc.”
***
I trudged upstairs after my last patient of the day, unlocked my door, and paused. Sally’s door looked different. That could only mean—
My heart raced as I zipped across the landing. “Sally?” I turned the knob. It opened. “Sally?” I stopped. The couch was flipped, cushions strewn, drawers and closet ransacked, and a broken picture frame lay on an ironing board on the living room floor. I discovered the same treatment in her bedroom: drawers rifled, clothes on the floor, and another empty, broken picture frame. The owner of the dark green sedan was no longer a mystery. And he wasn’t with the Arkansas Medical Licensing Committee. Damn.
I straightened her loft, stole a bottle of her bourbon, and returned to my loft. I poured a drink, stared at it, and thought, I’ll bet Smith didn’t find what he was after. I crept downstairs and peeked out the window. No dark green sedan. No smoking man in a brown suit.
I returned, sat on my couch, and looked at the bourbon I’d yet to drink. My head jerked toward the sound of a passing car and back to the click of the fridge motor. If I’d felt lonely this morning, I didn’t feel alone now. I grabbed my keys.
***
Staying on the well-lit sidewalk and peering into alleys as I passed, I made tracks down to McKeen’s bar, where I’d be safe. I was well-known there, which either made me a beloved patron or a terrible alcoholic—likely both.
Walter McKeen, owner of the establishment, rang the brass bell. “Happy birthday, Melvin! My adopted son.” He loved me after I’d performed his cataract surgery two years ago without screwing up. “Everybody sing,” Walter shouted and pointed. “You, too, Eddy.”
I blushed and took my usual barstool. “You didn’t have to do that, Walter.”
“You’re family—at least to us. We sing for family. Whatever you want tonight, it’s on the house.”
Several patrons slapped my back with well wishes and inquired if everyone’s drinks were on the house. Walter gave them a look, and they sat down in disgust. I sighed and rotated the beer I hadn’t touched.
Walter nodded. “I miss her, too, son. Sally was like a daughter. And good for business. That girl drank like a fish.” He shook his head. “You should’ve put a ring on that finger. I don’t understand your generation. You kids expect everything on a silver platter.”
“You realize this is 1952, right?”
Walter cut his eyes. “Yeah, yeah—modern times. My generation had to work for everything. And when we found the right girl, we didn’t fool around—okay, we fooled around, but then we married. There was none of this hem-hawing. That girl loved you like crazy. Why didn’t you marry her?”
I closed my eyes and thought of Alexis and our kids. “I had my reasons.”
“I can think of one,” Walter said. “You’re a—” He smiled. “Today is your birthday. I’ll call you an idiot tomorrow.”
“Much obliged.”
Walter leaned on the bar. “Look, kid, relationships are like beer. You can have one or don’t have one. But if you have one and don’t drink it, sooner or later, it goes stale.” He sighed. “Lots of other nice girls out there. They won’t be her, but who knows? They might be even better.”
I wiped my nose. “Doubt it. Hey, did a guy in a brown suit come in here asking about her? Drives a green sedan?”
Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Nobody like that. Why? Sally in some kind of trouble?”
“Wish I knew.”
Walter patted my arm. “A while back, you talked about another girl. Her name was what, Alexis? Maybe she could work out.”
I stared at the beer. “Believe me, I’ve tried to reach Alexis—every way I know how. It’s never going to happen.”
“Not with that attitude.” Walter pulled an empty tap. “Keg’s dead. Be right back.”
I stood. “I’ll go down after it.”
He waved me off. “It’s your birthday. Stay and not drink the beer I gave you. I love it when people come to my bar not to drink.”
I grinned. “You’re the only one working, and these yahoos hit the tap when your back’s turned.”
Walter clutched his chest. “These saints? Say it ain’t so.” He nodded toward the cellar. “You’re a good son.”
***
I walked down the ramp into the darkness and groped the chain to the hanging bulb overhead. The temperature plunge rippled gooseflesh up my arm. I tipped the keg and slid the handcart underneath. It came down with a thud, followed by another sound—a fainter one, but one sound too many. I turned to see the light from the hanging bulb gleam off John Smith’s dentured grin.
“Hello, doc. Saw you come in. Was just on my way up to see you.”
I struggled to inhale. “Mr. Smith. How did—?” I managed a second breath. “What are you —?”
Smith nonchalantly shrugged as if he’d bumped into me at a grocery store. “I could use a second opinion.”
I nodded. “How about nine-thirty tomorrow?”
Smith’s toothy grin broadened. “I was thinking now.” He pulled a jackknife and motioned me to the far back wall.
My eyes were wide as I stood with my back against the cold cellar brick. Beads of sweat raced down my vertebrae.
Smith’s expression lightened as he folded and tucked away the knife. “Sorry about that. I’m not here to hurt you. Just needed your full attention. I apologize for razing you earlier about the girl. I wanted a read on you, that’s all. I’m not after her.”
I released a long breath. “What do you want then?”
“I have to find her father, pronto. I’ve got critical information he needs before the wrong people reach him. Sally’s my only lead. If she’s with him, then she’s in danger, too. Dr. Napier, I need your help to save them.”
I nodded, wondering how I had so misjudged this man. Maybe Smith and I could— Our eyes locked. His were still dead, still a void of hopeless boredom. No matter how honest and sympathetic he tried to appear, the eyes betrayed him.
But it was worse than that. There was a feeling of familiarity in his eyes. For two long years, I’d awoken knowing that no matter how hard I’d tried to get back to my family, I’d failed. And I always would. Every day, the eyes in the mirror held a little less hope. Every day, they looked a little more like his.
I took a deep breath. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Smith. Truth is, I barely knew her.”
He nodded, almost pleased with my response. He reached inside his jacket. I felt my heart race as he pulled out something worse than a pistol.
I held up my hands at the photo from Sally’s living room. “I know how it looks, but that was a company picnic. They asked us to pose together for the photo, that’s all.”
Smith tossed it at me and pulled another. “Found this one in her bedroom. What does that say right there? Dr. and Mrs. Napier?”
I blinked twice, never having seen it before. “Okay, that looks bad. But it was a joke. Obviously, we’re not married. We went to Eureka Springs one weekend because her grand— ” My mouth slammed shut as the dots connected. Sally’s grandparents lived in Eureka Springs. Her parents owned a cabin there. If she was anywhere, that’s where she’d be. I locked eyes with Smith. His dots were connecting as well.
The cellar’s single hanging lightbulb highlighted Smith’s head as his fake toothy grin crawled out again, the grin of a man who’d gotten what he was after. Only now, there was something new. A hint of giddiness sparked in Smith’s dead eyes. Whatever it was they craved, dinner was about to be served.
Smith pulled a long, double-edged knife from inside his jacket. “Tell me, is Eureka Springs far?”
I swallowed hard and shook my head.
Smith shrugged. “Guess nowadays, nothing’s that far. Everything’s just a phone call away.”
“I won’t say a word.”
Smith nodded. “I know. This is called an M3 trench knife.” His eyes had a full-on twinkle. “Know what I call it?”
“Ever see one of these?” Walter pushed the twin steel barrels of his shotgun into the small of Smith’s back. “Some call it a scattergun. But others would call this a deus ex machina—whatever that is.” He cocked the double hammers.
I released a long breath. “Know what’s better than a knife, Mr. Smith? Family.” I slid around and stood behind Walter.
Smith dropped his knife. With his back still to Walter, he stared at the bare wall with the expression of a man without concern. He had been to this rodeo countless times and knew how it would play out, the way it always had. The only thing that ever changed was the face of the man on the other end of the gun, an irrelevant variable. The only thing that mattered was the location of the man’s moral line in the sand.
Smith knew that most men had never shot a man in the back, not an unarmed one, anyway, and the odds were strong that the man with the gun didn’t want to be in this situation. He’d just as soon be upstairs having a beer with his buddies. Sure, the man with the gun had likely convinced himself he’d pull if threatened, if he had no other choice. But it takes a moment to decide if you’re truly in mortal danger and another to grant yourself permission to cross that line. That was plenty of time for Smith to spin into the man and push the barrel aside. His swiftness would surprise the man, causing him to loosen his grip. Taking the gun would be easy. In less than a breath, it would be in Smith’s hands.
Smith had no line in the sand, no hesitation. He’d unload one barrel into the man’s chest, then turn the other on the doctor, who no doubt would be fleeing for the cellar door. If both barrels went off in the struggle, Smith could simply lift his right knee to reach his ankle holster. His beloved .32 would do the rest. None of this would have the satisfaction of gutting Napier and watching his light extinguish, but Smith was a pragmatist. It was what it was.
Smith raised his arms halfway. His toothy grin returned. “Look, pal, you don’t want to shoot an unarmed man in the—”
B-BAM!
My wide eyes focused on the new red mosaic on the old brick wall. The scattergun had lived up to its name. Walter pushed the lever to break open the shotgun and popped out the smoking shells. He tossed them on the body with no more care than a man tossing an empty box of Sugarfield Sugar Cookies. He turned to me with soft eyes. “Need help with that keg?”
I stuttered in reply, “No, sir. I got it.”
Walter smiled and patted my back. “Good boy.” Shotgun over his shoulder, he headed up the ramp.
“Uh, Walter? What will they say upstairs?”
Walter turned around. “You mean in Heaven? Doubt that’s an issue.”
“No, the people in the bar.”
“The drunks?” He smiled. “All regulars tonight. A round on the house, and it’s c’est la vie.”
I pointed at the corpse. “But what about the . . . you know.”
Walter shook his head. “The missus and I will handle it tomorrow.” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Now, come on, let’s celebrate your special day and talk about finding this Alexis.”
I pushed the handcart to the ramp and grabbed the chain to the light. Before pulling, I glanced back at Smith’s remains. “That guy would’ve—Wow.” I shook my head and pushed up the ramp. “Happy birthday to me.”
[Image Credit :
Dr. Wiggins’s short stories have been featured in The Hooghly Review, Black Petals, Medicine and Meaning, and read on the podcasts Creepy and Frightening Tales. He has forthcoming stories in Flunk magazine, AcademFic, Thirteen, and The Night’s End podcast. Dr. Wiggins’s complete works may be found at www.MNWiggins.com.
