the Blind Mice song for his Phinney Collegiate music class, alternating between the recorder, harmonica, xylophone, and tambourine. They’d both been enormous Blind Mice fans when they met in college. Greg had seen the Mice button on her jacket and hit on her. It was what had brought them together. His basement studio was loaded with Blind Mice memorabilia.
“Maybe Dad knows someone,” Liam suggested. “He is a musician.”
“Maybe.” Peaches hadn’t even told Greg that Stuart Little was a parent at her school, worried that he would somehow ruin it. It was her own little nugget of fun, at least for now. “I gotta take the dog out.”
While she was out, she wrapped the leash around one hand, took out her phone, and furiously googled “celebrity doctor, house calls, Dr. Feelgood, NYC” with the other. A lot of links came up. Most of it was porn. She remembered Stuart had said his name might be Dr. Mellow, but when she tried that, a series of links to masseuses and hypnotists came up. She scrolled through them. At the very bottom of the list was a website called Cobble Hill General with five-star reviews. “Wonderful,” the first review said. “Makes house calls.” “Brings you whatever you need,” said another. “Discreet.” No names were supplied, just a phone number.
Peaches pressed call and leaned against an anemic, tilting tree on Union Street, allowing the dog to sniff the dusty mulch around her sneakers. The phone rang and rang until finally a recorded message picked up.
“I’m out on call,” a cordial, deeply resonant male voice answered. “Please leave a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Promise.”
A tone sounded. Peaches hesitated. “Um, hello. My name is, um. I’ll just leave my number for now, I guess. I can explain more when you call. Thanks. Bye.”
The dog was pooping anyway. She shoved her phone in her back pocket and looked away, down Union, toward the Gowanus Canal, to give the dog some privacy. When he was finished and had energetically kicked dirt over the poop, she pulled a bag out of her pocket and picked it up. Her phone vibrated and sang. It was the same number. It was the doctor.
“Hi there.” His voice was warm and muscular. “Someone called from this number. How can I help?”
What if he was a male prostitute? Peaches wondered, panicking. What if “bring you anything you need” was a euphemism for orgasms?
“Hi,” she responded, trying to collect her thoughts. “I was calling… It isn’t for me, actually. It’s for a friend. His wife has MS and he wants to try giving her some… pot. But he doesn’t know how to get the right kind for her, and since I’m a nurse I thought… He just wants her to try it.”
“No problem. Is there a time and a place that’s convenient for you to meet?”
The drop-off: Peaches hadn’t thought about this. She hadn’t thought about anything, really. And what about paying the guy? It would probably cost a fortune.
“Now?” Peaches blurted out. The dog didn’t care. But she didn’t want to meet him on some street corner in case he was a serial killer. She could wind up in pieces in the Gowanus. “There’s a bar on Sackett and Bond called Bikini Bottom.”
“Love that place.”
Peaches tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. “I can meet you there in five minutes. I have my wallet, but I don’t have a lot of cash.”
“Give me ten minutes. I have a swiper thing. You can pay by credit card. I’ll send you a text receipt you can forward to your friend so he can reimburse you.”
His instructions were so practical, capable, and normal. Peaches decided to trust him.
She tied the dog to a bike rack outside the bar and told him to lie down. The bar was crowded and full of drunk people playing shuffleboard. Peaches sat down and ordered a beer. She wished she’d gotten Stuart Little’s number so she could tell at least one person in the world where she was and what she was doing and make sure he’d pay her back. The school had some sort of complicated online parent directory on its website. She scrolled around on her phone. Maybe it wasn’t that complicated. Grade IV. Mrs. Watson’s class. Ted Little. Mom: Mandy Marzulli. Dad: Stuart Little. Bingo.
Hey. I’m in a bar, waiting for the Dr. Feelgood guy to deliver some stuff. I’m putting it on my credit card. Just wanted