There’s something wrong with him. He needs a psychiatrist.” I threw up my hands.
“The only people who need psychiatrists are psychiatrists,” Pop said, using his poker as if it were a pointer. “All I know is that he thinks the world of my son, and that’s good enough for me. You’re probably overreacting because of the recent trauma.” Pop’s eyes sparkled with tears, and he struggled for composure.
I averted my eyes and gulped—trying to swallow it, the thing that was always stuck in my throat. Sykes suddenly appeared from around the corner.
“What were you up to?” Pop said affectionately as Sykes smiled and wagged his tail and jumped into my lap. I gave him a squeeze, grateful for the reprieve.
Meanwhile, Uncle Tom was circling Jerry, who was sitting warily in a captain’s chair in the kitchen, spinning his baseball cap in his hands.
“Say, you don’t happen to know how to spell ‘lugubrious,’ do you?” Tom asked him.
“I beg your pardon?” Jerry said.
“Uncle Tom,” I cautioned, walking through the open doorway.
“How much do you weigh, four, five hundred pounds?” Uncle Tom persisted.
“What? You need glasses. Anyway, that’s none of your business.”
“The day you started blocking out the light from the sun is the day your weight ceased being your private business and became a matter of public concern. By the look of Collie here, you’ve been stealing the food right off his plate. I knew someone like you back home when I was a boy. We called him Big Fat Liam. We went on a camping trip and got lost, and after a few hours he panicked and wanted to start eating us, beginning with the youngest and weakest. You watch out, Collie, this one’s got instant cannibal written all over him. A flat tire on a dirt road would be all it would take and he’d be getting out the carving knife. What is that smell, anyway?” Uncle Tom was sniffing the air, his face contorted with disgust. He disappeared temporarily, reappearing with a can of Lysol in his hand that he began spraying in Jerry’s immediate vicinity.
Uncle Tom was always spraying guests with something—he once came at the Falcon with Black Flag.
“Jerry, I’m sorry, but you need to leave,” I said, choking back the cloying scent of pine.
“Fine. I can take a hint. I guess I should have expected something like this. I’m not good enough for you, is that it?” His arms were circling wildly like an unhinged helicopter blade.
“I’ll answer that question,” Uncle Tom said, interrupting. “No, you’re not, and that’s a scary proposition because God knows my nephew isn’t up to much.”
“Say, Jerry,” Pop said, following me into the kitchen, his tone almost wistful, “before you head out, would you mind picking up the dry cleaning and maybe bring us home a nice pizza pie while you’re at it? What do you think, Collie? How does that sound?”
“Great, Pop,” I said, so weary suddenly that my bones were dissolving, powder and fragments swimming in my bloodstream, blocking the flow of oxygen to my brain.
“Hold the anchovies, okay?”
Jerry was waiting for me at the front door when I resumed my shift at the clinic later that week.
“I thought you were different, but you’re not. You’re just like everyone else,” he said, using his bulk to maneuver me into the corner of the building, so uncomfortably close that I was being barbecued, marinated in garlic every time he exhaled, his purple face looking as if it were a balloon about to pop.
“It’s too bad you feel that way, but you’ve got a bigger problem than I can handle,” I said, squeezing by him as he attempted to block my way into the building.
“It’s because I’m not your kind, isn’t it? You won’t give me a chance because of my appearance and because I’m not your idea of classy.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. What does ‘classy’ mean? Your appearance doesn’t have anything to do with it. Your appearance isn’t what offends people, believe me.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. High-and-Mighty, Mr. Pretty Boy, Mr. Money Bags, you won’t have to think about me anymore because I’m going to kill myself. I’m going to drink a quart of bleach—”
“Yeah, right, sure you are. Until they start making bleach that tastes like chocolate milk, I figure you’re safe from harm,” I said, turning to walk away.
He reached out and grabbed my arm. “Safe from harm—what a joke coming from a chickenshit like you. After all, you’re the same guy who stood