What Phoebe Wants
Autore
Cindi Myers
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1
MY GRANDMOTHER ALWAYS TOLD ME, you make your own luck. As if luck was something that could be baked like a cake or sewn like a shirt. Of course, my cakes could be used as first base down at the ballpark, and my ninth-grade home-ec class voted me “girl most likely to do bodily harm with a sewing machine.” This could explain why I haven’t had much luck lately, of any kind.
Which would you say is worse: being dumped by your husband who then takes up with a twenty-four-year-old cocktail waitress who has a stomach tight enough to bounce quarters off, or sitting in a cubicle that smells of cigar smoke and sweat, listening to a shiny-faced car salesman try to make you a “deal”?
Having recently endured both, I’d have to say it’s something of a draw. The whole sorry business with my husband dragged on longer, but in its own way, the ordeal with the car salesman was just as tedious.
“Now, I know a woman like you is concerned about finding something dependable.” The salesman nodded sagely and gave me a toothy grin. He had a bad comb-over and his deodorant had long since packed up and hitched a ride out of town. “I mean, what good is a great deal on a vehicle if it leaves you in the lurch?”
Left me in the lurch. That’s what Steve did when he walked out. Just calmly packed his bags and said, “I know you don’t want me here if I’m not happy.” As if his leaving was all about his concern for me, and not about his own pathetic midlife crisis.
“You see what I’m saying, Ms. Frame? My only concern is that you leave here today happy.”
There was that word again—happy. At this point in my life, I was beginning to think the whole pursuit of happiness shtick was highly overrated. “I just need something that will get me where I’m going and doesn’t cost more than six thousand dollars.” I twisted the straps of my purse in my hand.
The salesman made a face as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “Six thousand. Now, I don’t know if we’re gonna find much for six thousand.” He leaned toward me, his yellowing teeth looming large in my vision. “Do you have a trade-in?”
I blinked. “A trade-in?”
“Another car? Do you have another car to trade in?”
“Yes. It’s…uh, it’s parked down the street.” The maroon Ford Probe had died at the corner of Anderson and Alameda, smoke spewing from under the hood. An alarming sequence of pings and rattles issued from the engine before it gave a last gasp and simply quit altogether. I had sat there for a long moment, head on the steering wheel, too disgusted to waste tears. Then I’d gathered up my purse and keys and started walking.
Walking is a relative term in Houston in late August. It was more like swimming through the heavy, humid air. Heat radiated up from the pavement, through the soles of my sandals. Sweat pooled in the small of my back and my hair clung damply to my forehead. As I walked, I tried to think of new epithets for Steve, who had driven away from me in a brand new black Lexus, leaving me with the twelve-year-old Ford.
I’d started alphabetically, with addlepated asshole and was up to middle-aged midget-brain when I saw the sign for Easy Motors. That was it. I’d buy a new car. Or at least one that was newer than the recently departed Ford.
The salesman—the nameplate on his desk said his name was Hector—grabbed a form off the corner of the desk and began to write. “So what are you trading in?”
“It’s a 1990 Ford Probe. Maroon.”
“Maroon.” He wrote down this information. “Mileage?”
“One hundred and seventy thousand.”
His frown got a little tighter. “Car that old, that many miles, most I can give you for it is five hundred dollars.”
I blinked. Wasn’t he even going to ask if it ran? I bit my lip, fighting a decidedly inconvenient attack of conscience.
Hector apparently mistook my silence for reluctance. “Six hundred. Most I can do. Take it or leave it.”
I swallowed hard. “Where do I sign?”
I had never bought a car before. My father had purchased the first vehicle I’d driven, an orange Gremlin formerly owned by a dog trainer. Every time it rained, the car smelled of wet poodle. Steve bought the maroon Probe for me for Christmas one year. I’d wanted a blue Mustang, but he had surprised me with the Probe and I thought it would have appeared ungrateful to protest, though I could never look at the car without thinking of dental work.
“All right, then.” Hector pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll show you what I’ve got in your price range.”
For the next hour, I followed Hector around the lot as he showed me red Volkswagens, yellow Chevies and a limegreen car of indiscernible lineage. “Now darling, this is the perfect car for you,” he said, patting the hood of the lime-green model. “Very sporty.”
I stared at what looked to be an escapee from the bumpercar ride at the carnival. “I could never drive anything that color.”
Hector took out an oversize handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Well, honey, I wouldn’t say in your price range you can afford to be picky. Besides—” he patted the car again “—it’s proven that cars this color are in fewer wrecks. Why do you think they paint fire engines green these days?”
A flash of blue caught my attention. That’s when I saw it. My dream car. “What about that one?” I pointed toward a blue Mustang at the back corner of the lot.
“That one?” Hector rubbed his chin. “Yeah, I forgot about that one.” He straightened. “Sure. I could make you a deal.”
We walked over to the Mustang. It had a dent in one door and tired-looking upholstery. I slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine coughed, then turned over. “Honey, I’d say it’s you.” Hector leaned in the window and grinned.
An hour later, I drove off the lot in the Mustang. I didn’t really care that it was a ninety-six model or that it had a bumper sticker that read Onward Through the Fog. The important thing was that it was blue, the color of the dream car I’d never gotten. I’d taken it as a sign. I was on my own now, calling all the shots. And, by God, I was going to have that blue Mustang—my dream—dents and all.
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I CONSIDER not having been born with pots of money to be a gross injustice. Just inside the door of the employee lounge at the Central Care Network Clinic where I work is a banner that proclaims: Two Million in Profits and Climbing! Whenever I see this, I feel majorly annoyed. Not only had I not been born with money, I had managed to find a job that guaranteed I wouldn’t be getting my share of that two mil. Next to nurses’ aides and janitors, transcriptionists are at the bottom of the hospital hierarchy.
But hey, I was young and single and had a new car, so what did I have to complain about, right? Yeah, right, I thought, as I boarded the elevator heading up to my cubicle in the family-practice section of the clinic the next day. I pasted a fake smile on my face as I entered the elevator. My mother had always told me I should smile even when I didn’t feel like smiling because it would help me to develop the “habit of happiness.” I preferred to think a permanent smile gave people doubts about your sanity, and thus they left you alone.
Family Practice was on the eleventh floor of the steel-and-glass high-rise in the Texas Medical Center complex. At every floor, the elevator doors parted and more people poured in as others exited. I found myself pushed farther and farther toward the rear of the car, until my nose was practically buried in the shellacked updo of an orthopedics receptionist.
I always got nervous when the elevator was this full. What if there was too much weight for the cables? What if it stopped between floors? Would we suffocate? Just last week Mary Joe Wisnewski from pediatrics had been stuck between floors for an hour.
And here I was, packed in like a teenager at dollar-a-car night at the drive-in. Two drug pushers—also known as pharmaceutical salesmen—hemmed me in on either side. I couldn’t even move my arms.
So, of course, I had an itch I needed to scratch. On my butt. I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the persistent tickle on my right cheek as the elevator ground to a halt to take on still more passengers.
The tickle developed into a pinch. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention as I realized the reason for my posterior disturbance. Some guy had his hand up my dress! He was poking and prodding my cheek like a baker testing dough. Or maybe he was a plastic surgeon who thought I was a likely candidate for a buttocks-lift.
I shifted, trying to move away from him, but in the packed elevator, it was impossible. The invisible groper started working on my other cheek. “Stop that!” I yelped.
My fellow passengers regarded me curiously, and there was a decided leaning away from me. Fury choked me. Where did this pervert get off feeling me up like that? I’d show him.
I shifted my weight to my left leg and swung my right foot back, connecting solidly with the joker’s kneecap. If I’d had more room, I would have aimed higher. As it was, he grunted and let me go. The doors opened and I surged forward, elbowing two old women out of the way as I broke for freedom.
I stood beside a potted palm in the corridor and tried to see into the elevator, to identify the man who’d groped me. But the doors shut before I could make out anyone. Sighing, I adjusted my purse on my shoulder and headed for the stairs to hike up the three floors to Family Practice.
“Phoebe, you’re late.” The office manager, Joan Lee, shoved a stack of patient folders into my hands. “Dr. Patterson is in rare form this morning.” Standing four foot eleven inches in a size-one Jones New York suit, Joan looked like a geisha who’d gotten lost on her way to Wall Street. Her voice was soft as silk, but her backbone was diamond-hard steel. Insurance companies quaked at the sound of her name, and even the most bullheaded surgeon addressed her respectfully as “Ms. Lee, ma’am.”
“He wants those charts on his desk by noon,” Joan continued. “So you’d better get busy.”
“No problem.” I shifted the folders to my left arm and headed for the coffee machine for a fortifying cup. “Barb and I will split them up and have them done by eleven.”
“Sorry, but Barb can’t help you. I had to put her on the front desk this morning.”
I turned, empty cup in hand. “Why? Where’s Kathleen?”
Joan shook her head and disappeared around the corner. Dr. Patterson’s nurse, Michelle, joined me at the coffee machine. “Kathleen was dismissed,” she whispered as she spooned creamer into her cup.
I raised my eyebrows. “Turned him down again, did she?” Dr. Patterson had been badgering the receptionist to go out with him for weeks now—despite the fact that both of them were married, and not to each other.
Michelle shrugged. “I guess so. Or maybe he decided to move on to greener pastures and didn’t want her hanging around.”
“Michelle, the doctor needs you in room three.” Joan hurried past us, dragging a loaded lab cart. “Phoebe, don’t forget those charts have to be done by noon.”
“I can do it if the system cooperates. When is the new transcription system supposed to be installed?” I called after Joan’s retreating back.
“Soon. You’ll have to make do until then.” She disappeared around the corner, test tubes rattling in her wake.
I headed for my workroom at the back of the office suite. Windowless and cramped, it resembled the supply closet it had once been. A long counter had been installed to hold the two computers and transcription equipment, and a single filing cabinet provided a place to stash my purse. Nothing fancy, but it was quiet, out of the flow of traffic and no one cared how many empty coffee cups or Diet Coke cans I let pile up as long as I got my work done on time.
I booted up my computer and popped the first tape into the transcription machine. Dr. Patterson’s Texas twang filled my headphones. “The patient is a well-developed young woman of sixteen, presenting with pain in the left patella.” I rolled my eyes as I typed. Patterson was always going on about the beauty or physical developments of his female patients. If they were over twenty-one he’d note if they were married or single and if they had any children. I wondered if he was making notes to himself for future reference.
I busted butt and finished the last of the tapes at ten after twelve and was fastening a printout onto the front of a patient chart when the intercom buzzed. “Doctor Patterson would like to see you in his office,” Joan announced.
I groaned. What was he going to do, chew me out for being ten minutes late? “If he didn’t go on so much about how big a patient’s boobs or behind were, he’d shave half an hour off my transcription time,” I muttered as I gathered up the charts and headed for the doctor’s lair at the other end of the office.
Dr. Ken Patterson was a tall man with the broad shoulders and thick neck of a former football player. He, in fact, had been a linebacker for the University of Texas before deciding on a career in medicine. His hairline had receded in twin widow’s peaks, frosted with gray, which only added to his distinguished good looks. Patients talked about how charming he was, but I thought there was more smarm than charm in the good doctor.
“Here are the charts you wanted.” I deposited the stack of file folders on the corner of his desk. It was a massive mahogany piece that was big enough for a grown man to stretch out on. Rumor had it that Patterson had made good use of that space with more than one woman. Frankly, I was glad it wasn’t my job to polish the thing. I turned to leave, but Patterson caught me by the arm.
“What’s your hurry?” Still clutching my arm, he reached back and pushed the door closed.
I frowned. I didn’t want to end up like Kathleen, with bills to pay and no job, but neither did I want to end up as Patterson’s next plaything. “I have a lot of work to do,” I said, trying to pull away from him.
“Yes, I’ve noticed how tense you’ve been lately.” He released me, but continued to block my path to the door. “I think maybe you’ve been working too hard.”
“I’m fine, really.” I tried to dodge past him and collided with Albert, the life-size skeletal model grinning cheerfully from his stand next to the desk.
Albert clanked and swayed like a macabre set of wind chimes. At Halloween we dressed him up and stationed him by the reception desk with a bowl of candy, but the rest of the year Albert was a mute observer of the goings-on in Patterson’s office. If those bones could talk…
“The real reason I wanted to see you is I have a question about one of the notes you transcribed for me.” Patterson walked around the desk, seemingly all business, but I didn’t let down my guard. He pulled a folder from a stack in his out box and beckoned me toward him. “It’s right here. Please take a look and tell me what you think this means.”
I leaned over the desk, staying as far from Patterson’s octopus arms as possible. Fortunately, I could read upside down. “Patient is recently divorced, suffering from nervous strain.” I looked up at Patterson. “I’m certain that’s what you said on the tape. Is there something wrong?”
“Not wrong, but I couldn’t help thinking how well that phrase describes your own situation.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together and looked down his nose at me, as if I’d suddenly developed a rare disease. Or a third breast. “You know, Phoebe, not only am I your employer, but I think of myself as your physician, as well. It’s obvious to me that since your divorce, you, too, have been exhibiting signs of nervous strain. I believe I can help you.”
I started backing toward the door. “Dr. Michaels over at County General is my doctor.”
For a man of his size, Patterson was amazingly quick. He came around the desk and pulled me to him in a bear hug. It was like being caught in the elevator doors, my ribs creaking, my breath cut off. “I find you so attractive,” he murmured, and began kissing my neck. Wet slobbery kisses. You’d think a man who considered himself a modern-day Don Juan would have a better technique. I struggled, caught tight in his crazed grip.
Nose buried in my neck, his ear brushed up against my lips, pink and vulnerable. I know how to take advantage of a good opportunity when I see it. I bit down hard.
He screamed like a woman, a high-pitched shriek that was probably heard two floors away. I shot out of his arms and was standing by the door by the time he straightened up. He had one hand clapped over his ear and his eyes were wet. “Why did you do that?” he asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.
“Did I mention I have this thing about being held against my will?” I turned the doorknob. “I’m going to pretend this never happened,” I said. “But if you so much as lay a hand on me again I’ll report you to the AMA, the TMA, the BBB and anybody else who’ll listen.”
“Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe.” He started toward me again, arms outstretched, pleading. “I know you’ve been without a man for months now. Surely you must need the physical release—”
I was out the door before he finished the sentence. My feet pounded down the carpeted hallway in time with my furiously beating heart. “What I need is to be left the hell alone,” I muttered as I rounded the corner, headed toward the front office. Joan was going to hear about the doctor’s latest shenanigans.
I didn’t see the man at the end of the hallway until it was too late. I had a fleeting impression of broad shoulders and dark hair before I barreled into him. Papers scattered as he was shoved back against one wall. He struggled for balance, holding on to the only support available—me.
