Twisted River (6 page)

“Well, anything that does that has got to be good, right? You really need to look after yourself, Hazel. And, please, please, think about all that I've said.” Elizabeth handed her the journal and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.

“See you ladies Friday?”

Anita knew their routine by now. Other staff had come and gone but Anita had worked in the diner for as long as they'd been meeting there.

“Friday.” Hazel smiled, hoping to God the bruising would at least be easier to camouflage by then.

Walking home, she was assailed by the stench of rotting garbage but also by a sense of dread. She walked past the secondhand record store that was one of Oscar's favorite weekend haunts. And suddenly, she doubled back. She'd had an idea.

“Bob Dylan?” she asked the wilting assistant, who was fanning himself with a faded Coltrane sleeve.

“Follow me,” he said, perking up and shuffling over the uneven carpet-tiled floor to the back of the room.

“Down there.” He pointed to the bottom shelf. “You'll find some Dylan down there.”

She wasn't crazy about Dylan herself but Oscar was a big fan.

“Nasty bruise you have,” remarked the assistant, handing over her change.

“Shit happens, I'll survive,” she said blithely, and closed the jangling door behind her.

The vinyl cover felt dusty and clung to the perspiration on her palms. But Oscar would be happy with her choice. He used his iPod for jogging in the park or in the gym. But in the evening, he liked to open the French windows, sit on the balcony, listen to vinyl, and sip a California white while watching the sun go down on the Hudson.

She knew she shouldn't pander to Oscar. If anyone should be buying gifts around here, it should be him. He was the one who should be buying her flowers. But she was stubborn. She wasn't going to give up so easily.

Anything to smooth the waters.

RIVERSIDE DRIVE, MANHATTAN

EARLY SEPTEMBER

H
e was concentrating now. Focused. This was the tricky part. The acrid caustic smell pervaded the room. Even though it was a sizable room—he'd gone for the best he could afford—the smell inhabited every corner.

He moved closer, seeing that flicker of fear in her eyes. He smiled, trying to reassure her. But of course she couldn't see it, he was hidden behind the mask. Carefully, he chose a different burr—smaller, sharper. The woman said nothing as he made adjustments. She lay there, prone, captive, vulnerable. Her fingers drummed the hand rests. He didn't know if she was usually a talkative woman or if the earlier chatter had been to hide the fear. Whatever the truth of it, she couldn't say anything now. She could only blink as he did the talking.

She'd told him she was a runner. So he spoke about his new route through the park. How he'd thought about training for the marathon but had left it too late for this year. He told her how he'd enjoyed swimming on Long Island during the summer but that they'd returned home early with warnings of a hurricane.

The vein in her neck was pulsing and he could feel her breath hot
on his latex glove. In any other setting it could have been an intimate encounter. Not here. There were three of them in the room now.

“More composite?” asked Dana.

“Thank you.” He reached over.

Dana was efficient, took the job seriously, and rarely spoke unless it was entirely necessary. She never joked and never saw the humor in anything. Before, Oscar and Susan found it fun to see who could prize a smile from Dana but this fruitless game fell to Oscar alone since Susan's departure.

“Curing light?” Dana asked a few moments later.

“Yes, yes.” He shouldn't snap. Behind the mask, he gritted his teeth. It was her job to anticipate but he found the woman irritating.

His patient's eyes flashed between him and Dana. He winked as if to let her in on a joke. Dana was getting under his skin. She was the outsider in the room. But if he was honest, he knew what was really pissing him off. He needed sugar. At this point in the afternoon, he always craved it. Like he could devour a Hershey's bar in one single bite, and then another, and another. Instead, he'd send Dana out for a linseed snack bar and a fat-free latte. He couldn't afford to feel bunged up. He was meeting Harry later.

“There was a lot of decay?”

The woman looked at him, wide-eyed and relieved. He depressed the chair lever and slowly brought her into an upright position.

“It was in pretty bad shape, for sure.” Oscar pulled down his mask, allowing the woman to see him properly.

“But don't worry. I've fixed it. That composite will last you a lifetime. Some dentists do a quick fix. Their fillings look good for a while, but a few years down the line they need to be replaced. I, on the other hand, stand behind my work—I'm confident you won't have any more problems with that tooth.”

“That's good to hear.” She edged out of the chair and onto her feet. “But just in case, I think I'll go easy on the Twizzlers from now on!”

“Really? You don't look like a woman who splurges on candy . . .” Oscar towered over his petite patient.

“Would you like to settle up at reception, Miss Housemann?” Dana shot him a look colder than a witch's tit.

Shit. He should be more careful. He was still learning. He hadn't meant anything by it. But Dana knew how to keep him in line.

With the room to himself, Oscar became aware that his shoulders and neck were tight now. He stretched an arm behind his neck, pulling back an elbow with his other arm. His triceps felt tight. He repeated the stretch on the other side.

With the door to reception ajar, he watched as Dana took the patient's insurance details, her heavy bosom resting on the counter.

“The other dentist gone?” asked his pretty patient.

“There's no other dentist here, Miss Housemann.”

“Oh . . . but the last time I was here—a couple of years ago, I think, there was a female dentist—a tall, striking lady.”

“I don't know anything about that, Miss Housemann. Before my time.”

“Oh, I see . . .” The woman handed Dana a plastic card.

“You're new here, then?”

Jesus, the woman was a talker. It wasn't just the nerves.

“Not exactly. Been here two years.”

Oscar smiled. The old battle-ax was getting tired of the questions herself. She wasn't a warm woman and he'd be up the Swanee if he was relying on her to generate any new custom. It was just as well he had a solid network of his own.

“That must explain it,” said Miss Housemann.

Oscar twisted from side to side, loosening out his back.

“You want to look at our revised insurance plan?” he heard Dana ask.

She might not have been warm but at least she was good on the business side.

“Sure.” The woman took the leaflet. “So, that female dentist? She moved to another practice?”

Oscar straightened sharply from his sideways stretch.

“Ma'am, she could have gone on the last Apollo mission for all I know. It's just me, Mr. Harvey, and the hygienist.”

“Oh, I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to . . . Thank you, thank you very much,” said his patient, embarrassed, fastening her purse in a hurry.

Oscar was gripped by unease. As he stood at the window watching the woman emerge into the busy street below, he wondered if she could be a journalist. A private investigator, even?

Dana poked her head around the door.

“An extraction in another twenty minutes, Mr. Harvey.”

“Okay, Dana. Thank you. Oh, and Dana, could you step out and get me the usual?”

Dana looked at her watch, settled in the folds of her wrist. “I think I have time for that, Mr. Harvey.” And off she waddled, leaving him a few minutes' respite, alone in the office.

With Dana gone, he went to the computer on her desk. This is dumb, he told himself. I'm being overcautious. Yet, he held his breath as he called up the patient profile from the patient database. Ah, yes—there she was, Rachel Housemann. There was nothing out of the ordinary in her profile. Dana had listed her profession as archive assistant. He googled her. Leaning over the desk, he let out a long sigh when he saw her listed on LinkedIn. She was indeed who she said she was. An archive assistant at the MoMA.

Of course he'd overreacted. It had been an innocent conversation, after all. Sure, long-standing patients were going to inquire about former staff. It was to be expected. Still, he couldn't help but feel relieved.

Looking at the grandfather clock, he noticed that Dana was taking longer than usual. Was she gorging on a secret pastry? He'd caught her in the Lebanese deli before, hiding a slab of baklava in her purse.

He sat back in Dana's office chair and looked around the room. It was a pleasant work environment. Hazel had helped him decorate the reception area, choosing the elegant clock, the impressive sideboard with its neat piles of periodicals and glossy magazines, and the collection of Queen Anne armchairs. They'd had fun on those weekends, sourcing the furniture, antiquing upstate and staying in romantic inns. Hazel had been a lot more relaxed then.

Going to the coat stand, he checked his cell. Two missed calls
from Hazel. He shook his head. There was no point in returning the calls, she'd be in class. It was a week now since the incident. He didn't like to think about it, but he knew he should. She was taking longer to recover this time.

His neck muscles were tensing up again. It wasn't Hazel's fault and he knew he shouldn't get mad, but Goddamn it, the woman was stubborn. Just like Birgitte. Birgitte had also found it hard to listen, to take any advice. There had been arguments as well with Birgitte.

“Lordy! But it's hot out there . . .”

Dana burst through the door bearing a cardboard tray with two polystyrene cups. There were damp patches under the arms of her tunic and Oscar was sure he could spot some sugary powder in the hairs around her mouth.

“A quick sprint round Central Park?” he inquired, barely masking a shiver of distaste.

“A simple thank-you would do nicely, Mr. Harvey,” she said sharply, laying the tray on the reception desk with puffy hands.

“Of course, Dana. Thank you.” He forced himself to smile.

God, it was a horrible thought, but sometimes she reminded him of his sister.

 • • • 

“What did the dentist say to the golfer?”

Harry was panting heavily now, even though it was cooler down by the river. A film of sweat shone on his bald patch. They were headed south on the greenway bike path.

“Dunno. What
did
the dentist say to the golfer?”

Oscar was loosening up. Getting into his stride.

“You got a hole in one!”

Harry Becker loved his own jokes. Oscar imagined him cooking them up, sitting at his large oak desk with its enviable view of Madison Avenue and the Midtown Manhattan skyline.

“Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused novocaine during a root canal?”

“I guess I'm about to . . .”

“He wanted to transcend dental medication!”

“Fuck, your jokes suck, Harry!”

“Okay, a failure to amuse—I beg your pardon, at White and Calhoun we aim to please . . .”

White and Calhoun was Harry's law firm. It specialized in bank fraud.

A curvy jogger bounced her way along the path toward them. Harry's breathing was already raspy, his short legs thudding loudly on the pathway.

“Incoming, incoming . . .”

“Easy, Harry, heel, boy,” Oscar said.

Although, if he were honest and he were the one married to Nancy, he might well get excited about shapely women. It wasn't that Nancy wasn't a pleasant woman but she was a bit on the plain side for Oscar.

“You're a bit wound up this evening, my friend. Bad day at work? Or just the same-shit-different-day kinda stuff?”

Harry had stopped on the pretext of relacing his trainer. He was finding it hard to keep up with Oscar, who was in better shape.

“I've no reason to complain in particular. Just feeling a bit beige . . .” Oscar shook the droplets of sweat from his brow.

“How are the financials going?” Harry pulsed forward and backward, resting one leg on the railing and stretching out the hamstring of his stubby leg. “I know the business took a big hit.”

“Making progress, I guess. It's slow. She took me to the cleaners, you know. It's coming up on two years now. We're not back in the black yet. It's gonna take time.”

“Man, that bitch really stitched you up.”

“You can say that again.”

“Man, that bitch really stitched you up!”

“Get lost, Harry.” Oscar laughed and continued to jog on the spot.

“You're right, though,” said Oscar as they took off again. “When I think about that crap she pulled, my reputation, I'd never have worked again. Could have been a whole different ball game, for sure. Except for you, my man.” He clapped Harry on his sweaty back.

“Hey, what are buddies for? Told you Donovan was one kick-ass attorney. That guy could make Silvio Berlusconi look like a saint. Easy.”

Harry wiped his brow with the sweatband on his wrist.

“And if I say it once, I'll say it again—with a case like yours, it's always better to settle out of court. Too much collateral damage otherwise.”

It took another twenty minutes to complete their loop, during which time Harry gave him the outline of some young gun he was defending who had worked on Wall Street. Harry loved the cut and thrust of white-collar crime. It was safer than the criminal stuff. And the rewards were infinitely greater.

“Squash on Thursday?” Harry looked like a round red rosy apple now.

“Yeah, should be able to make that. I've missed the last two weeks.”

They were nearing the entrance to the Seventy-second Street dog run.

“You're sliding down the ladder, my friend. Pelmann's taken your place.”

“You're kidding me . . .”

But Oscar wasn't really listening. He was staring at a bench in the dog park. Was that Hazel? Was it really her? What was she doing sitting in the dog park? They didn't even have a dog. The woman's head was bowed, reading a book. She wore a blue shift dress and had the same slender, petite frame as his wife.

“Pelmann will be delighted to have passed you out.”

“What? Oh, yeah, I'm sure he is.”

They jogged past the park, with Oscar looking over his shoulder every now and then, trying to catch another glimpse. No, he decided. The woman in the blue dress couldn't have been Hazel. Today was her day for staying late at school.

“So, Pelmann's leapfrogged me, has he?” Oscar eventually responded. “We'll have to see about that!”

“Yeah. Didn't think that would wash well with you.”

Pelmann was an anesthetist over at Weill Cornell, and even though they were all friends, all Columbia alumni, there was nothing
Harry liked more than to stir up a little competition between them all. That was fine with Oscar. He'd knock the spots off Pelmann.

“And Hazel?” asked Harry.

“What about Hazel?”

“Just wondering how she was—that's all.”

They had finished their run and were doing cooldown stretches. Kids on skateboards were whizzing past.

“She's good.” Oscar hesitated. “Yeah, Hazel's good.”

“Something up, buddy?”

“Nothing's up exactly. Just every so often Hazel gets an idea in her head, you know how it is. Sometimes she just doesn't know when to let go.”

“Man, tell me about it. Nancy's on about both of us joining a salsa class. Doing more stuff together. Although, I hear there are some pretty hot women at those classes. Maybe . . .” He grinned lewdly.