Lovesick (28 page)

“You’re Mickey ‘Bulldog’ Bratton, aren’t you?” Lara asked the former lightweight boxing champ just the other day.

“I am,” he said, embarrassed to be recognized. “Your father was a standup guy. You can’t put a value on what he did for this community.”

“I can,” Lara said, sucker punching him. “Thirteen hundred dollars. That’s the total on your tab. Please settle up with Belinda at the front desk.”

All Bulldog wanted was some toothpaste and a can of shaving cream, but that visit cost him a fortune. The check bounced, but I still give Lara credit.

All in all, Manny’s been the biggest help. He calls our new collecting system “full proof.” I call it the Home Court Disadvantage. We stumbled across the idea a few days ago trying to collect from seventy-something Conrad Callahan. There I was on Conrad’s steps, struggling to figure out a diplomatic way to tell him that he owed us $2,000 in shampoo or Doritos or something, when Manny got an urgent call informing him that he missed another FedEx pickup. Without any warning, Manny screeched off, leaving me stranded on Conrad Callahan’s stoop.

“I guess you’d be wanting to use my telephone,” Conrad said, scratching his bald head with a cereal spoon.

Once inside, Conrad was done for. First I cruised his family portraits. Then I complimented the hell out of his velvet Jesus paintings and ceramic elephant collection. I told him our sob story. I asked him to imagine what it might be like if his beautiful grandchildren inherited our problems instead of all these priceless
possessions. It took a good half hour, but eventually he caved, coughing up only a third of what he owed, but a decent chunk nonetheless.

Empathy can be a wonderful thing. Manny abandons me all the time now.

Gregory’s doctor, Brandon Mills, never did pay. He did, however, send us a bill (that, thankfully, I intercepted before triggering a magnitude 7.0 with Lara). Despite crediting us $3,000 for “T.P.B.S,” Mills is under the impression that
we still owe him
$2,000 in unpaid doctor visits covering the last five years. But toilet paper isn’t the only thing that’s bullshit about Mills’s bill. He won’t be paying ours and we won’t be paying his. I welcome him to get in line behind the rest of our creditors. The queue is around the block.

The remaining doctors wrapped up in Gregory’s lurid swap meets were far more cooperative. That ear, nose, and throat physician, Cynthia Hardy, was in here once a week, stockpiling spring water, makeup, and snacks. Dr. Richard Platt quit smoking thanks in large part to a continuous free supply of nicotine patches. When I laid out the facts—along with all the potential federal crimes in question—both doctors quickly settled for $1,500 apiece.

So far, all told, Manny, Lara, and I have managed to rake in about $12,000—a ninth of what people owe Gregory, and a sixth of what we need to cover the back mortgage payments and Gregory’s credit card debt in order to keep the house.

WHEN I’m not illegally dispensing drugs or shaking down seniors for security deposits, I’m conducting patent research online. We’ve be gun vetting Gregory’s composition notebook. Sid’s taken 1958 through 1972. I’ve got 1973 on.

Recipes aren’t patentable, but chemical compositions, methods, and devices are. Between all of Gregory’s capsules, candies, and compounding contraptions (yes, contraptions), Sid and I are hoping we find something PMP-worthy but nothing so far. Paging through his notebook, there is no shortage of “protectable” ideas—
problem is, Gregory never bothered protecting them while others did. With so many of his inventions now on the market, you have to wonder whether plants posing as patrons spent the last fifty years infiltrating Day’s Pharmacy.

Gregory’s notebook has come in handy around the pharmacy. I’ve been experimenting with some of his recipes. The other day I replaced Gregory’s porcelain mortar and pestle with a vintage set that Sid found on eBay. Last week I made my first suppository, though Belinda and Lara greeted the achievement with deafening silence. Today I attempted to turn cough syrup into gummy candy and got gook. Tomorrow I’ll try my hand at lozenges. It’s occurred to me that mastering even a handful of Gregory’s most basic compounding formulas could make a big difference in people’s lives.

Even if nothing more comes of Gregory’s notebook, that Euraka Productions letterhead has still come in handy. Sid and I have plenty of our own Poor Man’s Patents, and every day, Sid’s sending out query letters to potential manufacturers and licensees. We’ll see. Let’s hope.

BUSINESS today is slow. It has been all week. With Gregory gone, our peculiar hours, and that busted, boarded-up front door, I think most Crockett folks think Day’s Pharmacy went out of business. Either that or they’re avoiding us because they know we’re looking to settle some debts. On Saturday, I broke down and had the door replaced. Principal Martin suggested I send the $400 bill to the Contra Costa Sheriff’s Department care of Dudley Fielding, which I did.

Mildred is here shopping with Beatrice. She spent the last twenty minutes snaking through the aisles with her walker, occasionally tossing toiletries over her shoulder into Beatrice’s red plastic basket.

Ruth Mulrooney is quietly browsing, too. She’s not her flamboyant self. I can barely make out her face with that massive white kerchief smartly fashioned around her head, and the big black Jackie Onassis sunglasses.

I’m filling scripts at the counter when Ruth walks right up to me.

“It feels impossible that Gregory is gone,” she whispers.

“I know. I miss him more than you know.”

“He was right there,” Ruth says, pointing to where I’m standing. “Alive and well, and now he’s gone. Everyone keeps dying.”

It’s not Day’s Pharmacy without Gregory, and yet it’s hard to know where to go from here. It feels wrong to keep this place open, or close it down, or sell it to someone else. This pharmacy is sacred ground: Paige and Lara were nearly born here; Gregory died here. In my dreams, our children dart up and down these aisles.

It’s been three days since the Macy’s Day blowup with Lara and she hasn’t been back to the pharmacy since. I have yet to confront Paige about any of Lara’s allegations. I keep trying to put Tyler Rich and that excessive wedding dress out of my mind.
Stay focused on the good. There are so many signs you’re still on track to be married.
Take today, for example: Paige and I have a food tasting with Belinda’s mother. I’ve starved myself because I know Marylyn’s spent all day preparing delicious finger food, appetizers, and potential entrées for the reception.

With Lara away, I can freely dispense freebies. I hand Beatrice her osteoporosis and heartburn pills. Mildred needs a couple of asthma inhalers and medication for type 1 diabetes. Seeing as Doctors Hardy and Platt have settled, I’ve forbidden Mildred and Beatrice from hitting up either of them for any more free samples. This, I pray, is our first stop on the long road to legitimacy.

I walk Mildred to the front, arm in arm. Ruth stops paying at the register long enough to give me a jealous look; she then peels off two twenties from a wad of bills. These days I’m always surprised to see anyone pay in cash. The last person to pay cash was probably … Ruth. I want to nominate Ruth to be President of the Day “Can-Pay” Club.

Neither Beatrice nor Mildred has a red cent.

“Add these prescriptions to their tabs,” I instruct Belinda.

“Lara’s not going to like that,” Belinda says, making a notation.

“Well, Lara can go …,” I stop midsentence, noticing Brianna McDonnell standing on the sidewalk just outside the pharmacy.

With a friendly smile, she waves hello.

I’m not entirely surprised to see Brianna, but I was hoping she’d give me a few more days to pull together the insurance records.

Brianna is as stunning as ever in blue jeans that accentuate her long legs and a simple, snug, long-sleeved T-shirt.

“You must think I’m a little obsessed,” she says, tucking both her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

“With who? Me?” I ask nervously.

“No,” Brianna laughs, reaching out and touching my arm, gently.

My heart is racing.

“With getting this paperwork. It’s my day off and here I am harassing you about an audit,” she says, adjusting her stance to find a comfortable equilibrium.

This is the first time she’s used the dreaded
a-
word.

She arches her back and a shooting pain flashes across her face.

“Did you ever see that orthopedist that Mills recommended in Vallejo?”

“You’re so sweet to ask. Never did,” she says to the ground, “but
my
doctor says I need back surgery.”

“Oh man.”

“I know!” she moans.

“Maybe you should get a second opinion.”

“I think job stress is aggravating my condition…. These records are probably the last thing on your mind,” she says, her voice cracking slightly. “But I’m getting a lot of pressure from my boss, and I can’t screw this up right now. I
really
need my health benefits.”

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek.

“Can you just give me something, anything?” she pleads.

Ruth, Mildred, and Beatrice exit the pharmacy one after another. They can’t miss Brianna. All three immediately shoot me disapproving looks. Then Mildred reaches over and plants a long, juicy kiss on my cheek.

“Hi, Paige!” Beatrice blurts.

Beatrice is either confused or thinks she’s being clever.

“No,” I delicately explain.
“This is
Brianna McDonnell.”

“I’m sure she is, but
that’s
Paige Day,” Beatrice says, pointing to my fiancée approaching ten yards away.

Paige waves.

“Ladies!” Paige greets them, sounding more like her father than ever.

Mildred hugs Paige. Beatrice hugs Paige and Mildred. I hug all three of them while Ruth and Brianna watch. It’s weird. From inside this huddled mass, Paige dislodges a hand and introduces herself to Brianna. Everyone finally lets go.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Brianna says.

“I’m sorry, and who are you?” Paige asks.

“Brianna is the insurance lady,” I explain quickly. “Woman.”

“Nice to meet you,” Paige says unassumingly.

The six of us congregate on the sidewalk in awkward silence.

“Everyone stay right here,” I demand, excusing myself.

I race inside the pharmacy to Lara’s workstation. It doesn’t take me long to find exactly what Brianna needs: Lara’s black ledger—unlocked and available, it details every prescription we’ve filled over the last two years. Lara’s even gone ahead and highlighted the transactions subject to the Blue Cross audit.

There is no way I’m handing this over.

Next to Lara’s computer is a ream of paper—physical copies of every prescription Day’s Pharmacy filled over the last four months. The original scripts were hard enough to read—the Xeroxes are indecipherable.
These hieroglyphics will buy us some time
, I decide, scooping them up.

On my way out, I ask Belinda if she can close out the register and lock up. Paige is waiting outside and we don’t want to be late to Marylyn’s tasting.

“Sure thing, boss,” she says.

How depressing: it’s the first time anyone’s ever addressed me as “boss,” and I couldn’t possibly feel any less in control.

I take a few deep breaths, push open our gorgeous new front
door, and hand Brianna the stack. “I’ll get you the rest of the paperwork in the next couple of days,” I promise her. “We really should go,” I tell Paige.

“Just waiting on you,” Paige says politely.

Brianna hands me her business card and I promise to call her first thing Monday. Everyone tells everyone how wonderful it was to meet one another. As Paige and I walk to my car, I hear Mildred grill Brianna over why Brianna doesn’t have a “nice boyfriend of her own.”

Paige must hear this, too.

“It’s a good question,” Beatrice agrees.

“MILDRED doesn’t want us playing ‘dirty music’ at the wedding,” Paige informs me. Then she tells me to take a right on Second Street. “You know, songs with curse words or sexual innuendo, she says it’s vulgar. Beatrice agreed.”

I turn up the radio, hoping to drown out this bothersome conversation. The current song is one of Paige’s favorites: R. Kelly believes he can fly.

Paige tries to lighten the mood, singing,
“Chewbacca … Chew-bacca …
”

I purse my lips to prevent the words from slipping out.

“Why won’t you sing with me, sourpuss?” she protests, lowering the volume.

“I’m trying to drive,” I say, checking the clock. We’re going to be late.

As Marylyn’s home comes into view, Paige demands I pull over.

“I just had an impossible afternoon with my sister, and I feel like you’re being hostile. I don’t feel like sampling our wedding food angry. What’s wrong?”

I yank the emergency brake as we roll forward, the engine still idling. Then I choose my words carefully: “I think the wedding costs are getting out of control. The museum is three grand. The food, plus that penalty fee, is going to run us about thirty-five hundred. I had to talk you
down
on the invites and talk you
out
of the videographer.
It’s enough.
Plus I’m sure there are
other costs
…”

“You’re starting to sound exactly like my sister,” Paige says in amazement. “Andy, I never twisted your arm. You’ve been there every step of the way. We made every decision together. I’m the one who said we could elope.”

“You said that as
a joke,”
I complain. “Like you’d ever.”

“I’m working double shifts to bring in a little cash around here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m working for free at your father’s pharmacy, bullying the elderly at your sister’s beckoning.”

“So we’ll cancel the wedding hall,” she says coolly.

“Is that what you want?”

She shrugs her shoulders.

“Look, we both want that hall,” I tell her. “All I’m saying is: why do I have to be punished for being the responsible one? We’ve got bills coming out of our ears. You want this fancy shin dig. The money has to come from somewhere.”